The Secret's Keeper and the Heir

by Jackie McCarthy

  Chi-chi-bon and Pup-hem-tup spoke long into the evening, trying to figure out the cause of their favorite pet’s immense strife. It was only as the sun shone red upon the new morning’s horizon that Chi-chi-bon had an idea: Lil-lil-epu was in love.

  The prince was to be married that morning. The fairies followed the sound of triumphant fanfare as they lead the heartsick human girl to the palace. She wept all the while as they sniffed out the room in which a harried handmaiden was preparing the bride. Hanna had just poked herself for the seventh time with a pin—at which Ulia sniggered—and had to excuse herself lest she bleed on the girl’s flawless white gown.

  When the spoiled young bride was alone, the fairies entered to do their mischief. Ulia batted and squealed all she could, but soon found herself tied and gagged inside her own wardrobe closet. The wedding dress was only moments later upon the slim form of Lilli who, for the first time in several days, stopped her crying. Chi-chi-bon and the other fairies happily dressed the girl, weaving joyous flowers into her auburn hair and dropping a veil before her painted face.

  When Hanna returned to the veiled girl, she hadn’t a clue that the switch had been made. Ulia, it seemed, had become a sweet and gracious child on the eve of her nuptials. She took extra care with her charge, proud at last to have taught the girl to be good. When the peal of trumpets gave way to the chime of bells, Hanna guided the disguised girl into the throne room, which was now decorated with enchanted flowers and chirping birds, courtesy of the forest elves, who had come to celebrate one of their own.

  Lilli glided gracefully down the aisle and the onlookers stared at her in awe, wondering if it was their imagination or if the bride was emitting a soft, euphoric glow. She reached the altar where her beloved stood and slipped her hand into his. The ceremony proceeded, none the wiser to the fact that the intended bride remained locked upstairs in her room. Finally, when the rites had been completed, Prince Tommard lifted his wife’s veil to find not the girl of his father’s choosing, but the fairy girl of his own desperate desire. He sealed the marriage with a hasty kiss, unwilling to let the strange woodland girl be torn from his side.

  Though the King was angry that his marriage arrangement had fallen through—forfeiting their claim on the eastern shore as Ulia’s hand had promised—he gained instead a pact of peace with the fairies, which was far more valuable.

  Lilli went to live in the palace, though she snuck out many an evening to dance about the forest with her fairy kin. The palace, however, was a place of family too, for she was reunited with her mother, who was overjoyed to see her alive and happily married. Hanna became her daughter’s handmaiden and the two grew to be close.

  Ulia disappeared into the forest, stolen by fairies as a warning that children should always be polite to the women who raise them.

  *

  Chapter 1:

  The Monkey

  * * * * *

  Mastheads

  Illian Ships, a History

  By Valter Kometar

  *

  There are two characteristics for which Illian sailors are particularly well known—one is their penchant for superstitions and the other is their loyalty. Illiamna in general is a place riddled with superstition, but the myths and fallacies surrounding sea lore and sea travel are greatly enhanced by the dangers inherent in such a livelihood. As for loyalty, this is almost a necessity, since even the most nearby provinces of their own united kingdom are weeks apart by sea, wind permitting.

  Nautical miles from their families ashore, a sailor’s ship becomes his home. It’s a beloved home at that, deserving the most intense protection and allegiance.

  Just as on land, where every province identifies with a seal of two local animals—and just as every town therein claims the nearest mountain peak as their earthly guardian—so too do sailors attempt to show their heritage and devotion on the vessels they sail. They do this primarily through the carving of over-sized mastheads, usually thought of as the decorative piece carved to sit below a ship’s bowsprit. The carving of these mastheads is sometimes seen as a competition between the fragile nation’s disparate people, each eager to win respect while at sea for their land-locked kin.

  For the eager researcher, there is a wealth of ship registries in the Illiam Library, wherein vessels are described in detail. Interesting accounts can be found there of ships carved to look like the plants, animals, and birds of each province (some attempts more successful than others). Ships were allowed to remain plain, of course, but it was thought that such vessels contained men of no discernible pride or intelligence.

