Page 41

PEDR

T he tang of the sea spray hit Pedr like a slap. He closed his eyes, relished it. The thick air swirled like mist through his lungs, a soothing balm as steady as the slap of water against the hull. It would rain soon.

Welcome back to Kapurnick, he thought.

When he opened his eyes again, he regarded Malcolm, Britt, and Henrik’s retreating forms. They’d already docked the rowboat at the pier and approached the main island. Kapurnick’s jagged black-teeth mountains, gauzy drapes of greenery, and sparkling beaches awaited. He thought he remembered the sand between his toes.

He banished the recollection. No need to torture himself with what he couldn’t have. Besides, it’s not like Britt walked toward anything that he wanted . . .

. . . or so he tried to convince himself.

Their aunt awaited, and she was the last person he’d want to see.

A sharp pang shot through his left wrist. He glanced down, found he gripped the wheel with white knuckles, and released it. Shite, but it was embarrassing how stressed out Kapurnick made him.

Rain began to dot his shoulders. From behind him, Einar drawled, “So . . . you’re not going ashore.”

Einar leaned against the side of the ship with his arms folded over his chest. Pedr sent him a glare. The elongated tone meant Einar hadn’t asked a question, but tested a statement of fact. Pedr liked Einar, but it wouldn’t take much prodding and answer-seeking to change that.

Somewhere in the background, a gentle shuffle and churn of movement meant Agnes prepared to go to shore. Eventually. Britt, because she had a good head on her shoulders, wanted to test their aunt’s general disposition first.

Rabid dowager of a woman, General Helsing.

“Aren’t you from here?” Einar asked. Einar knew that answer already, so Pedr didn’t bother confirming it.

Pedr shoved away from the wheel, striding toward the front of the ship. He reached down, tapped three different boards in a shanty-like ditty with the tips of his fingers. Lights illuminated the woodwork beneath his feet with each tap, fading as quickly as it appeared. A cranking, groaning sound moved below, followed by the clank of metal on metal.

Then a splash.

Kapurnickkian waters weren’t as shallow as Narpurra, but Pedr still didn’t want to tie up at the pier. Technically, his boat could never be truly grounded. The arcane backed him out of the most impossible situations, which meant he could moor at the harbor instead of in the bay, but no reason to draw attention to his powers.

Particularly with Einar on deck.

Amused, Einar glanced over the side of the ship, where the anchor currently sank. There were a lot of strange things about his ship, if one looked close enough. When one commanded the arcane, one didn’t require logic.

“The ship to Narpurra,” Einar continued, as if they had a rousing conversation, “won’t leave in the upcoming storm. The other soldats are disappointed, but they’re excited to get there.”

The soldats Pedr had escorted off of Calsica and over to Kapurnick emptied the moment he stopped the ship. They’d already clambered aboard another one, ready for Narpurra. His two rowboats returned, empty. The ship vanished in the settling ocean fog.

Thrumming rain danced on his deck, splashing a lovely staccato. It would deluge soon, which meant he could refill some of his fresh water supply. Pedr slapped two boards and a rope. The crank of opening holes followed. The rainwater would sluice down the slightly-slanted decks and into the collection holes, which meant one less thing he’d have to ask of the old steelback General Helsing.

“You know,” Einar mused, contemplative, “no one believes in Arcanists anymore, and isn’t that a shame? Strange how the four most powerful wielders of the arcane could just . . . vanish into folklore.”

Pedr straightened. A definitive undertone existed in Einar’s words. The former-soldat had a wise eye and a keen understanding of situations, regardless of what context he knew. Troublesome.

Thankfully, Pedr’s saving grace came in the form of a light voice.

“Einar?”

Einar’s attention immediately snapped to Agnes. She appeared at the bottom of the ladder leading to the forecastle with a broad smile. Her dress, as emerald as the Kapurnickian waters that Pedr’s once-home island was so known for, sashayed to Einar’s side. Perhaps floated was the right term. Agnes moved like air. Soft. Flowy. Constantly shifting.

Einar slipped an arm around her waist and hooked her into his side with a low growl. She giggled and the sound made Pedr sick. He turned away, his stomach in knots. The wash of emotions that followed was a swamp. Jealousy. Rage. Resentment. Longing. Desire.

Mila, he thought.

Nope.

No.

Not . . . he couldn’t . . . that was . . .

Pedr turned toward the stern, filling his mind with waterborne obligations. He needed to activate the arcane to lower the sails, check their food rations, and try not to look at the black mountains he longed to climb.

But he couldn’t.

That foul old curse that tied him to his ship . . .

No matter how hard he tried, Pedr couldn’t block the sound of Agnes dancing with Einar in the rain. The rain pounded relentlessly, soaking them through. Pedr couldn’t retreat to his berth fast enough. He couldn’t wait to break this curse.

And break it, he would.