Chapter 17
The sound of low, rolling thunder pulls me awake. The boat rocks with the roll of the swell, but Acker still sleeps beside me. I check his breathing with a palm on his chest and am relieved to see more color in his cheeks.
I climb out from under the sail and spot black clouds hovering ominously in the distance. The weathervane atop the mast swings occasionally, but the wind is mostly steady. The storm is far enough away to not be a threat. It’s difficult to figure out how far we’ve drifted off course with clouds blocking the earliest stars coming out in the darkening sky.
The boat is meant to be manned by two, but it’s possible with one if they’re experienced enough. Although all guard trainees are given sailing lessons, starting at thirteen, I’m not an expert, but I’ve helped take a sailboat out to fish enough times to get by.
I ransack the fishing supplies. There are poles and lines and a variety of tackles for attracting different kinds of fish, bobbers and hooks and weights, which will come in handy, but we’re really in need of a system to catch drinking water.
Finding what I’m after, I use my blade to cut an individual length of rope from the fishing net and unbraid it from the woven pattern. Once I get a long, single strand, I tie it around the mast and stretch it to one of the livewells in the hull. Rain will hit the mast, then the line, and run along it down into the well—a basin for drinking water.
Thunder echoes over the water and it must wake Acker up, because a loud thump sounds, followed by a colorful array of curse words.
I pull back the makeshift shade cover. “Good morning, sunshine.”
He leans on an elbow, squinting up at me before taking in the darkening sky and the agitated sea around us. “How long have I been out?”
I shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine. I woke up not long ago.”
“You’ve been busy,” he says, noticing the supplies I’ve dragged out.
I step closer and kneel beside him. “How do you feel?”
Without me having to ask, he lifts his stained shirt to reveal his dressing.
I prod it a little, satisfied by how well it slowed the blood flow. Lightning flashes on the horizon.
“How worried should we be about that,” he says, nodding toward the monstrosity of a storm, thankfully still miles away.
“Not very,” I tell him, pulling his shirt back down. “But we should use the gust front to our advantage. We’ve been drifting for a while.” A very long while.
He sits up before wobbling to his feet. “Tell me what to do.” He’s either masking it very well, or the salve is working miracles, because there’s not a trace of pain on his face. I’m suspicious, but I can’t put the headsail back up without his help.
Working together, we roll the sail back into position. I demonstrate how to tie it back to the bow, then to the mast, knowing we’ll be repeating this job often. With a lot of tugging and pulling and cursing on both of our parts, we’re able to get the jib in place, then I climb the mast to hoist the canvas into place. The weathervane begins to spin as the wind shifts direction.
“That’s good,” I tell Acker, handing him the halyard for the mainsail.
“Pull this while I steer.”
Sitting with my back to the stern, I keep a hand on the tiller as Acker heaves on the rope, pulling the mainsail up with each downward motion.
Then we’re moving, cutting through the water as the sail balloons.
I point to the standing end, a handle on the deck. “Tie the rope there.”
He repeats the knot I taught him during an earlier break from incessant rowing, and I smile, impressed by how quick he’s picked up on it.
“Get down. I’m going to swing the boom.”
Acker sits on the opposite side of the cockpit, facing me, legs wedged against mine.
I shift the rudder, and the boom swings to the side, sending the boat into a heel. Water kisses the top of the hull as we turn. I keep my eye on the compass and the sails, finding the perfect combination of wind and direction. With the bow turned northeast, the boat loses some of its pitch, and we’re cruising at a decent speed.
Closing my eyes, I allow myself to bask in the wind as it whips past my face. I’m doing it. I’m going to put my feet on solid ground. At least, if we make it. There’ve been deserters before, but there’s no telling if they ever saw land. Kenta is a long way to travel in a small fishing boat, but it’s the only option we have.
When I open my eyes, Acker is staring at me.
“What?” The word escapes my mouth like a barb more than a question.
A small smile flares across his face, gone as quick as it appeared. “I’m impressed. That’s all.”
I’m ashamed of the blush trying to flood my cheeks. The solitude of the boat and the vast sea make it all the more difficult to withstand the intensity of his attention. “So easily fooled, are you?”
He scrunches his nose, playfulness in his expression. “I heard the guards talking about Kai’s future wife being surprisingly good with a sword.”
