“I’ll deal with the wreckage tomorrow.”
“Sure, but—”
He finally turns to look at me. His face morphs into a mask of pure shock. For a split second, he looks almost afraid. But that is impossible. The ruthless King Soren of Llyr?Afraid?He isn’t afraid of anything.
“Gods, Rhya, what the hell are you—”
“Fire,” I manage to say. My lips are numb. My fingers tingle with what feels like frostbite.
His eyes flash over my shoulder, widening fractionally as he sees how intense the fire has grown. In an instant, he’s standing directly in front of me.
“Tell me you know how to swim.”
I nod.
He grabs my hand and tugs me toward the gap in the railing where the gangplank typically rests. “We’re going to have to jump.”
I eye the harbor below. It is a long drop. I think there’s a rather solid chance I’ll be out cold before we hit the water, but I don’t see much point in telling him that. My only other option is to remain on the ship to be cremated like all the other corpses.
With a sharp exhale and a flex of my fingers, I release my flagging command of the air shield. The fire, freed from its confines, howls as it closes in at our backs. It is close enough to make my neck slick with sweat. Close enough to make my skin prickle with the promise of pain. Above the growing roar, a loud crack rings out as the central mast snaps in half. It falls, a pillar of pure flame, toward the deck.
Toward us.
“Fuck,” Soren curses. “Jump!”
Together, we leap from the ship. A shower of sparks fills the air as the mast crashes through the hull, chasing us all the way down. There is a rush of air, a blinding free fall. When my feet break through the surface, the force of it is enough to knock the remaining air from my lungs. I take an involuntary breath as the water closes over my head and a cold mouthful surges down my throat. Gagging on the brine, I kick blindly at the dark depths. Our combined weight has plunged us far deeper than I anticipated. My limbs scream for relief as I try to propel myself toward the light that leaks down. Even underwater, the red glow of the flames is visible overhead.
Soren locks one arm around my midsection; the other knifes through the water like he is the direct spawn of the God of Seas until we resurface. I intermittently choke out seawater and haul in broken gulps of air, clutching him like a life ring to keep from slipping back under. He spares a brief moment to examine me, the maegic in his eyes churning like typhoons as they scan my face. His dark hair is damp, plastered against his forehead in a way that makes him look almost boyish for once. His mouth grows tighter the longer he looks at me.
“Breathe,” he orders rather sternly. “And hold tight.”
Adjusting his grip on my body, he rolls onto his back and begins to tow me back to dry land. In truth, I am too exhaustedto do much more than comply. I watch the burning ship grow smaller and smaller as we cut across the harbor with impossible speed, his strong kicks and one-armed strokes smooth as silk. The entire deck is engulfed now, bowsprit to stern. By the time we reach the docks, it is no more than a fireball.
Soren passes me into the helping hands of several sailors, then hauls himself up after me. We are both sopping wet. His white shirt clings to every muscular line of his body. The linen has gone totally transparent, clearly revealing his Remnant. His dark breeches are soaked to the skin. His leather boots squelch with every step. I am no better off. My thin uniform is plastered to me and torn in several places. The tip of my messy braid drips steadily down my back.
But we are alive.
And that is something.
There are words of congratulations and concern from those gathered. Yet they are quickly overshadowed by a commotion on the smooth stone street that butts up to the docks. The flying squadron of Paexyri lands with a clatter that draws every gaze. I can only stand there, shaking, as the five riders dismount and stride in our direction.
The flight leader from the white mount leads the way. Her stride is authoritative, boots rapping against the dock like a cavalry charge. Her navy leathers are gorgeously crafted—feminine enough to show off her curves but made of armor thick enough for battle. She is laden with weapons, from the twin throwing stars at her hips to the silver bow at her back to a wicked-looking scimitar slanting over one shoulder. Her dark hair is cropped short at the temples but kept long otherwise, and currently plaited into dozens of tiny braids. Her startling blue eyes never shift from me. Not at twenty paces, not ten, nor two, when she and her squad finally come to a stop.
“Brother, please tell me this quivering little dock rat is not the supposed salvation of the realm?”
I jolt in surprise.
Beside me, Soren heaves a sigh. “Rhya,” he says, sounding like he doesn’t know whether to smile or scowl. “Meet Arwen.”
Chapter
eleven
Soren’s hand is a steady weight at the small of my back as he guides me through the endless maze that is Hylios. I’m too exhausted to ask where we are going, or even to take much notice of my surroundings with any real attention to detail. All my strength is used to keep my legs beneath me and my eyes from slipping closed.
I blink hard to clear the haze from my mind, trying to get my bearings. We’ve long since left the harbor behind, skirting the congested center of the city in favor of narrower alleys on the outskirts, in the long shadow of the perimeter walls. I spot the unmistakable sprawl of soldiers’ barracks along with some industrial buildings—a smithy, an armory, a sailmaker, a brewery. This part of town is less populated, its civilians shut away indoors. Those we do pass on the streets clutch their colorful cloaks tighter, casting worried looks at the sky as they hurry home to escape the dreary weather.
Mydreary weather.