I glide through the air with grace. I had never imagined how thrilling it could be to fly, or how it would feel to have the wind under my wings. I close my eyes in bliss as the mild sea air caresses my face and streams through my hair. Everything is wonderful—until I lose my upward momentum and start careening downwards.
"Control your wings!" I hear Rat call over the sound of the wind rushing past my ears.
Easier said than done. I can see where I need to land—the harbour pavement to my right—but steering myself in that direction is proving troublesome.
As soon as I pull down on the handle on the underside of the right mechanical wing the way Rat instructed, the wind catches the flax fabric of the left one, yanking it upwards, and sending me into a rapid downward spin.
I manage to pull the cord that makes the wings fold in behind my back before I cannonball into the ocean.
I'm in the water, I feel in control and in my element. I compose myself and swim swiftly to the oceanfront wall where the ladder hangs. I can feel Rat's disappointed gaze on me from the deck of the ship as I trudge back across the harbour, but I don't raise my head to meet it. He has been trying to teach me how to use the glider wings for the past couple of days without much success, and I have been walking around in wet clothes for so long that my thighs are starting to chafe as I walk.
"How bad was it?" I sigh as I board the ship.
"You did better, you nearly had it this time," Rat replies.
I glare at him doubtfully.
"Okay, it was terrible." He admits with a sneer.
"Then what am I doing wrong?" I kick out at the ship railing in frustration and wince as my wet, already-blistered toes graze the inside of my boot.
"You're moving too erratically when you try to turn, you need to feel the wind and understand it so that you can move with it in harmony. If you try to move against it, it will toss you aside as it has been doing."
"That's what I've been trying to do, but it's not working!" I whine as I slump over the railing in exasperation. I love flying, but it doesn't love me so much. I want to be good at it.
"Look." Rat takes my chin between his fingers and directs my head up to the sky where an osprey circles with the thermal wind. "Watch how he rides the wind, moves with it, allows it to carry him where he needs to go while barely moving his wings. Study his movements. He can probably teach you better than I can."
I stare enviously at the osprey as it glides with such ease and elegance. The bird belongs in the air, perhaps I don't.
"I think it's a she," I say flatly.
He raises an eyebrow.
"Sorry," I sigh heavily, "you're right, I'll go and try again." I make a start for the ballista that is situated on the quarterdeck, but Rat places a hand on my shoulder to stop me.
"You're frustrated. You won't be able to learn to ride the wind until you're relaxed and focused. Take a break for half an hour and change into some dry clothes, then we'll spar for a while, that always puts you in a better mood. If you feel up to it, you can try flying again this afternoon."
He's right. Rat and I have been sparring daily since I joined their crew. Pretending that he's a Vardran that I can vent my anger at always has a cathartic effect on me.
Pressure is mounting on me, though. Tom Wedge, the ship's carpenter, told Dusty that the Zarla is just a few days away from being fully restored. We'll be taking flight shortly after. I need to perfect my flying now while I have the safety net of the ocean.
I squelch as I walk across the deck to my cabin. Two burly deckhands that Trevor hired yesterday seem annoyed that I'm leaving a trail of water on the wooden boards that they have spent hours polishing. Dusty told me that they are brothers descended from ogres, hence their size. I had tried to welcome them this morning, but it appears their native language is different from the common tongue we use, and they merely grunted in response.
I start to relax as I enter my cabin and strip from the briny clothes. I hang them on the drying rack that the quartermaster had supplied me with after a full day of begging for one. The clothes need washing, but I might as well use them later when I practice flying again.
I open my chest and pull out a set of my new, casual clothes: soft undergarments; thick, practical brown trousers; a loose, thin white button-down shirt; and dark brown leather boots that extend up to the top of my calves. The boots still need to be broken in, hence the blisters on my toes.
It was rough on my first day of training with Rat since I only had the set of clothes that Magda had given me. I was on my way to the mess hall for dinner, still dripping wet, when Iris Kipps, the boatswain, had stopped me and insisted on giving me a set of her own.
She is a kind, motherly woman, but life has toughened her exterior. The sun and aerial lifestyle have aged her skin, and strands of grey have begun to show in her long dark brown hair, but her face still holds a natural beauty.
The very next day she had taken me to a tailor in the city for multiple sets of casual clothing, and while we were there, they measured me up for the aerial uniform. Iris had instructed them on the bolts of fabric that needed to be used and the uniform style. I had walked away during that part, looking at the bolts reminded me of my mother and the rolls she had kept in our house.
