Chapter 28 Gods and Their Games
The Sea has no mercy
for the wicked or the woed.
She will reap,
and reap,
and reap
what she’s owed.
—Excerpt from 'A Sailor’s Demise', by Ariyn Avery
Four days pass. Rhyland and I speak not a word to each other. At night, his cabin is silent and still, save for our shared breathing and the insistent groan of the ship.
I spend my days tucked away in Mattias’s surgery, helping the old man blend tinctures or tend to minor wounds common among the careless brood of crewmen.
If not down trying to be useful to Mattias, I trail after Rowan who is all but Sabre’s shadow.
She works from sunup to sundown, heaving lines, mending canvas, reefing sails.
Her dedication would be awe inspiring if bitterness wasn't rotting me from the inside out. When she’s not working, we eat together with the crew in the galley.
After dark, Sabre insists on teaching Rowan how to handle a sword in the rare case we’re boarded, or meet trouble in Staygia.
Watching them fight sends a pulse through me, something dark, almost loathsome.
I’m an outsider, an intruder peeking in on their happiness.
When they bid me goodnight, heading down below, fingers entwined, eyes hazy with lust for each other, I linger on deck to stare at the vast expanse of sea.
A shiver coats my skin before arching along my spine.
It has nothing to do with the fevers that have since gone and everything to do with the fact the deep is fucking terrifying.
I wonder, briefly, as my fingers skim over the place the rune on my chest is tucked away, if I’ll ever let this fear go.
If I’ll ever look at the water and not feel horror bleed into my bones, as though it’s been stitched along my muscle.
Engraved on my soul. Once, I had revered the seas, longed with my entire being to swim in them.
To explore a world outside of Aurorae, to find somewhere I could feel…
welcome. But that was ruined for me when the Shadow Weaver went down.
When Màma was ripped away, pulled under, weighed in chains so heavy a grown man hadn’t the hope of lifting them.
We were dead. I was sure of it.
Until we weren’t. Until I was leveled with a task that felt heavier than all the chains in Hlódyn combined.
What is she doing now, my móeir? There are so many questions, and a cruel, insistent fear that I’ll never be able to ask them.
That I’ll fail and never see her again, knowing it was all my fault.
That I trusted a snake who spread his poison through my veins.
If you couldn’t trust your own judgment, what was left?
Nothing.
I feel the truth of it, now, how very alone I am.
I think of Rhyland, our kiss, the coldness in his eyes, and want to scream.
To rage at myself for daring to risk feeling anything but hate.
Anger bubbles beneath the surface of my control, dampening my fear.
I make myself move, to climb the forecastle toward the bowsprit that points like an arrow to our destination.
Staygia.
What happens when we get there? My fingers move almost obsessively through the tips of my white hair.
The natural chestnut shade is finally starting to come back through.
Hints of it, so that I now have the strangest combination of rich brown melding in from the top.
I’ve tamed the heavy, wild mane into a tight braid that hangs down over my shoulder, past my breasts.
Some of the strands inevitably came loose from the day's hard work.
The wind ruffles them as I move toward the front of the ship to peer down at the figurehead.
The majestic Nightingale, a creature borne of myth and legend.
Behind me, a throat is subtly cleared and I jerk in response.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people,” I hiss into the salty air, folding my arms against the cutting breeze.
“I didn't realize you were up here,” Rhyland answers dryly.
I almost scoff at the idea. There is no scenario in which I imagine he doesn't know where I am on his ship at all times. I’m his captive, after all.
He comes up beside me, presses into the rail to gaze out over the glassy surface. A breeze ruffles his dark hair. He leans into it, pulling in a deep breath.
Looking at him is a painful reminder of my anger, so I keep my eyes trained on the sleek wings of the figurehead. The deck is illuminated by a single hanging lantern that casts a glow of orange over everything, guiding our way through misting fog.
“Why the Nightingale?” I can’t help but ask it, wanting to know more. More than I should.
His high brow raises in response. “You know the story, yes?”
“Bits. A majestic bird. A powerful creature no one has ever actually seen, said to be important to your kind.” I let venom reap the edge of my voice.
For a moment a hard line seizes his mouth and I don’t think he is going to speak, but then he sighs, breathing way into the chilly night.
