The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (101 page)

We slip beneath the shelter of the dock. Sure enough, the plunge of the ground is precipitous; it feels like walking along the side of a very steep hill. I clutch the pilings for support, and barnacles slice at my fingertips.

We weave through the pilings into chest-deep water. At last a shape manifests in the gloom. It looks like a small fishing boat—or maybe a large rowboat—with enough benched seating for eight people.

Hector lifts Mara over the edge, and the boat tips treacherously as she topples over the bench before gaining her seat. Hector pulls me in front of him.

“Hands on the side,” he says in my ear, gripping my hips. “When I lift, push up and swing your legs over.”

He lifts; I scramble. My left knee knocks hard against the edge, but I make it in. I slide over on the bench to make room for Storm, who grumbles as Hector gives him a boost. Then Hector and Belén vault over the side.

Hector unties the thick rope holding us to the piling and coils it into the prow. He pulls one oar from the floor; Belén grabs the other. With a dip and a swish, Hector maneuvers us away. Belén follows his lead, using his oar as a pole against the pilings. Together they weave us out from under the dock and into open sea.

I take a deep breath, relieved to have gotten this far. The night is warm, and I know my chill will be gone soon, even wet as I am. Before us, the moonlit harbor is dotted with ships and smaller boats. Surely one more won’t cause a second glance?

At my feet is a rolled-up sailcloth, a large net, a floppy wide-brimmed hat, and a wooden crate filled with fishing supplies: a dagger, bone hooks, twine, weights. We’ve commandeered a trawling boat.

I whisper, “Should we pretend to fish or something?”

“In deeper water, maybe,” Hector says. “If we’re out here for a long time.”

I’m about to ask him just how long he thinks we’ll be trapped in this boat when my nose pricks with something sharp and my neck itches, as if I’m being watched. I twist around to look at the city we leave behind. My hand flies to my mouth.

It’s in flames. Clouds of grungy smoke roll into the sky, their bottom edges glowing red-orange.

No wonder the sky was so bright. No wonder we got away so easily. My plan to create chaos worked too well. “What have I done?” I whisper. Mara turns to see what has caught my attention and lets out a little “Oh!” of dismay.

“We did what we had to do to get away,” Belén says. “It’s just a few buildings.”

Looking closer, it seems that only three, maybe four, structures are on fire. Still, I worry for the people who lived and worked there. Are they burning in the flames? Choking on smoke? Even if they did get out safely, I have destroyed their livelihoods. The King’s Inn has stood on that spot for over a century.

Is it really worth it, to destroy someone’s life to save my own? Even if I am the queen?

I turn my back to the flames and squeeze my eyes closed. Now that we are away from the shelter of the breakwall and the dock, I hear shouting, maybe screaming. What if they can’t contain the blaze?

I consider ordering Hector to turn us around, to face this thing I’ve done, to make it right. But now is not the time. I must find the way that leads to life and the
zafira
; my country depends on it. I just hope that once we’ve found it, my list of wrongs to right is not too long.

We row through the bay, weaving between hulking ships. Figures move around on decks and climb through the rigging, even though it is not yet dawn. Shadowy shapes stand at the rails, gazing toward the conflagration. Surely they will turn toward us at any moment, notice that we don’t belong.

But they don’t. As we leave the bay and aim south along the shore, the sky brightens to dark indigo, still fading to deepest black along the watery horizon. Shadowy but glorious estates dot the rolling hills and cliffs above us, with vined trellises and marble statues and sandstone terraces. Soon we pass beyond even these. The waters are calm, and not a single ship goes by. We are alone, and very small.

Hector’s breathing grows labored. As the sun peeks over the hills, its light catches on the sweat of his brow and shoulders. He closes his eyes, hardens his jaw, and keeps rowing.

Belén struggles too. Sweat runs from his hairline, mixes with dried blood and dirt, coating his face in a gruesome patina of red and black. There must have been a lot of blood. Cauldrons of it, for some to remain even after his dip under the sewer grate.

I wonder when they last slept? Certainly not last night; Belén was tracking an Invierne spy, and Hector was making arrangements for an escape that came too soon.

“Hector.” I lean forward and put a hand on his wrist.

