Epilogue
FARIN
I’m playing cards with my fellow crew members when a woman slips into the seat next to me. I’ve never seen her before. I know, because I would have remembered a woman like that.
Her hair is long, falling in golden waves down one side because of how she has it pulled across the back of her neck and over one shoulder. There’s a slightly unkempt look about it. Like she’s not used to the upkeep.
I don’t see her brushing her hair out a hundred times before bed.
“We’re in the middle of a game,” says one of my grumpier crewmen.
“No matter,” I say, not bothering to look at my crewman. Not when I’m staring at the woman in the seat next to me. It would be creepy, I’m sure, except that she’s staring back. “We’ll start over.”
My friend lets out a bellowing laugh. “Now, wouldn’t that be convenient for you, considering you’re losing. And a generous sum, at that.”
I push my pile of coins over to my friend. “I have more in my pockets. We’re starting over. Deal her in.”
The woman gives me a mischievous grin. When my friend deals her in, she takes her cards, looking rather pleased with her hand. Or maybe it’s pleased with me, by the way she glances over them in my direction.
“I’m afraid I like to know the names of the people who might very well take all of my money,” I say to her.
Instead of answering, she puts her hand into her pocket and draws out something small. A wooden tile. It clinks when it hits the surface of the table.
TINK, it says, and for some reason, it has wings engraved into it.
A million questions swarm my mind. Can she not speak, or does she simply choose not to?
Is she one of the acolytes who has joined a convent and has taken a vow of silence, among other vows?
I certainly hope not. Is she unable to hear?
No—I get my answer when she startles at a noise on the other side of the room.
Has she always been unable to speak, or did it happen to her later in life?
And if so, who did this to her?
That particular question has my blood boiling.
But then she slides another tile my way. No, two this time.
YOUR NAME.
“Farin,” I say.
Her lip twitches.
“What? You don’t like it?”
This time, when she digs through her satchel again, she pulls out a pen and paper. I’ll call you the Nomad, she writes.
Bold of her, to decide to nickname me. But there’s something about the choice of name that stirs something in me. A dream I used to have as a child, one that led me to a ship, the only career in this world that would take me wandering about the world, never having a home, never truly needing one.
“Tell you what, if you beat me, you can call me that,” I say.
And if you beat me? she writes.
An idea lingers on the edge of my mind. Mischievous and an absolutely horrible idea.
“If I beat you, then tomorrow when we set sail, you come with us.”
The words hang between us, and something I can’t quite place glimmers in those blue eyes of hers.
She picks up the cards, and over the top of them, smiles.
* * *
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