Page 10 of Daughter of the Dark Sea

Awhole day passed, and the pirates refused to crack. Their unwavering stubbornness was a thorn in Kora’s side, and Blake’s mood swings were erratic, his knuckles consistently bloody and sore from his interrogations, intent on disproving Jack Flint’s reveal. About the Mist made by man.

And the pirate lord they’d slaughtered.

Hell’s Serpent had been at sea a total of three weeks, and she took a deep, clear breath before entering the crew’s quarters—because it certainly smelled like it—leaving her worries behind in the moon-kissed night.

Iron oil lanterns decorated the vast space, stretching across the forecastle, and small, starry shapes lined the lantern’s glass windows, casting beautiful patterns across the low-beamed ceiling. Makeshift tables, created from barrels and crates, interspersed hammocks suspended by thick ropes, with bottles of rum, sea biscuits, and playing cards littering every surface.

The crew were excited to make port in two days, to see their families, and take home their latest lucrative treasure from plunders, thanks to Kora’s crime she rinsed on repeat.

“Captain!”

Finlay waved her over with a welcoming smile, and she approached a small group of sailors huddled around a low crate playing Cribbage. He patted the stool beside him with a lopsided grin.

“Be my partner.”

Two other males sat with him, one of which was Hell’s Serpent’s sailing master—Samuel Rommier. He inclined his head in respect towards her, whilst the other eyed her curiously, clearly surprised at her presence in their quarters.

Her head archer, although his name eluded her. Her brow creased as a fog blanketed her mind, suppressing the name of the lean, youthful male. A thin, dual-lined tattoo inked his cheek, and her vision tunnelled on it, sparking her attention. It was an unnatural tattoo, and simplistic, as if dirt simply streaked across his face.

A hushed silence fell across the room as sailors glanced up at Kora whilst she observed the archer dealing out cards, his hands deft. She plastered on her brightest smile, picked up a bottle of dark rum, and took a huge swig.

“Who’s going to take me for a run of my silver then?”

A loud cheer echoed across the quarters as she plopped down beside Finlay and he passed her a sea biscuit. It was moist, and lightly flavoured with vanilla and cinnamon. She gently nibbled it, the spices warming her gullet. Her stomach still roiled from her conversation with Jack.

A rebellious alliance was growing against the Talmon Empire . . . and magic had returned.

Music cut through her swirling thoughts, rising her from the depths of her murky mind. Several sailors had small, flute-based wooden instruments, and played a hearty melody in the far corner, whilst another used a crate as a drum.

“Sam’s bleeding me dry, you have to help me win,”

Finlay pleaded. His words slurred, and his usual ash and malt scent had a hint of grog.

Samuel chuckled. Double the size of most crew members on her ship, a stoic air radiated from him, yet he preferred navigation over weaponry. Samuel’s build would’ve made him a perfect soldier.

Compared to Finlay’s darker and straighter mane, Samuel flaunted bright, wavy blonde hair, half-tied up, revealing his deeply golden squared face. His long fair beard was impressively groomed, despite being at sea, and fastened at the bottom with a thin green-and-black strap.

Was being devastatingly handsome a requirement to join the armada? Apparently so.

“Face it, lad, you’re awful at this game. Stop while you’re ahead.”

Samuel winked an enchanting grey eye at Kora.

Finlay only had a few coins left, but a large pile of silver coins gleamed by Samuel’s elbow. Interlacing navigational tattoos covered his exposed forearms, dark sea lines cutting through the artwork on his rippling muscles. He pushed his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, his biceps flexing with the movement.

“Do you know how to play?”

the archer asked casually once he finished dealing the cards. His voice sounded wiser beyond his years, with a slight accent hidden within his words—one Kora couldn’t place, yet it sounded too familiar. Perhaps he was from the north?

