“What?”
“Cam’s…” He swallowed the hard lump in his throat. “How did…?”
Cara stiffened in his embrace, leaned back, and placed both hands on his shoulders. “Gods, no. You thought him being apart from me means he’s dead? No. He isn’t dead, Joren.”
“He isn’t?”
She shook her head and studied him. Likewise, he took in her pronounced cheekbones. “When I last saw my brother yesterday, we were perhaps one or two hundred miles inland. Maybe more. It’s difficult to judge distance traveled when you’ve used a haste spell and whipped your horses to death.”
Joren blinked. It was unlike Cara to leave Cam behind. “So he’s alive?”
“He’s definitely alive,” she replied, though the haunted look in her eyes didn’t fade.
Instead of pressing her to answer his questions right away, Joren led her to a table and set about preparing tea. She was filthy, a day of dirt on her face, hair in tangles about her shoulders, and the smell of horse had permeated her clothing. He didn’t care. It was just a relief to have his old friend back where she belonged.
Halfway through making tea, he deemed it a poor comfort for the situation and fetched the crystal decanter of Samaharan brandy. Without him urging her to answer his questions, Cara didn’t speak. That was fine. They had all night.
“Cam is with the queen,” Cara offered on her own when he set a glass before her filled with the rich amber liquid.
“What?” He blinked. What little he knew about their Dynasty, he knew on account of being royalty and learning the ropes from his parents over the years, going back to a time before the creature pretending to be their mother ever forged an alliance with the other kingdom. “The Queen of Ridaeron has locked him up? As in the high queen? Or one of the drottin?”
“The high queen herself, and no, he’s far from locked up. She’s done something to him. Brainwashed him perhaps. It’s the only thing that could explain why he chose to stay.”
“I’m sure he’s kept locked up, same as you were,” he said.
“No, Joren, he wasn’t. He was able to help me escape because that…that beast gave him free rein to move around. Gave him a horse of his own. He had no shackles, no guards. Gods, they even rode around together and picked apples!”
“What? But…none of that makes any sense.”
“I’m telling you, Joren. He chose to stay.”
Having no idea what to say, Joren sank back in his seat and tossed back the remaining alcohol in his glass. Having hardly touched her own, Cara offered him her glass, which he took without argument. None of it made any sense.
“Maybe he wanted to gather information…?”
“And get it to us how?” she countered, her tone resigned. “He chose to remain among those monsters for reasons I can only presume mean he’s no longer against their barbaric ways. Maybe he’s no longer on our side. Camden is lost to us.”
“Not completely, if he helped you. I can’t imagine they’ll be pleased with him.” A sobering thought that only made him worry more for his friend. “Walk me through it, please. From the beginning.”
“Cam came to visit, as he’d been doing for almost a week. He’d come during meal hours, because they always provided better rations if he was present. He stayed for an hour maybe, nothing unusual. Only this time as he prepared to leave, he slipped me a key and said to wait an hour, then to take the opportunity.”
“Not very clear, was he?”
“No, and I don’t think he expected me to bring company either, but…” Her gaze turned to Aurora in the adjacent room and lingered. “When my outer door opened, so did the inner one. They were still in the dining hall so I told them to follow me.”
“You couldn’t leave them behind. I understand. Then what happened?”
“The guards on our cells tried to stop us. We lost one at the very start, a Samaharan called Biram. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead, only that he was among the first I unshackled with Camden’s key. He remained behind and held them off while the rest of us ran for it. They’re immensely powerful, Joren. You can throw magic at them, but their shields and their weapons—”
“Resist magic. I know. I learned that the hard way. What happened next?”
“The guards upstairs were all asleep. Camden met us outside in the woods. He’d only saddled one of the horses.”
“Definitely sounds like he expected you to be alone.” He rubbed his chin and tried to put himself in Cam’s place. “Could that be why he stayed? Because you had the extra riders?”
