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“Aye.” Celine stood, hands on her hips. “I’ll tell the king, but we’ll need to tend to it until we can get him to a boneweaver.”
“What the hells is a boneweaver?”
“What do you call the folk who fix your ails?”
“A healer?”
Celine paused, confused, then shrugged. “I like boneweaver better. Help me get him up, we’re needed on shore.”
My blood felt too thick for my veins, but I buried the unease and focused on Sewell. “I heard Bloodsinger could heal wounds. Why not heal his own crew?”
“Taxing, that blood healing, and he’s detained at the moment.” Celine scooped an arm under the cook’s shoulder. “Now, hurry. The king doesn’t want you left alone on his ship. We’re all headed ashore, except you, old man. We’ll see to it you sleep in the king’s bed.”
“Sweet songs, Thunder Fish.” Sewell grunted when he staggered to his feet. The movement to his feet soaked the bandages with a new fountain of blood, but he didn’t do more than wince and wrap an arm around Celine’s shoulders.
I followed behind, prepared to steady the man should he stumble on the stairs. Sewell pinched his lips and muttered something about eel tempers. Celine told him since he’d be sleeping in the king’s bed, it made him the king of the ship for a day. She seemed at ease with talk of invading Erik’s chambers, and I resented how it made the thought that Bloodsinger might not be a tyrannical fiend.
Once the cook was settled in the king’s chamber, Celine led us back to the lower deck. The door carved into the hull was lowered. Smoke choked the freshness of the breeze, and foam on the tides was tinged pink.
“Get in.” Celine gestured at a rowboat. Much the same as the main ship, nothing about the common boat was simple. Shaped like a jagged arrowhead and the rails were spiked with bits and pieces of what looked like fanged teeth. Some were chipped and cracked from wear, but it only added to the viciousness, and the oars were like knives, ready to slice through the waves.
Sweat gathered under my arms, my palms, at the nape of my neck. I’d tried to embolden myself at the masque, until I froze when Bloodsinger made himself known. Then again in the feed cart at the fort when I’d smashed his leg, until Rorik came, and I went boneless. I was empowered to chastise the Ever King for his wretchedness, until now.
Why would Bloodsinger drag me off the ship? I’d disobeyed his command. He’d been furious. A dozen different ways he might make me pay took hold and choked the air from my lungs.
“I think someone ought to stay and keep watch over—”
“Get. In.” Celine yanked a roughly made sword from a leather sheath. Only halfway, but the threat was clear. “I got no orders saying I can’t take a finger or two. Maybe an eye. Patience is long gone. Now, get in.”
I clenched my fists but complied. Celine took one oar, I took the other, and with great digs into the bloody water, we heaved the boat into the open tides.
On the shore, walls of fire toppled sod huts, a tower made of thick beams, and what appeared to be a worship center made of posts carved in runes arranged in an intricate pattern.
Amidst the flames and tangle of smoke, the ship’s crew kept tossing other men into a huddle near the water’s edge. Blades drawn, there was no question blood would taint the sand soon enough. I cursed myself for leaving my knife in the kitchen.
Once the boat struck a sandbank, Celine hopped over the side, knee deep in the waves. “Out,” she said, and secured the oars.
I followed her onto the sandy shore. A dozen paces away, a shadow materialized from the dust and haze. His gait was staggered, but when Bloodsinger stepped free of the smoke, I saw why.
One hand gripped firmly on a thick rope; he dragged a bloodied man by the ankles. With a similar build and injured leg, Erik limped as he heaved his prisoner.
The sharp tang of bile burned my throat at the state of the man—a gash from the corner of his mouth split his cheek halfway open, two fingers bled from the tips, I doubted they were still intact, and small knives were rammed into the backs of the man’s arms.
With every tug, the hilts of the blades would shift and twist in the flesh, drawing out raspy, angry shouts of pain.
Brutal. Cruel. Mesmerizing.
I held a twisted captivation with Erik Bloodsinger. I despised him in one breath, and in the next, I couldn’t turn away from his cold, beautiful face. What created such a creature as him? What motivated such brutal punishments?
I knew war. I knew execution. But Erik seemed to enjoy the bloody game more than the outcome.
Low sobs peeled my gaze away from the king for a moment. My chest squeezed. Men and women, children and elderly were gathered to one side.
They wore simple clothes, most barely covering their bodies. Their hair was rolled in tight cords or shaved close to the scalp. Those who were grown wore piercings laced with slender gold chains from lip to nose to ear.
Wives wept against their husband’s bare chests. Some children whimpered, their glassy eyes locked on the burning huts, watching their village crumble.
I blinked back to the man in Bloodsinger’s grip. He’d been the one to cause this devastation. A strange sensation took root low in my stomach. Heavy and coiled, like a barbed knot of thorns it bloomed through my body until reaching my lips. The corner of my mouth twitched into a smile, into a cruel thrill that the man responsible for the tears of littles was paying his dues.
