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The air in the cabin was cold. Waters of the Western Sea cooled considerably after sunset, but Vera’s blankets stuck to her skin from sweat. She pushed herself up, shoving the heavy cotton from her shoulders and winced. The muscles in her arms still hadn't recovered from fending Faxril off earlier in the day. Vera rubbed her right arm as she sat on the edge of the cot. She knew she deserved the soreness. Using a blade against Faxril was difficult enough, but that bastard was still the best with a sword and she wasn’t as practiced as she once was.
"This has to change," he had said, disappointed. "You are going to need to use swords, Vera."
She didn't know what he meant by that. Vera survived well the past fifteen years without becoming a master swordsman. Her staff was just as dangerous. Despite that, she couldn't resist the chance to practice with Faxril everyday. Even if he beat her into the floorboards of his beautiful new deck. It took her mind off of Simanel and off of Eragos. The unease she harbored began with writing that damned letter. Penning her thoughts was awkward and difficult. The letter would have done little good if it was well written; she couldn’t calculate what her inadequate skills in personal correspondence had cost her. She tried not to obsess. At least she sent word. Vera told herself it couldn’t matter any longer. How many times had she left Eragos in Simanel? She remembered how angry he was when he first arrived in Tyrus. Things were different. The world was different. She had to learn to let this…to let him…and how she…
Never had Vera been able to follow through on those thoughts. And she was more the fool for it.
So the unease continued well after Faxril’s new ship pushed off Trone's docks. When Vera wasn‘t recounting sentences in that letter, she avoided thoughts about Simanel. The beacon in her heart became a thing she dreaded. How had nightmares torn at Simanel? Vera tasted ash in her mouth when thinking of the city. She woke tonight with a cough rattling in the pit of her lungs. Simanel usually reminded Vera of apples, of early frost and horses being run in early morning. What she'd seen in Tyrus should have been enough to haunt her dreams for months, but instead the skeleton of her burnt estate was superimposed over the Rider's Castel. Dreams like this were disturbing, but not new. Not now. After the eight Riders she'd taken through Astarii were slaughtered...back then, nightmares were new.
But Simanel. Simanel. What was next? The White City?
She ran a hand through her hair. The ship sailed smoothly and would not take the blame for her nausea. Vera listened to the sound of the wind outside, waiting for the feeling to pass.
"That was very violent," Lady Naevain said. She sat on the rail, her skirts barely moving in the hard winds. The crowd had broken up after Faxril started yelling orders but she hadn't moved. She was still watching. Vera hated how elves managed to look so calm. It was genetic, the ability they had to be so unruffled. The woman must have insisted on coming on this voyage just to be annoying. She wiped the blood and sweat from her face with a red cloth and went to lean on the rail. The ocean moved lazily, only occasionally shoving against the sides of the ship, but the air was mean. Southern winds had grown more agitated since the Breaking, Faxril had said. He didn't forsee them getting any better as they left Aurum Harbor.
"Sparring is never civilized between he and I. We both know we wouldn't learn anything if we were kind to one another," Vera said. "If a mistake is painful, I am less likely to make it again in a true fight."
Naevain frowned. "But he is your brother. Shouldn't he strive to make you feel no pain?"
Vera laughed.
"Why is that funny?"
"I see you aren‘t familiar with us, Lady Naevain."
The deck was quiet when Vera finally came up from her cabin. She didn’t expect any less at night. Faxril allowed his crew time to themselves so long as he didn’t have to hear about it in the morning and they were sharp in mind when he had need of them. Most of these men had sailed with Faxril for years. A few off-duty sailors sat off in one corner and smoke curled up from their huddle when the wind allowed it. They spoke in whispers and hushed laughter. She’d guess they were playing a card game from the way they protected the center of the group from the wind. Vera leaned against the rail, some distance away, and they took little notice. She was glad.
Vera didn’t often travel on water. Dinaden was her most frequent transport during long journeys and she enjoyed her horse’s company too much for it to be otherwise. Yet for all the terrible things that led up to this, Vera was happy to sail again. Her first time on a ship was on the River Olne at High Lord Arand’s side. She was only five at the time and traveling alone with her mother. Vera had clung to the High Lord’s hand, wondering if she should be embarrassed for her fear of the wind. She remembered the elements ripping at his fine, white hair and the elaborate robes he wore. The wind could have blown them from the deck…
“Don’t let go!” Vera trapped his fingers with both of her hands and squeezed her eyes shut as the boat leaned slightly. She could hear the High Lord’s laughter, but shame would not beat out the fear in her chest.