She nodded and placed pieces of eight in the middle of the crate. Their eyes bulged out of their sockets. Why couldn’t she remember his name? Their paths had crossed on her ship—gods, she even remembered approving his draft months ago, gleeful to hire a professional archer to lead the archery squadron.

He’d even bandaged her wounded hand once, after a battle with pirates in the spring. Had she not asked his name? Her gut twisted. Was she an awful captain? So far removed from her crew she never bothered to acknowledge them? With a deep breath, Kora let her mask slip, her face softening as the taunting from Samuel continued.

“Aye!”

Samuel laughed.

“You’re on.”

He matched her bet excitedly.

“Aryn, put your lot in.”

Aryn.

Aryn rolled his eyes, pushing his small pile of silver two-bits forward. Next to Samuel, he looked tiny, and his name tingled the deep recesses of her mind. His dark brown hair flicked out at the ends, curling around his charm-adorned ears. He must be no older than eighteen.

He still wore his brown leather archer tabs on his right fingers, and the edge of a longbow peaked out behind the crate by his feet. Aryn collected his cards, his almond-shaped hazel eyes studying them, surrounded by thick dark lashes. His face gave nothing away, but as he absentmindedly brushed his fingers over his tattoo, his name slammed into her.

“Aryn Di Largo,”

Kora spoke in awe. Astonishment crept onto his wheat-toned face.

“My head archer.”

The astonishment quickly faded, but her memory snapped back into place. She had seen his name on the recruitment list, and the voice urged her to hire him on the spot. Aryn Di Largo, the world’s best archer, renowned for an aim that could never miss.

How in the gods did I forget him? It must have been the stress of everything. She’d barely slept the entire voyage, her body aching and smarting from the hours of sparring with Finlay, and other brave crew members who dared to fight her.

Samuel rubbed his hands together excitedly.

“I’m feeling lucky!”

He placed a wooden board with holes and pegs beside the pot of winnings, and Kora peeked at her hand of cards. She had a poor first deal, equalling less than ten points.

“Captain can go first,”

Aryn nudged. His hazel eyes peered over his deck of six cards, and a challenge flashed in them. He was a wise boy, indeed. Aryn placed the starting card down—a jack. Her throat tightened.

They played a few rounds, both teams rapidly approaching the one-hundred-and-twenty-point goal. The pegs on the board were consistently neck and neck, and Finlay grew more agitated as the prized pot of silvers enviously increased in the middle.

Their group had amassed a live audience, all watching intensely as Aryn and Samuel tried to overtake their captain. Finlay had steadily drunk through another bottle of rum, and he suddenly smacked the table in delight as he placed a card—the king of hearts—on the pile.

“Blimey! We’ve won!”

Finlay exclaimed.

Samuel groaned, placing his head in his large hands as the audience of sailors cheered for their captain. Some clapped Samuel on the back for attempting the challenge, and resumed their own activities, jovially drinking grog, and the swell of band music rumbled through the quarters.

“Better luck next time.”

Kora smiled sheepishly as Aryn sat back with a sigh, accepting his defeat. His head hung back in the chair, and he gazed up at the ceiling.

“Those were my last bits, Sam,”

he muttered.

“Let’s play again.”

Samuel’s hands fluttered over the makeshift table, collecting cards to pass to Aryn to reshuffle.

“We can win it back.”

Kora glanced to Finlay, who was heavily leant over the crate, swaying as he peered at his noble-worthy pile of silver coins and bits. His reddened nose was mere inches away from the pile, and he began sorting the winnings into neat, shining silver piles of ten.

“Maybe that’s enough for tonight.”

She inclined her head to where Finlay mumbled quietly.

Samuel shook his head, fondness consuming his face. They both bid Kora farewell, and retreated to the far side of the quarters with stacked barrels of grog to refill their silver steins.

Her focus returned to Finlay, as he continued stacking his piles of silver in neat rows—with steady hands. After a couple minutes, he looked up to meet her observant gaze as she sipped from her sweet rum, letting herself relax. Her body felt woozy, and her mind hazy, but her soul was merry.

