War and Wind

by Alex Lidell

  He smiles at me despite his wound. This moment is ours to share. I reach for his bonds.

  Someone clears his throat. “Begging pardon,” says Kazzik’s voice. “But Mr. Dana is under arrest.”

  “No, he isn’t,” I snap.

  Domenic lays a hand on my arm. His brow creases with a mix of apology and regret that freezes my blood. “Yes, I am.”

  “What—” I start to say, but Domenic’s focus is on something beyond my shoulder.

  The air around us is tense as, with visible effort, Domenic pulls himself free of my reach and gives a small bow with his head, which must be throbbing. “My Prince Tamiath,” Domenic says to the tall Felielle soldier who called himself Tam. “Hello, sir.”

  Chapter 26

  Prince Tamiath’s squadron of soldiers, whom I’d correctly guessed sailed here aboard the Ashing ships, link up with Catsper’s marines to take charge. Together, the fighters secure the prisoners and captured frigates, leaving the sailors free to focus on repairs. While the other Lyron kingdom ships arrive and organize, the Hawk and Falcon hold control of the Bottleneck, promising death to any Tirik vessels attempting to pass though into the Siaman Sea.

  None try. Being neither blind nor stupid, the other Tirik vessels turn around upon seeing Ashing’s full control of the Bottleneck Juncture. A solid victory for the Lyron League in general and the Ashing Kingdom in particular. I should be ecstatic. Instead, I’m fighting off tears.

  Sitting on a sea chest inside Prince Tamiath’s cabin on the Falcon, I stare out the window at the sea. Instead of the glass water and distant horizon broken by arriving ships, all I can see are Domenic’s bound hands as Tamiath’s people lead him away to join Price and Captain Quinn in a Hawk prison cell. Hurt. Domenic had been hurt and they hauled him away to a prison cell anyway. Separated us between different ships. Catsper and Kederic and the Spades were ordered away from me as well, sent back to the Hope to ready the prize to sail to the Lyron mainland. Even the overheard news that Kederic would command the captured merchantman on the trip fails to lighten my soul.

  Behind me, the door to the cabin opens with a creak. I ignore it.

  “I thought you’d be interested to learn that the Diante squadron made sail the moment our position in the Siaman was secure,” says Tamiath.

  “I imagine Admiral Addus wished to avoid interaction with any Lyron officials,” I say curtly. “The Diante neutrality claim was precarious already.”

  I don’t add how I wished to have seen the admiral before he left. Or that I might have, had Prince Tamiath not insisted on bringing me back to the Falcon, as if I were an untrained puppy he feared might run away if not leashed.

  In his defense, there is decent precedent for the worry.

  Tamiath makes a noncommittal noise in his throat. “A dispatch ship is being readied to deliver reports to the main continent. The Falcon and Hawk will delay setting sail to allow for repairs and arrival of the final reinforcements, so if you wish anything delivered to the mainland expeditiously, this is the time to write it. Will you be doing so?”

  “No.”

  A sigh, then footsteps and the clink of glasses.

  “Will you at least look at me?” Tamiath says.

  I turn to find him standing beside a wooden table a yard away, pouring wine into two precariously balanced glasses. Despite a body that’s no stranger to hard training, Tamiath moves with a slight hesitation along the rocking ship. Felielle royalty go into soldiering, not seafaring, and I childishly hope the choppy seas will be little kind to his men’s stomachs.

  He extends one of the wineglasses to me, his long fingers holding the glass delicately.

  I ignore the wine. “If you wish to endear me into a conversation, you can order Domenic Dana released.”

  “No,” Tamiath replies calmly, “I can do no such thing.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Both,” says Prince Tamiath, claiming a chair across from me. “He is charged with mutiny.”

  “Against Captain Rima, who was committing treason.” I clench my jaw. My only proof that Rima knowingly received Tirik funds comes from Quinn, who is Tirik and thus little credible. No one but me heard Rima admit to the crime. Rima must be laughing in his watery grave just now. The fatigue sways me, and I must brace myself to keep upright. “What are you doing in the Siaman?”

