by Elle Cardy
“How do you say “cheers” in your language?” she asked the innkeeper.
Kristolf grinned. He lifted his mug in the air and cried, “Skal!”
Jasmine mimicked him, crying, “Skal!” and drank the mead down. It tasted of malt and cloves and maybe a hint of hearth smoke. She would’ve liked to have enjoyed it slowly while sitting by the fire with Finn. Halfway down the mug, she paused for breath, then drank on.
Kristolf encouraged her with a nod and an eager expression. When she finished, her knees were swimming, her stomach was bursting, and her face was flushed with warmth. A bubbling burp escaped her lips, cut short by Arassi thumping her on the back and Kristolf laughing so hard that tears pricked in his eyes.
“True gold,” Arassi said.
“You tell rest of tribe, aye?”
“Aye.”
“But not captain. No, no, he not walk on shore again.”
“Why is that?” Jasmine asked.
“He like … beached whale. No more than carcass stinking up place. Old gods would not approve. He is without … tofra. I do not know your word.” He looked at Jasmine from head to toe then studied her eyes. “You burn with it. Old gods bless you.”
“Do you mean magic?”
“I do not know. Do I? Tofra in all alive things.” He held out his hands as if he cupped an invisible bowl. “Vital twine of…” he swept his arms out, “of world. Some folk use its … threads. Most cannot.”
“You mean magic,” Jasmine said, though she’d never heard it described quite like that. “Tofra is magic.”
“Magic,” he said gravely and nodded. “More mead?”
Arassi lifted a hand. “Alas, we have business first.”
“Bah!” Kristolf bellowed with a broad grin. He waved a boy over, said something to him in their local tongue, and the boy scurried off. “Business no good when thirsty.” The boy returned with three more brimming mugs as large as the first ones. “Drink!”
The afternoon turned to a blur of laughter and drinking. Kristolf told them of a few folk they could approach for trade possibilities, but he recommended they go first to the blacksmith. A good man who was skilled with the common tongue and apparently always open to trade.
When Arassi started to slide off his bench, it was time to return to the Prize to report back to Durne with the information they’d gained.
“You tell tribe about my place, yes?” Kristolf said, cheeks round and red. “Good drink. Good food.” He slapped his belly for emphasis.
“Aye, that we will,” Jasmine said, struggling to focus on the man.
“Skal!” Arassi cried, raising his empty mug.
Jasmine pried his mug from his hands and helped him stand. He swayed alarmingly so she made him lean on her. She was surprised she wasn’t swaying too. They had drunk the same amount, which was way too much.
“You must be getting old, Arassi. You can’t hold your liquor like you used to.” Normally he could outdrink anyone on the Prize except Brusan.
“I am? Cheers to getting old.”
Kristolf shook his head and grinned at her. “Age not friend’s problem. You,” and he tapped the side of his nose and winked, “you protected by tofra.”
She hadn’t realized she was wielding until he’d mentioned tofra. She suspected if she stopped, she’d end up on the floor worse than Arassi. She would’ve laughed if her lack of control over her magic wasn’t so unsettling.
Jasmine hurriedly thanked Kristolf and guided Arassi back to the Prize. Once again, she swore off alcohol.
Chapter 29
Jasmine approached the blacksmith’s hut. The heat from his fire flushed her face and made the vision of the boiling seas tremble. She pushed it down.
“Smithy,” she called. “You here?”
“He’s not here,” a man said in the shadows. “Can I help you?”
Jasmine peered into the shadows. She could barely make out the shape of a man.
“I’m told the smithy can help with setting up a trade with the Wielder’s Prize?”
The man stepped into the glow of the fire. He was tall. Taller than Jasmine by a hand span. For a second, she thought shadows clung to him, then she realized it was because of his face. The man had terrible scars down the side of his face, poorly hidden by a patchy beard. She tried not to stare.
