Domenic rubs his face. “I don’t think Andres is seeking a young man to take to his bed.”
Vikon’s face turns burgundy. “I don’t expect commoners to think, but might you at least listen?” the boy snaps, sounding like his old self before regaining control of himself. “The Diante might have no women amongst them, but the Tirik do, and I speak the language nearly as well as Nile.”
A corner of my mouth tugs. “You would describe your Helix-based heroics to the Tirik women while ensuring the Bevnians hear the ship’s details?” I let my hint of a smile dissolve. “This isn’t without danger, Vikon. Once the Bevnians overhear enough to be interested, they’ll press you for details. And they may not be gentle about it.”
The middie shrugs. “I’ll tell them to talk to Dana. He is the damn first officer. Let him deal with the details.”
At least some things never change, Domenic and I say in exchanged looks just as the ship’s bell signals the end of the meal. I hurry to the quarterdeck to see what need Andres might have of me, slowing when I hear him speaking with Saarik.
“…Biron. Lester should have little problem there.”
Saarik nods. “We can still join Lester for the second pass. He’ll circle back to the village to relieve himself of livestock.”
“I hope so.” Andres purses his lips before shaking himself and signaling to the bosun. A moment later, the familiar tone of a bosun’s pipe summons the entire ship’s company to assemble.
My stomach clenches, neither the news of Lester’s plans to attack Biron nor this sudden call to deck sitting well with me. The last time Andres gathered the crew at an odd time, it was to watch Piranha being flayed alive. Nothing is off-limits so far as the Bevnians are concerned.
The sight greeting me on deck is unusually solemn, however. Standing on the raised poop deck, Andres calls for silence while the ship’s Bevnians form two lines of pure white. With everyone thus assembled, the bosun’s pipe sounds again, and the Arrow’s Gifted come up from the companionway ladder.
Two walking, the third—Nora, the water caller who’d stood so proudly yesterday—carried in another’s arms. Nora’s eyes are closed, her skin dusky gray, like the gathering clouds. Trice carefully follows behind, fear and excitement waffling off him like perfume. And bringing up the rear is Piranha. Ashen and shuffling, the young man carries a large wicker basket in his arms—the basket held well away from his body despite the obvious discomfort the position poses to his injured back.
“On your knees,” Andres orders the crew while the lifeless water caller is laid out on deck. Once everyone obeys, Andres bows toward the woman’s body. “We honor you, Nora, Princess of the Waves, as the ultimate warrior and holiest of souls. We pledge that all Bevnian children shall know your name and honor your family for the sacrifice you made for our people. Our devotion is with you as you ascend to the gods, who await to open the gates of paradise to you.”
While I translate Andres’s speech into Diante and Lyron, the Bevnians take turns bowing to Nora before covering her with a red-and-black New Republic flag. With a final salute, an honor guard slides her over the side, beautiful as a queen.
A few of the prisoners start to shift in preparation to return to their day, but the pipe calls, and all wisely settle. Andres turns to Trice.
“Today is a day of great honor, the day your life has led to. Do you, Trice, pledge your life to the New Tirik Empire and to the great Bevnian people?”
“I do,” Trice says. His throat bobs though his voice remains strong. “I am ready to do my duty.”
Andres signals to Piranha, who gingerly opens the basket and leaps back from it, hissing in pain from his injured back.
Eyes locked on the open container, Trice walks toward it, reaching out with a hand that suddenly trembles. His magic trembles too, I can feel it roar in a terror that rouses my own Gift. Whatever is in that basket, Trice’s magic hates, fears it—and my own is learning to do the same.
The hushed silence of the deck magnifies every breath of wind and creak of deck. Trice’s throat bobs, and he swallows once before plunging his hand into the basket’s darkness.
When Trice’s arm emerges, there is a glittering black-and-red snake wrapped around the wrist. The Bevnians shrink away, only Piranha darting forward to close the basket’s lid. The snake on Trice opens its jaws, its fangs flashing as it slithers up the young man’s forearm.
