Sea and Sand

by Alex Lidell

  Kyra rubbed her arm, her heart still pounding from the pain. Somewhere in the confrontation with Catsper, the advantage had shifted, and shifted again, until she was no longer sure who held the upper hand. But one thing was certain: had the marine stopped when she’d asked, her wrist would still be deformed and throbbing.

  “Three questions,” she said, searching his face. “Answer three questions, and I leave you in peace.”

  He spread his hands and hoisted himself atop the gun deck table, his face a stone.

  Kyra cleared her throat. “What was the horrid thing you did for which there can be no forgiveness?”

  His green eyes were glacier cold, his voice cooler still. “I killed nineteen children.”

  Kyra froze, her words suddenly gone. No. No, that was impossible. Except that the man was telling the truth. Kyra was as certain of it as she was of sun. And yet… There had to be more. “How—”

  “We’re done.” Catsper was on his feet, his movement predatory as he ripped the satchel from Kyra’s hands. After pulling out the pin, the man threw the bag back at her. “No more questions. Get out.”

  “No.” The answer came before thought.

  Shouldering Kyra from his way, Catsper left the gun room instead, the slammed door vibrating in his wake.

  Chapter 22

  Nile

  Zolan’s neck bobs as he swallows, my wind beating his face and hair and body. “Stop,” he manages. “Please.”

  I rein my magic back, though it bucks and fights me like an enraged beast. For a moment, I forget Zolan in the fight with my own storm, but the haze clears after two heartbeats of panic, and I return my attention to the commander.

  Zolan is still on the deck, though now crouched in a fighting stance. Not that there is anything to fight now. Not anymore. He stares at me. Silent. Frozen. A veteran sea god at a loss.

  I extend my hand to him and am as surprised as Zolan himself when he takes it, letting me pull him to his feet. Silence hangs between us again, now laden with repercussion. Because… Because I just threw everything into an abyss.

  “Storm and hail,” I whisper, my chest still heaving with exertion.

  “A fairly accurate sentiment,” Zolan says finally, righting the overturned chair. “Might… Might I beg for a cup of coffee? Or something a bit stronger if you have it.”

  I motion Zolan to the wine and collapse into my chair while he pours himself a glass, drains it, and refills it again. He places an identical goblet before me, but I little trust myself with liquid—much less glass—just now.

  “How long?” Zolan asks finally. “Have you always… Or…Um…”

  “I was wounded in Faithful’s final battle. The fever that came following that awoke the Gift. My twin is Gifted as well.” Faithful Clay. The words sting. “Though his Gift manifested years ago.”

  Zolan’s eyes widen, and I can practically see the calculation walking across his face. The Battle of Siaman, my Goddess-blessed escape from Rima’s ship, the war game gunnery trials. All things I’ve done with my wind-calling. And done in secret. “Is this why you wanted to send the convoy away?”

  “In part.” My voice is flat. “I wanted to warn the continent as I said, but yes, I also know I cannot protect four ships. Storms, I don’t know that I could have protected the Helix if the bastards had expected any countermeasures.”

  After a short eternity, Zolan drops his forehead into his hands. “This is why you appeared on the verge of collapse in action. You were occupied saving our asses.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the reason you couldn’t contradict the crew’s perception of your action.”

  “Yes,” I say again. “Those centuries of tradition keeping women from the navy keep Gifted away as well. I imagine one dose of an upside-down world is quite enough for the hands.”

  “I must beg forgiveness,” Zolan whispers, genuine regret saturating his words, “but now that I know…” He trails off for a moment before raising his face to meet my gaze squarely. “By the Felielle Articles of War, a Gifted cannot command a naval vessel. I must relieve you of command, Your Highness. You know that, I expect.”

  I snort, though my shoulders feel laden with boulders and it takes me a breath to fight off the stinging in my eyes. You can hardly lose what you never truly had to begin with, I tell myself, but it little helps. “Yes. I do. As the Helix’s captain, my first duty is to the ship.” I force my shoulders to square, my voice to stay even and strong. “And in this new world the Bevnians have written, protecting the Helix means calling the winds to her aid. I thought I could command the winds and the ship at the same time, but I can’t. As for later, when this is all done, none of us are returning from the cruise the way we set out. The Bevnians have made sure of that.” Reaching up to my shoulder, I unpin the epaulette marking me a ship’s active duty captain and slide it across the table to Zolan.

