Twin Soul Series Omnibus 1: Books 1-5 (Twin Soul Series Book Sets)

by McCaffrey-Winner

  “Soon enough, your highness,” Knox agreed.

  “Well, well,” Nestor muttered then brightened as he pulled a small envelope from his pocket. “Here it is!”

  “Here’s what?” Knox asked in barely restrained exasperation. “Your highness.”

  “Secret orders,” Nestor told him.

  “What do they say?”

  “I don’t know, they’re secret.”

  “Captain!” Knox called forward. “The prince has something for you!”

  “Can it wait?” Ford shouted back.

  “I think not, sir,” Knox called, waving frantically and gesturing toward the note in the prince’s hand.

  Ford frowned but rushed back down to the stern. He glanced at Knox, then Nestor, holding out his hand. “What have you got for me, your highness?”

  “Orders,” Nestor said, handing him the envelope. “From my father, the king.”

  Ford took the envelope and started opening it.

  “They’re secret orders,” Nestor said, glancing around at the crew.

  “For when?” Ford asked.

  “Well now, of course!”

  “Then it won’t matter where I open them,” Ford said.

  “But can you trust the crew?” Nestor asked nervously. “Aren’t they all cutthroats and murderers?”

  “Mostly,” Ford agreed with a shrug. “And, for your information, cutting throats is one of the surest way to become a murderer.”

  “Oh,” Nestor said, going pale. He glanced to the crew. “Do they know that?”

  “Only the cutthroats, your highness,” Knox told him.

  Nestor glanced at him in perplexity for a moment, then brightened. “Yes, I

  suppose they would.”

  Ford, meanwhile, had ignored the by-play, intent on reading the spidery script of the small note. He read it twice, then folded it carefully, put it back in its envelope and then put the envelope in his pocket.

  “New course, Mr. Knox,” Ford said. “West to the sea.”

  “To the sea, sir?”

  “West, past the Westing lighthouse and then north,” Ford said. “We’re to take precautions to ensure that we’re not seen by any Sorian vessels or spotted from the coastline.”

  Knox blinked. “Oh, that makes sense. Keep us from prying eyes as it were.”

  “Indeed,” Ford said. He glanced at the prince, the tilt of the ship, the speed of the propellers, the lump that was the unconscious mage in the center of the ship, then said to Knox. “I’m going below. Have someone take care of the mage.”

  “I’ll do that, sir,” Knox said, knuckling his forehead in a quick salute. “And the prince?”

  “Have someone show him to his quarters and introduce him to the cook.”

  “The cook, sir?” Knox repeated in surprise. “Are you sure that’s wise, captain?”

  “He’s got to eat sometime,” Ford said airily. With a final, curt nod, Ford left them to their devices and retreated to the comfort of his cabin.

  #

  “I’m the Crown Prince,” Nestor cried when Annabelle told him that his dinner would be in the galley, with the rest of the crew. “I’ll eat in the captain’s cabin! And when I please!”

  “Are you aware of the Articles of War, prince?” Annabelle replied.

  “Dealing with pirates?” Nestor said, nodding firmly. “Of course! I’ve stood with my father at court many times.”

  “Dealing with the captain and of His Majesty’s ships,” Annabelle corrected.

  “I’m sure they have nothing to do with me,” Nestor snapped back. His brows furrowed angrily. He was surprised when she didn’t bow in fear at his look.

  Annabelle laughed at his expression and said, “I’ll bring you a copy of them.”

  “What? Why?” Nestor demanded. “Where’s my dinner?”

  “I’ll have an airman bring them to you,” Annabelle said. “When you’re done reading them, bring them back to the galley.”

  “What? No!” Nestor cried. “When do I eat?”

  “After I’m satisfied that you know the articles,” Annabelle said.

  “What?” Nestor said. “I forbid it!”

  Annabelle shook her head, smirked and left — without Nestor’s royal consent.

  #

  Twenty minutes later, Annabelle looked up at a polite cough and was surprised to see Prince Nestor standing before her.

