“I have no idea. James says it doesn’t happen often. They’re safe there. That doesn’t mean they aren’t curious about the rest of the world. Without a voice, I have no idea what drove her to stowaway on the Jolly Roger but…I’m appreciative of her company.”
“Well, I can’t begrudge you that.”
“Not that I need your permission, but thanks.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek.
Her eyes lit with enthusiasm and impish mischief. “Whatever her reasons, I hope you’ll show her the best that Eisland has to offer.
“That’s the plan.”
Chapter 8
Between the darkness of the ship’s hold and days of sleeping in a windowless cell after his quarantine, Camden had no idea how many weeks had passed before arriving at his newest prison. Because, as lavish as it was, his new room in the palace was a prison. A gilded cage, complete with bars over his windows. He traced a finger along the scrolling design and frowned, wondering if they were enchanted, or if even that use of magic was too offensive for the Ridaerons. Cara would be able to tell with a single glance.
She’d been the lucky one born with their grandmother’s magical gift. The goddess of fortune hadn’t blessed him with the talent for magic.
“They swing open, you know,” a sultry feminine voice spoke from behind him.
Camden resisted the urge to spin on the spot but dropped his hand from the window. “Not very smart, giving your prisoner a way to escape.”
“Who ever said you were a prisoner?”
As he turned, he drew up his left sleeve and bared the dark blue tattoo they’d forced on him. The triangular knot framed an unfamiliar rune. “Your brand says different.”
Queen Brynhildr chuckled and took a seat on the divan near the hearth. Her gossamer-thin skirt parted when she stretched her legs out over the velvet couch. Against his better judgment, his gaze followed the draping fabric and bared skin from her hip all the way to her red painted toes. When he snapped it back to her face, he found her watching him with a knowing smile.
“That mark ensures no one will cause you harm, Camden. You can come and go throughout the palace as you please.”
“Then I’d like to see my sister.”
“Your sister is not here.”
His spine stiffened. “You said she wouldn’t be harmed.”
“And she hasn’t been, but she’s dangerous. A living weapon. I have her someplace safe and secure—close, should it become necessary to punish her for your transgressions.”
“I won’t do anything that will cause you to harm her.”
“Good.” Brynhildr’s smile widened and she beckoned him over. Once he drew close enough, she hooked her fingers in his waistband and tugged him the remaining distance, until his legs bumped into the cushioned seat. “You’ll find that your time here can be quite pleasant.”
While his resolve to resist her endured, his body had a mind of its own. Despite his cock stiffening beneath her wandering hand, he forced an impassive expression to his face and refused to give her the reaction she wanted. “I’d find my time more pleasant if I saw my sister and verified your claims of her safety,” he said, tone even, almost bored. “I want to see Cara. Otherwise, you won’t get another word out of me.”
“You will see her soon. You behave, she behaves, no one gets disciplined. You each have your roles and you’d be wise to get used to them.”
Godsdammit, she made it difficult to be aloof and disinterested. His silence held for a full minute before he caved. “My role as…what, exactly? Guest? Pet? If you want someone to fuck you,” he said, hoping to get a rise out of her with his vulgar language, “then you have a husband for that.”
“Does it matter?” Her finger skimmed over his abdomen. “You are mine.”
Blast. That hadn’t worked. Taking a risk, he stepped back, moving beyond her reach and no further. Brynhildr let him go, but her mouth curved with unconcealed relish, determination blazing in her steel blue eyes. “What will be done with her?”
The high queen relaxed against the cushions and drew one leg back, sliding her foot along the velvet in a leisurely motion. He struggled to keep his gaze on her face.
“Mages are neither to be trusted nor depended upon. They make you weak. Dependent. Your people rely on them to sail the oceans, do they not?”
“You do the same, but you whip yours and push them close to death.”
“They are a tool to be used when needed, and sometimes tools break when disobedient or weakened. Our captains don’t rely on magic to navigate the open seas. We do that through hard work and sweat. Through knowledge of the stars and the currents. Tell me, how often is your sister called upon to fill your sails?”
“We had another mage for that purpose.”
“The question still stands. How often?”
“Anytime the winds weren’t with us,” he answered with reluctance. “What does it matter?”
“Could you even sail the ship without a witch at your beck and call?”
“Of course we could,” he snapped.
“Efficiently?”
Camden opened his mouth to answer, but the words died on his tongue. The smug satisfaction in her gaze only irritated him further.
“You still haven’t answered my question. What will be done with my sister?”
“She’ll be used. To what end, I couldn’t tell you. Certainly not on a ship. My husband intends to keep a close eye on her and he’ll assess where she’ll be of most use. As I said, mages are tools. Crude, but powerful.”
“Most would disagree with the term.”
She leaned forward, studying him with more focus. “But not you.”
“I’ve never called any mage crude.”
“Perhaps you’ve never said the words, but you’ve thought them. You must have, growing up in your sister’s shadow. Your kingdom values the ease of magic over a man’s labor and the sweat of his brow.”
Tension worked its way into his jaw until he broke eye contact and looked away. Brynhildr rose from her seat and moved to the door. She’d won, and she knew it.
