I thought of Fahr. There was a day I could have tumbled him easily and without regret. He was pretty and skilled, with those dancing brown eyes and that flashing smile. I liked smiles, oddly enough. There weren’t enough of them in my world. They were like taffy, sweet and sticky and you wanted more until you didn’t. But I was growing weary of the tumble, the salty talk, and the endless chase. Lovers came, lovers went, and my heart was as worn as rope on a whaler.
My mind wandered to the captain, and I couldn’t help the thrumming of my pulse. Nowhewould be something different. Heat curled my toes, rolling up like the break of a wave as I wondered what it’d be like to fog the enemy. I bit my lip. Oh, what a roll he would be. I’d shatter that steel and plunge in deep, drink his wine and bring him to his knees. The ship would thunder as roles were swapped, and I’d be the captain hot for the chase.
Interesting way to fight a war, but it was a battle I knew I would win.
It was true. I was a wretched, wretched woman.
I pushed to my feet, dusted the sand from my breeches, and headed back to the storehouse, an extra swing to my hips tonight. Merchants watched me go, not sure what a new mage in the market meant for their sales, I knew. Magik was a skilled trade, like carpentry or weaving, but it came with dreads of its own. I could add value to their little town, but if I was selfish, I could ruin them all. My mother was as selfish as they came. I was more like her than I wanted to be.
That second night was quiet as well, and the next day panned out same as the first. No ships hiring, no Navy list to port. I earned my taffy the third night, however, when three lubbers came to call.
It was raining, and they snuck in through the boards. With barely a thought, I sent a chimeric-enhancedCarmen Lumieretheir way, bathing the entire storehouse in light. They fled, pushing out through the boards the way they’d come. I slid down the ladder from the loft and stood for a long while in the darkness. They hadn’t been quiet about it, so it was clear that they’d been here before, but to be honest, there was no deterrent, no dog nor fence, not even a solid wall to keep them out. The shopkeepers were kind, but they were struggling. They had no crab shell to keep them safe.
That night, I trudged around the outside of the building, searing protection runes into the wood with my fingers. The planks hissed as chimeric and rain met, and smoke curled at my touch. It took the rest of the night to finish, and by dawn, I was soaked to the bones.
Forge broke low that morning, turning the rain to drizzle and the drizzle to fog, and I stood back to survey my work. Very little satisfied me, but this was good. I pressed my palms into the loading doors, burning them with the impression of the chase rune. My signature, I supposed. My new, true name.
Aro’el.
That morning, there was a Navy ship in the harbor.
9. High Tide
She was a fine ship, a broad four-master, and she flew the Admiralty flag from her stern gaff. Moored in the bay, she was barely visible in the morning fog, and her longboats were already tied at the wharf. A cloud of officers hovered around the magister, studying his roster. Their uniforms were crisp, the colors bold. They had flint pistols at their hips, and I knew at once they were fusiliers.
I smoothed my sash and marshalled my thoughts, framing my story before I approached. I was Honor Renn, Ensign Bluemage on the Kingship FrigateDawn Watch, which had been scuppered to the deep by theEndorathilweeks prior. I’d been pulled out of the sea by the Ship of Spells and…
No.
I’d not mention that part.
I stepped over to a minotaur who was waiting by the dock.
“She’s a big one,” I said.
“Aye,” he said.
“Is she taking stores or crew?”
“Looking for someone.” He peered down at me. “Maybe you.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to make out the ship’s details in the heavy fog, and a cold wave swept up from my toes.
TheTemplemore.
The name rattled through my bones like loose shot in a barrel.
I glanced through the officers and spied the broad hat of the captain. Commodore, actually. Commodore Bracebridge. He was stocky, with a high forehead, graying hair in a queue, and lips pursed as though sucking a limon. Unremarkable, really, save for the three-taloned scar that ran from his hairline to his chin, leaving one eye a milky white.
Three talons, like those of a great hawk.
The minotaur was watching me, so I gave him a quick nod and stepped back, turning to make my way back to the markets.
“There she be,” called the magister. “Aye, lass!”
“Not her,” I heard the minotaur say from behind. “Wrong girl.”
I walked faster, cursing the heaviness of damp sand and praising the iron of minotaurs.
