“I’m going topside for a minute,” he said to Samuel, the gunner’s mate, and skinned up the ladder before he could say no.
Cloud Spirit had come about to windward and shortened sail in order to hold her position. Captain Strangward stood on the quarterdeck, his glass trained on the challenger, which by now had come within shouting distance. Even without the glass, Evan could make out the figurehead now—a nude woman with long, webbed fingers, erupting out of a rock. Underneath was emblazoned: The Siren.
Evan turned away before he could be spotted, all but running into Brody.
“Aren’t you supposed to be below?” Brody said, clapping his big hand on Evan’s shoulder and spinning him back toward the stairs.
“Latham Strangward!” a voice called, clear and cold as the snowmelt that ran down off the Dragonback Mountains in spring. “Are you really going to turn your guns on me?”
Evan and Brody swung around in unison, as if they were chained at the hip.
A woman—or maybe a girl—stood in the bow of the other ship, like a second figurehead in loose breeches and a white linen shirt, a fine gold belt at her waist. She glowed with a brilliant blue-white light that burned so brightly that it hurt Evan’s eyes. Still, he couldn’t tear his gaze away.
“She’s beautiful,” Brody whispered, his voice thick with longing. He was gazing at the young captain in a way that he’d never looked at Evan.
Her hair was silver—not the dull color that comes with age, but as bright as a merchant’s tea service. It whipped around her head like a halo of snakes. Two locks—two streaks of bright color—had been braided and beaded. Red and blue. Her eyes were a pale purple—the color of sea thistle.
She couldn’t be much older than Evan, and she was already a ship’s master. She was also a mage, from the shine on her. People claimed you couldn’t throw a rock in the north without hitting a mage, but they were rarely seen this far south. Her crew glowed, too, but in a blue-purple color, like a bruise. They lined the decks, blades in hand, as if they’d come looking for a fight. Automatically, he counted. She had double their numbers.
A ship crewed by mages—that had to be bad news.
Apparently, Captain Strangward agreed. He had a good battle face, but right now he looked like he’d opened a hatch and found death waiting below. Instead of answering back, he turned and scanned the open deck, as if looking for someone. Evan slid behind the mizzenmast to avoid being spotted and dismissed. Finally, Strangward turned back to face the girl who’d called to him.
“Celly!” Strangward said. “Bloody hell, girl—is it really you? What’s it been—five years?”
“Five very long years,” she said, planting her hands on her hips. “Longer for me than for you, I’ll wager.”
“Let me come around, so we can talk,” Strangward said. Evan knew he was buying time. “Abhayi, I’ll take the wheel for the moment. You ready the crew.”
With Strangward at the helm, Abhayi walked the deck, swinging his big head from side to side, speaking to one crew member, then another, descending the ladder to the gunnery deck.
Brody was still staring at the other ship, looking a little more wary, a little less starstruck. But only a little.
“Who is she?” Evan whispered.
“Celestine Nazari. Firstborn daughter of the empress Iona.”
“I didn’t know she had a daughter.”
Brody snorted. “Why would you know?”
He had a point.
“Celly was on her way to becoming the most powerful pirate mage on the Desert Coast, but she disappeared five years ago—when she was thirteen.”
So she was the age I am now when she disappeared, Evan thought. He did the figures in his head. “So she’s eighteen now?”
Brody shrugged. “She must be.”
“Then she’s too old for you,” Evan said, sliding a look at Brody.
“Maybe,” Brody said, pushing back his shoulders and drawing himself up, but not quite pulling off the display of confidence. “And maybe not.”
Evan could understand Brody’s fascination. He was drawn to the girl, too, though for different reasons. It was as if, when he looked at her, he saw some version of himself reflected back.
The two ships had been maneuvering so that the captains could converse from a safe distance. The closer the Siren came, the more painful the burning on the back of Evan’s neck. Yet curiosity kept him on deck.
“Look at that silver hair,” Brody said, with a shiver. “She must be a blood mage like Iona.”
“Blood mage?” Evan blinked up at Brody. “What do you mean?”
“They make people drink their blood, and turn them into slaves.”
“Well, I wouldn’t drink it,” Evan said.
“Yes, you would. She’d make you. See those streaks in her hair?” Brody pointed. “Magelocks. All of the Nazari have them. Each one represents a kind of magic. The more, the better. In the old days, the Nazari had a hundred colors in their hair.”
Evan reached up and fingered his own hair, finding the smooth, metallic strands by touch. They were silver and blue, barely visible against his white-blond hair. Though he scrubbed at his hair to mingle them in with the rest, they always seemed to slide free.
I’m magemarked in more ways than one, Evan thought, puffing out his chest. In a story, that would mean that he was destined for greatness.
“Captain Strangward knows her?” Evan said.
“He’s her uncle, sort of,” Brody said. He loved being in the know. “The empress Iona goes through husbands like a dose of salts through a sailor. Harol Strangward was the last of five—the only one that stuck. Harol and Iona agreed to split the Desert Coast between them. Now Harol’s dead, and our captain took over.”
“What about the purplish people?” Evan asked, pointing at the crew on the Siren’s decks. “Are they mages, too?”
Brody looked at him like he was sun-touched. “What purplish people?”
“The ones