Clenching his jaw, Trice gives the snake an agitating shake. It hisses its displeasure, and the man flinches before managing to square his shoulders again and raise his chin. For a man who’d likely spent all his life kept away from danger for fear of bleeding, the physical sensation alone must be the height of terror. The snake, unimpressed with its host’s bravery, winds its way leisurely up Trice’s arm, its head now probing the sensitive crook of his elbow. Trice hits the snake, and fangs rise into the air and plunge hungrily into flesh, making Trice holler as loudly as Piranha had earlier.
Trice drops to his knees, screaming and panting, blood pouring from his mouth where he must have bitten his tongue. The deck is silent as the snake’s venom works through Trice’s system, the trickle of blood running from his mouth slowing. Stopping. The way a water caller’s blood never does.
Trace blinks, his eyes slowly lighting with wonder. As if in a trance, Trice pulls a knife from his boot and kills the snake before pulling its fangs from his flesh, leaving a small, clean puncture wound.
“We honor you, Trice, Prince of the Waves,” Andres intones as Trice finds his feet and rises and smiles powerfully at the world.
My own blood chills. The Bevnians have indeed found a cure for magic ill effects. A cure that kills the patient. I swallow. This has been the Bevnian’s true weapon all along, martyrs trained to give up their lives.
Andres bows to Trice. “You are the ultimate warrior and holiest of souls. We pledge that all Bevnian children shall know your name and honor your family for the sacrifice you make for our people. Our devotion is with you, from today until you ascend to the gods, who await to open the gates of paradise to you.”
As I finish translating, Piranha retreats with the basket, holding it far enough away to suggest more snakes are slithering within.
Chapter 36
Kyra
Sitting with Nile and the others at the mess table the day following Trice’s ceremony, Kyra found herself without appetite. The Arrow’s celebration of Trice, its new martyr-to-be, had stretched into the evening, with Andres ordering the ship returned to discipline only once the setting sun started to bleed onto the waves. Groans and sighs had sounded from the Bevnian officers as the fiddles and pennywhistles were put away, and even some of the Tirik and Diante crew cast mournful glances at where the dancing was wrapping up on deck.
“Andres and Saarik believe Lester’s forces are making a run on Biron,” Nile said, tapping the table with her finger. “I hope that Admiral Brice is fortifying against attack, but how the bloody hell do you defend against these bastards?”
“Whoever conjured the notion committing to killing yourself for a cause will lead to greatness in the afterlife is rotten to the soul.” Kyra hadn’t meant to speak aloud, but the words came anyway.
“You are mistaken.” Catsper tucked in to the horrid food. “The point isn’t to kill yourself for greatness, but to convince others to commit suicide for your cause. You don’t see Andres or Saarik lining up to be bitten by venomous snakes.”
“Andres and Saarik aren’t Gifted, so I think they would get no benefit from the venom,” said Nile quietly. “The snakes’ venom seems to counteract the elemental attraction’s ill effects while increasing the Gifted’s power and control over the element.”
“Until the venom leaves them dead.” Dana shifted, giving Nile a piercing look.
Nile shrugged, sending an uncomfortable taste tingling Kyra’s palate.
“I doubt the Bevnians who sailed their boat into the Wave’s hull were Gifted,” Catsper countered. “Nor the ones who killed themselves i
n Port Mead. The point is, no one in the Lyron League or Diante Empire is prepared to face an enemy that uses suicide as a tactic. That gives the Bevnians a tactical advantage.”
Kyra crossed her arms and leaned forward, closing the distance with the marine across the table. “We are talking about lives, not tactical advantages.”
“You are talking about lives,” said Catsper. “I’m talking about tactical advantages.”
Kyra leaned back and smiled sweetly. “You know what I think?” she purred, the very essence of nonchalance. “I think these martyrs are utter cowards. Running away from life instead of facing its consequences.”
The marine stiffened for a moment, then resumed shoveling what passed for food into his mouth.
“What do you say, Catsper?” Kyra waited until the man had no choice but to look up again. “Can cowardice be turned to tactical advantage?”
“I think that if we are to find a way to disable the Bevnian weapons, then I’ve work to do.” Catsper rose, letting his spoon clatter against his bowl. “Excuse me.”
