He finished the story with eyes still closed, a faint smile just touching his mouth. “Torsten had no way of knowing if you’d be on that ship or not. He paced from the moment its sail was spotted until you alighted. Do you remember that day? That ship?”

  “Yes. When I finished at the Hall, Tye arranged passage—first to Othmark, then home to Eysa. I stayed in Skeld for a few days. The harbour at Vardvik was still frozen. Tye said it wasn’t safe to cross until the thaw set in properly. So I waited.”

  She shifted her weight, resting one forearm on the railing.

  “Tye was kind. Generous. He gave me space in his hall, sat me by the fire, let me roam his keep—even his archive. He asked questions. About my studies. About Eysa. About what I liked. He even complimented my weaving.”

  Another pause.

  “He gave me this.” She touched the small knife at her hip. “Said Rolly would’ve wanted to mark the end of my studies—and in his absence, Tye would do it. For clever hands and clear eyes, he said.”

  A faint furrow touched her brow then, and she glanced sidelong at Eoin.“By week’s end I was impatient to come home. Tye said that he would put me on a fast ship home. It was a smaller boat, and it was a fast, windy, wet trip as I recall.”

  She trailed off, lost in memory of the day she came home for the first time.

  “I don’t understand how we’re moving. Not then, not now. The wind isn’t behind us, but we’re moving forward. It defies sense.”

  Eoin, still lounging indolently, cracked an eye open. “Hmm?”

  “How are we moving forward? If the wind’s off our shoulder?”

  He sat up slightly. “Ah. You’ve found the mystery of the sea.”

  She tilted her head. “You’re not being helpful.”

  “No,” he agreed, “I’m not.

  “The sail’s drawing."

  “That’s not an answer.”

  He rolled lazily upright. “Alright. Picture this. The sail isn’t flat—it curves, like a bowl turned on its side." He cupped the air, tracing the shape of the sail with his hand. “The wind is caught in the sail and resents it. She doesn’t like being blocked, so she tries to slip around. Faster on the round side, slower on the cupped one”. He drew his fingers around the bowl of his hand. “Faster here. Slower there. That difference – that draw – pulls the sail forward. The wind doesn’t push—it pulls. The ship’s not being shoved, she’s being coaxed.”

  He trailed his fingers against a wooden plank, stroking absentmindedly. “She’s a nice ship, this one. Big sail. Broad beam.” He caught his lower lip between his teeth briefly. “Ahh...a full sail gone taut. Every stitch trembling. Cloth like breath, straining and sighing."

  He shook his head. "You've not seen it, not really. But gods, it’s beautiful.”

  “No oars, though,” said Ingbord.

  “Hmm?”

  “The ship Tye sent me home on had oars. This one doesn’t.”

  “No, she wouldn’t. This lady here,” he patted a plank. “She’s a cog. A fine, fat lady dressed in silks. Moves with the wind, peaceful-like. But a ship with oars? That’s a different sort altogether.”

  He looked out over the sea, lashes low.

  “A ship with oars…" He ran his thumb along the wood, eyes distant. "Now, that's a hungry thing. Sharp in the turns. Fast with the stroke. She has teeth and isn't built for patience. She doesn’t need to wait for favourable winds. She goes where she please and takes what she wants. And by the time you hear the oars—".

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  He smiled, a quick flash of his own teeth. “—It's already too late.”

  Ingbord stared up at the canvas doubtfully. “That still doesn’t make sense.”

  Eoin snorted. Not unkindly.

  “What makes no sense to me,” he said, eyes glinting now, “is how in four years of studying force and craft and levers, no one ever taught you a single thing about sails. Or shipcraft. Or wind.”

  She paused, taken aback. “I studied structures. Heat. Leverage. I wasn’t going to sea.”

  “No,” Eoin said, voice quieter now. “You weren’t. Obviously.”

  He said nothing for a while.

  “In Skeld,” he said softly, almost idly. “Did you meet Tye’s magician?”

  Ingbord nodded, wary now.

  “She any good?”

  “She’s competent, if that's what you mean,” Ingbord said. “But her magic is small. Nothing like mine.”

  Eoin gave a quiet hum, noncommittal.

