BOOK ONE : AWAKENINGS
CHAPTER III
In which Emylia farewells her father, discovers the joys of one's own touch, and later, the joys of another's.
EMYLIA
Thunder. The waves pounded, and pooled in sucking, spinning whorls around the barnacled base of the ship, swirling at Emylia's ankles coolly, the sand tumbling in unseen crumbly slides about her feet, little pins of rain, the first few emissaries of the coming tempest, striking her bare arms and her face as her long ebon locks blew absurdly behind her, slapping against her back now and then, her shift leaping dangerously with each gust, threatening to fly up and altogether expose her, the sack of onions, reeking, rough, pressed against her stomach, shivers running the length of her pale body, her eyes struggling in the greasy lantern-light, the gangway crowded with sailors, ascending and descending noisily, stomping into the wet sand, momentarily stuck, ankle-moored, trudging undaunted for the next crate of ale, or bread, or fastenings, or a folded sail, or bundle of cloth, sweat shining faintly under the flame, the sails far above snapping fearsomely, the din of gulls and terns, wheeling about the masts, dim but incessant above the raging surf, the creaking of gangplanks, extended parallel into the sand, the shrieking of pulleys, rustflecked, burdened heavily with provisions, or goods to trade, swaying troublesomely in the whipping wind, howling, insatiable, ominous, amongst the boards and bulwarks, then lightning, silent, furious, throwing the horizon into sharp relief against the dark canvas of the sky, the lanterns and torches seeming briefly pathetic, thrusting instantly like a forked spear into the supine body of the ocean, the whitecaps ever wider, louder, heralding the storm, and thunder again, unfolding somewhere in the warping mass of clouds, and now the first mate bounding down the slatted gangway, unladen, beaming at the waifish girl, pale, slender, sodden, browneyed, searching the darkness.
"Miss Emylia," he spoke, in a voice that was rough, but warm, "Yer da is amidships, making ready fer to sail." He gestured backward, toward the looming ship, rather pointlessly.
"Thank you, Mr. Ithos." She inclined her head in a brief expression of deference. She hoisted the sack, the satchel strung over her shoulder sliding slightly as she clambered onto the boards.
The deck was crowded with seamen, busying themselves with ropes, arranging the sails, or lugging hefty boxes and barrels aboard. The doors leading below decks were flung open and sailors stumbled ceaselessly in and out. As they noticed her, they nodded politely and indicated toward the hold. Emylia stepped nimbly between them, surefooted. The sound of the waves, slamming the side of the ship, was deafening. It was impossible to decipher the yelps and barks of the men on deck amongst the ocean's roar and the endless thunder.
In the the warmth of the hold, shadows flared and flickered against the walls as men came and went, lanterns swaying precariously from beams. The sounds of the storm outside became strangely soft and subdued; the buffeting waves little more than a hiss, the crack of thunder dulled to a faint rumble. Still, she felt the fury of the maelstrom, turning and thrashing out on the horizon, bearing down on them. She felt the strange, potent energy of the storm swirling inside her. It was almost as though it was part of her, so intensely did it sear in her mind.
Suddenly, her father appeared, shirtless, his chest rippling as he shouldered a barrel. He wore his hair tied, the sides shaven, as was custom. The scar that split his cheek burned angrily, flame-lit. He moved sinuously, deliberate and apparently without effort, the men parting around him to clear his path. Setting the barrel down, he caught sight of his daughter, shivering in a mere night-dress, clutching her sack of vegetables.
Wordlessly, he motioned to a young man nearby. The man was younger than most of the rest, cleanshaven and barechested, his build lithe, but slim. He was, by sailor's standards, very handsome. She felt the dark eyes travel her body, unthreatening, curious. Her father strode across to her, took the sack from her gently. His gaze fell upon the satchel, the two bottles of Khyrrini wine - the parting gift from Mama. One was of red, the other of white wine. Lydea had slipped a small scrap of paper between them, which read:
In shadow, or in sun
Though parted, we are one
Emylia's father stared at the note, his face a mask. He replaced it, carefully, turning to the young man.
"Hmm." He coughed, calling him over.
The sailor set down the rope he had been securing and stepped slowly into the light. His features were sharp, his jaw strong. He could not have been much older than her, perhaps twenty. Perspiration flecked his hairless torso. Emylia was strangely intimidated by him, though it was not fear that ran through her. She felt inexplicably drawn to this mysterious, handsome youth.
"Leto. Show her to my quarters."
Leto made as if to take the satchel from her, but Emylia did not move. He hesitated, before gesturing back toward the stairs.
"Miss." She only nodded curtly. Her father was already amongst the men once more, quickly, calmly steadying and securing cargo. Leto moved to step past her, but the hall was narrow. His body brushed past hers, and she felt the firmness of his muscles, albeit briefly, through the thin fabric of her dress. He smelt of wood and sweat and oilsmoke, but to her surprise it was not unpleasant. She felt a strange, thrilling sensation run through her, flushing. It had felt strangely exciting, his muscled body pressed against hers, their nakednesses separated by but a little cloth.
