Children of Blood and Bone - Tomi Adeyemi Page 0,157
cotton sheets and velvet panthenaire furs, I don’t know if I’ve ever slept in a softer bed. I close my eyes and wait to be pulled into blackness, but the moment unconsciousness takes hold, I’m thrown back into chains—
“I wouldn’t be doing my job as king if I didn’t remind you what you are.”
“I wouldn’t be doing my job as king unless—”
“Agh!”
My sheets are soaked in sweat, so drenched the captain’s bed might as well be in the sea. Though I’m awake, it feels like the metal walls keep closing in around me.
In an instant, I’m on my feet, running out the door. When I make it to the outside deck, the cool air hits me with a welcome gust of wind. The moon hangs so low in the sky its roundness kisses the sea. Its pale light illuminates me as I inhale the ocean air.
Breathe, I coach myself. Gods, I long for the days when the only thing I had to worry about when I closed my eyes was the dreamscape. Though the nightmare is more than past, I can still feel the knife cutting through my back.
“Enjoying the view?”
I whip around to find Roën leaning against the helm, teeth gleaming even in the dark. “The moon didn’t want to rise tonight, but I convinced her you were worth the trip.”
“Does everything have to be a joke with you?” My words are harsher than I intend, but Roën’s grin only widens.
“Not everything.” He shrugs. “But life’s a lot more fun that way.”
He shifts his stance, and the moonlight hits the splatters of blood on his fatigues and bandaged knuckles.
“All in a good day’s work.” Roën wriggles his bloodstained fingers. “Had to get those soldiers talking about your magical island somehow.”
Nausea rises to my throat at the sight of the blood on his hand. I gulp to keep it down. Ignore him. I turn back to the sea, grasping on to the calm it brings.
I don’t want to picture the mess he made of those men. I’ve seen enough blood. I’ll stay here, within the crashing waves, where it’s soft and safe. Here, I can think of swimming. Of Baba. Of freedom—
“The scars.” Roën’s voice cuts into my thoughts. “Are they new?”
I glare at him like he’s an Orïshan honeybee begging to be smashed. “They’re none of your damn business.”
“If you’re looking for some advice, they could be.” Roën pulls back his sleeve, and all the venom I want to spit evaporates. Crooked tallies mar his wrist, traveling up his arm, disappearing underneath his shirt.
“Twenty-three,” he answers my unasked question. “And yes, I remember each mark. They killed one of my crew members in front of me each time they carved a new one.”
He runs his finger down one crooked line in particular, face hardening with the memory. Watching him, my own scars prickle. “The king’s guards?”
“Nope. These kind and gracious men were from my home. A land across the sea.”
I stare at the horizon, imagining a different ship route, a place away from the ritual, from magic, from Saran. A land where the Raid never happened at all.
“What’s it called?”
“Sutōrī.” Roën’s gaze grows distant. “You’d like it there.”
“If it’s full of tally marks and scoundrels like you, I can assure you that’s one kingdom I’ll never see.”
Roën smiles again. A nice smile. Warmer than I expect. But knowing what I know so far, this smile could appear when he tells a joke or slits another man’s throat.
“Level with me.” He steps closer, looking me straight in the eye. “In my humble experience, the nightmares and scars take time to heal. Right now your wounds are a bit too fresh for my comfort.”
“What’re you trying to say?”
Roën puts a hand on my shoulder; it’s so close to the scars I flinch out of instinct.
“If you can’t do this, I need to know. Don’t—” He stops me before I interject. “This isn’t about you. I couldn’t speak for weeks after I got my scars. I certainly couldn’t fight.”
It’s like he’s in my head, like he knows my magic’s run dry. I can’t do this, I scream inside. If an army’s waiting, we’re sailing to our deaths.
But the words stay in my mouth, burrowing back down. I have to trust the gods. I need to believe that if they took me this far, they won’t turn their backs on me now.
“Well?” Roën presses.
“The people who gave me my scars are the ones on those ships.”