The tale of Seladyn’s demise was much told in Serathon, but Sensitives and apprentice wizards learned it very young, the better to impress upon them the responsibility their powers carried.
“And what happens now is that we take you there and collect the rest of our payment.”
Nylan swallowed, noting distantly that his throat felt better already. “Who’s paying you?”
“I don’t know. Nor do they know who I am. We dealt with each other through an intermediary.”
I wish he’d stop. I wish he were cruel again. It would be easier.
“Why did you kill that man?” He decided he’d found out enough about his future.
The revulsion he’d seen in the captain’s eyes was back, thick in his voice. “Chelna was always an animal. I had forbidden anyone to touch you. He disobeyed.”
“But, I’m just a prisoner,” Nylan pressed. As vile as he’d been, it still seemed wrong that the man was dead. Nylan couldn’t forget what it had felt like, what that split-tic horrified realization had felt like when the man knew he’d been killed and that it was too late.
He closed his eyes and swallowed against the urge to throw up again. Vail, have mercy on me...have mercy on him, too.
“He was one of your men. He said he was owed—”
“I know!” the man barked, and Nylan flinched, eyes open and staring in fear. But to his surprise, the big, violent, blood-soaked pirate seemed embarrassed.
“He was owed, but he’d no right to decide his own payment.” He looked away from Nylan’s eyes. “‘Sides. It’s disgusting. Raping children. I’ve never allowed it when I could stop it happening. And you’re suffering enough.”
Nylan waited in silence for a long time, watching the pirate who’d begun to move around the cabin, shifting things in a distracted pretense of tidying.
Vail, he’s scared. He’s embarrassed, too. He could feel the waves of emotion rolling off the man, and it baffled him. He’d been so callous and decisive before. What had changed?
“Are you in trouble, now? Because of what happened?” Nylan couldn’t imagine the man was afraid of him. There had to be some other reason for this sudden fear.
The pirate’s shoulders stiffened, and he turned back to face his captive. His mouth opened, and Nylan could almost hear the words, “How did you know?” but the man didn’t say them. His mouth snapped shut, and he shook his head, instead, chagrined.
“Triple-damn me for a fool,” he swore softly. “If I’d had any idea who they wanted me to snatch, I’d have told them to go to the Fires.”
Nylan didn’t quite believe this professed ignorance. He guessed it was more that the man had not realized just what he had undertaken by agreeing to kidnap the Prince of Sorrows and was now regretting it.
“You could take me back,” he suggested, very softly. “I’m sure my father will pay you for your trouble.”
The man snorted and sat down on a stool. He gave Nylan a thoughtful look. “Are you sure, child? Are you truly sure Teodor SanClare would pay to have the likes of you back when he’s never wanted you before?”
Tears filled Nylan’s eyes, and this time he couldn’t stop them. “How dare you,” he managed.
“Don’t try to game me,” the man warned, the cruel smile back, twisting his lips. “I’m not happy with this deal I’ve cut, but it’s still the deal, and I’ll not go back on my word.”
“You’re a pirate,” Nylan accused. “What good is your word?”
The man shrugged, and Nylan sensed again his fear and unease. “Not a pirate, child. I’m a mercenary, and a contract is my word. I make a deal, I stick to it, no matter what. And this deal says I can never go back to Serathon—with or without you.”
Hope made Nylan desperate. “Then take me to Voya! My grandmother will pay you—whatever you want. Double your deal or more. I know she will.”
“Aye,” the man agreed. “I’m sure you’re right. And it is a temptation. Selling you to the highest bidder—who I’d guess would be neither Serathon nor Voya but Edoran. For the likes of you, the Blood Emperor would likely ransom his throne.”
“Bastard.” Nylan looked away from the man’s mocking smile. He pretended anger but cold fear gripped him at this threat. No matter how bad things were now, falling into the Blood Emperor’s hands would be worse than anything, including death. “You bastard.”
“Goodness!” The man feigned shock. “Where did a pampered princeling learn such language?”
