Page 28 of The Isles of the Gods
There’s a tiny stone statue of Barrica in a hollow by the door, glued down, with a medal bearing the likeness of the Mother strung up beside her for good measure. I touch Barrica with one fingertip as I pass by, directing my thoughts her way for a moment. Her surface has been worn by all those who’ve done the same thing before me.
I know going to the temple is an obligation at the holidays for most people, but my family’s bond to Barrica means my relationship to her has always been personal. I feel her presence clearly when I summon her, and it’s like having a slightly scary, rather militaristic sister looking over my shoulder whenever I pray—and I’m not easily intimidated by those. After all, I live with Augusta.
This little statue’s smoothed-out expression seems particularly disapproving, though. “Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter. “I’m on my way.”
As I climb up the wooden steps, it’s like emerging from a dimly lit, unsteady cave into a world of light and crisp, salty air. The deck is still wet with dew, the rigging creaking softlyabove me, the white sails full and round as the boat hurries along. It’s earlier than I thought, and the sun is only just over the horizon.
That horizon is perfectly flat, stretching in every direction, and I turn in a slow circle to take it in, studying every aspect of the boat as I reach it. I can’t help smiling. The sky is a clear, warm blue, the sea a wide blanket of white-tipped navy, and I feel the water spirits surging around the boat, following it with curiosity, the air spirits dancing across the sails. They’re in a playful mood, and so am I.
One of the crew is heading for the nearest mast, and he nods a wary greeting at me before he sets his foot on a peg, reaching to haul himself up and start climbing. I follow his progress as he works his way up into the rigging, past the spirit flags, grabbing hold of the ropes with confident hands. The larger man the captain mentioned was his brother is already up there and greets him with a nod. Everything’s quiet except the waves. It’s not like anywhere I’ve ever been.
Turning farther, I find my new friend—or my new enemy, I suppose, but I have days to win her over—leaning against the railing, studying the sea. I was thinking about her yesterday afternoon, after we met at the dock.
I was wondering who she was, which ship was hers. I’m used to letting things go, though, and despite the strange tug I felt to find her, to find out more about her, to convince her I wasn’t such a terrible person, I knew I had to let her go too.
It was hard to hear myself think about her over the chorus of lecturing Queensguard, anyway, once they found me and dragged me back home.
I walk over now to take a place a few feet along from her, leaning against the rail like she does and looking sideways at her, studying her more closely.
She’s built like she uses her muscles for a living. Wisps of blond hair are loose from her braid, playing around her face, and she has tanned, freckled skin, full lips. They tighten when she looks sideways in return, and spots me there. Her eyes are a mossy green, and they immediately narrow, far from friendly.
“Morning,” I offer, trying out a smile on her. It doesn’t have the usual effect.
She grunts, turning around to rest her back against the railing and look up at the men in the rigging.
“What are they doing?” I try.
“Trimming the sails,” she says, without taking her eyes off them. “The prevailing wind goes straight from Alinor to Mellacea. We need to sail across it, or we’ll deliver you directly to your enemies.”
If I’m honest, she doesn’t sound like she thinks this would be such a bad idea. She’s probably not a morning person.
I let the quiet stretch for a little, then try again, boosting the charm a notch or two. “Sorry, let me start over. May I ask your name?”
“Selly,” she supplies grudgingly. “Selly Walker.”
“And are you…Sorry, I don’t know the names of the positions on the boat.”
“Ship,”she corrects me. “I’m just a sailor. A deckhand.” This, to judge by her scowl, is a sore spot.
We lapse into silence again, both looking up at the sails. I suppose she’s assessing the way the men are trimming them. Ilet my focus shift until I can see the air spirits flowing around them, like golden motes of dust.
Then we both speak at once.
“Selly, if I’ve—”
“Listen, if you think for a minute—”
We both break off, and our eyes meet, and she flushes under her freckles. “What do you want?”
I shake my head. “Forget that. What was it you wanted me to listen to?” I risk a quick grin. “I’ll be very attentive, I promise.”
She fixes me with a flat look. “All right. I was going to say you can stop trying to make friends with me. You’ve got the captain, and I promise what I think won’t make a drop of difference.”
“It does to me,” I protest. “And if you’re Selly Walker, this is your family’s fleet, so it sounds to me like you matter very much.”
And beyond that…it just seems to matter. I choose to leave that unsaid, partly because it’s confusing.
She snorts. “Look,” she says, turning to face me and lowering her voice, her glare settling in for the long haul. “I have spent a year under Captain Rensa, running every thrice-damned errand she could dream up, and never to her satisfaction. I washoursaway from heading back to my father’s ship before you came aboard.”