“You’re not trembling,”

she regarded.

“Drinking grog stops the shakes,”

he spoke bluntly.

“Does it ever go away?”

She gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Kora had noticed his tremor since they’d met when evading Demon Sea Siren, but she’d always assumed it was his nervous disposition. He shook his head.

“Sometimes when I’m tired, or when I have something to focus on,”

his voice was woeful.

“I have a curse. An ailment my family believes I deserve. My great-grandfather also had it. The shakes, as they call it, will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

Finlay stopped counting and flexed his fingers, marvelling at his steady hands.

“My great-grandfather chose to become a heavy drinker so that he may have use of his hands, and his body. His provocative nature was deemed the cause of the ‘Blackstone Curse’.”

Her grip on his shoulder tightened.

“Your family think you’re cursed? Will it spread?”

Lowering his head back to the crate, he wiped a single escaped tear from his cheek. His bony shoulders hunched over, and he spread his fingers wide, as if savouring the ability to control them.

“If I don’t drink, it’ll eventually take over my whole body. I’ll be unable to walk or feed myself. I won’t even be able to take a piss! I’ll become debilitated,”

he stumbled over the last word.

“Have you seen any healers? I can find you the best in Aldara—”

Finlay abruptly stood, pocketing his winnings, and his gaze darkened, the shadow of his shame haunting him as tears threatened to spill.

“Please . . . please don’t try. There’s no cure.”

He stumbled on his footing.

“We tried everything already. But without a miracle, there’s nothing to be done.”

He attempted to storm out, ungracefully knocking into tables, and sailors who yelled back, and eventually tripped through the door onto the main deck.

Kora hurriedly followed him, nodding to sailors who waved at her as she left, and hauled Finlay to his feet, helping him stumble to the side of the deck. Gods, he was drunk—and heavy. The cold evening breeze soothed her grog-flushed skin, and they both inhaled deeply, side by side.

It was peaceful. Moonlight bathed them from the cloudless sky, stars twinkling against the black abyss of the night. Ocean waves lapped at the edges of Hell’s Serpent, and she wished she could reach out to brush her fingers against the water.

Finlay morosely stared at the endless expanse of dark ocean, his hands gripping the railing.

“I wanted to be an artist,”

he blurted out.

“Imagine . . . the eldest son of the House of Blackstone—a gay, incapacitated, penniless artist. I can’t paint or sculpt with these hands, and I can’t be inspired when on the grog.”

He looked down at his hands in disgust.

“I will help you in any way I can,”

Kora promised.

“We can find a cure. Together.”

“So that I can fall in love with a woman?”

he asked bitterly.

Kora pulled him into a sudden embrace, her heart overflowing with compassion. This was a new side of Finlay, with his suppressed nature, hiding his true self yet trying to discover where he belonged.

Something she knew all too well.

“So that you can follow your dream and your heart.”

Finlay’s steady strong arms tightened around her at the hint of promise, and the new strength in his shoulders and back was impressive. He’d gained muscle from their days of sparring.

“I’m so glad I found you,”

she continued, her heart fluttering with vulnerability.

“Me too . . . and I’m flattered,”

he patted her back.

“but you’re not my type.”

Kora’s laugh muffled against his shoulder.

“Don’t get hot-headed now, I’m not into blondes.”

“No,”

Finlay chuckled.

“You like them dark and brooding.”

She playfully swatted his arm in response. And they stood like that. Comforting each other in the quiet calm of the night for several minutes, an eastern breeze circling them.

“Maybe exile would’ve been better,”

he said quietly, and Kora tensed. How were the endless hot, barren dunes of the desert better than her ship and her crew?

“How so?”

Finlay suddenly tore from her embrace and hurtled over the side of the railing, and she grabbed the back of his black shirt as he violently vomited rum and sea biscuits.

“There’s no rum in the desert,”

he groaned.