by Chloe Neill
They’d eventually realized that Kit was Aligned, that the “thing” she felt had been the river’s own magic. But it wasn’t until some months later, when Hetta had taken the girls to Bellamy Sands, a beachside village on the southern side of the Isles, that Kit had realized the river’s low song paled in comparison to the roar of the sea.
Now that song was fading in her ears as the Diana moved toward the Crown Quay, the deepwater harbor that sheltered several Crown Command ships. The sails would be hauled down, the hold unloaded of prisoners, of prizes, of crew members who’d almost certainly make for the nearest pub and the cheapest tankard of ale.
Kit had other priorities—namely, reporting to the queen and delivering the bounty they’d obtained from the Amelie. And as they neared the dock, Kit realized she wasn’t the only one eager for news. A man and woman waited there, their polished uniforms crossed with the saffron sashes worn across their chests marking them as royal emissaries.
“Looks like they want to speak with you right away.”
Kit glanced back from her spot near the helm. Tamlin stood behind her, feet bare and chewing a chunk from a rusty apple.
“Was that the last one in the barrel?” Kit asked, gesturing to the apple.
Tamlin grinned, swiped a freckled hand over her mouth. “Likely. Cook threw it at me. It’s sweet. Bit mealy, though.” She took another bite.
Kit lifted her brows. “And still you eat it.”
Tamlin lifted a shoulder. “Fills the belly. I guess you’ll go with them.”
“I need to report what we’ve found. And responding to a summons from the queen is rarely optional.”
“Of course it is,” Tamlin said as she chewed. “If you prefer the stocks to the deck. But you probably don’t.” She tilted her head. “I don’t think you’d look good in manacles.”
“Not a good match with the uniform,” Kit agreed. “They must have been watching for us, relayed a message from the watchtower. She wants to know what Gerard’s about.” Or there’d been developments while they’d been sailing, and those developments were secret enough that the queen hadn’t wanted to reveal them in the mail exchanged between ships.
Tamlin took a final bite, tossed the core into the water, and looked back at her captain. “Whatever they say, don’t forget your manners.”
Kit’s dark eyebrow lifted. “I’m as mannerly as my profession requires.”
“We cavort with sailors, pirates, and felons.”
“Only on the good days,” Kit said with a grin. “Stay with the ship,” she added absently. Without waiting for a response, Kit climbed down onto the dock, severing her connection with the sea. She’d have a hollow in her chest until she returned to the water. And that wasn’t the only adjustment.
The rigidity of the boardwalk echoed in her bones with each step. And while the air still smelled of brine and carried the slosh of water against wood, the sounds and scents of the city were layered over it. Humans and animals and woodsmoke and cooking. And instead of the creak of hemp against wood, there were hooves against brick, the call of gulls, a sorrowful melody played by a busker in front of the customs house.
The emissaries stood at attention, hands clasped behind their backs, faces set in blank scowls.
“Captain Brightling,” said the one on the left. “Her Royal Highness Queen Charlotte II requests your immediate attendance at the palace. We’ve horses.” He gestured to three enormous creatures that stared at Kit from the end of the dock, chewing their bits with gargantuan teeth.
Kit Brightling had faced down typhoons, ships of the line, pirates, hunger. She didn’t mind being aloft, wasn’t nervous speaking to the queen, and had no qualms about leading her crew through storm or charge. But she had to work very hard to keep the dread out of her eyes.
It’s not that she was afraid of horses. She wasn’t. That would have been childish. She simply didn’t trust them, and that was a matter of logic. They were larger than humans, had enormous teeth made for grinding, and could kill a human merely by lying on them. Putting one’s life in the hands—hooves?—of a horse was simply bad planning.
Kit shook her head. “I prefer to walk.” She was fairly certain she’d kept her tone mild.
“Walk, Captain?” The emissary on the right looked horrified.
“I’ve been cooped up on the Diana, so I’d appreciate the fresh air. And it’s a scant half mile to the palace.”
“Very well,” said the one on the left. “Proceed inside. You will be met.”
Before they could change their minds, she turned on a heel and strode toward the road, giving the beasts a very wide berth.
Not because she was afraid.
Because she was wise.
Three
She might have preferred water to land, but there was something to be said for the markets of New London. Stalls lined the road that led to Exeter Palace, baskets overflowing with spices and fruit, pastries and pasties. One stall sold amulets and tokens, another cuts of mutton, a third the softly woven fabric from the Isles’ northern reaches. People of a seemingly endless variety moved among them—tall, short; dark, light. Some had come to the Isles to escape the violence of war on the Continent, others as part of cultural exchanges instituted by King Richard, the queen’s father, before his death. Diversified and open markets, he believed, were healthier and, therefore, more stable for the populous than economics based on few goods and colonization.
At the edge of the market, solid and stately, was Marten’s, the coffeehouse where investors insured the cargo, placing bets on which ships would come back—and which wouldn’t—and ringing the bell for each merchant ship that returned safely to port.
As she neared the palace, the stalls gave way to stately buildings where importers brought in goods from the Continent, and sent out goods from the Isles. Bolts of silks and good brandy coming in, wool and coal going out. The Unified Church of Isles, where the old gods had been exchanged for a unified being who created and spread the world’s magic, stood across a busy road from the palace, its own silver bell chiming the hour as she passed.
