It is year 1791 since the fall of the Basilica del Mare. The Free Isles of the Immersea are faced with threats old and new, chief among them aggression from the empire in the west, Varuulan. Sailing under the banner the mysterious and storied Lachlan Hope, a young captain and her crew finds themselves unlikely allies in a pair of infamous pirates and their ships–with all of them standing at the center of a fight that will save or doom them all.
Set in a world where water covers most of the globe, Maraeternum tells the tale of Alexia Hope, Laucorn Taurles, Bree O’Kerry, Rooks Taurles, Kyrie Stafford, Trakal Taurles, Daci Cook, Liam D’Arcy, and Lachlan Hope–figures that stand against the might of an empire that could destroy the world. They will unravel the lost mysteries of Maraeternum’s past in order to ensure that the world has a future. What follows is the original draft of the second chapter, in which we meet some of the crew of the Blue Typhoon.
Two
There was a storm massing out on the horizon and if the ache in her leg was anything to go by, it was going to be a particularly foul one. She assumed that the rest of the crew had noticed the shadow in the distance. It would be on them before mid-afternoon, well before they made port at St. Ransom.
Unless we’ve made better time than I thought—but I doubt the winds were that favorable and gods know Rooks would rather save the engines for when we really need them.
Kyrie Stafford leaned against the rail, shifting her weight slightly. The only sounds she could hear was the sound of the ocean and the crew on the deck and in the rigging—normal sounds of a ship at sea. She stared at the darkness on the horizon, watched a few faint flashes illuminate the shadows. She straightened, her fingers curling around the battered and scarred wood of a rail that had seen more than one boarding hook, more than one fight with the Varuulani.
The ship had seen far worse than the storm building in the distance in her years on the seas, but there was something about the darkness out there that made Kyrie uneasy.
It’s nothing. Stop worrying. Just another storm. We’ll batten down and ride it out then make St. Ransom in the morning if the storm doesn’t break until after dark.
Her gaze drifted over the water and she frowned. Perhaps that was what was bothering her. Half a day out from port and there wasn’t another ship in sight.
Unless we’re off course, which shouldn’t happen. She glanced back over her shoulder, toward the wheel. “Roanoke!”
The first mate glanced down toward her. “Something wrong?”
Kyrie frowned, then turned, jogging across the deck and up to where he stood minding the wheel. She didn’t speak until she was closer, near enough not to be overheard by the rest of the crew. They were largely a seasoned bunch and used to sailing together, but there was no reason to sow unnecessary concern.
“We haven’t drifted off-course, have we?”
The tall man gave her a strange look. “Not so far as I know, but you’re navigation. You tell me.”
She made a face at him and glanced back out toward the water, toward the storm and the open sea. “I give you the headings and you follow them.”
“And we are.” His brows knit. “What’s the matter?”
“Where’s Rooks?”
“Below in the galley, I think. Said something about checking on Cookie and our supplies.”
Kyrie nodded, turning away. Roanoke grasped her arm, his other hand still firm on the wheel.
“What’s the matter?” he asked again. She exhaled and shook her head.
“It’s probably nothing. Just that we’re half a day out of St. Ransom and there’s not a soul on the water except for us.”
Roanoke blinked at her, his brow furrowing a little more as he gazed out onto the water, just like she had been before. “Huh,” was all he said, once again settling both hand on the wheel. “Well…stranger things, right?”
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “Stranger things.”
This time when she started to walk away, he didn’t stop her.
Kyrie headed below, two decks down toward the galley, where the ever-cheerful Bail “Cookie” Morris held sway—he’d taken the job two weeks after she’d hired onto the Typhoon as their navigator and like she and Roanoke were among the longest-standing members of Rooks Taurles’s crew of misfits and miscreants. They were the only ones left from the days when the Taurles brothers sailed together, the only ones that remembered the horror of the day when Alexia D’Arcy died on Trakal Taurles’s blade, dying on the deck of a captured Varuulani ship set for an ambush that ended up being her undoing—and very nearly theirs as well. Kyrie still had nightmares about that day and the scar from the wound she’d taken to protect D’Arcy’s daughter still ached sometimes. She knew it haunted her captain, too.
Today reminded her of that day—a storm on the horizon and seas that were far, far too quiet, too empty.
She wondered, as she stepped into the galley, if Roanoke had made the connection, too.
