Eastward Bound
Eoin had long since perfected the art of making himself comfortable in uncomfortable places. A reed boat on open water, however, tested even his patience.
The raqqa was a sturdy little vessel, bobbing over the waves like a cork; its bundled sea cane frame creaked with every swell. There was little else to do but row and watch the sea stretch out endlessly—the horizon a smudge where water met sky. Days blurred into one another in a monotony of steady oars, salt-crusted skin, and silence broken only by the lap of waves against the hull. The constant smell of brine mingled with the ever-present taste on their lips. The only sounds were the creak of the wooden oarlocks, the occasional call of seabirds wheeling overhead, and the soft splash of oars dipping into the water
It took them the better part of ten days to reach Othmark. The raqqa made good time, skimming over the waves, and when the wind favored them, they rigged a simple sail to spare Eoin the rowing.
Eoin handled the oars with lazy efficiency, guiding them through the shallow coastal waters where Eysa's reefs and rocky shoals gave way to the open sea. Ingbord sat opposite him, her long legs tucked beneath her, hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked calm and inwardly focused—except for the way her fingers occasionally flexed against her thighs, as if resisting the urge to take over rowing herself.
Eoin smirked. "Something wrong?"
Ingbord's lips twitched. "You row like a man who has nowhere in particular to be."
"Ah, but we're in no hurry," he drawled. "It's a fine day, the sea's behaving, and I quite like the view." He let his gaze flick lazily over her, as if admiring more than the horizon.
She sighed, shaking her head. "It's a wonder Torsten puts up with you."
Eoin's grin widened. "Torsten doesn't put up with me—he positively adores me."
Ingbord snorted but made no move to argue.
Eoin had started the morning in his shirt. The spring sun was pale at first, filtering through thin clouds, but as the hours stretched on, it broke through, leaving the sky an endless blue. The warmth built gradually, seeping into his skin and making the fabric of his shirt cling damply to his back and chest. He sighed, flexing his fingers around the oars, and finally gave in. With a fluid motion, he peeled the sweat-dampened linen from his head and tossed it onto a small pile of belongings, letting the breeze cool his overheated skin.
Ingbord watched, her gaze drawn despite herself. She had seen men before—seen them work, strip to the waist when it got hot, haul nets, and cut sea-cane. She fancied herself a keen judge of a man's form, and Eoin, for all his laughing ease, moved like as though honed for more than a simple farmer's life. His body was taut and lean, not bulky like the herders and fishers of Eysa. His shoulders flexed, and his back rippled as he worked the oars. Though she usually held her gaze with discretion, she found herself staring now. Her fingers twitched, and she swallowed, tearing her gaze away and fixing it instead on the endless stretch of sea. Yet the image lingered, settling into the corners of her mind, refusing to be banished.
"It's a pretty view, isn't it?" Eoin said, gesturing with his chin toward the expanse of flat open water, with a faint hint of coastline behind them.
"Pretty enough," she replied smoothly. "Nothing I haven't seen before."
His grin was quick and knowing, but he let it pass. He rowed a few more strokes in silence before she spoke again.
"I can row."
Eoin arched a brow, glancing sidelong. "Can you?"
"I can," she said defensively. "Like any child on Eysa, I grew up rowing and fishing." A fond smile played on her lips as she recalled, "Torsten and I used to row out to a nearby island just to be alone together before..." Her voice trailed off. "We thought we were being clever, sneaking away, unaware that everyone was watching, ensuring our safe return."
"Well, then, by all means," he said, letting go of the oars and spreading his arms with a teasing flourish. "Prove it."
Ingbord scooted forward, brushing past him as she took his place. The oars were warm from his hands, the wood smooth beneath her fingers. She rolled her shoulders, set her grip, and pulled.
It came back to her easily—the rhythm, the feel of the pull in her arms, the satisfying churn of water against wood. She let out a dry laugh and kept rowing, choosing not to waste breath on any verbal retort.
For once, Eoin didn't press. He simply watched her—and silently regretted letting her take over the oars.
He couldn't help but admire her: her sleeves pushed up to her elbows, exposing the smooth skin of her forearms—a striking contrast to the dark wood of the oars. Her shoulders moved with graceful strength, and with each stroke, her body flexed in a lithe, honed rhythm earned through effort and endurance. A bead of sweat slid down her temple, gathering in the hollow of her throat before disappearing beneath her collar. Eoin's unbidden gaze followed the trail, lingering longer than he intended.