  Tamiath lifts a manicured brow. He is about ten years my senior and appears to have spent that decade perfecting a look of intelligent amusement. “I was in Ashing when the Lyron League fleet suffered its defeat. The earthquake that damaged the coastline came soon after. Once the sudden importance of the archipelago in the Siaman Sea became apparent, my men and I chose to join the Ashing ships in the voyage to Siaman. Seamen, the Felielle soldiers are not, but I flatter myself to think we can make a difference with a boarding party or sniper rifles.”

  I look at the man who wished to buy me just months ago and say nothing.

  He settles back into his chair, crosses one long leg over the other, and sips his drink. “Now that I’ve explained my presence here, might you indulge me with an explanation of yours? I presume our working theory of you having been kidnapped against your will is likely inaccurate.” Tamiath’s voice is dry.

  “Likely, yes.” My shrug makes me wince. With the excitement of battle fading, I feel the pain of injuries coming into focus around my body. The cuts on my collarbone, a gash across my forearm, other scrapes and bruises I don’t remember getting compete with the too-familiar burn of my ravaged back and the ache of spasmed muscles. I feel the question in Tamiath’s gaze, but now that we’ve touched the heart of the matter, I find myself with nothing further to say. My actions speak for themselves, and I refuse to say anything that may be interpreted as an apology.

  “Well,” he says after a moment, “it appears you’ve earned the Lyron League’s gratitude for it.”

  “Did I?” I cock my head. He’s lying. There is no way in storms that either Ashing or any other kingdom will publicly admit that a runaway seventeen-year-old bride-to-be negotiated an alliance the Lyron ambassadors failed for decades to secure. Even if that alliance lasted for mere hours.

  “Maybe not. The headlines will likely give credit to one of the official correspondences the joint fleet admiralty keeps sending to the Diante Empire.” Tamiath sighs and leans back in his chair. “But you’ve earned my gratitude. We were destined for a glorious death before your friends arrived. Now, Lyron ships control the Bottleneck while the Tirik retreat.”

  “Yet you hold one of the men who made this possible under arrest,” I tell him.

  “Tam,” he says.

  “Your pardon?”

  “My name.” He tastes his wine again. “My friends call me Tam.”

  I tighten my jaw. “Without Domenic Dana’s actions, I would have failed to get my boats away from the Aurora. Not only is Mr. Dana a Felielle subject, Your Highness, but you are also the ranking officer presently in the Siaman. Do not tell me you’ve no discretion to exercise.”

  His eyes tighten. “Don’t play the fool, Nile. It becomes neither of us.” Steel transforms his voice into one of certain command. “From what I understand of the situation, at the time you and your rebel contingent shoved off from the Aurora, she was an active duty naval frigate under Captain Rima’s lawful command. Commander Dana openly refused to follow the captain’s orders and actually assaulted him. The only reason the whole lot of you aren’t charged with desertion is because, arguably, you weren’t close enough to hear Rima’s instructions.

  “What Dana did, from organizing the escape to physically assaulting his commanding officer, is the definition of mutiny under any kingdom’s law.” He leans forward, his words crisp. “You are a soldier. Tell me, does the outcome of battle change the military code? I’ll offer you one better, Nile. Tell me that you think it should. Tell me that military code should be contingent on the force’s victory or defeat, and we can reevaluate everyone’s role in this mess. We’ll start, I think, by s
uggesting to the League’s admiralty that Rima and his cronies be awarded medals of honor. After all, had they not been a horrid excuse of officers and human beings to begin with, you’d never have sought out the Diante.”

  My mouth is dry. I try to swallow and can’t. Just as I can’t deny Tamiath’s words. Damn him. Damn the military code. The court-martial will find Domenic guilty. They’d have to. And execute him. My eyes start to sting, and I dig my nail into the webbing of my hand to keep myself in check. I can’t bear to discuss this more, not right now. Not until I’ve had time to think. Thinking won’t help, a voice inside me warns. I dig my nail harder into my flesh. “I…” I draw a ragged breath. “May I borrow a clean shirt?”

  Tamiath measures me with his gaze and pulls a shirt from a chest. White, tastefully embroidered linen. “It is too large, but it is clean. I will try to find more suitable clothes for you as soon as I can.”