I cringe. “Don’t be so sure about that. I’m nothing compared to you.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“No.”
He laughs.
After a moment, I say, “If you could fight like that all along, why didn’t you just … escape?”
He shifts his head from side to side. “I could have, but I needed to understand how integrated you were, find out how deep Kai’s hold went.
And I needed you to trust me.”
It’s presumptuous of him to assume I trust him now, but he’s got a fair point. I got in this boat with him despite watching him take down four highly-trained, armed men by himself. I’m either stupid or desperate.
Maybe a little of both.
“You fight like you’ve been to battle.”
My assertion causes a shift in his demeanor. It’s slight, almost unnoticeable, but definitely there just behind the eyes. “I joined the army when I turned thirteen, and I saw my first battle that very same year.”
The image of a young, wiry boy with dark hair fighting against grown men makes my stomach turn. Only desperation teaches soldiers how to kill with the type of savagery he had displayed. There was no hesitation when he killed the Alaha guards, and there was no hesitation in his eyes when he was about to kill Kai.
“Why? Were Kenta so desperate for warm bodies that they’d sacrifice their youngest?”
He doesn’t react to my blatant distaste for sending children to war. “The people you saw at the Market weren’t an honest portrayal of how our people have fared. We’ve been in and out of conflict with a neighboring territory for decades. It’s not uncommon for kids to join the service young, to begin training in adolescence. My friend joined, so I went as well.”
I struggle to contain my disdain. “According to what you told me before, all war and conflict should have ended when you exiled Wren.”
A flicker of anger sparks in his eyes. “It did. For a hundred years, we lived in peace. It wasn’t until your abduction that things fell apart.”
My voice is laced with sarcasm when I reply. “Oh, well, in that case my apologies for getting myself kidnapped.”
“Are you always this difficult?” he asks.
“Only when I abandon everything and everyone I’ve ever known to venture to a new land that is apparently riddled with conflict and I’m stuck on a boat with just you, it seems.”
There’s a tick in his jaw as he looks out over the water, gaze pensive.
“Osiris, the leader of Roison, admitted to taking you, and your mother
killed him.”
But, as we now both know, he did not.
“I haven’t figured out why he would have confessed to something he didn’t do,” he says, “knowing the outcome would mean his death. When his brother, Chryse, inherited the throne, he reignited the call for a revolution.
He was a secretly sympathizer of Wren’s during war against Alaha. We’ve been battling on and off ever since.”
There’s a period of time where there’s nothing but the sound of the waves beneath the boat and the catch of the sails. We spend the majority of the night in our own thoughts, in our own tiny spaces on our respective sides of the deck.
When a rogue wave causes the boat to dip, he winces in pain. I tie off the tiller so the rudder remains in position and gather the bandage supplies, folding myself into the space next to him. He lifts his shirt without question.
His side is coated in sticky blood, a mixture of old and new.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I attempt to pull away the gauze, and he sucks air in through his teeth.
“Oh, I have no idea,” he says, voice laced with pain and sarcasm. I smile. I can’t help it.
I reach for my blade, and he goes still as I maneuver the tip underneath the bandage, slicing with a swift motion to cut the fabric away from his body.
Fresh blood drips from the wound. “It needs sutures.”
He nods, like he already suspected as much.
I retrieve what I’ll need from the fishing supplies: a line and a hook, whatever salve I can find. I begin to shut the hatch when a dark bottle rolls out from under the hull, knocking against the wood. Smiling, I hold it in the air as I look at him. “Look what I found.”
He holds out his hand for me to give it to him. He uncorks the bottle and brings it to his nose, making a face of abject horror. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Mead is considered contraband in Alaha, so there’s no telling how long it’s been hidden in there.”
He gives it one last sniff before taking a swig, face contorting as he swallows.
Then he lifts the shirt clean from his body and pours the liquid right over his stab wound. He groans through his teeth, veins popping out of his neck and chest as he clenches up, waiting for the burning to pass, releasing a sharp breath of relief when it does.
He lies flat on his back, looking up at me as I cut the excess line off the hook with my blade. “Do your worst.”
My eyes pause on a V-shaped scar below his ribcage. I redirect my attention to the fresh wound and bring the hook down to the top of the gash.
“I’ll see what I can manage.”
He huffs out a small laugh, but it’s cut short when the tip of the hook sinks into his flesh. His stomach goes taut as I press hard enough to get the
hook back through the other side.