He looks up, startled, blinking sweat from his eyes.

“Rest,” I say. “Both of you. We are alone and safe for now.”

“We have to keep going,” he says. “Felix’s ship will—”

“On my order, you will rest. I need you sharp. Mara and I will row for a bit. And if a ship comes into view, we’ll rouse you.”

He lifts his shirt to wipe his eyes, and I can’t help notice his stomach, taut and tanned from the training yard. I swallow hard.

Hector rests the oar on his lap and rolls his shoulders to loosen them. “Have you rowed before?”

“No.”

“Mara?”

“Me neither,” she says.

“I refuse to row,” Storm says.

I say, “We’ll figure it out. Close your eyes so you don’t see how embarrassingly awkward we are at it.” I’m gratified to see his glimmer of a smile.

“Trade places with me,” Hector says.

We both stand, and the boat lurches. He grabs me to keep me steady, and we manage to squeeze past each other. I settle on the bench and grab the oar, saying, “There’s plenty of water in my pack. Help yourself. You should probably rinse the water skin first, though; it’s covered in sewage.”

He does exactly that while Mara and Belén trade places; then, using my pack as a pillow, he slides under the bench and closes his eyes. Belén stretches out beside him. Mara takes up her oar, and after some useless splashing and a few hard knocks against the side of the boat, we slowly push south.

As the sun rises, the surface of the water becomes so bright hot as to be blinding. How will we ever find a single ship out here? What if it takes us days? Will our drinking water last that long? Though surrounded by water, we are as alone and barren as if we traveled the deep desert.

In no time, everything burns with effort; my back, my shoulders, my wrists. My palms and fingertips are rubbed raw. Every stroke makes me gasp for breath. Mara and I switch sides so we can abuse a different set of muscles, but even that mild reprieve does not last long.

To keep my mind off the pain, I gaze at Hector. He sleeps soundly, his chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. His features have softened, and the hair at his temples curls loosely as it dries. His mouth is slightly parted.

My lips tingle to remember his kiss. It was desperate and tender and wholly unexpected—and as easy as breathing.

Later, when we’ve found this mysterious ship of Hector’s and are safely away, when I have time to rest and worry and a quiet corner to hide in, I will coldly remember that being a queen means being strategic. And I will imagine sending off the man I love to marry my sister. I’ll rehearse it in my head, maybe. Get used to the feeling.

But not now. Now, as I row toward an uncertain destination, his kiss still throbbing on my lips, I luxuriate in watching him sleep.

Chapter 21

STORM
is the one who spots the ship. “There!” He points.

I twist and shade my face to peer through the brightness. The coast curls southeast, hiding the bulk of the ship, but I can see a long bowsprit, a beak head painted red, and what might be a foresail, hanging limply in the windless morning. I’m caught between hope and alarm.

Please, God, let it be the right ship.

I lean forward to shake Hector. He startles awake, whipping his hand to his scabbard.

“Watch your head,” I tell him, putting my hand between his forehead and the bench above. “There’s a ship, just south of us. I doubt they’ve seen us.”

He blinks sleep from his eyes and frowns at the blisters on my hand.

I pull my hand back. “Is it the right ship?”

Still frowning, he slides out from under the bench to peer southward. He is quiet a long time. “I think so,” he says, and for some reason the raw hope on his face is hard to look at. “We’ll have to get a little closer to be sure.”

I grab the floppy, wide-brimmed hat and toss it to Storm. “Put that on.”

He shoves it onto his head and hunches over. I don’t blame him for being afraid; in the close quarters of a ship, anyone would recognize him for an Invierno, even with his falsely darkened hair.

Hector and Belén take up the oars again, and we cut through the water with relative ease and speed. Mara and I exchange a scowl.

Gradually the ship comes into view. It’s a gorgeous
caravela
with three masts and wickedly curved lines of burnished mahogany and bright red trim. Painted sacrament roses twist along the bow, and it seems as though their petals fall, become drops of blood, before disappearing into the sea.

“That’s her,” Hector says. “The
Aracely
.”

My heart thumps. I have a feeling I’m going to learn something very important about Hector. “Should we signal?” I ask.