“No, I don’t think so. He had rations for one, but we were able to get the rest of our mounts from the lean-to beside the prison. There were a dozen there, plus his own. When I begged him to come with us, he just shook his head and said he couldn’t leave. That he…”
“What, Cara?”
“That he didn’t want to leave,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “He told me he had something important to do.”
* * *
Within an hour of completing their mission, the Oclandish ship bearing the rescued Neverlanders parted from the fleet and sailed northwest for Wai Alei. The Cannon would have joined them, if the rescued members of the Madeleine hadn’t hungered for vengeance.
The surviving crewmen sent Cara to plead their case, and she made a compelling argument in their favor: several of their comrades—the sturdiest and strongest—had already been sold in the slave markets, and they wanted to watch Ridaeron bleed.
The responsible course would have been to turn the ship about and sail his countrymen to safety, but he understood the desire for revenge. If anyone deserved the opportunity to see Ridaeron’s coastal villages smolder, it was the former crew of the Madeleine. Besides, if they kept the slave-dealing kingdom on the defensive, they couldn’t come after the ships fleeing to Neverland.
The King Matthieu’s Cannon and Jolly Roger bombarded the coast as they made their way northward and rendezvoused with their other allies. Using griffin shifters as their untouchable eyes in the sky, while communicating with enchanted mirrors from Anastasia and Rapunzel, they kept ahead of the ravaged Ridaeron fleet.
Now another full day had passed and his exhausted men exchanged places at shift change while Joren stood on the quarterdeck and observed. With Pierre aboard to command the ship, he’d devoted his day to organizing focused assaults on Ridaeron’s ports. Without the serpent among them to capsize entire battleships, they’d faced too many close calls for comfort, but ultimately found their enemies unprepared.
She must have returned home with the islanders, he thought, unable to blame the witch for bailing out of their bloody campaign once she had what she’d wanted.
Then a wet slap against the hull alerted him to her presence. Joren spun and peered through the fog, making out a vague shape perched on the railing. He clutched one hand to his chest. “Gods, you took me by surprise. I expected you to return to Neverland with the others.”
“I did. The ships arrived safely,” Caecilia replied. “I swim much faster when not constrained by the limitations set by your vessels.”
“That means your obligations have been met. You assisted us during the siege, and your people are safe. Why return?”
“Perhaps I wished to see with my own eyes the havoc you’ve wrought on our enemy. Are you so anxious to be rid of me?”
“No. Not at all. As for our common enemy, they won’t be sending ships out into the Viridian anytime soon. Not with their ports in shambles.”
“Good,” she hissed in her raw and creaking voice. “Neverland will be safe for a time again.”
Joren moved closer, until he could see her features in the dim moonlight. “So you’ll be resuming your protection?”
“I never should have left, but it is not me I speak of.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
The witch stepped down from the rail on disfigured legs. “War will be coming, Prince. It is inevitable. The tides have been turning for a long time, the balance o
f power shifting. Your attack, while warranted, will provoke a new era of bloodshed on the Viridian. It will not end here.”
“It may. We’ve dealt a substantial blow today. Perhaps they’ll lick their wounds and let it be.”
“Never. It is not in the nature of the jottun or their descendants to be forgiving. In that, your people and theirs are similar. Such is what happens when one shares common ancestry with their enemies.”
He stared. “Are you implying—?”
“I imply nothing. I state,” Caecilia corrected him. “Your people have forgotten their origins. They no longer remember their past, or perhaps it isn’t that you no longer remember, but that you prefer to believe a lie.”
“Eisland isn’t a lie.”
“It isn’t, nor did I say it was, but I swam these seas and oceans then, young prince. I know the history. I remember the tales. I watched your ancestors sail in ships to a new world inhabited by nomads in the north. I watched the rise of your civilization and the fall of theirs, as they were assimilated into your culture and a new kingdom was born. Your forefathers are Ridaerons who fled the Dynasty and claimed Eisland for their own.”
