Threats of Sky and Sea

by Jennifer Ellision

  A lantern, mounted well out of reach of grasping hands, casts a dim glow.

  “I see they’ve given you some hay,” I try after several minutes. It dusts the floor and, to a certain degree, masks the odor emanating from him. It’s a bit less privy, a bit more stable. “That should make it more comfortable when you sleep—instead of just the stones, I mean. Really brightens up the place, too.”

  One leg stretched before him and an arm flung over the other knee, Da flicks his gaze over to me and away. A dismissal.

  Well, fine. I can dismiss him, too. I don’t understand why he’s had such a change in attitude toward me. It isn’t as though I’ve lied to him. And after the scene in the throne room, I’d thought he would at least be glad to see me.

  I pull my shoulder blades together. My stare fixes itself on a crack in the mortar. It cuts through the stone like a lightning bolt, exactly the way a crack in our hearth at The Bridge and Duchess used to look. Da and I used to joke that a baby bolt had found its way into the stone during a particularly bad storm after the other lightning bolts had chased it there.

  I soften at the errant memory, sneaking a look at him. Da’s posture is as stiff and confident as it’s ever been. He wears the graying criminal rags as if they’re an ordinary pair of breeches and tunic.

  I should have guessed that there wasn’t something right about Da. He’s a good actor, but he’s never acted like the other men in the village. Most of them are beaten down by life and slumped over. Da, on the other hand, had been vain about his fingernails, keeping them trim and clean. Vain about holes in our clothes, where the other men’s children had run about without patches sewn on. We’re not beggars, he’d often told me when I’d protested after jabbing myself with a needle trying to fix a patch to a dress or pair of breeches. The Bridge and Duchess could get as raggedy as it liked, but we wouldn’t go about with holes in our clothes.

  There had always been a tight strain to his words.

  How many times had he had to stop himself from saying that we weren’t peasants and said beggars instead? Why is he stopping himself from saying anything now?

  “Da, please.” The plea chokes my voice. I hate that, that he’s reduced me to begging. Damn him, he’s the one who’s lied to me. If anyone has the right to ignore someone here, it’s me. He should be asking me for forgiveness, should be spewing over with answers for me.

  “Tell me why you ran. Tell me why you lied to me about it. What treasure does the king think you stole?” A thought occurs and I voice it before I have time to think too hard about it. “And what about my mother?” Seeing him blanch, I press. “What about my ma, Da? I doubt it was just the corsets that spurred her to leave. Did she know about any of this? Did she even know that you were fleeing, or did she think the two of you were just going for an evening stroll?”

  The silence persists. It’s an annoyingly stubborn creature that way, choosing now for a nap and laying down for a good spell between us. Lazy, rotten, ridiculous silence. Tears prick at my eyes, and I yank them in. They’re always trying to escape these days.

  I stand, leaning my forehead against the iron bars of his cell.

  “It’s not fair, what you did to me. We had a good life there back at the inn, but it’s spoiled now, all of it. If you hadn’t stolen me and Ma away in the night, what might my life be like now? Would I married? With child? Would I like sewing? Would I be ready to govern a duchy, having prepared for it all my life? Would I be a completely different person? There’s no way for me to know that other Breena, the girl I should have been.” My voice rises to a frustrated shout and fractures. I clear my throat, still sore from Larsden’s torture session.

  If we’d been back at the inn, Da would have spoken up by now, told me to mind my tongue, watch who I’m speaking to because no matter how old I get, he’s still my father. But the man who sits in the cell before me looks at me with the careless stare one would give a bug crawling across the room, as though he has neither the energy nor the inclination to deal with me.

  My hands and arms throb. The medic’s salve is wearing off. I carefully adjust my sleeve, and the burn peeks from beneath the lace.

  Da’s eyes catch on it, and he leaps to his feet. The hay rustles with his movement and flies about in a sudden gale that sweeps in. A question burns in his eyes as he starts toward me, but I shake my head angrily.

