Chapter 32 Sails
He took her heart and gave no chain,
No oath to bind, no vow, no name.
Still she clung through tide and flame—
For none but him could call her tame.
— From 'The Maiden and the Wave', traditional sea shanty
The Nightingale races over the water with a vengeance, a storm tempest, a phantom that glides with salt spray at her back.
Rhyland's called all hands on deck to get us underway at such an impossible speed, there's little doubt we will make it in time for the queen's games.
Relief is palpable in the air amongst the crew, but I don't stick around to see the victory celebrated.
I have no interest in raising a cup among men and women who would have seen me thrown overboard to appease one god or another.
Who would turn on each other like a pack of wild hounds with a stag snared before them, just out of reach.
Perhaps Rhyland's sea-forged are composed of kinder souls, but the bulk of these men are pirates to their core in the worst sort of way. Made of the things mothers in Helgate whisper to their children about, a warning to behave lest they’re snatched from their warm beds late in the eve and ferried off on some sullen pirate vessel.
I do know one thing for sure, and it is that Rhyland has ruined me for anyone else.
Not in the crass, primal way of taking a perceived purity, but in the quiet knowing that hums within me now.
The promise—threat—that I will never feel this way about another soul again.
That my essence will pine for him long after I've left this realm and a small part of me will never be whole, even with Máma back.
Something shifts inside of me. A new pain, wrought from the knowledge that I'll need to make an amendment to the agreement with the trickster god when I have the crown as leverage.
Make him promise to use it to restore Aurorae's protection that Ireus drew down in his rage.
The elders told stories of it—of days only the oldest among them were present for.
Safe and sound with the barrier, no one could come…
and no one could leave. A sacrifice of freedom, but one I'd be willing to make if it means they are all safe again from slavers and pirates and gods alike.
The thought is a bitter medicine to my soul.
The revelation is terrifying in a way I want to retreat from but there just isn’t enough space on the ship. I go to Rowan and Sabre’s cabin first, but it’s empty. They’re either eating or already helping to get the ship underway.
Mattias’ surgery is still and empty, too.
I push inside, going to the water basin to splash cool, clean water on my face, my legs.
I wipe away the smear of blood, dried now to the color of rust. There’s a dull ache at my core; I’m sore, but I wouldn’t hate the feeling if it weren’t a constant reminder of what we’ve done. Of him.
And suddenly the surgery is too small—smells too much of rich soil and greenery.
Too much like the pirate. The look on his face floods my mind, the horror at the sight of crimson dripped across the rough wood.
A look of bone deep regret. A regret, I realize with a worsening pang of horror, I don’t share.
How could I when it was…everything? When it felt like a piece to what I was missing locked into place?
He’d said nothing more. Hadn’t even looked at me.
My heart thuds so hard it hurts and I have to rub at the spot in the center of my chest, try to soothe my breathing, but the smell becomes too much: the sight of the deep water outside, even worse.
I tear from the room, rush down the narrow hall as the ship rocks to and fro under my feet.
Who knows where the path leads, but I follow it anyway, down, down into the belly of the ship until the air turns rank and heavy.
The further I go, the colder it becomes, like the ship is exhaling through her ribs.
A soft sound echoes down the corridor, humming, but it isn't melodic. It's off-key, cracked around the edges.
I follow it, slow and careful, until I round a corner and find myself before two thick iron grates. The brig.
One cell is shrouded in shadow. The other glows faintly with lantern light that flickers, mounted to the wall. Inside the cell, Lord Solomon Black kneels on the floor, a mad man now, cloaked in rags. His hair is longer, streaked in gray, his face sunken and sharp with a grizzly start of a beard.
He looks up when I fumble a step backwards and grins. His teeth are browning.
“I remember you,” he rasps, and points a finger straight at me. “The orphanage. The protegé. The Mothers Three believed you’d change the way of our little world. Careful, girl. You’re burning too bright. Bright things attract trouble.”
What in the four realms is he going on about? I swallow but don't speak. I should turn around, but can’t seem to peel myself away. Solomon Black—gods, he’d been the most esteemed man in Helgate.
His head tilts, bones popping with the motion. “Two leashes you wear now. One green, one gold. You think you’re clever, wearing both? You’ll be dragged apart by them in the end.”
