The Secret's Keeper and the Heir

by Jackie McCarthy

  “An insignificant flaw,” Emibelle said in his defense. “Or perhaps the only flaw worth having: I can be un-reserved enough for both of us! If only his father would leave him the estate, then I think I should have no choice but to marry him.”

  “Why would an estate matter, if you loved him?” Lucy asked, scowling as she thought of how the young man’s unruly curls had caught the light in the sun and breeze. The thought of him speaking with Emibelle made her sick in a way that felt quite odd.

  “Honestly!” Emibelle exclaimed, looking to her sisters for support. “You can be such a child sometimes, Goose. A girl may dream of love, but a woman knows she must marry someone already in possession of a fortune.” With a flourish meant to punctuate her conviction, she tugged a ribbon into a precise bow. “There, little Adeline, your hair is perfect now.”

  “It’s kinda tight, Emi—” Adeline whimpered, poking a feeble finger into the taut braids.

  “Aren’t you silly!” Emibelle laughed, gently pushing her younger sister out of the way. She turned back to Simone. “And guess what else, he’s agreed to call on Papa before the week’s end so that we may dine with him soon after.”

  “Your meeting sounds to have been extremely propitious,” Simone offered in praise. Lucy glowered at the two sisters. She wanted to consider her own encounter with the boy to be of equal importance, but she had not secured an invitation to dine at his Estate.

  “Well, I don’t want to boast,” Emibelle boasted, “but we spoke for an entire quarter of an hour with only Gerhin looking on, and then were joined by Papa for another quarter hour.”

  “That makes room for considerable conversation,” Simone commented, sounding happy for her sister’s good fortune. “What did you speak of for all that while?”

  “Oh, philosophy, mostly,” Emibelle answered breezily. Lucy rolled her eyes, knowing the auburn-haired girl to be incapable of anything of the sort. At her incredulous look, Emibelle added breezily, “The latest poetry, I suppose. It was all such a whirlwind. I can’t be expected to remember everything.”

  * * * * *

  Captain Kaille removed the stopper from a bottle of rum and placed it heavily on his chart table. Jas looked at it intently for several moments before shaking his head and taking a hurried seat. Fenric, meanwhile, slowly lowered himself into another chair. Kaille sat in his own slightly higher stool, looking upon them, his senses on edge. The conversation had, without warning, become too sensitive to continue outside. It had certainly, for the Captain at least, becoming too nerve-wracking to continue without alcohol.

  “I think the best way to tell you what you want to know,” Fenric said, still choosing every word with careful thought, “is to act as a storyteller.”

  “This is hardly a story,” Kaille sighed, looking somewhat exasperated.

  “History is every bit a story,” Fenric contended. “And stories are every bit our history.”

  “I hardly think—”

  “Stop arguing the ridiculous, Eli,” Jas said, distrustful. “Go on, Scribe, tell us a bed-time story.”

  Fenric bent a mischievous eyebrow and complied.

  “Once upon a time,” he said, “there were two brothers, Lukilar and Goddard, and they were the sons of the king.”

  “King Leonon?” Kaille asked, unsure why he needed such clarification, but not wanting to leave any question unasked.

  “Indeed,” Fenric nodded graciously. “Lukilar, the eldest by three years, grew up to take his father’s place, while Goddard, the younger, was given control of the kingdom’s military, as is customary for younger brothers.”

  “Aye, of course,” Jas said flippantly. “A prince is always in command.”

  “King Lukilar ruled with a kind but strong hand,” Fenric continued as though there had been no interruption. “Along with his brother, he kept peace throughout the land and sea. He married his first queen, whom he loved, and had two children: the eldest Lucia, Princess of Light, and a few years later prince Lucivak, Prince of Peace. The good queen died unexpectedly and the king grieved, but he was required to marry again for political reasons. With his second wife he had a third child called Teagan, Duke of Granbury.”

  “The three heirs, aye,” Jas blurted. “But what of the Usurper?”

