Page 20 of Daughter of the Dark Sea
“Aye!” Samuel laughed. “You’re on.” He matched her bet excitedly. “Aryn, put your lot in.”
Aryn.
Aryn rolled his eyes, pushing his small pile of silver two-bits forward. Next to Samuel, he looked tiny, and his name tingled the deep recesses of her mind. His dark brown hair flicked out at the ends, curling around his charm-adorned ears. He must be no older than eighteen.
He still wore his brown leather archer tabs on his right fingers, and the edge of a longbow peaked out behind the crate by his feet. Aryn collected his cards, his almond-shaped hazel eyes studying them, surrounded by thick dark lashes. His face gave nothing away, but as he absentmindedly brushed his fingers over his tattoo, his name slammed into her.
“Aryn Di Largo,” Kora spoke in awe. Astonishment crept onto his wheat-toned face. “My head archer.”
The astonishment quickly faded, but her memory snapped back into place. She had seen his name on the recruitment list, and the voice urged her to hire him on the spot. Aryn Di Largo, the world’s best archer, renowned for an aim that could never miss.
How in the gods did I forget him?It must have been the stress of everything. She’d barely slept the entire voyage, her body aching and smarting from the hours of sparring with Finlay, and other brave crew members who dared to fight her.
Samuel rubbed his hands together excitedly. “I’m feeling lucky!”
He placed a wooden board with holes and pegs beside the pot of winnings, and Kora peeked at her hand of cards. She had a poor first deal, equalling less than ten points.
“Captain can go first,” Aryn nudged. His hazel eyes peered over his deck of six cards, and a challenge flashed in them. He was a wise boy, indeed. Aryn placed the starting card down—a jack. Her throat tightened.
They played a few rounds, both teams rapidly approaching the one-hundred-and-twenty-point goal. The pegs on the board were consistently neck and neck, and Finlay grew more agitated as the prized pot of silvers enviously increased in the middle.
Their group had amassed a live audience, all watching intensely as Aryn and Samuel tried to overtake their captain. Finlay had steadily drunk through another bottle of rum, and he suddenly smacked the table in delight as he placed a card—the king of hearts—on the pile.
“Blimey! We’ve won!” Finlay exclaimed.
Samuel groaned, placing his head in his large hands as the audience of sailors cheered for their captain. Some clapped Samuel on the back for attempting the challenge, and resumed their own activities, jovially drinking grog, and the swell of band music rumbled through the quarters.
“Better luck next time.” Kora smiled sheepishly as Aryn sat back with a sigh, accepting his defeat. His head hung back in the chair, and he gazed up at the ceiling.
“Those were my last bits, Sam,” he muttered.
“Let’s play again.” Samuel’s hands fluttered over the makeshift table, collecting cards to pass to Aryn to reshuffle. “We can win it back.”
Kora glanced to Finlay, who was heavily leant over the crate, swaying as he peered at his noble-worthy pile of silver coins and bits. His reddened nose was mere inches away fromthe pile, and he began sorting the winnings into neat, shining silver piles of ten.
“Maybe that’s enough for tonight.” She inclined her head to where Finlay mumbled quietly.
Samuel shook his head, fondness consuming his face. They both bid Kora farewell, and retreated to the far side of the quarters with stacked barrels of grog to refill their silver steins.
Her focus returned to Finlay, as he continued stacking his piles of silver in neat rows—with steady hands. After a couple minutes, he looked up to meet her observant gaze as she sipped from her sweet rum, letting herself relax. Her body felt woozy, and her mind hazy, but her soul was merry.
“You’re not trembling,” she regarded.
“Drinking grog stops the shakes,” he spoke bluntly.
“Does it ever go away?” She gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Kora had noticed his tremor since they’d met when evadingDemon Sea Siren, but she’d always assumed it was his nervous disposition. He shook his head.
“Sometimes when I’m tired, or when I have something to focus on,” his voice was woeful. “I have acurse. An ailment my family believes I deserve. My great-grandfather also had it. The shakes, as they call it, will haunt me for the rest of my life.” Finlay stopped counting and flexed his fingers, marvelling at his steady hands. “My great-grandfather chose to become a heavy drinker so that he may have use of his hands, and his body. His provocative nature was deemed the cause of the ‘Blackstone Curse’.”
Her grip on his shoulder tightened. “Your family think you’re cursed? Will it spread?”
Lowering his head back to the crate, he wiped a single escaped tear from his cheek. His bony shoulders hunched over, and he spread his fingers wide, as if savouring the ability to control them.
“If I don’t drink, it’ll eventually take over my whole body. I’ll be unable to walk or feed myself. I won’t even be able to take a piss! I’ll become debilitated,” he stumbled over the last word.
“Have you seen any healers? I can find you the best in Aldara—”
Finlay abruptly stood, pocketing his winnings, and his gaze darkened, the shadow of his shame haunting him as tears threatened to spill.