Nylan shot a sidelong glare at the man and wished he felt strong enough to stand so he could hit his captor.
“I warned you not to try and game me.” The man shook his head. “You can’t win, and this time, neither can I.” He sighed and seemed to come to a decision. “Truth is, I’d take you to Voya if I could, but I can’t. This is a Blood Contract, child. If I break it, I die. And if the choice is you or me, it’s going to be you. I intend to survive.”
So, my fate’s sealed, no matter what. But what else should a Prince of Sorrows expect?
The mention of Voya, however, reminded him of the stories Bairbre Llorka liked to tell him. He’d never been sure he should believe her, but at the moment, they offered him his only weapon. And I want to hurt him back.
“What did they offer you to balance out the curse?” he asked after thinking through what he’d say very carefully.
The man went still as if Nylan had guessed something he’d been hoping to keep hidden.
Ah. He’s heard of it. Good.
“Curse?” Like his earlier shock, the man’s ignorance was also feigned.
“As you said, I’m Voyavel. Holy Vail gifted my mother’s family with the curse a long time ago. You knew that, didn’t you?” He tried to sound careless, as if it didn’t matter to him at all.
The Voyavel royal family had in fact survived for generations in spite of the constant warring amongst the many little lands and principalities and kingdoms that made up the fabled, long-destroyed One Kingdom. No other royal line could claim such a thing.
“What are you talking about?” the man demanded.
Nylan tasted his fear and smiled, satisfied that he’d been able to strike at least this blow against his enemy. “I’ve told you. The Voyavel Curse. All I have to do is ask her, and Vail will avenge me.” Nylan said this carefully, summoning all the defiant confidence he could manage under the circumstances. He cast a malicious, sidelong glance at his captor and added, “Deal or not, Captain, you are doomed.”
Whatever fear-born kindness the man had felt toward Nylan seemed to vanish in that moment, and he stalked over to the bed and yanked the boy out and to his feet. Nylan wobbled precariously, trying to find the strength to stand up, but the man gave him no time to recover.
The captain dragged him, stumbling, from the warm cabin and down a narrow corridor, his fury so strong, it drowned out any words or thoughts Nylan might have overheard due to the man’s inescapable touch.
When they reached the ladder leading up to the deck, the captain shoved Nylan ahead of him and growled, “Climb.”
It seemed as if the entire crew must be on deck and staring at him as he reached the top. One of the men reached down and pulled him up the last couple of steps and kept holding onto him when he realized Nylan was about to collapse.
“Let’s get this over with,” the captain shouted once he, too, stood on the deck. The crew began to move at that as if it meant something.
Nylan was half-dragged and half-shoved to the ship’s railing. The sea pitched crazily, and he gritted his teeth against the urge to throw up. Strange, sharp shards of light glinted past the ship like lightning striking sideways and the sky looked oddly dark in comparison.
“The Breach,” Nylan breathed, shocked to find himself so close to the deadly thing.
“Aye,” the captain agreed, flat-voiced. Then with no more warning or explanation, he grabbed Nylan under the arms and swung him over the railing.
Nylan screamed, choking on a second, even more terrified scream when mo
re hands caught him. A small boat containing two more pirates hung half-way to the water, ready to catch him as he dropped from the captain’s hands.
“Please!” Nylan shrieked. “Don’t do this!”
“Sorry, child,” the captain called to him as the small boat dropped into the water and his two new captors began to row for shore. “It seems you were right. You’re just very unlucky.”
# # #
CHAPTER THREE
The two pirates had rowed Nylan almost to shore though not close enough. Instead, they stranded him on a wave-washed bit of sand they termed a tiny island, though that had been giving it false glory. One of them—a leather-faced old man whose eyes squinted almost shut in the weird glare of the afternoon—had slipped a bottle of water and half-gnawed piece of very stale bread to him with a muttered, “sorry, Highness,” before turning away to hide his disobedience.