  “Ah yes,” Fenric sighed as though at an unpleasant thought, “while Goddard patrolled the Eastern Seas, a young man named Nic Pharus was working his way through the ranks of the military. As he rose, he made sure his allies were promoted also. Under the name of the King and the King Brother, these men began committing terrible crimes.”

  “Did no one notice that evil followed this monster?” Jas shouted, pounding his fist on the table. Kaille was almost glad to see him being angry at someone other than the Scribe.

  “Because the vile Pharus hid his actions,” Fenric answered. “In a carefully hidden coup where he and his men took out the last of his resistance, this charming and charismatic man won the hearts of the populace and nobility alike. He did this so well, in fact, that he was soon promoted to the position of Second to the Prince, and the realm rejoiced.”

  “We were so blind,” said Kaille sadly, shaking his head. He remembered the celebration of Nic Pharus and his high appointment, though he hadn’t been particularly aware of politics at the time.

  “We were fools!” Jas hissed.

  “Whatever we may have been, everyone was happy with Nic Pharus as Second. Everyone, that is, except for one person,” Fenric said, holding up a finger.

  Jas was all attention. “Who?”

  “Nic Pharus,” Fenric replied simply. “There were no further promotions to be had. No more promotions, that is, unless Goddard, the King Brother, could be disposed of.”

  “That bastard,” Jas muttered, already thinking ahead.

  “Because of his newfound fame and in his new role as Second to the Nation,” Fenric continued, “Nic Pharus was able to come before the King and accuse Prince Goddard of a plot to kill the royal family…”

  Kaille leaned forward onto his chart table, eyes wide. He waited desperately for what would come next, but a hurried knock on his door broke their attention.

  “What is it?” Kaille shouted crustily.

  Hector’s massive body filled the open door. “It’s Whyl Winesmith,” said the dark man. “He’s awake.”

  * * * * *

  The boy Teagan awoke to sunlight. He twitched his orange tail, turning his warm belly from the sun, and gaped his toothy mouth in a wide, whiskered yawn. Opening his yellow, slitted eyes, he looked out upon the rolling emerald landscape, sniffing the air for his next meal.

  Periscopic ears scanning the area, Teagan heard a cacophony of unknown sounds. Overwhelmed, he retreated back into himself. Only then did he remember vaguely that he was not a cat. He wondered what magic had caused him to awaken inside the purring body of a brazen mouser in this strange, green world. He supposed the only one who might know was the feline himself, so he opened his dreaming mind to inquire.

  The cat used no language, but merely conveyed its impressions of the bugs, rodents, and birds that made up the enveloping curtain of noise. If the cat’s instructions had been translated into words, however, they may have sounded something like this:

  “The loud sound above is a flock of juicy bugs,” the feline alleged, listening to the harsh whirring that emanated from the tall trees, “They require climbing, which can be more trouble than it’s worth, though the crunch is very satisfying. Keep up, keep up!”

  “That is a jumping bug,” he considered, examining the strange green creature with long, spiky legs. The cat grabbed at it playfully, catching and holding the insect. He lunged at it with an open mouth, but didn’t bite. Released, it jumped to the cat’s nose, where they stared at one another. Then it sprang away, pushing the cat’s nose down with surprising force as it went. “They’re just for fun.”

  The cat approached a flowering bush where a butterfly flapped gently by. “Pretty bugs. They like pretty things,” thought the
Cat, batting at the bright wings and frolicking after as it fluttered out into the field.

  Suddenly, the Tom Cat veered in another direction. “That buzzing is bad,” he explained of the bush full of hornets. “It’s the sign of stinger bugs. We keep away from that.”

  The cat veered into a different bush and buried himself in the cool, shaded ground. “This is good dirt,” he purred, rolling around for several minutes before scampering off once more.

  He stopped to listen, and Teagan strained his ears. “That is sky song,” the cat informed him, “made by sky mice. I like sky mice. They taste best. Hard to catch. Hard to catch!”

  Rounding a hedge, the cat’s mind became suddenly silent. He sat low in the grass, his shoulders arched and body low, ears to the side. He watched a bird as it bobbed to and fro, pecking at the ground. With silent steps, the cat stalked ever nearer. The bird, finished with its meal, fluttered its wings and took to flight. The cat, knowing it was already too late, pushed forward from its powerful hind legs anyway, batting at the empty air.