“Where did you hear that?” he asked. His command of the common tongue was good, and he didn’t have the same accent as the locals.
“Kristolf,” Jasmine said.
He had intense eyes. They could bore into a person and made her think of Gley. They could be related. Jasmine discarded that foolish thought. There was something so very alone about Gley that told Jasmine she had no family.
“You seem…” The man stopped.
Jasmine had to know what he was going to say. “I seem lost? Young? Smarter than I look?”
“Familiar.”
Unexpected.
“I think I’d remember you if I’d seen you.” She didn’t mean because of his scarring. There was something about his bearing. He was a predator of some kind. A hunter. His movements were careful. Measured. Smooth. He was also watchful.
A faint almost-smile touched his lips. He withdrew into the darkness of the blacksmith’s hut.
Jasmine joined him where a clutter of tools hung from the walls and ceiling. Swords of all shapes and lengths littered the area too. It might’ve been a mistake to let herself get lured into a place full of weapons, out of sight from the rest of the village.
“You’re a magician, then?” the man asked.
There was that word again. The same one Gley was fond of using.
“You’re a wielder too?” Jasmine asked, though she couldn’t see the power on him or find his talisman, but it would explain how he had known she was a wielder.
“No. not me.”
“Then how…” Jasmine realized she was hiding. For all the fish in the sea. She needed to get a handle on that. She forced herself visible again.
“You remind me of someone,” he said.
“Yeah? Well you remind me of someone too.” She put her annoyance down to her inability to stay fully in control of her magic.
“I do?” the man asked, seemingly delighted, yet he went rigid and the intensity in his stare sharpened. “Who would that be?”
His sudden interest made her uncomfortable. “No one. Don’t know why I said it.”
“You said it because it’s true.” He dropped his affectation. “This is important. Who do I remind you of?”
A town scurry rat named Gley. “Just a silver-haired girl I know.”
“Silver, you say?” His shoulders dropped as he looked away. “Not the color of fresh straw?”
She shook her head and crossed her arms. “Who do I remind you of?”
He seated himself on a hay bale and gazed off into the middle distance. “A girl. A dangerous, beautiful girl who owns my soul.”
Jasmine had to know more. “A lost love?”
“Lost? Yes. Love?” He frowned. “Not so much.” He looked up again. “Have you seen her?” He seemed to laugh. Perhaps at himself.
“Couldn’t say.” She had a task she needed to complete before she could return to her ship. “When will the blacksmith get back?”
“Couldn’t say.”
The man was as infuriating as Gley. “Tell him I’m looking for him. The Prize wants to trade.”
“And you are?”
“Jasmine.”
“A flower,” he murmured. He frowned again, his scars deepening and pulling at his skin. “What’s your last name?”
Kahld. “Don’t have one.”
“Just Jasmine.” He watched her with those unsettling knowing eyes of his. “Was it always Just Jasmine?”
She hesitated. No sense telling him her life story.
“So not always, then. What was it?”
“Nothing that matters anymore.”
Before she c
ould react, the man had caught her upper arm. She’d barely seen him move from his hay bale. He didn’t hurt her or squeeze, but she didn’t like being held.
“Tell me,” he said quietly.
“You’ll be letting me go now.” She’d give him one warning.
“Oi, you there,” said a deep voice behind her. She turned to find a square man in a heavy apron standing at the entrance. He carried a large mallet over one shoulder. The smithy? “What’re you doing back here?”
The stranger’s grip on her arm disappeared. When she turned, she discovered the stranger had vanished entirely. She turned to the smithy. “This your place?”
“Aye.”
She had work to do other than chase after some drifter. She would be asking Gley about him, though. The girl had known about this place so perhaps she knew about the man. “I’m from the Wielder’s Prize. My captain was wondering if you could help us.”
Chapter 30
Jasmine sat over a cup of warmed spiced tea. The Slaughtered Lamb had no windows to peer through, so she’d chosen to sit alone at a table near the door. When the door swung open, letting in another patron, she caught glimpses of the Prize swaying gently on the tide.