The resounding silence veiled the table. Glancing between Kyra and the departing Catsper, Nile cleared her throat and turned smoothly to Vikon. “Have you had much success describing your Helix-based heroics yesterday? I saw you speaking with several women during the celebration.”
Kyra leaned away, determined to draw as little of the young man’s attention as she could.
“Can you tell whether my efforts are working?” Stepping up beside Kyra’s laundry trough after the meal, Vikon lowered his voice and fiddled with a spyglass as if adjusting its joints.
“What are you doing here?” Kyra lowered her head closer to the laundry water, scrubbing an orange shirt with more force than required. The waves of excitement and fear washing over Vikon were so strong, it was a wonder the rest of the crew wasn’t turning to stare.
“Can you tell whether I’ve piqued the Bevnians’ interest?” asked Vikon.
Kyra bit her lip. The faster Vikon left, the better, but with Catsper—whose mere presence inspired Vikon to be elsewhere—still making himself scarce in the ship’s bowels, Kyra was on her own. Her eyes slid to the hatch. There was no sign of the marine, and she feared Saarik would note the absence soon. “Yes,” she told Vikon quickly. “I think they’re curious.”
“I think Saarik will ask me about it soon,” Vikon pressed.
“I think you’ve been here too long,” Kyra whispered back. “We don’t need attention.”
Vikon wrapped his hand around the edge of the laundry trough and swallowed, hunching his shoulders. “Tell the Bevnians you need help to bring the laundry down. They have little need of me just now. They’ll let me go with you.”
Excitement and fear. It was a wonder how emotions could taste so plain yet tell Kyra so little.
Kyra shook her head. “No.”
Vikon slumped further. “Please,” he whispered, a note of desperation now entering his voice. “When Saarik decides to question me… He might hurt me for the information, and I’m not like the others. I…I’m frightened, and I don’t know who else to speak with. Please.”
That explained the fear. For all his nineteen years, Vikon had been little more than a spoiled child before this cruise, and this task, one he volunteered for, was likely the first time the boy faced danger.
Kyra sighed.
“I don’t think I can do this.” Vikon’s voice dropped further, a small whisper above the burbling waves.
Kyra’s fingers clutched wet cloth. If Vikon backed out, or worse—turned the details of the plot over to their overseers to save his hide—the blood running across the Arrow’s decks might be that of her friends. Much as Kyra disliked Vikon, he was doing something Nile needed—and if Kyra could help keep him from straying, it seemed the height of selfishness not to. Catsper was right, they all needed to fight. And this, talking, working through fear, was one skill Kyra had over the others.
“All right.” Drawing a fortifying breath, Kyra took a few steps toward one of the Bevnian overseers. “Can he help me bring up laundry?” she asked, summoning the best of her learned Tirik.
The man considered the request and nodded briskly.
Catching Vikon’s gaze, Kyra motioned to the gangway ladder and led the boy into the privacy of the belowdeck gloom.
Vikon’s shoulders sagged with relief, though the excitement and fear remained steady at the forefront as he followed Kyra down the ladder and waited while she retrieved a lantern. “Just one bloody moment of peace.” The last, said softly beneath the boy’s breath, was likely as close to a thank-you as Kyra was going to get.
Still, Vikon needed to talk, and she needed to listen. It would certainly be a more preferable use of her talents than sabotaging the ship’s rigging. Holding the lantern to light their way, Kyra proceeded to the next ladder.
“I had an ulterior motive.” She made her voice light, trying to put Vikon at ease. Even when people were ready to talk, words could be difficult to find. Harder still to utter. “Andres said we’ll be permitted blankets, but the stock must be washed free of rat droppings first. It would take me all watch to bring the fabric to the deck alone.”
A ripple of disgust. Vikon hesitated, as if weighing his anxiety against the unpleasantness of work.
Kyra supposed that expecting anything different from him fell too far out of the realm of reality.
“It’s been a long few weeks,” Vikon finally said into Kyra’s back, his footsteps following her toward the next hatchway, which would lead them to the final lower hold. “Though it must have been nice for you four, getting cozy with each other while I rotted alone.”
