Page 2 of Death’s Kiss (The Order of the Tide Raiders #1)
T he Grand Preceptor’s quarters are situated at the top of the largest spire of the dark, imposing stronghold that houses the Cardinal North Order of the Tide Raiders.
His office’s veranda opens out to the harsh arctic waters beyond while also providing a clear view of the stone courtyard directly below.
The room he claims for himself is brimming with excessively lavish furniture crafted in foreign lands I’ve never seen.
Every available surface is dotted with priceless trinkets from his glory days sailing under the previous Tide Raider King.
A fact he never lets us forget.
I stand paused in the open entranceway to his quarters, my feet unwilling to enter of their own accord.
The Grand Preceptor’s well-muscled back faces me from the opposite end of the room, where a large marble mantle yawns open wide.
The flames inside grow hotter and wilder under his careful prodding.
I shove down the incessant hammering inside my chest and will the proof of fear sliding into my palms to freeze over .
A mask, crafted of carefully carved ice, slides perfectly into place along my features just as our Grand Preceptor turns around.
He gives me a thin-lipped grimace before returning the hot poker to its metal stand.
The golden patch that covers the sunken hole where his left eye should be gleams in the firelight, directly at odds with the neat crop of his silver-streaked hair.
Even in his waning age, Grand Preceptor Hymir Skelm is nothing less than formidable.
When he speaks, finally addressing me, his voice is rough and admonishing. “I must say, it’s rather unfortunate to find you back here again, Raider Boreas.”
His head gives a slight shake of disapproval before he walks over to the impressive oaken desk that sits just before a wall of wrought iron windows. I grind my teeth together to stop myself from correcting him and calling myself captain like some whiny little level-three.
“Yes, Grand Preceptor,” I reply, giving a dutiful bow of my head and avoiding looking directly at him.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Come in,” he snaps, glancing up from where he’s begun rummaging around in his desk. “And shut the doors, would you?”
I can tell from the shadow passing through his single eye that he enjoys just how uncomfortable this makes me. He wants to see me squirm and delights greatly in finding all the ways to break me.
Pity for him, I’ve nearly perfected my own guise over the years.
I sweep coolly into the room and turn to close the doors without a moment’s hesitation. I’m no longer the washed-up level-one who cried herself to sleep every night, praying to all the gods who might listen that she would choke to death on her own tears.
Skelm’s sun-weathered face reveals nothing of what’s to come, but he gestures with a leather gloved hand to a familiar crystal bowl sitting atop the shelf nearest to me. It’s filled almost to the brim with hundreds of small copper-colored seeds.
Kratosbane .
It takes every shred of my self-discipline to clamp down on the immediate refusal that radiates from every fiber of my being and instead pluck one of the copper kernels from the container before tossing it into my mouth casually.
Even more horrible than what’s undoubtedly about to occur here is the immediate feeling of being cut away from my affinity. I can only think to compare the sensation to a keen blade slicing through the connections between my mind, body, and soul.
Skelm waits until I swallow before continuing.
Coward.
“Now, Boreas, you’ve been promoted to captain for all of what? One week, is it? And your crew has already begun to run rampant.” His frown tightens around the gold-covered socket of his missing eye.
Rumor had it that a seajay plucked that eye straight from his skull in the middle of a raid near the Foggy Isles only a few years into his own captaincy career. By all accounts, it’s only served to make our Grand Preceptor more terrifying. Not to mention the chip it left on his shoulder.
For me to speak now would be a mistake. One that I have made before and then swiftly learned from. I have to stop myself from rubbing the phantom ache in my forearm at the memory. Skelm absolutely hates fidgeting. He calls it the “calling card of liars.”
I bite my tongue while watching his bejeweled hands come to rest atop the oaken desk. A deep frown appears permanently etched onto the planes of his aged face. The largest ring he wears, a golden sea serpent wrapped around the length of his index finger, taps idly against the wood.
“Explain this to me,” he says, and I can feel his one good eye practically boring a hole into the spot between my brows. “Why is it that we do not permit raiders to visit the shores on a night such as this one, Raider Boreas?”
I swallow once before answering. “Because of the Sál Moon, sir.”
