Page 6 of Vasmora

“They are not guests of mine.” Her stern gaze landed on me, and she pointed an accusing finger. “She is a reckless murderer. A wild, unruly animal that needs taming. A week in solitary with your oversight ought to settle her, Captain.”

“General.” Kazhimyr lowered to his knees and bowed his head. “I beg you,” he said through clenched teeth, as if the very words burned in his mouth. “Do what you will with me, but let her go. She’s harmless without her blood magic.” The sight of him, a man I hardly knew, an assassin on bent knee, offering himself out of sheer loyalty and respect for the friend he’d lost, brought tears to my eyes.

The general spared him nothing more than a sneer and turned away, as if he wasn’t even worth a response.

“Allow me to escort her to her cell, General.”

“How kind of you, Captain. Thank you.” A venomous smile tugged at her lips, her cruel eyes chilling the space between us. “A week of little food and water, no light, and absolute silence will have you feeling good as gold.”

“Ah, but fear not. I’m told the rats are a delicacy.” The captain chuckled, and with a rough yank of my arm, he dragged me to my feet. “Let’s get settled, shall we?”

CHAPTER TWO

DOLION

An unsettling cold palmed the back of Dolion’s neck, as he and his three traveling companions sat tucked against the gundeck wall of The Halcyon, an impressive black galleon known for having weathered the worst ice storm ever recorded. Hauling three hundred, or more, passengers across the Primmian Sea, the tired vessel creaked and groaned, dragging itself forward as the rough waters gnawed at its keel. Brass oil lamps, hung sparingly about the deck, squealed and swayed from rusted, iron brackets, illuminating patches of rot and dried blood across the planks.

It’d taken nearly a week for a wretched coastal blizzard to pass through Wyntertide, further delaying Dolion and his companions’ escape to Calyxar, where he hoped to hide and protect Rykaia, along with the six of seven coveted bloodstones he possessed. The same stones Zevander had gathered illegally from members of the bloodlines, necessary to power the septomir.

The same stones the Magestroli would kill to acquire.

While conditions had been favorable when Dolion’s group had set out, something about the voyage didn’t feel quite right, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. He pressed his hand to his chest where the stones sat tucked within his cloak, vibrating, as if they, too, sensed something strange.

The scent of brine clung to the back of the mage’s throat, mingling with the stench of Torryn’s vomit sloshing in a tin bucket held between the assassin’s bent knees beside him.

“Fucking hell,” Torryn muttered, rubbing his forehead, and as the ship thrashed against a fresh swell, he hurled forward, retching into the bucket.

Clearing his throat, Dolion shifted to his right, where Allura and Rykaia lay sleeping together in a hammock, curled into one another as though oblivious to the storm.

Movement beyond the two women drew his attention toward the crewmen. Covered in black ink, with mouths full of rotted teeth, they stared back at them, their wary, hungry eyes fixed on Dolion’s young female companions. He could only imagine what depraved thoughts poured through their restless minds. Even if the two women could hold their own, they were outnumbered while drifting somewhere in the middle of the sea.

He glanced around at more of the crew. Some lay slung in hammocks interspersed between gun canons. Others sat around a wooden crate, rolling dice, eyeing them between tosses.

A weary moan shifted Dolion’s attention back to where Torryn sat with his head pressed against the wall, his face concealed by the shadows of his hood.

Dolion smiled. “It’ll pass soon.”

“You said that hours ago. Don’t they have weather mages who predict storms like this?”

“A mage is no match for nature, my friend. She does as she wants.”

“Well, she’s a conniving wretch, given how fast this struck.” The ship lurched again, and Torryn’s hands tightened to fists as if he fought another tide of nausea. “I suppose now’s a bad time to mention that I don’t much like boats. And I can’t swim worth a damn. Those stones … they protect against drowning?” Torryn spoke low enough that, over the ship’s bellyaching, his question would unlikely be heard, but Dolion pressed closer just in case.

“I’m afraid not. Their most compelling power is creating a ward.” He sighed, glancing toward one of only a few portholes, where frothy, white seawater splashed against the glass. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t spare us from storms. You’d be protected while drowning, at least.”

“Brilliant,” Torryn said, and pitched toward the bucket yet again. That time, nothing came forth, and he leaned back, rubbing a hand down his face. “Can’t be a damned thing left in me.”

“Perhaps you should rest a bit. I suspect the night will be long.”

“I’m not sleeping.” Though his eyes were shielded, the direction of his head remained toward one of the staring men, who wore a grin not entirely friendly.

“I can assure you they won’t bother us.” Dolion patted his chest and the hard wooden case beneath the fabric, which continued to hum against his ribs.

“Hope you’re right about that. Don’t like the way the one keeps looking at Rykaia.”

Dolion glanced her way, noticing the emerald ring she wore that he’d warned her to hide from sight before boarding. A family heirloom, intended to be passed down as a token of fertility and lineage, that would’ve made a nice prize for any thief. Though Dolion doubted the man smiling in her direction cared much for her jewelry.

“Let him look. Should he attempt to cross the barrier with ill-intent, he’ll regret it.”