“Orvena’s sake,” she mutters. “Didn’t you say your father worked for a sea biologist?”
“He did,” Algar mumbles. “But I didn’t get to sail with him much, and if I did, we were on regular boats, not ships that go so fast they make you dizzy.”
“Rule number three!” Solyen shouts, capturing our attention again. He pauses for a moment, pulls out his flask to unscrew the cap, takes a swig, shrugs, and says, “Actually, there is no rule number three.”
“Seriously?” Rynthea mumbles. “This man is going to get us all killed.”
“Just make sure you remember rules one and two,” Solyen insists before drifting past us. “Carry on. Best that you enjoy your lives now before they come to an end on that island of death.” He opens the door to the captain’s quarters and disappears inside.
We can’t go near the side of the boat, but there are ropes dangling close by, their ends anchored into posts. I walk to one of them and grip it tight, peering over the edge to see the water.
Solyen’s magic-powered speedboat is incredibly fast—so fast I can hardly feel the ship rocking or swaying. It seems theEmellieis cutting through the sea like a knife through butter.
“Fucking shadows.” Algar moans, dropping his face into the bucket again. Zephra gives him two little pats on the head in a“there, there”sort of way.
Rynthea removes her rucksack and digs through it until she pulls out a white flower. “Here.” She stuffs it into Algar’s hand. “Eat a few of those petals.”
“What is it?” he croaks.
“Skyflower. I found it in Immalon. It’ll curb the nausea.”
Algar studies the crumpled flower petals before popping them into his mouth and chewing. Then he sighs and rests his head on the rim of the bucket. With a deep exhale, Rynthea takes the spot beside him.
Thane sits on a bench to sharpen some of his daggers. Our eyes catch, and I give him a smile. A smirk appears before he focuses on his daggers again.
“I take it you love the sea.” Someone’s voice rises behind me.
I gasp, nearly letting the ropes go as I turn my head to find the culprit.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” It’s the boy Solyen called Conred. I sway a bit, and he grips the rope to steady it. “Did I startle you?”
“A bit, yeah.” I force a laugh.
“I sincerely apologize.”
“It’s okay.”
“May I ask that you standbehindthe ropes, though?”
“Oh. Uh, yeah. Of course. Sorry.” I release the ropes and move back, making sure not to get my feet tangled in the thick lines below.
“It’s just that I’ve seen way too many people trust these things and then we hit a snag in the sea, and they go flying over, ya know?” He releases a nervous laugh.
“Right. That makes sense.”
“I’m Conred Joshell.” He offers me a hand.
I take it and give it a shake. “Zaira Quinlocke.”
I study his features—the deep brown of his skin, the darkness of his coarse hair, and the faded gold streaks in them that can never be replicated. I know exactly where he was born.
“You’re from Ember Coast,” I say.
“I am!” he exclaims, pleased that I know.
“That’s—that’s incredible. So am I.”
“No way. Do you have any other family around?” he asks.