“We’ll speak again soon, you and I. Be a little kinder and perhaps I’ll arrange to give you a glimpse of your sister.”
The door shut behind her. Camden waited a full minute before crossing over to test the lock, only to find it open as promised. A peek outside revealed an empty corridor without a single guard in sight, filled with unnerving silence that seemed more a trap than anything. Despite his senses screaming for him to remain behind safe walls, he stepped out and ventured down the hall.
He’d never been timid, even in new surroundings, and he wouldn’t turn to cowardice now.
Steinblomst Keep had always been described to them as imposing and dark by those slaves who escaped it, constructed from stone and wood, not a slab of marble to be seen, nor a thread of silk damask on the walls. Elegance existed in other places, however, displayed in the vibrant murals of grassy knolls and flower-speckled countryside painted across the high ceilings. While he couldn’t tell where one painting ended and the next began, he recognized their quality and wagered the artists’ skill rivaled the masters in Eisland.
Still unchallenged, he ventured down a grand staircase built from white polished stone, every step of it sparkling brighter than diamonds, and set out to explore the ground level. Stained glass windows lined the next corridor and Camden slowed to admire the sheer beauty of the rainbow lights dancing across the walls. Nothing was as he expected.
Eventually, he reached the castle’s entrance hall, an enormous room with vaulted ceilings, its doors guarded by two armored giants, even bigger than the wardens in the quarry. When Ridaeron sent their sailors onto the Viridian, they sent their runts. He wondered why.
Neither man did more than glance at him in passing, both still as statues when he pushed open the doors and stepped outside to encounter two more sentries.
This time of year in Eisland, a chill clung to the air. That same cold had permeated the quarry, with th
e hellish bonus of being wet and miserable. Here, the air smelled sweet, carrying the scent of flowers on the pleasant breeze, and the sun shone warmly against his face. For some reason he’d always expected Ridaeron’s countryside to be hard rock and bleak landscape without any color or life. What few accounts they’d received from rescued slaves were at odds with the tranquil landscape before him.
Meticulously groomed hedges stretched as far as he could see, sculpted to form a maze-like pattern. Even farther beyond them, green meadows gave way to rolling hills, and finally snow-capped blue mountains on the horizon. Camden followed a black stone path, passing flower beds full of tulips in varying shades of red, yellow, and orange. The effect reminded him of a sunset, both beautiful and peaceful.
He must have walked for an hour, exploring the different paths, before the tulips became purple and crimson roses guiding him to the center. Several men and women, in similar attire to him, sat around a fountain carved from black stone. The central figure featured an enormous woman he could have mistaken as Brynhildr, if she weren’t covered in furs and propping a double-headed hammer against her armored shoulder.
“Hello,” he said, wondering if any of them even understood him.
A young man with dark skin and black hair stepped from the group and bowed at the waist. “Please forgive them. I am the only one here who speaks the Eislandic language. My name is Liran.”
“Camden. You don’t look like my countrymen.”
“No, I hail from Samahara, though I remember little of it.”
“How did you end up here?”
“My mother fled the kingdom when I was only a child and we came upon these shores. She entered the queen’s service, and the seneschal took me as his own.” Pushing up his sleeve revealed the tattoo on his forearm, three black circles linked together in a line.
“I haven’t met him. What does he have you do?”
“Translation. I speak and read all seven languages of the gulf.”
Camden’s brows shot upward. “Impressive. I speak three myself.” He’d learned Mordenian as a child and picked up the Oclander tongue in the recent years when Muir came to be their king. Ridaeron hadn’t been his priority, something he learned in bits and pieces, enough to grasp the gist of it but speak it poorly if necessary. Joren spoke it fluently, but the man was a perfectionist who always strove to be the ideal naval officer.
“The queen must see promise in you. Not many are given her mark. In fact, I’ve only seen her take two over the years, and both are women.”
His gaze dropped back to his arm and the tattoo. He hated it. Hated what it meant and that it would be forever with him unless he wanted to scrape a finger’s length of flesh from his forearm. When he looked up again, he found Liran studying him.
“I’ve never seen this castle before. How far do the grounds spread? I don’t see a city or town anywhere.”
“Miles,” Liran replied, “but why would you care? We have everything we need here.”
“I’ve just never seen a castle without a city, is all,” Camden replied carefully. “It’s different. I’m unfamiliar with the lay of the land.”
“Ah, I understand. I have vague memories of crowded streets and loud people, and I do not miss them. Here we have peace and harmony. To reach Gyllendalen takes a four-day ride by horse and carriage.”
“And the coast? Where is that?”
“Another two days southwest of Gyllendalen lies the port of Kaskadehavn. Why do you ask?”
The wariness in Liran’s voice made Camden silently curse himself for his lack of artifice. The last thing he needed was some loyal house slave tipping off the queen. He forced a quick smile he didn't feel and ducked his head. “Sorry. I’m a sailor by trade, and I’m used to knowing directions or smelling the salty air. Being so far inland, as I presume we are, is unsettling for me. I find it difficult to relax.”
The other slave’s tense features relaxed. “I understand. Give it time and you’ll come to think of this place as home.”
