War and Wind: TIDES Book 2

by Alex Lidell

  I can’t release reality completely, though. “Have you spoken to Domenic?” I ask Tam. I’ve not seen the Domenic since he took care of me yesterday, but Tamiath intended to call on him last night to explain that a trial is no longer necessary nor would it be beneficial.

  Tam flinches, and I know I’m in for more disappointment before he even starts speaking.

  “Mr. Dana accepted the pardon, but he still plans to leave your service after the wedding. He cited family reasons but…”

  “Please forgive the interruption, Your Highness.” A liveried servant, one of the hundreds hired for the wedding, is pale faced as he brings himself to address me.

  Tam gives my hand a reassuring squeeze before bowing over it and retreating to mingle with the guests while I attend to whatever is the matter. We’d already been whispering longer than etiquette allows, and further conversation must wait until evening.

  I force myself to smile politely at the servant. “Not at all. How I can be of service?”

  The man steps close to me, lowering his voice to a tentative whisper. “There is a small problem with a young man who, I’m led to understand, is a relation of yours.” He shifts his feet. “I was told you’d wish to be informed privately.”

  “Do you mean Clay?” I ask. “My twin brother?”

  The man sighs in relief, as if he feared reprisal for bringing Clay up at all. “Yes, Your Highness. He is having a little bit of an…episode.”

  I let out a slow breath, my chest tightening. I’d arranged for Clay to enjoy a small garden during the reception, but between the travel and new sights, sounds, and people, it’s little surprising that Clay finds the disruption to his world too great to bear. “You were right to get me,” I tell the servant, who appears ready to urinate himself from fear, and make a mental note to exclude the man from any further ceremonies. “Lead the way, if you please.”

  The man scurries to obey, and I follow in his wake, curtly avoiding well-wishers and curious courtiers. Once we step free from the ballroom, Domenic and Quinn peel off to follow, keeping a discreet distance as we move along back passageways.

  Just being near Domenic makes my chest tighten, though I couldn’t ask him to stay now even if he were willing to live beside Tam and me—not with my landlocked future. The sea flows in Domenic’s blood just as it does in mine. It would be unjust for my Gift to tether him too.

  By the time I fight free of my thoughts, we’ve made three or four turns along palace corridors, and I’m no longer sure of my location. “Where are we going, exactly?” I ask, touching the servant’s elbow.

  He jumps. “Just outside, Your Highness. Master Clay is in the private garden.”

  “Yes,” I say sharply, “but that private garden is in the west end of the palace. We are heading northeast.”

  The man’s throat bobs. “I fear it became necessary to…move him. You’ll understand in a moment, I’m sure.” He takes a hard turn into a narrow passageway and hurries forward to open the door at the corridor’s end for me.

  Blinding sunlight hits me. Raising my forearm to block the sun, I wait for Domenic and Quinn to catch up, but their footsteps fail to sound on the stone. I turn back to the corridor, seeing nothing with my sun-blinded eyes.

  “He’s just there,” the servant insists, going so far as to tug my sleeve and point. I turn back, blinking into the outdoors, to find a carriage standing a few feet away from the door.

  “Where is the garden you mentioned?”

  The servant wrings his hands. “Master Clay was having an episode, my lady. They put him into a carriage to try—”

  My muscles tense. Still no footsteps sound behind me, and the servant, instead of getting more comfortable with time, is increasingly nervous at my presence. Without warning, I push past the man and swing the carriage door wide open.

  And find Clay wide-eyed, gagged, and bound on a bench opposite Rima.

  “Get in, Your Highness,” the captain orders, pointing a pistol at Clay’s head.

  Chapter 43

  Rima gives the pistol a shake, and my body moves of its own accord. I grip the carriage’s frame, step inside, and close the door when instructed. My mind twists like a storm. The magic in my blood rouses at my twin’s presence as I slide onto the bench beside Clay, and I am careful not to touch my brother’s skin.

  Rima knocks twice against the wall separating us from the driver, and the carriage bounces into motion.

