by Bex Hogan
Years ago, Bronn drew me pictures of the islands, so I could visualise each one’s unique terrain. Though all of the islands are self-sufficient to a point, most of the crops are grown on the Second Isle – Fallow Island – and Bronn drew its fields of fertile ground nestled among moorlands. He drew the paths where water had carved its way down and through, pooling in some places, rushing in others. My favourite image was of a still lake of clear water reflecting the full moon so perfectly it looked as though it had fallen to earth.
His pictures of the Black and the Floral Islands were among the reasons why I desperately wanted to visit them, and it seems strange that so much has happened since I used to lie in my hammock imagining what they’d be like. All the horror. All the joy. All the pain. Still, his drawings will always be magical to me: the darkness of the forests, the beauty of the meadows.
The only other island I’ve not been to is the Fifth, which Bronn depicted in just one sketch: small woollen animals roaming the hard grazing land against the backdrop of a mountain range, camouflaged by mist swirling around them. He said there wasn’t much else to see, but I liked to think the island simply guarded its own secrets.
For the First he sketched the settlements: swordsmiths busy making weapons; shipwrights building and repairing vessels at the dockyards; the fishermen hauling their catches to shore. He managed to capture the constant activity of the bustling market with a few deft strokes of charcoal.
The market sells everything the Isles have to offer. If you want to purchase fruit, vegetables or any kind of cereal, the Fallow Island will oblige. If you’re after cloth, then visit the traders from Mist Island; their beasts provide soft wool that the islanders often dye using extracts from the flowers from the Fourth. Before the mining disasters, the Sixth Isle sent crystal and other rocks and minerals to the First, both to keep the kingdom’s vaults full, and to turn into anything from tools to gunpowder. Most of these wares can be purchased at one or other of the many stalls.
All the islands are brimming with talent, and I’m always astounded at what craftsmen can do with raw materials. Food, perfume, clothing, jewellery, decorations – it all can be found in this gathering of wonders.
But I won’t be wandering the market today. Instead I will be seeing the palace for the first time.
The boat we’ve been travelling on isn’t huge, so the fishermen guide it to one of the smaller jetties where the man who throws over the rope smiles at us as we disembark. Grace doesn’t return his smile, instead slipping a coin into his hand.
‘You didn’t see us, understood?’ she says, and the man nods in agreement, biting the coin to check its authenticity.
It’s good to be back on land again, but it doesn’t take long for me to realise how things have changed since my last visit several years ago. Though the streets have always been bustling, now it isn’t only traders milling about. There are beggars wherever I look, desperate for a scrap of food. Crowds of travellers arriving off boats from the other five isles are herded together by soldiers, who prevent them from passing beyond the edges of town. There is no fight in these people; they simply look defeated. Confused. Unsure where they should be, where they belong. Instead of music being played in the streets, now children’s cries can be heard above the shouts of traders and the barking of dogs. My heart sinks. What is the King doing to help?
Grace and I navigate the narrow streets with ease, Grace knowing exactly where to go, but as we turn a corner it soon becomes apparent getting out of the town isn’t going to be simple. Stationed at the road leading towards the country residence of the King are armed palace guards, turning away anyone who doesn’t have a legitimate reason to proceed inland.
‘Well, we wouldn’t want things to be too easy,’ Grace says with a smile.
We approach the crowd petitioning to continue their journeys, and wait with some impatience until we reach the soldiers, who raise their spears to block our path.
‘No new arrivals to the island may stay,’ the soldier closest to us says. ‘Return to your vessel and make your way home.’
He’s clearly been parroting that sentence for weeks; there is no meaning behind it any more.
‘We have business with the King,’ I say, causing the soldier to give me a look of disbelief.
‘Move on,’ he says. ‘I haven’t got time for this.’
Grace steps forward now, and slowly the soldier takes in what she’s wearing. He swallows so deeply I’m concerned he might be sick.
‘Do you know who I am?’ she says in her most menacing voice. ‘Do you know who I work for? Are you sure you want to try to stand in my way?’
It’s clear from how quickly the blood drains from his face that the soldier knows exactly what crew Grace belongs to.
‘And we’ll need transport,’ she adds, sensing she has the upper hand.
He doesn’t look pleased but clicks his fingers, prompting another guard to bring two horses over and pass us their reins.
‘You may proceed.’
Grace glares at the soldier for a moment. ‘If you, or any of your little friends think it would be wise to speak of my presence here, I should warn you I have a fondness for removing loose tongues. Understand?’
The soldier nods his head, trembling slightly now. Interesting. I knew the Maiden’s crew were feared by the islanders, but by the King’s men? Things are far worse than I imagined. The crowd watch in interest, unable to hear exactly what’s being said, but loving that the soldiers are rattled.
Once Grace is satisfied her threats have been taken seriously, we mount our horses, though I do so with some trepidation. I’ve only ridden once before, with much assistance, on a small mule. This beast is far larger and more spirited, and when I squeeze his sides he’s quick to spring to a gallop, as eager to escape the town as we are. I have to draw on all my balance not to fall off, my fingers wound in his mane for support.