  No piece of cloth has ever been so heavy. Pushing myself to my feet, I stride toward where my sword hangs on the wall and extend that to Zolan as well, as is tradition in surrender.

  “Keep it.” Zolan’s voice is even again as he nods to the sword. Another naval tradition, a mark of respect between one captain and another in permitting the weapon to be kept.

  I swallow and nod in gratitude.

  Taking the captain’s epaulette, Zolan tucks it respectfully into the inside of his jacket. “Might I ask you to remain indisposed for a few days while I decide how to announce the change of command to the crew? We might well have a mutiny on our hands if they learn of a Gifted aboard.” He rubs his eyes. “Not to mention that the Diante are expecting a Captain Greysik to attend them.”

  I nod numbly. “Provided there is no attack, I will use that time to recover. Point of fact, I don’t believe I can stay upright much longer.”

  “Of course.” Zolan—Captain Zolan—rises quickly, catching his unsettled wineglass at the last moment. His free hand braces the table. “And Your Highness… Thank you.”

  “Just so I’m clear,” Kyra says, folding herself into a chair opposite mine. “Bad people attacked, you saved the ship, Zolan took away your command and confined you to quarters.”

  I prop my head on my hand. I’d fallen asleep the moment Zolan shut the door behind him, waking up the next day to the sun flying high above the horizon, a mildly upset sea, and the sounds of a crew running a full-force storm drill, as if expecting an imminent rogue gale. The convulsions that struck me overnight somehow strained a muscle between my ribs, making breathing uncomfortable. “It isn’t quite like that.”

  Kyra slides a mug of hot tea—it’s remarkably convenient to have a flame caller around when one likes hot drinks—toward me and takes out a chessboard. “Which part am I mistaken about?”

  I massage my temples. “How is your arm?”

  “Better.” Kyra holds up the limb in question, her gaze weighing me like a cook assessing the best attack vector against a particularly troublesome chicken. “Dana is worried about you,” Kyra says, pulling chess pieces out of their velvet bag. “He won’t come near the cabin for fear of spilt blood, but he’s worried.”

  I frown, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest. My ribs are too sore for this conversation. “Weren’t you the one who said you would not spy on the crew for my benefit?”

  “I’m not spying, I’m observing.” She sets the pawns out one by one. “Are you two…entangled?”

  I cock a brow. There’d never been much hope in keeping my history with Domenic a secret from an empath who shared my berth, but I’d little counted on the subject coming up now. I sip the tea, the hot liquid soothing against my throat. Holding the cup in my hands, I watch the swirling liquid. “If by entangled you mean whether we share a bed, the answer is no.” As it has always been. Let Kyra’s empathic sense work that one out. “Thank you for the tea, but I’m not in the right mood for chess just now.”

  “I’m not in the right mood for fishing words out of you one at a time.” Kyra sets down the rook, finishing the
setup. “And you are easier to deal with if your mind is divided between tasks. Black or white?”

  “Kyra—”

  She cuts her eyes to mine. “Is there someone else aboard you’d like to speak with? Because from where I sit, it appears we’ve enough problems with the Tirik and Bevnians without the Helix’s officers killing each other off themselves. Black or white?”

  I sigh. “White.”

  She turns the board, and I obligingly move out my pawns, the opening gambit calming my frayed nerves—which, I imagine, was Kyra’s intention. I wonder whether the girl is reading my emotions as we play.

  “Well?” Kyra asks, her attention on the board where we both fight for control of the center space.

  I shrug. “Domenic and I are not in danger of killing each other off.” Mostly because that would require more time in each other’s company than either of us is capable of civilly handling. “Besides that, my head hurts as if an ax splits my skull in two, and the pressure building behind my eyes threatens to pop my eyes from their sockets.”