  Suitable clothes. The Felielle code for dress.

  I snatch the shirt from atop Tamiath’s sea chest. Retreating to a corner of the berth, I help myself to a pitcher and washbasin. The clean water feels good on my skin. I lather my face with Tamiath’s perfumed soap, purposely letting it into my eyes.

  For long minutes, the splashing sounds are the only thing breaking the silence of the berth.

  “Would you like a comb for your hair?” Tamiath asks me. Another of his items. This one he holds in his hand instead of putting down on the table. He’s forcing me to walk to him. To take the comb. Because I have to. I have nothing of my own.

  I comb my hair quickly and turn my back to him to change my shirt. Privacy is a mystical beast aboard a ship, and I’ve changed before men without a second thought since I was a middie. Except… Except I’m different now. Mutilated. Even though I have my chest bound, my hands hesitate on the hem of the shirt. Do it, a voice urges inside my head. Show the ruined flesh to the man who’s had his thoughts on a marriage bed. End this game once and for all.

  I tense and pull the shirt off with resolve.

  The hiss of indrawn breath says the mess of welts and half-scarred gashes have hit their mark. Good. My face burns despite my own reassurances. I make myself count to three before pulling the clean linen over my head and turn around as I tuck the fabric into my pants. “It’s—” I start to explain, but Tamiath shakes his head.

  “I’m a soldier. I know exactly what it is.”

  I shrug. Then there is nothing for me to say or explain.

  “Will you tell me what happened?” Tamiath asks.

  Domenic happened. I pull my hair back, braid it efficiently, and tie it with a leather thong.

  “Nile?” Tamiath prompts.

  “What you see is what it is, my prince.” I spit the words. My gaze jerks to pierce his. “The bride you wished to acquire is disgraced, Gifted, and marred. You’ve all the grounds you need to extricate yourself from this farce, and you need my blessings as little as you had needed them for the marriage.”

  For the first time, Tamiath’s eyes flash in anger. “You seem to think I wished to purchase a royal goat. Pray tell me what I’ve done since meeting you to support this bloody theory of yours? Keep going as you are, and the treatment you appear to expect of me will turn into a reality.”

  I take a step back and see the warrior behind Tamiath’s groomed voice and handsome face. One who is due more credit than I’ve given him. I should apologize. But I don’t. I am sorry, but saying the words sounds too much like surrender. So I tell him the truth to his original question instead. “I refused the first officer’s order so that I could conceal my Gift. My back is the price I paid.”

  Tamiath crosses his arms, his face no longer filled with kindness. “You refused an order. And what price did your ship pay for it?”

  I blink. Not how dare he, or why did you not reveal your birth? but a real, vital question. No, Tamiath is not the Felielle man I thought him. The prince standing before me has enough respect for my profession to call me to task.

  “None.” I meet his eyes. “The first officer thought a recent fall had made me wary of heights. He’d ordered me aloft in an attempt to conquer the problem. The ship had nothing to gain from my climbing aloft at the time, but I thought the action might expose my Gift.”

  “Yet you didn’t hesitate to expose your secret to save Aaron’s life,” Tamiath says quietly. He draws a breath and blows it out in a long, slow stream. He reaches toward me and cups my shoulder. “Let me see.”

  I stiffen.

  “It’s all right,” he says quietly and too perceptively as his fingers raise the back of my shirt and gently brush my skin. “I’ve seen such marks before.” Tamiath’s touch is nothing like Domenic’s. There is kindness in it and attention, but no passion. No sensuality at all. Tamiath is careful not to hurt me, to touch as little as possible as he examines the wounds, but my body starts shaking nonetheless.

  “A couple of the stripes have reopened.” Tamiath’s voice sounds far away. “They were cruelly laid. I’ve some salve—”

  “No.” I jerk away. My chest tightens, my stomach threatening to empty itself right here on the clean cabin deck. Pain and humiliation slam into me so hard that I stagger, catching myself with an arm braced across the bulkhead.

  “Nile,” Tamiath says with altogether too much understanding, “they are just wounds now. Like any other wounds. Let me.”

