Chapter 1 #2
My Bass, she called him, her frail hand squeezing his. Strands of gray mingled with the inky black mess that was her hair. He would have to brush it again for her, braid it back loosely so she could sleep.
The gods say you’re destined, she told him. Destined for something awe-some.
I’ll be great, he said to her. I’ll be a war hero. I’ll bring peace to our home, Ma.
Awe-some, she amended for him. But war, my son, does not bring peace.
Like Basuin, Commander Kensy is up at dawn as well, leaned over the Ha’ria Drokha’s bulwark to watch the sun rise up from beneath the ocean.
And it is a sight, no doubt—how the orange rays cast the waters in gold like an illuminated script only the nuns and their habits know mastery of.
It shimmers, something magic, as the sky above their heads turns from a deep violet to an indescribable pink.
It smells of morning and sea salt, the air on the main deck. Crisp, but not fresh.
Though his hair is cropped short, Kensy’s blond locks are disturbed by the early breeze blowing off the ocean, which ruffles through the wavering sails dyed a menacing red.
He no longer dons his cloak, but rather wears a pair of dark trousers with a white shirt tucked into the hem, not so unlike Basuin’s own outfit.
“This land is beautiful,” Kensy says, perhaps sensing his presence from behind.
“There’s not much land to see,” he answers, and Kensy looks back to catch Basuin’s dark eyes in his blue gaze. Then, Kensy huffs a laugh and gestures for Basuin to join him at the bulwark.
“Bass,” he says, almost melodically and not like Basuin’s mother would. “Maybe you can’t see it, but this will all be ours one day soon.”
“You wish to own the ocean, too?” he asks.
“The queen wishes to own the ocean, and while she’s at it, the rest of the land.”
Basuin shakes his head, letting his chin drop to his chest so he can stare at the waves, glittering golden with dawn’s light. “The ocean can’t be owned.”
With another laugh, Kensy pushes off the bulwark and turns to lean back against it, elbows hanging over the sides as he stares at Bass. He has that grin on his face, where his teeth flash dangerously, that makes Basuin not want to meet his eyes.
“Is this another one of your god-things, Bass?” Kensy licks his chops. “Is there an ocean god I should know about?”
It pricks at something deep inside him. Makes his hands feel hot as he curls them into fists and tucks them under his arms where they’re crossed over his chest so his commander cannot see. Against his chest, warmed by his skin, his mother’s jade stone grows heavier with Kensy’s flippant words.
Ithika, he knows her name to be. If Ithika were to hear Kensy’s words right now, the Ha’ria Drokha and all its men would not make it to shore.
But Basuin can’t say so, won’t lay her name at the feet of a non-believer of a man.
Basuin is a soldier—he’s not a preacher, and they didn’t build a church in the barracks either.
Gods don’t belong here anymore. The queen made that clear when she outlawed them; when the legion began arresting priests and killing god speakers.
And almost as if Ithika hears him, stone flat to his skin and growing ever warmer, a wave roars up and reaches for the sun as it climbs higher into the sky and crashes against the hull of the ship, rocking them both where they stand.
Basuin raises a thick eyebrow at Kensy, whose laugh doesn’t reach his icy eyes.
“Did you pray for them to make proof for me?” Kensy asks, teeth straight and lips curled.
Basuin’s nostrils flare. If they weren’t on a ship sailing toward new land left to conquer—if they were still on the front lines of the war—he would say, Perhaps you should try praying one day. Instead, he kicks off the bulwark, still staring out into the ocean where they sail west.
The gods might even talk back to Kensy. How lucky he should be to not bear the silence Basuin does. But Basuin isn’t supposed to believe in gods anyway. Kensy only allows it because of their history. Years at war together makes for twisted bonds.
Now, as the sky begins to lighten, more soldiers and sailors alike shuffle on deck to start their morning duties.
It smells faintly of bitter coffee that wafts from their tin mugs.
He begins to walk off, leaving Kensy behind to watch the sun continue its ascent, but the call of his rank makes him stop.
“Captain.” Kensy stares at him, all pretenses dropped. He gestures with a nod of his head out into the distance, toward where the ship sails, an empty horizon. “When we arrive, I hope you and your gods will not cause too much trouble.”
It’s spoken with an edge, with more teeth than when Kensy flashes his own. As if he knows there are gods in this land—and Kensy wouldn’t know that to be true. Even Basuin wouldn’t know that to be true.
Basuin stares back at him, mouth set in a firm line. A soldier’s smile. “The gods don’t belong to me. I’m a soldier, Commander. But the gods—they are gods. And these are their lands. Their waters.”
Kensy’s eyes narrow into sharp slits, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
“Then maybe you should pray to them again,” Kensy says. He smiles, lips thin, and looks off to the point on the horizon they’ve traveled toward for many nights now. “Warn them that we are coming.”