And then, at last, he’d finally been left alone after the longest, most horrific half-moon of his life. He managed to keep from eating or drinking right away, saving this generous gift for a more desperate time. Nylan felt sure there would be a more desperate time.
Instead, he tried to take advantage of his solitude and worked on finding his silent center. It continued to evade him, and, biting his lip against frustrated, frightened tears, he gave up and stared off into the waning light.
The shards broken into the fabric of the world by the Breach still glinted, knife-like and dangerous, all around him, but he must’ve been set down in a relatively safe gap for none of them were close enough to pose a real threat. He wasn’t sure how they worked or what they’d do to him if he did stumble into one, but he was certain it would be bad and probably painful.
The shore beckoned, seeming so close, so reachable, and Nylan was tempted to try for it, but he’d lived beside the Gulf of Souls all his life and knew better than to trifle with it, no matter that he was a strong swimmer. As close as the shore seemed and as gentle as the waves were, they could and often did hide vicious currents which could pull him under in an instant. And this close to the Breach, there was likely to be danger from its shards even under water.
Nylan sat in about an inch of water which lapped around him constantly. His oversized clothing, heavy with salt water, weighed him down while the early spring wind blew fiercely, chilling him to the bone. His teeth clicked together even though he tried to lock his jaw against this.
The pirates’ ship had disappeared what seemed like hours before, and as the tide began to recede at last, Nylan wondered if the faint, shouted reassurance from the captain had been a lie.
“‘Someone will be along soon,’” Nylan whispered the promise aloud. But who?
The bloody, murdering pirates no longer seemed so bad when the alternative was that he was alone on Worldsend, Vail-only-knew how many posts away from anyone or anywhere. He’d realized over the hours of waiting that he wouldn’t survive long if no one came for him.
As low tide approached, the slender spit on the far end of which he’d been abandoned emerged from beneath the waters. Nylan struggled to his feet, his entire body wracked by tremors.
He now knew the difference between his habitual coldness and freezing and between being hungry due to a late or missed meal and starving.
How stupid I was to even use the word before! And I’m so thirsty. But he cut himself off from that thought, determined to save his rations for as long as possible.
Nylan stumbled his way down the narrow spit and onto the ravaged shore of Worldsend. His stomach felt cold, too, and his throat tickled so that he kept having to clear it. Anything might start him retching. He didn’t think that would be a good thing.
Maybe I’d just die then.
He smiled at the idea then drew back from it, repulsed by the way his thoughts were winding. Had a mere moon reduced him to such a state? He was supposed to be one of the great SanClare princes—a breed so wondrous, Vail Herself blessed them with heroic, extraordinary names like “Prince of Swords” and “Prince of Fire.” Or “Prince of Sorrows.”
Nylan remembered the moment his own prince-name had been revealed, the sick, scared wave of feelings rising up again as he did. His friends and their warders had all known in an instant, the moment they saw him. That was how it worked, Jarlyth had explained. And if they never see me, they’ll never know my name. No, it’s if they never think of me. He made a sound of surprising bitterness for someone so young, shaking his head at the thought. “I bet my father doesn’t even know my prince-name.”
Very unlucky. The SanClares—even the Sorrows—were said to be strong in the face of all adversities, but he had already fallen apart. Jarlyth would be so disappointed in me.
The worst things he could ever have imagined had already happened to him. Whatever unknown he now faced, he doubted it could be any worse. He had to be brave and trust in Vail.
I’m just so tired.
“But why didn’t he come?” Nylan asked aloud, his voice a bare whisper. Why didn’t his father care about him? Why was any hope he might have had for rescue so ridiculous the pirate captain had laughed at him for suggesting it?
Why doesn’t he love me?
He’d been stupid, he knew, to even pretend rescue was possible. But if he’d taken great comfort in imagining the captain and his men dangling over Karona’s Great Square, who could blame him? They’d murdered Jarlyth and beaten and starved and touched him and said and thought such disgusting, cruel things.
But the king had not rescued him. No ship flying the bright scarlet royal stag had overtaken the pirates. No questing minds had reached out across the waters to find him.
