Chapter Text
“And Fjerdans claim to treat their women with respect,” Alina challenged.
“You’re not a woman. You’re a witch,” the blonde sailor replied in a perfunctory manner, without even looking back at her. It was the response he was supposed to give.
“A witch, am I?” She laughed, and her laughter finally got his attention. “I didn’t choose to be born Grisha. My parents didn’t ask for me to be born Grisha. And, one day, when you have daughters or sons, and they discover they are Grisha, will you take them to the Ice Court? Or will you have the decency to kill them in their cots? Quick, painless.”
He hesitated, his expression caught between outrage and intrigue.
“You want me dead?” she continued. “Fine. Kill me now. I am helpless, and a dagger to the heart would end me as surely as any otkazat’sya, but you don’t want me dead.”
She couldn’t know that.
“No, you want me burned. You want to warm your hands and your cold, dead heart at the flames of my pyre, because there is nothing inside you — no warmth, no kindness, nor even a shred of human decency unless you breathe it in with my ashes!” Her eyes flashed with her challenge, but her voice grew deceptively, dangerously soft as she went on. “So you’ve got it wrong, you see? You’ve got it the wrong way around.”
He frowned at her, but held his tongue, wondering despite himself where she wanted to go with this.
“I am a woman, but you’re definitely no man.”
—————————
Despite the harsh words, he couldn’t get her out of his head. The fire in her eyes, especially in such defiance of her fate. The pride with which she carried herself, even shackled. Vulnerable and helpless, she’d still challenged him. She’d made the first move. He’d been silently seeing to the security of her brig when she’d dared to address him without fear of how he might retaliate. And when he’d sought to ignore her, she had refused to let him off so easily. Well-spoken vitriol had flowed from her lips like honeywater. Every word, even the tone of her voice, a snare. Carefully crafted into a crescendo until the clap of her parting shot had left his ears ringing. They still rang. To be considered so low by one he was to consider less than sea foam…
Though any further conversation was sure to be punishment with her tongue lashing at him like a cat-of-nine-tails, he found himself imagining it until well into the night, and throughout the next day. Perplexingly, he wanted to feel again the sharpness of her tongue, the heat of that fire burn him. For she had revealed more of her true self in that moment than any of the well-bred Fjerdan maidens his father’s business partners had brought to dinner in an entire evening. Seafaring had led him to deal with men and women of all nations, so he knew well some of the differences in girls’ upbringing as well as the resulting temperaments, but he’d rarely had true conversation with any of his family’s foreign trade partners. It came to him suddenly that he knew nothing of true value about any of them. Nothing personal, nothing close to the heart, and if the Grisha was that easy to rile, she might reveal more… substantial information.
Decision made, he turned his silver tongue first on the leader of the drüskelle. It was no easy sell, but the chance to discover more about the Little Palace, Grisha training, and potential spies was too good to pass up. That same evening, dinner was laid out in his cabin. Bread and cheese, olives, pickles, and a variety of fresh fruit they still had from their recent stay in port. He’d also prepared a small bowl of water and cloth so she might at least wash her hands, bound though they were. No need to be a bad host. The drüskelle brought her in, pushing and shoving even as she staggered forward. With a frown at the hunter, the captain pulled out her chair for her. She looked from him to it, then over the spread, her eyes suddenly more alert. When she stood still to contemplate her options a moment too long, the drüskelle’s paw came up to her shoulder, roughly forcing her forward until she would have slammed into the desk if the captain hadn’t caught her first.
He aimed for his grip on her shoulders to be firm enough to steady her but painless. Her look of surprise and gratitude told him he’d succeeded before she could mask her emotions again. With a charming smile, the captain helped her into her seat, and slid the wash basin a little closer while the drüskelle fell into the chair beside her with a grunt. A suspicious side-eye not withstanding, she jumped at the chance to wash her hands and face, uncaring that the clumsy movements of her bound hands soaked her days-old clothes as well. She turned out to be quite lovely beneath all the grime. When she brought some water to her lips to drink, however, he quickly placed a goblet of wine before her.
“I think you’ll find this more palatable.”
“I thought women were forbidden from imbibing spirits in Fjerda?”
“We’re not in Fjerda, and you’re definitely not Fjerdan.”
Briefly, she smiled. Rather than drink, though she eyed the cup carefully. Impulsively, he picked it up again, and took a swig. Once he placed it back on the desk, she seemed amused but no longer hesitant. Her gaze remained on him as she brought the goblet to her own lips. The air thickened between them as if they were sharing something intimate. Suddenly, the drüskelle grabbed hold of her hair to pull her head back.
“None of your Grisha wiles here, witch,” he growled. “You will comport yourself like a decent woman while in the company of your betters.”
