The rain and wind abated in the dark of night, giving way in the morning to a gloomy fog that enveloped the ship in an endless, thick wall of gray. Eila ordered the sails dropped until the wind cleared the sea and the sky.
Eila didn’t want to admit to her crew that she didn’t know where they were. The storm that struck them off the southeast coast of Spain lasted for four days. Although they tried to navigate by compass, the ferocity of the wind and waves forced them to sail into the storm to keep themselves afloat.
Eila was 23, one of the youngest captains in the Llanfyllin navy and only the third woman to command her own ship. The Beaumaris was sailing home from a diplomatic and trade mission to Alexandria, one of Llanfyllin’s oldest international allies.
Her fear was not sinking but rather having to choose to jettison their cargo of spices and fabrics in order to survive. She thought she would rather drown than face the humiliation of failure on her maiden voyage in command.
“We’re lost, aren’t we?” said a voice from behind her on the bridge. She didn’t have to turn to see who it was; the voice of Rhys, her first mate, was unmistakable.
“We are not lost,” Eila said. “We are in the Atlantic Ocean west of Europe.”
“That is comfortingly specific,” Rhys said.
“When the fog clears, we’ll sail east,” she said. “We can’t be that far from home.”
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