“That’s a bloody myth. There’s no truth to it.”
“No,” she rasped, giving a throaty chuckle. “It isn’t a myth. And what reason would I have to lie to you? I know what I’ve seen; what I witnessed with my own eyes in my youth.”
“That would mean you’ve witnessed our history from a time before we recorded it on paper.”
“It does.”
“Gods, that must make you…hundreds—no, thousands of years old.”
Caecilia’s bitter smile provided the answer. “I no longer recall my age with certainty. Each year is no different than the last, and time has lost the meaning it once held.”
“And you’ve been on your own that long?”
“Not all of it, but my time is coming to an end.”
* * *
A perplexed wrinkle creased Joren’s brow and lingered until understanding dawned in his eyes. “You’re dying,” he whispered in a gentle voice. “Is that why you left Neverland?”
“It is tied to the reason,” Caecilia said after a moment. She didn’t dare to hope that Joren could break her curse, and even if he did, the creature known as Caecilia the Sea Witch would never exist again. Whether she became Coral Shell forever or perished, it seemed easier to let the legendary hag fade from obscurity, believed dead and lost forever.
“Do the islanders know?”
“No, nor would they care, I think.”
His frown deepened. “You judge them too harshly.”
“Perhaps,” she murmured, ashamed of herself. “Promise me that you’ll take over in my stead with your new fleet.”
Joren gestured with one hand. “Come here.”
Caecilia raised a brow and hung back, positive she misunderstood his intentions up until the very second the prince’s strong arms surrounded her, even in her hideous, ugly, and wretched body, all knobby bones and sagging skin. The warmth of his embrace was everything, chasing away the chill and aches lingering in her joints. She sank against him, acutely aware of how much she’d missed being held by her prince. Even more aware that she wrongfully thought of him as hers.
Her prince. If only that were true.
“I’m very sorry that you won’t be with us longer, Caecilia. Though we barely know one another, count me among those who will miss you. I thank you for the years you’ve devoted to protecting the Wai Alei, and it will be my honor to carry the torch once you are gone.”
He released her after a final squeeze. “I imagine there will be a grand celebration in Eisland when we return. You should come with us. Enjoy your final days in comfort. Joaidane intends to remain near the islands for a time to assist with rebuilding their fields using his djinni magic. He can’t restore them to what they once were, but he can expedite the growth.”
“I cannot.”
He nodded, not pressing her. “I understand. Will you at least stay onboard tonight?”
“Your quarters are rather crowded,” she said as she retreated to the railing and swung her legs over. “But I will be nearby. Your remaining ships will make the return safely. That much I can assure you.”
Giving him no chance to respond, she dove into the frigid water and vanished from sight, thankful for the sea to hide her tears.
Chapter 25
A week after their spectacular rescue, the King Matthieu’s Cannon and eight accompanying vessels returned to Wai Alei and found a grand celebration awaiting them. Having spent the days recovering from their captivity and honoring their dead, the islanders wanted to show their appreciation with food and music.
From the outskirts of the main bonfire, Joren watched fire dancers and listened to songs, close enough to be a part of the festivities without seeming aloof or antisocial, but far enough to keep to his own thoughts.
It warmed his heart to watch so many cultures mingling together. Islanders cavorted with shifters from Cairn Ocland and nobility from Creag Morden, Eislandic sailors with Samaharan warriors. Then there were the mages who had come with Cara, and some of the rescued slaves, people from Ridaeron and lands much more distant.
One day, Joren hoped to sail to those lands. In the meantime, he tried to ignore the succulent aroma of roasting pig. Several of them cooked over a bonfire, their flesh seared golden and crispy after they were stuffed with delicious fruits and smoked for hours. He’d already eaten his fill, but the islanders made it easy to overindulge.