  “I read them all,” Nestor said, his eyes wide. He gestured for her to lean over and whispered, “Can he really do all of that?”

  “He can,” Annabelle said. “And has, in the past.”

  “He can’t do it to me, though,” Nestor said, looking for reassurance.

  “He is the captain of the ship,” Annabelle said. “His word is law. You hold no commission from your father, you are merely a passenger.”

  “But he wouldn’t —”

  “Break any of those rules, test any of those Articles, and you’ll be a very sorry man,” Annabelle said, reaching out for the rolled up parchment. Nestor passed them over. “You don’t want to make the captain angry.”

  “I did what I wanted last voyage!” Nestor complained.

  “And look where that got you,” Annabelle said. “The crew mutinied because of you. Can you imagine how happy the captain is about that?”

  Nestor shook his head.

  “It’s going to be a long voyage,” Annabelle predicted. “A very long voyage. And accidents happen. Even to princes.”

  “What?” Nestor cried, looking around in fear of any accident that might be sneaking up on him.

  “If I were you, I’d lay low, make no trouble, keep to myself, and let the crew do their job,” she told him.

  “I’m the Crown Prince!”

  “Not if you’re dead, you’re not.”

  #

  “What if the wyvern is in Soria?” Reedis asked Ford as they met for dinner. The prince had not joined them: having discovered that his stomach was still unused to the rocking motion of the airship in the sky.

  “How do we track it at all?” Ford asked. He glanced to Reedis. “Can you track it as a creature of heat?”

  Reedis shook his head.

  “And the king’s mages didn’t offer any advice?” Ford asked.

  “I don’t think they’d speak with me,” Reedis said. “The only one in my meeting with the king was his page, Tirpin.”

  Ford grunted.

  “We’re on a fool’s mission,” Reedis complained.

  “At least we’ve got the fool for it,” Ford said bitterly, jerking his head toward the compartment where the prince was resting uneasily.

  Reedis snorted in agreement. “But we don’t have a way to track the wyvern.”

  Ford nodded thoughtfully then brightened. He called to his door, “Send for the cook!”

  The sound of footsteps clumping away indicated that he’d been heard.

  “The cook?” Reedis repeated. “Do you trust her?”

  “With my life,” Ford said.

  “With mine, too,” Reedis said sourly, scooping up the last forkful of the amazing meal in front of him.

  “We have an arrangement,” Ford told him.

  “Did you seal it with blood?”

  “Something better,” Ford said, not meeting the other’s eyes. Reedis looked dubious but said nothing — footsteps approached and there was a quick knock on the door.

  “Come in!” Ford called. Annabelle walked in and saluted. “You sent for me, sir?”

  “Close the door and have a seat,” Ford said, gesturing to one of the two empty seats at his small square table. “Reedis and I were discussing our course and our course of action.”

  “Stay alive, try not to crash, and wish for the best,” the mage surmised for the other’s benefit.

 
“We need to find the wyvern,” Ford said, getting to the point. “And I think you might know how to track her.”

  Annabelle said nothing.

  “Do you?” Reedis asked her. “Because I’m out of my league.”

  “In so many ways,” Annabelle said, her lips twitching. She glanced to Ford. “You can track anyone by their heart.”

  “Indeed,” Ford said noncommittally. “But she hasn’t got a heart, our engineer burst it with a hat-pin.”

  Annabelle snorted. “You have the engineer, he’ll give you the course.” She paused. “If you let me.”

  “Without the engineer we’ve no ship!” Reedis warned, looking warily at the cook.

  “A tracker spell?” Ford asked Annabelle, ignoring the mage’s outburst. “Because he loved her?”

  “If he killed her with a hat-pin you can be sure that they’re bound together,” Annabelle said.

  “Send for Mr. Franck!” Ford bellowed to the guard outside his door.

  “Aye sir,” the guard replied, rushing once more to do the captain’s bidding.

  “Who is guarding your door?” Annabelle asked in idle curiosity.

