Threats of Sky and Sea

by Jennifer Ellision

  A cold circle presses into my palm as Da clasps shaking hands over mine. He doesn’t say anything, but something tells me to keep the object hidden in the folds of my dress as the guards tear him from me.

  They maneuver him roughly back down the violet carpet and through the plum doors. He shrugs their arms off of his shoulders, and they seize him at the wrists, a guard at his back with a threatening scythe.

  When the doors thud shut behind him, all eyes swivel to me. I try desperately to get my breathing in check and swipe at the tears coursing over my cheeks. I stand in the center of the throne room.

  And I’m alone.

  Fourteen

  I’m sure that words are said after that. I’m sure that threats are made and emotions betrayed. I’m sure that someone explains to me what my life will be like now.

  I don’t remember any of that.

  I have a vague recollection of fingers on my wrist, as my feet followed a guide mechanically. Of shoes being slipped from my feet, sheets being tucked in at my side, and feathery down suffocating me like a cloud with murderous intent.

  It must be a long time that I lay there, for when I next open my eyes, it’s a new day and a worried face peers down at me. It’s one of the ladies-in-waiting who attended me yesterday. Her name is lost in the haze of all that happened afterward. What is it? Ami? No. Emis, that’s it.

  “My lady?”

  Jolting upright, I press the heel of my hand to my forehead and swing my legs over to the floor. Solid wood is beneath my feet. Good. That will ground me when reality quakes my world again.

  Da’s in prison.

  The thought whisks through my mind, taking all traces of sleep with it. This morning is not like every other morning of my life. I won’t walk out of this bedroom to find Da wiping down a counter or preparing a barrel of ale. Even when Katerine and her band of Adepts had held us captive, I’d known Da was there. Now, the only thing I have of his is the object he pressed into my palm.

  My hand is empty. Where is it? I pat the mattress down, feeling the beginning stirrings of a frantic energy. The sensation is quelled when I encounter something cold and metal and clutch it in my hand. A relieved puff of air escapes me.

  I’ll have to examine whatever it is later. It doesn’t seem wise to have Emis see it. I don’t know where her loyalties lie. Until then, I’ll need to keep it hidden. On me, where no one else will stumble across it.

  “My lady?” Emis repeats, voice raised louder.

  I snap to attention. “Don’t,” I beg her, my voice emerging hoarsely. I’m not sure if I mean don’t call me lady, don’t try to comfort me, or just don’t be here right now.

  Emis bites her lip, looking indecisive. “I must, Lady Breena.”

  I close my eyes, denying the sunlight that wades in, uninvited. “Why are you here?” I ask tiredly.

  “His Majesty sent us to help you acclimate to palace life.”

  Palace life is unimportant. What does adjusting here matter when I intend to flee with Da as soon as the opportunity presents itself? “Can I see my father?”

  “No, my lady. At least…not just yet.” Emis turns and exchanges a significant look with Gisela. I hadn’t noticed the other woman’s quiet presence along the wall, but there she stands, hands neatly folded before her.

  I don’t understand the king’s game. Why had he listened when Rick intervened on my behalf? For that matter, why had Rick—Prince Caden, I have to start thinking of him that way—intervened at all? And what does the king mean to achieve by keeping me imprisoned separately from Da? For I’m certain he’s not keeping me at court simply out of a prodded sense of justice. All I have are questions.

  Still, I have to admit that residing within the palace will afford me certain opportunities. Maybe I can get answers here, find some resources to assist in our escape. And the king is keeping us alive; that’s something.

  They can make me a “lady” if they want—or, at least, try to. I’ll focus on getting answers first, getting to Da, and then getting out of here. Maybe out of Egria altogether.

  Emis continues, seeming surprised that I haven’t seized the quiet as a chance to interrogate her. “His Majesty called us your nobility ambassadors, Lady Breena, but please think of us as your ladies-in-waiting. We’ve discussed it and agreed. It’s the work we’re used to.”

  “I don’t need ladies-in-waiting. Makers know I’m the saddest excuse for nobility you’ll ever behold.” I stand and look out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sun is still dragging itself over the horizon. I can do the same—pull myself into a new dawn in these new lands.

