Sea and Sand

by Alex Lidell

  Domenic shifts to kiss my upper lip, his mouth, now divinely warm, pressing around tender flesh for heartbeats before pulling back once more. The deprivation makes me vibrate with need, and yet the bastard makes me wait longer still, nipping the edge of my ear before kissing my neck. The angle of my jaw. The corner of my mouth.

  “Please,” I rasp, my arms pressing against his sides. “Please.”

  Domenic’s hand tightens on the back of my neck with sudden raw savageness as his mouth finally covers mine, and we connect in a kiss that is an explosion of flame and desire.

  Chapter 25

  Kyra

  All in all, they’d been fortunate. In the weeks since the Bevnian attack, only two forces threatened the ship: boredom of routine—though Commander Zolan proved a deft hand at concocting chores to attack that particular problem—and the possibility of spontaneous combustion, which surfaced anytime Nile and Dana shared breathing space. While the two did not try to dismember each other again, their forceful attempts at proper courtesy made even routine pleasantries taste like wartime negotiations. Fortunately, Zolan separated Nile and Dana between different watches the day following their spat, reducing their time in each other’s company to a few tense minutes a day when they handed the quarterdeck to each other.

  For now, it was Catsper who worried Kyra more. Since taking Dana and Nile for that final forced swim, the marine had been more aloof than usual, dividing his time between silently monitoring Nile when she was on deck and training with the ship’s marines at all other hours.

  “I can’t sense anything from Catsper lately,” Kyra confided to Nile over supper—which the princess ate only because Kyra forcefully replaced Nile’s Diante cultural text with a bowl of soup and forced a spoon into Nile’s hand. Though Nile would never admit it, she needed a keeper. “I think he has started to shield against me consciously.”

  “Is that possible?” Nile asked, her mouth full. “Because I’d like to.”

  Kyra snorted. “Certainly,” Kyra said, moving the hard tack that passed for ship’s bread closer to the other girl. “You’ve learned how to hide emotions from the crew. Just multiply that a hundredfold, and there you have it. As for Catsper, I think the debacle with the sparring match and aftermath bothered him more than he let on.”

  A spike of embarrassment flared from Nile as it always did when someone brought up the incident, but the girl tamped it down efficiently. “Have you marked Catsper’s notion of a relaxing afternoon? The bugger probably just doesn’t wish to admit that he enjoyed sweating us.” Nile grinned, absently knocking a piece of biscuit against the table. “Jesting aside, I do think you are overthinking Catsper’s silence. We always think that the one thing we do not see or know must be vitally important or interesting—but that is a logical fallacy.”

  Kyra turned her face to avoid watching the weevils crawl free from Nile’s food. “Has he spoken to you about it?”

  “No.” Nile dunked her biscuit to let it soak in the broth. “But that is because there is nothing to talk about. And no harsh feelings. There never were. Catsper was following orders—and so far as naval discipline goes, Domenic and I were very fortunate. All three of us know as much.” She frowned as the ship’s bell sounded, calling her back to deck.

  “You’ve barely started supper.”

  Nile shrugged into her coat, threw the remaining biscuit to Bear, and gave Kyra’s forearm a squeeze. “I’m not starving to death, and Catsper is not wallowing in despair over overseeing some sprints and push-ups. I promise. Stop fretting. Your time is better spent learning what you can of Diante than watching me eat anyway. You know where the books are.”

  With a fortifying breath and a smile that tried and failed to hide Nile’s fatigue from Kyra, the princess was gone and the ship continued humming its day. As Nile suggested, Kyra spent some time at language and culture study before leaving the cabin to take some fresh air above deck. Now that things had settled into an odd sort of normal, the Helix no longer felt as small and hostile as it had when Kyra first stepped aboard. Strange, superstitious—the crew teetered on the verge of panic when a midshipman almost ordered rum added to water instead of water to rum in the preparation of their grog—but homey as well. Nile was the kind of sister Kyra never had and secretly always wanted. Kyra’s own siblings—

  Kyra stiffened, a sensation so potently rotten filling her mouth that she choked. For a moment, Kyra thought the taste came from the memory itself, but footsteps behind her proved a different reality. She spun, pressing her back against the nearest bulkhead.

