Finally, the last sack of grain was loaded onto the boat, and Stephan’s anxiety reached its peak. A crewman began untying the rope from the bollard.
“Wait,” Stephan said, and then jumped a foot into the air as someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around sharply and met the steady gaze of warm brown eyes.
“Oh, gods,” he breathed, and threw himself at Warren, hugging him so tight it hurt his arm. But he cared none for that, or for the fact that Warren was dripping wet and smelled distinctly of salt and algae. He was here, by Stephan’s side, alive and whole, and Stephan’s heart could start beating again instead of aching dully in his chest.
“When I saw you two jump, I…” He didn’t finish the sentence, pressing his face again against the front of Warren’s soggy coat.
Warren shivered, but didn’t let go immediately. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Stephan’s shoulders and gave them a hard squeeze.
“Come now, love. I must speak with the surfman before the boat sails.”
Stephan let out a shaky breath and turned to face Mala, who was standing a few steps away, a shy smile on her face and a puddle of seawater forming beneath her feet as she shifted uneasily. He went up and pulled her into a hug.
“I’m sorry we scared you,” she said. She’d lost her scarf, and her hair was now hanging out of her braid in damp strands, but her eyes were shining. “But it was a simple enough trick. Jump and dive under the pilings of the nearest pier. I used to do it all the time when I was younger. Drove my poor mother to hysterics when she’d see that.”
“It worked perfectly. Yes, I was afraid at first, but I trusted you to know what you were about.”
Mala glanced over his shoulder and nudged him gently.
“Your husband is waiting. Don’t you lose him, Stephan.”
“I won’t.” Stephan shook his head, blinking away the moisture that stung his eyes. “Mala… You must know that out of everything I have to abandon here at Varta, you are the hardest to leave. Your courage, your brightness, the hope you brought us. Thank you for being a true friend.”
Mala sniffed and brushed away her own tears.
“You were a friend to me too. The best there could be. Now go, before those ruffians decide to do another sweep of the wharf. May the gods keep you on your way.”
With that, she turned and sped away up the pier, trailing seawater. Stephan watched the dirty white of her tunic blend into the crowd until Warren touched his elbow.
“Ready?”
Stephan turned to him. Dawn had finally broken above the bay, the wind having calmed to a gentle breeze that drove away the last of the storm clouds. A rose-golden glow colored the sails of the tall ships heading to the mouth of the harbor and reflected in the water drops clinging to Warren’s hair and clothes. A new day was starting, its hidden possibilities as infinite as the rays of the rising sun.
“I’m ready,” Stephan said, smiling amid the tears. “Let’s go.”
He placed his hand in Warren’s, and they both hurried to the boat that awaited them.
Epilogue
THE WIND PLAYED with Stephan’s hair, throwing it violently in his face one moment and then caressing it gently the next. The sea shimmered under the noonday sun, so brightly his vision blurred. But Stephan didn’t close his eyes against it, instead soaking up the wildly vivid colors of the water and sky, the taste of salt on his lips, and the sound of waves crashing against the hull of the ship. With no land in sight, it was easy to imagine they were completely and utterly lost, doomed to become ghosts roaming the seas for eternity, a tale of sorrow to be recounted in hushed voices by mariners over tankards of ale.
But, of course, it was far from the truth. The Gazelle sped on course, guided by expert hands and eyes for whom the deep waters of the South Sea held little mystery. Soon, they’d be arriving at their destination (only three or four days, Alaim had said), and their new life.
A shadow fell on the taffrail from behind him, but Stephan didn’t turn to see who it was. He’d become too familiar with the sound of Warren’s footsteps and the distinctness of his silent presence not to recognize him at once.
“The sea is calm enough, so I decided to venture outside,” Warren explained, putting a hand on Stephan’s waist.
“We might make a seafarer out of you yet,” Stephan teased.
“I doubt it. As soon as this ship starts heaving on the waves, so will I.”