  One famous masthead was carved in the shape of a raging boar—a creature of the dusty rock quarries of Baxley—upon its ship the Reavelander. The boar became a dreaded sight upon the seas after the ship was seized by raiders during the War of the Usurper, whereafter it was sailed against its own people. It was later recovered and destroyed, the memories against it being too strong to forget.

  Another famous masthead belonged to the Serpentary, a ship of the Dunes portraying two of their infamous sidewinder snakes. The carved pair of reptiles curved around and upon themselves down the length of ship, their rattle-like tails raised in warning on the boat’s stern. The combatant clans of the desert province used this ship in their own territorial spats, and it was later sailed as a merchant vessel, most likely in the transport of slaves, as suggested by the phrase “slave snake.”

  The most famous masthead, however, is likely the Turnagain’s, which was sculpted in the shape of an eagle in flight. The bird’s wings, representing the power of the Illian capital province of Quillain, ran out and back, ending in detailed flight feathers halfway down the ship’s hull. The Turnagain, though an actual historic ship, has primarily been remembered as the vessel that carried the hero Benson Rose in his quest to restore the rightful king to the throne. Whether or not Benson Rose truly sailed upon this ship is a story lost to time.

  * * * * *

  Daylight happened at the end of the world. The ancient Elder tree under which the twins met was overcome with rope, which ran from its exposed roots to the proud plant’s tallest branches.

  “It’s cordage, actually, and lines,” said the girl knowledgeably, her sense of superior information taking on an insufferable tone. She squinted at the boy, who dangled aimlessly upon the rigging while his sister worked. “Don’t you want to learn any of this?” she demanded, upset by his inattention.

  “I think you’re learning enough for both of us,” he said, retreating under the oak where he could be shaded against the beating sun. “Besides, what’s the point of all this rope when there’s no wind to harvest?”

  The air indeed hung still, like a summer the girl was desperate to forget. But at sea there was wind. At sea, Rose thought with a sigh, there was freedom.

  Rose didn’t dare to share this thought, lest her wry-witted twin brother tease her relentlessly. She’d just finished telling him stories about the overbearing Second Mate and the crew of mocking sailors, all happy to remind her that her place was at the very bottom of their well-established pecking order. She’d never been cuffed, mocked, yelled at, or pushed around as much in her entire life as she had these short months at sea, and yet she would have chosen no other place to be.

  It seemed impossible at times that people had conquered the endless expanses of water with nothing but a wooden hull, canvas sails, and their own cunning. The Captain, in particular, seemed almost magical to her. He could read their location in the sky and he carried them all forth upon the wind, as though he could decipher the invisible air’s secret language. Rose had spoken of him with reverence so many times that Benson had begun gagging at the sound of his name. He did it (or so he claimed) on the principle of the matter.

  Rose was getting used to having secrets from her brother, despite the fact that they had shared everything up until the day he disappeared that hot, stagnant day mere months ago. She stopped her incessant rigging of the Elder tree long enough to speak towards his sull
en form below.

  “I had that dream again,” she said, keeping her hands busy with the lines.

  “Could you be more specific?” Benson asked.

  Rose opened her mouth and then snapped it shut. Which dream? In a moment of confusion she lost the answer herself. Had she meant to tell him about the nightterror in which her shipmates discovered she was female? Or the dream where they teased her ineptitude and the Captain eventually banished her from his ship? Was she thinking of the nightmare in which her village burned to the ground…or the one in which a masked man stood laughing above a pile of charred bones? Or was it one of those other dream—not quite a nightterror—in which her soul flew across great distances and came to rest in another’s eyes?

  Rose considered which issue was bothering her more.

  It had been difficult, but not impossible, to hide her sex. She’d never had a slender body with feminine curves, so nature was already working in her favor. That she’d grown up impersonating her twin brother was of great help as well, and it was rare that the crude behavior of her male companions startled her. The fear of discovery was there, however, and it tempered her relationships upon the floating vessel.  

  In contrast to these real concerns, her dreams of a masked man seemed absurd and inconsequential. She wasn’t convinced he existed at all outside her all-too-vivid imagination. It was her imagination that she blamed for the other visions as well—the ones where she would wake to find herself in various homes on solid land before being pulled back to sea once more.

