Sins of the Sea Read online

Sol’s hands shook as she wrapped Silas’s necklace around her throat. She tucked the pendant into her dress, the stone falling to rest above her heart. “I’ll keep it safe.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  FYNN

  Captain Fynn Cardinal had business with a man in Valestorm, but he did not like the port. It reeked with the scent of rotting fish and sewage, the smell lingering inside his nostrils long after they left and no matter how many of Luca’s medicinal herbs he tried to sniff.

  He didn’t just not like this port—Fynn hated it.

  The merchants would not welcome him there. They would not care about the gold he’d stuff into his pockets. As the Captain of a rag-tag pirate ship, his money was as worthless as he was.

  But if only they knew of the bounties that made him such a prize. Perhaps then they would consider him with more interest, and oh, how Fynn liked interest. Even his own troves didn’t run quite as deep as the gold being offered for his capture.

  He sharpened his sword with a whetstone, sliding the slate rock against the blade’s dull edge with a gentle zing. The metal was dented and warped, an old gift from the ship’s previous Captain, and Fynn cherished it.

  Fynn would not need it in Valestorm, but the motion kept him calm. It kept his hands busy. It kept the whispering wind that thrummed inside his veins from tearing free and howling.

  He would not need his Magic today, either.

  Fynn sagged against the planked wall with a sigh, his long legs sprawled across the bed. He hated Valestorm. He hated the way that the ravaged port shook his crew to their core, that they scrambled about the deck with a nervous thread strung between them. He hated the way his insides shuddered and twisted, the way his fingers trembled around the whetstone.

  He wished that he did not have business here, that there was another port that could give him what he needed. But there was not.

  A sharp knock against his cabin door drew his attention from the blade. Fynn tossed the whetstone aside. “Come in.”

  Fynn’s cabin was small enough that the door struck his desk when Riel flung it open, splintering the ancient oak. He winced. “I’ve asked you to be careful with the door.”

  His Quartermaster ducked through the threshold, her thick braids twined with silver beads pinging together like dozens of hollow bells. “If you weren’t such a hoarder,” Riel began, her dark skin set aflame in the candlelight. “You’d have room to put that damn desk elsewhere.”

  Fynn set his sword aside more carefully. “Is there something I can do for you, Riel?”

  She crossed her arms. “We’re three miles out from the port, and your crew could use you on the deck. The twins are both at the helm, but Gracia is afraid she’ll steer us right into the cliff. The current is shit and Luca is making her nervous.”

  “I’ve asked him not to hover, but it seems no one is inclined to follow orders.”

  Riel raised an eyebrow, perfectly manicured after all these weeks at sea. “Make yourself pretty and get your ass above deck. Gray doesn’t know these waters like you do.”

  He lifted his hand and saluted her. “Aye, Quartermaster. Close the door on your way out and don’t let it hit you in the ass.”

  Riel pointed a finger at him in warning, her nail filed to a sharp point. “Five minutes, Fynnian.” She turned on her heels and slammed the door shut behind her.

  Fynn scowled. “Godsdamned heathen.”

  The Captain took a steadying breath and hauled himself out of bed, his feathered mattress stacked atop a pile of crates bolted into the floorboards.

  He had every confidence that Gracia could steer them safely into the port, but he wouldn’t force her to if she didn’t feel she was ready. She’d only been his helmswoman for a few months, since she’d begged for someone to teach her how to steer. But Fynn frequently took over the wheel when it came time to dock his ship, though he could not say he minded it. Ports such as Valestorm were a challenge, one the Captain would readily accept it if meant keeping his crew safe.

  And Gracia from having a panic attack.

  He did not rush himself to get dressed. His ship, the Refuge, rocked beneath his feet, and Fynn pulled on a simple pair of brown slacks and a ruffled white shirt that he tucked into the front of his pants. He combed through his hair with his fingers, then tied back the dark brown waves with the worn strap of leather he wore around his wrist.

  Briefly, he glimpsed his reflection in the mirror. Circles hung beneath Fynn’s dark eyes like bruises, an indicator that he had not slept. He prodded at his prominent dimples, the thin bridge of his slightly crooked nose. Fynn sighed and rubbed at his jaw, as if that alone would shave away the stubble beginning to grow there. Rugged and tired and ashen, he’d certainly seen better days.

