by Bex Hogan
As I watch him go I notice Ren, the boatswain, staring at me. I smile in greeting, but he just grunts in response, before returning his attention to the mizzenmast. A man of few words.
A soft creaking on the boards causes me to look over my shoulder, and I relax when I see who it is.
Grace, the only Snake I’m ever happy to see, is approaching. Her uniform is closely fitted to allow her complete freedom of movement. There are no weapons on her person because her body is her weapon – agile, strong and deadly. She stands next to me, staring out to sea, her expression grim.
When she doesn’t speak I fill the silence. ‘Is something wrong?’
She tilts her head, panther-like, her astonishing black eyes locking on my own muddy-coloured ones. ‘I heard about Anders.’
I shrug.
‘You didn’t make the kill.’
I wonder for the hundredth time what Grace thinks of me. Seven years my senior, and the most respected of all the women aboard, she knows me better than anyone, has trained me in combat over the years, knows exactly what I’m capable of, is perfectly aware how much I hold back – and yet she says nothing. Not once has she given me away to Father when I downplay my skills. Does she suspect I’d rather heal than kill? Can she sense the lack of murder in my heart? Or does she think, like my father, that in time I will learn to be one of them, a killer for my king? She is the closest thing I have to a sister, but as long as she answers to her captain, I can’t entirely trust her. I can’t trust any of them.
‘I hear we’re having a visitor,’ I say, transparently changing the subject.
‘We are. You should be getting ready.’
I hold up the hideous dress. ‘Have you seen what I’m supposed to wear?’
She raises an eyebrow and takes it from me. ‘Come on. I’ll help you.’
As we make our way below deck I glance over at her. ‘Who’s this guest it’s so important to impress?’
‘The Captain didn’t tell you?’ She seems surprised. ‘Apparently Prince Torin is gracing us with his presence. And, before you ask, I have no idea why.’
A royal visit? This is new. We always make port on the First Isle when Father needs to attend court or receive new orders. And he always goes alone. No one aboard the Maiden accompanies him, the King preferring to conduct business in secret. As far as I know, and admittedly my knowledge is limited, even the Prince isn’t privy to his father’s darker orders. I wonder whose idea this visit was, my father’s or the King’s? And why now?
No one seems to know much about the Prince, and so he’s taken on quite an air of mystery. Some say he’s a coward who’s brought shame upon his father’s name by hiding away, others say he’s a scholar wedded to his books. I’ve even heard rumours that he’s secretly fighting against his father under an alias and that they haven’t even seen each other for years. Whatever the truth, one thing is certain: the Prince is rarely witnessed in public. And now he’s coming here. I don’t know what my father is up to, but it’s unlikely to be good.
Once in my cabin I relax slightly, the door creating a false sense of security.
It’s a poky space, my room: my bunk runs the full length of one wall and it’s sparsely furnished. I can count the items in here on one hand: clothes, knife, chest, wash bowl and chamber pot.
And now a new gown.
I throw it on the floor and fling myself into my hammock. Grace bends to scoop the dress up and pulls a face.
‘Where did the Captain dredge this up from?’
‘I dread to think.’ Maybe it belonged to a woman he entertained in his quarters last time we made port. Or maybe he prised it off a dead body. Either way I don’t want to think about it too much.
Grace is shaking it out with a look of amusement. ‘He knows it’s going to take more than a new dress to make you respectable, right?’ And she pokes me in the ribs.
I gasp with mock indignation, but swing my legs round and force myself to stand up. May as well get this over with.
Grace helps me into the gown – which we discover has several layers that create a full skirt and a low-cut bodice so tight I can barely breathe.
As she fastens the ribbons at my back, my mind wanders to the days when she spent more time alone with me here, when I was a child and she was one of the few who noticed me. ‘Do you remember those stories you used to tell me?’
Grace pulls tight, winding me. ‘What stories?’
‘About magic. The Mages.’
I had wanted so badly to believe that they were true. Maybe I still do.