  “Sens or Marder?” Reedis guessed.

  “Jenkins, the jailer,” Ford told them.

  “He’ll be listening in,” Annabelle warned.

  “He’ll hear nothing,” Reedis said with a small smile. “That much magic I can do.” He caught Annabelle’s look and continued, “What? Is that beyond a witch?”

  “I’ve always wondered,” Ford said,” what’s the difference between a witch and a mage?”

  “A witch or warlock implores the power of the gods and a mage steals through the rules of Terrene laid out for her children,” Annabelle said quickly.

  “That’s not quite it,” Reedis said. “A witch is in tune with the gods, using herbs, potions, blood — sometimes all three. A mage works through understanding of the gods and our world.”

  “Exactly what I said,” Annabelle observed with a catty smile.

  Ford mulled on their words and asked them, “Would you say, perhaps, that the mages know the minds of the gods and witches know the hearts?”

  Reedis and Annabelle exchanged startled looks. “That’s a neat turn of phrase, Sir Ford,” Reedis allowed. Annabelle nodded firmly in agreement.

  The sentry knocked on the door and called, “Mr. Franck, sir.”

  “Have him come in,” Ford said.

  Angus Franck, dirty with coal and drooping with exhaustion, brought himself to salute the captain. Ford stood and returned it, gesturing for the smith to take the last seat.

  “We were talking about how best to track the wyvern,” Ford said. “Annabelle has an idea or two that may involve you.”

  “The cook, sir?” Angus said, looking at her in surprise. “Your name’s Annabelle?” The witch nodded. Angus swallowed and continued, “Isn’t that hard luck for a man?”

  “I’m not a man,” Annabelle said, waving her hands over the smith’s eyes, “as you can plainly see.”

  Angus jerked back in surprise. “You’re — you’re — you’re a girl!”

  “Hardly,” Reedis sniffed.

  “It’s been many years since I’ve been called that,” Annabelle said with a bright expression.

  Angus looked to Ford. “But, sir, isn’t it bad luck to have a woman on the crew?”

  “Not the way she cooks,” Ford and Reedis said in unison. The mage jerked his head, surprised at his own reaction but Ford merely chuckled.

  “It is good food,” Angus agreed. He steadied himself. “But you were asking about Krea, sir.”

  “I was indeed,” Ford said. “It’s our mission to track her —”

  “And kill her,” Reedis added. Angus gasped and Ford shot the mage a fuming look.

  “— to track her,” Ford repeated, glowering at the mage to keep quiet, “and bring her to the king’s justice.”

  “Why?” Angus said, glancing warily around the table. “What did she do wrong?”

  “Don’t listen to them, Angus,” Annabelle interrupted. “They’re silly and they don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  Angus’ brows raised and he pointed to Ford, “But he’s the captain!”

  “He is,” Annabelle agreed in a soothing tone, “but he misspeaks. The king wants to have your Krea and her wyvern half back in the kingdom because he wants to ask her a number of questions.” She leaned toward him conspiratorially. “He might even consider recruiting her to his service.”

  “He might?” Angus asked, glancing to Ford for confirmation.

  Ford nodded, not needing Annabelle’s prompting boot smashing on top of his foot in warning. Angus was more easily swayed because he was eating Annabelle’s food, but it did not completely enchant him.

  With a pained glance to Annabelle, Ford told the smith, “And we need your help to find her.”

  “Oh! Of course, sir,” Angus said. He licked his lips. “And when we find her, will the king pardon me?” The others looked confused. “For killing her, sir?”

  “Of course!” Ford said. “After all, if she’s not dead, you’ve done no crime, have you?”

  Angus nodded, seeming much relieved. “So what can I do to help?”

  “I want you to think of her,” Annabelle said. “Close your eyes and tell me what you remember of her, of how she looks, and what she smelled like.”

  Angus closed his eyes. “It was hard looking at her,” he said, his voice going soft and dreamy, “she was an albino, so she shunned the sun. She wore hats with flowers in them.”