  “Kyra.” Lord Vikon’s smile split his face. Although three years younger, Vikon was a head taller than Kyra, and his muscles, while less developed than most sailors’, were still honed by days on deck and weather. His slicked-back brown hair and upturned nose gave him an air of arrogance that never quite disappeared. “You are a hard woman to find.”

  Kyra’s heart pounded as her dry tongue formed words. There was no outward reason for the reaction, nothing except the taste that could be a memory. Vikon stood two paces away, his hands clasped behind his back, his head inclined with more courtesy than her station was due.

  “Why were you looking for me, my lord?” she asked.

  His gaze raked her. “I wasn’t.” Vikon shrugged a shoulder. “It was just a figure of speech. The ship can be a lonely place despite the bodies pressed together like pork in a barrel.”

  “I need to go,” Kyra said, but didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Not without turning her back to Vikon, and everything inside her screamed never to do that.

  Vikon’s smile widened. A python swaying above his prey. “Of course,” said Vikon, making no move to step aside. “Don’t let me keep you from your duties.”

  Kyra swallowed.

  “Vikon.” Catsper’s voice rang out on Kyra’s other side, and the marine’s lithe, shirtless form approached with long steps. The vile taste in Kyra’s mouth mixed with starchy undertones of displeasure. “If you have trouble finding something to do, I’m in need of a sparring partner.”

  Vikon’s jaw tightened, and Catsper raised a brow in silent response. Snorting, the boy touched his hat and finally strode away.

  Catsper’s attention focused on Kyra. He must have been working with the ship’s marines, for beads of sweat escaped his tied-up hair and rolled down the groove of his muscled chest. The man was certainly not shy about removing his shirt and would change now only to look respectable while Nile stood watch. Catsper shifted his weight, the skin stretched taut over lean muscles showing a horrid collection of scars, both clean and jagged.

  “I killed nineteen children.”

  Maybe Catsper deserved his scars. Maybe he deserved more of them than he wore.

  “Did something happen that should not have?” Catsper’s voice was dangerously quiet.

  “No,” Kyra answered truthfully. Nothing did happen. Nothing at all but phantom memories.

  “The offer to train—”

  “No.” Kyra crossed her arms. “Do you seriously imagine I’d voluntarily subject myself to your notion of time well spent?”

  “No. You would not.” A muscle tightened along Catsper’s shoulder, his face darkening. “I quite see your point.”

  Stars. No. She’d meant Catsper’s own training with the ships’ marines, not… “Nile isn’t upset over what happened on deck,” Kyra said quickly. “She said it was the best of alternatives. That Zolan would have done a great deal worse if you’d been easier on her.”

  Cold green eyes met hers. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I thought you’d want to know.” Kyra raised her chin. “On the odd chance that you were concerned what effect driving your friends to the brink of collapse might have had on them.”

  Catsper’s hand braced on the bulkhead an inch shy of Kyra’s ear, lethal violence clinging to him like perfume. “Stay. Out. Of my head.”

  Putting a hand on his chest, Kyra pushed Catsper back, wrinkling her nose at the marine’s sweat now trans
ferred to her palm. “I’m not in your head.” She wiped her hand on her dress. “I just have eyes in mine.”

  Catsper snorted and turned away toward the gun room and—presumably—a clean set of clothes.

  Kyra’s heart jumped. “Wait.” The word was out before Kyra could stop herself, even though she knew she was being stupid. Vikon was long gone, nothing had happened, and the ship, for being stuffed to the gills with men, was safer than any town on land. Certainly safer than her own house back in Milan. Just now, though… “Would you mind walking me to the great cabin? I find myself under the weather.”

  Catsper twisted at once, motioning for Kyra to walk before him. He asked no question, the only sound a whistle summoning Rum from the ship’s shadows. When the marine left Kyra at the great cabin, the dog proudly invited himself inside instead. Curled into a ball atop Kyra’s cot, Rum gave a soft, self-satisfied sneeze and started snoring.