Her teeth were bared at the pain. The captain thought to interfere, but, truthfully, he was curious how she might respond. She did not disappoint.
“I have no betters here,” she announced decisively. “And you wouldn’t know a decent woman — or any other sort — if she paraded herself naked on deck.”
The captain barked out a laugh, startling the drüskelle from whatever vengeance he might have sought.
“Come, come, commander. I’m not so easily swayed. If she wanted to seduce me, I’d expect her to woo me a little more first,” he told her with a wink. “Let’s not ruin dinner.”
Blessedly, the man let her go.
Upon indication that she might eat, the Grisha’s gaze once more roamed over the spread. Bound hands reached out for cheese, and fruit, and all else the table had to offer. Though she snatched no more than one piece at a time, and only after he’d previously taken a bite in a show of good faith, it became clear that she hadn’t eaten in a while. He would have to talk to his first mate. He always ordered prisoners to be treated as well as could be done. Grisha were a particular case what with the need to bind their hands, to be sure, but Sven should have seen to them receiving food. Though, if memory served, they always looked like they were starving even when he personally oversaw their meals.
“So, you must be wondering what’s go—”
“You’re transporting me to Djerholm to a stage play of a trial at the Ice Court,” she interrupted with a shrug. “Not much to know, is there? What more do you want?”
A beat of silence at her direct manner stretched across the room.
“Somehow, I doubt you’re offering me food and wine out of the goodness of your heart,” she told him pointedly. No doubt they both recalled their previous interaction. The captain didn’t miss a beat, though.
“You said that Grisha are born, not made, which made me realize how woefully ignorant I am about all matters pertaining to Grisha. I thought it best to educate myself.”
“You. And him?” she pointed at the drüskelle.
“He’s here for protection.”
“Yours or mine?”
He blinked. She continued to surprise him.
“I assure you, I have no untoward intentions toward you. You have nothing to fear.”
She pointedly raised her shackled hands.
“Except your fanaticism,” she quipped, “…but it’s comforting to know you only plan to murder me. Phew, that’s a weight off my chest.”
The rhythm of their verbal dance was unreasonably familiar, considering he had only ever spoken to her once before. The bite of her tongue soothed him, while the drüskelle twitched in irritation. A change of topic was necessary.
“Ms Starkov—”
“You may address me as Commander Starkov, captain. While I know it probably offends your delicate Fjerdan sensibilities, I am a soldier, and an officer,” she admonished him.
“Last I heard you were a deserter.”
“And yet never dishonorably discharged.”
“Very well, commander. You may address me as Captain—”
“Best not to tell me your name, captain. I would only curse it.”
His mouth twitched as he inclined his head.
“Well, then, Commander Starkov. Where are you from?”
“Where do you think,” she deadpanned, motioning at her face with her bound hands. It was an obvious misdirection. Alina Dva Stolba; superstitious Ravkans had even named her for the valley of her birth, which belied her obvious Shu complexion. A clever lie told without having to say a single falsehood. Her cunning was as impressive as her wit.
“Was it a surprise when they told you you were Grisha, or did you know all along? How old were you when you found out anyway?”
“I don’t really remember,” she claimed with a shrug. “It feels like I’ve lived my whole life at the Little Palace.”
“Oh, and what was that like, the Grisha school?”
“Like any school, I suppose. You hate going as a kid.”
“And now?” he prompted, hoping for a show of her sharp tongue. Perhaps her temper would create an opening as well.
“Nowadays, I reserve my hatred for those who deserve it,” she responded, choosing carefully how she wanted to interpret his question. He couldn’t suppress a grin, which just grew when he spotted the fire in her eyes. Just a little push…
“Doesn’t seem like they taught you anything useful if you find yourself here now,” he poked. People loved to correct others, and the flush of her anger made him hopeful that this held true for her as well. Admittedly, he also liked the color on her face.
“Maybe I just wasn’t an apt pupil—”
“Improbable,” he said, and it felt good to be the one to interrupt her for once. Sadly, he didn’t throw her nearly as off kilter as the other way around.
“Or perhaps it was the six barbarians ambushing me,” she went on drily.
—————————
The next day he managed to convince the drüskelle guard to stay outside the door. He assured the other man he’d been instrumental, but now they should let her enjoy a friendlier face, some good wine and conversation. It might better loosen her tongue toward him. With the ever-present shadow of violence over her head, she would never relax enough to let go of her secrets. So as she stumbled in from one last shove, he resisted the urge to steady her. She needed room to trust. The dignity of standing on her own, walking on her own. Therefore, when she deviated from the direct route to his desk, he let her roam to look at his bookshelves, at the map on the wall, at the vastness of the sea left behind them framed in the window at his back. When she finally did settle down, she seemed more subdued, her expression surly. Her eyes never quite met his as she nibbled on the food.