  “No.” I wave him off with a casual gesture neither of us believes. “I mean to say I’m quite all right. Thank you.”

  Tamiath frowns but holds up his hands. A promise not to touch me without leave. “Your Gift… Are you fit to serve aboard ship?” he asks. “I’ve a feeling I’d have difficulty keeping you from the sea.”

  He already speaks as someone with control over me, and there is little gained in pretending otherwise. Like someone asking questions about a prized horse. “With due respect, Prince Tamiath, I’ve a feeling you can do whatever you wish with regards to me.”

  “For Goddess’s sake.” His face flushes. “I’d have thought you of all people would know better. There is no royal born on the Lyron continent who can do whatever he wishes. But we can help each other, Nile.”

  I rub my face with the heel of my hand, then count my words off on my fingers. “Gifted. Disfigured. Rebellious. Not interested.” I lower my hand and blink. “You don’t still want to wed me?”

  “I did not seek you out on a whim, Nile,” Tamiath leans forward, closer to me. “But I did make a leap of faith. And, having met you, I know it was the right one. We need each other. Especially now.” He draws a breath and waits until I meet his gaze, see the full intensity of it. “Yes.” He holds my eyes, instilling the importance of his words with their fire. “Yes, I do. Marry me, Nile of Ashing. Marry me and I give you my word you shall stay at sea.”

  Chapter 27

  I sit, pick up the wineglass, and drink.

  He waits.

  “The Felielle forbid women in the navy,” I say dumbly.

  “Royalty does have some advantages.” A hint of a smile. “If a commission is as important to you as I now believe, I will make it happen.”

  “Why?” My tone is sharper than I intend, and I curb it. “We both know you can force this wedding, if you wish. But that’s not what you are after, is it? You want my true consent, to desire this union as much as you do.” I frown at my wine. “A Felielle prince doesn’t vow to turn the sacred traditions of his kingdom on their head on a whim. So, why, Your Highness. Why do you want me?”

  “I need a wife.”

  “Why? You aren’t the crown prince,” I retort. Like me, Tamiath has an older brother who will one day rule Felielle. “So you don’t need an heir. If you simply want royal-blooded children, is there no other princess available?”

  “I said I need a wife. You are the one who surmised the rest.” He nods to no one in particular. “If you wish to have children, I will oblige you. Is that acceptable?”

  Acceptable. Like a concession in business negotiation. I feel the truth b
ubbling below the surface of the words, just out of reach. Whatever is driving Tamiath, I cannot see it. Not yet. But I must. I set down my wineglass and lay my hands flat on the table. “What do you really need, Tam? Tell me,” I ask softly.

  Tamiath’s perfect jaw tightens, and his gaze locks with mine. “Trust is earned, Nile. And we’re neither of us ready to extend it to each other. We can discuss the life you wish. The expectations we’d have of one another. I will give you my honesty. But not my secrets.”

  “What did you know of me before we met?”

  He is silent, and tension lines his brow. “I heard of you as a soldier. I thought we’d make strong… comrades for each other. I still think so.”

  Comrades. Not lovers. Tamiath does not want to marry; he needs to. At least one question answered, then. “When I disappeared… It gave you reason to put off the problem of a bride altogether, with none able to question your motives.”

  He opens his mouth, but no words come. Just a hint of apologetic smile.

  “I’m sorry to have ruined that plan,” I say dryly and lean back in my chair, only to recoil with a hiss as my back connects with hard wood.

  “Ah well,” Tamiath starts to say, then stops, staring at the space I now leave between my back and the chair. Thoughts blossom in his eyes, and his gaze focuses with disconcerting intensity. “The man who ordered your flogging,” Tamiath says slowly. “First Officer Domenic Dana. He is the one whose coming punishment upsets you so greatly?”

  I freeze, unable to stop the jolt of anxiety Tamiath’s words spark. My thoughts rush to get ahead of Tamiath’s too-keen mind, to see the next move lying beyond his words. But his brow twitches, and I know even my momentary silence gave up more than I intended.

  “Are you in love with him?” he asks calmly.