Chapter 5
As the sun dips low in the evening sky, Captain Murphy steers us off the road in search of water, a task he accomplishes with an unnatural ease.
I make a mental note to watch his tracking habits more carefully in hopes that I might learn something valuable. Surely being able to find water quickly is a skill that will prove useful at some point.
While the captain pitches the canvas tent, I set out to find a secluded place to expend my magic away from his watchful eyes. It tickles relentlessly, like an unreachable itch that can only be scratched by growing life.
Despite the late hour, what remains of the sun is warm. It’s the first day that has truly felt like this winter might be coming to an end. I shed my cloak and wool sweater, letting the rays dance across my shoulders, now exposed in the thin cotton tank I wear underneath.
This area, ringed with evergreen trees and holly bushes, provides the best chance at privacy. I drop to my knees on the ground, eager not to pray to the gods who demand penance from this position but to connect with the life force that runs under our feet.
Eyes closed, I breathe in deeply, feeling the warming sensation of my magic just under the surface.
I call to it on the inhale and let it trickle into my waiting palms. Pushing all the air from my lungs, my earth magic flows from my fingers in delicate green rivulets, gently waking the dead grass that lingers under the pine straw floor of the forest from its seasonal slumber.
I search the clearing again to make sure the captain isn’t lurking between the trees, and satisfied with what I find, I tilt my face towards the sunlight streaming through the canopy of leaves overhead.
With my palms planted firmly on the ground, I close my eyes and imagine my fingertips extending deep into the dirt and becoming roots and vines searching for water.
In my mind’s eye, my body becomes the trunk of a tree, sturdy and strong, weathered and steadfast. My brown hair blows in the warm breeze like autumn leaves clinging to thin branches before they fall to the earth.
I am rooted.
I am grounded.
I am the earth.
Concentrated clusters of magic form dormant bulbs under the barren ground as power seeps through my fingertips and into the soil.
In a few weeks, when the last dregs of winter disappear, snow white crocus and deep-purple godsbane will bloom in this spot.
In this moment, under the sun’s rays and connected wholly to the land, I am at peace.
“What are you doing?” Captain Murphy’s booming voice startles me back to reality.
I jump to my feet, quickly trying to swallow down the panic that clenches my chest. “Meditating.”
“Meditating,” he repeats skeptically. “If you’re not careful, someone might mistake that for worshipping.”
He stalks towards me in long strides until he’s close enough that I can feel his breath. The woods seem to go quiet around us—the only noise the pounding of my heart and the rushing of blood between my ears.
“There’s no god I would ever get on my knees for,” I defiantly declare.
Gray eyes scrutinize me, boring into me as if he already knows my darkest truth and he’s waiting for me to reveal it.
I force myself to breathe around the darkness that threatens to overtake my vision.
I’ve come close to being discovered before—much closer than this—but no one has ever peered into my soul the way this man is right now.
“Meditating…” he repeats. The last syllable lingers lazily in his mouth, eyes still intently focused on my every move. “Why?”
We may be allies, but we are not confidants.
Some secrets, especially ones as damning as mine, are better left unsaid.
The magic in my veins, the power that aches to be released into the world, the way I feel when I make the earth bend to my will—those are truths that I’ve always believed will only be exposed when Death takes me at last.
But the way he’s looking at me right now makes me want to offer an infinitesimal piece of a confession, to unburden myself of the tiniest fraction of the insurmountable weight that gets heavier with each passing year.
“It calms my mind,” I concede, “centers me … like I’m connected to something larger than myself.”
The corners of Captain Murphy’s lips turn up in an unexpected smile. “I feel the same way about swimming.”
His feet carry him backward, his eyes locked on me until he’s several steps away. Turning and walking towards the nearby trees, the captain calls out over his shoulder, “Find us some firewood, princess.”
A heavy sigh leaves my body. That was entirely too close for comfort, and yet a part of me grieves the loss of that sliver of safety, the brief moment that was entirely too good to be true.
No such safety has existed for me since that fateful day in the Eastern Sea—the day I was swallowed whole by the water and ended up on a beach, lungs filled with sea water and blood filled with magic.
The black serpentine beast flits through my mind at the thought.
“I’ll get firewood when I’m ready,” I mumble, as I make my way back to our campsite.
My caramel-colored mare wanders over and I begin the process of unsaddling her for the evening. Minutes pass without a quick-witted quip from Murphy for my blatant disregard of his command. My head swivels to locate him, eyes scanning the trees until they reach the waterline.
There, on the bank of the small pond, Captain Murphy stands with his boots, armor, and shirt casually discarded at his feet.
My eyes roam up slowly, taking in his low-slung black leather pants, the large hands planted firmly on his hip bones, the expanse of scarred tanned skin that covers his back, and thick rippling muscles that carve out his broad shoulders.
Holy gods.
As if on cue, my horse snorts, drawing my attention away from the half-dressed man in front of me.
“You’re right, girl,” I whisper, “it’s not polite to stare.”
But as I unbuckle her saddle, I can’t stop myself from peering over her back for another glance. Murphy is wading into the pond now, eyes closed and face turned towards the sky.
My gaze lingers, watching his aqueous movements. It’s as if he flows in the water, as if he is composed entirely of droplets that morph into ripples surrounding him as he submerges.
Another second passes before his head breaks the surface again, rivulets of water streaming from his onyx hair as he ascends. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath of the now chilly air. He turns towards me and it’s there, across his honeyed skin, that I find my doom.
Tattooed in raven ink across his sculpted chest is the perfectly replicated image of the primordial sea beast. The leviathan of my nightmares twines through cresting waves of ink, its mouth open as if it’s poised to strike the captain’s neck with one wrong move.
“If you’re going to stare, you might as well join me.”
His gruff voice forces my eyes away from his body, snapping to a pair made of molten silver before I turn and run.