Chapter 25 Our Dead Drink The Sea #3
“Look around you.” His voice hardens. The crew shifts slightly, glancing at each other and the wreckage of the ship.
“This is the life we lead, it isn’t for the faint of heart.
The sea takes its due and sometimes that means the very best of us, but here’s the truth of it—these men died as they lived; aboard this vessel, with wind at their back and salt on their lips.
They died fighting to save what they loved and that’s more than most can claim. ”
I can’t resist looking up now and find him staring between each gathered man and woman, a fire in his eyes that steals my breath.
He’s magnificent without even trying, a force of nature, a storm held captive in a man's body. Every inch of him speaks of raw power, and it’s impossible to look away.
The light weaves through his hair, which is so dark there are blue tones to it.
A shadow clings to his sharp jaw and the sun has darkened his skin considerably since the day I first saw him through the waterfall.
His gaze travels to a trio of figures huddled closest to the bodies.
I notice the young boy, Finch, is among them, his eyes swollen and red from crying.
“I know some of you ache worse than others. You had bonds with these men that go deeper than the sea itself. We grieve with you—never forget that their memories sail on with us. Every knot you tie, every wave you ride is a testament to them. They wouldn’t want you to break, but instead to raise your cup high and curse the rough waters ahead.
We will honor them the way they’d want. Those who loved them best, come forward and place the final stitch. ”
Finch and the two behind him take a step into the circle and they each kneel next to a body, taking up the stitching needle and thread. The young boy’s hands shake as he forces the curved needle with a fair amount of effort through the fabric and the nose of the lost crewman he cared for.
I shiver to think of why. This is one tradition I’ve heard passed through the taverns of the Barrows back in Helgate.
While the surgeon may insist on it as a final check for life before the bodies are cast overboard, this practice is rooted in superstition.
The crew believes it is a way to seal the men’s souls into the shrouds so that they do not remain on the ship to haunt the living.
We all watch stoically as he finally gets the needle through. More come forward to offer help lifting the sealed bodies before tilting them over the rail so they slip into the glassy waters below us.
Another moment of silence follows, long and heady, until the tall, short haired sailor steps from Brigg’s side and blows into a whistle, the sound sharp and startling. I flinch.
“Alright, ya scurvy dogs, back to your posts! This ship won’t get itself to Staygia! We’ve repairs to finish.”
“Aye, Tannin!” some call, while others simply get straight into action.
The choppy haired woman beside me rolls her eyes and thumbs her nose, but elbows the big guy next to her and they set off together toward the forecastle.
I turn to Rowan who’s watching the flurry of movement with marked interest, not at all concerned over the boatswain’s last declaration.
“So, Staygia.” I say it loudly enough to recall her attention.
Her round brown eyes find mine. “What about it?”
“Between the marriage and near deaths, we haven’t had a chance to talk details of our plan when we get there.”
She shrugs slightly, watching a crewmen trudge by carrying what looks to be a heavy pile of rigging, and her voice drops an octave. “Rhyland Crow will enter the games for the crown piece, right?”
My jaw tenses. I think of the Mad Queen.
Whispers traveled over from Staygia. Tales of the gore, the horror, witnessed during her brutal games.
Her legendary colosseum, her gladiators that train from childhood to battle the contenders brave or stupid enough to enter for their chance to win the crown piece.
Which is Rhyland, brave or stupid? The muscles low in my abdomen contract, squeezing until I feel sick.
“I-I assume so. But I mean us. The capital city will be dangerous for foreigners. We are technically in open war with their country.”
“I don’t think we need to worry much. Sabre says the Nightingale has made stops in Staygia often.
They’re familiar with the locals and their customs. The crew will keep us safe while we’re there.
” She adds the last part with a blush that makes me wonder at what other promises Sabre has whispered to my friend in the dark.
I can’t judge her, of course. My eyes skate to Rhyland, now hovered in a small group of his trusted sea-forged. What could they be discussing?
“Oh, Sabre! We were just talking about you,” Rowan chirps.
I whip around to see the blonde haired, one-eyed minx approaching.
She slinks toward us in her prowling way, one hand always resting against the pistol strapped at her waist. Behind her, she’s trailed by a tall, tanned man.
His hair is a shade darker than hers, shaved on the sides while the long strands at the top are wrapped in a tight knot.
His narrow, greenish brown eyes glance curiously between Rowan and I.
“Is that so?” Sabre lifts her slender brow, a movement that makes Rowan go scarlet.
“Well, yes. You and Staygia. Vale has some concerns about our timeline,” she lies quickly. “I can see her point. What with the mast in such awful shape, how will we make it in time for the games? But I’m sure Nicklas has a solution for that.”
“Don’t get my brother started, please. He just stopped ranting.”
The man behind her huffs out a good-natured laugh.
