by Megan Derr
The spell took and poured through the blade, spilling orange spell-water into the sea, spreading out, and the water shimmered as it let itself be bound to stillness.
Sheathing the orange knife, he drew the violet one and cut his palm. As his blood spilled and swirled in the water, he sliced the blade through it and said, "King of the Deep, I request a moment of your time, if you please."
His father's image appeared in the slit, a much older version of Seree: the blue-black hair was threaded heavily with white, the dark green eyes much deeper, much more lined with age. But he was still a long way from dying, still proudly and ably wore the crown of the ten seas. "That's not how that summoning goes."
"I'm not saying 'I beg you hear my plea' to my father," Seree snapped. "If this is how you're going to act, then never mind. I don't need your help."
"Oh, stop thrashing," Meris said with a laugh.
Seree stepped back as his father accepted and finished the spell of calling, strongly reconsidering summoning his grandmother instead. Water splashed about, nearly knocking Seree over despite his precaution, and then the King of the Deep was before him. He looked concerned and amused, and Seree definitely should have gone with the grandmother who hated him. "Seree, the last time you came to me with a problem, you were still a boy and had to be dragged in by my guards and forced to hold still."
"I still maintain I could have managed that giant squid on my own," Seree said tersely.
Meris' slow grin spread across his face, and he reached out to pat Seree's cheek affectionately. "Nothing at all like your sisters, hmm? So whatever is the matter that you would actually call me all the way up here to discuss it? Has something gone awry with the curse you're breaking for Lana?"
"I can't kill him," Seree said. "He's not the kind of human that deserves to die."
"Oh, I see," Meris said. "Those are words I do not often hear from you—though I hear them from you more often than from your cousins."
"I don't kill every human I come across, and I can't help that most of the ones I come across deserve to die."
"So what makes this one special?"
Ignoring the amused look on his father's face, Seree explained, ending with, "He knows about us; his great grandmother was Beltana."
Whatever Meris had been braced to say when Seree finished was immediately forgotten in his surprise. "Beltana? Are you certain?"
"He told the story exactly, and he is not the type to lie. He's the great grandson of Beltana."
"But even before that, you did not want to kill him," Meris said pensively. "Your story got a bit murky there when you got to the night on the beach." His eyes glinted knowingly. "Clear that up a bit for me."
"You are a sun-addled bastard," Seree said flatly. "This is precisely why nobody likes you."
Meris snickered. "This is why my children occasionally dislike me, which I am reasonably confident means I am doing my job as a father."
"If you're just going to make fun of me, I'll find someone else to talk to," Seree said, losing all patience and feeling slightly hurt. He was going to die and his father was making fun of him. Typical. His entire family had gone sun-mad. Or maybe they were drinking squid-ink wine again.
He started to turn away, but Meris' large, firm hand wrapped around his forearm and stayed him. "Calm your waters, son. I do not want you to die, and I would never tease you so if I truly thought you were in such desperate straits. Law forbids I kill or harm your grandmother, but I will not let her kill one of my children, you know that. But I don't think that is necessary when the curse is much easier to break than that."
Seree opened his mouth, then closed it again. "What do you mean? You know how to break the curse? As easily as that?"
Looking amused again, Meris replied, "Seree, you're the best warrior in my palace, I daresay in my kingdom, and at least half the ten seas. You've served me faithfully since you were a boy, always there when I needed you—no matter what the reason, no matter what the cost."
"Yes," Seree said, because obviously—what else was he supposed to do?
"Did you know I sent your cousin Trel to land the other day over in the seventh sea?"
Seree stared at him, confused by both the odd turn in conversation and the amount of wine his father must have drunk to think that was a good idea. Trel was hopeless when it came to acting like a human. Most of the others were. Seree had more knives than his father had warriors he could completely trust to go on land.
"You weren't there," Meris said defensively. "It was him or the other cousin."
His cousins numbered in the alarming digits, but Seree knew who he meant. But he really wasn't interested in discussing his cousins. "I see. What does this have to do with my dying in two days? By the time you come to your point, I will be dead."