Cagg had asked her to keep an eye on the crew at the drinking house until Arassi arrived. He wanted to endure the sailors didn’t get too rowdy and damage new relations now they’d been given permission to take shore leave. Many of them huddled in groups by the fire, enjoying the unique pipe music played by Kristolf’s nephew at the far end of the room. The boy blew breathy notes from the twisted horn of a goat that had been converted into a flute-type instrument.
Laughter erupted from Willem. His mates sitting with him joined in. The crew was in a better mood now that their bellies were full and trade had proved lucrative. The locals had bought most of the Prize’s stores at a higher price than Auslam would’ve paid. In turn, the Prize had bought large quantities of local textiles and produce. It seemed the little town of Hefnargatt didn’t receive many trade ships from the mainland, and everyone was happy.
Everyone but Finn. He’d remained in hiding on the Prize. Durne had given him new quarters in one of the storage compartments below. The same cramped space where Finn had been held captive by Kahld. That couldn’t have sat well with him, but he hadn’t complained. Even though Gley had claimed he was safe, she had stayed onboard to watch over him.
Since landing on the island, the dreams had stopped and the ghost ship was nothing more than a bad memory. Even the visions had settled to a background blur. Of that, Jasmine was especially grateful. She hoped it would last.
“Is this seat taken?” a vaguely familiar voice said. A man in a hood didn’t wait for Jasmine to reply and sat uninvited at her table. He kept his back to the crowd. A portion of his patchy beard caught the light from the fire in the hearth. The rest of his face remained in shadow.
A barmaid approached. “What be you having, good sirs?” She took a second glance at Jasmine. “Begging pardon, miss.”
The stranger held up a gold coin and ordered a jug of mead for the table. “Keep the change.”
The barmaid had eyes only for the coin. “May the old gods bless you.” She snatched it from his gloved fingers and dashed away. Before Jasmine could ask what he wanted, the maid returned with a lidded jug and two earthenware mugs.
“You’ll be letting me know if you want anything else.”
The man didn’t reply so the barmaid left.
Jasmine could feel his scrutiny. It wasn’t something she liked. When she’d asked Gley about him, she’d claimed she didn’t know the man and had swiftly changed the subject.
The man hefted the jug as if it weighed nothing and poured the mead. He pushed a mug toward Jasmine. She didn’t pick it up.
“Tell me about yourself,” the man said.
“Told you before, my name’s Jasmine.” She didn’t want to give him any openers or a sense of welcome by asking his name. The sooner he left her in peace, the better.
The door swung open, and Arassi arrived with a gust of cold, wet air. He shook off his soggy cloak and cast around. When he spotted her, he tipped his head. The barmaid rushed to him and took his cloak and hung it from a hook by the door. He thanked her and joined Willem by the fire.
It seemed the rain had begun again. Although Arassi’s arrival meant her duty was done, Jasmine had no real wish to go out in the cold.
“And what of that other name we spoke of?” the scarred man at her table asked.
The door swung open as a local left. Decker and Harris carried a large crate of supplies up the gangplank to the Prize. Despite the rain, their footing was sure. Kask rolled a barrel up behind them.
“She’s a fine ship,” the scarred man said. His admiration seemed real enough.
Her tea sat empty, the cup cold. She drew the mug of mead closer, and steam curled from it, smelling of cloves and honey.
“What happened?” she asked, pointing vaguely to her own face. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“If I tell you, will you tell me your other name?” He was a strange man.
“Sure.” As she mentally settled in for some long-winded story, her ship whispered to her. Even though it remained close and in sight, it still had power over her, and she found herself wanting to return, despite the rain.
“It happened a long time ago,” the man said. “I had a disagreement with a creature.”
Jasmine snorted. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? No creature I know can do that to a man.” It wasn’t a wound made by a blade or claw or fang. It was a burn of some kind. But not a burn made with fire. It was like his skin had melted into waxy rivers that scarred his face.