  “Not your business anymore, is it? You’ve got your secrets, and now I’ve got mine. If you had an itch in your boots, you should have left me and Ma behind.” He winces at my bitter tone, one of the few reactions I’ve managed to garner from him. I won’t apologize for it.

  These pitiful “conversations” won’t do the king or me any good. Likewise, this meeting will be useless to Caden and the others. We’ll never break free of the palace like this.

  The king’s hopes that Da will share the secrets of his treasure with his daughter are unfounded. His wishes won’t help him get his war. I’ll be lucky if I can pry even few words from the lockbox of Da’s mouth.

  I’m finished for the day. I’ve had quite enough of this.

  “You still refuse to admit that you were wrong,” I whisper, rising as I hear the clink of the guard’s steps coming toward me.

  Why prolong the silence? I turn to leave.

  “I wasn’t.” Da’s voice is hoarse and cracked from disuse. I whirl at the shock of his voice as he clarifies. “Wrong.” He finally meets my eyes and holds them. “I wasn’t wrong, Breena Rose.”

  He’ll say no more, and the guard leads me away.

  Twenty-Four

  “Honestly, my lo—Your Majesty, that’s it,” I say tiredly. I had only a scant moment to rush back to my room to apply the salve as the burning in my hands intensified before having to meet the king in his chambers. “I asked about your treasure and he wouldn’t say anything.”

  The king rolls up the scroll he’s reading and flings it into the hearth. “I refuse to believe that I’ve kept you and your father apart for weeks and he wouldn’t say a word to you. I was given to understand you get on well.”

  “It’s not that he wouldn’t say a single word to me,” I say. I’d gotten a solid eight actually. “But nothing that is pertinent to your kingdom.”

  But it’s pertinent to me. How could I have come from a man who killed people in cold blood and still claims he isn’t wrong?

  The king collapses in a settee like an overgrown and petulant child. He curls his fingers at me. “I must know all then.”

  “Well, he did seem a bit put out when he saw the burns Tutor Larsden’s work had left behind on my arms.”

  The king waves that away like an insect that buzzes too near his face. I’m sure my injuries are most inconvenient for him. “We must all sacrifice in the name of progress.”

  Of course we must. I contain my retort and instead agree with the king. “I grew frustrated and told him that he was wrong for taking me and my ma away from the palace. And that it was worse that he’d hid the secret from me for all of those years.”

  The king is amused by me, a finger to his lips hiding an almost-smile. “What did he have to say to that?”

  “He said that he wasn’t wrong, my lord.”

  And therein is what perturbs me most about this entire situation. Da’s never been too proud to admit his faults. Why does he cling so stubbornly to this mistake?

  “How very interesting,” the king murmurs.

  That’s all. I don’t see how it’s interesting, unless he sees it as confirmation that Da is still like him.

  He rises, and I hurry to do the same. “To dinner then, Lady Breena. I require sustenance to ruminate on all that you’ve told me.”

  But I’d been so certain that I hadn’t told him anything. I place my arm carefully on the king’s offered forearm, trying to work it out in my mind.

  He thinks it’s important that Da still believes he did the right thing? Or is it Da’s stress at my injury he finds interesting? But that’s stupid. Of course a father would be upse
t to find his child injured when there’s nothing he can do to prevent it.

  I bite back an exclamation of pain when the king jars my sleeve. My arm is nestled in the crook of his arm—insomuch as a rope can nestle the thing it binds.

  It’s odd to think that I hope to topple such a powerful figure. After all, if Tregle, Aleta, and even Caden can’t affect his plans much, what can I hope to achieve? The king looks at me from the corner of his eye, and I try to quiet my thoughts, struck by the insane notion that he can hear me.

  We stop short of an arched opening. This isn’t the dining hall. Beyond, there’s a low murmur.

  “Our dinner this evening will be a bit more intimate.” The king’s voice is a caress, and I shudder in response. Intimate. I don’t care for the sound of that.

  When we enter and there’s only a simple table around which Lady Kat, Caden, and Aleta are seated, relief burgeons out from me. At least I’m not to be alone with the dread king.