“Come for a cuppa, KyKy?” Cookie asked, busy in front of the pot-bellied stove. Dinner was already on, a seafood stew if she were to guess from the smell of it. Fresh bread, too, that would hopefully survive the coming storm.
She shook her head. “No, but thanks. Rooks down here?”
Cookie jerked a thumb toward the storeroom. “Taking stock and checking my figures. What’s the matter? We off course?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, heading for the storeroom door. “Better button up, though. Storm on the horizon.”
The cook grimaced and nodded. “I’ll have to do that. How long do you think we’ve got?”
Kyrie shrugged. “Didn’t get a good idea of how fast it’s moving, otherwise I’d be able to tell you. Doesn’t look pretty, though.”
“Hurricane?”
“Just a bad storm, I think,” she said, then ducked into the narrow storeroom. Rooks Taurles stood at the far end, one hand moving as if he was counting the canisters stacked there—tins of coffee and tea there at the back. “Cap?”
He glanced back over his shoulder, blinking. “Hey. Did you need any of this?”
“Always, but that’s not why I came down here.”
His brow furrowed and he turned fully, picking up the lamp he’d left on a nearby shelf to provide some illumination for his inspection. “What’s wrong? Heard you and Cookie talking about a storm blowing up.” His voice dropped lower as he came within arms’ reach, quiet enough that they wouldn’t be overheard against the normal shipboard sounds—the crew, the sea, Cookie tending dinner in the galley next to them. “You’ve got that look.”
She grimaced, glancing down toward her feet. “It’s too quiet out there,” she said. “We’re only a few hours out of St. Ransom and there’s not a soul on the water. The last time it was this quiet out there was the day you almost got yourself killed in that ambush.”
Rooks rubbed at his collarbone, as if remembering, his expression matching hers. “Maybe they saw the storm rolling in,” he said. “Ships putting out decided not to and others just decided to make best speed to somewhere else. Or they dropped anchor to avoid the mess. How far out is the storm?”
“We’ll be lucky to make it to mid afternoon before it hits,” she said.
“Can we make St. Ransom before it hits?” His blue eyes gleamed in the lamplight. Sometimes, he loved a challenge—especially if it distracted him from something unpleasant, and she knew that bringing up the ambush that had almost taken him five years before was certainly that. “Full sail, engines going full blast?”
“I doubt it,” she said, chewing her lip. “We could try, but I’m not sure we’d clear the reef and the breakwater before the storm’s on us.”
Rooks’s brows knit and he nodded. “Might be worth the shot,” he said, half to her and half to himself. He caught her fingers and squeezed gently. “Worst case scenario, it’ll put us out of range of anything that’s looking to ambush us.”
A broken laugh escaped her lips and she shook her head. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know. But now the thought’s in my head, too. We’re pretty far out from contested waters, though. It’d take some serious balls for someone to be this far into Free Isles waters setting an ambush—for us or anyone else.”
“You’re right,” she murmured. “Intellectually, I know that, too. It’s just…” her voice trailed away and Kyrie chewed her lip. His fingers brushed her cheek.
“I know,” Rooks said softly. “We’ll be careful. There’s not much else we can do besides make best speed for St. Ransom. Who knows. Maybe we will manage to make Firenze before the storm hits us full-force.”
“If it’s moving slowly, maybe, but the way my leg’s aching says otherwise.”
Something flickered through his expression and was gone. “Just your leg? Not your back, too?”
Her brow arched and one corner of his mouth quirked upward into a smile.
“You don’t remember, but I do. When we got ambushed and I took the worst of it, your back was hurting you so badly you were practically in tears. Storm that day, too.” His thumb stroked her cheek one more time before he withdrew his hand and picked up the lamp again. “With any luck, history won’t repeat itself today.”
Luck. That’s something that sure as hell runs hot and cold for us. Kyrie exhaled quietly, turning to follow him out of the storeroom. “Are you heading up?”
He nodded. “Someone’s got to give the order to fire up the engine and make best speed for the harbor. Gods know that Roanoke won’t do it just yet—especially if he knew you were coming to look for me.”
“We know each other too well by this point, don’t we?”
Rooks grinned. “We do, but honestly, I don’t think I’d have it another way. Have them secure everything down here. I’ll see you up on deck afterwards.”
Kyrie nodded, lingering near the door of the galley even as Rooks headed down the hall. “Be careful.”
He shot her the same crooked, boyish smile that somewhere along the line had claimed her heart. “You first.”
Then he bounded up the stairs.
