Crossing to the foremast, she could see a bulging shape tied to the base—something bound to the wood in clumsy rope knots. As she moved closer, nausea welled in her stomach. There was a person tied to the mast.
Blood pooled on the boards, running in tiny streams along the cracks. Her heart thudding, she stepped in front to face the victim. It was Berold, his eyes lifeless and body facing the bow like a gruesome figurehead. A knife jutted from his ribs, and deep-red blood stained his white shirt. One of his shoes was gone, and blood oozed from his foot. Someone had cut off a toe.
She grew dizzy. What kind of maniac had done this?
There was something intensely undignified about a corpse propped up in a standing position—the lolling of the head, the slackened jaw. Bile rose in her throat. Was this what her mom’s face had looked like after they’d shot her—gray and flaccid? Was this how the pictures looked that they’d printed in the newspapers? She clenched her fists, adrenaline and anger coursing through her, and her thoughts clouded.
She wasn’t entirely sure if he was dead, and a part of her didn’t care. In a world that had murdered her mom, someone like Berold hardly deserved to live.
Still, his death wouldn’t bring Mom back. She yanked the knife from his chest, pressing her hand over the wound to staunch the flow of blood. But it didn’t spurt like she’d expected. His heart had stopped beating.
Her mind raced with instructions from her first-aid class, and she pushed on his chest with both hands, trying to restart his heart, before remembering the mending spell. It hadn’t worked on her hand earlier, but it was worth a shot, surely? While she pumped at his chest, she whispered the spell under her breath.
But his body remained limp, and after a few minutes, she pulled her hands away. She’d been working the heart of a corpse. Half in a daze, she reached down, picking up the bloody knife from the deck, turning it over in her hand. Gold symbols adorned its hilt.
Lir’s knife. Did he do this? But there was no reason he would.
She should wake the others, but she couldn’t exactly go to Lir.
Nod. She should get the Captain.
She turned away from the body and froze. Lir stood a foot in front of her. “What did you do?” he whispered. He wore no shirt, only a pair of black trousers, and his green eyes bored through her.
Her mouth went dry. “What did I do? What did you do, more like.”
“Me?” He practically shouted it. “You’re the one holding a bloody knife over a corpse.”
She looked down at herself, at the blade in her hand. Berold’s blood covered her palms, and had even left a few smudges on her dress. With a trembling hand, she held up the knife. “But this is yours.”
He stepped closer and snatched it, eyeing her warily. “I’ve been looking for this. How did you get it?”
She backed away. “I didn’t take it. It was in him.” She could hardly get the words out.
“You just happened to be up here.” He grabbed her by the elbow, pulling her to the mainmast.
“I heard moaning, and I came up. And he was there. Bound and stabbed.”
“I didn’t hear any moaning.”
“My hearing is better than yours.”
He pushed her against the mast, and before she could get another breath in, he was wrapping her in rope.
“What are you doing?” He’s going to kill me. He’s going to stab me with his knife just like he did to Berold.
“You’re getting a trial.” The ropes tightened around her. “And unfortunately, it doesn’t look good for you.”
She had no idea what the penalty was, and she didn’t exactly yearn to find out. “Why would I have killed Berold?”
Tying a final knot, he gazed into her eyes. “He slashed you today, and he’s hated you this whole time. He won today’s trial. I found you standing before his dead body with a bloody knife. Maybe you like death. You’re the only one who volunteered to come.”
When you put it that way… “Do you really think I could have overpowered him in a fight?”
“Maybe. Why didn’t you call out for someone?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t sure if he was dead or not. And I’d never seen a body that close before.”
“And you wanted to get up close and personal with a corpse.”
She didn’t answer for a moment. Maybe I’m secretly the most evil one here. That, at least, rang true, and for just a moment, she wondered if Lir could be right. Wasn’t there something called a fugue state, when a person totally zoned out from whatever they were doing and woke up someplace new? What if she’d stolen his knife, crept upstairs while everyone slept, found a drunken Berold, and rammed the knife into his heart before regaining her senses?