  I nod coolly at Caden and slip into the seat the king holds out for me beside him. It’s not where I’d have chosen to sit, there at his side like a puppet on hand for his amusement, but it helps to have people nearby who are…if not friends, then something rather like it. Allies? Certainly, the title fits Caden well enough—he aims a quick smile at me—but whatever Aleta is remains to be seen. It’s a shame Tregle isn’t here. I think I can safely call him a friend at this point.

  It’s not the sort of group that lends itself to the chatter and laughter of ordinary dinner conversation, but then again, I haven’t enjoyed a dinner like that since leaving Abeline.

  I indulge myself in imagining a reality where I have the courage to share the dirty Earth Shaker joke I’d overheard last night and indulge myself still further by dreaming that the king and Lady Kat burst with laughter, clutching their stomachs, their faces turning red between gasps of glee. It’s strange to imagine them as such, taking a small pleasure in the company of words that serve no purpose but cheap entertainment. I glance at them as they sip their soup from their spoons. No, if they were to laugh now, it would ring false, like they’re lording it over someone.

  It’s even difficult to imagine it of Aleta, despite traces of humanity creeping in from her. She may not burst with pealing laughter as I once would have, unreservedly, but I picture her hiding a small smile behind a napkin.

  Caden would laugh at my joke, I’m sure. He’s perhaps the only one who would join me in it, though it would take him by surprise. He’d cough, choking on the laughter and his food. In spite of the severity of his self-appointed task—to keep his father in check, if not overthrow him altogether—he takes joy where he can find it. If it’s through an afternoon spent riding with the court pariah or an inappropriate joke, so be it.

  I envy him that. Any joy I feel is instantaneously squashed by guilt that there are more important things that I should be doing, should be concentrating on. It’s no joke that my father is imprisoned in a dungeon and I’m in what amounts to a very large cage. My tether might be looser and with a longer reach, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m as much a prisoner as Da is.

  But what exactly am I doing about it? Joining Caden in his cause, as much as that is. I’m as submissive to the king’s whims as I’ve ever been. How is that helping anyone?

  These are the thoughts that occupy me as I plod through the soup and vegetable courses. Prepared properly, I’m told that eggplant is a royal Egrian delicacy. After finishing it, I decide that’s due to the fact that it makes one’s stomach feel exceedingly delicate.

  As the servants replace the eggplant with veal covered in a creamy sauce, the king holds up a hand. Shame. The veal looks vastly preferable to the eggplant. A scintillating aroma of cheese and spices wafts from it, and my mouth waters.

  “I have been thinking,” he says.

  Kingdoms have been known to fall in the wake of his thoughts. My salivating abates. He has my attention.

  Caden exchanges a glance with me and Aleta. We don’t want the king thinking about anything but his agony over the Thrower problem and the Nereidium situation. Caden’s managed to convince me that that, at least, his group has under control.

  “It seems a shame that you missed your wedding date.” He addresses his son with a flair of innocence that’s ill-suited to the poorly disguised taunt in his eyes.

  “Quite the shame, Your Majesty,” Aleta drawls. Seeming oblivious to the tense cloud that fills the room, she picks up her fork and knife and begins to slice into her veal. Her knife screeches across her plate. “Words will never express how I pined for my betrothed in those lost hours.”

  Caden’s cough does little to hide his laughter, but it’s wise that he’s at least made the effort in this case. His eyes dance away from mine at the mention of the wedding. “Yes, regrettably unfortunate. How the date could have slipped my mind among my travels, I’ll never know.”

  “It was your birthday,” says the king.

  “So it was!” Caden snaps his fingers, like he’s lit upon an epiphany. “I knew something about the day seemed important. Aleta, it’s your birthday soon as well, isn’t it?”

  “Mmm.” The sound she makes is noncommittal. “My seventeenth. There’s to be a banquet.”

  “Indeed.” The king swirls a tornado into his wine. “But back to matrimonial matters. We shall simply have to examine other options. I’m certain we need not hold off on rescheduling much longer.”

