She is sixteen — the same age I was when I participated in the rites, which seems somewhat shocking to me. I drop my feet to the floor and pull myself up to prepare for the day. Catching my reflection in my small mirror while I braid my hair, hard planes and feral eyes look back at me, no traces of the soft cheeks and wide eyes of youth. Was I ever as innocent and lovely as Lyra is now?
Hair done, I don the charcoal dress I wore yesterday, and Lyra removes a beautiful cobalt option from her trunk. Curiosity gets the best of me as I peek inside at the items she was given — bold colors that bring out her darker complexion and warm coloring. The Captain certainly has good taste.
As I clasp the last few buttons on my bodice, a knock sounds at our cabin door. Gesturing for Lyra to open it, I expect it to be our ever-present cabin boy, but am surprised to find a large man hovering a respectful distance outside the open frame.
“Oh, um, good morning to you, sir!” Lyra brightly greets the man before looking to me for guidance.
He stands back from the cabin door, but I quickly realize it is not merely out of respect. The man is enormous, at least a half a head taller than the Captain, and would have to duck were he to enter our cabin. Although he's a giant of a man, he doesn’t seem to have an ounce of fat on his intimidating frame. Long, dark hair is braided down the center of his head and hangs down his back, but the sides are shaved, revealing tattoos on his scalp. This style, plus the heavy torcs of gold and silver he wears at his neck and wrists, and thick facial hair covering his chin and cheeks suggests he must be a Northman, known to be fierce warriors and excellent sailors.
The faint accent when he speaks confirms my suspicions. “Good morning, ladies. The Captain would like me to escort you to the quarter deck before breakfast. He has an announcement.”
“And you are…?” I study his face at my question, expecting him to respond with harshness at my reluctance to take him at his word obediently.
“I am Erik Varangr. Quartermaster for the Bartered Soul, Mistress. I will wait outside until you are ready,” he answers without hesitation, then turns to stand sentry outside our door, giving us privacy to finish our preparations. Lyra and I glance at each other before smoothing our skirts and making any last-minute adjustments.
Within moments, we follow behind the hulking man and up to the fresh air on deck. As the crisp sea air cuts into my cheeks, I pull the fabric of my cloak closed, thankful I chose to wear it. Lyra and I both huddle in our woolen shelters as the ocean mist blows past us. All members of the crew, including the cook, were pulled from their places to attend this announcement. I should be nervous — this kind of attention cannot bode well for two lone women aboard a pirate’s vessel — but I stand tall and secretly clutch the dagger I always keep hidden in my skirt pocket.
Captain Lennox steps from his cabin and climbs the steps to the quarter deck to stand next to us. Lyra and I are now flanked by the two highest-ranking men on board. Erik crosses his large arms over his chest again, his biceps bulging under rolled sleeves, the pose as intimidating as the scowl on his face. This must be his usual stance, while the Captain appears relaxed and amenable.
“Gentlemen,” Lennox’s deep voice rumbles, carrying over the waves crashing against the hull of the ship. “There have been whispers reaching me about our recent guests that I wish to address.
“These ladies,” I hear a few snickers at the word and his lips flatten into a tight line, silencing the murmurs before he continues, “are my guests and are here at my behest. Anything that they need or desire is to be granted. However, should any of you find yourself with desires of your own…”
My breath catches as I wait for the words I am dreading — that I am to be used to fulfill those desires, that I am here for their pleasure. My hand tightens and I swallow back any emotion as I lift my chin, my expression a challenge to any man who might approach me.
The Captain finishes,“…know that you have two hands to use at your leisure.” A few men chuckle at the insinuation.
As he continues his speech, his tone shifts to a growl. “These women are mine. Should any of you offend them in any way, they have my permission to retaliate. If that retaliation proves ineffective, you will face my swift retribution. If any of you have a problem with this, you can speak with me immediately or depart the ship — whether we are at a port or not. You are dismissed.”
Years of practice in hiding my reactions is all that keep my jaw from hitting the boards of the deck. Did he just give us permission to say no to these men? To mete out punishment for their unwanted behavior? I have not had outright permission to do such a thing since my life in the temple.
The sound of the sea drowns any responses the men utter, but most nod and return to their work — this is not a new edict on board, it seems. A few stand together with red faces, and I catch the eye of the same distasteful man who tried to stare me down yesterday. He has a thick beard liberally salted with white and a knit cap covering his head. His eyes are cold when he sneers at me with missing teeth. I swallow and continue to wear my mask — no man will frighten me, here or elsewhere. Not again.
“Ladies, you may join me in my cabin for breakfast, if you’d like.” I almost jump at the Captain’s voice as he brings me back to the present and out of my own thoughts. Lennox has snuck up on me again, and I feel a small rush of anxiety at the ease with which he does so.
“Afterwards, I can have Varangr show you around.” I cast a wary eye at the Captain, unsure of what breakfast might be like following the tenor of our dinner last night, but Lyra happily accepts the invitation and I trail them to the great cabin.
Breakfast is a simple meal of porridge, and I keep my thoughts to myself as Lyra chats easily with the Captain. She behaves as if we are ladies entertaining a gentleman caller, not whores purchased for his desires. Lennox is relaxed in her presence. Indulgent, even.
His gaze rests on me several times throughout the meal. Each time my eyes flick to his, he gives me a wicked grin, but continues to drink his tea and listen to Lyra’s chatter. The little black cat that escaped the room last night prowls around the edges of the room until Lyra coaxes her into her lap, completely enamored by the little beast.
“Who is this adorable creature?” she asks, scratching the animal’s chin and eliciting a warm purr in appreciation.
“She doesn’t really have a name. She’s the ship’s mouser, but she’s become spoiled sneaking in here at night,” the Captain says.
His voice hints displeasure, but his lips quirk at the little cat. He doesn’t strike me as the type who would tolerate something in his presence if he didn’t want it to be. Lyra smiles down at the ball of fur curled in her lap and continues petting her.
“How long will it take to reach the islands?” Lyra questions between petting the cat and delicately eating her porridge. My interest is piqued, as I have yet to be told exactly where we are traveling to.
“It’s usually a six-week voyage to Delosia, barring any unfortunate events,” Lennox replies. I look up in surprise, my spoon held aloft on its way to my mouth. Six weeks?
“What sort of unfortunate events?” I wonder aloud before I can stop myself.
“Storms, raids, illnesses. All would be inconvenient,” he replies to me succinctly, taking a sip of tea. “We will stop at one last port before fully departing the Selennian coast to add any last-minute supplies, then continue West.”
I wrack my brain to remember maps I’ve seen of the world, vaguely aware of tropical islands across the sea where valuable fruits and sugar are grown and shipped at exorbitant prices to Selennia and the nearby continent. Where the water is clear and the climate is warm. Is that where we are bound? The reason for the lightweight clothing in my trunk?
I haven’t traveled beyond the borders of Selennia before, and a part of me welcomes the idea of a completely new land, even if the unknown feels daunting. I have survived so far — surely I can make it another six weeks before starting a new life in a new place.