“What she doesn’t understand is that it’s my fault he’s still alive.” Destin’s voice rose. “I should have killed the bastard a long time ago. Every person he kills, every life he ruins, every mage he collars—it’s on me.” He wiped his hands on his clothes, but he still felt as if they were covered in blood.
“Maybe your mother is right,” Evan said. “Maybe you’re worth more alive than the general is dead.”
With that, the darkness inside Destin came boiling up like the molten rock that spewed from fissures in the north. Before he knew what was happening, he’d gripped Evan’s shirtfront and slammed him down on his back on the deck. “You’re wrong!” he roared, glaring down at him. “I’m a monster like my father, and the only thing I’m good for is hunting other monsters!”
“No,” Evan said. “You are not a monster. Whoever told you that was wrong.”
“You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve done.” You don’t know how many I’ve killed, to survive to this point.
“I don’t care what you’ve done. I’m more interested in what you’re going to do.” The pirate gripped Destin’s coat, arced his body up, and kissed him firmly on the lips.
It was sweet and potent as Southern Islands rum. And like a name day drunk, Destin lost his head. He answered the kiss hungrily, pressing the pirate all the way to the deck. Then he launched himself backward, landing on his ass on the planking, heart pounding, breathing hard.
The pirate was actually laughing at him. “Ah, Soldier,” he said, sitting up. “I have found your vulnerability. Love is the weapon you cannot counter. It leaves you helpless.”
Destin glared at him. “It’s not love,” he said. “It’s lust, and desire, and—”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Evan cocked his head, waiting.
Destin said nothing. His cheeks were flaming, he could tell.
Evan came up on his knees, hands resting on his thighs, like a faerie prince asking him a riddle. “Say it with me now, Destin: I am not a monster.”
“No,” Destin said. But the fortress of his anger was crumbling, allowing the humor of the situation to seep in.
“Say it,” Evan said, in a low, seductive voice, “and I promise, I’ll whisper monster in your ear whenever you want.”
Destin couldn’t help it. He began to laugh.
“Now say it.”
Destin rolled his eyes. “I am not a monster,” he said, though he knew it was a lie.
“Again.”
“I am not a monster.” He raised his hand to forestall further demands. “That’s all you’re getting, so leave off.”
“Acceptable,” Evan said, with grudging approval. “But you’re going to need some more practice.” He took Destin’s hands in his own strong, callused ones. “I would like to be your friend as well as your business partner,” he said. “I would like to be somebody you can trust. I would like you to be someone I can trust. Do you think that’s possible?”
Destin stared at the pirate, his mind swarming with questions he couldn’t ask. How had this pirate survived a violent, brutal childhood and emerged with this generosity of spirit, this willingness to take a chance on someone like him? What is your secret? What are you made of?
Destin wanted to say no. He wanted to tell Evan Strangward that the last thing he should do is trust Destin Karn. It will get you killed, Pirate. It will break your heart.
But, in the end, he found that he couldn’t say no to hope.
“I hope so,” he said. “I really hope so.”
Evan smiled. “Now. If you insist on going back to the wetlands, you’re going to need a pilot. You can’t sail this ship on your own. So. We’ll sail there together. With me at the helm, it will be a quick journey there, and back again.”
11
THE HANDYMAN
All the way back north, Evan refused to argue when Destin offered one reason after another as to why it was a bad idea for Evan to come along to the wetlands. Evan was busy grappling with the problem of finding a reliable crew. After three days on the water, he’d determined that it would require at least five hands for a blue-water crossing; at least three times that to crew Destiny as a privateer.
The challenge would be to find a crew that couldn’t be bought off. The knowledge that the empress was still actively hunting him changed everything. He did not relish the notion of being delivered to Celesgarde in his own ship. He wasn’t so concerned about the crossing to Baston Bay. It would be there and back, with little opportunity for harborside gossip. But when he began sailing the Desert Coast, and raiding in the wetlands, it would be only a matter of time before he came to the empress’s attention, especially if he became known as a stormcaster.
He still hoped that Destin might return to Carthis with him after accomplishing his mission in Arden. Destin’s nuanced magery might offer a way to ensure a loyal crew. Together, he and Destin could meet any challenge, stand against any enemy.
He tried not to think of the possibility that their mission might fail. If they couldn’t defeat a wetland general, what chance would they have against the empress?
More importantly, the cottage in Tarvos had been closer to a home than anything Evan had experienced before, and Destin and Frances had become a surrogate family. An ember of hope still burned inside him—the hope that they could look forward to a future together.
When Destiny sailed back into the harbor at Tarvos, the sun was setting on their third day. On the way in, they passed an unfamiliar three-masted schooner, moored far out in the harbor, where the water was deepest. She flew no colors, but carried a full complement of guns.
Destin rested his forearms on the stern railing, squinting against the sunlight gilding the tops of the Guardians. “Do you recognize that ship?”
“No,” Evan said, “but she looks like a wetlander.”
Not many wetland ships came and went at Tarvos these days, since Carthian pirates made the journey perilous. This ship, however, looked like she could fend off most any challenge.
The harbor area was oddly deserted when they tied up at their mooring. Usually, the arrival of any ship brought a handful of people down to the wharf, some intent on commerce, others merely curious. Several jolly boats were tied up at Kadar’s public docks.
They quickly unloaded their few personal belongings, meaning to come back with the wagon for the rest. As they walked up the hill, away from the harbor, Evan looked back. He saw sailors swarming over the schooner’s decks, as if they were preparing to get under way.
When they rounded the point, the cottage came into view. It was dark—no lights in the windows.
“Frances should be home by now,” Evan said. “Right?”
“Before now,” Destin said, frowning. “Maybe she left a note inside.”
They walked to the porch, between the beds of flowers that Frances had planted, and found the door slightly ajar.
Breaker growled, hackles raised, but that was nothing unusual.
“Wait,” Destin said, raising his hand. He stood listening for a long moment, then shrugged, pushed the door open, and walked in, with Evan right behind him.
Before Evan’s eyes had adjusted to the dim interior, he heard the door slam shut behind them. All around the main room, lanterns were unhooded, flooding the room with light, practically blinding him.
“Where have you been, Corporal?” somebody said in a low, raspy voice. “Weren’t you afraid that your mother would be worried?”
Destin must have recognized the voice, because he turned deathly pale. He spun round, scanning the room. Frances wasn’t there, but red-brown stains that hadn’t been there before were spattered across the tile floor.
“Don’t waste your time, Corporal. The bitch is waiting for us aboard ship. I think she’ll live.”
The man speaking was thickset and barrel-chested, a wetland mage with a flattened nose and a bristle of hair. He was dressed in a brown uniform that carried no emblem of rank. His arms were so muscular that they hung out from his sides like thick branches on a spreading tree.