Oly stood glued to Hesiat's arm as the Aosan and civilian ship pulled up alongside theirs on either side. All the injured were carried on first, followed by the two captains, then the first mates, and finally the crew who were willing to emerge among strangers.

Oly looked to Hesiat for permission to approach, who patted his head and nodded with approval. Without a word, Oly dashed towards Liovani's spellcaster, and Hesiat strode towards the gaggle of captains to sort out the mess.

The spellcaster was in clear view on the deck, his hands and beads pressed to a wound on a noblewoman’s stomach—one of the Sundentan civilians.

Oly knelt down by the spellcaster with a kind smile, garnering a confused, passing glance. He could confirm now that the stranger was blessed by Liovani, so while he was capable of healing, it would be a slow-going and exhausting business. Oly spoke Aosan again, ever-so-grateful to feel the familiarity on his lips. “I’ll be your conduit.”

“What’s your blessing?” The stranger asked, only glancing up briefly from his task. The woman was still bleeding, they had to be quick.

“Green.” Without asking for further permission, Oly pressed his hands on the healer’s and closed his eyes, silently calling to his patron. He gasped softly as there was a flash of color from behind his eyelids, sunlight filtered through spring leaves, and he felt a rush of vitality and benevolence through his heart. The healer knew the right spell, and now the power was being drawn from the correct deity: Life.

Oly’s eyes fluttered open to see the fibers of the woman’s shirt sprout cotton leaves and try to dig their roots into the deck of the ship, meanwhile the blood fled back to where it came from and the wound knitted together within seconds. A healthy flush came to her cheeks, and her eyes snapped open with a gasp.

“There we are.” Oly cooed, stroking the hair from her sweat-soaked brow. “All better.” He stood up and gestured for the man to come with him to the next patient, who seemed a little star-struck.

“Who are you?” He asked, putting his hands to a deep gash in a civilian’s leg. “You’re pretty powerful.”

“Thank you, but not entirely accurate. I’m useless at spellwork. You be the lantern; I’ll be the oil.” They were done before the patient could even remark on the two of them.

“Surely, some of it comes through naturally? Pìna obviously looks kindly upon you.” He insisted, moving on again. Before they could attend a minor injury, they were called over to the other end of the deck to stabilize a man—an Aosan—being resuscitated. The healer cursed and dashed over, skidding to a stop and pressing his beads on the stab wound in his chest.

Oly, much calmer, knelt down and folded his hands over the other’s again. “Well…” Oly sighed, thinking back, but his train of thought was interrupted as he swayed and groaned. The patient’s body was fighting for death, but the soul hadn’t moved on; if they mended the wound to the lungs, his body would breathe again and the spirit would have an excuse to stay. It took a lot of energy though, and the divinity flooding through him all at once made him woozy. I can practically feel her hand on my shoulder… He waited to continue until he could think again. “It was easier to get away with wandering into places I shouldn’t.” He recalled, smiling to himself, “Since my knees never stayed scraped for long, I could hide what I’d been up to.”

The man went into a coughing fit, spraying a bit of red into the air. The healer allowed himself to laugh now that his friend was alive. “Lyren!”

“Kivo…” The half-dead fighter groaned, trying to prop himself up on his elbows.

“Please lay back down, sir, the spell isn’t finished.” Oly politely reminded him.

He peered at Oly through bleary eyes. “Thank you kindly, dáminere.”

“Dámine, my good sir.” Oly corrected with a smile. “The pin and clothes are gifts from my master.”

He grunted. “You should tell ’im what they mean to you.”

“People assume correctly here. A pretty gift is harmless.”

“Doesn’t it harm you?”

Oly pressed his lips tight and sighed through his nose. The spell stopped. “Thank you for your concern. I’m fine.”

“So… your master? Does that mean you’re spoken for, so to speak?” Kivo asked, halfway between disappointed and still hopeful.

“Stop flirtin’ with the man over my corpse and tend to someone else, ya pink idiot.” Lyren groaned and let himself flop back down on the deck.

Kivo laughed nervously and looked back to Oly, who had a mischievous glitter in his eye.

“I’d hate to disobey.” Kivo sighed, patting Oly on the shoulder and stepping over his friend.

“Something tells me that’s not true.” Oly teased.

“Hush now, that’s a secret.”

--

A little cocky from bringing back the near-dead, Kivo was remarkably less anxious as they made the rounds and brought as many back to perfect health as they could. As such, he was a blabbermouth, and Oly was happy to listen to his indirect introductions.

The man they’d just healed, Lyren, was the navigator of the ship, a man with a sense of humor almost as golden as his heart and patron.

