Visions of her nightmares flared to life in Cynthia’s mind — fire and arrows, blood running in rivulets down the sides of ships. Warships holed and sinking, dragged beneath the waves by nets of clingweed and thousands of mer.
It won’t happen, she thought, grinding her teeth. I will not let it happen! A hand on her arm jolted her out of her reverie, banishing the horrific scene from her mind.
*Seamage Flaxal’s Heir?* Quickfin signed, his face a mask of concern. *Are you all right?*
*Yes, Quickfin, I am fine.* She turned to Eelback and signed, *To answer your question, Eelback, I would choose neither side, for when two friends fight, a true friend to both steps between them before the first blood is drawn.*
*You think you could stop such a war from happening?* Eelback asked, his eyes wide with shock. *Even if it is the will of the mer?*
*Yes, Eelback, I do. And if it occurs, I will, regardless of which side starts it.*
Chapter Twelve
A View to Remember
“You okay, Sam?”
“What?” She snapped out of her reverie, jerking her eyes from the sweeping panorama of Tsing to Farin’s troubled face. He was looking at her like she’d sprouted gills or something. “What do you mean? Of course I’m all right! And get used to calling me Miss Samantha. If this is gonna work, people have to believe I’m a real lady, not some dockside floozy.”
“I mean, Miss Samantha, that you look like you seen a ghost! Yer face went white as new canvas all the sudden. I thought you was gonna keel over.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted, though she felt far from it. At her first sight of the city as they rounded the breakwater, dim memories rushed through her mind like a plague of unwelcome specters. She let her eyes drift back to the view of the sweeping bowl-shaped valley, full to over-flowing with buildings of all shapes, colors and designs. The golden spires of the palace drew her gaze like iron filings to a magnet; she had been there, she knew it, but she couldn’t recall when or how or why. “The city’s just a little overwhelming, is all.”
“Aye, that it is, Sa — er…sorry, Miss Samantha. But don’t let the perty view fool ya; it’s a right nasty nest of vipers up close.” He laughed shortly, fingering the lacy cuff of her sky-blue dress. “Fine lady like you could get into a passel of trouble if she weren’t careful.”
“Right,” she said, fighting to stay in the present as her mind’s eye drifted through a morass of faded images. A man in a green velvet doublet with gold trim, bowing to one knee, urging her to curtsey; running through a garden with an older boy, hiking up her skirts to climb a magnolia tree in full bloom; a kindly old man in gold and blue with a dour-looking woman in black standing behind him, her hand never straying from the hilt of her sword…
She started slightly at Captain Seoril’s bellow, and the anchor splashed into the bay. Chain rattled and canvas flapped as the anchor rode was paid out and the sails furled. King Gull swung around as the anchor dug in.
“You got your stories straight, Farin?” she asked, more to distract herself from the disturbing memories than from any real concern that he was lacking. Farin might not have been the sharpest cutlass in the armory, but he got on well among sailors and could weave a tale as well as any.
“Oh, aye. Not to worry; mine aren’t near as complicated as yours.” He chuckled, looking her up and down, an eyebrow arching at her finery. “You sure you can pull off playin’ the lady?”
“Playin’ a lady’s no problem,” she said, pulling at the waist of the form-fitting gown, “it’s wearing a corset that’s gonna kill me. Come on, let’s get ashore and get to work. We’ve got a lot of tales to tell.”
≈
“One thing I’ve been meaning to ask you about, Edan,” the seamage said one evening as they finished up their dinner. She was nibbling at her dessert and sipping blackbrew, but he caught her occasional wistful glance at the after-dinner drinks enjoyed by the others at the table. “Plume Isle’s volcano; do you think there’s any chance that it would erupt one day? I mean, like Fire Isle erupts?”
“I’m not an expert on volcanoes, Mistress,” he said, thankful for the conversation. There were few people at the table tonight. Dura and Ghelfan were working late at the shipyard, and Tim and Chula had gone on an excursion to one of the other islands. Much to Flicker’s dismay, Mouse had gone with them. A few seats down the table, Paska and Tipos were immersed in their own conversation, sometimes quite heated. Edan did not know their language, but he noted an occasional smile or blush from Camilla as she glanced at them.
