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  Dogs, like men, were dangerous. So Kyra couldn’t quite explain why she found herself spreading a sweater before the fire and coaxing the stray to come in from the cold. Or why she was more worried for Hunter than for herself.

  Chapter 2

  Nile

  Standing on the Eclipse’s tiny quarterdeck, I watch my opponent—Raptor, a frigate of twenty-four guns—make a smart turn around a buoy and take aim at the empty wine casks our lords in the Felielle Kingdom’s admiralty sacrificed for target practice. The casks bob on the choppy seas, occasionally ducking beneath foamy waves only to resurface again moments later. The cold wind whips rain and salty ocean spray into my face, but my heart pounds too quickly to feel the chill. This war game is a competition, and not only am I about to lose, but I’m about to lose to Domenic.

  Again.

  The last time I lost was three months ago, when Domenic and I went before the Felielle Admiralty board to compete for command of that very frigate whose quarterdeck Domenic now holds.

  The red and orange of the frigate’s belching guns color the drab morning, and a cask explodes in a fountain of shards. A second. Two more together.

  “That’s four more for Captain Dana,” Quinn, my first officer, announces as the last of the spraying wooden splinters flops to the water. “Plus the three he struck at the beginning of the run. A handsome job he did of it too, ma’am.”

  Domenic did do well, but the match is inherently uneven. Domenic’s Raptor has twenty-four guns, while my little Eclipse carries fourteen, making my ship more akin to an armed royal yacht than a man-of-war. It’s not just Domenic, of course—all seven ships in this game outgun me, exactly as the admiralty intended. If it had a choice in the matter, the Felielle navy would never have allowed a girl to wear an officer’s uniform at all, much less command a ship—even one as small as Eclipse.

  Unfortunately for the admiralty, the Diante Empire—which we desperately need to woo into an alliance against the People’s Republic of Tirik—invited one Captain Nile Greysik for a diplomatic visit. And for a Captain Nile Greysik to exist, the admiralty has to acknowledge her—me—at least as an officer in its navy. Not that they are being graceful about it. The six months since the original invitation passed in a flurry of coordination details, and we are now two weeks from setting sail, with no movement in my rank or assignment. I am a captain in the sense of my position in the Eclipse’s charge. My true rank in the naval hierarchy is that of a junior lieutenant.

  My hands clench tightly around my spyglass as I focus on keeping my face coolly unconcerned—the way the naval officer I’ve trained my whole life to be is expected to behave. Focusing the spyglass on Domenic’s ship, I find his rain-soaked face smiling as he shakes his first officer’s hand. With his height and broad shoulders, Domenic is easily the largest man aboard and would be simple to spot even if he weren’t on the quarterdeck. His quarterdeck. The one he beat me out to win.

  Domenic deserves the Raptor, of course, both for his seamanship and hard work. I told him so when the admiralty announced its decision to award him the post, and Domenic’s blue eyes lit with cautious, shocked triumph. I tell myself that too.

  “This is ludicrously unjust,” says Lord Vikon, the seventeen-year-old midshipman I had no choice but to add to the ship’s company on account of him being Prince Tamiath’s distant nephew. This technically makes Vikon my nephew—since, as far as the Felielle Kingdom is concerned, Prince Tamiath and I are married. “That daft commoner’s ship has twelve guns on a side, and our Eclipse only has seven. We’d have to hit over half our shots just to match the brute’s scores.”

  I twist toward Vikon, my eyes flashing with more fury than a dignified officer should allow herself. “You will refer to Captain Dana with respect, Lord Vikon,” I say, my dog Bear growling his support as rainwater drips from his shaggy black coat. The pup has grown as big as his mother—my twin Clay’s bitch—and his slobbery head easily reaches my hip. Resting my hand on Bear’s warm coat, I draw a calming breath before continuing with more restrained tones. “Now, thank you for that arithmetic, and be quiet.”

  Everyone aboard has done the math already, but the last thing the Eclipse’s crew needs is words of discouragement from the quarterdeck. In theory, the admiralty will count the percentages relative to our armament when calculating the scores, but in reality, it is the total number of hits—not relative arithmetic—that counts in battle.