“It was paradise,” Kyra said dryly, stepping onto the shifting ladder. The lantern in her hand swung precariously as she descended. “The Bevnians brought us fresh fruit while we lounged in Andres’s cabin and watched the sea.” Her feet found solid deck, and she sighed, making her voice soft. “What was it like for you? I cannot imagine enduring those days alone.”
Vikon jumped down smoothly, a small growl escaping his throat as he landed beside Kyra. Vikon’s hand grabbed her shoulder, his nostrils flaring as he spat his words. “Do not ever presume to make a fool of me, wench.”
Kyra stepped back and crossed her arms, though her heart gave an uncertain stutter and quickened into a trot. “First,” she said with a cool, loud voice that would do Catsper proud, “do not ever lay hands on me. Second, if you find my company objectionable, Lord Vikon, you are free to find employment elsewhere. Third,” Kyra paused, taking a careful sniff of the boy’s horrid breath. Yes, that was a faint tinge of alcohol she smelled. Wherever the idiot had procured the liquid courage, it was certainly inside him now. “We’ve little time before we must return to deck. I think we should talk about you.”
Instead of backing away, Vikon took a step closer, the musk of old cloth, mold, and rat dung thick around them. “You are right,” he whispered, pushing Kyra backward until her back struck hardwood. “We don’t have much time.”
Jerking away, Kyra opened her mouth to scream, only to have Vikon slam his palm over her face.
“We’ll have to make it quick,” he hissed into Kyra’s ear, sandwiching her between his body and the ship’s hull. “You can remember me in your dreams, however. I’ll let you keep the memories.”
Kyra’s body went still, an icy cold jamming her joints and muscles and lungs. Vikon hardened against her, and Kyra’s paralysis exploded into flailing, her legs beating the ship’s hull and the man’s shins, unable to budge either.
Vikon jerked Kyra away from the hull and slammed her back into it, sending the lantern tumbling from her grasp. “Don’t make me hurt you,” Vikon rasped into her face. “Don’t turn the best minutes of your life into a nightmare.”
“You are dead,” a low, murderous voice said from the darkness deep to Kyra’s left, making Vikon jump away from her. Steps sounded, the rage suddenly coating Kyra’s tongue, so potently bitter that it drowned out Vikon’s vileness. Another step
and the man breached the pool of light cast by the fallen lantern, his features—Catsper’s features—sculpted with violence. The marine’s green eyes seemed to glow in the lantern light, his shadow large and very, very still.
“Kyra,” the marine said, fear gripping the syllables. His hands, still dirty from whatever he’d been digging through, opened and closed at his side. “Are you injured?”
“No,” she whispered.
Relief. Knee-buckling, bone-deep relief echoed from Catsper, flooding the cargo hold for a full heartbeat before the marine’s anger shoved away all else. Deadly. Violent. Murderous. All aimed at whoever, whatever, had planned to hurt her.
“It wasn’t what you think,” Vikon croaked, his hands now raised as if to ward off a misunderstanding. “The wench wanted some—”
A new storm of fury encircled Catsper, and the marine was between Vikon and Kyra before the younger man could swallow his words.
Vikon froze. A coyote who suddenly discovered himself on the turf of a protective wolf. Fear rushed from him, the delayed reality finally penetrating.
“Don’t kill him,” Kyra whispered, her already racing heart pounding faster. Because she knew Catsper would. Over her. Catsper would kill a man just to ensure the bastard never laid a hand on her again. Stars. Kyra’s magic pulsed, her breaths so quick that her head swam. “Catsper—”
“Get comfortable, Lord Vikon,” Catsper said, advancing on the man who’d dared to hurt her. “I will rip out your tongue first, and then I shall stuff your balls in its place.”
Chapter 37
Nile
The screams echoing from below are my first indication that something is wrong. The Bevnians rushing toward the companionway ladder are the second.
Catsper.
He’d gone down to scout the flesh-melting projectiles, discover a means of sabotaging the bloody things before we found the Helix. If he’s caught or, worse yet, if he set one off… Storms and hail. My hand closes around Domenic’s forearm, my mouth dry.