  “What sort of flowers?” Annabelle asked.

  “Wyvern flowers, usually,” Angus said. “She liked the scent. Master Rabel often brought them to her.”

  Annabelle shot Ford a quick look, then moved her hands towards the smith. She moved them all around his head, as though grabbing something and bundling it up. A moment later, Angus’ head bowed forward until it rested on the table and the smith started snoring, lightly.

  “What did you do?” Ford demanded.

  “I bundled up his memories,” Annabelle said. “I can find her now,” she told them. She grabbed a fork and wrapped her hands around it. She murmured something under her breath and closed her eyes.

  “She’s doing magic,” Reedis told Ford. “It’s strange, different from mine but I can still feel it.”

  “Shh,” Ford said, bringing a finger to his lips. Reedis shut his mouth in a pout.

  Annabelle moved one hand from the fork and balanced it on the index finger of the other. Slowly the fork swiveled on her finger, pointing to the north, just slightly east of true.

  Annabelle’s eyes snapped open. “There,” she said, “there’s your compass.”

  Ford took it from her and balanced it the way she had: it pointed to the same heading. He nodded toward Angus. “And what about him?”

  “He’s exhausted, let him rest,” Annabelle said.

  “Did you steal his memories?” Reedis demanded, his nostrils flaring angrily.

  “No!” Annabelle said. “I would never do anything of the sort!”

  “So why is he asleep?”

  “Look at him,” Annabelle said, pointing to the smith’s face. “He’s smiling in his sleep.” She shot a look at Ford and said, in a quieter tone, “He’s dreaming of her.”

  Chapter Eight: A Witch’s Brew

  First minister Mannevy knocked on the door to the king’s office at precisely one in the afternoon.

  “Enter!” the king called. Mannevy hustled through the door, pausing at the threshold to bow before turning to close the door and make his way to a seat near the king. There were five other people in the room but there were still several more empty chairs at the great conference table.

  “They’re gone?” the king asked as Mannevy found his seat.

 
; “Out of sight these past five minutes or more,” Mannevy affirmed.

  “Good,” the king said, turning to the others. “Captains Nevins and Martel, may I make known to you Mr. Newman, his apprentice Mr. Bennet, and my personal friend, Tirpin.”

  “Mage Tirpin,” the young man said rising long enough to bow to the others. The king allowed himself a satisfied smile at the expression of the others.

  “Can you handle hot and cold magic?” Newman asked him.

  “My best magic is transformation,” Tirpin conceded. He pulled forth a small piece of paper from his pocket, waved his hands and turned it into a small balloon, which hovered above the table. “I trust it will suffice.”

  “You spoke with that purple-robed fellow, then?” Nevins guessed.

  “He was most effusive,” Tirpin said in agreement. He glanced toward the king. “He felt it his absolute duty to educate your majesty on all the fine points of his thaumaturgy.”

  “Indeed he did!” the king replied with a loud guffaw. “Silly twit!” He glanced to Mannevy. “He said something about you promising him a monopoly on his magic.”

  “On his return, sire,” Mannevy said suavely.

  The king barked a laugh. “Oh, well said! ‘On his return!’” He turned to Newman and Tirpin. “How soon can I have my fleet?”

  “I have already started construction on more boilers and engines,” Newman said. “Although I must confess that it is taking longer than I had anticipated.” The king raised an eyebrow at him, so Newman explained, “Apparently Ibb, the mechanical, failed to impart all his knowledge to me.”

  “I thought you said you could build them,” the king said in a dangerous tone.

  “I can, sire,” Newman assured him. “But honesty compels me to admit that it may take longer than I had planned.”

  “How much longer?” the king demanded.

  “A month,” Newman said. Seeing the king’s thunderous look, he amended, “Maybe less, particularly if I can get help.”

  “That Rabel fellow — the girl’s father — is around here somewhere,” the king said. He glanced to Mannevy.

  “He is a guest in your jail, sire,” Mannevy said.

  “In jail?” Newman said, his face falling. “But what crime —?”