And when the conversation lagged at his end of the table, he caught himself staring at Camilla.
He declined dessert, but accepted a steaming cup of blackbrew from the server. He’d developed a taste for it years ago, but his master never let him have much of it. Here, he could have as much as he wanted, whenever he wanted it. That was the problem — he could do whatever he wished. He had been confined in the lighthouse for so long, concerned only with the tasks he performed for his master, that the unbridled freedom he now experienced was a little overwhelming. But he liked it. Perhaps too much.
“But I don’t think you have much to worry about, at least not soon,” he continued. “Plume’s volcano is different than Fire Isle’s.”
“Different?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow. “I thought a volcano was pretty much a volcano.”
“Oh, well, they’re the same type of volcano, Mistress,” he said, pulling Flicker back from the edge of his cup. Blackbrew, he’d discovered, did not mix well with her metabolism, and the last thing he needed was a hyperactive firesprite. “And there are lots of different types, but Fire Isle is fully active, and probably will be for years. My guess is that Plume’s been sleeping for quite some time, a hundred years at least. There are trees that old on the island. The smoke that makes the plume isn’t actually smoke, you know, it’s steam mixed with soot and ash.”
“I noticed that. The plume never goes high enough to be swept far alee by the trades, whereas Fire Isle’s plume can be seen for leagues.”
“Yes,” he said, watching as Camilla took a sip of cordial, her tongue flicking out to brush her lips as she lowered the glass. “I, uh, think the steam from Plume Isle is from volcanic vents that are filled with seawater.”
“Volcanic vents?” Camilla asked, fixing him with those lustrous blue eyes. “Volcanoes have vents?”
“Yes, Miss Camilla.” Edan sat a little straighter in his seat. Another thing he liked here was being treated like an adult, not merely as an apprentice to fetch and tend. In fact, they saw him as an expert on all things fire-related, and it made him feel important to be able to explain to the seamage…and Camilla…the exciting aspects of his chosen element. “I’ve seen drawings of them in my master’s study. The melted rock sometimes flows up and then recedes, leaving an empty tube. In this case, seawater got in somehow, probably through a crack as the rock cooled, and filled the tube.”
“And the water doused the volcano?” the seamage asked.
“I don’t think enough water could have flowed in to douse an active volcano, but as the activity subsided and the lava under the mountain cooled, it would leave big empty spaces. If there were a lot of these empty vaults and they all filled full of water, it could cool the rock enough to form a plug that would keep the volcano from erupting again for a while.”
“And the hot rock heats up the water and sends steam bubbling up the lava tubes like steam from a tea kettle.” The seamage smiled. “Fire and water…interesting.”
“But you don’t think there’s much chance of the volcano becoming active again?” Camilla asked, finishing her cordial and touching the corners of her mouth with a linen napkin.
“Well, not soon, anyway. But if the plume ever stops and the ground shakes, I’d say you have something to worry about.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” the seamage said with a smile, placing her napkin over her plate and pushing it away.
“We have felt trem
ors occasionally,” Camilla put in, looking worriedly at the seamage. “Not very often, but once in a while.”
“I’d hate to have to give this place up, but there’s not much I can do to keep a volcano from erupting. Might be good to keep at least one ship here all the time, Cam, just in case we ever have to evacuate. Thank you, Edan.” She pushed back her chair and stood, pushing on the table to aid her ascent. “I think I’m going to turn in, if nobody minds.”
“Do you need help with the stairs?” Camilla asked, standing as well.
Edan gulped the last of his blackbrew and stood.
“No, I’m fine. I’m just tired. A long day.” She waved them both back to their seats.
“Oh, I’m done anyway. Let me walk you up.” Camilla rounded the corner of the table and extended her arm for the seamage to grasp. “Goodnight, Edan.”
“Goodnight Miss Camilla, Mistress Flaxal.” Edan watched them go, then left the dining hall himself and headed up to his room. His steps were only slightly hurried, but his heart hammered in his chest.
