Page 39 of Soulgazer

“Brona,” Faolan says, and something about the gentleness of his tone draws my gaze up to her face and the pair of beautiful deep brown eyes staring back at me. “Our navigator. She hails from the Dromlach Cliffs, along the eastern coast of the Isle of Reborn Stalk.”

My eyes widen. She comes from my homeland—the most brutal, derelict part of it. The cliffs’ magic is as deadly and unpredictable as the people who inhabit it, boasting blades of untraceable ice and snowcaps that can burn someone with cold from the inside out if slipped into their drink.

Brona holds some of that same ice in her veins and the rigid line of her spine as she turns on Faolan. “Not much of a navigator when the only thing you can tell me is ‘get us the hell away from her parents.’ ”

“Well, you’ve done a bloody fantastic job with it so far.” Faolan’s smile is unflinching as he folds his hands behind his head and arches his back. “And then there’s the bosun, Lorcan. You saw him by the market stall, aye?”

The man is larger than anyone else on deck, his skin a rich shade of umber, arms and back thickly roped with muscle. I know how bright his smile will be before it appears, teeth gleaming like pearls as he comes over with a small loaf of bread in hand.

“Aye. But I don’t know what that word means. Bosun?”

The navigator—Brona—gapes at me, but a laugh deeper than any of the others I’ve heard pours from the bosun’s mouth as he comes to a stop just behind her.

“Maintenance, mostly. It’s my job to keep this old pile of wood floating like she ought to, fix any damage we pick up along the way.” His voice is as rich as his laugh, pouring from his mouth in a melodic lilt that matches that of those born on the Isle of Painted Claw—a small land full of artists, singers, poets, storytellers. I’m studying his arms for any of the beautiful tattoos the island is famous for when he takes my hand and presses his lips to the back. “My name is Lorcan. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Wolf Tamer.”

I pull away, searching his face and then Faolan’s, noting the way his lips twitch. “How many monikers have you given me, Faolan?” I ask, fingers curling into my palm until Lorcan’s forced to let go. “Ocean Eyes, Wolf Tamer—”

“Daughter of Dermot.” Brona’s voice holds such a bite, I wince and look at the toes of my boots. “Does that name suit you better?”

It takes effort to draw my gaze back up. “Saoirse. I’m just Saoirse.”

“Very well.” Lorcan tosses me the bread and wraps a broad arm around Brona’s shoulders, dragging her alongside him. I’m half-surprised when she tolerates it. “There’s our striker, Oona. She’s in charge of keeping us fed, hunting down fish and whatever elsehappens to be lurking about.” Lorcan points across the ship to where a girl with short, strong legs and hair as light as sunbeams winds a bandage around her calf. “Fixing the mess I made of her leg. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a clever talent when it comes to shaping wood—”

“But absolute shite with a needle,” Nessa says where she lounges against the railing, watching me along with the rest. “A piece of advice? Avoid anything that’ll poke you full of holes or take a limb. Lorcan can fix a ship all right, but I’d not trust him near your flesh.”

“You don’t have a surgeon?” I ask as Lorcan’s laughter drops into a cough and Nessa’s lips twitch higher.

“Not since the squid. But you should ask your husband about that one.”

Faolan cocks his head at the word but doesn’t flinch as I do. It’s the smallest jerk of my hand, weight shifting from one foot to the other—easy to miss unless someone is watching.

And Bronaiswatching, her eyes hard as flint.

“I’d like to hear a different story,” she says, stepping free of Lorcan’s arm. “The one where you tell us what possessed you to steal the Stone King’s bride, or why we’ve been sailing all over the feckin’ Crescent for months, and—”

“And making plenty of coin along the way, hitting every port on time, and pleasing our lovely queen who sanctioned our marriage just last night. Did she not?” Faolan’s smile is tight, but there’s no trick to it. No threat in the way he touches Brona’s shoulder, as light as a bird’s perch before taking off again. “Saoirse is my wife now, that’s all there is to it. And Kiara’s handling Maccus.”

“But what about Dermot?” Brona asks, and I ease forward onto my toes. There’s something in the way she says my father’s name. As though it’s familiar, and foul.

“Too much of a coward to put up a fight.” Faolan cuts his eyesto Lorcan, who takes a half step closer to Brona’s side. Her stance eases the moment their arms brush. “Besides, he’ll be too busy saving face until the Damhsa is through to give us a chase—imagine your only daughter taking off with a pirate. The cheek.”

Some of the others laugh, but dread knots every muscle I possess. I hadn’t really imagined it—not until this moment. There wasn’t time. Mam will probably tear into her own flesh again with worry, Da’s rage honing into a fine, cold blade in the dark. I do not know yet what Maccus is capable of, but I felt his eyes on my back like needles slipping beneath my skin as I walked from the pavilion yesterday morning.

Faolan claps his hands as I grip the ship’s railing. “Right. Now we’ve found the girl with ocean eyes, our first stop is the Teeth. We’ll decide the next heading after that. Lorcan, Tavin?” He waves to the quartermaster. “A word.”

Faolan leaves my side, and all my breath escapes in one smooth rush.

“Damn his smooth tongue.” Brona skirts past me to a barrel with a hide laid over the top, weighed down by a lantern and other objects. “The Teeth, Ness? Honestly?”

Nessa nudges my elbow once in passing, a faded version of the easy smile back on her face. “You’ll know the reason, won’t you, Wolf Tamer? All that business about your eyes.” She tries halfheartedly to inspect them, but I duck my head so the short, dark pieces of my hair obscure them from view. Nessa clears her throat. “Perhaps you have a special skill with the sails, or currents? An ability to map patterns by the stars?”

“I’m the only one who reads the stars here,” Brona snaps, tracing patterns across the hide with a fingertip. She’s painted it into a chart full of dots large and small, some in patterns and some scattered seemingly at random.

I can’t make sense of them.

All I can see is my father’s back after he pushed that betrothal torc into my hands.

“Not the stars. I—”

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