  “I would suggest Your Highness behaves,” says Rima. “I understand the idiot beside you is somewhat unpredictable near guns.”

  Someone snorts, and I realize there is another man in the carriage, sitting in the corner on Rima’s side of the bench. The man’s red hair scrapes at my memory. Red. Yes, it’s Red from the Red and Bald thug duo who attacked Domenic in Ashing. Storms and hail. Rima had hired men to assault his own first officer. Bastard, bastard, bastard.

  Beside me, Clay whimpers. Amidst my twin’s terror, forcing my mind to function is like moving through a bog. “What do you want?” I demand of Rima once I regain control of my voice. “Last I heard, you were being quietly evicted from Felielle.”

  Rima’s face flashes with answering rage. “Did you truly imagine such an assault on my family would pass without consequences?” he demands. “Did you know that soldiers came to my wife’s bedroom in the middle of night? That your lies destroyed her life’s work in a single torrent of flames? The Tirik are right about the poison running in royal blood.”

  So that’s it. Rima is a coward by nature, but the night’s retribution had hit the two things he held most dear: his money and his marriage. The double assault appears to have pushed the captain over the threshold between surrogate violence and direct confrontation. Which means Rima is desperate, and as terrified as Clay. And just as volatile.

  I force myself to sound calm and reasonable. “What do you want, sir?” I ask again.

  “For now, that you keep your mouth shut.” Rima snorts. “Do what I tell you, when I tell you, and there is a fair chance that both you and this idiot will suffer minimal damage.”

  I swallow what little moisture I have in my mouth and try to get my bearings, but the covered windows keep me from seeing the landscape. “My guardsmen are likely following us already,” I say with a calm I feel none of. “Let’s settle this before needless violence erupts.”

  “I doubt it, unless you’ve found a way to animate corpses,” says Rima.

  “What?”

  “Dana and the Tirik traitor are dead,” Rima clarifies with a shrug. “Not officially, of course. Officially, you took the pair with you when you—once again—decided that a marriage to a Felielle prince is more than you can bear. I can see the headline already: ASHING PRINCESS RUNS AGAIN, PRINCE TAMIATH LEFT ALONE AT THE ALTAR.”

  “No one will believe that story,” I say, Rima’s claim of Domenic’s death ringing in my ears to complement Clay’s wailing. Lies. Rima is lying about killing Domenic and Quinn just as he lies about everything else in his life. “Tamiath will look.”

  “Oh, I think everyone will believe it just fine,” Rima says with a growing smile. “Especially when you write all about it to your parents. Now, quiet.”

  I open my mouth again, but Rima signals Red, who cracks a wooden baton against Clay’s shins.

  I scream as my twin wails behind his gag, and it takes all my self-control to reclaim my wits. Domenic isn’t dead. Quinn isn’t dead. Someone is looking for me. Tamiath. Aaron. Bear. My mother. For every calming thought I force on myself, its opposite number comes to mind as quickly. Aaron and Tam are busy. Domenic and Quinn are at the very least hurt. Yes, of course my absence will be noticed—but when? Each yard we move from the palace is an advantage to Rima and his cronies.

  The carriage bumps to a stop, and the breeze hits me as the door opens. Rough hands pull me outside, and I realize we are at the same river whose banks Quinn, Domenic, and I used for training. A saltless breeze brushes my face. Well away from shore, a schooner holds position at
op the sparkling water.

  The carriage driver—Bald, another familiar face—pulls my arms behind my back and marches me toward a waiting rowboat. Everything inside me screams the importance of remaining ashore, the danger increasing exponentially each time we shift locations. Taking a breath to steady myself, I drop my weight down and drive my shoulder into Bald’s solar plexus. He grunts and staggers back, his grip on my arms loosening.

  That is as far as I get before Clay’s grunts of pain shatter the small beach, and I freeze.

  Standing over my twin, Rima shows me the wooden baton he’s just driven into Clay’s gut. “You may punish her once we are underway,” he tells Bald. “For now, get everyone into the boat and bind her hands.”