Meris sighed, but he still sounded entirely too amused for Seree's taste. "My point is that, of all the men and women at my disposal, you are the only one who can pass as human with ease—who has no trouble being human. You know the ways of not just one sea, but of all of them. Your knowledge of them surpasses even mine. More and more of your duties involve going to land, despite the pain it must cause you."
Seree opened his mouth, closed it, and then finally said, "As you say, no one else is good at it. I'm the best."
"No one endures that sort of pain over and over again just because they're good at pretending to be human," Meris said. "No one suffers that amount of pain, time and again, for something they absolutely hate."
Huffing in irritation, Seree said, "So what, I do it because I like it?"
"Yes. You enjoy being on land, Ser," Meris said. "I wondered if you knew it, and decided you must, because surely at some point in all these years you would have figured it out. Clearly, I gave you too much credit. Do you remember the way you used to demand bed time stories from me as a child?"
"No." Seree didn't fidget, but it was a near thing.
Meris smiled at him. "Your favorites were of those who journeyed onto land. You loved the story of Beltana, especially. After your mother died, you didn't want story times any more. You grew up too fast and spent all of your time on work and duty. The only time you linger on anything is when you are on land."
"I don't dawdle—"
"I said linger, not dawdle," Meris said, levity turning into sternness. "There's a difference, Seree. You always linger. You say it is to be thorough, but you linger—savor. I'm not sure why you deny it to yourself, but you're drawn to the land."
Seree shook his head, unable to say anything. "I'm not. I'm a warrior of the Deep, I protect—"
"You've done enough protecting, Seree. When your mother admonished you to always take care of your family, she did not mean for you to sacrifice yourself. She would not want that. You are allowed to have a life, to put yourself first."
"Father—"
"You summoned me to give you advice, Ser, and I am doing so: whatever you tell yourself, you are not happy as you are. Content, maybe, but that is not the same thing. Your mother was the first to teach me the difference. Stop telling yourself what you think the rest of us want to hear and be honest." He patted Seree's cheek. "Amusing that I have so many children who think they want to be on land and must be fetched back, and the one child I have who would be happy up here has always denied it. Your curse is easy to break, Seree." He nodded at something past Seree's shoulder. "Go talk to your pretty young man there."
Seree whipped around, heard his father laugh and felt him depart, but nearly all his attention was on Aimé. He stood far enough away not to have overheard; his expression was a tangle of curiosity, wistfulness, and resignation. His gold hair was loose around his shoulders, the morning breeze tugging at his loose shirt and flashing teasing bits of skin.
Aimé tensed as Seree waded out of the water and walked up the beach to him. "I'm sorry—I didn't know—I just wanted to talk to you and then… was that the King of the Deep? He looks just like my grandmother described."
"Yes, that was him," Seree said.
"My father."
"Oh!" Aimé said. "I didn't realize you were a prince, too." He laughed. "So why do you keep calling me Highness?"
Seree's mouth quirked. "Deep royalty hardly has any meaning on land, Highness, and I prefer to pass unremarked."
"I don't think you're very good at being unremarkable," Aimé said quietly.
"No, I suppose not," Seree said, lightly touching the scars on his cheeks.
Aimé flushed. "I didn't mean those. I just mean—you're you. Beautiful."
Seree startled at the word, that Aimé would pay him any compliment. He dropped his hands and stared at Aimé in confusion. "I didn't think you wanted to see me anymore, Highness."
"I felt like a perfect fool," Aimé said. "There you were deliberating on whether or not to kill me, and I thought we were flirting the whole time. And then the beach… and I was convinced… but you so were dismissive about the possibility of, well, breaking the curse…" He drifted off, looking everywhere but at Seree.
Well, didn't that make Seree feel like bottom-refuse all over again.
Seree replayed his father's words over again in his mind. Thought of all the times he so quickly volunteered or agreed to go to the surface, despite the pain involved in the transformation. All the different cultures he had learned under guise of wanting to be the best at what he did.