  “Sounds like an awfully small price to pay for keeping four ships alive.” She moves her rook. “Shall we discuss what’s really eating you? Has Zolan decided when you can leave your cabin and how he’ll announce the change of command to the crew?”

  “Not yet. Though he is apparently hardening the ship against any accident I might have. Storms, that sounds like I might wet the bed, not summon a hurricane.” I flinch at my own words and set them aside to simmer somewhere just beneath conscious thoughts. I focus instead on the game, on Kyra’s delicate hand hovering just above her queen. “You are going to lose that piece if you keep sprinting her all over the board.”

  Kyra smiles and shrugs a shoulder as if to say maybe, but she’ll be amused until then. The girl is the most undisciplined player I’ve met—but she doesn’t lose nearly as much as she should.

  “Your insistence on slicing raw topics open and pouring salt inside, is that a Kyra trait or an empath trait?” I ask. “Just so I know what to avoid in the future.”

  A corner of Kyra’s mouth twitches. “So far as I know, I’m the only empath and likely the only Kyra. So does it matter?”

  I lean forward. Without a solid defense, offense suddenly seems a wiser strategy. “Did you and Catsper really spend a night together?”

  Kyra’s hand pauses in midair, then returns to the table to roll one of the taken pawns in a circle. “To use your terms, we’ve not shared a bed, no.” She tucks her legs under her, smoothing her yellow dress over her knees. “How well do you know Catsper?”

  I keep my eyes on Kyra’s black queen, the one in danger of falling from the game. “Catsper is one of the most loyal, reliable, and steadfast people alive.”

  Kyra makes her move, and I counter quickly. She bites her lip. “Where is he from? Why did he join the Spades? Why is he so good at setting bones?”

  I frown. “He’s from Spardic, he joined because that’s what Spardics do, and he can set a bone because the Spades’ training is more brutal than any battle.” Put that way, my knowledge of a friend does seem rather shallow. I bristle. “When I met Catsper on the Aurora, I had many secrets I wished to keep. He honored that and never pressed for more information than I wished to offer. It’s only fair to extend him the same courtesy.”

  Kyra makes another of her amusing moves, and her knight suffers for it.

  “If you didn’t share a bed, then why—no, don’t tell me.” I shake my head. Catsper is a panther incarnate, with sculpted muscles, sharp knives, and a sharper mind. Between Kyra’s physical delicateness and empathic power, a meeting of the two could end with nothing but disaster. And I don’t know which of them I worry more for. “I can’t begin to understand how your mind works, but please don’t hurt him.”

  Kyra blinks her long lashes in exaggerated innocence. “Hurt him? That one bathes in pain and angst. I could smack him upside the head with a rock and he’d thank me.” She clasps her queen between her thumb and forefinger and knocks my white queen off the board. “Your move.”

  “Mr. Zolan’s compliments, ma’am,” one of the middies announces, stepping cautiously into my great cabin on day three of my confinement. “And are you well enough to join him on deck?”

  Sentencing time. Even though I’ve already surrendered my command, I can’t think of the coming announcement as anything different. The point of no return when I shall officially become little more than an exotic weapon. My heart stutters, a jolt shooting through my limbs. “Of course,” I tell the boy, making my dry mouth work. “Tell the commander I shall be there in a moment.”

  My hand has a white-knuckle grip on the companionway ladder, and my pulse pounds as if I’m fish bait watching her first storm approach. Three days. It might as well be three years. Thirty. After ascending the Helix’s quarterdeck as her captain, I’d left it as her coward. The crew, the ship, none of them need Captain Nile Greysik. Storms, none of them want Captain Nile Greysik. And they are about to get their wish.

  My first steps on the open-air deck are loud as thunder in my head. The Helix’s three masts stretch seventy feet toward the clear blue sky, where a pair of far-from-home terns circle the rigging to the amusement of several young skylarking ship’s boys. Patches of green and turquoise water warn of coral reefs beneath while a large turtle swims happily beneath the sun. Unlike my last bloody sight of it, the Helix’s deck is sanded clean. A perfect, happy ship. Happier than it was under my command. Bile rises up my throat, and my hand tightens on one of the ropes while I draw a deep breath of chilly ocean air.