  He deemed himself presentable, anyways. His crew had seen him look worse.

  Fynn did not need his sword, nor the knives he’d laid out on his desk the night before. He was skilled enough in hand-to-hand combat that weapons would only weigh him down, and he did not anticipate a fight today. He did, however, stuff a generously-filled pouch of gold into his pocket, and after snuffing out the candles with a gentle gust of his wind, Fynn stalked out of his cabin and into the Sonamire sunlight.

  His crew was frantic as they prepared to drop anchor in the harbor, but the Captain had expected nothing less.

  He wove his way through scrambling deckhands, and he did not flinch when a rusted pulley snapped free from the rigging above. His crew leapt out of the way as it crashed to the deck near Fynn’s feet, splintering the stained mahogany planks and scattering shards of broken icicles.

  “Sorry, Cap!” Amael called, tangled amongst the rigging halfway up the foremast. “I’ve been meaning to check the lines to see what needs repaired. I didn’t think we’d reach the port so soon.”

  The Captain waved at him in dismissal. “Don’t bother,” Fynn said. “Half the ropes need replaced. I’ll see what I can find in the market.”

  He had checked the rigging himself last night. Fynn would send Riel into the market to barter for new rope and tackle, then make her switch out the lines to give Amael a break. It would serve her right for slamming his cabin door.

  The wood groaned beneath Fynn’s feet as he climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck. He prayed that the planks did not snap beneath his weight. He needed to replace those, too.

  “It’s about time, pretty boy.” Riel grinned at him from the center of the deck, touching Gracia’s shoulder. The helmswoman sagged in relief as Fynn emerged from the stairwell. “I was beginning to think you’d fallen overboard.”

  Gracia’s hands shook against the wheel, her fingers grasping the helm so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. Her sea-green eyes were fixated on the port ahead, the staggering mountain that could splinter the Refuge into pieces, and the ice that drifted through the water. “Thank the Gods you’re here.”

  Fynn chuckled. “Would you like me to walk you through this?” he offered calmly. “Or would you prefer I take over? You can do this, Gray, but I won’t make you.”

  The helmswoman took a breath, her blonde hair whipping across her face in the wind. “Will the ice harm the ship if I hit it?”

  “No,” Fynn said. “It’s free-floating. The ship’s wake will push it out of the way.” He studied the busy quay, the dozens of ships docked in the harbor. “If you’re comfortable, drop anchor in the dock on the end.”

  A thick sheet of ice cracked against the prow of the ship, hard enough to rattle the planks, and Gracia backed away from the helm. “I can’t,” she whimpered, retreating into the safety of Riel’s open arms. The Quartermaster kissed her temple. “I’m sorry, Fynn.”

  He took her place behind the helm. “It’s all right. You’re still learning.”

  Fynn steered his ship towards the dock. His helmswoman watched him intently, observing the way he navigated the choppy waters. He was not frightened of the cliff, of the ice, or the enemy ships that watched them sail to shore.

  “Where’s Luca?”
/>   “Below deck,” Gracia answered. “Taking inventory. He’s running low on medical supplies, bandages and gingerroot, mostly.”

  “Get me a list of what he needs. I’ll get it while I’m out.”

  The Captain closed his eyes. Shivering, he drew an icy breath, and a gust of wind filled the sails of his ship. They opened fully to the breeze, the rigging growing taught as it strained against the billowing fabric. Fynn prayed nothing else snapped.

  Fynn exhaled through his nose as they approached the shore. Ice scattered from their path, shoved aside by his Magic. “Get me that list,” he repeated. Exhaustion pulled at every inch of him as Fynn hunched over the wheel. “Only the necessary supplies. We’ll pick up the rest in a different port.”

  Gracia’s brow creased with concern. “Aye, Captain.”

  A quick nod from Riel had her scurrying down the quarterdeck stairs, shrieking when the wood creaked beneath her. Riel flinched. “I don’t know how she ended up here.”