“Home is behind,” he told her, almost regretfully. She turned to look at him.
“I’m an orphan. I never had a home.”
He knew how that felt, in his own way.
“Neither do I, really. As a sailor, I have ports. None ever felt like I belonged.”
She hummed softly, then stopped.
“At least you have your ports. There is nowhere for me to turn.”
An opening…
“…You must have known you’d burn some bridges after what you and you co-conspirator did.”
“I didn’t aid the Darkling” she growled at him. “I was his prisoner, as I am now yours until I escaped from him. I intended—” She shook her head. “I wanted to destroy the Fold. Then everyone would see that the Darkling and I were not allies in his massacre of Novokribirsk.”
“How?” he asked, curious, but her jaw set. If she’d been about to reveal something before, she’d thought better of it. He would never pry it out of her now. So, like any good sailor, he altered course to stay in the wind. “The Fold has its uses.”
She snorted.
“The Darkling would agree with you,” she said. “Just like that, you have common ground with your enemy.”
“I am nothing like that heretic,” he ground out. It was the first comment of hers that truly angered him, but she remained unaffected.
“Aren’t you?” she challenged. “Let us take a look at its uses, then, shall we? To keep Ravka down — torn, poor, manageable. Our citizens barely able to manage subsistence, and living in fear that the never-ending wars will take even what little remains. Until when?… Until Fjerda conquers us? And then; have you thought about that? Then, Ravka will bleed dry your coffers, and the Fold will still be there. It will be your problem to solve. A wound that will not heal. Will your people pray to Djel then for another Sun Summoner? Do you think he will give you one after you will have sacrificed me at the altar of your zeal?”
Every word a blade, and he so enjoyed the sparring. He huffed out a laugh of delight.
“Are you begging for your life?”
“No,” she told him simply, a wicked grin slowly stretching across her face. “I’m laughing at your fate.”
—————————
“Do you really think I’ll betray my country for a little food and wine?” It was the third night when, even as she asked, she popped a piece of dried fruit into her mouth in open defiance.
“No,” he answered simply. “Frankly, I’m a little insulted that you would think so.”
“Then what’s the purpose of all this?” She made a sweeping gesture with her shackles. “Every moment you spent alone with me is a risk. I might try to take you hostage.”
He stood, took his gun from the belt, and laid it threateningly on the table.
“You might find that a little difficult.” He gestured to her bound hands.
“I might get free,” she suggested with a downright evil grin.
“Oh, I’m fully aware you could burn down my ship, and consign us all to the watery deep. Before you would do that, though, you might want to consider exactly how far we are from the shore,” he quipped, unconcerned.
“Better a watery grave than a pyre,” she retorted with a shrug, sending a shudder down his spine. “Or you could be so kind as to shoot us all now.”
“There is no kindness in my heart,” he threw her own words back at her, but there was no bite in them. Her suggestion struck a chord in him. It would be a kinder fate than what awaited her at the Ice Court, and he knew if the ship came upon trouble, the drüskelle would order the Grisha to be left to drown. The result would be the same even if he did shoot her, but he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
“Touché.”
——————————
“Can you really make light?” he asked quietly at one point.
“No!” she called back, horrified. “I don’t do merzost. It's forbidden. Grisha practice the Small Science.”
Curious, he leaned forward.
“What’s the difference?”
Alina blinked. He looked honestly interested. He was Fjerdan, of course, and he’d obviously been trying to glean information from her, so it was probably a trick. Slim as the chance was, though, the truth might sway his opinion on Grisha. Not today, certainly not in time to save her, but perhaps to spare others… With surprising patience, he waited for her to debate the merits of telling him about their ways. It was that, more than anything, that made her take the plunge to explain.
“Your Djel, my First Maker, whatever we call the divine; their sacred power lies at the heart of creation,” she began, watching his face draw into a frown as he considered, before giving a nod. This was a base line they could agree on. “It is not meant for mortals like us. In our hands it becomes merzost. Magic. Abomination.”
She paused to look at him to see if she had lost him. A small wave of his hand bid her continue.
“So we do not make what there is not, only call upon that which is already there.”
His frown deepened, so she looked around for an example. Her shackled hands caused a bit of a ruckus when she pointed at the gas lamp on his desk.
“The flame of the lamp creates light. I can call upon that light, and the light of other sources to…come to me. To coalesce. To make a new shape.”
“And then you use it as a weapon.”
“To defend my country or myself,” she pointed out. “You would do the same.”