She pauses. ‘I guess. What made you think about that?’
I shrug. Though the history books tell us magic left the East centuries ago, it may as well have never existed for all anyone talks about it. But I have always loved the merest mention of it, escaping into legends filled with mythical creatures as if they could somehow shelter me from reality.
‘I’m surprised you remember.’
I fall quiet. ‘I don’t have many happy memories to choose from.’
Grace lightly touches my arm, and rests her chin on my shoulder. ‘They were just fairy tales to help you sleep. Pay them no heed.’
My smile falters. I’d hoped she’d tell me one now, offer me some comfort, and her dismissal of them stings.
Wanting to move on from the topic, I clear my throat. ‘Maybe I should do something with my hair?’ My fingers pull at my corkscrew curls.
‘Your hair’s fine as it is,’ she says, but I ignore her, attempting to make the matted mess cooperate as I pile it on top of my head, in what I suspect is an unflattering heap.
‘What do you think?’ I ask, but Grace doesn’t answer. Though she’s behind me, I can sense the shift in her mood, and I frown. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ she says a little too dismissively. ‘I just think you should leave your hair down. After all, your father prefers it that way and we don’t want to give him cause to be angry, do we?’
It’s true. Having my hair loose is like wearing a dress, another reminder that I’m not an official member of the crew. Only when I’m alone do I ever tie it out of the way and enjoy the relief of not having hair in my eyes.
Grace moves round to stand in front of me, and for a brief moment she has a distant look in her eyes, but then she snaps into focus. ‘I’d like to see the Captain complain about this,’ she says with an approving smile.
‘Thank you.’ Without her I’d probably still be lost in waves of material.
We sit on the hammock swinging gently, and she catches me off guard by taking my hand in hers. The gesture seems oddly maternal, and for one stupid moment I think I’m going to cry. I distract myself by mentally tracing the lines around the white patches she has in her skin, the lack of pigment creating mini islands on her hands. She has them on her arms too; I’ve seen them peeking out beneath her sleeves before. When I was younger I used to imagine she had a whole map over her body, a world entirely of her own.
‘We should increase your training,’ she says.
I say nothing, because all the training in the world isn’t going to solve my problems.
‘And, Marianne? There’s no harm in believing in the magic.’
‘Even if it’s just a stupid story?’
Grace flashes me a wicked grin. ‘No such thing.’
When she leaves and there’s nothing to do but wait to be summoned, I dig out the dead bird from my chest, the smell clawing at my throat the moment it escapes. The body has started to decay already and the spark of life that lingered while there was warmth remaining has gone. It will teach me nothing now. Damn. I open my porthole, sea spray flicking up into my face, and drop the tiny corpse into the ocean. It may as well make a tasty morsel to some hungry creature down there so its death isn’t entirely in vain.
I know why Grace wants me to practise more; she’s thinking about my Initiation. Shrouded in secrecy, the ritual is different for everyone. I once asked Grace what to expect and she fell silent before answering.
>
You cannot ask. I cannot tell. You will pass or you will fail. That is the way.
That she seemed apprehensive of my Initiation did nothing to instil confidence in me. She fears nothing.
Personally I’m not sure what I’m more afraid of – Initiation itself, or what comes afterwards. How long will it be until I’m given my first assignment? And what then? Will I have to kill someone? I could. I’m more than capable. Grace has made sure of that. But should a life be valued so lightly? That it can end at the whim of one man?
However, it’s one thing to avoid my father’s requests now, and quite another to defy him as my captain, issuing orders from the King.
I look at the cut on my hand. Perhaps my father’s right. Maybe I am just too weak.
My mind snakes away from such thoughts and instead returns to the imminent visit of the Prince. In all the vast expanse of the ocean, this particular location seems a strange place for us to meet.