  Wiping the rain from my eyes, I study the other Felielle vessels participating in the exercise before turning to Port Mead’s wounded shoreline. The water is murky, the waves breaking at odd points in deference to chaotic currents and treacherous ocean floor, both courtesy of an earthquake nine months past.

  Vikon knocks the toe of his boot against the wet deck. “We shall be the laughingstock of the fleet when we lose. As if it isn’t enough that we’ve a skirt on the quarterdeck instead of a real officer, we’re—”

  “Vikon,” Quinn growls. Any other middie would have been bent over a gun and thrashed thoroughly for such words, but we are under stern recommendation to treat Vikon gently.

  I’d love to gently throw the boy overboard.

  “Look! Zolan’s Lily is heading out!” Vikon leans over the rail, training his spyglass on the next frigate coming to the line of trials. The largest of the ships in the war games, the fifty-four-gun Lily is just shy of a ship-of-the-line designation reserved for the strongest ships in the fleet. “Did you know Zolan turned down an admiralty position to keep Lily for himself?”

  “Enough,” I snap at the boy as the report of a judge’s gun starts Lily’s time. Zolan now has ten minutes to fire his starboard gun battery at the target casks, swing around a buoy, and make a return run to fire the port gun battery at any targets still afloat. My heart quickens as Captain Zolan’s sails fill with a loud pop and his ship moves majestically from her starting line. The silence that I know rules Lily’s deck now echoes through me.

  Two minutes later, twenty-four guns fire in perfect harmony, and the Ardent Ocean explodes in spray and splinters.

  “Eighteen hits.” Quinn’s voice is calm, the opposite of my racing thoughts. I’m not just going to lose, I am going to lose spectacularly.

  My stomach sinks as I realize why the admiralty finally invited my ship to partake in the war games. Not to evaluate my skill, but to paint a clear picture of my inability to hold my own, even at the cost of sullying my crew’s reputation as so much collateral damage. It’s a last-ditch attempt to change the king’s mind about allowing me to sail for the Diante Empire. Lord Vikon’s words, for all their spoiled, undisciplined entitlement, are simply repetitions of other officers’ thoughts, voiced behind closed doors.

  The Felielle navy would truly prefer to forgo the chance at meeting the Diante rather than be represented by an eighteen-year-old Ashing-born girl.

  The Lily makes a tight turn around the buoy, her sailors scampering from guns to the sails and back again. Zolan’s careful aiming on the first battery had cost precious minutes, a luxury he no longer has. The Lily’s guns fire as they bear, iron balls spitting into the ocean as the gun captains hurry to work their beasts before time is called.

  “Ten hits,” Quinn announces as if we aren’t all counting. Water soaking his hair runs in a near stream down his angled jaw. “Twenty-eight altogether. And Admiral Pyre’s ship is hoisting our number, ma’am.”

  Of course she is. Where better to place me than in the wake of the best captain in the Felielle fleet? The gazes of my crew pierce me, some doing better than others to hide their dread. Their careers and reputations are as much on the line as mine. Despite my pounding heart, I raise my chin high and survey the wind and water while an admiralty cutter rows out to reset the course, laying out new targets. Absent a miracle, we will be humiliated. A miracle or something else.

  I swallow, my mouth dry as recklessness tingles in my blood. We have fewer guns than the others, but if we could fire the guns we do have several times, we could send as much s
hot downrange as our opponents. It all comes down to time.

  I can count on my fingers the number of people in the world who know I’m a Gifted wind caller. My family, Tam’s, Domenic, Catsper, and Quinn. My wonderful Gifted twin, Clay, whose mind is locked away from the world just as he is hidden away in the Ashing palace. Should the secret of my Gift leak out, not even an edict from the Felielle king himself would keep me at sea. My life’s purpose is to lead ships in battle. If I am to stay the course, no one must learn what I am.

  A Gifted is an abomination. A pitiful cripple. A weapon that turns on its wielder as readily as the enemy. Elemental attraction is a ghastly condition with no cure, one that can no more be allowed on a naval ship than can an open flame. One whose sufferer can never, ever be permitted to command others.

  Fortunately, I’m very good at keeping secrets. And I’m not about to let my whole crew suffer for the admiralty’s dislike of me.

