There, he angrily yanked on the knot he had just finished applying to the ratline’s rope. Valoretta’s voice was simply another sound in the background as she read aloud about the great horned whale and its healing powers. Her voice was no different than the splash of sea against his ship, the hiss of wind, the cry of sea birds, and the barking men in the dock’s market.
“What is that?” Valoretta’s sudden question made him glance up, realizing only as he did that she had stopped reading long before. She now slipped beside him, cautiously running her fingers along his gradually elongating ratlines. “It’s silky,” she mused. “Most rope is brown, is it not made out of hemp?”
Shrugging while he returned to his work, the islander stated, “I use what I have. It’s slightly cheaper, and I really don’t have any other use for this stuff. There’s hemp between this, but this spares some and works just as well as the tougher strands. I’ve tested it.”
“But what is it?” When Arnacin simply grinned, otherwise ignoring her, she ripped it away from him, running it through her fingers. His teasing grin broadening, Arnacin simply pulled more of the shining dark strands from a pouch and started on another length that he could attach later. “Arnacin,” she gasped “is that your hair?” A brief smirk told her all and, shaking her head, the princess wondered, “Do you find use for all things?”
“No, but I am a shepherd,” the islander shrugged, retrieving the rope to continue working on it. “We tend to know a bit about fabrics, yarns, ropes and their materials.”
Sitting back on her heels, Valoretta contemplated, “That is the first time you have used that term with any kind of satisfaction in it.”
“I think I’ve learned at least a few things here,” he admitted, striving to hide his teasing grin. “Such as, there is so much more pride in being called a shepherd than a councilor-that-nobody-listens-to.”
As the princess laughed, his grin won, spreading across his face and, with a glance at her golden cheeks, he once again returned to work.
“Is it better than court jester or comedian, or how about tease?”
“Oh, no. ‘Tease’ is the best you mentioned. I hate looking foolish,” Arnacin replied with some success at a serious air.
Pursing her lips, Valoretta leaned forward, whispering, “But what if I were a tease? Would that be better than princess?”
“Were?” Arnacin repeated, managing to look convincingly surprised. “The word I think, m’lady, is am, and you are.”
For just a second, the smile slipped off the princess’ face as she regarded him carefully, as if trying to decide if he was serious or not. Shaking his head fondly, Arnacin once again returned to his work. “Is that a compliment or an insult?” she finally asked.
Done with his current knot, Arnacin again met her gaze, toying with her. “I would love to say insult. Nobles hate them so…” As her smile wavered, he finished, honestly, “…but I can’t. I don’t think I was really thinking of either.”
It was Valoretta’s turn to shake her head in fond hopelessness. Leaning closer again, she whispered seriously, “That I may be then, but you beat me by far, Arnacin of Enchantress Island.”
His dark blue eyes flicked up to meet hers in wicked laughter.
Blushing suddenly, the princess hastily climbed to her feet, turning her back on him to lean against his rail. “I hope, Arnacin, that I at least soothed your temper and frustration.”
Though she said it in a bare whisper, he glanced up at her, admitting in consideration and gratitude, “You did, actually.”
Valoretta may have provided a temporary break from the anger and even fear, yet as night settled in, Arnacin did not move from the window he had finally, restlessly, settled in to think. How long had he and—little to their knowledge—Valoretta fought for the wall, simply to be ordered silent in the end? Miro pretended he wanted peace and yet…
A soft whisper of movement along the dark corridor made him turn away from the moon shining above the castle and, softly sliding one foot onto the floor, his hand dropped to his side. The sound did not repeat itself in the next few seconds, however, and his gaze turned to the double doors of the hallway that led to the king’s wing of the castle. He was just about to pass it off as one of the guards shifting on the other side of those doors when he suddenly noticed a black shape out of the corner of his eye. Silver flashed in the moonlight as the Tarmlin blade whipped out and the islander pivoted around to face the creeping figure.
“Arnacin,” the shape gasped, and the dim outline of a bow dropped beneath a cloak.