  “But I could certainly use some friends. And some help,” I admit. I shove Da’s parting gift beneath the covers where it can stay hidden until I’m finished dressing. I can’t fathom figuring out the proper trappings of court life myself, so I motion Gisela and Emis closer, bracing myself. “Have at me, then.”

  To my dismay, riding is first on their agenda. In the back of my mind, I’d expected to be forced into another meeting with the king, but it seems he’s had enough of me. For now, anyway.

  The only animal I’ve ever ridden in my life was a mule during a festival day when I was little, and at least then, I’d been in a sensible pair of pants and been able to throw my legs on either side of the mount.

  The ladies insist that I don my skirts again. Thankfully, today’s are sewn from a material that breathes a bit easier than yesterday’s. Honestly, do they really expect me to balance on the saddle with both my legs and my skirts weighing me down on one side?

  I am glad to be out of doors though. There’s something to be said for it, especially here in the south where I don’t worry that I’ll suffer from frostbite if I’m out here too long. The warm sun on my face and a distinct lack of shackles on my wrists almost let me forget that I’m still a prisoner.

  Emis and Gisela lead me to a large pasture on the castle grounds where a dappled gray gelding waits with a handler. The handler is quickly dismissed, and I can’t suppress my relief. One less person to see me embarrass myself.

  It’s a struggle to heave myself up and over the saddle. When I finally manage it, instinct prompts me to toss my leg onto the other side.

  “We’ll start out with a nice canter, shall we?” Gisela says brightly after I’m properly situated. If I’m not mistaken, I detect a strain beneath her determinedly upbeat tone. Perhaps she’s just realizing what an undertaking she’s been saddled with in making me fit for a life at court.

  I’m alarmed. “‘Canter’ sounds fast.” I look up from where I’m cautiously patting my gelding’s neck, mentally promising him that I’ll find some way to get a carrot to him later if he doesn’t drop me.

  “A trot then,” Emis says in compromise.

  A poor compromise. As it turns out, a “trot” is a cleverly disguised brand of torture. I bounce up and down in the saddle, fighting to a keep a posture that will allow me to stay on the horse. My posterior bruises from the abuse.

  Seeing my struggles, Gisela pulls her mount alongside mine and corrects my posture. “No, hold steady on the reins, my lady,” she says. “Valor is a good steed, but he’s like any other animal. He must know that you rule him and not otherwise.”

  The king employs a similar philosophy when it comes to his people. He views us as animals to be controlled. And penned in. There’s no chance that I’ll forget I’m a prisoner now. Even for a moment.

  But I scrutinize the way the ladies move with their horses. It looks a far more harmonious ride, and I attempt to mimic their movements.

  The pasture is lined with thick trees, shades of green so dark that they descend into blackness in patches. Looking at the woods, I can almost make myself believe that it belongs to a different world, one in which it’s night and the sun’s hidden itself until it can blaze again tomorrow. I wonder again at the oddity of the capital’s location, at how these trees thrive here when I know that only sand stretches before the city.

  Figures atop horses ride out from th
e trees. One stands out from the rest, his light brown curls flopping in rhythm with his ride. I shift uncomfortably in the saddle and raise a hand to shield my eyes. It’s Rick, dressed for hunting in dark green breeches and a brown tunic. He has a bow slung across his torso and a quiver at his hip. He’ll have answers to at least one of my questions.

  “Rick!” I shout to get his attention and drop the reins to wave my arms wildly.

  “Lady Breena!” Gisela scolds, sounding scandalized. She reaches over from her horse to smack my arm down. “That is His Royal Highness Prince Caden. You cannot bellow a moniker at him as such.”

  Right. The prince, not Rick. I don’t know why this is so hard for me to adjust to. I hadn’t believed his name was Rick from the beginning.

  The prince looks toward us and says something to his companions. I can hear the low hum of his voice, but his words are indistinguishable. The men with him laugh as they head off to the stables while he rides toward us.