  The smile curls across his face, but the emotion that a smile is meant to convey is missing. It’s like the muscles in his mouth remember the movement, but not the intent. The sentence is a threat, a vow, and it hangs over the room like a heavy veil. I clear my throat, wanting to rid the atmosphere of thinly disguised amity and make it…if not truly friendly, then a bit more believable.

  “His Majesty tells me that we are to room together going forward, Princess Aleta.” I think I say it pleasantly enough, without the contemptibility I found in the idea only that morning.

  “Yes, I’m told the same,” Aleta says after dabbing at her mouth. “You may accompany me and my guard following dinner if you wish. Your maids have already been so kind as to deposit your things inside my rooms.”

  My things don’t number many. I came to the palace with nothing but the clothes I wore and my father; neither were returned to me. Da’s medallion is stuffed inside my bodice. All that could have been taken to Aleta’s rooms is the few gowns that Emis and Gisela have procured from the seamstresses during my stay.

  “That’s kind,” I say, not sure that it is. “Thank you.”

  “I’m sure Lady Breena will be thankful of the rest,” the king says to Aleta.

  Rest? Real rest, in this palace? I’d laugh if that veil of tension didn’t cling so stubbornly to the room. Instead, I make a comment that passes for my agreement: “Rest would be a dream.”

  “I’m certain that’s true after your strenuous day.”

  I stiffen, a bowstring drawn too tight. Strenuous? Yes, after he set his man to the task of burning me as some sort of twisted test. I’ve never hated someone so much. I am a roiling sea of wrath.

  “She conversed with the traitor she names her father today,” says the king.

  That’s his game then—to bring Da into it. I’m no less tense. He thinks to draw everyone into my affairs. He won’t even let me have the charade of privacy and discretion. Sure, I’ve already shared the details of the less-than-fruitful meeting with the king and I intend to do the same with Caden at some undetermined time later. It’s a given that they will, in turn, each share it with their own people, but that’s different, somehow, than presenting it before them all like a winning deck of cards.

  Caden’s eyes are quick to light on mine, and I give him a barely perceptible shake of my head. To let him know I’ve gotten nothing from Da. Not yet.

  “It was trying, to be sure,” I demur through gritted teeth. I take a steadying sip of the wine at my right and blanch at the taste. It’s never been my preferred beverage. />
  “I doubt he took well to being reminded of the life he took from you.” Katerine brings her first offering to the evening’s conversation, and I start. It’s uncomfortable that Kat’s remark aligns so closely with what I said to Da earlier. The hairs at the back of my neck raise. Had she been listening? If that’s so, why does the king even need my reports?

  And is that what the problem is? Seeing me in the gowns to which I would have been accustomed if I’d grown up as Lady Breena settles oddly with Da? I mull the thought over as silence falls and we move to dessert.

  It doesn’t feel exactly right, and yet…it seems close. Da had done a double-take when he’d seen me perched on the stool in my gown. But he’s seen me in a gown already—and a finer one—upon our arrival to court.

  Aleta, in an uncharacteristic moment of comfort, rejects Kat’s claim. “I feel sure that Lady Kat is mistaken.”

  The words are awkward, like Aleta means comfort but it’s a task she’s yet to perfect and needs a great deal of practice with.

  I barely taste the dessert, which is a true tragedy. It’s a study of artistry in chocolate and berries.

  Afterward, the king rises from the table, and all of us stand with him.

  “I bid a good evening to you all.” He says the words as he’s turning.

  Katerine follows behind him. She bears a sneer as she curtsies to the table, but her expression changes as she falls behind the monarch. She reminds me of someone, her expression eager, devoted. It clicks into place. Katerine follows the king like Baunnid had followed her. A dog eager to please its master.

  I hope it works out as well for her as it did for him.

  Twenty-Five

  After dinner, I’m just thankful to exit the room unassisted. My arms are aching again as they hang limply at my sides. I move them cautiously, careful of bumping them against errant corners as I pass the rooms I slept in only last night and trail in Aleta’s shadow to the princess’s suite.