How tired he was of traveling ten seas to fix everyone else's problem.
And then he thought of Aimé's smiles and how easy it was to return them. How easy it was to forget everything, but Aimé whenever he was in the room. The way just thinking about Aimé made everything better. How sweet he'd tasted, how well he'd fit in Seree's arms.
He tilted Aimé's chin up, kissed him, and felt the curse break and fade away.
The Stable Boy
He woke up to the smell of grass and mud, sunshine, and a deep, twisting, writhing ache coursing through his body.
Curse.
He passed out again.
When he woke the second time, the sunshine had been replaced by moonlight and something was sniffing him. He groaned and dug his fingers into the damp grass, managed to lift his head up, and found himself staring into the eyes of a dog—a hunting dog, of good size and, he would hazard, sharp intelligence.
The dog chuffed at him and despite the pain, the confusion, the sense of panic clawing deep in the recesses of his mind, he dredged up a smile. "Run along," he croaked, then swallowed to try and get some fluid moving. "Back to your master."
In reply, the dog just howled.
He cringed away from the sound, tried to burrow into the ground, tears stinging his eyes as the movement set the throbbing ache to burning.
Curse.
The minute he had the thought, everything came flooding back to him. He was Prince Philip Degaré Hollis. Everyone called him Prince Diggory. He had been on his way to marry Prince Adalwin von Brant… and his bodyguard had betrayed him, tried to murder him. Benoit—Diggory would see him hanged at the very least. Him and the rest of his nasty little band: Elci, Ignance, Poris. Yes, they would all die, and as painfully as they had tried to kill him.
With that thought, he passed out a third time.
The next time he woke, the smell of soup made his stomach growl. He opened his eyes and stared up at a ceiling of open beams and thatched roof. Turning his head, he took in the table and chest that seemed to be the only other pieces of furniture.
Diggory slowly sat up, pushing back the heavy quilt that had covered him. Sharp pain stabbed at his left side and he curled his fingers around it. Benoit had tried to stab him, but only wound up slicing him. Unfortunately, the knife had been set with magic, a nasty-feeling curse he hadn't been able to figure out before he'd been shoved into the river, left to die of whichever killed him first: wounds or water.
Where was he?
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and attempted to stand up, relieved when he swayed slightly but managed to stay upright. Shoving loose strands of dark brown hair from his face, he looked further around the little house and saw the fireplace where a pot of soup cooked and a rocking chair set before it. There was a single door and a small window with no glass, only a large, heavy-looking length of cloth to cover it at night and in cold weather.
The floor was dirt, covered with straw, dried flowers and herbs, scratchy against his bare feet—and he noticed only then his clothes were not his own, but breeches and a shirt much too big for him.
Well, standing had worked well enough; time to try walking. Diggory took a step away from the bed and other than feeling mildly dizzy, he seemed well enough. Focusing on the door, he headed slowly for it, feeling a small thrill of triumph when he reached it without trouble. The door creaked as he pulled it open, the rope handle rough against his hands. Outside, sunshine bit at his eyes and the smell of wildflowers was surprisingly strong—because the cabin seemed set in a field inundated in them: witch roses, his nurse had called the wild purple blooms. He'd never understood why when they looked nothing like roses, but she'd only ever laughed in reply.
Diggory looked around for whoever lived in the cabin, but could spy no sign of a person. Drawing a breath, he let it out slowly on a sigh and began to walk down the worn dirt path leading away from the cabin door.
It meandered across the field and into a small patch of forest. Sunlight painted spots of gold randomly across ground that was otherwise so dark it was nearly black. As he left the trees he could hear the rush of the river and realized how his savior must have come across him.
He heard the dog first, and then the enormous brown and white dog he vaguely remembered from before came lumbering up over the crest of a hill and down toward him. "Hello, there," Diggory greeted with a smile, laughing when the dog jumped up on him and sent him stumbling back a couple of paces. He ran his fingers through the dog's fur, scratched his ears. "Thank you for finding me, Master Dog."