They told us that the order would be ready before we are ready to embark, along with the uniforms of any other new recruits.
I had been worried that I was required to pay for it, and was prepared to ask if the cost of the uniform could be deducted from my wages, but Iris had assured me that any expenses were paid by the captain. I was hoping to thank him in person, but I still haven't been formally introduced or even seen him much for that matter.
Before I don my boots, I grab the wash bucket in my room and hobble to the mess hall with it. After filling it halfway up with fresh water from the barrel, I haul it all the way back to the cabin. I take care not to spill any. The quartermaster had scolded me the last time I left puddles on the floor.
Once back in my cabin, I set the bucket on the floor and take a seat on the stool at the desk. I dip my washcloth into the cool water and gently use it to bathe the blisters on my feet. Some of the larger ones have burst open, leaving angry red wounds. I wince as I dab the rough cloth against them. When I'm sure that they're clean, I take out a wad of gauze and a roll of bandage from the desk drawer and use them to bind up my feet.
On the third day of training with Rat, I had let my guard down and he managed to graze my abdomen with the tip of his dagger. The cut was fairly shallow, but he had insisted that I went to the medical room to get patched up.
The medical room was bigger than I had expected—big enough to hold three beds, two desks, and a surgical table, along with a row of cabinets on the wall and a closet with a glass-paned door that was filled with medical supplies.
The surgeon was nowhere to be seen, but the blonde nurse was sitting at one of the desks peering over a book. Dusty had told me that her name was Freya Evensen, and she was from one of the cold mountainous countries in the far north. I was planning on sneaking back out before she was aware of my presence, but my boot had betrayed me as the sole grazed against the floorboard as I turned to leave. Her head had whipped straight up to look at me and, just like at dinner a few nights before, her eyes had narrowed in despise.
"What do you want?" Freya had asked. She had a thick, pleasant accent, but her tone was as cold as her icy eyes.
I had shown her the wound on my abdomen and she huffed to one of the cabinets to gather the dressings. She made no attempt to hide how disgruntled she was by my presence.
It was obviously no use trying to make casual conversation with her, so instead, I had sat in silence while she applied thin, sticky strips to the cut to close it up before covering it with a square piece of gauze and wrapping a bandage around my waist.
Suddenly, she had remarked "we haven't even left the port and yet you are already injured. I don't see how you will be of any use in battle, you are just putting the rest of us at risk. I'm sure you would be better at other duties, like cleaning the slurry."
I had desperately wanted to clean the slurry floor with her face, but I had no intentions of starting any conflict with my crewmates; I'm saving that for the Vardrans. Rather than rising to her provocation, I had politely asked her for spare gauze and bandages for the blisters. She had thrust them into my hands and flounced back to her book.
Carefully slipping my bandaged feet into my boots, I let out a frustrated sigh. I can understand why the crew members may not want to get to know me, but I'm not sure what I've done wrong to deserve such outright hostility. The only interaction I had with the woman was simply smiling at her. Surely she couldn't have been offended by that, right?
The only people on the ship that have been friendly toward me so far are Dusty, Iris, and Trevor. Although even Iris and Trevor are somewhat reserved around me.
Dusty, on the other hand, is the only crew member so far that I can call a true friend. After the first dinner, I had told him about the rule of not talking to first bloods. I had tried to tell him that he probably shouldn't be associating with me either, but he was having none of it. He insisted that he would rather lose a friend than have not taken the time to know them at all.
Since that first day, we have spent our free time together, discussing our training and what we have learned about ship life. Dusty also learns a lot of gossip from Graham, the head cook, and hurries to tell me about it. Neither of us has discussed our homeland and what motivated us to join the aerials. There's a reason why we both left, but I feel that it's also something that we're not ready to address yet.
I collect my cutlasses from the chest and take a moment to admire them. Rat have given them to me on the first day of training and I still find them thrilling to use while sparring, as though they were made for me. As I rest them in their sheaths hanging from my belt on either side of my waist, I hear a familiar loud clip-clopping coming from down the corridor. I reach over and open the door just as Dusty is about to knock.
The horned man pauses with his fist still raised. His surprised face instantly turns into a wide beam.
"The most exciting thing has happened! I finally managed to perfect my pine nut bread!" He hops from hoof to hoof in excitement. "Every time I tried back home, I couldn't get the dough to form the right consistency, but Graham gave me a different flour to use, and it's perfect."