  The boat rocks as Clay is thrown inside, screaming into his gag. I am allowed to step in under my own power, though Rima makes it clear that doing so is a privilege I risk losing. With Clay paying for my actions, there is little I dare try. If I capsize the rowboat altogether, my brother will sink before I can free my hands.

  Red and Bald lay into the oars, and the boat glides to the anchored schooner. Once there, Red puts up his oar and catches a rope thrown from the ship. A chair is lowered, and a struggling Clay is wrestled into it and lifted to the deck. I too am hauled up like a sack of grain, denied the use of my arms even to grip the ladder.

  The schooner is a smaller version of the Aurora. It has two masts instead of three, with the sails rigged fore and aft instead of a traditional man-of-war’s square rig, making it easier to handle with a smaller crew. Six great guns, three on each side, are lashed tightly into their ports.

  Bald sits Clay beside the mainmast and secures him to it with a rope wrapped around my twin’s middle. Clay’s arms and legs are free and flailing. He rips the gag from his mouth and wails freely.

  “Scream all you like,” Rima tells him, though the words are intended for me. “The wench is the only one who cares.” He turns to Red. “Bring out the writing desk.”

  A table and stool are brought forth. Bald shackles my ankles together before untying my hands and forcing me to sit on the stool. Ink, paper, and a pen are placed before me.

  The moment my hand closes around the writing implement, I stab the pen into Rima’s hand. The metal tip pierces the skin, slick crimson blood flowing over wrinkled fingers.

  Rima curses and pulls away. I smile as Rima stomps away but my victory is short-lived as lines of flame cross my back in a too familiar agony. Circling back into my field of vision, Rima thrusts a cat-o-nine tails in front of my nose—this one tipped with metal spikes that rattle like living snakes in Clay’s presence. “You remember what this is, don’t you?” he snarls into my face before tossing the cat to Bald. “Give the boy two lashes,” Rima orders calmly, and it is I who wail the loudest as Clay is struck. Once, twice.

  Tears stream down my face. I reach toward my twin, but Red’s hand presses me back to the stool.

  “Perhaps I should have explained the rules better, Your Highness,” says Rima, coming around to crouch before me. He wraps a handkerchief around his bleeding hand. “Disobedience will be punished. Twice. First on your flesh, then on that useless idiot’s over there. Do you have any questions?”

  I stare at him, my jaw clamped tight.

  “Very good,” says Rima with absurd kindness. “Let us try again, then.”

  A new pen is brought and handed to me with care.

  “You are to copy this text,” says Rima, placing a letter on the table beside my clean sheet of parchment. “Write neatly, please. I would little wish anyone to misunderstand your declaration.”

  I read the message before me, my chest tightening at the words’ frightening believability.

  I am Princess Nile of Ashing, the intended bride-to-be of Prince Tamiath of Felielle, and this is my declaration.

  I have left the Felielle Court, as I had left the Ashing Court. Do not seek me out. I left of my own free will and will do so again if I am ever brought back.

  I am my own woman. I refuse to be a political pawn. My attempts to explain this have met with deaf ears, and thus I must now take action where words failed.

  During my time on the LS Aurora, I learned that a cure exists for the Gift my twin brother and I both possess. Clay and I are abominations, unfit for society, and no marriage alliance would have worked long-term.

  I have learned, however, that there is an Institute in the Tirik Republic that works toward a cure for people like Clay and me. I have decided to dedicate my life to finding this cure. Even as you read this, Clay and I are sailing for our salvation.

  I hope to meet with you once again, when I can look you in the eye and tell you there is no destructive magic coursing through my blood or Clay’s. Until then, please do not follow me. I wish happiness to Prince Tamiath, who is a better man than I deserve, and to my family, who I’ve put through greater pain than I can bear.

  With love,

  Nile.

  Quinn’s words from earlier ring in my memory, and I know there is one truth in the letter Rima wants me to write. Clay and I are bound for the Institute, where the captain will collect a great commission for delivering a set of Gifted twins into the science men’s hands.