  “Don’t do it,” Quinn murmurs, coming up behind me. Like my dog, Bear, who can sense my convulsions before I can, one of Quinn’s secret duties aboard is to protect me from my own treacherous body. “I see it in your eyes.”

  “You are staring at the back of my head, Quinn.” I spread my shoulders, as if a bit of puffing can make my slender frame match Domenic’s towering height and broad back. “Did the rules specify that guns on both sides of the ship had to be discharged?”

  Quinn makes a warning sound in the back of his throat. “No. But as much was implied.”

  “Implied,” I agree, “but not specifically required, correct?”

  “Yes,” he concedes with a sigh. “The requirement is to complete one turn about the buoy and destroy as many targets as possible within a ten-minute period.”

  A touch of a smile tugs the corner of my lips. And, because I’m certain Domenic’s glass is trained on me right now, I allow my grin to fill my face. “Mr. Quinn,” I say loudly enough for all on the Eclipse to hear, “redistribute the crew. We will not be firing the starboard battery.”

  “You’re giving up?” Vikon hollers, his face turning an alarming shade of red. The boy’s perfectly tailored uniform is soaked with rain, and he holds his hands in his armpits to warm them. “I knew it. You’re nothing but—”

  Quinn backhands the middie, sending the boy sprawling across the deck before he finishes the sentence. “You are dismissed to your berth, Mr. Vikon.” Quinn’s usually calm voice booms as loud as any gun. He looms over Vikon until the boy grudgingly picks himself up and trudges down the ladder.

  I wonder what the other watching captains make of the display on my deck. No matter. I’m about to give them something else to be outraged about.

  With Vikon gone, Quinn turns to me and touches his hat, disapproval glinting in his eyes. If Catsper were here, he’d grin along with me, but Quinn shares Domenic’s dogged worship of rules and regulations. “Aye aye, ma’am,” Quinn answers, repeating the order as is the navy’s tradition. “No starboard battery.”

  I nod. No turning back now. “Signal Admiral Pyre that we are ready,” I say, and, as the report of a flagship gun starts our time, I let the magic in my blood awaken to the wind.

  Chapter 3

  Nile

  The magic in my blood smells the coming freedom and sings out to the wind, calling it to come and play and blow blow blow. My lungs open, my blood accelerating in my veins. I feel alive, as if each fiber that makes me up is waking. It’s all I can do to keep the gathering force in check until… “Now, Mr. Quinn.”

  I let my magic loose to answer the wind’s call just as our sails open. The sudden gale descending upon us is strong enough to lift the Eclipse’s bow from the water. The canvas fills and strains, the crew first cursing, then cheering our sudden fortune. All except Quinn, who knows exactly from whence the convenient gale came and just how easily it can twist away from me. How rapidly I might collapse into convulsions at just the wrong moment.

  Bear hops to his feet, his large brown eyes watching me warily, his tail swishing like a pendulum.

  My magic howls its pleasure, fighting me for more. More air. More wind. More power. More play. The whistling gale quickens with each heartbeat, turning the raindrops into needles that strike chilled skin. The pricks sting my eyes, cheeks, and lips, the pain glorious in its proof of our speed. I’d throw my arms wide if I didn’t know that every spyglass on every ship is trained on me just now, all the captains wondering how the hell I am going to back sail, stop, and aim in the middle of the storm.

  The answer is that I won’t. Instead of firing only twice—once from port and once from starboard—I will get the Eclipse around the buoy so quickly that we’ll have time to fire three port batteries. Maybe four.

  Quinn hollers orders, tweaking the sails and reinforcing the helm as we fly toward the buoy, ignoring the targets set up before us. The men sprint to keep up, holding on to lines and stays to avoid falling as the Eclipse turns so tightly that the whole ocean seems to rise up toward our tilting hull.

  Quinn sends a third man to support helm. Dangerous as this is, at least we have a fighting chance to keep us on course now—six months ago, my wind would have tossed the ship on its side as likely as propel it forward. Then again, six months ago, my magic was one third of what burns in my veins today, as if joining magics with my twin, Clay, had destroyed some dam inside me. If wind calling is my curse, it’s my power too.

  “Steady,” Quinn says into my ear. To an onlooker, the action appears a simple adjustment of a busy officer on a crowded deck, but in reality, Quinn is giving me the support of his body should I become unable to stand. “Steady.”