When we’ve put sufficient distance between us and the town we allow the horses a rest, bringing them to a walk along the bumpy cobbled road. It’s as far inland as I’ve ever been here. The industrial terrain of the town slowly peters out before merging into woodland and then eventually rolling hills. Cottages dot the landscape and children play in the street, but at the sound of our approach mothers hurry out to take their children inside. The roads are quiet – too quiet – and though Grace doesn’t say anything I can sense her unease matches my own. Fear is a plague and it seems even the First Isle is infected.
‘Do you think word will get back to my father that we’re here?’ I ask Grace when the silence becomes too uncomfortable.
Grace nods. ‘They’ll all be willing to sell us out for a price. But hopefully by then we’ll be long gone. If we keep moving, we’ll be fine.’
Well, that’s reassuring.
After riding for most of the day we round a corner and the palace comes into view, its pale stone reflecting the sun back at us so that I’m momentarily blinded. When my eyes adjust, my heart sinks at the sight before me. Nestled in its own valley, the vast castle must surely have once looked magical, with a waterfall spilling down the cliffs behind it before running straight into a natural moat. The six island pennants hang from the turrets, alongside the collective Eastern Isles’ flag, and the blue and green royal standard. But they are tattered and faded, and the flowers that once filled the valley have withered and died. Though it’s far from a ruin, the air of neglect is unmistakable, and perhaps it’s not surprising that the King has done nothing to help his people’s plight when he seems unable to care for his own home.
Our horses whinny gleefully at the prospect of returning to their stables, but though the drawbridge is down, the portcullis is firmly in place and remains so even as we are greeted by more unfriendly-looking guards, who question us endlessly through the latticed grille before making us wait. Eventually word returns that our request to enter has been granted, and once the portcullis is raised we’re permitted into the courtyard where our horses are taken away along with
our weapons, before we’re led through into an arched passageway.
Courtiers in fine garments move briskly out of our way as we’re escorted deeper into the castle, and I notice that while most avoid looking at Grace, presumably terrified by her mere presence, many openly stare at me, not bothering to hide their disdain at my shabby appearance. My dress made me stand out on the Maiden and it makes me stand out here. The only place I ever fitted in was with a loving family who made space in their lives for me just as I was. My heart twists tight at the thought.
There is a further wait outside two imposing wooden doors, which are carved with an intricate map of the Eastern Isles, before they open and we are summoned in.
The King sits directly ahead of us, his throne raised on a marble platform separated from the floor by five deep steps. Like his son, he is younger than I expected and far more attractive, his face clean-shaven, his skin luminous from the sun, and only when we stand at the base of his platform can I see the lines around his eyes that betray his age. I struggle to reconcile his image with the one I’d pictured whenever I thought of him and my father concocting their dark schemes.
‘Your Majesty,’ Grace says and bows deeply. I follow suit.
‘Grace,’ the King says as if they’re old acquaintances. I presume my father must have talked of his crew to such an extent that the King feels a familiarity towards them. ‘And, Marianne, welcome. This is an unexpected delight.’ Nothing in his tone suggests sincerity. ‘Captain Adler gave me no warning to expect your company, so I confess I’m left wondering what I can do for you?’
‘Forgive our intrusion,’ Grace continues, ‘but Marianne was keen to see your son. He extended an open invitation to her when he dined aboard the Maiden.’
It’s possible I’m imagining it, but I think the King looks relieved.
‘Alas, Prince Torin is not currently at court,’ the King says, and I have to mask my disappointment. ‘A fact I’m sure he will deeply regret when he learns of your visit.’
He nods to his guards, and they move closer, ready to escort us back out of the hall. He certainly seems anxious to be rid of us.
I step forward. ‘Actually, Your Majesty, it was you I wished to speak with.’
The King raises his hand slightly and the guards stop moving. He regards me with undisguised suspicion. ‘Was it indeed? Has your father made you his messenger now?’
I hesitate, wondering how much to say. Everything I’ve seen since we arrived – from the chaos at the harbour to the unfriendly welcome here – has made me less certain that I should have come. But at least the King seems oblivious to the fact that I’ve been disowned. Apparently my father didn’t want anyone else to know about that embarrassment.
‘No, I’ve come of my own volition.’
The King’s eyes flick from me to Grace as he weighs up the truth of my words. ‘I see. Well then, speak.’
The air is thick with mistrust and my hopes are rapidly sinking. ‘Your Majesty, it is a private matter. May we talk alone?’
He stares at me for a long time before he nods. ‘We will, you and I. But on one condition.’ He points at Grace. ‘For the duration of your visit she remains behind lock and key. I’m not foolish enough to allow such a skilled assassin freedom in my home. You have my word she will be treated well.’
So he’s looked me over and deemed me to be no threat to him. Though part of me is sick to death of people misjudging me like this, right now it’s a good thing. I want him to underestimate me. I glance over at Grace, who nods slightly to show her willingness. I doubt a locked door is of too much concern to her anyway.
‘Agreed.’
‘Good, then let us dine together.’
