Mary

It’s three days before we see our jailer, Asta, again. He trudges in, head hanging. I notice the pendant handing around his neck. Three light blue feathers hanging off a black leather cord. The feathers are at the base of his sternum, bright and colorful against Asta’s pale skin. He grunts, and I notice angular scars covering his neck horizontally through the tangled curtain of his black hair. Since the old man, who’s eyes had been crimson red, had come and done something to Asta. I could see scars all over his body. Jagged lines across his chest, the farthest points of a cobalt blue tattoo on his clavicle. Old burn marks on the tendons in his neck, grooves in circles around his wrists and ankles.

“James, Edward, he’s back.” I whisper. Both boys immediately sit up straighter, more alert.

Asta opens the cage door, places a new bucket of water in, along with another chunk of bread, then slams the rickety door shut, and stands. I go over. One of his hands is still on the door, fingers curled around one of the horizontal bars. Reaching through, I grab his wrist.

The pirate boy freezes, eyes wide. Breath coming in short, quick gusts. Asta’s a few years younger and a couple inches shorter than me, with a frame more bone and skin then muscle. His Adam’s apple is a horned peak in his throat, collarbone made of sharp angles under skin. I can feel his pulse through his bony wrist, feel the ridges of tendons in his arm. The scar tissue.

“Let. Go.” His voice is soft and harsh, quiet and tamed. I loosen my grip, and he yanks his arm out of my grasp. Asta backs up, rubbing the spot where I grabbed him. He’s wearing a linen shirt that’s half unbuttoned. Gray drawstring pants that end in ragged edges halfway down his shins. Barefoot, with a bandage warped around his left ankle. I pick up the bread, peering at it. James scoffs and comes over, putting one hand on my shoulder, pulling me into a hug.

I can feel Asta’s ice blue eyes burrowing twin holes into my spine. James gently yanks the bread out of my hands. He breaks it into three pieces. Tosses one piece at Edward, who catches it and then proceeds to have a staring contest with it. Hands the second piece to me, and takes the third for himself. We sit in a line on the bench in the cell, gnawing at the scrapes of food given to us. Asta takes a few blankets from the pile next to the wooden door. He goes to the hammock, climbs into it, then buries himself into the blankets, one of his legs dangling from the other side of the hammock. The ship rocks, I hear crew members yelling at each other on the decks around us.

Firelight flickers, casting shadows from the lantern mounted on the empty bookcase. The glowing orange light reflects on the dark rusty bars, glittering and sparking into thousands of little dots of light on the walls and floor. Asta groans, and I turn to see him curled up in a ball, snuggled deep in the folds of his hammock. Light catches on his dangling calf, revealing a scar that starts at his heel, goes across his Achilles tendon, then snakes up in a wavy line, disappearing behind his pant leg.

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A scar identical to one I saw on the dragon’s leg, in exactly the same place. Also, the dragon had been black, then same color as Asta’s hair, and its eyes had been pale, icy blue, the same as Asta. The wooden door separating this room from the rest of the ship creaked open, and two people entered.

One was the man from before, complete with red and brown robes. The other was a girl. She had skin the color of gilded honey, thick black brows, long eyelashes, black lips, and coal colored hair that was twisted into a braid that fell off her shoulder, going to her waist. She wore a tight, sleeveless black jumpsuit that clung to every curve of her body. Red silk shawls wrapped around her hips and shoulders, with a hood pulled up to cover the back of her head. Leather slippers. With three gold bands around her throat and gold bangles around her wrists. Her eyes were dark, with a neon green ring in each one.

A Fiberweaver.

With a quick gesture toward Asta’s sleeping form, the other person nodded. The girl unlocked the cell door with a grunt, throwing it open. The man stepped in, brandishing three pairs of shackles. He clipped a pair around all of mine, James, and Edward’s wrists, before yanking us out. The girl placed a hand on Edward’s forehead, eyes closed in concentration.

“Limpio.” She sounded bored, like this was all a waste of her time. The man tugged Edward to stand next to him. The girl did the same to James.

“Limpio.” James went to stand next to Edward. Then it was my turn. The girl’s palm was hot, and I felt a burning sensation when she touched me. Her hand lifted, and she took a step back.

“Limpia.” Then she turned and stepped out, leading us up the hallway, to a set of stairs. Stomping up, we followed, into hot, blazing light. When my eyes adjusted, I saw the deck. Men in torn, dirty clothing worked the deck, some sorting out the supplies taken from the Morning Glory. The girl stopped at a door with a stained glass window. She rapped her knuckles on the painted wood, then stepped back and waited.

A muffled “enter” came from inside, and we entered.

The captain’s cabin was well furnished, nothing like the cabin Asta stayed in. Tinted glass portholes lined both walls, with bookcases and a dresser placed around and underneath them. A desk sat towards the back and in the center, a sliding glass door in shades of peach orange, navy blue, and trellis green and gray backdrop behind it with light shining through. The wooden floor was filled by a rug of royal purple with gold tassels. The desk was made out of mangrove, piled high with leather bound books and Drake scales.

Sitting behind the desk, with his hat pulled low over his face, arms crossed over his chest, and boots propped up on the desk, was Captain Rover. Standing behind him was a woman with a knee length jacket the color of storm clouds with silver embroidery. Captain Ven. A notorious female pirate, captain of the Black Wave.

And a well known Oreweaver.

“Capitán. Capitana.”

The girl says, dipping her head in a sign of respect.

“Ah, Isabeth.” Rover purrs, sitting up in his chair.

“El prisoners, as you requested, herr.” Isabeth says. She steps off to the right, hands clasped in front of her. Rover takes his feet off the table, then rests his elbows on the desk, fingers threaded together. Fire plays in his right eye, flickering and playing a game of tag with the blue of his iris.

“Tell me, little Drake, what does your father fear. Fear more than death?”