Her thighs, pressed against the motion of the boat, tensed and flexed with every pull. The curve of her waist was accentuated by her movement. She sighed, her breath growing heavier, and Eoin's heart clenched in response.
Gods, he thought, he was an idiot for letting her row. For a man as practiced as he was in self-control, this was a special kind of torment.
It was only when he noticed the raw pink of her palms that he spoke again.
"Ingbord."
She ignored him, pulling another stroke.
"Ingbord," he repeated, quieter this time.
She hesitated, her hands tightening around the oars.
"Let me," he said, reaching out, his fingers brushing over hers.
She exhaled, long and slow, and finally let go.
Eoin took her place, and the oars, glancing pointedly down at her hands. The skin was blistered, small beads of blood welling at the broken places. A sharp, unexpected ache lodged in his chest.
She tucked her hands quickly into her pockets, as if to hide them from him. Her fingers closed around something solid, cool against her skin. She stilled. Torsten's ring, she had never given it back after the ritual. She pulled her hands from her pockets again.
His own hands, she noticed, were even worse than hers—cracked, calloused and blistered, the palms rough from days of rowing.
"I'm Torsten's tool and so are my hands." he said, as if reading her thoughts. "They're meant for this."
She glanced down at her own hands, at the blood seeping from the torn skin.
"And mine?" she asked quietly.
He met her eyes, something unreadable in his own.
"Yours," he said, "are meant for something softer."
A beat of silence stretched between them. Then, his voice lower, he added, "Perhaps if you wanted to serve Torsten, you might consider giving them to him."
Ingbord curled her fingers tightly into her palms.
"I never intend to marry Torsten," she said, the words soft but steady. "He can't have me."
Eoin blinked, a faint shadow of surprise crossing his face. She held his gaze, waiting for him to press further. But he only nodded once, filing the knowledge away and said nothing more. That was certainly a stone that didn't quite fit, but he was patient enough to know that not every mystery can be immediately solved.
By the time they sighted the green cliffs of Othmark, Eoin's arms ached, his back was stiff, and his patience for the little boat had frayed. The moment they stepped onto solid ground, he stretched with exaggerated satisfaction, and groaned. "Remind me never to set foot in one of those again," he declared.
In Othmark, Ingbord’s uncertainty showed on her face and the way she held her body. Skeld, Othmark's capital city, was larger and busier than she had expected it to be. Skeld was a crush of bodies and a relentless bustle compared to Vardvik.
Eoin took her hand and placed it on his arm. "Play along with me, wife," he said with a wink. "We are but a humble couple from Eysa, hoping to try our luck at trading in the wider world outside of Vardvik." He waved his arm, indicating the stalls, the carts, the throng of people comprising Skeld's port. "A little naïveté and awe will serve us well." He paused. "But let me do the talking."
He led Ingbord along a corridor of crushing bodies and buzzing voices. Her gaze drifted over everything—stacks of goods, crates and barrels, all made of wood. So many goods! So much glinting, flashing brightness. In Skeld, people strolled the streets bristling with blades and buckles, tools and trinkets fashioned from all kinds of metals. While she should understand speech in Skeld, the voices were hard to follow—heavy with commerce and sprinkled with unfamiliar terms of trade and possession. Coins twinkled on palms, slipping between fingers, exchanged as though conversations were conducted with coins rather than words. Unease prickled beneath her skin as she noted how each coin seemed to carry its own story of value, of demands far beyond her own understanding. In Othmark it seemed, every promise was measured in the cold glimmer of metal.
They reached a stall where a wiry trader's eyes flickered over them. Eoin's voice was low and smooth as he slid into the exchange, his tone a blend of charm and determination. "Passage to Ilroya," he said, the syllables weighted with the necessity of their journey. He touched his belt, indicating he had the money to pay.
Eoin's senses sharpened as he bargained. A flick of the trader' wrist here, a squint of an eye there. Eoin keenly judged the man's willingness – and limits - to dealing. He gauged the coins he had to make the trip there and back, and pressed hard against the man's limits. Ingbord watched the alien dance of currency of commerce; and the language full of unspoken rules and burdens.