The voice, the islander knew well, and he felt his muscles lose some of its tenseness. “You’re hardly anyone I would expect here yourself, Firth,” he breathed. “What are you doing here?”
“I was instructed to guard… the corridors.” A tremor of unease sounded in the last words and, warily studying what he could make out of Gagandep’s son in the dark, Arnacin glanced toward the double doors only a few feet away from them.
“Why would they ask that?” the islander inquired, forcing himself to believe such an odd statement. There was no reason not to, considering its trusted source.
“I… I…” Firth stuttered, shifting slightly. “I don’t ask those things, Arnacin. I’m just a man in one of the king’s armies. If there is any trouble though, I’m probably being distracted.”
His heart pounding with thoughts he wished did not exist, Arnacin slid his sword away and started toward the double doors. “Then I’ll leave you to it after making sure Miro’s guardians won’t mistake the sound of your watch for intruders.”
“Arnacin. Don’t take another step,” Firth warned, his tone still quavering, yet deadly all the same.
With a partial turn, the islander noticed the bent bow, its projectile pointed directly toward his heart. Forcing air back into his lungs, he slid one foot back toward the royal door. “It’s poisoned, Arnacin,” the half-native informed him, causing his target to freeze completely for the moment. “If it scrapes so much as skin, you’ll never return home.”
“You can’t make it,” Arnacin breathed in stubborn horror.
“I figured it out over the summer. I intended to tell you… Please, Arnacin, go to bed.”
Casting a look over his shoulder to where the doors stood, asleep to the drama outside them, Arnacin felt a flash of resentment that Miro would so unwittingly rob him of his life. Looking back at Firth, however, he whispered, “I won’t let you kill the king, Firth, should you be telling the truth or not.”
“Arnacin,” the intended assassin breathed in an obvious entreaty as he bent the bow back farther.
Taking another step backwards, the islander asked, “Why?” His question was without plea, and he saw the bow tremble.
“You know why, Arnacin. You know why. Miro condemns us to death. If it is to be a battle until extinction, we will assuredly be the extinct. Yet we know you have the ear of the heir.”
Arnacin had halted without realizing it. Regarding the young man he considered a friend, he pressed, “I can’t if you kill me. Therefore, what’s your second plan?”
Now trembling mightily, Firth falsely affirmed, “I’ll take care of her as well, if I must.”
Shaking his head, Arnacin took another step toward the doors. The air stood still. The bow tautened and the islander’s hand fell silently on the door handle. As Arnacin glanced down to push the door open, a gasp sounded followed by the soft thump and clatter of the dropping weapon.
With a sigh, Arnacin looked back to what was now a crumpled ball on the floor, quiet sobs emitting from it. Sliding the weapon out of reach, the islander knelt beside the culprit, waiting. “Why did you have to be here, Arnacin? There were a million places to think, why here?”
As the muffled sound reached him, the islander shrugged. “The view looked nicer.” He did not mention his wish to continue his debate with Miro about building a wall once councilors no longer swamped the area, or how he had continued to gainsay that urge, coolly watching as Miro had disappeared ins
ide those doors for the night.
Groaning, Firth begged, “I can’t kill you, Arnacin. Execute me however you like, but please don’t tell the king.”
“Execute you,” the islander sarcastically repeated. “You ask the wrong person for your judgment. I’m not even Miran.”
Pushing himself up, Firth insisted, “Please, Arnacin. I won’t take death from anyone else.”
“Leave, Firth,” Arnacin sighed. “Tell your family what you almost did, board a ship, and never return. If I don’t see you again, I’ll have no cause to mention it to Miro.”
Those words seemed to take a moment to register, as if the half-native could not believe life would be granted to him. Yet after a moment, Firth opened his arms for an embrace.
Finally breaking away, Firth pulled something from beneath his cloak. Arnacin tensed, yet the would-be assassin only pulled out a small pouch pushing it into the islander’s hand. “If ever you are poisoned, Arnacin, turn this into a paste using alcohol and spread it over the wound. It is not a foolproof remedy. Father told me that if they make a cut above the poisoned wound to let the blood escape, it has a stronger effect. However, even doing so, only five natives in the entire course of their history survived the poison. ‘You need the gods’ favor, first and foremost, ’ he told me. I cannot say what its ingredients are, but take it, please.”