“Is this the child who boldly told one of my guards his sword grip was wrong?”
The hand in her grasp curled inward, keeping tight hold of her despite his amusement. Vera couldn’t bring herself to look at the High Lord. She moved closer to take shelter from the wind that kept trying to tear her away. Uta told her some weeks ago that winds stole children all of the time. They took them across the world so they would be alone without anyone they loved, forever. The wind did this, she said, because it was jealous of little girls. The wind never stayed still enough to feel love.
“I’m sorry,” Vera said.
“No, I am sure you were right. His face was very red.” The High Lord paused. “You shouldn’t be so afraid. The worst that might happen is you fall into the water. Water is not a frightening thing.”
“It isn’t?”
“Of course not. Look, Vera. Look at the waves.”
Vera eased the pressure on her eyes and squinted around the railing. On the river, large curves rose and fell in the water.
“A very long time ago, we were waves. Don’t they look like people? See? A back, or feet there, or the top of a head? All of us rippled across the water once. If you go in, then certainly you will come out again.”
Vera looked up at him, finally. “I don‘t remember that.”
High Lord Arand smiled. “Ah, well. That is the tragedy of water, Vera. It moves across the entire world, changing itself and everything around it without ever remembering a thing.”
She rested her head in her hands for a moment. The rail was smooth and made leaning on her elbows on it almost comfortable. Her smile broke against her fingers. She looked out across the water, which was dark under the stars. She could see them, couldn’t she? The shadows of ancient people.
“Lady?”
Vera straightened and turned quickly. It was Faxril’s navigator, an older gentleman with wrinkled hands and sharp grey eyes. He nodded behind her, beyond the portside of the ship.
“The clouds, Lady Vera. They are coming too fast for my liking.”
"Perhaps you should get Lord Faxril..." she frowned. “But I'll have a look as well."
Vera turned toward the poop deck and took two steps at a time to join the helmsman there. He was far younger than the navigator, but lacking in a clean shave helped give him more authority. She wondered if he was the only man onboard who lacked the spit and polish Faxril usually demanded. He seemed like he lived for fouler weather. Vera moved closer to the rail to get a good look at the black edges of the sea. Seeing the small scattered strips of grey in the dark was easy, perhaps easier than it should have been. The helmsman belatedly pointed the clouds out and offered her his spyglass, which Vera took out of politeness. The navigator was right, the clouds were moving fast.
“Weather’s a curse on the sea. It’ll always come, but you’re done for if it blindsides you. There’s never been a time I was caught off guard on one of Lord Faxril’s ships,” the helmsman said. “A damn lucky thing.”
Vera leaned against the railing and squinted as a strong gust shoved her hair back. Angry flashes of light blinked from those gray clouds in the distance. In them, Vera could make out movement. A shadow.
"See anything interesting?" the helmsman asked.
"Maybe," Vera said. She glanced back to see Faxril had arrived with Lady Naevain. She frowned at the elf. Something about her bothered Vera, in the same way Alatariel had bothered her. Naevain was more than a merchant or woman of means, more than a daughter to a shipmaker. If she was only what she seemed, then there was no reason for her to have been called up for some clouds. Naevain seemed far more at home on the sea than any elven lady should be. Vera handed her brother the spy glass.
"What am I looking for?" Faxril asked.
"You were called because of the skies, but there’s a shadow on the water,” Vera said. She pointed to the horizon in the direction she was watching before. “Look southwest of the lightning.”
There wasn’t a sound on deck as Faxril scanned the distance with the aid of the spyglass. Vera waited for him to see what she saw; her eyesight was not a perfect thing, even if it was special. She wanted to know what was out there, even if knowing wouldn’t make her any more prepared to deal with it. Everything on the sea was large, swift and carried some sort of power behind it. The sea was like the desert in that way. Without some supernatural quality, the elements swallowed you whole.
Faxril took the spyglass away from his eye.
“A three-masted brigate,” Naevain said, before he could get a word out. She glanced at Vera. “It is not one I know.”
“Bet it’s trying to see what we are,” the helmsman said. “Bet it‘s pirates.”
“A good guess, but we can not know for certain. Take us toward them.”
The navigator was quiet for a moment. “Toward the storm, sir?”