We’re close to the invisible divide that separates the Eastern waters from the Western ones. It’s a line we never cross – the Western Isles aren’t governed by the King or anyone else, and since the war that destroyed the unity between the Twelve Isles, the Western Isles have sunk into ruin. Now all that remains are stories whispered from generation to generation, of lawlessness, violent clans, evil creatures in the deep. It’s said the last of the Mages still dwell in the West, fallen now to a crueller magic than in the days when they stood with kings. The legendary water raptors continue to strike fear into the toughest sailor’s heart, though they are nothing more than myth. Everyone will breathe easier when we’re a little further away from Western waters.
Apart from me.
I have long been drawn to what lies beyond the divide, as eager for Grace to tell me stories of the West as the East when I was younger. The mystery surrounding the forgotten Six Isles entices me as strongly as it repels others, and leaves me with a longing to venture to the unknown – a feeling that I suspect stems less from bravery than from my desire to escape. But given that I’m alone in these feelings, it occurs to me how calculating my father has been to lure Prince Torin into unsettling waters for our meeting. He’s trying to intimidate the Prince. I hate to think what part I’m supposed to play in this visit.
It’s several hours before someone taps on my door and rescues me from my thoughts. The Maiden stopped moving a while ago, so I know we’ve dropped anchor. When I open my door Bronn is standing there and for a brief moment he gives me a strange look, which is confusing until I remember I’m wearing different clothes. No doubt he’s suppressing the urge to laugh.
‘What do you want?’ I can’t remember the last time Bronn came to my quarters.
He finds his voice eventually. ‘Prince Torin is close by. You’re wanted on deck.’
‘Lucky me,’ I say, unable to hold back my sarcasm. When he doesn’t move I add, ‘It’s all right. I know the way.’
Still he says nothing, just stands there with such bored indifference that I push past him, unable to contain my irritation. Since when have I needed an escort on board the Maiden? He follows right behind, but I ignore him, the wall of silence that has long existed between us thicker than ever.
Given that it’s the first time we’ve entertained royalty aboard the Maiden I’m not sure what I was expecting in the way of a welcoming committee, but it wasn’t this. As I reach the deck I see the crew standing row upon neat row dressed in full uniform: their black tops and trousers covered by equally dark cloaks that tie neatly at the waist, their hoods pulled over their heads. My father stands ready to welcome the Prince; Cleeve and Ren are just behind him, while Grace is off to their side. Though I live among them, the sight of them standing on ceremony in all their deadly glory allows me to glimpse the terror they must drive into the hearts of our enemies. And quite probably our allies too.
My father looks up as we approach and to my relief I can tell my appearance has pleased him. ‘Ah, Marianne, here you are. You look beautiful, daughter.’ He is speaking too loudly, and I understand his words aren’t meant for me; they’re for his crew.
I had expected my apparel to cause amusement, perhaps even raise a laugh or two, but the way several of the men gawp suggests I’m having the opposite effect.
‘Thank you, Captain,’ I say, trying to communicate that I’m on my best behaviour. And I need to be because there’s a vast ship, almost as big as ours, pulling next to us, flying the royal banner of blue and green alongside the Eastern Isles’ flag. It’s so brilliantly vibrant it only serves to emphasise the shroud of darkness that permanently covers the Maiden. Apart from me. Tonight I stand out like a beacon in this stupid dress.
Ren and Cleeve step forward to catch the ropes thrown by the royal quartermaster, pulling the ships close enough so we can be boarded. Several royal guards come over first, their spears ceremoniously pressed to their chests. I can’t help but smile because if it came to a fight between them and my father’s elite killers there’d be no contest. I wonder if Prince Torin realises quite how vulnerable he is here.
And then he steps aboard. I had imagined someone older, wide around the middle from an indulged and sedentary life, arrogant perhaps. But the man approaching us is close to my age, impeccably dressed, and his strong, lean physique tells me he’s far from an idle passenger on his ship. He walks with the confidence of his station, and though his handsome face is tight with underlying tension, I imagine he is very popular at court. Especially with women.
‘Prince Torin,’ my father says, stepping forward and crossing his arms over his chest by way of salute. ‘Welcome to the Maiden.’