When Arnacin nodded, Firth implored him, “Take care of them, Arnacin, however you feel best.” Then, retrieving his bow, he slipped away.
Still on the floor, Arnacin watched him disappear forever.
Chapter 17
The Princess and Her Lord
WITH AUTUMN IN THE AIR, the master swordsman again began teaching Arnacin sword fighting—this time, however, left-handed. He also changed how he wanted the islander to learn.
“With the state of your shoulder, you need to avoid contact with an opponent as much as possible. Naturally, you should just learn to use your left for everything, but you never want to be in a situation where your left is injured and you can’t switch to your right.”
As if to encourage Arnacin, the swordmaster engaged in the exercises himself, despite his peg-leg. For two hours, they practiced. The first hour, the islander was ordered to stand, blade toward the ground, while the swordmaster lunged. Before the lunge could finish, he was to pivot away at the last second and jab the swordmaster in the side with the wooden sword.
If the swordmaster could read his turn, the attack was blocked. After the first hour, Arnacin still had not succeeded and they turned to the basics, left-handed.
When they stopped, even the swordmaster groaned, rubbing the stump of his leg. Straightening, he nodded to Arnacin. “How’s your shoulder?”
The islander could have pretended he thought the question was about his left, but he knew better. Grudgingly, he admitted, “It hurts.”
“Huh. I bet it keeps you awake at night as well.”
Arnacin did not bother to admit it did, but he had no need as the swordmaster continued, “Ripped muscles heal the worst. You…” he sighed, “you are hyperactive in your own way and youth is on your side, but it won’t save you from pain, boy.”
The islander said nothing, thinking again of his ship and how much he needed his shoulder. That fear was something he could never admit, except to Valoretta.
In his silence, the swordmaster watched him. Then, with a sigh of pain, the older man turned toward the keep, beckoning for his pupil to follow. “Have you considered training at our school? It is a small fee, which the king will likely be happy to pay. It may help you in your arguments. It will also keep your patience better and your mind busy.”
“I’ve been studying politics,” Arnacin scoffed. “The only thing attending the school would teach me is how to mire myself more deeply in the mud of politics. I don’t care to learn any more than I have already.”
“Honesty is a blessing and a curse in government, boy,” the swordmaster growled. “You can hope you have the right balance of truth and discretion.”
Perhaps even more than his ship, Arnacin found the pier a huge relief from the frustration of politics. There, amid all the laughter, commotion and joking put-downs from traders, sailors and whatnots, lay a simple peace. Of course, as far as put-downs went, Arnacin was their favorite victim either because of his connection to the nobles or because of his ship.
Passing one stout vendor, Arnacin heard, “Do that thing even seel? I bet it don’t even have the proper instruments, boy.” As Arnacin raised his eyebrows in reply, the sailor passed the back of his hand over his table welcomingly. “Do you ship possess such fine instrumentses as feese?”
Curiosity slightly aroused, Arnacin stepped over. Lovingly, the sailor flicked away a large wood shaving from the perfection of his display.
After examining the craftsmanship, Arnacin teased, “All these instruments, sir, are just tools for what already exists.”
Roaring good-naturedly, the sailor quipped, “So, you mix insult wif flattery, m’boy. Sir, iendeed.”
“Well, if you prefer sea-rat, I don’t mind obliging,” the islander returned with wicked delight as the man laughed heartily.
“Well, boy, you’ve seen nofink yet,” the sailor jabbed, pulling a crate from under his table. He proceeded to carefully place a multitude of compasses on the table, each inset into frames of finished wood carefully carved with various shapes. Within seconds, whales, sharks, dolphins, a man holding a compass inside a fish, an octopus, and a helm on a string covered the table.
Laughing with delight at the islander’s incredulous look, the man challenged, “Now what do you say?”