  “See?” he thought, when the hunt had finished. “Hard to catch.” The cat sat on the spot and licked his paw as though he had rushed forward for that particular purpose.

  Then, just as he’d decided to bask in the sun a bit more, there was a telltale rustling from behind a tree.

  “Hello…” crooned the cat’s hunter brain.

  From far away Teagan felt an insistent nudging against his human arm, but he pushed it away. He’d never been a cat before, and he wasn’t eager to leave. He wanted to stay as, placing one paw carefully in front of the other, the cat moved silently upon the tree’s high roots. His eyes rested on a robust brown field mouse. The rodent nervously licked its paws clean, then wiped at its veined pink ears. The cat crouched low, shifting his body weight in preparation for the pounce.

  “How do you—?” Teagan wondered.

  “Shh!” the cat hushed, licking his chops silently. “Ground mouse.”

  From elsewhere the nudging grew more persistent. Teagan felt it keenly, but he still wasn’t ready to leave. The nudging became a sharp pain, however, and his consciousness was pulled unwillingly away.

  The cat leapt just as Teagan opened his human eyes. He woke to find a very different kind of animal watching him. He was being pushed, it seemed, by a shapeless cloud of white. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, however, he saw that it was the second Ice Bear cub from the disastrous hunt, now alone.

  With a sudden intake of breath, Teagan sat up quickly. His legs dangled into the endless chasm, and the quick motion of rising almost made him fall forward into its depths. Waving panicked arms to catch his balance, the boy sat, panting.

  Suddenly, the starkness of the vast white landscape returned, rendering empty the parts of his soul that had fed on the delicious wildness of being a faraway feline. He wondered vaguely if the cat had caught his prey, but then he felt the gentle nudging nose of the white bear at his side. The sharp pain he had felt returned.

  Shakily, Teagan pulled off his thick, fur-lined mitten. There were small puncture wounds where the bear cub’s young teeth had broken his skin in a struggle to gain the boy’s attention. Turning to the bear, Teagan met its dark black eyes, which stared back at him without fear. He felt close to the young cub. It, like him, was now completely alone in the world. 

  Shifting his bare hand over the cub’s head, he placed the first two fingers of his primary arm—his bow fingers—upon the bear’s furry brow. It was a motion he’d seen the Bruins do many times to greet loved ones, though he’d never cared enough to learn what it meant.

  Perhaps it was the residue of his recent encounter with dream magic or perhaps that he’d simply never touched a live animal before, but when the boy’s skin came into contact with the bear’s dense fur he felt what might have been the cub’s thoughts. As though from a memory, he could recall the Ice Bear mother’s snowy den and her warm milk. From the cub pulsed hazy memories of safety and satiation, of protection and kinship. In the memory, the sunny, white landscape outside the shaded den was still but a bright hope for the future that she and her brother—her beloved playfellow—would explore on a distant someday.

  Teagan lifted his fingers and the connection was broken. The memories of food and warmth made him feel all the more hungry and cold. He licked his chapped lips, more thirsty than he’d ever been. There was a small amount of food and drink in the bags that sat above him, he vaguely knew, but he lacked the will to retrieve them. He’d lost track of how many nights had passed since he’d come to be here. It felt, at times, as though he’d always been there, suspended on the edge of an endless pit.

  The ice bear cub rolled its weight into Teagan’s body, burrowing its sleek head into the boy’s fur coat and nuzzling against him for warmth and company. Teagan laid his uncovered hand on the bear’s insulated fur, feeling her soft, shallow breathing.

  Closing his eyes against the intense white light of the ice field, Teagan woke again when it was dark, and much later when it was light again. The breath came from his cracked lips like a rattle, reluctant to part with the moisture that each exhale released into the wasteland of cold. His mind had become clouded, his eyesight fuzzy. Lying down began to seem like a good idea.