When Triton boils the oceans, he thought, but forced another smile for Liran’s benefit. “Thank you, but I should head back now, I think.”
“Come see us again. We always take our afternoon respite here at the fountain. Tell me, what languages do you speak?”
“Oclander, my native Eislandic, as you can hear, and Mordenian. A smattering of Samaharan, though you’d find me a poor conversation partner.”
Liran nodded. “Elizabeth and Cate are Mordenian,” he said, gesturing to a pair of brunettes sipping tea on a stone bench. “Come back soon, and they’ll be happy to share your company as well. It’s been a while since we’ve had anyone join us with knowledge of their tongue.”
“I’ll do that.” If only to learn more about the castle and its occupants.
With a wave to the others, he turned and headed back the way he’d come, retracing his steps through the gardens and then the palace. No one stopped him at all, exactly as the queen had said.
Now all he needed was to find a way to use that to his advantage and escape to find his sister, even if the queen likely expected that very thing. He’d only need to outsmart her at her own game.
Chapter 9
Servants for every purpose saw to Caecilia’s needs while in the palace. They supplied logs for the private hearth in her bedchamber, brought her food whenever she desired, and gave her free rein of the grounds when her restless spirit needed to roam.
But they could not give her love, and they could not give her Joren. Two weeks passed in the blink of an eye, and though she had ample time remaining to fulfill the stipulations of Ghost Hawk’s spell, each passing day figuratively brought her one step closer to death’s door.
Perhaps it had been a foolish notion to sneak away from her island and her self-imposed duty to protect Neverland, all for a prince who had more important things on his mind than her. Not that she blamed him. She knew too well the keen blade of loss. She missed her family and to Joren, his crew was his family.
She curled up beneath a blanket on the settee closest to the hearth, a book in her lap. The Eislandic culture had flourished in the centuries since her exile. Even then, she’d only swum to the cold, northern land once to visit an older sister, but she remembered a smaller city and less colorful people who didn’t wear powdered pink wigs or sport blue eyebrows.
Not that Joren followed the ridiculous fashion, donning tailcoats and handsome fur-lined cloaks instead. The man could have worn a paper sack and looked handsome, though what she wanted to see him in most of all was his bare skin.
Gods. A few centuries of forced celibacy and now she couldn’t get one man off of her mind.
Shaking it off, she looked down at the colorful illustration adorning the open page. Someone had captured the likeness of a mermaid with exquisite detail, as if they’d seen one of her sisters themselves. Maybe the artist had. She traced the emerald tail with a fingertip, missing her own tail. Not that drab, heavy thing she’d been cursed with, but the flexible and shimmering one she’d lost.
For a moment, she considered giving up and leaving to enjoy what remained of her life in the tropical waters. At least in Wai Alei, she’d be happy. She touched the shell pendant and glanced toward the window. All she needed to do was wander to the shore and transform.
Coral would disappear and become a muddled memory in time, leaving these people to the greater concerns of war. The journey that had taken a week by ship would be only days for Caecilia once she had her magic again. No vessel could compete with the speed of a sea serpent.
A knock on the door snatched Caecilia out of her bleak introspections. She set the book aside then went to answer the door, expecting the usual maid asking her preferences for the evening meal. Instead, Joren waited with an amiable smile on his face.
“Good evening, Coral. I trust I’m not disturbing you.”
Only if by “disturbing” he meant always on her mind. For once, she was glad she couldn't speak, because the prince made her feel like a babbli
ng girl. So she smiled and opened the door wider, welcoming him inside.
“Thank you.” He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Are you comfortable?”
She nodded and gestured to the fire, then to the seats.
“Actually, I thought you might wish to join me for dinner. Besides, there’s something I want to show you, but you’ll need your coat.”
Excitement put a spring in her step and had her dashing to collect her outerwear. Joren assisted her by fastening the heavy cloak around her shoulders, and then he offered an arm, asked her to close her eyes, and led her through the palace.
“Only a little farther. We’re stepping outside now.”
She had no idea what he planned for a surprise. She’d been outside plenty of times and had walked the palace gardens more than once. Cold air brushed her face when they stepped out, but this time there was something different. Something soft, not quite wet, and chilly touched her nose. Joren turned her, hands on her shoulders, and then he stepped away.
“Open your eyes, Coral.”
Snow fell from the sky in dazzling clouds of white fluff. Caecilia held out her hands and tilted her face upward, fascinated and delighted by the beautiful, puffy flakes drifting on the evening breeze. Each time one fell against her cheek it felt like a frosted kiss.
“I thought you might enjoy it,” Joren said from his place beside her. Unlike her, he wore only a light coat against the chill, the dark blue reminiscent of the deep ocean waters where she grew up. It made his eyes seem brighter. “It’s the first snowfall and official end of our harvest season. It’ll only become far colder from this point onward.”
Upon first arriving, all she’d known about the snow was how white and cold it was. Dull, almost. Snowfall was different, and she spun around in place, reaching up to catch the flakes. They only lasted a moment against her gloves before melting away, but not before she appreciated each unique crystal’s shape.
“When you’re ready, I thought we could go eat in town. Perhaps enjoy some music in the city square?”
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