Eoin's eyes were rarely left the trader's face as he negotiated the fare. He offered more coins, his fingertips brushing over the glinting metal, and the trader's gaze softened just enough to suggest a deal.
Ingbord's heart beat faster—the sum offered was a fortune, a significant portion of Eysa's treasury, yet here in Skeld, it was shrugged off as a mere trifle.
Catching the doubt in her eyes, Eoin offered a gentle smile. "It's done," he murmured. Once again, he laid her hand on his arm. "Let's go make ourselves comfortable in our sumptuous cabin, shall we?"
Ingbord trailed pensively beside him, noting that the citizens of Skeld trod lightly. Not once in the packed street did anyone step on her foot or jostle her in passing.
The cabin was little more than a cramped box. It held a bunk and a shelf and little else—except Ingbord's pressing boredom and a weight of hot, humid air. Eoin had been expecting this and bore it up with as much cheerfulness as he could. Ingbord sighed, sweated, and shed her boots, opting instead for the relief of cool, bare feet. She padded about with her pants and sleeves were rolled up, revealing smooth, pale limbs suited for cooler climes. The warmth of Ilroya's climate was a new thing to her—a languid, almost languorous heat that made every breath feel sticky, every movement slow.
In the tight space of the cabin, Eoin's presence was impossible to ignore. Every time she shifted, every casual step brought her into contact with him. Their bodies would brush in fleeting moments—a gentle press of a hand, the accidental grazing of a shoulder. Eoin had expected this and dealt with it with as equanimity as he could, while Ingbord chafed at the confines.
Boredom was relentless. There simply wasn't much to do other than exercise patience as the ship cut through unending, sunlit waters to Ilroya. Ingbord read a little, but mostly paced the deck—a huffy, bored figure whom most avoided. Eoin tried to keep his own spirits up, and tried to keep out of her way. He tried not to think about the press of her hip, or the grazing of her shoulder, or the soft weight of her breast pressed against him in those moments when the tight quarters forced them into contact.
Occasionally, he diced—carefully, of course. Winning too much was not wise, but an extra coin or two added to their purse was always welcome.
"You seem to have good luck," Ingbord remarked one afternoon, watching him play with one of the coin’s he’d won.
Eoin gave her a quick grin. "You might say that," he said, making the coin vanish for her amusement.
"May I see those dice of yours?" asked Ingbord.
"You may not," Eoin replied quickly. "They're mine," he said, a layer of meaning to the word that only an Eysian would understand.
On another afternoon, Ingbord puffed out a long, huffing breath and remarked, "It's warmer here than I expected."
"Yes," said Eoin. "The heat rather does cling, doesn't it? It's as though the very air wants to hold you tight and wrap itself all around you." His eyes flicked to her bare feet, and to the trickle of sweat running down her neck before rising again to meet her gaze.
Ingbord puffed out her cheeks and stamped off to pace the deck yet again.
Eoin drew a long, slow breath watching her go. He recalled an image of the young, love-sick Torsten carving a little notch on the wall every day Ingbord was away. He tallied up the days he himself had yet to endure. He closed his eyes, hoping the motion of the ship would rock him to sleep—if only the slow, rolling sway of the ship didn't recall another kind of slow rocking motion.
"Why won't you give him what he wants, Ingbord?"
"Give who? What?"
"Torsten. The same besotted prince‐regent we both know and tolerate. What he wants most is you—by his side as his queen, with his heirs growing in your belly. He has loved you with all his heart since he was a tot. For four long years while you were away, I had to listen to that love-sick boy pour his heart out, counting the days until your return. Four. Long. Years. He loves you."
He spread his hands in bewilderment.
"He has always loved you. You've always loved him. It's obvious to anyone with even one eye and half a heart. So, tell me, Ingbord, please—why is it that you will not marry him? Why won't you give him what he so desperately wants? Why won't you give yourself what you so desperately want, too?"
Ingbord regarded him with a steady, measured gaze.
"Torsten can't marry me. He can't marry me any more than he can marry you. I'm not rikerborn."
"What!" Eoin burst out, "does that mean?"
Ingbord's expression remained calm in the face of his outburst. "You really don't know, do you?" she said quietly, settling back on the bunk, ready to recite age-old tradition.