“If they’re worried, it’s my duty as the Nightingale’s carpenter to reassure them.
” He turns on his heel, spreading out his hands to capture the foremast between them like a painting to be viewed by us.
“The worst of the damage was at the very top. See how it caught the wind and broke free just there? And then swung down with the rigging overboard?” He pauses, and I feel his gaze travel over the trail of bruises on my collarbone and chest. “Who am I kidding? If the rumors are true, the two of you had a firsthand, intimate view of the wreckage. Anyway, Captain had to cut some of the rigging to, well, you know, but by some dumb luck the pieces were held on by a thread and dragged behind us for a while. The crew fished it out of the sea this morning, splintered but salvageable. Now comes the tricky part—reattaching her.” His tapered face turns animated, almost feverish.
Sabre lets out a low groan. “Nick—”
He ignores her. “It’ll take a bit of jury-rigging, but until we can secure a new mast in a port city, I’m thinking a combination of lashes and wedges should do the trick.
We’ll lash the top mast to the base with clove hitch knots after we hammer wedges in to keep her from slipping under the pressure of the winds, they’ll act sort of like a key, locking the two pieces together snugly.
” His hands drop thoughtfully to his narrow waist. “Though I suppose if Captain allows us the time, we might do something more long term. A splice and fish plates? It could work, but must be done carefully. I’d have to fashion the pieces myself…
.” By the end he’s rambling off, almost musing to himself until Sabre grabs his shoulder.
“Nicklas, enough. Save your antics for an audience who cares.” She glances at us. “Or at the very least understands such things.”
“I think he’s very clever,” Rowan pipes in, smiling brightly at him.
The carpenter returns the look with a broad grin that makes him look even younger. I find myself wondering if he’s addled or genius. Maybe both.
“Don’t indulge him, Rowan. You’re too nice. Off with you, Brother. Make yourself useful to the crew so we can get underway, that’s an order. I have important matters to discuss with these two.”
He waves her off, but there’s still a smile that lingers in his eyes as he makes toward Rhyland and the group surrounding him to offer up his plan to more promising ears.
“What more important matters do we have to discuss?” I demand the moment he’s well away.
The lightness in her features melds off when she turns back to me. I’m reminded that I've been nothing but a thorn in her side from the day she met me, and the thought almost makes me smile.
“Personal matters.”
For one mortifying second, I’m paralyzed by the absurd notion that she somehow knows about what happened between Rhyland and I last night. I reach for a mask of calm but fall woefully short.
“Like?” I snap too defensively, and my throat throbs from the effort of it.
A smirk claims the corner of her mouth and her arms fold over her rather prominent chest. “For starters, Talon asked me to convey that the fancy blue sea-cloak needs to be off Rowan and on you at all times.”
My heart slams in my chest so hard it’s painful. “What?”
Sabre shrugs. “He said you can’t swim, and though as much as I’m tempted to, I’m not to spread that embarrassing little fact around. If something were to happen, the cloak would keep you safe. He wants you in it, always.”
Fire rears within me. A blaze of anger and maybe something else. Something too dark to name. “The captain can tell me this himself, yes? Or are you to parrot orders back and forth between us for the duration of the trip?”
“You’d do well to listen, Avalon. You all but secured these rules for yourself, going above deck after he explicitly told you not to. Not to mention he is your husband. It’s his duty to keep you safe.”
I look to Rowan, waiting for her to back me up. Proclaim that I’m not some pet to be ordered around. That I’ve more than proved that I can take care of myself and decide what’s done with my wedding gift. There’s a flare of panic in her expression, suggesting she wants to help but doesn’t know how.
“This does seem…excessive, but he could be right, Vale. You need the cloak more than I do,” she offers in the carefully trained tone of a mediator who doesn’t want to be seen as ‘taking sides.’
Sabre’s face softens when she glances at her. “It’s the captain's orders. And the quartermaster and I both agree. You put all of us at risk when you don’t listen.”
Rowan unclasps the cloak and carefully passes it to me.
I throw every dagger I have in the glare I give Sabre, but then my shoulders relax a fraction and I toss the cloak over them, clipping it together. Its warmth and serenity settles into me. “Well,” I swallow. I’ll make him pay for his nerve somehow. “I guess there’s nothing more to be done.”
Sabre makes a snorting sound when she laughs but doesn’t offer anything more on the subject. “Come on, Rowan, I’ll show you how to mend the canvas.”
“What about me!” I call after them, though it feels like scraping nails down my throat.
“You go see Mattias. You sound like shit!” she calls back.
If they weren’t headed so close to the edge of the ship, I might stomp after them, but I think I’ve had about as much of the fresh sea air as I can manage.
Tremors work down my arms to my fingertips at the sight of the expansive water, at the thought of going near it.
And my throat does hurt something terrible.