Page 32 of The Isles of the Gods
She snorts. “You’ve been told that far too many times, Prince.”
We gaze at each other, and I realize I’m reaching an unexpected conclusion: I like this girl. Even if she has no use forme.
Whatever happens on this voyage, we won’t see each other again afterward. Unlike the people I meet in my normal life, she has nothing to gain, and it’s refreshing.
Though it would be helpful if she were abitmore impressed by my title.
“Where’s your favorite place on the boat?” I ask. And then, when her brow creases: “Ship, I mean.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “This is your place. You know more about it than me. Teach me something?”
Her green eyes meet mine, and as she looks me up and down, I know she’s measuring me up. Usually I’d try a smile about now, but I’m not sure that’s going to work here. It’s too much to hope she understands that showing her the journal,and the map inside, that meant something. I’ve never done that before.
Slowly she nods, and it’s a bit concerning how much this pleases me.
“Come with me,” she says, pushing off the railing. She just turns away, sure I’ll follow. Noplease,no curtsy. It’s great.
She leads me toward the front of the ship. The bow, she’d tell me to call it. We pass by a little boat turned upside down and lashed to the deck, its name painted on the back in neat gold letters:Little Lizabetta.Selly trails one hand along it in silent greeting.
“What’s that one for?” I ask. I’ve seen lifeboats on big steamers, but this is far too small.
“Not every port is like Kirkpool,” she replies over her shoulder. “Sometimes we anchor offshore and row in. Come on, right up forward.”
Together we make our way farther forward, to where the railings from each side come in to meet in a point at the very front of the boat. The bowsprit juts out ahead of us, like an old knight’s lance.
“Can you climb out onto that?” I ask, speculative. It would feel like flying.
“I have,” she replies. “But if you fell off, you’d end up under the boat. I don’t know what the punishment is for me if a prince gets himself knocked out cold and shredded by barnacles on my watch, but I’m guessing I won’t like it.” She pauses then, glancing up at the sharp point ahead of us.
“Go on,” I say. “I’m curious, what are you showing me?”
Now that we’re here, she hesitates, and I hold my breath, willing her not to change her mind. She looks back at me again,the wind tugging her hair free of its braid and sending it dancing around her face. I half expect the spirits to make a game of it, but they swirl past her and spin around me instead.
She just reaches up with one hand—she wears fingerless leather gloves, as protection against the ropes, I suppose—and brushes her hair back impatiently.
Then she takes the final step forward and beckons me to join her with a jerk of her head. We have to cram in hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, and her glare warns me not to even notice how close we are, let alone say anything about it.
I follow her lead and lean out over the rail, and immediately I see what she wanted to show me.
There’s a figurehead beneath us—a carved woman crowned with shells and seaweed—but lower still is the water. The front of the ship cuts through its surface like a tailor’s neat scissors, and the white waves flare out to either side like lace. Rainbows glimmer where the light catches the spray, there and gone, there and gone.
“Oh, hello,” I breathe. I felt them everywhere around us as soon as I came up on deck, but this is the place to greet the local water spirits, I can tell.
There are spirit flags flapping above us, but the first mate, Kyri, made the effort to string them up, so they won’t do as my sacrifice. Instead, I reach into my pocket, pulling out the crusts of the toast I had for breakfast. I stowed them there by habit—you never know when you’ll need something.
Anytime the spirits make magic, they need a sacrifice. Choose what you offer and they’ll consume it—it just vanishes into nothing. That’s why we Alinorish magicians like our candles so much—formed and blessed in temples to our goddess,they’re rich enough that the spirits consume them slowly, rather than all at once. And no magician wants to be caught without an offering—if the spirits don’t ignore you for the insult, they’ll consume a piece ofyouinstead. Magicians are good at having something in their pockets.
Crusts aren’t much of an offering, but I don’t need much for a hello. I toss them toward the water, and as they fizzle into nothingness, I reach out with my mind, opening myself up to see what I can find. It’s like reaching out my hand in a dark room, knowing someone’s there, waiting to see if they’ll take it.
They leap for that connection in an instant, and I pour my friendship into the bond, my pleasure at their beauty. The waves around the bow flare in response, spray leaping up and catching the sun. The rainbows glint brighter, and I feel the spirits’ willingness to do whatever I ask.
“Huh,” Selly murmurs beside me, glancing at the emerald-green magician’s marks coiling all over my forearms, vivid against my brown skin.
I follow her gaze. “What?”
“They’re responding to you,” she says slowly. “I can tell just by watching.” There’s something almost wistful in her voice, and some other note I can’t define. “I’ve never seen a royal magician in action before.”