"Dusty, that's great!" His excitement is contagious.
"It's wonderful!" he all but yells. "Come, you have to be the first to try it." He grips my hand with both of his and pulls me through the door.
"I have to go spar with Rat," I manage to say.
"Rat Shmat. You have can fight anytime, but I may never make perfect pine nut bread again."
———
I wake up flailing around in my sweat-drenched sheets. The half-moon beams a dim light through the open window. The nightmare was similar to the one I have been having since the attack, but this time I was watching my mother being tortured and murdered. I had been held back by the arms of a Vardran soldier and forced to watch as the life slipped from her eyes.
Still sweating and shaking, I climb out of bed and slip into my clothes. I roll the sleeves of my shirt up to my shoulders in an attempt to cool down.
I quietly slip through the doors and sneak out onto the main deck. My bare feet barely make a sound on the smooth wood. The air is soft and mild, and the briny scent helps to soothe me. I climb the steps up to the quarterdeck and pass the large wooden wheel of the helm to reach the railing at the very back. I press my body up against it and stare out a vast ocean, trying to remove the images of the nightmare from my mind.
"Having trouble sleeping?"
I jump at the sound of the man's voice behind me and my heart races. I hadn't heard anyone approach over the sound of the breeze and the waves below. I spin around abruptly.
The man stands lazily with a hand resting on the helm. He's not someone I recognise … or is he? He doesn't look to be much older than I am, and with his deep-set eyes, angular face, strong jaw, and full lips, he's handsome in a way that would have given Kai serious competition back on the Curio isles. While I don't recognise seeing his face around the ship, I recognise the uniform he wears—the first mate. I had only seen him from afar this past week, while he leaves and returns from business in the city with the captain. He has never come to dine in the mess hall.
The corner of his mouth is lifted into an amused smile at my startled reaction.
"Sorry for scaring you," he says.
"It's fine," I manage to stutter, "and yes, I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep so I came out for some fresh air."
He strolls over to stand next to me but leans his back against the railing.
"Nervous about tomorrow?" He asks.
Tomorrow? I rush to scramble my thoughts and remember what day it is and what is happening tomorrow. Of course, realisation hits me. I feel like palming my forehead. Tomorrow is the day we finally set sail. I should be feeling nervous. Despite everything I've learned this past week, I still don't know the first thing about flying an airship, and even though my flying has considerably improved, I still crash into the water more times than I'm comfortable with. Yet, somehow, in the wake of my horrific nightmare, I had managed to forget all of it.
"Yeah, I'm just a little nervous. It's all pretty new to me," I lie. I don't want to talk about the real reason I can't sleep at night.
"It's normal," he reassures me. "Everyone is nervous before their first flight."
"Were you?"
He gently shakes his head with his eyes fixed on his feet absently. "No."
"So everyone feels nervous except for you?" I quip as I turn back to face the ocean so that we're facing different directions. For some reason, despite only just meeting this man, I feel comfortable around him. Probably because he reminds me so much of Kai and Finn. Although talking to them didn't make my heart beat quite so fast, which isn't surprising since I had known them my whole life; this man is a stranger.
He smiles at my remark and lifts his head to meet my gaze. I notice for the first time how tall he is—a good foot taller than I am.
"I grew up as the son of a captain, so I have been on ships for as long as I can remember. Maybe I was nervous my first time, I don't recall." He shrugs.
"Wait," my brain starts connecting the dots, "does that mean the captain of this ship is …"
"No," He interrupts. "Captain Coldrun isn't my father. My father retired a few years ago. Joseph Coldrun is a good friend of his though. They once served on the same ship before they became captains, and he agreed to take me on as a protégé and then as his first mate. I'm Cail Tallon, by the way." Without changing his posture, he extends his right hand to me.
"I'm Sefarina Wavegrey," I say as I accept his handshake.
"Sefarina," He says slowly as though he is tasting the name on his tongue. "That's quite a mouthful."
I smile. "All my friends back home called me Rina."
He nods, pondering. "Sef it is then."
I narrow my eyes in wonder at his logic. I don't mind the new moniker though; it feels like a fresh start, and I don't really want any reminders from my life before.
"That's an interesting tattoo you have there." Cail gestures to the armband tattoo on my upper left arm with a nod of his head.