“One down.”
He releases a breath and says, “Tell me about your childhood.” I can feel more than see his eyes on me as I tie the line into a knot, readying
another stitch.
“What do you want to know?”
“What was it like?”
Realizing he needs a distraction, I tell him. I describe living with the captain and Faline for the first few years. They treated me the same as Kai: the same schooling, the same chores. We spent summers swimming and fishing and playing hide and seek across the entire grove. Then I tell him about the trouble we got into, the stealing and pranks and overall havoc we caused as pre-teens, so disruptive that we had to be separated.
I was given my own shiel, located at the top of the grove with the other parentless and unmatched individuals. It did a number on me at first. No one my age wanted to be seen hanging with the kid who lived on Urchin Row.
It was lonely, but I grew accustomed to the solitude. Once I was old enough to try out for the guards, it gave me a sense of purpose. I lived to train and formed friendships with Messer and Aurora. Or, looking back, I realize I became friends with Messer, and Aurora tolerated me. Which shouldn’t be discounted, because Aurora tolerates no one.
If there’s anything to be said about the hardships of Alaha, it’s simply that I was always on the outside looking in. Whether it was my lack of familial connections in a community built upon favoritism, or my unusual copper hair, I just never quite fit in.
Tying the last stitch, I look up at Acker. He inspects my work and must deem it satisfactory, because he sits up so I can re-dress it. After I’m done, he places his hand over mine, stopping me from pulling away.
“I spent years hoping you died that day. The alternative only left space for me to imagine the worst things happening to you. I’m glad you have good memories there, even if I wish they could have been of your true home instead.” There seems to be more he wants to say, but he releases me.
“My childhood wasn’t perfect, but I’ve known peace living in Alaha.”
It’s more than he can say for himself. There’s something that’s been bothering me though. “Why did you make me put my hand on the stone wall?”
“I knew if Alaha kept you away this entire time, you missed your
awakening.”
“What do you mean awakening?”
“When someone comes into their magic. I knew the only way I could be sure it was you was to get you to touch the land.”
“You knew it would hurt.”
“Yes,” he says, looking apologetic. “That’s why I followed you. I told myself it wasn’t possible. It was stupid of Wren to allow you to return, and I couldn’t let you go without being sure.”
I realize my hand is still against his side, under his own, when I feel the shift of his muscles under my palm. Self-conscious, I pull my hand back, and he follows the movement with his eyes, but he doesn’t draw attention to
it.
“Why does it hurt? The awakening…”
“It’s like growing pains hurt during adolescence. You just weren’t introduced to it gradually over time, so you got the full dose all at once.”
“So this is it, my magic,” I say, tossing the blade into my other hand.
“The power to call a single blade.”
“No.” He smiles, shaking his head. “That’s child’s play. Your true gifts won’t be revealed until you finish the awakening.”
My stomach falls. “You mean what I felt at the Market wasn’t it?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve only heard stories of people who’ve experienced a late-in-life awakening, and from what I’ve been told, it’s painful but over within a day or so.”
I jab the knife into the deck of the boat. “Let me get this straight. You’re leading me to land, where I’m going to have to experience the worst pain
I’ve ever felt for an undetermined amount of time?”
He makes a face. “More or less.”
Clenching my teeth, I call the blade into my outstretched hand. It zips the short distance into my palm. “It better be a damn spectacular gift.”
“I have a feeling it will be.”
After checking the compass to make sure we’re still headed in the right direction, I return to the stern. It’s quiet for a long time, hours it feels like, both of us lost to our thoughts and the pull of the sea.
Then something occurs to me. “So you’re telling me if I whittle a spoon from the hearthstone,” I say, eyes narrowed on him, “and I use said spoon to gouge a man’s eyes out, I’ll be able to call it back to me?”
He rolls his eyes, but a smile begins to form at the corners of his mouth.
“I guess it depends on if you whittled the spoon with the specific intent to gouge people’s eyes out with it.”
I’m contemplating what other weapons I could create from everyday objects when I feel Acker’s eyes on me.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, face lined with regret, “I am sorry.”
I give him a curious look.
“For Kai and leaving the only home you’ve ever known.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. His apology isn’t worth anything, really, but it’s a nice sentiment anyway.
I shrug. “Me too.”