“James!” Tinker Bell shrieked as her husband spun her around in the air. She’d been waiting on the island when they arrived, bringing with her a hundred tiny water sprites eager to work on the salted fields. Tink, as the rest of them knew her, peppered James’s face with kisses.
Joren chuckled. Lucky bastard.
No matter which direction he glanced, happy couples surrounded him. He spied Eliza in her lover’s arms, she and Dancing Willow in matching blue-green dresses and wearing flowers in their hair. Not far from them, Hook’s battlemage sliced hunks of meat off the roasting pig and served them on banana leaves. Callum’s children helped him. Though the man was Eislandic, he’d married an island woman during their pirating years and now called Wai Alei his home.
“Here. You’ve earned this,” Joaidane said from his left, pushing a hollowed coconut husk into Joren’s hands that smelled of coconut, pineapple, and rum. “You did this.”
“Beg pardon?”
“This.” The Grand Enchanter swept his hand in a gesture that encompassed the party beyond. “We might be in the Compact, but you are the one who brought us all together in our first true alliance. Because of that, we saved these people.”
“We did, but at what cost?”
“You fear retaliation from Ridaeron.”
“I do. Caecilia seems to agree with me.”
Joaidane dipped his head and rubbed his chin. “It would be foolish to assume they will let this pass, but you must also remember that they are only one kingdom. I do not think they will attack lightly now that we are a unified naval force. They will need to plan. After what I witnessed off the shore of Vatnslind, I doubt they’ll be prepared to tangle again with a fallen demigoddess.”
“Demigoddess?” Joren perked. “She’s a demigoddess?”
“Was,” Joaidane said, sipping his drink. “It’s an old tale, one I doubt even the Wai Alei recall. I was only a young man when it happened, but the seas were turbulent and roiling with fury for days afterward. My mother told me of it, perhaps hoping to scare me out of my spoiled behavior.” He sipped again. “It didn’t work. I remained a dick.”
Joren chuckled. “Well, don’t leave me in suspense. What happened?”
“I am not sure it is my story to tell. Suffice it to say, she incurred Triton’s wrath and that conflict shaped her life over the centuries.”
“She spoke of dying. Do gods die?”
“Not in the conventional sense, usually. They can…fade, I s
uppose would be the word. As cultures rise and fall, so too do their deities. I don’t believe a god has died since the War of the Divines.”
“My history is a little rusty, I must admit, but that name is completely unfamiliar to me.”
Joaidane chuckled. “It is a time few have ever read about. I only know of it through my mother’s journals, and even what she wrote was copied from old tales. They say there was a time when our ancestors warred with the kingdoms of the west. It went on for many decades, an unending conflict with no true resolution. Countless innocents died, until at last someone beseeched the gods. No one knows which side begged for help first, but help was given.”
“So that ended the war, I assume?”
“No,” the djinni sorcerer replied, expression grave. “That worsened it. War is a terrible thing when just mortals are involved, but once a god intervenes, hundreds of casualties become thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Finding that unfair, the other side pleaded to their deities for aid, and they too received help.”
“Oh no.”
“Yes. Catastrophic results, my friend. Entire civilizations fell overnight, crushed by divine power.”
Drawn into the story, Joren raised his drink again, letting strong rum and blended fruit warm his belly. “What ended it?”
“The book never named the gods who intervened, but I know it was the mothers of each pantheon, heartbroken from loss and bloodshed, who created a resolution. Per the terms of ending the battle, Eisen stomped the ground and created a great schism. Then Triton rolled the seas, casting the other continents far, far away from our lands. Now, one would have to travel for months to reach them.”
“I’ve heard it’s a terrifying journey, rife with monsters, through lasting darkness and electric storms.”
“It is. Everything Ilithyia said of the voyage from Crestoli to our gulf is true. My mother sailed it once as a child with her father. There lives a sea beast far more frightening than our amiable Sea Witch.”
“So how is it the Ridaerons have slaves from those lands?”
Sea Witch and the Magician Page 26
