Page 5 of The Sun God’s Prize (Child of Scale and Fire #3)

The sailor returns after dark with his same burden, the water and food dumped, abandoned for us to share amongst ourselves. While the others seem less terrified, no one makes a move for either before I’ve had my fill of water and take a portion of the dried meat back to my small space to devour.

I watch as best I can, their shadows creeping forward, note the splash of water when each of them drinks, the rustle of the sack when they take their food.

There’s no squabbling for extra, no fighting over resources.

That surprises me, though in such a small space with so little to share, perhaps some kind of truce has been agreed upon, one I’m unwittingly part of now.

The first time I try to rise, I’m rewarded with cramping so vicious in both of my thighs that I cry out and fall again, rubbing at the deep, spasming tension until they unknot, aching in relief when the agony ends.

I don’t try again, though I’m flexing and stretching instead, the inactivity worse for my mind than anything.

It’s another cycle of day turning to night, water and a strip of dry, tough meat barely edible, that I’m able to gain my feet, though I’m forced to crouch, only putting more strain on my already weakened legs.

The ceiling is far too low for me to stand tall, a bare bend of my knees forcing me in half with my back pressed to the beams above.

The small sailor who delivers our food squats to do so, but he’s clearly shorter than I am. Much shorter.

As much as it hurts to move, it’s a good kind of hurt, the sort that I’m accustomed to, and I add that regimen back into my life along with meditation.

Work the body, work the mind , Mother says to me.

Both are weapons you need to hone to be victorious in battle .

She’s much more distant than she was before.

I must be gaining further mental clarity, too, sad to feel her fade despite the consequences of hanging onto her. Madness isn’t conducive to healing.

She was never a kindness in my life, but I miss her with a fierce aching that matches everything else right now. Clinging to her is a weakness she never allowed. As much as her imagined presence gives me comfort and support, I’d hate for her to see me like this.

For all I know, she can, wherever it is that tough-as-nails old war queens go when they’re finally laid low. I’ll find out myself someday, perhaps. For now, I need to release her to make progress, if not the teachings of hers that will hopefully keep me alive.

That much I will allow moving forward.

It’s clear to me from my weakness but minimal loss of muscle that I’ve been traveling for perhaps a week or ten days, with the illness of my return from the drug’s control taking the bulk of that time from me.

When the sun sets yet again, I’ve had enough and gathered sufficient strength to demand more answers.

I’m ready when the sailor returns.

He's just visible in the light of the lantern at the top of the stairs. I wait until he’s setting down the cask of water before I speak.

“I would address your captain,” I say.

The sailor jumps with a squeaking sound that would be hilarious if things weren’t so intensely horrific. As it stands, I snort a little at his reaction, if mostly in derision rather than amusement.

He spins and runs back to the stairs, slamming the hatch shut.

Damn it. Where’s the food sack?

“You should have waited,” a woman’s voice says, her words whining, the very tone a complaint.

“Hush,” a man says.

“But we’re starving ,” someone else mutters. “And she’s been nothing but trouble.”

Their grumbling seems a good sign, despite their unhappiness with me. Perhaps they will finally talk to me, tell me what I need to know to get out of here.

No, I will not deceive myself with such lies. They would have escaped themselves if that option were viable. More likely, there is no escape, or they are conditioned to remain. They’ll turn me in to the sailors above for more food if I show any rebellion.

Oh, rebellion doesn’t begin to describe what I have planned.

The hatch bangs open again before I can think better of it and prompt my fellow captives for answers.

But our usual visitor doesn’t return. Two large men, both bearing swords at their hips, crouch as they come toward me.

One grunts as he bends and unlocks my chain from the large, heavy ring bolted to the flooring, the other grasping my bicep in one massive hand and jerking me to my feet.

Neither speaks as they drag me toward the hatch, my right heel burning from the rough twisting of the shackle still bound around me, the chain clanking along behind me.

I don’t fight. Maybe I should, but I need to save my strength if I’m going to gain my freedom once I’m out on the deck. Yes, my hand itches to grab one of their swords, both, actually. And yet, restraint will serve me better than impulsiveness.

I’m suddenly surfacing from below, emerging into the breeze above deck, and I forget everything else. The first inhale is so sweet, I almost break down from the freshness of it. The second gives me strength, the third is now common again, but I will not take it for granted.

I was right about the ship, its length barely the size of my mother’s small throne room at the winter keep in Isthan. I look back over my shoulder, note that we’re being held in the bow, far forward, right at the front of the vessel, and when I turn back, my gaze catches the shore passing by.

So, we’re not on the open ocean. No, not at all.

There’s land on my left, too. Which means a river.

We must be heading south, though there’s little to be seen but dark shapes like trees on the banks as our ship seems to fly over the water, a single, triangular sail that thrumming sound and vibrating feel I’ve grown accustomed to.

A sound and sensation I first heard and felt on the Sea Blade .

I can’t think of Isolatta’s amazing black and red vessel right now. Doing so will weaken me too much. With my mind and heart returned to me, memories of that voyage to the Landlow Isles and Neem with Atlas and Zenthris are far too painful.

Besides, I have other things to consider, like the small, whip-thin man who stands on the raised deck at the back of the ship, next to the long pole he guides with one hand. It must be the equivalent of the wheel on the Blade , I suppose, some manner of steering I don’t understand.

My guides shove me up the steps, and I’m pushed to my knees at this new man’s feet.

“I’m told you can speak Sunnish,” he says without greeting.

His voice is low, but carries despite the wind.