  The Eclipse straightens as it clears its turn. It is a struggle to find my voice, the words drawing on every ounce of willpower. “Back… Sails…”

  Entrusting the racing sailors to their duty, I pour my strength into clamping down on the wind. The air chokes me at once, the magic protesting its tether. Pain explodes in my chest, my lungs stretching, threatening to tear. Quinn has me by an elbow before I can double over in plain sight. The world swims and shimmers in my vision.

  I force myself to straighten. To draw a breath. Another. To survey the ship and targets and ocean. With her sails backed, the Eclipse is in line with the targets now. Excellent. “How much time, Mr. Quinn?” My voice has a rasp, and I swallow to wet my throat.

  “Eight minutes, ma’am,” he answers, trying and nearly succeeding in hiding the concerned once-over gaze he sweeps across me.

  I let myself grin. Let them all see me grin. Eight minutes. I’d not dared hope for more than six. “And how many times can you fire our port battery in eight minutes?”

  Quinn presses his lips together, still unhappy at my creative interpretation of rules, but ready to make the most of our advantage. All hands on the Eclipse are. Seven gun crews are already busy loading and aiming their beasts. “Five, ma’am,” Quinn says after a moment’s thought. “We can fire the guns of our port battery five times.”

  The seamen cheer. Five batteries of seven guns each, thirty-five rounds of shot. Those are better odds than Domenic’s twenty-four gun Raptor had. Better than anyone’s, bar Zolan’s Lily.

  Putting my hands behind my back, I wait as one after the other, the gun captains raise their fists into the air. “On the up roll,” I call, my breath stilling as the ship dips and rises on the coming wave. “Fire.”

  Chapter 4

  Kyra

  Kyra awoke to rain beating the ground outside her cavern. The dog was gone. The man she named Hunter had left the ridge as well. Or at least Kyra thought he had left, as she tasted none of the acute emotions that coated her mouth last night. She supposed Hunter could simply be asleep. Or relaxed. Or blocking her again.

  Either way, Kyra was alone.

  Ducking out of her cavern, Kyra climbed up the steep path leading to the top of the ridge. The wet rock was slippery and cold, but having grown up in wet Milan, Kyra was used to rain. The ridge was empty except for her cloak, which lay untouched under a small ove
rhang that protected the cloth from the worst of the rain. Wrapping it around herself, Kyra walked across the stone until she stood on the edge of the cliff, the wind and rain whipping her black hair back from her face as she stared into the great expanse of land and sea beneath. The Ardent Ocean, the rocky shoreline, Port Mead’s pier and inns, Felielle men-of-war rocking at their distant mooring, the camp of Spardic soldiers set up on a rocky beach well away from the pier.

  Perhaps Hunter had gone there. He certainly moved like a man trained and honed for violence.

  It was good that he’d left before Kyra came up.

  Kyra was turning to leave when the bit of sunlight that survived the clouds caught the edge of something gold and shiny wedged into the cracks of the stone. Stepping closer, Kyra pulled out the dropped object, rubbing it against her cloak to clean off the specks of dirt. It was a pin, the kind soldiers wore to signify things Kyra little understood beyond knowing they were important. This one was simple, a gold-plated metal square stamped with an outline of a ship, a dagger, and some angled lines. The clasp was loose, which was how the pin likely fell free from Hunter’s uniform the night before.

  The metal felt cold beneath Kyra’s fingers. The lost insignia would likely get Hunter punished, and Kyra little wished to see anyone endure what passed for discipline among the soldiers. If Hunter was a Spade as she thought, it would be simple enough to return the thing. She could see their camp from here, could hear the muskets of morning practice firing. If the Felielle navy occupied the best inns, bought the best food, and walked the best repaired paths, the Spardic Spades lived on the cold and rocky beach and hunted their own meals.

  The Felielle navy. That was the rub. Kyra’s mind snagged on the thought, her stomach clenching. Since none of the merchantmen were willing to take Kyra to the archipelago, the Felielle navy was now her last hope of returning home. If the rumors that had Princess Nile sailing for the Diante empire within weeks were true. If Kyra could get herself hired into the princess’s crew. If she could get to Nile before the merchantmen spilled Kyra’s secrets.