  His trot is nowhere near as painful as mine. He manages to move with his steed, two parts of one being. I push away a wave of envy and pat Valor on the neck comfortingly.

  “Let’s try it that way next time, shall we?” I murmur. “There are lots of carrots for you in it.”

  He snorts, tossing his mane. I make a mental note to acquaint myself with the kitchen staff—I’ll need them if I’m going to keep promising treats to the horses.

  We halt so Prince Caden won’t have to work to catch up with us.

  “Try to pretend at etiquette please, Lady Breena,” Gisela begs me.

  It’s nice that she understands me so early in our acquaintance.

  The ladies incline their heads and back away as the prince pulls his horse up.

  “Good day, ladies,” he says. He’s obviously been active this morning. His skin glistens in the sunlight, slick with sweat. Perspiration lines the folds in his tunic.

  “Your Highness,” Gisela and Emis murmur as one. Gisela looks mildly panicked about the fact that she can’t execute a curtsy atop a horse.

  “And to you, Lady Breena,” he says. He hitches his bow up on his shoulder.

  “You as well, Your Highness.” Gisela’s relieved at my decorum, but “Your Highness” doesn’t feel right. “Or…Rick?” I try. “Prince Caden.” The frustration gets to me. “What should I call you?”

  His shoulders shake with silent laughter, and he jerks his head for me to follow him. Valor takes a hard step in a divot as we move, and I seize up on the reins to steady myself. I feel another bruise forming. A hot bath isn’t going to be unwelcome later.

  “Most people choose to address me as ‘Your Highness,’ but as long as we’re not in a formal dinner, I believe I can allow Caden.”

  Emis and Gisela have pulled back to put a respectful distance between themselves and Caden and I as we speak. They sit alertly, watching. I wonder if they can hear us.

  “All right. So, Caden,” I say, testing it out. It’s much lighter on my tongue than “Your Highness.” “Tell me, do you always spend the night in your father’s holding prison?”

  He stops. I feel like he’s measuring me as I yank on the reins to get Valor to pause. “Don’t mince words, do you? I just sleep better there,” he says, completely straight-faced.

  I scoff. As though I’d believe the prince found stone floors preferable to a plush bed. Is it a joke or does he actually think I’m stupid enough to believe that?

  “In truth, my father was a bit…vexed with me.” Caden settles on the word lightly, but I hear the understatement in it. “I’d failed to attend a few state dinners, and I’ve missed the Mark Service several weeks in a row.”

  There has to be more to it than he’s letting on. I doubt that a prince would truly abandon his state responsibilities to do as he pleased. Especially this prince. He doesn’t strike me as the sort to shirk his duties. But I’m hardly a beacon of responsibility myself. Who am I to judge him?

  “I haven’t been to a Mark Service in years,” I confess.

  He’s relieved to change the subject and latches onto my statement. “Some objection to the faith?”

  “No.” My denial is a knee-jerk reaction. “It’s not that I have any quarrel with the Makers.” That isn’t exactly true at the moment, but I forge on. “The nearest chapel was far outside our village, and the travel proved a hassle. Even for the high holidays. Usually, we were too snowed in to drag ourselves there.”

  “A hassle indeed. I could sum up the whole production of chapel that way. You see, then, why I took my leave of the capital.”

  “Without your father’s permission?” That explains it. The king wouldn’t like his son doing anything other than what he’s told, and if he’d left, I can see why he’d make a production of his punishment.

  “Yes. I suddenly felt it a most pressing matter that I attend the eastern provinces. I’m told I missed quite the party on the day of my nineteenth birthday. Father was a bit put out.” A mischievous smile slinks across his face before he changes the subject, with his nose wrinkled in distaste. “But you say you’ve no quarrel with the Makers? Wait until you attend your first palace service.”

  “I expect I will do soon enough. Your da seems determined to keep me busy.”

  “Of course he is.” He’s matter-of-fact about it. Turning, the sun highlights his profile and catches on the shiny silver of the arrowheads at his side. “I stood for you in front of his entire court. It wasn’t how he would have had things.”

