“Good,” he said. “You will replace Mr. Worley as my steward. I will have a list prepared of my schedule and your duties.”
Steward?
He whirled and left the deck for the hatch.
Steward?
I glanced up to the pup, where my mother stood, smiling.
I tore my eyes away and stepped down to the dark.
Captain’s steward. What the bloody hels? Two years in Berryburn, Wan to Blue in eight months, chimeric chaser sought after by all nations, chosen by the infamous Ship of Spells herself, and I was tidying a room as captain’s foggin’ steward.
I had no idea what he was thinking. There were seamages and junior midshipmen in line for the post, and I was sure they were my enemies now, just like Neale, Bergy, and Dik and who knew who else. I was Navy, with no clear place in the order of duty on board a privateer. Why my name tumbled from his lips was beyond my understanding, but I’d be damned before I would ask.
Maybe I already was.
I gathered the glasses and plates, laid them carefully in the basket.Forge forbid one should chip, Nan had said.The captain wouldn’t stand no chips. There was a ring of wine on the desktop, so I grabbed the cloth that was tucked into my sash. My naval sash, which currently sported two threads of green woven into its bolt, along with the single thread of gold. Nothing for all the shots I’d stopped before they hit. Nothing for the keel I’d fried on theTerrebith Fae.Oh, but a gold for making a spell that pleased the captain and almost killed me. The only true threads I’d been awarded were from a grateful faun, who was likely sighing at my very thoughts.
If I still served the Navy, I’d have a bloody rainbow around my waist by now.
I was so tired.
I’d wept all night for Worley and for his birds, rudderless now without a master. I wept for his son, Claudian, dead at the handsof a furious, grieving, vengeful man. But I also I wept for the swabs we’d lost and for the petty way we’d lost them. And I wept for the war that had raged for years, all due to the quest for more power and the timbering of a tree.
I was tired and I was sad, so I was angry. No surprise there. Anger was my default, my safe place, my home. Not so different than Thanavar, I reckoned, but my hands had not shed the same blood.
One of the windows was open because the hawk was in the skies, scouting out a path due south through the Sheets. I could see the dark clouds flashing on the horizon. I hated the Sheets. I hated the Silence. More than these, I hated the fact that my mother was here, now, working her arcane ways through the lives of the crew. She had spent time with both Thanavar and Dev, and I knew she was attempting to seduce them both. Either one would be a win for her, like a dog marking a stone, taking what I’d earned and working them to her advantage.
The story of my foggin’ life. I just prayed they’d steer clear.
I’d never needed to seduce. I’d just made an offer and been accepted or rejected. There was no great game in my old world. If I was lucky, just a really good fog.
I grabbed the blanket on the chest. It was covered in white feathers. I climbed on top of the chest and held it out the window, shook it out a few times, and watched the feathers lift away on a leeward wind. I hopped back down and folded it in quarters, then eighths, just how he liked it. Just how I was told. Foggin’ steward, indeed. It was wool, so it was coarse, but it felt like home under my skin. It smelled of oak and oil and salt and sea. I held it to my chest and turned to look past the bookcases to the small sleeping quarters beyond.
At least she hadn’t been there yet.
It was a narrow bed on gimbals, hung from the rafters to rock as the ship pitched through the waves. I’d never seen the linensdisturbed; the lone pillow never creased. I knew I’d never need to make that bed because he spent his nights sleeping as the hawk on the blanket on the chest. Honestly, there was little to do as steward save wash the glasses, shake the blanket, and replenish the wine. It was an easy post, in spite of my wrath.
I refused to look through his journals, though I desperately wanted to.
The chest was another story.
Still clutching the blanket, I turned. It called to me, this chest filled with chimeric. It was RuneTree wood—I knew it in my bones. It sang songs of want and desire, of power and need. It was all there within a wooden box, with only an iron clasp to protect it. There was no lock, and there was no key. There was only honor and fear in equal measure, but I had neither honor nor fear left in my bones.
I reached down to stroke the lid, closed my eyes as the chimeric leached through the fibers of the wood. I breathed it in, wishing it would fill my body and brand me whole. I wanted it like I had never wanted anything before. Wanted its power to burn my skin and boil my blood, so I could leave this ship and fly away and be alone forever. I would be the Dreadmage of the world, and no one would call me runechaser ever again. Or I’d burst into glorious flame and float away like the feathers on the ocean winds, never to be seen again.
“Aro’el,” said a voice, and I jolted out of my thoughts. Thanavar stood beside the desk, brow furrowed, glancing at the blanket clutched in my hands. I looked down. It was sizzling with chimeric.
I was wearing my gloves. It shouldn’t have burned through.
“This was a mistake,” he said.
I held it out, and he snatched it from my grasp, crossed the floor, and flung it out the transom window. It boomed when it hit the sea.
“You are relieved of duty as steward and are dismissed.”
I stared at the floor, trying desperately to control my racing thoughts. Darkening like the storm clouds we courted in the Sheets, whispers like chimeric, powerful and raw.