  Just as he was considering this action, the ice bear growled and lifted its head. Teagan wondered if it had read his intentions, and looked down at the bear, which shifted restlessly under the boy’s dark-edged, frostbitten hand. It turned to look at him, sniffed his fur coat, sneezed, and then waddled off with surprising speed.

  Brow furrowing with difficulty, Teagan looked up out of the chasm to the rise of snow on the other side. Upon it stood a shadowy figure—a hunter. Unable to process this new information, his moisture-starved mind shut itself down.

  Eyes rolling back into his head, the boy Teagan fell back, motionless.

  *

  Chapter 4:

  The Spy

  * * * * *

  Two Brothers on the Sea

  The Old Mariners Songbook

  Compiled by Eberard Fink

  *

  A boat goes a rowin’

  a rowin’ on the sea

  Four hands be a rowing’

  a rowin’ brothers be

  Oars go a droppin’

  a droppin’ in the blue

  And boat goes a sailin’

  a sailin’ two by two

  Each man pulling for the other

  Each man pulling for his brother

  Boon be high

  and heart be weather

  Zounds they’re born

  to row together

  Aye-yah-doon

  and brack-lah-bree

  Can none but

  honest sailors be

  The day were a bluein’

  a bluein’ up above

  Upon came a floatin’

  a floatin’ then a dove

  Bird be a landin’

  a landin’ on the ding

  By morning be a risin’

  a risin’ not a wing

  Each man wonders at the other

  Each man wonders at his brother

  Boon be high

  and heart be weather

  Gonds they cannot

  think together

  Aye-yah-doon

  and brack-lah-bree

  What liars do

  their brothers be?

  Brothers be a yellin’

  a yellin’ in disgrace

  Who should be a killin’

  a killin’ birds of grace?

  Each be a blamin’

  a blamin’ kindred men

  Backs be a turnin’

  a turnin’ on his kin

  Each man cannot trust the other

  Each man cannot trust his brother

  Boon be high and

  heart be weather

  Twerns they’ll tell

  their lies together

  Aye-yah-doon

  and brack-lah-bree

  Wh
en trust is gone

  then who be free?

  A boat goes a rowin’

  a rowin’ on the sea

  Four hands be a rowin’

  a rowin’ brothers be

  The oars go a droppin’

  a droppin’ in the blue

  And boat goes a circlin’

  a circlin’ two by two

  Each man pull against the other

  Each man pull against his brother

  Boon be high

  and heart be weather

  Hoons they’ll ne’er

  work together

  Aye-yah-doon

  and brack-lah-bree

  They done be forever

  a circlin’ in the sea

  * * * * *

  “He’s up and walking!” Tappan hailed as Cricket walked up to them, his manner surly.

  “I heard Auk bruised your backside,” Rose said, feeling a strange lack of allegiance for either the redheaded boy or his greasy tormentor.

  “What, did the savage tell you that?” Cricket demanded, shooting a frightened look at the mute Ikpek.

  “Nah,” Tappan said slowly, curious that the former shipboy would give in to such absurd accusations. “I don’t reckon Ikpek’s the type to tell anything. Auk may’ve mentioned it, though.”

  “Aye, well, he didn’t tell the part where I got in a few good whacks before he jumped me,” Cricket said defensively. “I don’t think he’ll be coming back for more anytime soon.”

  “Really?” Rose laughed. “He looked fine to me.”

  Cricket’s pupils grew small. He made a fist and smacked it into his own palm. “You saying you don’t believe me? You want a few whacks yourself?”

  “Nah, we’re all good on whacks, thanks,” Tappan answered genially.

  “I’m sure he’s just as bruised as you say,” Rose added, trying to mask her sarcasm.

  “Aye. He is,” Cricket insisted. “I know how to give a solid punch. Broken a few noses, even.” He took a step towards the boys. “You sissies done that? You ever broken a body’s bones?”

  “Not me,” Tappan answered with a wry laugh. “I reckon my life would’ve gone real different if I’d struck a few people. Nah, not me.”

  “What about you, Misses Monkey?” Cricket said with a sneer. “You ever put your petticoats in danger and punched a body?”