  This is my chance. “Why did you stand for me?” I ask. The farce of a hearing happened so quickly I’d had no time to ask, no time to stop him.

  He pats his horse’s neck, looking puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I? Any crimes against the crown are your father’s, not yours. It’s no justice for you to die for them. Or even to rot away with him.”

  It’s that simple for him. Honesty shines in his eyes. There’s right and there’s wrong, and the punishment the king had intended for me wasn’t right in Caden’s eyes.

  I wonder what he thinks of my longer leash here in the palace. If I run now, gallop my horse into the trees and lose myself to the wilds or the desert beyond, will he let me go?

  “Lady Breena.” My half-imagined escape plans are abandoned as he calls my name. It’s got that same disconcerting lilt to it as when he’d been “Rick.” “Is there no one whom we might summon to be here with you? A mother?”

  I shake my head. “It’s always been just me and Da.”

  “It’s as much the same in my family. Only my father and I.”

  “And your castle full of servants.” I wince, regretting the barb—he’s done nothing to deserve it—but he takes it graciously.

  “True enough. But my father understands the burden I am under as his heir apparent.”

  “He doesn’t strike me as the understanding sort.” I remember his temper with Da, his rash sentencing, and I grapple with my own rage.

  “And you’d be right there. My father is—” Caden sighs. “He’s not a good man. Not a particularly kind ruler. But in many ways, he’s been a good father to me.”

  “He threw you in the dungeons,” I remind him. I feel it bears repeating.

  “Yes, well, think of it as a peasant child being sent to a corner of the room to think over what he’s done. Banishing me to my very comfortable suite would have been a poor punishment. That reminds me, how is yours, may I ask?”

  I can only stare at him in response. Have I not made it clear I’d prefer not to be in said suite?

  “It’s nice,” I say stupidly.

  “Is your agenda free later this afternoon? I’d be happy to show you the palace. Perhaps the capital city at large? It’s not something you should miss.”

  He’s watching the ladies, and his voice is carefully blasé. I’m suddenly certain that they can hear us. They’re much closer than I remember them.

  With regret, I reply, “Afraid not. Your da’s given my ladies a full schedule for me.”

  He chuckles, shaking his head at his ow
n foolishness. “Of course he has. I might have guessed. He didn’t plan for you to be about the castle, and now he’s left to solve the puzzle of what to do with you.”

  I falter as the statement hits me, accidentally pulling on Valor’s reins. The gelding prances in place and huffs. Caden looks at me quizzically, gray eyes confused. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” I try to muster a joking tone, but fall short. “It’s just that I’m trying to figure out what to do with me as well.”

  Fifteen

  And so go my days. They’re filled with bustling through hallways, torturously bumping over pastures, and lessons in etiquette from my ladies. If they tell me one more time that I’m using the wrong fork for a part of a meal, I swear I’ll show them exactly how multifunctional the utensil can be.

  The green-eyed girl who’d sat in a throne during Da’s sentencing passes me often in the meandering halls. Emis and Gisela can always be counted upon to execute a quick curtsy to acknowledge the girl, so I assume she’s a member of the royal family, but I have heavier matters on my mind than one girl’s social standing.

  Nearly an entire week passes before I know it. I’ve barely had time to study the talisman that Da left with me and wonder over its meaning. I take it out only when my ladies deposit me in my rooms for the night, bone-tired and drained from the struggle of pushing myself into their ill-fitting mold for another day.

  The dark steel shines faintly under the flickering light of the torch I’ve liberated from a hall sconce. The small disc has the imprint of a hand with crudely sketched representations of the four elements on each finger—a flame, a drop of water, a leaf, and a swirl that must stand for air. I pull it closer. I can’t figure out what the symbol on the small hand’s thumb is. It’s too tiny and smudged with wear. I imagine it stuffed into the depths of Da’s pocket for the last sixteen years as he worried the symbol into obscurity with his thumb.

  I’d ask Tregle about it—I think I can trust him to at least be discreet—but the novice Torcher is nowhere to be found. Chances are slim that he’d have any idea what it means, but I don’t have anyone else to ask.