He reminded Ramson of a bird—a common raven, dark and unkempt and unimposing, but surprisingly quick.
The rod thwapped Ramson and he stumbled back, gritting his teeth against the pain that singed across his chest. He aimed a clumsy swing at Fisher, but Fisher pivoted easily out of the way.
Another blow to Ramson’s thighs, and this time Ramson cried out. A third blow buckled his knees, and before he could even draw breath, the fight was over and he was lying on the stone floor, Jonah Fisher standing over him. Ramson was panting hard, and he could taste the salty tang of tears rising in his throat as he stared at the other boy.
What happened next was one of the biggest surprises Ramson could remember encountering in his life.
Fisher held out a hand.
There was no trace of arrogance on his pale, thin face. His features were arranged in that same bored expression, as though nothing in the world could interest him.
Ramson did the only acceptable thing he could think of. He slapped Fisher’s hand aside. “I don’t need your help,” he snarled, pushing himself to his feet. “We’re not friends. We’ll never be.”
As Ramson hobbled away to join his stunned class, leaving Fisher behind him, he caught sight of a figure at the doorway. A flash of suntanned skin and sandy brown hair, navy-blue tunic emblazoned with gold, sword flashing at hip.
Roran Farrald turned from the entrance and walked away.
Disappointment and shame burned in Ramson’s cheeks. He threw a final glance at Fisher, who stood alone on the other side of the hall, and vowed that he would defeat this boy if it was the last thing he did.
Everything had changed with a boat, a storm, and a voice.
The Bregonians had the best navy in the world, but first and foremost, they were sailors. And every Bregonian child training for the Navy spent half their days on the seas.
It had been a nighttime drill during the second year of Ramson’s training. The sky was moonless and the waters were black and cold, stirring uneasily with the growing wind.
The storm set upon them in the early hours of the morning. The winds shrieked and the waves stood higher than walls, tossing the small brig of ten Bregonian trainees like a leaf in the wind. Even years later, Ramson would wake up in the middle of the night with the feeling of being flung around in the dark, the taste of blind terror strong on his tongue.
As captain of his little brig, he’d been screaming orders from the ratlines when a wave reared from the black night and slammed into him. He remembered falling, the world a spinning tangle of masts and sails and wood. He’d crashed through the surface of the ocean, and then there had been only darkness and silence.
The first few moments were blind, terrifying disorientation. Ramson thrashed and kicked, not knowing whether he was going up or down or sideways, the world around him tossing and turning as wave after wave bore down on him. Almost all the air had left his lungs upon impact, and as the pressure grew in his chest and his limbs began to burn from oxygen deprivation, he’d sent a prayer to the gods.
An arm had closed around his middle, and he’d felt himself being lifted up and up by the currents and that arm. Ramson had thought he had been dying, until he’d broken through the surface and the world crashed back in a torrent of waves and winds and rain.
“Swim,” said a calm voice by his ear. Coughing and spluttering, he’d turned to see that the orphan had his arm locked around him and was dragging him through the churning waves. The boy had turned, his black hair plastered to his pale face. In that thin, underfed face, Ramson saw true courage for the first time in his life. “Swim,” the boy repeated, “or we both die.”
Ramson swam.
The wrath of the ocean bore them up and down and back again like the small, insignificant lives they were, sputtering flickers of candlelight in a screaming gale. But Ramson held tight to Jonah Fisher and swam, one heavy kick after another, one tired stroke after the other. The cold made his limbs numb and drained him of his energy.
The rhythm of the waves lulled both boys into a stupor. At some point, Ramson must have closed his eyes or fallen asleep swimming. The next thing he knew, there were the unmistakable shouts of men