  By what had to be a miracle of the stars, the Helix suffered no further mishaps as it passed through something called Bottleneck Juncture and approached Diante waters. The bit of well-overdue good fortune also put the Helix at station a day forward of schedule, which left the crew and officers with a great deal more time to stare at the horizon than either had anticipated. Kyra found little excitement in the exercise until the masts of three Diante ships suddenly finally blossomed from a distant watery abyss.

  Then it hit her.

  Where an hour earlier there was nothing but the rolling waves, now there was a nation, a people, a fleet of ships. “Do you think the Bevnians’ entry into the war will make a Diante alliance more or less likely?” Kyra asked Dana as he helped her focus a spyglass.

  “I don’t know.” The officer’s voice was quiet. “But I imagine that without Diante support, there may not be a Lyron League for us to return to in a few months’ time. There is a great deal more riding on Nile’s diplomatic success than any of us should be comfortable with.”

  Kyra looked sidelong toward Nile, who now clasped her hands behind her back and stood at the rail. Outwardly, she appeared as calm as Zolan and Dana, but the anxiety pouring off her was enough to make Kyra’s own stomach clench.

  Nile’s gaze darted to the skylarking middies. No one in her right mind should want to climb suicidally high into the shrouds to satisfy curiosity, but Nile never claimed sanity. Kyra wondered whether it was the dignity of the girl’s position or pragmatism over convulsions that kept her rooted to deck now—whatever it was, Kyra was grateful for it.

  It was because Kyra was already watching Nile’s face that she caught the sudden widening of the girl’s eyes. And then the princess swore very, very colorfully.

  Chapter 26

  Nile

  Standing at the Helix’s rail, I watch with bated breath as the approaching Diante ships take form on the foggy horizon, the filled sails rising toward the clouds with power and dignity. The weather has taken a chilly turn, and the wind nips my skin. The seas, however, are calm and clear, lapping the ocean surface gently. The first of the three vessels I recognize immediately as Admiral Addus’s Wave, the Divine Squadron’s flagship aboard which I’d once found unexpected aid. The warm hand of memory strokes the back of my neck, and I allow myself a smile. Somewhere between fighting wars, clashing cultures, and cajoling allies, there will also be the simple meeting with an old and wise friend. One whom I’ve missed more than I realized.

  The other two ships are new to my eyes. One is a seventy-four-gun ship of the line, holding a subordinate post to Addus’s Wave. But the third… Swearing soundly, I lower my glass, snapping it shut against my thigh. I’d think this a jest if the Diante had any sense of humor.

  “What is it?” Kyra asks, and I try not to wince as she steps onto the quarterdeck, which is sacredly reserved for ship’s officers. Seeing her, Zolan throws up his hands. The girl is so honestly oblivious to naval custom that after a month at sea, the crew forgives her the same trespasses they allow Bear and Rum.

  I point to the third ship. As large as the battleships beside it, the vessel appears to lack broadside armament altogether—or the square rigging of a man-of-war. “That four-masted monstrosity is a barque. A bloody glorified merchie.”

  “Is sailing a barque the equivalent of an insult in naval tradition?” asks Kyra.

  I sigh. “No. But it is a very plain signal of peace—the Diante’s preemptive countermove to any attempt to talk them into joining a war.”

  “So barques are a naval sign of peace?” Kyra clarifies.

  “No. It’s—”

  “It’s that she carries no guns to speak of, and her sails are rigged differently from ours,” Domenic injects, placing his hands into the small of his back as he comes to stand beside Kyra and me. I move over to make room. Domenic might look dignified just now, but I know his back is so straight at least partially because it hurts to flex it. “Her sails can be managed with a smaller crew than ours require, but there is a maneuverability cost. She is awkward, unarmed, and very, very expensive. No kingdom in Lyron would dare put a ship that size into the sea for fear of losing it. She is too tempting a target for the enemy, and her loss would be too crushing in lives and gold.”

  “The Diante flaunt her to show just how distant they are from violence,” I say, reclaiming the conversation Domenic hijacked. “And that they wish to remain so.” And damn me if I know how I’m going to convince them into a war. Might as well chat with the sun about changing orbit while I’m at it.