He throws back his head and laughs. As we all gape at him, he explains, “I had this system all worked out to signal them from afar. But with the sea so calm, all we have to do is row right alongside.”

Storm mutters, “It’s about time
something
on this accursed journey proved easier than expected.”

“The captain and the crew,” I say. “Are they to know who I am?”

“The captain, yes,” Hector says. “We’ll speak to him first and then decide.”

As we approach, Storm crouches lower and lower on the bench. My own misgivings swirl in my thoughts, but I’m also a little bit excited. I’ve studied about ships and seafaring, but I’ve never been on a ship before.

Figures appear on deck as we close the distance. Two others hang fearlessly from the rigging; another watches us from the top castle above the main sail. I shudder to think of him so high up, tossed this way and that by wind and water.

The curving bow looms over us when Hector waves his hands. “Ho,
Aracely
!” he calls.

A bell rings across the water, letting the crew know they’ve been hailed, and they respond with a flurry of footsteps. More heads peek over the rails. They’re a ragged, weathered bunch, with long hair tied back, two-week beard growth, and suspicious eyes.

“Ho, trawler!” The speaker’s voice races across the water. “We’re short on supplies and have little to trade. Best to be rowing back toward Puerto Verde.”

“We wish to treat with Captain Felix,” Hector yells.

Some of the heads disappear. The others exchange wary glances. A moment later, another man appears, more finely dressed than the rest in a clean linen blouse and thick black vest tight across his barrel chest. The whites of his eyes are uncannily bright next to his sun-dark skin. Beads are woven into his enormous beard; they catch the sunlight and return sparks of amethyst and aquamarine. His neck is thick and corded. He places huge hands on the rail above us; he’s missing the first two joints of his right pinky.

He scowls deeply when he sees us. “I was afraid that would be you,” he growls in a voice black as night. He turns to the crew. “Winch them up onto the quarterdeck!”

Hector is grinning like a little boy as he and Belén maneuver us to the front of the ship. The crew lowers thick hemp ropes. Hector grabs one and dives neatly into the sea, which sets us to rocking wildly. A moment later, he comes up on the other side, rope in hand.

They wrap the boat three times and tie off in a flurry of twisting knots. Hector gives the signal, and after a loud count and a “Heave!” we are sucked out of the water and left swinging in the air.

When we are halfway up, Hector leaps from the boat to the netting hanging over the side and climbs up. Belén follows, and the lightened load allows us to be hauled up more quickly. When we are close enough to touch the gunwale, Hector is already there, looking down at me, his hand outstretched. His hand clasped in mine feels relaxed, which surprises me. With his help, I pull myself over the rail and land on the quarterdeck.

As he reaches to help Mara and Storm, I look around. Most of the crew are busy hauling up the boat, their forearms veined and straining at the knotted ropes. But the others eye me with obvious interest. Some warily, some hungrily, as if I am a delicate cream puff with honey glaze. Instinct forces me to back away, but my rear hits the rail and I realize I’ve nowhere to go.

“A lady!” one whispers loudly.

“Two ladies,” says another as Mara clambers over the side.

“I don’t see any ladies here,” the captain bellows. “And neither do you. Get back to work.”

The crewmen on the ropes flip the boat onto the stern and tie it down through iron loops that I realize are for that exact purpose.

The others stare unabashedly at Mara and me, even as they resume their tasks. I stare right back, trying to seem unafraid. At least they’re staring at us rather than Storm. Maybe they won’t notice his uncanny height or that his eyes shine like emeralds.

The dark captain herds us with his vast arms. “This way. To my quarters
now
.” His urgent voice rumbles, like empty barrels rolled across cobblestone.

We take the steep steps to the main deck at a near run, then twist under the quarterdeck and through double doors hung with real glass. He closes the doors behind us and swings the latch closed.

The chamber is low ceilinged and made entirely of polished mahogany. Light pours in from portholes, two on each side. A large desk rife with paper and ink and small metal instruments I don’t begin to understand takes up most of one wall. Jutting out from the other is a huge bed covered in silk the shade of pomegranate fruit. A thick rug covers the floor, woven to show a cluster of purple grapes in a circle of green vines—the seal of Ventierra.