  Rose shook her head to clear the strange, almost magical thoughts. Dreams were strange things, and it wasn’t her job to understand them. She looked at Benson, taking in the familiar features of his increasingly unfamiliar person.

  “Do you ever…miss me?” she asked, her curiosity taking sudden control.

  “Of course I miss you,” said Benson, running his hand along the tree’s roots. “That’s a stupid question.”

  “I just…” Rose began and then stopped. Turning away in embarrassment, she tugged at one of her lines. “I just meant that life on a pirate ship must be pretty exciting. I bet you hardly remember the name of our old he-goat…”

  Benson stared blankly at the sparse grass that survived at the edge of the tree’s dense shadow. He threaded his fingers between the blades and pulled, but the earth held them fast. “I don’t remember the specifics all the time. I’ve come such a long way, I suppose,” he said vaguely. “Honestly, I think I’ll always long for my life on the riverside.”

  Rose either didn’t hear or chose deafness. She climbed upon her rope-built ladder and raised herself up to the Elder’s rustling leaves.

  “Look, Benson,” she cried, hopping down to the ground moments later in excitement. “There’s the wind! We can get moving again. Here, take this line.”

  Reluctantly, Benson raised himself from the soft ground, grabbing the proffered rope from his sister’s grip.

  “I tied a loose knot up top, so when I say ‘sail ho’ you tug and the canvas will drop,” Rose explained. She added under her breath, “I can’t believe you aren’t picking any of this up where you are.”

  With a roll of his eyes, Benson wrapped the line around his hand for a better grip. On the slow count of three, the twins pulled, releasing a series of long, silken banners, each luminously white. The would-be-sails were no such thing, although they waved prettily in the rising breeze, caressing the twins with their soft presence.

  Benson seemed pleased at the sight of them. Rose, however, was distraught.

  “This is all wrong!” she yelled. Running to catch each errant banner, she grew breathless as they all danced playfully out of her grip. “Benson, help me!”

  In a panic, Rose realized she was alone beneath the silk-covered tree. She rushed from banner to banner, trying to control the mad gambol of the wind. She cried for help again and again.

  “I thought this is what you wanted,” said Benson’s disembodied tones.

  Rose looked around for the source of the voice, hoping it would speak again, but it was another who spoke next, and the words were followed by a harsh blow.

  “Boy, what’s wrong with ye?” Auk’s voice barked. The impact of his open palm against her skull jarred Rose out of her daydream. She looked around, dazed. Her vision blurred as the aftermath of Auk’s blow continued to throb. “Ye can’t earn yer wages by staring out at the sea. Snap to it, ye lazy sack of—”

  Auk lifted his hand to hit her again, but he was distracted by a thud from behind him. “Oy, boy,” he shouted, turning his ire upon the Tikaani slave boy, Ikpek. “Don’t just stand there, pick up that cord. Watcha think we’re riding on, a Scadian Luxury Galley?”

  Ikpek shook his head, cowering. He ducked down to shovel the dropped rope back into his arms. This didn’t please their taskmaster any more than Rose’s yelp of pain, however. Auk dealt a swift smack to Ikpek’s ear as well. The Tikaani recoiled but didn’t cry out.

  With a disgusted shake of his head and a low grumble about their ineptitude, Auk stomped away.

  “Ow,” Rose said, rubbing delicate fingers along her ear, which still throbbed painfully. She checked her hand for blood, but it came away clean. “That really hurt,” she whined anyway.

  “I know it,” agreed Tappan, a fellow shipboy. He was on his knees scrubbing the deck a short distance away. “He clocks me good most times he’s up here. Surprised I got away unscathed this time…”

  Rose frowned, touching her ear gingerly again. “We ought to fit him with a bell.”

  “Now there’s an idea,” Tappan said, his mood lifting. He sat up and stretched his sore muscles. “If we knew when to expect him, we could take a few breaks every once in a while. I reckon my back’s about ready to snap.”

