I turned to watch him approach the sailor who held the wheel. Lightning illuminated Kai as he relieved Jaro, his sodden white shirt glowing, his hair slicked against his skull and gleaming like polished mahogany, his normally bronzed skin bleached of color. The wheel bucked in his hands like a prize bull as we reached the crest of another wave. The lean muscles of his arms strained to keep it under control.
Another dive, another sluicing, another climb, and the older sailor who had been at the wheel appeared next to me. He had a broad face and thinning black hair sprinkled with silver; it was tied with a cord at the nape of his neck. His shirt and breeches had patches upon patches, all heavy and soaked. He pointed emphatically. “Go back in the cabin!”
But now that I was on deck, I didn’t want to go back to the stuffy confines of the cabin. The sensation of being trapped still lingered from the nightmare. When I shook my head, the sailor gave an almost imperceptible shrug and braced himself next to me as the ship hit another trough, and another torrent of water scoured the deck.
Every once in a while, I forced my legs to support me so I could steal a look at Kai. His arms shook, his face was carved of granite, and his cheekbones stood out sharply beneath his skin. His eyes were forward, his focus unwavering. He fought to keep the bow pointed straight into wave after wave as the sea pummeled us with briny fists, until everything that existed in the world was wet and salt and aching cold.
It was futile, the ship’s struggle against the sea. The storm seemed infinite, unstoppable. I feared that eventually Kai would make a mistake and we would be lost, spun to a splintering, churning death.
What would Arcus think if I never returned? Would he assume I’d chosen to stay away, that I’d forgotten him? The thought made my chest ache. Or would he know that I’d never leave him willingly? Then again, how would he know that? Despite his pleading with me to stay—or at least the closest thing he’d ever come to pleading—I’d left. That’s all he would remember.
As always, my mind returned to practical matters. Arcus was far away and I was here. If there was any way to survive, I would find it. I wiped the mix of rain and sea spray from my eyes, first checking on the waves and sky, then Kai. He looked the same: still at the helm, still focused straight ahead.
But the waves were not as high, the wind not so fierce, the sky not quite as dark. Hours or eons after the onset of the storm, the dome above turned from indigo to pink-tinged gray. The crew spread out over the deck and scurried into the rigging, checking masts and yards and sails. Another sail was unfurled. Kai barked a tired command and received a reply. I turned to see him leave the wheel in someone else’s hands, weaving a little as he stepped away.
I fumbled at the rope around my waist with numb fingers, cursing as they slid off. A shadow fell over me.
Kai didn’t speak. He merely went down on one knee, pulled a knife from his boot, and began sawing at a section of rope. His hands trembled. Hours of holding the ship’s wheel must have taken their toll.
As the rope fell away, he looked me straight in the eye, and I tensed, preparing for a tongue-lashing. Instead, his voice was calm.
“I see you’ve met Jaro. He’s particularly fond of waifs and strays. He’ll cluck over you like a mother hen, but at least he’ll do it in Tempesian. He used to sail on a merchant vessel in my grandfather’s time.”
“My lady,” said Jaro, stepping forward with a courtly bow. As he bent over, water ran from his hair down his forehead and dripped off the end of his nose. If I’d had the energy, I might have laughed at how incongruous it was: a grizzled sailor bowing like a courtier to a peasant who had tried and failed to be a lady.
“And, Ruby?” Kai said, meeting my eyes.
“Yes?”
“Next time, stay in the cabin.”
EIGHT
BY THE END OF THE WEEK, I KNEW the mainmast from the foremast, the mainsail from the topsail, port from starboard, fore from aft, and the main deck from the quarterdeck. It reminded me of Forwind Abbey in the sense that everything had its place, though the names were different. Instead of kitchen, refectory, dormitory, cellarium, and reredorter, on a ship they were called the galley, mess, forecastle, hold, and head.
Jaro and his twelve-year-old daughter, a scrawny, perpetually active ship’s girl named Aver, provided endless lectures on seafaring, including how to judge if the sails were balanced, how to navigate using an astrolabe, how to tie a multitude of knots, how to mend a sail or a rope, and how to protect a section of rope from chafing. If it had anything to do with a rope, Jaro knew about it. Sometimes, when he droned on too long, I wished he knew a bit less.
Jaro was delighted when he realized I already knew the basics of Sudesian. He included language lessons in each activity, teaching me Sudesian as he instructed Aver in Tempesian. Every word was repeated in both languages, and I was free to ask what words meant and encouraged to speak. He was a patient teacher, though he couldn’t resist laughing at my more hilarious mistakes.
Every day, Kai conducted an inspection with the boatswain, a stern-faced woman named Eylinn. The crew snapped to attention, fixing anything that was out of place. It was clear they respected their commanders. Eylinn only spoke Sudesian, but she always nodded civilly to me.
After a couple of weeks, I concluded that time passed differently at sea.
Some hours moved slowly, inching along in dreadful monotony, like when I was helping with some mundane task such as peeling potatoes in the galley. That’s when thoughts of Arcus would intrude, and longing would roar through my blood like a marauding invader, leaving me breathless and sick to my stomach. I tortured myself with memories: how giddy I’d felt when he’d danced with me at the ball, our searing kiss in the ice garden, the moment when he’d told me I’d melted his heart. All the times I’d thieved looks at him from some inconspicuous corner when he was occupied with the business of being king. And then, in sharp contrast, the agony of our last conversation would play itself over and over in my head in bits and pieces, moments of pain sticking in my mind like needles.
I wondered if he thought of me, or if he’d managed to obliterate me from his mind. When my homesickness was at its worst, I almost wished I could do the same.
On the other hand, some hours passed quickly, like in the evening when the weather was fair and the sailors had time to indulge themselves with music played on pipe or fiddle, with the rest of the crew adding lyrics to the tune. Some were jaunty, high-spirited reels that made me want to leap to my feet and dance, and others were mournful ballads that made my eyes fill with tears, even if I couldn’t understand all the words. It was cathartic to cry, and though I tried to be inconspicuous, others were matter-of-fact when they broke down, as if tears were an accepted part of life. Sudesians were clearly more comfortable losing control in front of others.
Normally Kai didn’t participate in these evenings. As captain, he kept himself aloof from his crew. But one night, about two weeks into the journey, he came to sit in the circle of lantern light on deck.
Jaro nodded at him. “A tale for us, Captain?” To me, Jaro added, “He tells a good story.”
“What would you like to hear?” Kai asked with a smile.
After a brief and friendly argument among those present, with Aver weighing in most vocally, they settled on the story of Neb and the birth of her children, the wind gods. Kai wrapped his arms loosely around his bent legs and cleared his throat. Even though my Sudesian vocabulary was limited, I knew the old myths well enough to fill in the gaps.