‘The honour is mine, Captain Adler,’ Torin replies and his voice is velvet and honey. ‘It’s not every day one receives an invitation to dine on the most feared ship in our waters.’
‘We’re glad you could come.’ I’ve never witnessed my father using his charm before – I hadn’t realised he had any. ‘Allow me to introduce my quartermaster, Cleeve. My boatswain, Ren. And this is Bronn. My most valuable assassin.’
I glance at Grace to see how she feels to be overlooked so publicly. She is, after all, one of the most senior of the crew. Her face betrays nothing, and I suspect this isn’t the first time my father has treated her as less than the others. For all her brilliance she has one fatal flaw. She is a woman. All the women on board have to fight faster and work harder to get the same recognition as the men, and I know better than anyone the low opinion my father has of us.
Prince Torin nods politely as the introductions are made. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, although of course your reputations precede you. But where is my betrothed?’
I stare ahead, expecting a woman to appear from his ship, someone elegant and beautiful, calling sweet apologies for her lateness. But no one comes. And as my father turns to face me, a false smile upon his lips, I realise no one will. Because he means me.
The meal may be going well from a diplomatic point of view, but I cannot enjoy the food set before me, no matter how lavish, and if I were to drink all the rum in the world it wouldn’t be enough to still my thoughts. Not that I’ve been allowed more than the smallest sip. My father is keeping me on a tight leash, presumably to prevent me misbehaving. Because he must know how I’m feeling about this ambush.
Since the moment this noose was slipped round my neck I’ve fought to keep my composure. If I struggle, if I speak my mind, raise my voice, scream at my father that I’m not his bloody possession to trade, then the rope will tighten and squeeze my life away. And so I sit still, play my part, and all the while my rage burns so intensely it chars my insides.
I hadn’t known what to expect of Prince Torin, and, as our empty dinner plates are cleared to make way for sweet pastries, I still feel no closer to learning anything about him. He’s behaved precisely how one would want a prince to behave, speaking to everyone as equals rather than his subjects, and being suitably attentive to me. What a beautiful gown I’m wearing; how it complements my own beauty; how th
e First Isle will be thrilled with the impending nuptials.
But not one word he’s said sounds sincere or genuine. It’s as if he’s playing a version of himself, and while he may fool the others, I’m not convinced for a moment.
The dull throb in my palm reminds me that my father is watching my every move, but even so it’s taking all my control to keep smiling. Only one other person looks as unhappy as I feel and that is Prince Torin’s personal guard, who despite being similar to the Prince in age and height has a true scowl for every one of Torin’s fake smiles. I don’t blame him – he must know how little protection he can offer his master here.
When there is no more food to consume and the flagons are filled yet again, it’s clear my presence is no longer required. Making my excuses, I slip away. Between my rising panic and the constricting bones of my corset, I struggle to breathe as I clamber to deck, running to the bow and collapsing in a heap. My father has utterly blindsided me with this trap. How could he not discuss it with me first? Is it a punishment for my failure to order Anders’ death? Or does he truly think so little of me that my future is of no importance to him? The path laid out before me may be fraught with difficulty, but at least I knew what it was, and I have spent my life trying to be good enough for it. And I’d always assumed that by the time it came to marriage I would at least have some say in the matter, given that I’ll be captain one day.
I gaze over at the figurehead attached to the far end of the ship’s bow. Carved from the blackest wood is a woman leaning out, her dress and cloak billowing in the wind, ropes tied round her waist. A scarlet bloom is painted on her chest, her heart bleeding. She is the maiden the ship is named after. She is my mother. Father never speaks about her; only once did he break that rule to tell me she was his great love. When she was murdered shortly after my birth, he had the figurehead made from the nightheart wood found in the black forests of the Third Isle, and renamed the ship. This act of devotion has always led me to believe he understood the power of true love and would wish the same for me. Apparently I was wrong, and I see the woman bound to the ship in a new light. I’m no more breaking free of the Maiden than she is. I have more in common with a lump of wood than anyone else. Great.