Stephan laughed and rested his head on Warren’s shoulder.
“I wish I could promise you no more sea voyages, but life always seems to mangle my plans when I least expect it.”
Warren hugged his shoulders, minding Stephan’s injured arm. It was healing well, but was still aching and tender.
“I’ll be happy when we finally step onto dry land again. Although I must confess I have only the faintest notion of where we’re going.”
“Me too,” Stephan said, a touch apologetically.
As a prince, he had dedicated a good deal of time to studying history and politics. But his tutors tended to focus on the neighboring countries, like Esnia, and gloss over the rest—including the distant South Isles, which were shrouded in mystery even in the most detailed geography books. He didn’t know what their life there would be like, what kind of joys and hardships they’d be facing. His old self might have balked at the dangers of the unknown in fear of prejudice, but he wasn’t that person anymore. There’d always be people who would shun him for who he was, for whom he loved, for how he dressed, and there would always be those who’d love him truly, unconditionally, letting him shed the weight of past hurt. What once was a burden of shame was now the wind that helped him soar.
“I suppose we will just have to find out. Together.”
“Always,” Warren replied and leaned in to taste the sea salt on Stephan’s lips.
“HE’S DEAD, YOUR Highness,” Otis said. He’d repeated the assurance so many times it’d lost all meaning.
Robert, who was pacing the length of his private study, stopped and wheeled around on him.
“It’s ‘Majesty,’” he said through gritted teeth. “Or have you forgotten to whom you’re speaking?”
At these words, a large shaggy hound lying by the fireplace raised its head, picking up on its master’s agitation.
“No. Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Otis said, quickly lowering his gaze and bowing. He’d already managed to get himself in Robert’s bad graces; he did not want to be caught in one of the young king’s mood swings. “But there can be no doubt as to your brother’s demise. I saw him and his manservant jump into the sea, never to emerge. He must have chosen death over exile. Prince Stephan was never the enduring sort.”
“Have you seen the body?” Robert asked. His voice was calm again, but it was the sort of calm that made Otis nervous.
“Well, no. The sea was too high—”
“He’s alive. I know it.” Robert slammed his palm on the desk, making Otis wince and the crystal wells with the colorful inks rattle.
“Even if he is, he’s not coming back, Your Majesty,” Otis said softly, doing his best to soothe rather than patronize. If there was anything that infuriated Robert more than defiance, it was the appearance of condescension.
“Don’t try to downplay the outcome of your incompetence, Otis.” Thankfully, instead of flying into a blind rage, Robert only resumed his pacing. The hound rose, stretching, and Robert paused to scratch it behind the ears.
Otis stayed where he was, keeping as still as he could.
“But you’re right,” Robert continued. “There is another member of my family I must deal with first.”
“I don’t understand, sire.”
“My uncle.” Robert frowned as he petted the dog, its tail swooshing with undiluted joy.
“Lord Rowan?” Otis couldn’t hide his astonishment. “He was ever your ally.”
“He’s a former regent. He’s drawing too much attention, too much sympathy. I can’t afford that. I must deal with him befo
re I get rid of my prodigal brother once and for all.”
Otis bowed again, mainly to hide his dismay. Going after a runaway traitor was a far cry from the political assassination of a person who’d once occupied the throne, even temporarily.
“And, Otis?” Robert halted again, looking directly at him with an expression that made Otis’s skin crawl.
“Don’t fail this time.”
Acknowledgements
My deepest thanks to my editor at NineStar Press, Elizabetta, for always making my stories shine.
About the Author
A voracious reader from the age of five, Isabelle Adler has always dreamed of one day putting her own stories into writing. She loves traveling, art, and science, and finds inspiration in all of these. Her favorite genres include sci-fi, fantasy, and historical adventure. She also firmly believes in the unlimited powers of imagination and caffeine.