“Not a normal creature. No. A conjured creature.”
“Conjured? Do you mean, wielded?”
He gave a short nod.
She didn’t know a wielder could create something from nothing. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe they had built it from materials on hand. It was an interesting concept. If she saw it done, she could do the same, though why she’d want to, she had no idea.
Her Prize called more loudly for some reason. She did a quick mental check to make sure she wasn’t depleting herself without realizing.
No, not wielding.
She wondered why her ship wanted her back. It didn’t matter. She wanted to be back, and that was what was important.
She upended her watered-down mug of mead and slammed it on the table. “Midge. The name I used to go by was Midge.”
The man murmured something. She thought he’d said, “The sand fly flower.” She wasn’t certain, but neither did she care. It was time to return to her ship.
“Thanks for the company.” With that, she headed for the door.
When she stepped out into the rain, she paused. The now-familiar hum of power against her skin had gone. The void left behind by its absence was unnerving. It was wrong.
The Beast stirred.
She staggered.
Black smoke. Boiling seas. A clawing hunger for her magic and her soul.
Jasmine swore an oath and dragged herself back into the rain-soaked hamlet. She was kneeling in the mud. The light from the tavern’s swinging door spilled onto shallow puddles. Before anyone could tumble through and demand to know why she was huddled in the mud, Jasmine climbed to her feet. If the Beast could reach her again, that meant Finn was in danger.
Jasmine ran for her Prize. She ran past Decker rolling a barrel toward the gangplank, skipped past Kask carrying a wooden chest.
“A little help here,” someone called.
She ran for the ladder leading below decks. The passageway below was lit by the warm light of lanterns. She turned on her heels and nearly bowled over Finn.
“I saw them,” he said. “The phantoms are back.”
A shadowy form appeared behind Finn. She pushed him aside and drew her paring knife. She scowled. As useless as a blade was against the phantoms, Marcelo would�
�ve been proud of her first reaction. So would Finn. This time, though, she would have to wield. It was the only way she knew how to keep him hidden.
Her magic failed her.
Swearing an oath, she pushed Finn into a side compartment. “Stay here and stay back,” she said, grateful he didn’t argue when she shut the door. It was unlikely a simple barrier like a bulkhead or a door could protect Finn from the phantom, but he was at least out of sight.
The shadowy form burned in the passageway. Visions of boiling seas bubbled up around her. The air turned acrid and hot. This was the manifestation of the Beast, lusting after power. It would do anything to get to Finn and Jasmine. She couldn’t let it touch either of them.
Her magic surged like a river about to break its banks. It built so fast, she thought she might drown in the sweet rush. She had to let it go or it would consume her. The power flew from her and blasted the phantom. A high-pitched scream reverberated through her head. Her ears rang with the following silence. On the bulkhead, burnt into the wood, a dark vague shape was all that remained of the phantom. She’d blasted it into oblivion.
“What in all the deep oceans?” she gasped.
The door flew open. “What was that sound?” Finn asked, glancing up and down the passage.
She’d not intended to use that much power. Neither had she tapped into her talisman. She had no idea where the magic had come from. Was this how it had started for Kahld? She couldn’t become like him. She could never become him. Yet the power had flared so quickly. It tasted sweet like honeysuckle, with the sour tang of rotting fruit. Her skin still tingled.
“Is it gone?”
Jasmine could only nod.
Crewman Fisher appeared at the end of the narrow passageway. He held a gutting knife, and a storm of black soot blew around him. “Get away from him, Jasmine.”
Not Fisher too. He was one of the Prize’s original crew. He’d joined in his teens and had apprenticed with Durne. The sun had leathered his skin and made him look a decade older than his forty years. When he was young, he’d bounced her on his knee and, when Brusan wasn’t within earshot, he sang to her funny songs of the sea.