Exeter Palace was long and white and columned, nearly eight hundred rooms that served as Queen Charlotte’s residence in New London. It was surrounded by an imposing black fence over which curled the Saxon sea dragon in brilliant gold.
She was recognized by the guards—all of them members of the Queen’s Own—and was allowed through the gate and into the grand rotunda of the palace proper. White stone marbled through with pale gray and gold covered floor to domed ceiling. The cavernous room was nearly empty but for a few who waited for instructions or meetings with the queen or her emissaries.
Kit glanced around . . . and found a friend among them. He stood near a potted palm at the edge of the room: tall and fashionably trim, with green eyes and a short crop of dark hair. Charles Kingsley worked in the Crown Command’s Foreign Office for the Isles’ spymaster, William Chandler. Kit’s sister and closest friend, Jane, was convinced Kit and Kingsley were destined for wedding bells. Kit liked Kingsley, but she had no interest in marriage, in giving up the sea for domesticity.
Kingsley looked up as she moved toward him, and smiled warmly. She smiled back.
“Mr. Kingsley,” Kit said.
“Captain Brightling,” he said, and offered a bow as neat as his black tailcoat and waistcoat. “I didn’t know you’d returned.”
“Only just now,” Kit said. “You’re waiting to see Chandler?”
“I regret I’m unable to provide any details regarding my intentions.”
Kit snorted. “You are, as ever, the soul of discretion.”
“I could hardly work for Chandler without being so. Your mission was successful?”
“I regret I am unable et cetera, et cetera.” Many knew of her position in the Queen’s Own, but few were aware of her actual duties. Most believed she was little more than a cou
rier, shuttling important messages to and from New London. She had delivered messages once or twice, when time was of the essence. But her missions were rarely so mundane.
King Richard had created the regiment to serve as his personal guards after an assassin was nearly successful in removing him from power. The king believed the attempt was aided by officers within the Crown Command, so to his personal guards he’d added a select few others who could undertake sensitive tasks without the Command’s knowledge. Queen Charlotte had carried on the tradition when she took the throne after his death, and Kit had been inducted three years later.
Kingsley grinned. “Chandler should steal you away from the queen.”
“I belong to the sea,” she said, “and the sea belongs to me.”
“Sailors always have a proverb at the ready.”
“John Cox,” she said. “Cox’s Seamanship is very quotable.”
Kingsley snorted. “John Cox didn’t have a friend in the entire fleet, and spent most of his time at a desk penning that blasted book.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “With intelligence officers, it’s all brains. Learning what’s worth the trouble—and what isn’t.”
“And what’s worth the trouble?”
Kingsley laughed. “Little enough, as it turns out.”
“Kingsley!”
They looked over. The man who approached in army red was pale and thin, with a scattering of freckles and short red hair. “We’ve just finished up here,” he said, “and we’re going to the Seven Keys. Come with us.”
“Stanton. I’ve business today, but may join you yet this evening.” He gestured to Kit. “Do you know Captain Brightling?”
He gave Kit a quick appraisal. “Oh, the queen’s messenger, eh? With the good magic and fast ship? Always good to see a blue uniform. Our comrades on the sea, and all that. John Stanton. Foreign Office.”
“Kit Brightling,” she said, and didn’t bother to correct his misperceptions.
“Captain Brightling has just returned from a voyage,” Kingsley said. “Although she hasn’t yet graced me with the details.”
“The queen’s concerns aren’t mine to share,” she said.
“So mysterious, the Queen’s Own.” Stanton’s features screwed into something Kit guessed he considered serious. “You have quite the reputation.”
“Do I?” Kit asked.
“For your . . . magical abilities,” he said. “I, for one, believe there’s too much emphasis on magic these days.”
“Too much emphasis?” Kit asked mildly, hardly the first time she’d heard objections.
“Military action should be about physical skill. Mental prowess. Leadership and hardiness.”
“I doubt Lord Sutherland would agree,” Kit said. Sutherland was beloved in the Isles, the hero who’d chased Gerard across the Continent’s southern peninsula—and had relied on Aligned officers to use the land to his advantage.
Stanton flushed, red rising high sharply against his pale skin. “Sutherland’s use of Aligned officers is greatly exaggerated by those who have their own agendas.”
Kit cocked her head. “Those who prefer to understand the topography of their battlefields?”
The flush deepened again. It was, Kit thought, rather like watching the sun rise and fall, spreading its colors across the sky.
“I find that anyone who decries magic,” she said, now determined to see just how dark that flush would go, “either fears or misunderstands it.”
This time, insult had him tipping up his chin defiantly. “I have no fear. I’ve earned my place by work and determination. Not by being”—his gaze raked disdainfully over Kit’s uniform—“touched by some sort of conjuration.”
Kingsley’s eyes went hard. “I’m surprised, Stanton, that you’d have such old-fashioned ideas—or that you’d think it appropriate to voice them.”
Stanton’s brows lifted, as if shocked Kingsley would be so impertinent. “I’m late for an engagement,” he added lamely, then walked away.
