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Tessa
I was glad when Corrick left with the captain, because the tension in Rian’s stateroom had been thick enough to choke the air out of the room. I caught a few glimpses of the two young men walking the deck, and their mannerisms seemed amiable, but I know Corrick well enough to recognize when he’s unsettled.
So far it’s been the entire duration of his time on board this ship.
When Corrick and Rian disappear down the steps to go below, Gwyn sighs and says, “If those two went at it under the sails, I wouldn’t know which one to put money on.”
Sablo huffs a quiet laugh, then hisses as I use my tweezers to pluck another rope fiber out of his wrist. His wound is a rope burn that runs down the length of his forearm, but he’s got a dozen rope splinters embedded in the skin. The burn is deep enough by his hand that it’s drawn blood, so it’s nothing I can stitch, but I can tell it’s painful.
I give him a commiserating glance. “Sorry.” He’s a big man, nearly as big as Rocco, so I thought he’d be intimidating, but he’s not. I glance between him and Gwyn. “So I’m not the only one who can tell they don’t like each other?”
“Rian doesn’t have a lot of tolerance for rulers who mistreat their people,” she says.
“I don’t either,” I say, plucking at another rope fiber. “Prince Corrick isn’t the sum of all the stories told about him.”
“Surely not,” she says easily, which startles me. “He got on the ship, and that took most of us by surprise.”
Sablo makes a sound that sounds likehmph, then rubs the fingers of his free hand together, then makes a flicking motion.
Gwyn smiles. “He says he should have put money onthat.”
I look up from the wound. “You would have bet on Prince Corrick?”
He nods vigorously, and I raise my eyebrows.
“Sablo likes the underdog,” Gwyn adds.
“Aha,” I say, smiling. “Well, don’t lethimhear you call him the underdog.”
Sablo blows a breath through his teeth and draws a finger across his neck like he’s slitting someone’s throat.
I think he’s teasing, but I frown. I remember a night when Corrick had to do exactly that, because Consul Sallister was threatening to withhold medicine from the whole country.
But of course I can’t say that. I don’t know how to defend Corrick without revealing everything I know.
I don’t know if he deserves it anyway.
I try to turn the conversation in another direction. They’re casual with the captain’s name, so I am, too. “Rian said that thecitadel in Ostriary was destroyed in the war,” I say. “Where does the king live now?”
“Galen Redstone still lives on Fairde,” Gwyn says. “Tarramor was blown to bits, but the king was able to hold the palace. The walls are gone, so you can see the palace from the sea. One by one, he claimed the other islands. There are still pockets of rebellion, mostly led by men who couldn’t take the throne, but most of those have been snuffed out. The king built his campaign on promises to rebuild, to restore Ostriary to what it once was. He might not have had thestrongestclaim to the throne, but he had the most compelling promises. There’s been too much damage, too much bloodshed. The people are tired.”
Sablo grunts and hits his chest with his uninjured arm, and Gwyn smiles, a little sadly. “Yes,” she says. “Weare tired.”
I look at Sablo. “Were you injured in the war? Is that why you can’t speak?”
Storm clouds shift through his eyes, but he nods. He looks to Gwyn and gestures from her to me.
She draws a slow breath, and they exchange a glance. I can see her weighing what to say. “At dinner, Rian mentioned Oren Crane, one of the old king’s half-brothers. He’s one of the few who keeps rebellion brewing. Oren’s a skilled sailor, and he has a fleet of ships that still linger in the waters of Ostriary. Hidden allies on all the islands. He was close to the old court, too, which helped his claim. He’s clever—but vicious. Not the kind of man you want to cross.”
I look at Sablo. “Did you cross him?”
Those clouds haven’t left his eyes. He scowls.
“Sablo was a supply runner,” Gwyn says. “He’d pilot the shipsfrom island to island. He’s well known at each port, so sometimes he’s paid to carry … information.”
I glance between the two of them. “So you were a spy.”
He taps a finger to his forehead, and Gwyn says, “Not really a spy. More … an untraceable way to send a message. No need to write anything down. Sablo’s mind is as sharp as cut glass.”