“We gods believe the Nightingale forged the Midnight Crown. It is the creator of everything—first the black cold, then the bright sun. The pale moon. Then the four realms. It was the harbinger of the universe and then, without warning, it vanished. When Mór was a child her first prophecy came to her. The Nightingale is not a bird at all, but a creature destined to be reborn among us. Wings of midnight, a rain of fire. When the Nightingale darkens the skies again, it will soar on a tide of doom. Twilight of the gods, some call it. When man and monster and immortal alike will all know darkness and then death.”
He looks to the sky, at the silverish stars that blink through the deep navy, said to have been scattered there by his mother’s hand. I wonder now if that’s true.
“The prophecy is Ireus’ greatest fear. From the beginning of the creation he has thrived off his power, bolstered by the worship of mankind.
Your wars came, your religions fissured, but still he remained at the center of their praise—the triple god, they call to him.
While Centurism is pushed, the other godly families fade.
Weaken. One line tried to rise up, to do something about the conflict and he—” His voice rips away from the sentence.
He closes his eyes and swallows hard. “The figurehead is just another way of saying ‘fuck you’ to him. A reminder that his time is finite. The crown shattering was the beginning of it all. The catalyst of the prophecy.”
I shake my head. Gods and their games.
“So you are gathering it for him? To try and change fate?”
Mór’s words ring hollow in my ears, how fate is a fickle thing. Forever arriving and departing. Nothing is assured. Not even the lives of the divine.
“My reasons are my own.”
“Why do you care so much about me learning to use my magick?”
He hesitates at that, shoulders growing rigid. “I don't.”
“You do,” I press. “And though you’re a stubborn arse, I think it has more to do than simply proving a point.”
He is full of dither tonight, something that doesn’t quite suit his cool air of confidence.
His fists flex around the wood of the rail so tightly, I wonder if imprints will be left behind.
The deep midnight blue splashed across his irises flash through the dim when he gives me a sideways look rife with agitation.
“You want the truth?”
“For once, yes.”
The corner of his mouth lilts into a subtly cold smirk. “That’s rich coming from you, Nymph.”
“Me?” I flutter my long lashes, twisting to crane my back over the rail until it gives a satisfying ‘crack’ of release through my spine. “I've been a picture of honesty, Pirate. You, however…I don’t think you have a candid bone in your body.”
That bitterness floods me again, sharp and hot under my skin. Memories of the night after the storm. Our kiss that followed. It all meant nothing. A game to get my emotion, my magick to come to the surface.
“You could always check.” His voice turns low and heavy, an undercurrent of daring as wicked as the trickster god he calls brother.
I see the resemblance for a moment in the narrow set to their noses, the high prominent cheekbones, and shiver.
He reaches beneath his leather coat, pulling free the blade strapped to his side. My móeir’s hunting knife. His clever fingers flip it so that the worn hilt points out toward me.
I don’t hesitate, not this time. Quickly, I grasp it and pull with a slashing movement at his throat. He jerks back in surprise, just barely missing the sting of its razor edge.
I grin wolfishly at him. Something gleams bright in his eyes.
“By the Crown, Nymph, I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you smile.”
I shrug before taking another stab at him.
Miss.
“What can I say?” Miss. “The idea of hurting you is suddenly very…satisfying.”
Another lunge forward has him drawing his cutlass just in time to parry the strike.
“Hurt me?” The steel of our blades meet again, sparking this time.
“I’m not sure you have it in you. It’ll take more than steel.
Call your fire, if you can.” He takes a swipe at my chest, a slash I narrowly avoid, dancing backward toward the steps that lead down to the main deck. “Or must I kiss you again?”
He’s taunting me now. The arrogance in his tone stings worse than any blade.
A howl rips itself from my lips. “You’ll underestimate me straight into your grave.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he smirks.
Heat sparks to life in my palm, silver flame that licks its way up my arm—more powerful than anything I’ve called up since the cave.
It’s a rush more pleasurable than any drug can give to see his eyes widen a fraction of a second before I cast it at him.
If he was anything less than a god, it would have hit him straight in the chest. His movement is fluid, graceful despite his size. The silver flame shoots past him, arching down toward the sea water where it lingers a moment before sizzling out.