≈
“He’s falling hard, Cammy, I can see it in his eyes.” Cynthia pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked her door. Before the emissary’s visit, no door in the keep save one had ever been locked, but they had become more careful since the theft of the ship plans. She ushered her friend into her rooms.
“I think it’s harmless, Cyn,” Camilla said, clenching her hands inside the pockets of her dress. She saw how Edan looked at her — she’d have to have been a fool not to — but he was only sixteen, a boy. “It’s just infatuation.”
“Of course it is, but Edan’s facing his trials soon. He’s a boy in a man’s body, and you’re…well…Damn it, Cam, you’re every young boy’s fantasy! He needs to be thinking about his trials, not about how many laces there are on your corset!”
“Don’t you think this is something you should be talking to him about, not me?”
“If it gets much worse, I will, but I thought you might be able to…uh…oh, I don’t know, turn down the fire a little.”
“Turn down the fire? I’m not sure I know what you — ”
“You know perfectly well what I mean, Cammy. You dress like you’re attending a court function every day, and you’re laced so tightly I can see your pulse in your neck. You ever try throwing on something casual for a change?”
“Casual? Well, let me see…I’m sure I can dig out a few of my old outfits if you like. I mean, I spent ten years dressed in silk so sheer you could see through it, so I think I can find something to satisfy a boy’s curiosity!” She whirled and reached for the door.
“Cammy, stop. Please, I — ”
“No, you stop, Cynthia!” she snapped, whirling to face her friend, her pulse pounding in her ears. “I will not be told what to wear, by you or anyone else! You invite a cloistered sixteen-year-old boy into this environment, and you expect something less? It’s all we can do to get Paska to wear something over her loins, and you think my dresses are too revealing?”
“This is not about your dresses, Camilla. It’s about Edan’s life!”
“His life? What are you talking about?”
“If he fails these trials, if his mind isn’t fully on what he’s doing, he’s dead, Cam. There’s no way he’ll walk out alive if Phekkar refuses him again.”
“What?” Camilla stepped back, her back pressing against the hard planks of the door.
“I told you, didn’t I? Gods, maybe I didn’t! I’ve had so much on my mind lately I probably forgot.” Cynthia turned and sat on a nearby chair and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Cam, I thought you knew; Edan’s failed his trials once already, and he’s well past the age at which elementalists usually come into their powers. This whole thing is about him trying to become a pyromage. To prove to Phekkar that he’s worthy, he has to walk into the fire, literally.”
“Into the fire? You mean Fire Isle? Oh, my holy gods!”
“Exactly, or rather, unholy gods, since Phekkar has a less-than-saintly reputation. I don’t think the god of fire will be very tolerant of a supplicant who isn’t fully focused.”
“I…um.” Camilla didn’t know what to say; she’d found Edan’s infatuation a little bothersome — although rather flattering — but really hadn’t thought much of it. She certainly hadn’t thought a schoolboy crush could risk his life. “Do you think I should leave? I could take a trip to Southaven until this blows over.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Cynthia countered. “There must be some way you can discourage him. Maybe wear some of your less flattering gowns, or something.”
“I could start taking etiquette lessons from Dura, I suppose,” she said with a chuckle, drawing a smile from Cynthia. She was glad that the tension had been diffused, but still had no answer. “I’ll think of something, Cyn. Don’t worry. You’ve got enough on your mind.”
“Thanks, Cam. I appreciate it.”
The two said their goodnights and Camilla headed for her own rooms. Dinner had run late, but it was still too early for her to sleep. With Edan’s dilemma in mind, she decided to go through her wardrobe and try some less flattering combinations.
Entering the comfortable main room of her suite, she felt the tension melt out of her muscles. This room, with its comfortably soft chairs, delicate mahogany desk and multiple bookcases, bore little resemblance to the single, spare room that it used to be, her one and only sanctuary in Bloodwind’s keep. That was the reason she had kept it instead of choosing a larger chamber; of all the rooms in the keep, this was the one where the pirate lord had never touched her. She felt safe here.
