Page 41 of Blood of the Stars

“That wasn’t my question.”

“True.”

They inched out from the wetlands until the wind caught the sails, and then they picked up speed. The wind whipped through Gaeren’s hair, calming him as he let the tension of the day ease out from his limbs.

“For what it’s worth, I think it’s noble of you to give Riveran a second chance.”

Gaeren frowned. “Your opinion’s never been worth much.”

Larkos laughed again, ignoring the jab for the lie that it was. Enla never understood why Gaeren trusted Larkos, with his gruff presence and thinly veiled hatred of the crown. She’d also never sailed through a hurricane or along the Western Horn with him. After years together at sea, there was no one else Gaeren trusted so completely.

“It wasn’t my idea to let him come.” Gaeren turned, studying the men as they worked. Breeve ducked into the galley to prepare what was likely to be an awful dinner, and the rest all manned their stations without complaint.

Riveran kept to himself, swabbing the deck until it sparkled. Then he picked up where Thallahan, Gaeren’s second mate, had left off strengthening a spare sail that had loose threads. Erech watched Riveran more than he helped, but if his work ethic from the stables held, he’d be climbing the rigging tomorrow.

“Is she really a tracker?” Larkos asked.

Gaeren thought about the label he’d given Orra. The way she’d known immediately where they should go. “Of sorts.”

It didn’t seem advantageous to explain how little he knew about Orra or her motives. Or her magic. She could still be an enemy, and he needed to remember that. But he didn’t necessarily want others suspicious of her. Not yet.

“The missus thanks you for her extended vacation from my presence.” Larkos’ change of subject dripped with sarcasm.

Gaeren grinned. “I suppose she’ll tell me all the ways I’ve made her life miserable when we return.” As a young swab, Gaeren had been taken under Larkos’ wing, and the old man’s wife and bondmate, Calia, had treated Gaeren as one of her own. Being so easily accepted by near strangers had highlighted the dysfunction of Gaeren’s own parents’ favoritism, and the strength of Larkos and Calia’s bond had been the reason Gaeren had first doubted the success of his own.

Their bond came after a foundation of love, and Gaeren’s… well, his could never be anything more than a farce. Not when they’d been assigned to each other since birth.

“Of course she will. We’ll both get an earful. Along with a bowl of stew and some of those berry tarts we love.” Larkos rolled up his sleeves, drawing Gaeren’s attention to a fresh tattoo.

“What’s the story behind that?”

Larkos grinned. “Glad you asked.”

Gaeren grimaced, bracing for a lecture.

“It’s just the Wheel of Magic.” Larkos held out his arm, displaying the basic hub with six spokes. The constructive and destructive somatic spokes were on opposite sides of the hub, their focus on adjusting the body evident by the symbol of a healing hand on the constructive side and skeletal fingers on the destructive side.

The opposing pneumatic spokes were represented by black and white hearts, a symbol for sifting through souls that Gaeren never understood until he saw his sister weigh the intentions and desires that would play out in a person’s future. It broke her heart every time to see all the ways people could hurt each other—or love each other—even if it never came to pass.

The noetic spokes showed an eye, closed in concentration on the destructive side and wide open on the constructive side, which still didn’t make sense to Gaeren. Tuning in to thoughts, memories, and emotions wasn’t only something that he saw. He experienced it with all of his senses. Too many times, his progeny mentors had had to pull him from the memories, which had swallowed him whole and threatened to trap him.

It was the standard Wheel of Magic, but a tattoo was never just anything if Larkos made it permanent on his body. Gaeren looked closer. Usually the ends of the spokes connected to form a perfect circle, the rim of the Wheel holding the elemental magic few ever obtained, but the rim on Larkos’ tattoo was faded, like it was old or needed a second layer.

“It seems unfinished.” Gaeren bent over to study it further, but that was the only difference.

Larkos grinned. “So it is. Just like our world is incomplete without the Stars.”

“I didn’t take you to be a very religious man.” Gaeren couldn’t keep the wry tone from his voice as he backed away and leaned against the bulkhead. He doubted the other man knew where to find the nearest Sungazer. If anything, Larkos worshipped the ground Calia walked on more than he did any deity.

Larkos feigned offense. “I may not be devout, but I still believe. Besides, this is less about faith in a discriminatory Sun and more about the fate of our world.” He gestured at the ink on his skin. “The longer the Stars stay away, the more creation’s balance breaks down. If you run a wheel without the rim, your spokes will bend and break. The Stars are what once held our world together.”

“They’re still involved,” Gaeren argued. “The Stars might not commune with priests in the Sungazer anymore, but how else do you explain the honor of starlocks? Even though we’re chosen by the Sun, it requires a lock of hair from a Star.” He gestured to the teardrop hanging from his neck even though Larkos couldn’t see where it rested beneath Gaeren’s shirt. The shape of a starlock either represented the events of a person’s Awakening or some other event, past or future, that would be even more significant. Until Gaeren knew what his meant, he kept it out of sight of prying eyes.

“Have you compared records of starlocks?” Larkos raised his eyebrows. “Of course you haven’t. In the last hundred years, the number of people being gifted with starlocks has gone down by almost half. In another hundred years, will anyone be getting them?”

“Half?” That couldn’t be right.

“None of your crew has them. When’s the last time you saw a commoner in the market with one? The progenies are all swept off to your schools, where they become part of the nobility, which is why you still think there isn’t a problem.” Larkos’ jaw tightened, and his hands turned white where he gripped the wheel.

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