I glance down at the black markings on my skin. At the bottom is a simple thick black band, in the middle is a band in the shape of waves, and at the top is a swirling band that represents storm clouds.
"These style tattoos are customary back on the island where I'm from," I explain. "They are uniquely styled to every family name. These are the waves, obviously, and these are the clouds where the grey in my name comes from." I point to the bands, respectively.
"So everyone in your family has the same one then?"
I falter. "No, It's usually only the males in the family that gets the tattoos. My father had the same one but he died at sea before I was born—in a storm, ironically—and since I'm the last of the bloodline, I figured I should get it to honour him. I suppose it'll die out along with me now." I brush my thumb along the inked skin.
"Unless you have children," He adds.
I flash him a doubtful look. We both know I won't live long enough to bear a child.
"Which islands are you from?" Cail questions, switching seamlessly from the topic of my tattoo.
"I'm from the Curio Isles. I can't imagine that you'll have heard of them. They're quite small."
He shakes his head. "I haven't. Are they far from here?"
I ponder his question. Were we far from Curio? I'm not sure what distance I travelled to get to Winstar or even what is classed as 'far'.
"The climate on the islands is fairly similar to that here so I don't think they're very far," I say.
"What's life like there?" he continues with his questioning.
We're treading into dangerous territory, but I'm enjoying his company and don't want to scare him off just yet. Instead, I give him a detailed description of the islands and our way of life. He is interested to hear about the underwater mines and quarry, and about all of the beautiful gems we gathered and traded. I'm careful not to describe my home in the past tense since I'm not ready to accept that it doesn't exist anymore.
Cail listens in wonder as I talk, and although he keeps his eyes fixed on the stars, his gaze seems distant as though he was imagining the places I am describing.
I finish by telling him about the trawler I worked on, my friends, The Salty Sponge Tavern, and the brawlers guild at the back where I had learned to fight to earn spare money.
"Why did you leave?" He asks softly. His tone sounds slightly more serious now, and I wonder if he had sensed some of my emotions while I was talking.
I falter at this question. Surprisingly, no one on the ship had asked me about it yet, and I was grateful for that. Despite managing to talk about the islands without completely breaking down, I'm still not ready to talk about what had happened. I scramble for something to say to change the subject.
"I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to be talking to me." I blurt. I stare straight out at the flickering reflection of the half-moon on the water.
"Oh yeah, and why's that?" His voice is low. It's almost as though he is talking my words as a challenge.
I can't stop myself from glancing up at him. He's still slouched against the railing, but his arms are now crossed and his head is tilted back slightly. He glances down at me from the corner of his eyes, and as they meet mine my breath catches.
I turn away again and clear my throat before I answer.
"Rat told me that it's an unspoken rule that no one is supposed to talk to first bloods. We're likely to die soon so it's pointless becoming attached."
Cail lets out a chuckle. "Well, aren't you self-confident to think I'm going to become attached to you after one conversation?"
I instantly flush. He's right, I must have sounded like a complete narcissist. After a week of being subjected to hostility and avoidance, I had forgotten that it was perfectly acceptable to have a casual conversation with a stranger. I'm grateful that it's dark so that he won't be able to tell how red my face is. "I'm sorry …" I stammer. "I didn't mean …"
"I'm just teasing." He smirks at how flustered I am. Then suddenly, his face becomes serious. "I'm talking to you because I've seen you fight. I don't think you'll be leaving us anytime soon."
Even under the dim light of the moon, his gaze appears to smolder, and I have no idea how to react to his sudden compliment. Luckily for me, he doesn't wait for a response.
"It's late, you should try to get some rest before tomorrow. We don't want you felling asleep on your feet and falling overboard." He straightens up and stifles a yawn.
"Why are you up so late?" I ask curiously as I follow him down the steps to the main deck.
"I was in the navigation room plotting our course for when we set sail tomorrow."
"Of course, Trevor told me that you were the ship's navigator. He said you were looking for someone to assist so that you'd have more time with the captain. I have some experience navigating, and I'd love to learn more." I say hopefully.
"And why should I waste my time teaching you? Aren't you planning on dying soon?" He says abruptly.
I nod dejectedly. I can't argue with his reasoning, but when I look back at him I notice that his eyes are playful and the corner of his mouth is lifted into a slight smile. He's teasing me, I realise.
"Goodnight, Sef," he says. And before I can respond, he disappears into the darkness of the quarterdeck doors.