She passed into her bedroom, a cozy little nook that had been newly hollowed out of the mountain. A light evening breeze blew in from the airy balcony, billowing the gauzy drapes. She lit all four oil lamps and threw open the doors of her expansive wardrobe. Her dresses were her one indulgence, her investment in her own sanity. She had put a large portion of her share of Bloodwind’s horde — more wealth than she ever thought she could spend — into this one extravagance. Cynthia had insisted she take it, arguing that since Camilla had endured the longest and greatest hurt at the pirate lord’s hands, she deserved the reward. Cynthia also paid her a handsome salary for her work, and her dresses were one thing that she could enjoy, one good use for the useless treasure that would have made a king of the man who had made her life a living hell.
She had always loved pretty clothes, even before she had been captured by Bloodwind and despite his insistence that she wear all manner of revealing costumes. Now she bought the best — the finest materials, the prettiest lace, the sheerest silks, and the most luxurious satins — and with her considerable skill as a seamstress, she altered them to her liking.
She ran the back of her hand down the arm-span of shimmering colors, every hue of the rainbow and then some, every design she could dream up, and some she was still experimenting with. With a sigh, she reached behind her and loosened the laces of her gown, performing the contortionist trick that every young girl learned early in life, to wriggle out of the garment without straining the seams or snagging the lace trim. When it finally collapsed in a frothy pile at her feet, she stepped out of it and placed it on the airing rack. Then, of course, there were the three pettiskirts, and lastly her corset…her coat of armor, as it were.
She almost laughed at the notion as the whalebone stays creaked with the laces’ release; the stiff garment could very easily turn a sword stroke. She hung it up and breathed a truly deep breath, her first since donning the restricting garment that morning. She peeled her damp underclothes away from her skin — even in the relatively cool dry season, the humidity was thick enough to cause her to sweat under her dresses. In the torrid wet season, she rarely left the keep and wore her more airy outfits.
The cool evening breeze touched her damp undergarments and they instantly became chill and clammy to the touch. She shuddered and peeled out of the sticky clothes, donning
a robe of golden silk. She would take a cool bath before bed, but for now she would pore over her dresses and pick the ones that were the least flattering, her least favorite, her most drab — there weren’t many — and she would try them on with a loosely laced corset, or none at all, and see how they looked. A small price to pay for the life of a poor boy who found her fascinating. The thought brought a thin smile to her lips as she picked out a russet-colored gown with no lace.
She dropped her robe, stood before the mirror and tried the dress on.
≈
Edan took a deep breath, steadied his hands on a tree limb and peered through the telescope that he’d borrowed from Chula’s room. The first mate had said he could use it whenever he liked, though that might not have meant while he was away, and certainly not for this purpose. But Edan would have it back by morning, and no one would know.
He focused the lenses, and his next breath caught in his throat.
The night breeze fluttered the leaves of the tree in which he was perched, a lofty strangler fig on the edge of a game trail above the shipyard. Tim had shown him the trail; it led to some caves on the southern promontory of the island, but from here, before the trail wound around the bend, he could look back and have a good view of the keep — more importantly, of the balconies that had been carved into the cliff face.
Leaves obscured his view for a moment, and he nearly fell craning his neck to see. It was usually hard to make her out through the gauzy draperies, but tonight all of her lamps were lit, not just the one she used for reading. Tonight she was standing before the mirror, holding a gown before her, studying her reflection. Then she dropped the gown on her bed and went to the wardrobe to pick another, and there was nothing obscuring his view at all…
Chapter Thirteen
Rumors, Hearsay and Bald-Faced Lies
The Fire Drake eased up to the Imperial Navy dock with a precision that bespoke her captain’s expertise and her crew’s attention to duty. Count Norris was not impressed; right now he was more concerned with getting to the palace as quickly as he could. After six days aboard, the ship was starting to feel like a floating prison. It had his nerves on edge. He had finished drafting his presentation to the emperor halfway through the trip, leaving him three days to fret.
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