Skelm nods, his frown deepening. I know I’m meant to continue .
“Because of the incoming sacrifices. Going into the waters on this night could disrupt their path to us.” He nods again before removing his hands from their resting place atop the desk.
This night is indeed a sacred one. Not just to the Order, but to the whole of Pontus. Every landmass, encompassing sea, drifter, and minuscule island knows the significance of the Sál Moon night.
It’s the night when the veil between our realm and the below realm of the netherdepths we call Nawai is thinnest. On this night, the drowned gods may choose the sacrificed children from the landmasses, or those youths carelessly tossed to the sea, for a second life.
They’re then guided by the Nix’s will to the religious cult of the drowned gods, known as the Sons and Daughters of the Deep. Which, by extension, leads them to the Order of the Tide Raiders.
This divine tradition dates back to the first sacrifice, known as The Soteria Daughter. It was her sacrifice, made nearly a thousand years ago, that saved our world of Pontus from a disastrous event known today as The Great Deluge.
“So you do understand the severity of what your crew has risked tonight. Good. Explain, then: why should you be allowed to retain your captaincy following this incident? All signs point to future mutiny.” Skelm spits the last word out with a mouthful of disgust.
His insinuation has me biting the inside of my cheek until I taste blood on my tongue in order to keep from saying something that will surely end with a week in the hole, strung up in iron. The terrors of that particularly dark period from level-four still manage to drive me from sleep some nights.
Our Grand Preceptor looks me in the eye again, signaling that he expects a response. He wants me to answer for the sins of my cabin. As always, I oblige.
“I take full responsibility for their… transgressions , sir. This sort of behavior will not happen again. I can assure you of it.” My tone doesn’t allude to even an undertow of fear .
Skelm gives me the severe look of scrutiny I’ve come to expect from him. It’s no different than the one he gave me on that first night, filled with quiet calculations. I wait in practiced silence for him to pretend to weigh out his options.
After a moment, he furrows his graying brows in mock contemplation. “I suppose, as it was during your all’s day of liberty and they could not be directly commanded by you—fine. I will preserve your title. This time.”
I dip my chin. “Thank you, sir. That is very generous.”
Although we both know he couldn’t have taken my title. Not for an excursion that occurred on this day in particular. It would be a direct violation of the Tide Raider Code. By the way his thin lips curve into a cat-like smirk, I know he’s daring me to point that out. But I hold my tongue.
“There will still need to be consequences, of course. The single rule we set for you all on this day of freedom was broken. That cannot be allowed to go undisciplined.”
Nodding in silent agreement, I hear him sigh, like he’s exasperated with an unruly child.
My vision drifts away from the Grand Preceptor and instead settles on the iron-crossed windows facing the newly dawning sky. The waters that lie far beneath are sadly no longer aglow with the strange spirit magic.
Standing, Skelm removes his cloak and gloves before rolling back the cuffs of his navy uniform.
I watch the sea birds darting low enough to skim the volatile waves and admire their daring as they pull up on the winds at breakneck speeds. Meanwhile, Skelm meanders back over to the roaring fire. He grabs something from the golden stand and prods around in the flames once more.
I’ve always hated fire.
Even as a child. Even before I was given a real reason to. I’ve always disliked its wild, unpredictable temper. Always loathed the way it consumes anything and everything in its path without thought. No one ever comes away from its touch unscathed .
Intrinsically, I’m repelled by it.
I abhor it.
My attention remains fixed on the newly agitated sea beyond Skelm’s windows.
If I focus hard enough, I can feel the salty breeze on my face.
Sometimes I focus so hard that I swear I can hear the water’s pulsing heartbeat.
It’s a practiced method that takes me away from reality, if only for a few precious seconds at a time.
“I must admit, I find it quite fascinating after all these years,” our Grand Preceptor remarks after a few moments more spent digging around in his inferno before turning back to face me. “Your aversion towards fire is every bit as potent as that first night.”
The birds must have found something, I think. More and more of them are flocking to some invisible speck in the water. They begin dive-bombing in groups of twos and threes. Soon their jewel-feathered bodies are swarming whatever unfortunate sea creature has risen to the surface.