  “Like the rest of them,” Fynn wheezed. “She asked for a home and I gave her one.”

  Riel angled herself towards the Captain once Gracia disappeared below deck. “Did you sleep last night?”

  The breeze guttered. “No, but I was resting this morning.”

  His Quartermaster heaved a sigh and placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. “You can’t keep doing this,” she scolded. “The ship will sail on its own. We don’t always need your Magic.”

  “My Magic is what gets us from port to port before we starve. I don’t know about you, but I’m not a fan of sea food.” Fynn smiled at her, though it lacked its usual charm. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”

  “You’ll rest once we leave Valestorm,” Riel declared, her braids fluttering like whips against the Captain’s sputtering wind. “No wind, no Magic, and you’ll let me deal with the crew. I can’t have you falling overboard because you’re sleepwalking.”

  Fynn snorted. “Aye, Quartermaster.”

  A final gust of his wind had the ship sailing into the open waters of the quay. Fynn steered them into the empty dock at the end of the harbor, and before the ship could crash into the cliff beyond, his crew dropped the anchor. Riel stumbled against him, cursing as the ship jerked to a stop. Fynn was accustomed to the jar.

  “Find Gray and get that list, and ask Amael what he needs for the rigging.” Fynn backed away from the helm, already knowing exactly what Amael needed. But it was fun to give Riel an extra task. “You’re heading into the port to help me shop.”

  “Why do I have to go?” Riel groaned. “Why not Amael or Luca? It’s their supplies, not mine.”

  Fynn pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Because they didn’t slam my door this morning.” He bolted away before Riel could throttle him, her fist already raised to do so. A dozen gold rings glittered at her knuckles. “I’ll meet you back here in an hour. Don’t be late, or I’ll leave you.”

  He left her protesting on the quarterdeck, cursing him to the Gods.

  The Refuge swayed in the Emerald’s wake, but despite their ship being anchored, Fynn’s crew continued their morning duties. They would not follow him into Valestorm, not even if they’d spent the last three weeks at sea.

  Amael dangled upside-down from the rigging, his dark skin gleaming with sweat as he tightened and secured the lines. Milo and Jax, a pair of brothers that Fynn had rescued in Jadoa last year, were scrubbing the deck and bickering about whose turn it was to empty their water bucket and re-fill it. A dozen other deckhands scrambled about, and Riel, of course, was still bellowing from the helm, both Luca and Gracia having joined her.

  Fynn motioned for the gangplank to be lowered to the boardwalk below. Arden, a small deckhand with hair as black as midnight and skin as pale as the moon, hefted a narrow piece of wood over the designated alcove in the hull. It bumped against the dock, and the Captain nodded his thanks. She dipped her chin in acknowledgement, her thin lips pursed and blue from the cold as Fynn stepped over the hull.

  Arden could not tell him that she cursed this port to the Gods, that she wished Valestorm would burn to the ground and become nothing more than a smoldering pile of rubble. She could not convey her hatred, her disgust for this port and the people who called it home.

  She had no tongue to speak with.

  But Fynn could read the ire in Arden’s eyes, the absolute fury that burned there like living flames the color of molten earth. He had rescued her from Valestorm six months ago.

  Fynn held his breath.

  The port was far more putrid than he remembered. Fish bobbed in the water, their rotting corpses exuding a stench that brought tears to the Captain’s eyes; there was nothing worse than the smell of dead fish left to rot in gritty saltwater.

  He could not breathe here—did not want to breathe here. Perhaps he would need his Magic after all, if only to purify the air.

  But the people who lived in this port, who made their living selling illegal goods in the black market, did not seem to mind the smell. They didn’t seem to mind the blood-stained cobblestones either.

  Merchants and their potential buyers did not pay him any mind, though Fynn gave them no reason to. He offered no indication he was here on business of his own, a mindless visitor wandering aimlessly about. He kept his head down, and he did not lift his eyes from the toes of his battered boots. He’d need to scrub them clean later.

  Abel Lamerre had not changed in the six months since Fynn had saw him last. His small stand was situated in the darkest alley of the market, but it was perhaps the cleanest place in all of Valestorm. Abel took pride in what little livelihood this port offered him; his dedication to his craft, his passion for trading long-lost treasures from across the sea and continent, were what made Fynn like him.

