A wave struck the ship with a force that rattled the wood, knocking them upward. While she grasped at the rungs, trying to chase Berold, the ship rolled portside. It creaked so far over, Fiona found herself looking down at the churning sea below, her body nearly parallel to the black waves.
Even Berold emitted a yelp, freezing in place. Fiona fought the urge to vomit and climbed another rung, and then another, holding her breath when the ship righted itself. Nearly level with Berold on the narrowing shroud, she caught a glimpse of his face, now a terrified green. His eyes bulged at her approach.
But she didn’t have long to revel in his discomfort, because the ship had begun rolling to the starboard side—her side. She clung tighter to the ropes, her heart hammering. The ship bowed down, plunging her toward the churning waves. Ocean spray whipped her face, and for a moment, she felt as though Dagon would unfurl a sucker-covered tentacle and drag her into the cold depths.
Just as the ship began to right itself once more, Berold turned to her, eyebrows knit with cold determination. Something glinted in his hand—a knife. He jabbed wildly at her right arm and hand, slicing three fingers. She shrieked, instinctively jerking away.
It only took a moment for her to lose her grip, and she felt the cold rush of wind as she slipped down the shroud. Her heart stopped. She would meet her death in the ocean, in the frigid abyss. She’d always known it would be this way.
Except—something had stopped her. The ship was rolling upward again, and she was moving with it. Someone had her arm in a viselike grip.
Rohan. Thank God.
Using her free arm, she latched onto the shroud again. Blood streamed from her sliced fingers. When she glanced up at the top of the mast, she saw Berold had scuttled up near the crow’s-nest.
“Let’s go!” Rohan shouted through the squall.
She still had a chance to come out ahead of Ostap or Ives. Side by side, she and Rohan scaled the ropes. She gasped for breath, forcing herself to tune out the ship’s violent rolling. Sodden and whipped by heavy winds, her muscles shuddered. Come on, Fiona. You have nowhere else to go.
She glanced up just as Berold clambered inside the crow’s-nest. Face beaming, he raised his hands to the skies.
Fiona worked her legs harder. The shroud narrowed further, and she and Rohan crowded closer together. They’d run out of room for both of them. But Rohan had saved her life, and she couldn’t just elbow him out of the way. “Go on, Rohan!” she shouted over the wind.
He glanced at her before hoisting himself into the crow’s-nest. The ship surged over a wave, and he reached over the side to grab Fiona’s arm, yanking her in along with him.
30
Fiona
She sat cross-legged on the deck next to Rohan. The sun had begun to set over the distant island, hanging ripe in the sky like a blood orange.
As soon as Ives had reached the crow’s-nest, the storm had waned, and the ship’s frantic lurching stilled. After the sea quieted, the recruits had crept down the shrouds, cleaning themselves off in their own rooms before a dinner of fish stew.
Now, there was little to do but listen to Berold recount his success in painful detail. Fiona wore a crimson, woolen gown, sipping spiced beer while he relived his glory. “And, I was miles ahead of Rohan. The key thing in these competitions is never to feel fear. The moment you experience any doubt, might as well give up and drown yourself.” Berold stared at his clenched fist. “Life is about taking what scares you and crushing it. That’s how you win.”
She wanted to hurl her mug at his head. At least she hadn’t been the last to reach the crow’s-nest—that had been Ives, who now sat quietly against the mast, the charming smile gone from his face. Fortunately for her, she hadn’t been on the windward side, where Ives and Ostap had fought a much tougher battle.
“One thing I learned with the Throcknell guards,” Berold blathered on as he paced the deck. “You’ve got to seize your own opportunities. You can’t wait for them to come to you.”
So far, Fiona had avoided any really disastrous performances—but neither had she overly impressed the Guardians. Lir clearly still thought she was soft.
A thin strip of her scarf bound her fingers, and blood seeped into its deep-red fabric. It seemed the mending spell didn’t work for flesh wounds—only broken bones.
Hadn’t Nod seen the attack? Surely Berold deserved to be sent home more than anyone. He’d cheated. Then again, pirates probably weren’t big on playing by the rules.
She turned to Rohan, nudging his arm. “Hey—I need to thank you again. I would have died without you.”
“You thanked me four times during dinner.” Distractedly, he tapped a finger on his pewter cup. “If you’d died, you would have been in good company. Do you know how many sailors have drowned out here, off Gloucester’s coast?”
“A lot?”
He nodded. “Dagon claimed two hundred sixty-two of Gloucester’s sailors in 1883 alone.”
“I take it you’re big on death facts. But that was a long time ago.”