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But then, like he summoned it, a gust of wind hits the sails so hard that I lose the rope between my feet, and for a single terrifying moment, I’m suspended by nothing more than my grip on the rigging. It’s so sudden that I slip at least six inches. My palms burn, and I can’t breathe.
I make the mistake of looking at the water, and the horizon spins. The people down below seem to be a mile away.
“It’s there,” Rian says. “Just there. Swing your feet up a foot and you’ll find it.”
His voice is a bit closer, and for a second, I can’t comprehend what he’s saying. My thoughts are too focused on survival, and that means gripping this rope forever.
But then I swing my foot higher and I find the rigging. My hands are so badly rope burned that it’s a miracle they’re not bleeding, but the pain hasn’t set in like it has in my shoulder.
I stare across at Rian. I’m almost panting, my heartbeat a roar in my ears.
He doesn’t move. “Take a moment. Get your bearings.”
I don’t know if he expects me to take a breath or count to three or acknowledge some kind of fresh start, but I have no interest in those options. We’re ten feet from the top, and I know what I want. I break the eye contact and shove myself upward.
He swears and rushes to match my pace. We scrabble for the top of the mast at the same time.
But he taps it a second earlier.
For an instant, I almost can’t process that I’ve lost. We’re botha little red-faced and breathless, glaring across the inches of netting that separate us. Anger fills my gut, chasing breath out of my lungs, leaving me speechless.
His chest is heaving from the exertion. I expect to find victory in his eyes, but there’s only relief. That chases some of my anger away.
Whatever is in that room, hereallydoesn’t want me to see it.
Then he says mockingly, “At least you got to keep your dagger.”
“Can you not win honorably, Captain?”
“Honor!” he snaps. “What do you know of—”
He breaks off, staring out at the sea. I follow his gaze, and it’s like I’ve forgotten how high we are. The horizon tilts and shifts, and I want to close my eyes, but then I notice that those ships have drawn even closer.
“As I said,” Rian grinds out, “what do you know of honor?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. The rigging tugs and pulls at my fingers as he begins to climb down.
Fine. I can do the same.
The climb is a lot more dizzying on the way down. On the way up, I was singularly focused. I wanted to win. Ineededto win.
When I’m less than ten feet away from the deck, the pain in my hands begins to match the ache in my shoulder, and I allow myself to drop, springing onto the boards. Rian does the same.
The silence between us is louder than the crew on the deck.
“Who won?” says little Anya.
“I did,” says Rian. “Despite the prince attempting to take advantage.”
“You chose the challenge, Captain. You chose itexpectingto have an advantage. You can’t act as though I cheated just because I kept going.”
“I would have beenwellahead of you. I only stopped to make sure you weren’t going to fall.”
“Corrick,” says Tessa. Her voice is a quiet rush. “Let me look at your hands.”
My eyes meet hers, and it’s a mistake. In her gaze, I see her worry, her unease, her longing.
For a moment, I almost give in. But I know what a mistake it is to seem vulnerable. I jerk my eyes away and press my fingers into my palms. “My hands are fine.”