Email: [email protected]
Twitter: @Isabelle_Adler
Website: www.isabelleadler.com
Other books by this author
The Castaway Prince (The Castaway Prince, book 1)
A Touch of Magic (Fae-Touched, book 1)
Frost
Adrift (Staying Afloat, book 1)
Ashore (Staying Afloat, book 2)
Coming Soon from Isabelle Adler
The Wolf and the Sparrow
“Derek, you lucky devil,” Macon said. “A marriage proposal the minute you inherit a title. How propitious.”
Derek ignored the note of bitter mockery in his brother’s voice. Instead, he focused on the letter lying on the table in front of them. Words were scribbled across thick paper in an almost careless hand, with nothing to indicate its earth-shattering contents at a casual glance. The red wax seal bore the emblem of a wolf’s head, and an unpleasant jolt went through him as he recalled the same sigil splashed over black-and-silver banners streaming above a bloody battlefield. Pain flared in his injured shoulder, as if in response to the memory, and Derek shifted uncomfortably in his chair, adjusting the sling that held his left arm. He made himself focus on the words again, tracing them as if they could somehow magically rearrange themselves into a different message upon rereading.
“Macon, this is not helping,” Lady Casea chided.
Macon threw their mother a sullen look that clearly indicated he wasn’t there to help. He was sixteen, the age when everything was painted black and white, right and wrong, with nothing in between. Both Derek and their mother knew all too well how washed-out those colors became with time.
They were all sitting at the round table in Lady Casea’s drawing room. The upheaval of the last few days hadn’t seemed to reach it, unlike the rest of the keep. Embroidered tapestries lined the walls, displaying flowers in fanciful patterns, and the chairs were lined with soft cushions. A familiar scent of lavender and sage permeated the warmth from the fireplace. How strange it was to discuss the grim future of their family in this cozy room, with the only reminder of the presence of death being the gray mourning ribbons tied around their sleeves.
“Let us go through this again,” Ivo said, picking up the letter. His tone was neutral, as if he were discussing a passage from a recently read book. He was the scholar among Derek’s siblings, but Count Johan had long refused to send him to one of the royal colleges in Oifel, the capital. Father hadn’t approved of bookishness, especially not in a nineteen-year-old man who was perfectly capable of holding a sword.
“Duke Bergen offers Lady Casea condolences on the passing of her husband, and asks for Derek’s—the new Count of Camria’s—hand in marriage to his eldest son and heir, Callan, ‘to secure the recently signed truce in hopes of reaching a standing peace treaty between our fiefdoms and show good will.’”
“‘Passing,’” Macon sneered. “‘Good will.’”
“Derek, have you even met Callan?” Ayleen asked, turning to him. “I had no idea he was interested in you.”
“I doubt he’d know me from a signpost,” Derek said dryly.
He’d only ever seen Callan in passing while visiting the Royal Palace a few years ago, and they paid each other little heed. Undoubtedly, Callan had been in the field along with his father, Duke Bergen, when they fought Camria’s forces, but fortunately, Derek hadn’t encountered them directly, and neither of them was present during the signing of the truce, delegating it instead to their field commander.
Ayleen was only twelve, and still somewhat charmed by the notion of romance. Derek was a little sorry to disillusion her, especially so soon after all the other shocks she’d had to endure in the past few days, but it was better if she knew exactly what was going on. Ignorance and pretense weren’t going to help any of them when their situation was so precarious.
“The proposal isn’t coming from Lord Callan, but from his father. There’s nothing to it but politics.”
Ivo looked up. “I fear Bergen’s essentially trying to annex us. Derek would keep the title while he lives, but with him being a lower noble, it’d eventually pass to his husband or to their heirs. Not to mention that his spouse—whoever they are—would be an equal ruler of Camria while Derek lives.”
While he lives . The words sank into Derek’s mind, laden with meaning. The marriage contract would still be valid, even if he were to die, effectively passing the fiefdom of Camria to the Duke’s family. And with Derek out of the way, they’d be free to do what they wished with it.