The dog barked, leaned up just enough to lick his cheek, then dropped down and ran off, pausing only to give another bark over his shoulder. "I'm coming, I'm coming," Diggory said with another laugh and slowly followed. The hill left him panting and breathless at the top—pathetic, really, when he knew how much time he spent walking and riding back home through mountains far more difficult.
At the bottom of the hill was the river. A man with gray hair and a short beard stood on the bank fishing. He turned when the dog barked, then stood with his mouth open a moment, clearly surprised to see Diggory. He lifted a hand in greeting, but was silent until Diggory and the dog reached him. "You're up and about sooner than I thought you would be," he said, setting aside his fishing pole. "How do you feel?"
"Weak, a little dizzy, but I think I'm lucky to be that healthy," Diggory said, gingerly touching fingers to his side.
"Aye, that you are," the man said. "You're lucky Winnie here found you when he did and that the river dumped you here of all places. My wife was a witch and managed to teach me a few things. I don't have her touch, but I was able to patch you up well enough. I'd be careful, though. That curse on you is dormant, but not gone. It could wake up any time and finish whatever it started. Don't know what put it to sleep, you be careful."
Diggory nodded. "I will and thank you. I'll do what I can to repay your kindness, sir. I do not suppose you could tell me where I am? My name is Diggory."
The man snorted softly. "Yes, I just bet it is with an accent like that. You're just a mile west of the royal palace." He pointed a finger across the river to a path that vanished back into the woods. "Head that way on for a bit you'll come to a hill that'll let you see it. Whole place is in quite a fit while they prepare for Prince Adalwin's wedding."
So Benoit had succeeded in taking his place, exactly as he'd bragged. Bastard. Diggory's hands curled into fists, but he forced himself to relax. "I see."
"Yeah, I thought you might," the man replied, eying him pensively. "My name is Frederick, but Freddie will do."
Diggory stared back. "You know who I am."
"Onl
y supposition, but you kept saying your father's name and Prince Adalwin's while you slept. Been asleep nearly two whole days, and I thought you'd sleep at least two more. Anyway, there ain't many folk that would be muttering both those names with a sense of urgency. Did seem strange, though, when I went into town and they were all buzzing about with news of your arrival. Would explain your curse."
"It should have killed me. I don't know why it didn't."
Freddie smiled faintly, stroking his beard. "Well, as my wife always said, gods rest her soul, curses are tricky things. Malicious intent warps all magic, and magic that is nothing but pure malice tends to bite the caster as much as the target. May explain why it's gone dormant, but I hesitate to say too much 'cause I'm no witch and wouldn't want to lead you astray."
"But if you had to guess …?"
"Well…" Freddie considered him, backs of his fingers stroking his chin. "If I recall what my wife told me, when a curse meant to kill doesn't work, it instead… how best to say… Well, it sort of 'kills' that which was the greatest threat to begin with. Like, you clearly should be dead so no one knows you're the real Prince Phillip. So chances are, you won't be able to tell anyone you're the real prince. But there's never any knowing for sure because each curse warps a bit different. Don't go taking my word for it. I'd go find a witch. Think there's one about a week south of here. Sadly, since my wife passed on, we haven't had another come this way."
Diggory dismissed the idea, wise though it was. He could not afford to be gone at least two weeks. The wedding was less than a month away. "Thank you for all—" he broke off at the sound of a horse racing through the trees and watched as someone broke free of the forest on the far side of the river and rode with familiar ease over the rickety bridge a few paces down.
"Good afternoon, Master Freddie! How are you today? Oh, I see you have company. I do beg your pardon." The man, a noble to judge by his finery, approached them and smoothly dismounted. His horse was a handsome bay, the color of good brandy, with a black mane and it had to be about seventeen hands. The horse bent its head to greet Winnie, whose tail wagged fiercely at seeing the horse.