  At the stern of the ship, a seaman with a sandglass casts a knotted rope into the sea, counting the number of knots that pass through his fingers while the sand falls.

  “Eight knots,” the man sings out, the information meticulously passed along to the sailing master, who notes the speed in the ship’s log.

  Zolan and Domenic stand together on the quarterdeck, talking softly. One of the older middies, a gangly sixteen-year-old youth, approaches the officers with caution. Both men offer the lad a warm greeting along with an explanation of a mathematics problem, if the snippets of conversation that reach me are correct. I even catch sight of Domenic laughing, before his eyes find mine and the laughter dies.

  The eyes of other seamen dart to me as well, dart and look away quickly, trailing with contempt.

  My stomach clenches.

  “Captain on deck,” Domenic tells Zolan, his voice dry and proper. He doesn’t know, then, not yet.

  I force my chin up, my shoulders square.

  Domenic turns his back to me.

  My jaw clenches, and, as I stride forward, I take up a friendly breeze’s offer to knock the man’s perfectly positioned hat off his head. The tiny dance with magic feels as good as Domenic’s bewildered start.

  Domenic grasps for the dropped object, cursing when it skitters along the deck, just out of his reach. Domenic tries again.

  The hat hops along, the little breeze carrying it past the ruffling coats of nearby seamen, who pragmatically keep a grip on their own loose articles.

  Domenic’s third failed attempt to snatch the rogue object finally draws several poorly hidden chuckles from the crew, and Domenic’s face darkens.

  A smile just begins to form on my own lips, my magic poised to tickle the wind again, when a dagger nails Domenic’s hat to the deck. The crew shuts its collective mouth as Catsper strides down from the poop and retrieves his weapon with apparent disinterest. He tosses the blade over his shoulder, and the deadly projectile lodges itself in the mast, a few inches away from a gawker’s ear.

  The silence and speed with which the crew finds employment after that rivals a battle drill.

  Raising a brow, Zolan looks from the hat to Catsper, then Domenic, then me. “It appears I was not the first to the party,” he says drily. “I believe a visit to the gun room is in order, if you all find it convenient just now. Is there anyone else we should invite?”

  I swear I hear Zolan utter a p
rayer as he leaves the deck to Vikon and leads the procession to the gun room, where he claims a chair at the head of the long table. My heart pounds. Taking my seat, I slip my hands beneath the table to conceal their trembling. A quarter hour ago, I thought the wait would kill me. Now I think the actual conversation might.

  Kyra and Quinn join Domenic, Catsper, and me, Zolan greeting each member of the little conspiracy with a thoughtful gaze and nod. Once everyone is settled, the commander surveys the faces a final time and begins in a voice that’s anything but hesitant. “To call this situation unusual would be the understatement of the century, so let us begin with facts beyond dispute.” He holds up his hand, extending fingers one at a time. “Princess Nile Greysik is a Gifted wind caller. Felielle forbids Gifted on its men-of-war.”

  Each word hits me like a lash, and it’s all I can do to keep from wincing. Across the table, Domenic’s eyes widen, his gaze piercing me so hard, it’s a miracle it fails to draw blood.

  You told Zolan you are Gifted? Domenic’s silence demands of me.

  I nod and markedly shift my attention away from him. Catsper takes in the news with the marine’s usual nonchalance. Kyra and Quinn, who both settled themselves at the far end, watch and listen intently.

  Zolan unbends a third finger. “Had we obeyed Felielle’s law from the start and kept Nile ashore where she belongs, we would all be dead now.” He spreads his hands. “When the law was constructed, no one had a notion that a Gifted’s wind might one day save us from an enemy the breed of which we’d never encountered. More to the point, our mission here is diplomatic, and destroying a chance at an alliance for the whim of protocol is the height of foolishness.”

  “Shall we continue on as before, then?” Domenic asks, his voice tight, betrayed at having been blindsided by this turn of events.

  “Ms. Greysik surrendered her command to me three days ago,” Zolan says flatly. “That is why she hasn’t been on deck.”