Grace gives me one last look before she’s escorted away. A look that warns me to be careful. As if I need reminding.
I’m shown out of a different doorway to the one I entered from, and am led through to a smaller, more intimate room, the sheer opulence of which astounds me. Material possessions are a rarity on board the Maiden – if it has no purpose, it has no place. Quarters are cramped enough.
But here it is the opposite. Furniture is swathed in plush upholstery, crystal hangs from the ceiling, and the walls are decorated with platters of varying sizes, which appear to have been dipped in liquid gold. In the centre is a preposterously long table buried under enormous quantities of food. More extravagant still are the plates piled high with fruit made entirely of glittering jewels. Such wealth flaunted in something entirely pointless is sickening when I know that so many islanders are starving.
The King comes into the room behind me, and gestures for me to sit down. I do so, and as he sits opposite me several servants quickly provide us with wine.
‘Please, help yourself to whatever appeals,’ the King says, gesturing to the selection of meats and dishes, some of which are so elaborate I can’t actually identify them.
I take a small bread roll, but consider it with caution. The King wouldn’t be the first host to poison an unwelcome guest. Besides, I don’t want to be distracted by cuisine right now, no matter how vocal my stomach has become.
The food must be safe, though, as the King fills his plate with enough to feed a large family before ordering his men to leave. Just like that I find myself alone with the ruler of the Eastern Isles.
He runs his fingers through his pale hair. ‘I have to say, you’re nothing like I expected.’
I can only imagine the portrayal my father has given of me. A weak but suitable daughter-in-law, inoffensive to look at and of childbearing age. ‘Oh, really? Why is that?’
‘I suppose I envisaged a younger female version of your father. You are altogether more pleasing.’
Which I think translates as altogether easier to manipulate.
‘Your Majesty, there is nothing pleasing about what I have to discuss.’ May as well just come out with it. ‘My father has turned against you. The islands are no longer under any protection and the people, your people, are suffering. Even here there is chaos at your ports. I’ve come to offer my help.’
The King is silent for a moment, resting his cutlery on his plate and chewing a mouthful of meat. He washes it down with a swig of wine.
‘You’re here to betray your father?’
‘My father no longer deserves the title of Viper. He protects no interests beyond his own.’
The King leans back in his chair and belches loudly. ‘And what do you want in return for this information?’
‘Nothing. I only want peace for the Isles.’
The King presses his fingers together and gives me a sickly grin. ‘Don’t we all?’ He refills his glass with blood-red wine. ‘Sadly, Marianne, you’re telling me nothing new. I’ve long been aware of the unsanctioned killings done in my name, as have I known Adler’s been siphoning off far more crystal for himself over the years than he should. For his loyalty I have overlooked such matters.’
He takes a morsel of meat dipped in sweet sauce and pops it into his mouth before sucking his fingers clean. All these years I’d believed the King and the Viper worked together for the good of the islands. The last fragments of that foolish notion are now entirely shattered. Just like my father, the King appears to care for no one but himself.
‘But over the past few months my Fleet has suffered substantial losses and I don’t think either of us believes the attacks were made by bandits. Of course I know your father plans to overthrow me, why else has he been ridding the waters of all possible opposition? He wants ultimate power over land and sea.’
I stare at him, astonished at his apparent indifference. ‘Then what do you plan to do?’
‘Your father may have the upper hand on the waves, but on land I have the advantage. With all my troops recalled he’ll have one hell of a time taking my throne from me.’
My disappointment in the King is crushing, and it would be so easy to give up right now, but how dare he? How dare he care so little for his people? They are counting on him. Joren, Clara, Tomas – they we
re counting on him. It’s clear I was mistaken to think he needed help. He’s abandoned the people and barricaded himself into his palace, protecting his life above all others.
‘If you knew all this,’ I say, fighting to keep my voice steady, ‘then why would you agree to let your son marry me?’
The King drains his goblet dry and immediately refills it. ‘As a matter of fact I agreed to no such thing.’ He looks at my wrist, the mark of binding there for all to see. ‘It would appear your father and my son have made their own arrangements.’
The horror of the binding ceremony returns to me so vividly I wince. I can only presume my father used Torin in the hope our marriage would give him the control he needs on land. And what is Torin’s part in all this? Does he wish to overthrow the King too? Is he working with my father? The thought that I endured all that pain for nothing more than some scheme my father and Torin concocted only stokes the anger already burning inside me.
I push my feelings aside. They’re irrelevant right now. I’m here for one reason only, and that’s to get the King’s support. So I swallow my pride and bow my head subserviently.
‘My apologies, Your Majesty. I had no idea.’
The King’s drunk a lot of wine now; his cheeks are flushed, his eyes bloodshot. ‘Though perhaps a union between royalty and Viper could be a good thing . . .’
I frown. ‘You support my engagement then?’
He looks dead at me. ‘No. Not to my son.’ My heart starts to beat faster as the King stands up and walks round the table. When he’s standing beside me he offers me his hand, and I can hardly refuse. He pulls me to my feet, and lets his fingers run up my wrist to my binding scar.