He had the decency not to deny it.
——————————
“You could make me walk the plank,” she suggested on another night, only half joking.
“This isn’t a pirate ship. We don’t have a plank,” he huffed.
“Then throw me overboard or, if you can’t stomach it, just take me to the railing. I’ll do it myself.”
“Are you so eager to die?” It was becoming a little disconcerting, her repeated suggestions on how he might murder her.
“I’ll die anyway. At least this would be a death of my own choosing,” she countered flatly. “No sham trial at which nobody is ever found innocent, and instead is sentenced to burn for the crime of existing.”
He turned his hand, the movement suggestive of an opening, a willingness to take a step toward her.
“You could… not practice your… Small Science,” he suggested. “You could offer them assurance—”
She barked out a laugh. Bitter. Empty. Enough to make him flinch.
“You really know nothing about Grisha,” she hissed at him, her glance suddenly a glare. It was clear by his face that he did not know what he’d said wrong. Even if she liked using her unusual powers, why be so offended? “You think I fear the pyre? I do, but not using my powers would be worse. Have you never taken other Grisha on this route before?”
An odd question.
“I have,” he admitted. No point in denying it; he did what he had to do.
“And how long does the voyage last? Days, certainly,” she went on before he could decide whether or not to answer. “Maybe weeks? Have you ever taken them right into the Ice Court?”
She didn’t wait for an answer this time.
“Did they look healthy to you?” Her question was a growl, but her eyes were wet with tears held back. She blinked them away. Would not give her enemy the satisfaction of seeing her cry. “Were they even following the proceedings at their farce of a trial? Were they strong enough to stand on their own? Awake enough to answer a single question?…Grisha who do not use their powers, waste away. Suppressed, unused, they are like a sickness that rots away our guts.”
He blinked, taken aback.
“It will take longer for me. As Sun Summoner, I am stronger than most. Nonetheless, by the time you deliver me to land, it will have begun. When I reach the Ice Court, it will be irreversible. I won’t be able to save myself, then, nor any of my fellow Grisha even if I could get free. My only hope would be to spare us all the fire,” she snarled through gritted teeth. “And maybe take a few of you bastards with us.”
He flinched at the images she evoked, and opened his mouth to answer, but one of his men came in just then.
“Capt’n Opjer, there’s a problem with the—”
The Grisha’s head snapped around so fast, he thought she might have broken her own neck. She certainly might have tried.
“Opjer?” she demanded. “Did you just call him—” She turned back to him, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Nikolai Opjer? The son of Magnus Opjer.”
It was not a question, but he nodded dumbly anyway.
“You’ve heard of him?”
She snorted, unamused.
“I think everyone in both palaces has probably heard of him,” she answered cryptically. At his expectant gaze, she jerked her head. Whatever it was, she would not tell him the full truth. “Once Fjerdan ambassador to Ravka…now a shipping magnate with a taste for human trafficking, it seems.”
He was out of his seat in a second.
“Take a care, that’s my father you’re—”
She wouldn’t even allow him to finish his chide, instead giving him a suspicious once-over, horror growing on her face as she seemed to come to some kind of conclusion.
“How old are you? Eighteen, nineteen?” Her voice sounded almost hopeful. Another odd question. Odder still was her reaction when he answered.
“Twenty-one,” he replied, not sure why. By the way her face blanched that had been the wrong answer. Curiouser and curiouser. Her head hastily turned back to his deckhand.
“Take me back belowdecks,” she demanded.
“Ya don’t give me orders, witch. The captain—”
“If I stay here another minute, I’m liable to launch myself over the table to kill him, and then where will you be?”
“Ya’ll have his dagger between yar tits,” the deckhand laughed.
“Good. A better way to go than what awaits me in Fjerda.”
She’d do it, too, he realized. Thinking about it now, the oddest thing was almost that she hadn’t done it yet. It was a fairly straight-forward solution to her repeated pleas for a premature execution. Yet she’d never raised her hand against him, even when they were alone. Either her death wish wasn’t as pronounced as she’d claimed, or she still held out hope that she might escape. Possibly with his help? Had she been playing her own game while he’d plied her for information? The only other explanation was that she liked his company, which, granted, was the only company she had access to on his ship, so perhaps she was just desperate for someone to talk to.
“She’s good for it,” he told his deckhand with a lop-sided smirk at the Grisha, who refused to look at him. There was something more going on than his father’s past career in politics or his business enterprise. He wouldn’t get it out of her right now, though, and certainly not with the other sailor there. “Take her below. Keep her in isolation as before.”
Leaving his office, she didn’t look back at him once. Whatever he felt at that, he chose not to acknowledge.