The shore of Worldsend offered Nylan little. He could see for posts in all directions, and he saw nothing that might be food or drinkable water or shelter. If no one came, he would die and very soon.
If no one comes. Fear clutched at his throat but he set his jaw, determined not to cry.
He opened the bottle then and took a careful, shallow sip of water before resealing it immediately. He held the water in his mouth, swishing it around before swallowing. He followed that with a small bit of the stale bread which he chewed slowly.
As the sun began to vanish beyond the western edge of the world, half-obscured by Breach-shards, Nylan finally sensed something other than himself on the barren shore. Ignoring a shudder of cold, which could have been fear or relief—he had no idea—he struggled to his feet and dusted the sand off of his pirate hand-me-downs as if they were court robes. He tucked his rations into a convenient pocket and began to walk away from the shore. He wasn’t going to wait for the next horrible thing to just happen to him.
Nylan had made it half-way up a steep bluff when a hand belonging to the mind he’d already sensed reached down, caught his wrist, and hauled him up.
A woman straightened to tower over him, her face impassive. “Your Highness.” She nodded in lieu of a bow.
He lifted his chin, keeping his face as expressionless as he could.
She tilted her head to one side, studying him. Her looks were entirely unremarkable, and Nylan thought this might be on purpose—she did not want to be remembered by her victims.
“What do we do now?” He pretended again to be unafraid.
She raised an eyebrow and gave a small nod of—
Approval? Nylan wasn’t certain. Her mind had the fuzzy, impenetrable feel he’d only encountered before from older Sensitives and wizards. He could sense her but could not read her. It felt odd, as if his ears were stopped up.
“We rest. It is too dark to go on, and the way is difficult. But first,” and she held out her hand, “Give me the bread and water.”
Nylan’s shoulders drooped in defeat as he obeyed, then followed without resisting as she led him back to a small fire she’d already started. There, she fed him, after a fashion, with the rest of his own stale bread and water before she ordered him to sleep. Because he could barely keep his eyes open, he again obeyed her.
He awoke to see Tresta, the largest of
the two moons, hanging low in the sky, seeming to float on the water while Tamarath shone bright and nearly full high overhead.
He heard voices and turned to see that two men had joined the woman at the fireside. One of them noticed that he’d awoken and spoke more loudly, obviously meaning for him to hear every word.
“Hazard duty, eh? This little piece is dangerous enough for hazard duty?”
The woman shrugged. “We’ll be careful not to harm him, but you know the stories. He’s a Voyavel. Vail’s Own Royalty, they are.”
The second man took a swig of something alcoholic, though Nylan could tell from the smell that it was not whatever the men on the ship had drunk. The second man wiped his mouth with the back of the hand clutching the bottle and said, “You can’t believe all that drivel. The tale-sayers will tell you whatever they like in order to take your coin. I think it’s all rot. His father didn’t even come looking for him. How valuable could he be?”
Nylan bit his lip and dropped his gaze to the fire. He would not cry in front of these coarse, rude men. I will not.
“Valuable enough for me.” The woman’s lips curved into a sly smile.
“Me, as well, miss,” the first man said. “Hazard pay’s more than I’ve ever seen all at once.”
Though they sat across the fire from him and discussed him, they never quite treated Nylan as if he were anything more than an animal they tolerated. They brought out food from their packs and began to eat ravenously, but not one of them offered him so much as a taste.
“Please.” He looked around at them all. “Please, may I have some water?”
They ignored him, the two men telling stories Nylan quickly recognized as being either very nasty or very cruel. The men found them all very funny, though, and roared with laughter, and the woman seemed amused, too, her smile mocking.
The men drank a great deal of ale and fell asleep a short while later, but Nylan watched the woman and could see she watched him, too. There would be no chance to go through their packs to see if he could steal some food. In spite of the bits of bread he’d had, he was so hungry now, the smell of the food and ale made him sick.
SanClare Black (The Prince of Sorrows) Page 5