  I turn my head and am sick all over the deck.

  Chapter 44

  Rima curses at the mess and orders it cleaned, his eyes already gleaming with imagined gold. Yes, delivering Gifted twins to the Institute, one of them being an Ashing princess with knowledge of Lyron naval defenses, will make Rima wealthy enough to weather his recent setbacks.

  “Don’t look so surprised, Princess,” Rima says as I wipe my mouth. “Did you truly expect I’d let you come aboard my ship, endanger my people, jeopardize my very life, and then walk away? Cheat me? This is a new world. One where justice rules. And that starts with you. Write.”

  I consider knocking over the writing desk, but there is little doubt that such defiance will only bring about beatings. Obediently picking up the pen, I evaluate other options. There aren’t any. Except one. My gaze resting on the tip of the pen, I gather the rising magic inside my blood and let it roar.

  The wind answers my call, and the schooner twists violently in the sudden gale. Controlling the ship outright is out of the question—the last time I tried to do so, I capsized a small sailing boat in this very river—but if I can redirect the crew’s attention, I might at least buy myself some time to conjure a better plan. The problem is that calling enough wind to keep the men busy but not so much as to kill us all is a balance I’m little confident I can strike.

  The schooner leans precariously, the wide-spread canvas filling with unexpected wind, and the crew rushes to deck at once to trim the sail and reclaim control of the ship. I count five men in addition to Red, Bald, and Rima before my stool topples to the deck and takes me with it. I fling my arms out to break my fall, but it does little good. The desk, pen, and ink fall unceremoniously atop me before sliding overboard with the next buck of the ship.

  Clay cries out in terror, and I try to rein in the unleashed storm. Try and fail.

  One of the seamen curses as he trips over me. Changing his course, he grabs my arm and drags me to sit beside Clay at the mast, as out of the way as he can get me then.

  As happy as I am to find myself mere inches from my twin, Clay’s proximity makes the task of reining in the gale infinitely more difficult. The winds howl and dance, bouncing the schooner on growing waves seldom seen on this river. The seaman tending to me uses a length of rope to secure me to the mast.

  Unlike me, whose arms are tied down to my side, Clay’s limbs are free to flail about. Whenever one of these comes close enough to strike me, my magic rises, as does the wind.

  Centering myself on the shifting deck, I try to clear my mind the way Quinn and Domenic have drilled into me over the past weeks. I feel my magic, taste how it moves and flares in response to my will and Clay’s presence. Do you understand any of this, Clay? I wonder desperately. Do you know we are in danger?

&nb
sp; “This is your doing, isn’t it?” Rima roars, leaning over me. His legs shift in deference to the bucking deck, one of his arms bracing the mast above my head. The captain’s other hand holds the cat. Its barbed ends gleam menacingly. With the sails taken in, the schooner’s violence has settled to a jostling simmer, and while we won’t be turning over, we won’t be moving much either. “Stop the wind. Now,” Rima yells into my face.

  “I can’t,” I shout back into his.

  The whip in the captain’s hand swings back, aiming at my head.

  My arms try to jerk up to protect my face, but the rope binding me to the mast will not allow the motion. My breath chokes, and I brace for impact as Rima’s wrist snaps the cat toward me.

  The metal barbs fly and recoil midair, cutting into Rima’s own cheek. The captain screams and staggers away.

  Twisting my attention to Clay, I find his arms covering his head, his unfocused gaze staring past the screaming captain. An accident? Or had Clay controlled the metal on purpose?

  “What—” A crewman’s terrified scream has me twisting like a worm and letting out an expletive of my own.

  One of the ship’s great guns—a seven-hundred-pound carronade—is pulling at its tether, the ropes securing the massive beast to the gunport straining to breaking point. The ship tilts with the waves, adding the pull of gravity to the burden. With a harrowing snap, one of the ropes breaks, and the gun—now a deadly mass of moving metal atop a wheeled carriage—rolls wildly across the deck. The barrel crashes into Red’s leg, and his blood-curling scream vibrates the air.