"The line of royal descent in Eysa isn't exactly linear. To be king—or queen, for that matter—you must be rikerborn, descended from one of the few throne-worthy families. I'm not rikerborn. I know this. Torsten knows this. And we've both always known that. Regardless of where our hearts lie, Torsten can't marry me." She shrugged softly, her tone even. "It's always been that way."
"But he's going to be king, Ingbord! Can't he just declare you rokerbunt?"
"Rikerborn," Ingbord corrected gently. "And no. To be rikerborn, you must be born of rikerborn parents. It isn't that we can't be close; we simply can't be married. Not if Torsten wants an heir. And Torsten needs an heir. If he doesn't, his line...ends."
Eoin slid down the wall in a crouch, resting his arms on his bent knees with his hands outstretched toward Ingbord.
"That makes no sense! It's entirely self-limiting," he declared, his voice rising with indignation. "By that logic, the stock of rikerborn families would shrink to nothing—growing more inbred until the line completely withers away, leaving you with no one at all to rule over your little kingdom of sheep! Of course, his line ends. ALL your lines end!"
"Well, not quite," Ingbord replied in a measured tone. "The law does allow for people to become rikerborn."
Eoin buried his head in his hands, his voice muffled between his fingers. "And how does that work exactly?" he muttered.
"By ancient tradition, a person can become rikerborn by winning glory in combat—"
Eoin shot her a piercing look. "Or by going raiding and returning with great treasure for the crown."
"Ingbord," Eoin pressed, his tone dripping with incredulity, "your people haven't been warriors or sailors for centuries! How can anyone possibly go raiding? You haven't got any ships! How could anyone win glory in combat? You don't know how to fight and you don't have swords. You've got no ships, no timber, no ore, no steel, no money, and no means to get any! Eysa is nothing more than a far-flung pebble, an isolated little rock. You and your people, your stories and your traditions—you're slowly suffocating like fish trapped in a pool at low tide!"
Ingbord's eyes remained steady, her calm unbroken. "It's law," she said evenly. "Torsten needs a rikerborn heir. To get one, he'll have to marry one of the three suitable women available to him. But it can't be me."
Eoin's eyes narrowed, and with a heavy sigh of exasperation, he pushed himself away from the cramped cabin wall. "I need some air," he muttered. "Maybe some sense, too." He ducked out of the cabin and went above decks, leaving the muggy heat of the cabin behind him.
The next day was no better. Low grey clouds, lingering heat, and the monotonous rocking of the ship made the day a long and exacting exercise in patience.
Eoin lay on his back on the creaking wooden floor of the cabin, idly playing with his coin, rolling it from knuckle to knuckle in a loop. He caught it against his palm, spun it with his thumb, and flicked it into the air to catch it quickly and start it rolling in a loop all over again. The coin danced over his fingers as though it had a mind of its own.
Eoin wasn't even thinking about it. Not really. He was thinking about her. He was thinking about Torsten. He was thinking about all the things he wanted to ask and knew he shouldn't. Ingbord wouldn't marry Torsten. Fine, she couldn't marry Torsten. But why wouldn't she take what she wanted? Why wouldn't she please herself? Why wouldn't she take what Eoin was so plainly offering?
Ingbord wasn't watching him. Not really. She was focused on the humid air, on the heat pressed against her skin, on the slow trickle of sweat at the nape of her neck. But when Eoin flicked the coin higher than before, sending it turning lazily end over end, her eyes snapped to the spinning gold.
"If you drop that..." she said flatly.
"Never!" Eoin sat up, catching it with a flourish. He twisted his fingers, and the coin vanished. A beat later, he grinned, showing Ingbord the coin between his teeth.
Ingbord sighed, dragging a hand over her collarbone, trying to cool the damp heat gathered there. "If you swallow that..." she began.
Eoin stilled the coin and stood to tuck it away. He leaned against the cabin wall thoughtfully. After a moment, he asked gently, "You say Torsten can't have what he wants, but what stops you from taking what you want?"
Ingbord paused her fanning and leveled him with a steady, direct stare. Eoin tilted his head, curiosity and something softer flickering in his gaze.
"Oh now," he said, glancing around the cramped, stifling cabin. "There isn’t any room in here for pretense. I see the way you look at me. You feel it too."
Her lips parted for a heartbeat, then closed.