  “Mr. Dana, back sail and hold position,” Zolan calls, breaking up the conversation. “Mr. Vikon, make our number, if you please.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Domenic touches his hat and retreats from my side. He is a different officer than he’d been a month ago, speaking more quietly now and using fewer words to direct the crew. The rope’s end is gone from his grip, and even the bosun’s mates under him are rare to deliver stinging chastisements. He’s orderly and efficient, and the seamen look toward him with respect instead of fear as they’d had to on the Aurora.

  I’m unsure what the crew makes of me. Part of me is too sore and worried to care.

  “Lord Vikon,” Zolan says in a too-patient baritone, “have we an interpretation of our host’s return flag signal yet?”

  “Aye, sir. The… Deee—”

  “The Diante Empire, I imagine,” Zolan snaps.

  “Right.” The middie fiddles with the code book. “The Diante Empire welcomes Captain… This last one is spelled out, sir. N-I-L-”

  “Good Goddess,” Zolan murmurs before raising his voice. “The Diante Empire welcomes Captain Nile Greysik. And if I’m not mistaken, they are already lowering a cutter. He turns to me, formally touching his hat. “I believe this is where I turn the Helix over to you, Ms. Greysik. Captain Greysik, begging your pardon, ma’am.”

  I nod and bow toward the Diante flagship, my heart pounding with the knowledge that many spyglasses are trained on me. My back is straight, my chin lifted. I’m feigning the type of confidence a crew would expect.

  Domenic gives me a small nod.

  Vikon, for storms know what reason, scurries belowdeck.

  “Our hosts appear enthusiastic to start our acquaintance,” I say, forcing a smile to my face while the boat starts its long row to us. The lowered cutter is another wordless message, one informing the Helix that she is not to cross the invisible lines into Diante waters. The Diante Empire might have agreed to a meeting, but it is to be held squarely on their terms.

  “It is time to go, then?” Lord Vikon’s high-pitched voice sends homicidal thunder rolling through Zolan’s face. Emerging from the companionway ladder onto deck in his full dress uniform, the boy looks ready for a meeting with the emperor himself.

  “You, Mr. Vikon—”

  “-Have been requested to attend Her Highness in this meeting by members of the royal family,” Vikon retorts, his chin in the air. “Sir.”

  Zolan’s nostrils flare, and for the first time since coming aboard, I see the man’s iron control finally
on the edge of snapping.

  Two long strides bring me to the commander’s side, and I grab the man’s wrist. I never imagined myself pulling Zolan out of a fire, but it is a day of firsts, it appears. “Whatever you’d like to do to him, sir, it’s not worth your career.”

  Zolan’s eyes narrow, his voice so low that even standing inches away, I can barely make out the words. “Perhaps it is. Is he telling the truth?”

  “If by ‘members of the royal family’ he means his father, then yes.” I sigh. Storms, this is poor timing for this conversation—a fact which, I’ve no doubt, played into Lord Vikon’s calculations. I study Zolan, the entitled middie, and the approaching cutter, my mind racing as quickly as coherent thought allows. “But this is the last card for the boy to play—once you note in the log that he was granted the ultimate honor of initial encounter, you can lock him in the midshipman’s berth for eternity and none can claim he’d been slighted.”

  Zolan draws a deep breath in what must be a vain attempt to curb his fury. “Mr. Dana,” he barks before I can stop him. “Get changed. You will be accompanying the party as well. I will expect a full report on our young gentleman’s conduct upon your return.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but Zolan shakes his head.

  “If you must take a rabid dog over there, the least I can do is put it on a leash,” Zolan says with finality and steps away before I broker further argument.

  By the time the Diante cutter pulls up on our lee, Zolan has a side party assembled and ready. The bosun starts piping the official welcome the instant the first of the Diante seamen appears at the entry port. The men come up one by one, identical in their burnt-orange uniforms, trained motions, and perfect hand-to-heart salutes. Within moments, two columns of six sailors with slanted almond eyes and shoulder-length, rust-colored hair form a walkway on the Helix’s deck.