  Even if he did not trust him.

  Abel was sweeping the polished cobblestones in front of his stand when he spotted Fynn sauntering down the alley. His dark eyes brightened as the Captain raised his hand in greeting. “Hello, Abel.”

  “Ezra!” the old man said. He discarded his broom behind the counter.

  Fynn had learned not to flinch at the name, even if it was a knife to his heart.

  “It’s been so long, my boy.” Abel wiped his hands on the brown fabric of his tunic. “I was beginning to worry that Thymis had sunk your ship in her rage.”

  Thymis, the Irican goddess of the sea, had cursed Valestorm long before Fynn was born. She had poisoned its festering waters, had plundered the land of life and soul and left its people to rot. Fynn was temping her wrath just by being here, and both he and Amael would later pay her tribute and beg for safe voyage through her waters.

  “Thymis has been kind to me,” Fynn reassured Abel. “I’ve been busy.”

  “Of course.” Abel slid behind the counter. “I assume you’ve come for your usual inspection?”

  Fynn smiled. “You know me well.”

  Abel procured a small, plain wooden box from behind his stand and placed it on the counter. “I bartered for some of these with you in mind.” He withdrew a stone from inside the box. “You’ve always seemed to favor amethyst.”

  “I certainly do.” Fynn studied the large stone resting in Abel’s open palm. His wrinkled hands were calloused and shaking with age, and the twining veins beneath his leathery skin were nearly as purple as the crystal. “May I?”

  Abel handed him the stone and rifled through his box for more.

  Fynn turned it between his fingers. The amethyst glistened in the sunlight, and Fynn traced his thumb over the crystal’s jagged surface. It was heavy in his grasp, a larger chunk of stone than what Abel usually bartered for. Fynn placed it on the counter.

  He had the perfect place for it in his cabin.

  “What other treasures do you have for me?” Fynn rose onto his toes to peer into the box, his interest piqued. “What’s that?”

  “Oh!” Abel retrieved the small, smooth stone that he’d tucked into the corner of the box. “I thought it might strike your fancy.”

&n
bsp; He held it out to Fynn.

  The iridescent stone caught and fractured the muted light filtering through the alley. Fynn took it gingerly between his fingers, his thumbnail scratching gently at the stone’s perfectly rounded edge. “It’s beautiful.”

  “A lovely opal,” Abel agreed.

  Wrong.

  Fynn studied the stone for several moments before placing it on the counter. He plucked a few more sparkling gems from the box and set them aside. “How much?”

  Abel’s eyes shone like obsidian as he gave Fynn his asking price.

  The Captain retrieved his pouch of gold and set it on the counter. “Keep the extra,” he said. “For thinking of me during my time away.”

  Abel pried open the bag with unsteady fingers and gasped. “This is too much, Ezra. Those stones aren’t worth a single piece of gold.”

  Fynn shrugged with indifference. “Buy something nice for Miriam.”

  Abel’s lower lip quivered as he touched a hand to his heart. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, old friend.” Fynn drummed his fingers against the counter. “Would you mind wrapping these up for me? I’d hate for any of them to break.”

  Abel smiled as he began to wrap the fragile stones with discarded paper from the port. Fynn did not watch him work, did not want to think about where that paper had come from or what it may have been used for.

  His eyes lingered instead on the mistaken opal that was not an opal at all. Abel did not know what he possessed, what he had found or traded or bartered for. But Fynn did.

  He knew a dragon scale when he saw one—when he felt one.

  “Here you are.” Abel slid a canvas sack across the counter, the seams bulging from the weight of the stones inside. “I take it your crew is waiting for you?”

  Fynn nodded. “They are indeed.”

  Abel stretched his arm over the counter. “I won’t keep you, then. But do come back and see me soon. Should you stay for more than a few moments, maybe I can send for Miriam. My wife simply adores you.”

  The Captain took Abel’s hand. “I’ll try.” His knobby fingers were warm as Fynn gripped them. “Stay safe and take care of yourself.”