"So, tell me, Magician," he murmured, voice low and intimate, "why won't you take me? Why is it you won't share a bed with me?"
She inhaled. "Torsten—" she began.
"Because of Torsten?" Eoin interrupted with a dry, incredulous laugh—an echo of every love-stricken word he'd been forced to listen to from Torsten for four endless years.
Her jaw tightened, but her tone remained calm, almost distant. "It isn't—"
"It isn't what?" His voice rose, frustration and disbelief mingling. "He can’t marry you, but you’re setting yourself aside for him anyway? Do you think that you’re his, even though he’s not yours? You're your own self, Ingbord. You can make your own damn choices. He doesn't hold you —no one does."
"That's not what I meant," she said softly.
Eoin's brow furrowed as he pressed, "Then what did you mean?"
She hesitated, then replied, "I meant you. Torsten—you're his... aren't you?"
Oh. That tangled, shifting set of Eysian rules defining ownership—where the boundaries of possession blurred and nothing ever truly belonged to anyone except when it actually did, of course—had woven its own strange logic. Ingbord had come to believe, almost instinctively, that Eoin was solely for Torsten, and was his alone. Oh, how fascinating that notion was—and how utterly untrue.
"I am Torsten's creature, yes," he admitted slowly. "And I know what people say about me." He took a slow step forward and, with deliberate grace, folded to his knees in front of her. He lowered his gaze to the floor. "They say I'm his shadow, his dog, his plaything."
He raised his eyes and held Ingbord's gaze with a slow, knowing smile. "I won't deny it. I will say, though, that I am a very, very good plaything."
Tentatively, he laid one hand on her knee. "Torsten won't mind. He really won't. He'd share his toys with you." Whisper-soft, he trailed the fingertips of his other hand over the instep of her bare foot, tracing slow, gentle circles around her ankle.
She watched him with dark, steady eyes, a mixture of amusement and growing desire.
"You do want to play with me, don't you?" he asked.
She lifted a brow. Slowly, with deliberate subtlety, she widened her knees, encouraging his hand to move further up. The heat in the confined space deepened, each breath heavy and measured. The space between them narrowed until, in a swift, decisive moment, Ingbord rose.
She reached out and drew Eoin upward until he found himself pressed against the wooden wall. Their eyes met in the close, charged atmosphere of the cabin, and without another word, she leaned in. Her lips met his with a fervor that stole the breath from his chest. Her kiss was deep and insistent, demanding.
Eoin found himself surprised, but not unwilling. He returned the kiss with equal heat and surrendered himself completely to her desire.
The cabin was still stifling, the air thick with the scent of salt, sweat, and sex. Eoin lay sprawled on the narrow bunk, hair damp, chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm. He hadn't bothered to cover himself, unbothered by the humid air or the closeness of the space.
Ingbord sat up, stretching slightly before swinging her legs over the edge of the bunk. She moved with quiet efficiency, gathering her scattered clothing from the cramped space and smoothing them back into place. As she twisted her hair into a knot at the back of her head, she sat back down on the bunk, her weight pressing against him. He hadn't moved, save for the lazy drift of his fingers across his stomach. His eyes were open, watching her.
She studied him for a moment before asking, “What does he have over you anyway?"
"He says you're a shipwrecked sailor". She shrugged. "And maybe so. But you chafe at being in Eysa. Why have you lingered all this time? Why haven’t you just left before now? You had the perfect opportunity in Othmark. Why not just leave me there, take his coin and go? You owe him something.”
She paused. “Or he has some hold on you that neither of you will speak of." She snorted, rising. "You act like he knows your true name or something"
Eoin went still.
His entire body tensed, the shift so sudden, that it sent a prickle up the back of her neck. His breathing shallowed and his pupils shrank to pinpricks, his face going blank in an instant.
Ingbord, who knew the words to every saga, every legend and every half-forgotten tale of Eysa, stilled suddenly too. She exhaled, a long slow beath, not quite a whistle. She felt the shape of it fall into place, the stories shifting in her mind, assembling themselves like a puzzle she hadn't realized she was piecing together.
She stood silently for some moments, studying his face in shocked surprise.
"Oh Eion," she said after an eon of silence. "Can that really be? There’s a True Name for you and Torsten knows it?"
Eoin still hadn’t moved. Numb shock still painted on his face.
She knelt down beside him. "How?"