The Winner's Kiss (The Winner's Trilogy, #3)(44)

Arin and some of the sailors opened the sacks and spread powder out in shallow pans laid out on the quarterdeck. The sun was hot on his bare shoulders. He bowed with the weight of a full sack. The powder was damp and cakey as he jostled it out of the bag and sifted the grit with his hands, spreading it into a fine layer. His palms became black. They looked familiar. Not so different from how they’d used to look after a day in the forge. A normal day.

But today was not normal. He kept his eyes on his task. The black powder, made from sulfur extracted from Dacra’s northern plateau, was precious. The eastern supply was limited, so it was important that the powder, useless when wet, dry well. It was important that Arin take care. And it was very important that he keep his gaze averted from the other sailors, who kept sneaking glances at him.

Because Arin was not normal. No one fell into the sea like that and lived.

He felt the stare from the girl scraping scales from a freshly caught fish half her size. Other sailors stared, too. The ones mending a sail and tarring the rigging. Those nearest to him, emptying their sacks.

Sweat dripped from his brow and vanished into the powder in its pan near his bare feet. Arin wondered when that powder would be used. He wondered what damage it would do, and if, when the powder exploded, some essence of himself would burn with it.

He wondered if this was a normal thought.

The sacks were now empty. He brushed his black palms. He needed to rinse. He was a walking fire hazard. A bucket of seawater was kept near the mainmast. He went to it, dunked his arms in up to his elbows, and splashed a little over his shoulders, feeling the water go down the runnel of his spine. He’d itch once the water dried to salt.

“You look none the worse for drowning.”

Arin straightened to see the captain leaning near the shrouds, watching him. Arin remembered the man’s expression during the storm, when Arin had hauled himself over the railing, slopped down onto the deck, and retched a bellyful of seawater.

Arin asked, “How long until the Empty Islands?”

“Ithrya’s near, but we must give her a wide berth. Two, three days, then, to sail south around Ithrya and up to the islands. Should the winds stay fair.”

“Do you think they will?”

“Ask them, why don’t you, and see if they will for you.”

The sun was in the captain’s face. Arin couldn’t read his expression. The man’s voice could have either been mock serious, or dead serious. Arin cleared his throat. “The gunpowder should be dry by day’s end. No one’s to smoke. Even one stray spark—”

“We’re not daft, boy.”

Arin rubbed the nape of his neck, nodded, and thought the conversation was over. He looked out at the sea. Green and dazzling, like his mother’s emerald. He remembered the day he’d traded it away, and wished he’d kept it. He thought that every one should have one precious thing to hold with his whole heart, to know to be incontrovertibly his own. He held the emerald in his mind, felt its cool facets. He imagined placing it in the palm of a hand he knew well, and wondered if it would be accepted, and how it would feel to have someone else hold what he held with his whole heart.

He blinked, looked away from the horizon. He was sea-dreaming. Imagining things that would hurt him later.

Now, even.

“There’ve been stories about you.” The captain was squinting at him. “Well before the storm.”

It disconcerted Arin, the way people had begun to look at him. There was this shining expectation. He wasn’t sure how much of it really had to do with him. Maybe when people have nothing precious, an idea takes its place. Arin wasn’t ready to be an idea. They’re just stories, Arin wanted to say, but the words died on his lips. He knew better than to deny his god.

It was as if the captain had heard Arin’s thoughts. “God-touched, you are.”

Arin said nothing, yet beneath the shyness lay an undeniable plea sure.



The ship slipped between the Empty Islands and dropped anchor to the east of one island large enough to hide the ship from view of any vessel that might come from the Valorian capital. The crew waited.

Arin still had no shoes. His feet were too large for the few spare boots on board. He ripped rags, tied them around his feet, and walked carefully.

He tried to go over the plan with the captain, who interrupted him with a dismissive flick of the hand. “That’s not a plan. That’s simple piracy. You needn’t teach me that.”

Arin was taken aback. “Before the war, the Herrani were the best at sea. We gained wealth through sea trade. We weren’t pirates.”

The captain laughed and laughed.

The ship came. It sailed from the west. A large vessel, weighty with double gundecks.

The cry came down from the crow’s nest aboard Arin’s ship. The crew heaved at the capstan, weighed anchor, luffed the sails, and drove toward the Valorian vessel.

Arin’s ship was lighter, which made it faster. But it was lighter because of its single gundeck. Catching up to the Valorian vessel wasn’t the hard part. Boarding her without being blown out of the water would be. If the Valorians were surprised to see the Herrani ship move out from behind the island and ride in their wake, their surprise wouldn’t last long. They’d be ready for an attack.

Arin went below to the gundeck. The gunports were open now, the mouths of a row of cannons yawning wide. Arin and the crew prepared them. Black powder down a cannon’s belly, a wad of cloth jammed in tight and shoved home with a rammer. The cannonball. Arin cradled it between his palms, smooth and heavy, then pushed it in. All rammed down. He primed the cannon. Hauled on the gun tackles. The sailors dragged each cannon forward until its barrel slid into the gunport and its carriage met the bulwark.