A chill slides down my back.
From the next cell over, Captain Searle lets out a snort. “Shut yer raving mouth, Black. I’m trying to shut me eyes.”
Solomon keeps smiling, but his voice drops to a lower rasp.
“You won’t save her, Searle. You’re just another dead man sinking slow.
At least I can see the tide coming. Rhyland Crow, a dreaded foe, he’ll eat your heart for supper.
” He sings the last bit, waving his fingers about like a child and then lets out a belting, manic laugh.
“You’ve gone mad,” I whisper.
His face falls; he snarls. “I’ve gone wise.”
I step closer to the bars, grip them, because it might be madness or it just might make sense. “What do you mean…two leashes?”
His dark eyes glint. A flash of green flares over them and my heart almost stops.
I know that color. How? How? “The trickster and the war god. Both want to claim you. One’s already marked your body.
The other marked your heart. But neither have your soul, not yet.
” He leans forward, eyes wide and gleaming. “Don’t give it to them.”
Searle grumbles again. “Ignore him. He’s been spouting riddles since they locked us up. Mad dog Black I call ‘em. Pass me some rum and be on with ya, girl.”
Solomon crawls forward and hums, so low only I can hear.
“You’re the tide-bringer. The cursed flame.
The bride of ruin.” He smiles too wide. “You’ll unmake a queen and bury gods beneath the sea.
And I’ll find you. I’ll find you.” He shoots to his feet then, faster than his wasting frame should be able to, and lunges for me, grabbing the front of my shirt.
“I’LL FIND YOU.” He screams it now, straight in my face, his foul breath pooling over me.
Instinct kicks in before thought. I twist my arm the way Rhyland showed me—sharp pivot, elbow tight, knee to the gut through the wide spaced bars—and wrench free.
His bony fingers claw the air as I stumble backward, colliding with the low wall near the brig door.
Another howl of mad laughter escapes him, but when he blinks the green is gone from his eyes.
He looks suddenly dazed, and staggers backward into the pile of straw on the ground.
I could have imagined it—all of it.
Something inside me coils tight, the urge to run. I don’t deny it this time.
Like a coward, I retreat to the cabin, avoiding the pirates who are too busy manning stations to stop me.
I rip the clothes off, soiled by Solomon’s filthy touch.
Visions of green dance behind my eyes. The room is quiet, save for the occasional creak of the Nightingale's hull and the hush of the sea beyond.
The door creaks open sometime past dusk, letting in a low gust of salt-laced air and the muted murmur of crew outside.
Rhyland moves with unusual quiet as he enters, his boots light on the planks, his frame shadowed in the golden wash of the lantern swinging from the rafter.
I sit cross-legged in bed, a blanket pooled around my hips, pretending not to have been waiting.
He doesn't say anything right away—just closes the door and shrugs out of his coat, the deep navy fabric wet at the shoulders from mist.
"All's well?" I ask, voice low.
He nods and crosses the room, crouching beside the bed like he means to bow at some forgotten altar. His fingers graze my ankle, trace up to my calf. A shiver breathes over my skin. The icy fear Solomon brought recedes, dulls. My thoughts become a lazy, slow ebb.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into the soft inner spot where my knee becomes thigh.
My chest tightens, and though I can think of a few reasons, I still ask. “For what?”
His eyes find mine in the low light, equal parts storm and sorrow. “Earlier. The blood. I–I just wasn’t expecting it.”
Heat coats my face. I wish I had something to bury it in. “I didn’t think to say anything. Didn’t think it mattered. I’m sor—”
“Don’t,” he says sharply. “Please don’t finish that sentence.
You have nothing to be sorry for, Nymph.
” He scoots forward, still on his knees at the edge of the bed, and pulls me forward so my hips are level with his chest and my legs wrap tightly around him.
Carefully, he brushes back a lock of my hair, staring up into my eyes before cupping my jaw between his rough hands. “You are perfection, Avalon.”
“So, you’re not angry?” My voice is smaller than I’d like.
“No.” He exhales, the sound more pained than I want to think about. “Never. Just…regretful.”
The word punches air from my lungs. I start to jerk away before he continues, gentler now.