  “And Tye himself?” he asked. “A generous host?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Nice food? Nice wine? A warm bed?” he went on, each word a thread spun a little tighter. “Soft linens, I’d wager. Did he send someone to pour your wine?”

  “Of course. He’s a king. I was his guest.”

  His mouth twisted, just slightly. “Thoughtful.”

  Then he let the silence stretch, just long enough.

  “And his son,” he said at last. “Caelen, isn't it? You said you haven’t met many princes. But you did meet him? How was he? Handsome? Well-spoken? Attentive?”

  His gaze sharpened.

  “Was he who poured your wine for you? Did he offer you gifts? Kiss your fingers like he meant it?”

  She didn’t deny it.

  Eoin’s voice was silk again. “Why do you suppose Tye dangled him in front of you like that?”

  Ingbord frowned. “He didn’t—”

  “No? Then what was it? Simple courtesy? Idle flattery?

  His voice dropped, softer now.

  “Or was it temptation? A soft test of your loyalties. To see if Eysa’s magician could be sweetened. Or bought?”

  Her eyes narrowed. Something cold settled behind them.

  “And you? Are you dangling your body in front of me now?”

  Eoin didn’t flinch.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, magician. I am.”

  He sat forward, slow and deliberate, showing skin at wrist and neck.

  “But it’s truth I’m asking you to look at. Not me.“

  “You see very clearly what is laid out in front of you. You even use magic to look beyond the reach of your sight. But your cleverness. Your truthfulness. Your quiet indignation --they don’t serve you when you refuse to see what’s hidden just below the surface.”

  “Do you think kings don’t collect useful things?” Eoin asked, almost gently. “Magicians. Spies. Ships. Sons.”

  His gaze flicked out across the water, then came back to her—quiet now. No more posing. No more half-lidded glances or gold-lit skin. Just Eoin, still and sharp.

  “Let me tell you something about that day,” he said. “That day when Tye’s toothy little pinnace slid into the harbour and the sun caught your hair and Torsten forgot how to breathe.”

  Ingbord’s throat tightened.

  He stood up.

  “That storm in the autumn? Tye knew how bad it was. It kissed Othmark, too. He knew Eysa lost boats and storehouses, livestock, and half the grain in reserve. And he sent nothing. No aid. No message, not even a sack of seed.”

  “And when he did send a ship, in spring, it wasn’t a trader. No wood, no grain, no relief. Just a fast little messenger ship with one thing aboard - Eysa’s magician. Who didn’t even realize she was the message."

  Eoin’s voice dropped. “He starved Eysa all winter. And then he made Torsten beg. Made him put on his prince’s robes and receive Tye’s emissary with open arms, knowing you were aboard that ship, and he couldn’t even touch you.”

  Silence. The wind flapped the sail above them. “Tye knows what you are,” he said. “What you can do. He knows what lies between you and Torsten. And if he’s half as clever as we both think he is… he knows where you sleep.”

  She tried to speak, but he held up a hand. “How many spies do you think Tye has?”

  Her voice came small. “I don’t know.”

  “How many does Torsten have?”

  She looked at him. “One.”

  “Yes,” Eoin said bitterly. “Me. And I make a piss-poor spy rooted in Vardvik where there’s nothing to learn and no way off the island without Tye’s say-so.

  The sun glinted off the sweat at his temples.

  “When you Seek for him,” he said - suddenly sharp - “after he’s paid your price, and you make to draw your drop of blood—do you prick him with Tye’s blade?”

  She stared at him. “No. I told you. It’s my blood. I prick my own thumb.”

  Eoin stilled. His lips twisted into a grim, bitter smile.

  “So, it’s you who takes Tye’s prick, is it?” he said. “Even better. If you’re Tye.”

  He watched her flinch. Saw the colour rise.

  Then - lower still, eyes gleaming - “This," he said motioning to the space between them, "Isn't seduction. I doubt you'd know the difference, even with it laid bare before you. Consider magician, that you may be a prize worth having. Will you be had? Will you be held? Or will you demand your own price?"

  He didn’t wait for her answer. Just turned, slow and deliberate, to face her, holding her gaze. His shirt still open, hair loose, beautiful and burning.

  But the heat of him now was ash.