“I’m sorry for that,” Kingsley said. “I hadn’t known Stanton was quite such an ass.”
“Beau Monde,” she murmured. The Beau Monde was the Isles’ most privileged class, its members born into extraordinary wealth and primarily concerned, at least in Kit’s experience, with their own comfort and ease.
“Regretfully so,” Kingsley said. “Although he’s not usually quite so obnoxious.”
Kit smiled.
“Captain Brightling.”
They both looked over. The man who’d called her name was tan, his hair dark, his body compact and strong. Kess was the queen’s closest adviser.
“If you’ll come with me?” he asked.
“Of course. Kingsley,” she said, glancing back at him.
“Brightling. Fair winds and following seas.”
* * *
“I’m glad to see you’ve returned safely,” Kess said as they walked down a wide marble hallway ornamented with portraits of previous kings and queens, sumptuous ermine pooling at their feet.
“Thank you. I’d intended to report immediately, but found emissaries waiting at the dock.”
“There have been . . . developments,” Kess said, confirming Kit’s suspicions.
They turned into the anteroom, with its ladies-in-waiting and high gilt windows, and walked through it to the mahogany door—finely carved with a sinuous sea dragon—at the other end of the hall. A guard nodded at Kess, pulled the door open.
The walls of the throne room were the soft red of deep sunset, light dappling across them from the dozen crystal chandeliers that hung from the arched ceiling. At the far end of the room stood the golden throne cushioned in the same soft red, and bearing the queen’s monogram—CR for Charlotte Regia.
Queen Charlotte sat her throne with grace and power. She was a stunning woman of thirty-three, with dark brown skin, brown eyes, and a straight nose above generous lips. Her dark hair rose like a wave above her golden diadem, and her aubergine dress was fitted low across her shoulders, marked by the saffron sash of Isles royalty and the sea dragon brooch that marked her as leader of the unified Crown Command.
Kess took his position beside the throne. Kit dropped her gaze to the thick carpet as she neared it, then dropped to one knee when she reached it. “Your Highness.”
“Rise, Captain.”
She did as commanded and held herself at attention, meeting the gaze of the ruler of the Saxon Isles.
The queen had inherited the throne from her father when he’d fallen ill in the midst of the war. She was the only child of an only child, and the duty of ruling the Isles had fallen to her in wartime at the age of twenty-eight. She’d managed the war with a savvy that surprised the king’s advisers. And then she’d dismissed them.
“I was excited to learn of your return, Captain,” the queen said. “Your mission?”
She wasn’t wasting any time, Kit thought, and pulled the packet from her coat. The queen took it, opened it, and read.
And then swore. “Coded, but in his strange penmanship,” the queen said. “Either a remarkable forgery, or another bit of arrogance. The treacherous bastard.” She looked back at Kit. “Where was it found?”
“On a packet called the Amelie, Your Highness. Running under the Isles’ flag.”
“He would dare,” she muttered.
“The Amelie’s captain told us the communication was part of cargo he picked up at Fort de la Mer. He was to leave it in a Pencester pub called the Cork and Barrel.”
The queen’s brows lifted. “Do you know it?”
“I don’t, Your Highness.”
“Then we will.” She handed the packet to Kess, who slipped it inside his jacket.
There was movement to Kit’s right. Her hand went instinctively to her dagger, weight shifting as she prepared to meet the threat. Two men walked toward the d
ais from a closing panel on the far side of the room. Given the queen’s cool expression, they weren’t unexpected.
Neither wore a uniform, just somber tailcoats and trousers. The first Kit had seen before, but never formally met. This was William Chandler, the spymaster. He was a big man, with tan skin and brown hair, a square jaw, and a face some would call rugged. And while his expression stayed mild, there was no disguising his confidence or his authority. This was a man in his power—a man who had the ear of the queen.
Kit didn’t know the second. He was a tall man, with sun-kissed skin, his hair a sun-streaked brown brushed over a strong brow, his eyes a startling blue green.
“Mr. Chandler,” the queen said. “I believe you know Captain Brightling.”
Chandler nodded at her, expression cool. She did the same.
“Colonel Rian Grant, Viscount Queenscliffe,” the queen said, gesturing to the other man.
Grant didn’t look like a member of the Beau Monde, Kit thought, much less any viscount she’d ever seen. His shoulders were broad, and his body looked capable of action, not merely climbing in and out of a curricle to circle Victory Park. There was energy here, banked power, in such volume it seemed to charge the air in the room.
“Colonel Grant served as one of Sutherland’s observing officers on the peninsula, and fought at Zadorra.” Zadorra, near the river of the same name, was a town in Hispania not far from the Gallic border. There’d been brutal fighting there over hard terrain not long before the war ended. The casualties had been . . . severe.
“Colonel Grant,” the queen continued, “this is Captain Kit Brightling of the Queen’s Own.”
If he had any thoughts about her presence in the room, they were well hidden behind a bland expression.
“Colonel,” Kit said, opting for the title the queen had used.
“Captain.” His tone was bland, as if mildly irritated to find her in his presence.
Charming, Kit thought.
