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“Don’t lose your heart along the way.”
Corayne felt her heart now, still stubbornly beating inside her chest. She put a hand to it, feeling the pulse beneath her skin. “It’s not going anywhere. I promise.”
It wasn’t a lie. But it certainly felt like one.
“Less than a week to land,” Corayne said, looking back to the sea for an easy change of subject. “If the weather remains favorable.”
“Will it?”
She twisted her lips, thinking. “The worst of the autumn storms are to the east, where the Long Sea meets the ocean.” The sky above them was perfect, a sailor’s dream. “I think the winds will hold for us. It’ll be the first bit of luck we’ve had.”
Andry squared his shoulders to Corayne and looked her over. His expression pulled in confusion. “I think we’ve had a great deal of luck.”
She tossed back her windblown hair. “We must define the word differently.”
“No, I mean it.” Andry drew closer, his voice firmer than before. “We came to Ibal to close a Spindle. We did it. And we’re all still breathing. I certainly call that luck.”
“And what about me?” Corayne’s mouth filled with a sour taste. She knew it as regret. “Would you consider me lucky?”
His eyes flashed. “You’re alive. That’s enough.”
“Alive,” Corayne scoffed. “Born to a mother who leaves with every good tide. A father I never met, who stillsomehowholds sway over me, his influence in my very blood. Hisfailure, thiscurseof what I am—and I don’t just mean the Spindles.” Her hands shook at her sides, and she shoved them behind her back, trying to hide her emotions as best she could. But she couldn’t hide the way her voice quivered. “Corblood makes us restless, rootless, always yearning for the horizon we can never reach. It’s why Old Cor conquered, spreading in every direction, searching for some place to call home. But they never, ever found it. And neither will I.”
Andry looked stricken, his face twisting with pity. “I certainly hope that isn’t true.”
She could only flush, embarrassed by her outburst. She put her back to Andry and the sea, one hand white-knuckled on the rail. The deck of the ship creaked beneath his boots as he took a step, closing the distance between them. She heard him draw a breath, felt the lightest brush of a hand on her shoulder.
And then Sorasa rounded the stack of crates like a leopard prowling her den. She crossed her arms, looking them over. Corayne pursed her lips, trying to will all trace of her feelings away.
Thankfully, Sorasa Sarn felt pity for no one, Corayne included.
“Hiding?” the assassin said, ignoring Corayne’s blotchy face.
“Never,” she answered, pushing off the rail.
“Good.” Sorasa spun on her heel, gesturing for her to follow.Corayne did so eagerly, happy to leave Andry and all thoughts of her wretched blood behind. “Let’s teach you how to use those Dragonclaws.”
But Corayne did glance back, finding Andry still at the rail, his warm, soft eyes following her every step.
“I’ll put on some tea,” he said, going for his pack.
And so the days went, slipping by like the waves against the ship. Corayne’s eye was true. The weather remained clear, though the air grew thick with moisture the closer they came to the shores of Ahmsare, the nearest kingdom. Clouds formed on the western horizon, toward the warmer waters of the Tiger Gulf, but no storms came close to the galley. Neither did any serpents or krakens, though the sailors and the Companions kept watch every night, lanterns blazing the length of the galley. It was the only time Corayne ever saw Dom, who spent most of his time with his head in a bucket, retching up whatever he’d managed to eat that day.
Sigil and Sorasa worked Corayne through her lessons in the morning, allowing her the afternoons to recover. Valtik would join them to watch, her rhymes dancing between Paramount, a language they all knew, and Jydi, which Corayne could barely comprehend. She even prayed over Corayne’s new vambraces, rubbing the Dragonclaws down with her old bones. As usual, the witch made little sense, but her presence was a comfort all the same. Especially after what she’d done to the kraken at the oasis, shoving it back into a Spindle with some spell. The sailors avoided the old witch as best they could, giving her a wide berthon the deck. A few made signs of the gods in her direction, sneering at her collection of bones.
Charlie passed the time in far more interesting fashion.
Still fighting the aches and pains of the morning, Corayne found him one afternoon, tucked away at the bow of the ship. He was standing, bent over a small workspace, little more than a plank set across two barrels.
Corayne chose her steps carefully, letting the crew and the slap of waves mask the sound of her boots on the deck. It was almost too easy to sneak up on Charlie and peer over his shoulder.
His fingers moved painstakingly slow as he inked a piece of parchment. Corayne eyed the page and recognized the emblem of Rhashir—a four-tusked white elephant on bright orange. It was excruciatingly precise work, and he timed his marks between dips of the sea.
“I do not enjoy being spied on, Corayne,” he drawled, making her jump.
She flushed, but he turned around with a half smile. The fugitive priest had ink on his brow and a spark in his eyes.
Corayne grinned, nodding to the parchment behind him. “Practicing?”