  Tappan was a brawny young man, his skin tanned to a pleasant bronze that matched his short brown hair and brown eyes. Despite his muscled exterior, his face was always soft and smiling. Rose had come to consider him a good friend.

  Nodding to Tappan in commiseration, Rose looked over at the mute Tikaani boy, who was still stroking his reddened ear. “You okay, Ikpek?”

  Ikpek gave her an eager nod and a bow, his eerie purple eyes still slightly crossed after the blow. He was pale, his skin never seeming to drink in the sun, and his hair was dark. He was slight of build—slimmer than Rose, even—but his wiry frame seemed disproportionately strong. The slave boy continued nodding as he turned back to his work.

  “Has he ever said a word to you?” Rose asked under her breath to Tappan as they re-started their tasks. She couldn’t tell if the silent Tikaani was actually a mute or if he didn’t know enough of their language to participate. She got the impression that he understood what they were saying most of the time, but there were other times when he would stare dumbly at them, answering any and all inquiries with an enthusiastic nod and bow.

  “Nah, you?” Tappan answered, kneeling back down to his water bucket.

  Rose watched for a moment as Ikpek struggled with a rope as thick as his slender arms, then shook her head. “No. But then, Auk may have knocked the words out of him by now.”

  “You gotta have words to begin with,” said a sharp voice from above them. “That slave boy’s a right idiot.”

  The three new hires had to shield their eyes from the sun in order to see the voice’s owner. Looking up, they observed Cricket, the red-haired former shipboy. He was hanging comfortably among the lines alongside the mizzenmast.

  “Hey, Cricket,” Tappan said, squinting up at the newcomer. “How’s it going?”

  “Not bad, boys,” the newest shiphand answered cheerfully. “Not bad at all.” Balancing precariously between two lines, Cricket displayed his confidence by letting go with both hands and folding them leisurely behind his head.

  “Hey, what do you know about Auk?” Tappan asked, scooting his legs out from under him and sitting more comfortably.

  “What kind of info you looking for?” Cricket asked, nodding for them to give him a try
.

  “We just…” Rose began, touching her throbbing ear again, “has he always been this bad?”

  “What, you sissies can’t take a little knocking around?” Cricket teased, grinning at them broadly. He brought his hands back to the lines and shifted his weight, lowering himself towards them.

  “Nay, he weren’t always like this, but he weren’t Second before neither. Used to be Hector doing the training.”

  Rose swung her head towards the ship’s bow where she could see, in the distance, the enormous frame of the ship’s dark-skinned First Mate. As she watched, Hector took a barrel from several men below decks and lifted it over his head as though the weight was inconsequential. Rose knew she wouldn’t have been able to lift the burden at all. The gentlest smack from Hector could probably kill a man, she thought. A solid punch would probably turn that same man into a pile of ooze. The ache in her ear throbbed sympathetically.

  “He don’t swing at folks too much,” Cricket explained, seeing their reactions. He puffed up his chest and bragged, “Only got me a few times.”

  “I don’t suppose he’d have to do much,” Tappan said. He let out an impressed whistle as Hector moved three more barrels in rapid succession. “Look at him. His arms are thicker than my entire body! I could lift stones for the rest of my life and still not have arms like that. How does he do it?”

  Cricket’s freckled face soured. “Come on, he ain’t that huge,” he said, upset that their attention was no longer upon himself. “All you gotta do is lift a bit, see?” Jumping from the lines onto the quarterdeck, he positioned himself next to a heavy iron anchor. With supreme effort, he managed to lift it clear of the deck by a few inches.

  Rose and Tappan had no reason to be unimpressed with Cricket’s muscles—for a boy his size they were impressive—but he’d compared himself to the bulging Hector, next to whom any man would appear scrawny and meek.

  Perhaps sensing this, Cricket lost his confidence. Realizing just how heavy the anchor he was attempting to lift truly was, he broke out in a nervous sweat. He let go, trying to toss the cast metal clear of his feet. With a thud, it hit the deck, and he gave them a self-satisfied look. Then, the anchor toppled over and onto Cricket’s booted toes. He leapt high, cursing the hunk of iron. He kicked it in frustration and howled again when the pain stabbed into his other foot.