He doesn’t look at me, while I’m taking him in, the expensive leather belt that hugs him to his ribs, thick and heavy with a sparkling silver buckle holding it in place, a chain of many gold earrings dangling from one of his ears, filling the existing curve of space with loops of shining metal to the tip.

When he turns his head, his eyebrow is also pierced, I see, with three more thick gold hoops, another puncturing the middle of his lower lip.

“There’s been a mistake,” I say. I know my error the moment I say it, because he doesn’t care who I am or that I’m not meant to be here. Any chance I had of reaching him is gone when he laughs.

“Has there?” He softly taps the pole next to him, and the ship responds, I feel it beneath me, like a lover he knows how to please with barely a touch.

“You’re going to try to sell me,” I say. “And I’m going to kill you for it.”

That catches his attention. His head turns at last, dark eyes fixing on me.

He’s waxed his small, thin mustache, the black hair shining in the light of the lantern that swings from a ring to his right, one of the few lights up here on deck, no doubt to keep from drawing attention.

But whose? It’s a rogue’s choice, though, make no mistake, the same choice I’d make, given the chance.

“You threaten my life?” He’s interested, rather than angry.

“I’m no one’s slave,” I say, already bored with this conversation that will gain me nothing. “Tell me who I need to kill to be free, besides you, and they’re dead.”

He laughs again, a short, barking noise that’s just noise to me. I don’t care who he thinks he is, what he thinks he controls. He has no idea what I’m capable of.

Well, neither do I, if I’m being fair in the moment.

For all I know, I’ll fall over at the least breath of wind.

But I don’t think so. I think I’m much more likely to take his head with the long, curved sword that hangs just past my right hand at the waist of the careless sailor who thinks he has me under control.

Under normal circumstances, I’d do more than that. But I think his death, yes. I could manage it. And then die myself, of course.

Does he see his ending in my gaze? I’m not threatening him openly, just stating fact. Perhaps that is what gets to him, ultimately. When he speaks again, his tone is softer than I expected.

“Northerners don’t take the time to learn our language,” he says. “You’re one of us?”

“My grandfather,” I say, not bothering to offer more. Partly because I don’t understand what’s going on, either, why I can speak or understand. Sunnish? What the Southerners call themselves, I suppose.

He watches me in silence, but I’m patient, too, the pair of us staring one another down until he shifts position, breaking the moment. It’s a small victory.

“I don’t care who you are,” he says, now gruff and angry as he looks away, going back to his work. “All I care about is how much you’ll earn me when I sell you.” He snaps his free fingers. “Take her below.”

“At least tell me who sent you to kidnap me,” I snarl in return.

That startles him, the challenge, but he’s grinning when he looks down at me again. “No one, woman,” he says. “We were simply lucky to come upon you and your companions that night. They invaded our trade route. I don’t like outsiders, so I took what was theirs and left them dead.”

“The blonde woman.” I growl that, because I need to know. “Did she die?” Again, I mean. Did Vivenne die again .

His eyes tighten, and I have my answer. “I sent her to the bottom of the river,” he snaps back.

So, no. She’s out there, somewhere. With Portuk.

Looking for me? The idea that my not-quite-right aunt might be my salvation will only sit well when I’m free. Then I’ll be the one to make sure she dies for good and all.

I laugh at him. It’s not intentional, it just comes out. Bursts free from my sore throat, bitter, rebellious. I am going to kill him for certain now. I just need to pick the time and place, is all.

My amusement enrages him like nothing else did, and he lunges for me. Shows me just how fast and agile he is as he springs toward me, as fast as that whip he resembles, as he lashes out with one fist, striking me across the mouth.

It hurts, but I’ve had worse. There’s blood on my tongue, a sting on my cheek. I’m still laughing, because now I’m going to kill him slowly.

The captain grunts in surprise, rage flaring. I see him forget he means to profit from me, and when he snatches a blade from his waist, I’m ready to die.

Something oozes out of the shadows and speaks.

“Now, Lhanin,” the newcomer says in a voice as well-oiled as his dark hair, a wide, eerie smile splitting his face, “might I remind you that damaging the merchandise reduces their value when we come to sale?”

The captain whirls on his companion, the smaller man in dark robes nodding to Lhanin, but his attention on me.

Here is someone more dangerous than the knife-wielding master of this ship.

I’ve met men like him, notably the Chancellor of the Overkingdom.

He reminds me so much of Hallick, as a matter of fact, that I’ve added this creature to my death list as well, and all he’s done is speak up to protect me.

No, not me. How much he can make selling me. There’s a huge difference between humanity and greed, and he’s far beyond the distinction.

“Stay out of this, Vunoshe.” The captain’s gruff command gets him nowhere, and I now understand the dynamics of this vessel.

Vunoshe ignores Lhanin, small fingers reaching out to stroke my cheek, to lift my filthy hair away from my face. His smile doesn’t lessen, though, and his assessment feels like Mother’s keen eye at a brood mare sale.

“This one has great value,” he says. “I haven’t invested in this little enterprise to see my money squandered because of your temper.

” He taps me on the end of the nose with one fingertip.

“Have her cleaned up,” he says, thin nose wrinkling.

“She’s vile.” He motions to the sailors while the captain glowers at him behind his back.

“I’ll see her in my quarters for dinner.

” He turns and exits like he owns the ship, which it sounds like he does, the swirl of dark fabric of his robe washing me with the scent of spices I don’t recognize.

Lhanin looks like he wants to argue, but tsks softly under his breath, then waves one hand, dismissing me from his sight.

When I’m dragged back down to the deck, I’m already planning my escape.

And how the captain will gurgle his own blood as he dies. That makes me smile.

I think the sailors are afraid of my smile.

***