Page 97 of Soulgazer

Rian’s teeth clench so tight, his words come out as a hiss. “We have until the next melting to pay it back. You gave your word.”

“And you swore the cargo was lost in a storm, but here’s an interesting bit of gossip we picked up last night. Three crates of that same silk you lost showed up at the Scath-Díol last season, while we just so happened to be busy with the winter council.”

Rian glances to his wife, chest convulsing with every breath. “Just gossip. People are bored, making shite up.”

“Aye, I’d wondered—but then I remembered something else curious.” Faolan flips the dagger over his knuckles again, then holds its hilt to the light. “Youadded these knives to the betting pool. Carved with wolves’ heads on the handles, perfect for a young lad making a name for himself. Your cards were quite good up to that point too—and I was a cocky son of a bitch at the time. Assumed I was more clever, or that it was fate. But now I find myself wondering if these were crafted special just for me. After all, where d’you see this kind of work outside the forges of the Isle of Unbound Earth?”

Aoife is gaping at her husband, while Rian looks as though he’s turned half ghost. As still as death, sweat gathered over his lip.

“I told you that night, Faolan. I stole the daggers off—”

“The belt of a spoiled-to-shite son of a master blacksmith in a pub. Aye, I remember. But I also recollectyouwere struggling that year. The trade wasn’t as lucrative; storms were ferocious. You could’ve sold them for a decent bit of coin. But instead you bet them on a game of cards.”

“A gamble’s worth it sometimes, isn’t it? You say it yourself. Think of the reward—”

“Never the risk.” Faolan stalks forward with the dagger, thumb tracing the wolf’s sleek chest on its hilt. “And you were rewarded by someone, weren’t you, Rian? Someone whose coin was worth more than those daggers or the betting pool combined.”

Rian goes completely still, and it takes me a full breath to understand what’s happened. We’re standing on a game board years in the making.

And Faolan’s just won.

“Where did you get the daggers, Rian? And why did they want the ring?”

Rian’s free hand twitches once toward the sword strapped at his hip, but Faolan raises his own blade. “No more lies, or I swear—”

“All right!” Tension ripples across the deck, breaking into sweat along my brow as Rian shifts back and slowly raises both arms, nostrils flared. “He approached me at Scath-Díol, cloaked so heavy I wouldn’t recognize him on the street. But the man walked like a skeleton, his eyes sunken and voice like a spider’s crawl.”

My body jerks at the image—the memory of a cold, slick hand spread across my back.

“He had coin. More than I’d made that year, and all I had to do was trade you a couple of daggers for a ring—look, I’m not proud of it.” Rian swipes a hand across his face, shoving it back into his hair. “But you can’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same in those days.”

“Of course I would have. Anything to get ahead, aye?” Faolan reaches for another rope. “It’s just that consequences are petty creatures that like to chase us to the grave. What else?”

“He used his left hand. Had a satchel that smelled of decaying earth and bottles of an elixir I’ve never seen before. And when he shook my hand…” Captain Rian’s eyes flick to the side—to me. “His fingertips were colorless and flaking. Like ash.”

Faolan’s well-honed blade stops at the edge of a rope, fibers springing free. I nearly drop the dagger’s twin, openmouthed and trembling.

The ring was stolen seven years ago.

Sevenyears.

Faolan lowers his blade. “I need a name, Rian. And you’d better be sure.”

“Idon’twant to get involved in this.”

“It’s a little late for that.”

The notch at his throat bobs as Rian takes Aoife’s hand again, her expression twisted between concern and fury. “Your word that you’ll leave my ship afterward, without harming it?”

Faolan shoves his dagger into its sheath, any pretense or play gone from his voice. “Aye. I’ll even forgive one of the debts against you—just tell me who has it now.”

Don’t. Don’t be right.

Rian looks directly at me, his gaze unfaltering. Words final.

“Dermot. The ring is with Rí Dermot of the Isle of Reborn Stalk.”

Thirty-Six