Ashamed and caught off guard, she tried to suppress the strange sensation. Distracted amid the chaos of men bumbling to and fro, she nearly slipped on the slick, narrow steps. She felt herself falling backward into the hold, the satchel swinging out behind her. Leto was there. His hand suddenly caught the small of her back. It was warm, and she felt his strength behind it. She lingered a little too long, hesitating before retrying the stairs. His touch felt pleasant, but in an unfamiliar, intoxicating way. The tight ball of his bicep pressed against her shoulder as he steadied her. A nameless, formless rush swelled within her, ripples running through her body. His hand was improperly close to her waist. Between her legs she felt a strange, tingling desire. A new and desperate need.
"Careful, Miss."
"Thank you, Mr. Leto."
Above deck, the storm raged with ever greater intensity. Men hunched against the wind, loose ropes coiled and swung, and a hard rain began to pelt the sailors desperately preparing to set sail. Leto led her across the swaying deck, his broad shoulders gleaming in the strange half-light of cloud-strewn dawn. Emylia shivered once more, clutching herself in the freezing gale. She felt ridiculous, dressed as she was amidst the bellowing storm. She was painfully aware of her nipples standing achingly upright in the cold. She hoped none of the men would notice. But they were too busy, too desperate to focus on anything but the encroaching storm. By most reckoning, they had less than an hour before it rolled into the bay, by which time they would have to be well on their way if they had any chance of setting out. They were already behind time. On Kortini Island, the treasury and provisions stockpiled for winter were running dangerously low.
Every year, the menfolk of the island set sail for the southern islands and the Khyrrini coast. This year, however, winter had lasted longer than usual. And now, just as the winds became favourable, the weather temperate, the almighty storm had blown in from further north with its punitive rage. Emylia's father commanded the second-largest of the Kortini vessels,
Dogfish,
a proud, sturdy brig, barnacle-bearded and well-traveled. Her father had captained these men since before she was born. There were some new faces, in place of some old, but by and large he led the same loyal band of sea dogs. Emylia knew most of them by name. Every year, she saw them off as summer set them free, and every winter she welcomed them back onto shore, winter on their heels, newly laden with riches and cargo from far off lands.
Their adventures were rarely untroubled, but they always made it back to Kortini more or less in one piece. Today though, as sunrise broke blearily over the grimy cloudscape, Emylia had to wonder if they would even make it out of port. The wind was like an eager pup, nipping at heels, darting between legs, howling incessantly. All on deck bent against its insistence, performing a strange, arrhythmic dance, crossing the boards like ships tacking in a headwind. Leto led the way, cat-like in the chaos, helping her here and there past a hastily dropped crate or a mislaid bilgehook.
Presently, they arrived at the splintered doors of the captain's quarters. They were unlocked. Leto swung one open, his arm splayed, wresting it from the gale. Emylia ducked quickly inside. The door closed behind them with a woody
thunk
. Two small, lidded candles sprung from the wall behind the captain's desk, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow. Not wishing to tarry, Emylia hastily unshouldered the cloth satchel, holding the looped cord in both hands. The shelf on the rear wall seemed the appropriate place, an empty space clear in its top corner. Notes, ledgers and logs were strewn in apparent disarray across the desk and other surfaces, in that idiosyncratic way that makes sense only to the arranger- in this case, her father. Bracing against the desk's polished edge, she stood on tiptoe, struggling to slide the first bottle over the wooden facing that prevented the books and trinkets from spilling out as the ship rocked. After a few pathetic tries, she relented, embarrassed. She clutched the bottle to herself and did not turn to look at Leto. A long moment passed, and then he spoke gently.
"Let me help there, miss. Your father is a man of stature." He gave a little laugh, and she smiled.
"Yes, thank you, Mr. Leto. He is." But she did not move. Not knowing why, she remained still, holding the bottle at her bosom. Another moment passed before Leto was forced to step behind her to take the wine. She felt the heat of him against her, felt exhilaration wash over her, a long-buried longing surging forth, her blood in her head, in her chest like horses over cobble.
His breath was cool against the nape of her neck. He did not linger improperly, reaching smoothly to grasp the bottle at her chest. As he took it, she felt his thumb, his wrist, graze her breast, and she felt her throat tighten, her breath quicken involuntarily. Her breasts felt strangely sensitive and she longed for him to touch her.
No.
Again, she fought to quash the feeling rising inside her, fought the weakness in her legs, the strange, wet sensation in her sex, the throbbing between her thighs, fought her thrashing heart, the tingling, cascading feeling warping and washing over her. Leto slipped the bottle carefully behind the facing and deftly grabbed the second. She did not dare move. She felt him, too close behind her. She almost thought she could feel his shaft, nestled against her buttocks as he leant forward.
No
.
She smothered the image, closing her eyes to it as if to close her mind. The second bottle slid neatly into place. Leto stepped back promptly.
"Sorry, Miss Emylia. To reach over you like that. "
"No," was all she replied, distant.
"Well."
"Yes."
They braved the fierce wind again, the rain now lashing the deck and pooling against the bulwark. Emylia's father stood on deck, soaked, indefatigable, marshalling his men. He yelled to Leto as they emerged from his cabin.
"Mr Leto! See to the topsail!"
The young man did as he was bid, bounding over the deck without a word. Emylia watched him, rain coursing down his spine, his taut arms working the lines. Her father strode across the deck to her, water streaming off him.