Kivo wasn’t the actual medic of the ship, Oly found, Doctor Viala (purple) had been knocked out in the fighting and tried to make Kivo tag out. She put a hand on his shoulder to keep him from moving on. “Hey, hey, let me do my job, would you? Just because you’ve got one of Pìna’s favorites doesn’t mean you’re suddenly an expert.” She scolded.

Kivo shrugged her off and wrapped an arm around Oly’s shoulders, which was difficult considering how much shorter the faux-healer was. “Shut up and let me ride on the high of being useful for once, would you?” He shot back playfully.

Out of earshot and attending to a civilian’s burned arm, Kivo whispered, “she puts up a show of being stern, but if you get her alone then she blabs almost as much as me.”

“Interesting. So what’s your role, if you ‘aren’t useful?’” Oly whispered back. Kivo laughed.

“Bard. Performing money-maker. Assistant negotiator. Miscellaneous chores-doer. Whatever I can.”

“So what do they do?” Oly asked, pointing to a pair of blonde twins stealing mead.

Shakti and Pashta were the two cabin boys, and the captain’s sons. Somehow both blessed red, their boundless energy and unnatural strength led the two into trouble at every turn. “At least working on a ship gives two teenagers an outlet that contains their chaos. Thank the Gate their mother guards the powder kegs.”

The captain’s wife, Liava, was the first mate and the gunner. She signed that she didn’t have any injuries, but Kivo insisted that Oly help put an end to her constant headaches. “Do you sign? She lost her hearing to fireworks when she was a girl,” Kivo explained, “but I don’t think she considers it a loss.”

“Yes, I can sign.”

She gave Oly’s arm a quick pat to get his attention and signed with a crooked grin, “I like the feeling of the boom in my chest. Rattles you to your core.” Oly was morbidly curious how she put the creativity of an orange blessing to use on explosives.

When they finished, the captain arrived to stroke back her wild blonde hair and kiss her on the forehead. He was a huge, burly man with black braided hair, olive skin, and dark, dark eyes. He gave Oly a long, considering look, then gave a single nod—of greeting or approval, Oly couldn’t tell—before he locked eyes with Kivo and smiled softly.

“You may be borrowing from some other source, but please take a break before either of you pass out. No-one’s about to die, and the nobles you missed can live with a scar or two.”

Kivo gave an exaggerated sigh. “Yes sir.”

Liava gestured to the pair of healers. “Both of you, go rest.”

Just as Kivo was finding a seat on the floor, back against the railing, Oly remembered that he had questions.

“Ah, Captain…”

“Pekhri.”

“Captain Pekhri, it’s been years since I was able to go back home. Is there any news?”

“Years?”

“A year? Longer. It’s hard to tell.”

He and his wife exchanged a considering look, brows furrowed.

Captain Pekhri hummed. “There’s just the one big thing. You must have just missed the prince.”

“The prince?” Oly narrowed his eyes with concern. “What happened to the prince? Which one?”

Kivo snorted. “Well, Prince Kivaska got a serious promotion. He’s the crown heir now.” That was predictable.

“Prince Oleander is dead?!” Oly tried to pretend he was anything but uncomfortable with referring to himself in the third person.

The captain shrugged. “No-one knows. He disappeared one day. Poof. After all that searching, they still can’t tell where he could be, whether he was taken, or if he left on his own.”

Liava cut in, “I think he was assassinated. Only reason no-one would ask for ransom.” She sighed. “His bones’ll wash up one of these days if we’re lucky. Shame, at least he seemed kind.”

Kivo waved her off. “Don’t be so dismal. Weren’t there rumors that someone saw the prince at a slave gallery?”

“As if that’s any better.” She blushed and bowed her head to Oly. “No offence.”

“None taken.” He gestured cheerily, trying not to panic. He’d been operating under the assumption that people rarely knew what “the prince” looked like, and even then only in royal contexts: a tall green-blessed slave with gray eyes and black curly hair wasn’t necessarily going to be clocked as a crown prince, just as a lookalike.

The thought gave him fear and comfort in equal measure when he still belonged to no-one, when they had to gag him because royal pride made his tongue too sharp. Chained up and naked on a stage with five other kidnapped Aosans, he feared more than anything that an ordinary auction would turn into a battle for who got the rights to his ransom, his assassination. No-one said anything.

Now all those assumptions were thrown away: someone had recognized him that day, and they returned home to spread the rumor of him being there. Would the rumor be traced back to him, even now? What if Vendon made the connection too? Whether that bastard believed it or not, it would be an easy trick to pull with a “lookalike.” He wondered why the person who noticed him didn’t buy him.

Again, it struck him just how many times he should have died by now. It struck him how many times he should have gone free, too.