Finally ripping his eyes from the beautiful, detailed work, the islander remarked, “The real tools are called stars.”
“Oh-ho, but every good seelor knows fere be days wifout sight of ’em stars.” At Arnacin’s slow smile, he added, “Unless fis be you confirmation fat you never been out fere.”
“You’re simply trying to sell your wares,” the islander remarked in a flat tone.
Grinning, the man’s gaze flicked to the compasses that had held Arnacin’s view longer. Slowly, he ran his finger over the man-eating fish and then picked up the helm, spinning it around where it dangled from his fingers. With a knowing smile, Arnacin rolled his eyes.
“Have you ever seen anyfink like it?” the man whispered, as if mesmerized by the glinting helm, yet Arnacin took note of the sly, quick glance thrown his way.
“No,” the islander admitted with a laugh. “Nor this obstinate of a vendor either. Fine, since you’ll die if I don’t ask, what do you want for one of them?”
“Ah, tradesmen know how to battle, but for someone leek youself, I’ll be generous and settle at… two gold coins. Very cheap considering…”
“Cheap?” Arnacin smirked. “No, that’s my ship.”
“Oh, you have a point about you ship,” the man laughed, causing the islander to flush a dull pink. “But come, come, from a boy we all know the king favors so richly, two gold coins is leekly only an eighf of what you earn ien a day…”
“Really?” Arnacin asked. “Now why do you suppose that?”
“Don’t try fat one on me, boy. We all know even the knights are paid, small crumbs from the table, mayhaps, but come, come, you hold a higher position fan fat, we hear. We need no furfur proof fan fat you weer the coveted embroidery of Meera. If nofink else, you have lots to trade.”
“You are so knowle—”
“Arnacin.” The princess’ chiding voice made him whirl around to see her standing behind him with amusement across her face. “Stop torturing the poor man.” She turned to the sailor stating, “I’ll give you three gold coins for the compass he likes best. That’s in repayment for his lack of manners.”
Despite the teasing jibe, Arnacin stared at her in disbelief. Looking back at the sailor, he realized he was being eagerly watched. Not wanting to be seen contradicting the princess—and quite liking the craftsmanship—he relented with a sigh, “The helm.”
<
br /> Happily, the vendor agreed to the trade and the princess snatched the compass out of reach as the man held it out. Quickly, she stuffed it behind her back as Arnacin held out his hand.
“Oh, no,” she said with a laugh. “I purchased it. I hold the right to choose how to present it.” At his silent frustration, she smiled, lifting her chin in regal grace. “Kneel, good sir,” she ordered in a voice bursting with cheer.
“I thought you hated custom,” Arnacin persisted, inclined more to leave her with the compass than to obey.
“I do,” she stated brightly. “But I don’t consider this among the normal customs. I insist upon this honor.” He did not budge, and she dipped her chin, beseechingly, “Please.”
Noticing suddenly that all noise had quieted around the twosome and that every eye was trained on them, Arnacin studied the crowd, almost looking for someone to give their advice. Some were nodding encouragingly. Sara was frowning deeply in the background, her face white as if turned to stone. Still others just watched, excitement in their gazes. Looking again at Sara’s scowl, it came to the islander that the princess would ask for this “honor” simply to make her nurse scream for yet another breach of decorum.
Again meeting Valoretta’s teasing and yet pleading countenance, Arnacin slowly complied, feeling her slip the black cord over his head. Tucking the compass down his shirt, he looked back up to see that all color had left the princess’ face.
“There,” she whispered as he rose, studying her with concern. “I just… I mean… I… presented it.”
She would never pale so just for angering Sara in public. Something apparently both so wonderful and so terrible had just taken place. It was clear it was of such unfathomable importance to her, but Arnacin could not discern its meaning.
Yet as Valoretta bit her lower lip, Arnacin felt duty-bound to reassure her about whatever had suddenly troubled her. In that strange moment, he felt her unknown fear turn into his own and no reassurances came to him. Instead, he nodded slightly, whispering, “Thank you.”
The Savage War Page 30