He said nothing aloud.
“Can we possibly refuse? Find some pretext to decline the offer?” their mother asked.
Ivo shook his head. “I cannot see how. This is not exactly an offer. More like an order, even if courteously worded. The letter continues on to stipulate that the wedding take place as soon as possible. In fact, as soon as it would take Derek to arrive at the Duke’s ancestral castle at Irthorg.”
“What about postponing it, then?” Lady Casea turned to Derek in concern. “You’re badly injured. Surely, they cannot expect you to stand at the altar, still bleeding. At least a few months, until you’re well. It will give us time to petition before the High Queen. This is nothing short of a coercion under duress.”
There were fading bruises on her neck peeking above the collar of her dress, a yellow imprint of fingers that had nothing to do with the recent battle. Not for the first time, Derek thought that perhaps their father’s death was more of a blessing than a tragedy. It felt treasonous to entertain such notions, as though he was betraying his father’s memory, but he hadn’t imagined the relief that flashed in his mother’s eyes when the messenger delivered the awful news. He was ashamed to admit, even to himself, that he’d felt the same relief.
But it also meant that he was now the head of the family. It was his duty and his responsibility to protect them after Count Johan had failed to do so. Even if it meant marrying a man he’d never met, who’d nearly destroyed everything he held dear, who might still want him dead.
“I’m not hurt that badly,” Derek heard himself say. “Besides, I hardly think they’d care—or if the Queen would see it quite that way. The truce expires in a week. If I don’t give an answer by then, I’m afraid there will be no long-standing treaty.”
Casea frowned and was about to say something else, but Derek forestalled her.
“I don’t see any other way other than conforming to Duke Bergen’s wishes. I’d rather not aggravate him while his troops still have free rein within our borders. There would still be an opportunity to do something when we’re not in such dire disadvantage. A marriage can always be annulled should the Queen prove sympathetic to our case.”
“So, we just roll over and give the Duke our land?” Macon said. “That’s what he’s really after, isn’t it? He basically threatens us with another war, and he has the audacity to call it a gesture of good will!”
“It is good will,” Derek said quietly. “He doesn’t need this union to take the land away from us. In fact, nothing is stopping him from storming the keep and killing us all when the
truce ends. It would be his right to do so since he was provoked, and frankly, we’ve already seen that Camria cannot hold its own when it comes to military strength.”
As a warrior himself, Derek was loath to admit it. But Camria was a small fiefdom, and its contingent consisted of the Count’s Guard that numbered only two hundred men, while the rest were mostly peasants, who had been hastily called to arms and had little to no fighting experience. That was hardly a match for Mulberny, a much larger and more prosperous domain with a long and bloody history of fending raiding sea pirates off its shores. But of course, these considerations had meant little to his father in the face of a perceived slight.
“You seem very eager to go through with it,” Macon sneered. His eyes were rimmed in red and recessed in deep shadows. “Can’t wait to become the bed toy of our father’s murderer?”
“Macon!” Casea said sharply. “Watch your tongue.”
“I will not!” Macon slammed his hand against the table, making everyone save Derek jump. “He’s only trying to save his own hide while his new husband turns us out of our own home!”
“Will you stop that?” Derek said levelly, fixing his gaze on Macon. He kept a tight rein on his anger. There was no point in getting into a shouting match with his brother, whose grief was perhaps the most acute of all of them. “No one said anything about turning you out. I’m trying to keep all of you safe, and it would be much easier to do from within the Duke’s castle than from the chopping block.”
“Yes, much easier for you ! You’d be the Duke’s lapdog while the rest of us are reduced to beggars!”
Derek’s patience, already frayed, finally snapped.
“Maybe Father should have thought about that before he waged war on Bergen over a fucking river dam and got himself killed!”
Macon rose to his feet so abruptly he knocked over his chair. Without another word, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door with enough force to rattle the flower vase on the side table.
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