“Yes.” Faxril’s response was short. The helmsman said nothing else. Vera’s brother then looked to one of his men, waiting on the stair. “I want all lights out, nothing on deck and merchant colors flying. Adjust the masts. Put speed between us and the rest of my ships. They will not come close if we have friends.”
“What if they have friends?” Naevain asked.
Faxril had been ready to follow his men to the deck, but he paused at hearing Naevain. Vera waited by the rail, her eyes shifting between the two of them. He clenched his jaw, the only visible sign Faxril ever gave of his restraint. A lord of one of the Cardinal Towers was not the type of person who took questioning lightly, especially regarding his decisions. There were few times Vera questioned her brother in front of his men and those times were few for good reason. To live a military life was to trust the leader and place faith in the larger order. Soldiers, navy men, anyone who served in Beit-Orane took their positions in the wheel of the army seriously. Respect for order was what divided soldiers from mercenaries.
Vera shifted. She felt uneasy for her brother’s cruel nature and Lady Naevain’s seeming disregard for the social order of the ship.
“If they have friends,” Faxril said, his voice quiet and paced, “We will find out if your father truly deserves his reputation as a shipmaker, Lady Naevain.”
The elf did not miss a beat in the conversation. Vera, for all the concern she harbored for her in that moment, was not going to intervene unless violence erupted.
“I placed my faith in this mission because of your reputation as a calculating leader, Lord Faxril. My father’s ships are prized and desired by many different people. Should we arrive at Axis Betelgeuse on the pieces of this one, I guarantee our contract will be nothing more than a scrap of parchment written in the clumsy human calligraphy.”
“Then you should retire to your cabin and allow me to do my work.”
Naevain’s laugh was as cold as Faxril’s voice.
“What, allow you to navigate half blind? You could not see that ship. Your sister has extraordinarily sharp vision, but not of an elf‘s caliber. Accept that I will walk your deck. I am not your underling, Lord Faxril. I am the eyes of my people and you are stuck with me until our deal is through.”
As Lady Naevain picked up her skirts and brushed past Faxril at an angry gate that still managed gracefulness, Vera focused on her brother’s face. She was reminded, in that instant, of Eragos’ face as she stood across from him in the fields of Gali. Insulting a man to press at the threshold of his patience took courage, cunning and stupidity. Words were sharp things in the mouths of those who knew them as weapons. Vera remembered how black Eragos’ eyes had been, the way his shoulders shook with how tense he became. He could have murdered her had he hit her. At the time she’d wanted nothing less. What that said for Vera’s own mind was something she’d have to think about at another time. Faxril was far more capable of abandoning his discipline than Eragos, but his cruelty would not come in the form of a physical blow.
Her brother turned on his heel to follow Naevain.
“You can’t,” Vera said. She stopped herself and then began again. Faxril looked ready to walk off at any moment. “Diplomacy is more than signed contracts. You have to understand the person you manipulate. And she seems to understand you far better than you understand her.”
“I don’t need--”
“You need me. Not my sword, but me.” Vera moved from the railing and took his arm. She was crossing a line, she knew, but only the helmsman watched and he was experienced enough to know how to keep his mouth shut. “I have been forced to do this work since I beat Rahmil into the floormats and was released from Itamesazen. Let me help as you intended.”
Making her actions seem in line with his interests was only an empty stroke to Faxril's ego. She wondered how transparent her own manipulation of her brother was. Vera was not above begging his patience but preferred not lowering herself to him. No matter how she loved Faxril, she hated being considered 'beneath' her sibling. That status was never one she could accept, no matter how often it had been pounded into her by her House, her city...her father.
The silence between them was a good indication that Faxril struggled in letting the insult rest. Vera waited without having any more words for him. She knew the debate continued without her in his mind. Would he seek a more subtle disciplinary action against the elf? Wait for the proper moment to make her eat her rudeness? Or sail on the smooth current to civility and leave a lady to her games? Her hand remained on his arm until Faxril shrugged it off and nodded. This was the closest she would come to Faxril giving in. Vera did not smile. She just let him go, moving back toward the rail. The helmsman stood with her in silence until Lord Faxril was gone.
After some minutes passed, the wheel of the ship turned, pointing them in the direction of rough seas that seemed so close for being so distant. Vera turned back to the sea and watched the dark horizon. Extraordinary vision, Naevain had said. She wondered what that was supposed to mean.
The helmsman laughed under his breath.
"Hell of a storm this'll be."
"Yes." Which one did he mean? And how much did that matter? Vera smiled, finally. "So much for luck."