Sevensworn

XVII. Lucky Bird

Port Lede was gray. The houses, the food, the faces. It was a minuscule fishing town nearly independent from the rest of Adacia, separated from larger cities and villages by the daunting mountains it had taken them until morning to cross. By the time they reached it, the sun was peeking up from under the sea, teasing its rebirth. Members of the limited population eyed them warily as they passed, gray eyes cold and inhospitable. Ronan didn't blame them⁠—it was common knowledge among his people by now that strangers often meant Rhydellans and Rhydellans meant war. They did not come bearing the red flag of the enemy, but they might as well have; the apprehension was justified.

The ships tethered to the docks were just as gray as the people. The wood was rough and weak but seemingly seaworthy, and Ronan wasn't about to complain. He kept his hood up and his head down as he dismounted his horse and led it along the shore. Zia followed soon after, her back and shoulders rigid and tense. 

"We'll pay for passage on one of these," Ronan said. He scanned their surroundings, and Zia grimaced.

"I can't say I'm thrilled by our options."

Ronan nodded. The ships certainly weren't vessels he'd place any large amount of trust in. He led his horse onto the dock, wincing as the wood creaked and dipped beneath its hooves. An old sailor looked up at them at the end of the dock, pausing in the intricate business of mending a frayed rope. 

"Who are you?" His voice was as grizzled as his face. His hands, rough and bony, froze on the rope he held.

Ronan offered a respectful bow, cautious and stiff. "A traveler, sir."

"We don't get too many travelers around here, boy." His eyes darted from Ronan to Zia and back again. His next words were directed at the queen. "And you?"

"My name is Zia." Ronan looked at her, eyes wide. Even the most remote villages knew of the queen across the sea⁠—if she gave herself away, it would dig their grave in a heartbeat. The villagers wouldn't even have to be directly hostile⁠—word of their presence would spread regardless, and Rhydel would be biting at their heels in no time. 

"Zia," the man said. "Esadonian name, is it not? That short for something?"

"Zia Anahera Te⁠—" she stopped herself before she could say her surname. "Tenasi," she said hastily. 

"Mm." The sailor stood. "Strong name. Means something about wind, right?"

"'Daughter of the South Wind.'" Zia's eyebrows raised. "You speak Esadonian?"

"A little. I own a ferry, kid, you need to pick up a few languages when you're in a trade like mine." He studied them, slightly more at ease. "You two need to get somewhere?"

"Ivenmore," Ronan said.

"That is a rough path this time of year. You see this weather?"

"It's urgent." Zia stepped forward beside him. "We have coin. We're willing to pay double your usual fare." 

The sailor threw back his head and laughed. "Look around us. This look like a place where coin is of any use? Trade only, and it has to be something good. I can get you to Ivenmore, sure, but considering this storm, it will cost you." 

Ronan and Zia exchanged glances. Their bags had nothing but essentials⁠—provisions, clothes, weapons. Nothing extravagant enough to count toward a boat fare. Ronan cursed under his breath and opened the flap of one of his saddlebags, peering in and sifting through for something valuable. His fingers touched something cold and sharp and his brow furrowed⁠—the shape was unfamiliar and unnerving, and when he shifted the clothes on top of it to the side, his heart skipped a beat.