by Faye Avalon
With a bow Kassaro left, and Caelan moved to the window opening where he looked out across the cliffs to the sea. In the months since his father’s death, he had struggled to find ways to unite the island chiefs and make them want to fight to get their islands returned to Limani rule. Under Limani protection, they had enjoyed an unprecedented autonomy and self-sufficiency that had sufficed them for over a hundred years, since they first fought for independence from the mainland.
Under the rule of Zomotia, they endured high taxes, the best of their crops acquired by the mainland, their daughters married off to old men of the king’s court and forever lost to them, their sons acquired to swell the king’s army.
Caelan’s only consolation was that Limani had up until now escaped these endurances, except for the high taxes. Kassaro had told him that he believed that was due to the king’s wish to appease Caelan, whose fearless army, while unable to match the might of the king’s, was made up of the fiercest and bravest of warriors. Kassaro also said that he believed the king was not stupid and had obviously considered that by keeping Limani and its ruler largely appeased, Caelan would not find reason to move to unite the islands once more and lead them into battle for freedom from Zomotian rule.
Restless, Caelan left the dining hall and headed out of the castle toward the cliffs. At the edge, he planted his feet, placed his hands on his hips, and raised his face to the sky. He took a deep, calming breath, his wide chest expanding beneath the sleeveless black tunic he wore.
The elders were hell bent against war. Perhaps he could understand it from their point of view, seeing as their own lives had changed little under Zomotian rule. Yet they did not seem to care that their fellow islanders had begun to suffer. Before long, Caelan feared that the king’s desires would take a pernicious hold on his people. If he, Caelan, did nothing, then the king would perceive that as weakness, or appeasement, and a man as ruthless and voracious as he would no longer be able to resist pushing Limani to the brink of ruin.
It was unthinkable.
Caelan took another breath, closing his eyes. The day was sultry and the air he sucked into his lungs felt cloying, claustrophobic. He missed his father’s counsel, and once again, regret hit him hard that he had been away from the island when his father’s life force left his earthly body and took flight for the afterlife.
Caelan cleared his mind, trying to connect to his father’s energy and to that of the Gods. What do I do? he asked silently into the ether. Do I lead my people into battle once more, or do I concede to the elders? Show me the way of wisdom, the way that leads to ultimate peace and stability.
He stood there at the edge of the cliff, eyes closed, mind empty, his only companions the gentle breeze that stirred the air and the sounds of the ocean.
He swayed, drifted, his feet firmly planted as his body lightened.
The wisdom you seek is at hand, my son.
Caelan resisted the urge to snap his brain into gear as the words drifted across his consciousness and his father’s voice echoed through his soul. It was the first time he had connected to his father since the man’s death, and Caelan felt his heart soar.
Act from a pure heart, your actions those of a leader content only to serve our people. Your path will become clear and will be aided in ways you cannot yet anticipate. But take care, my son. All is not as it will seem...
The last of his father’s words melted away and for long moments Caelan stood there, waiting, hoping. Yet he knew the contact with his father had ceased. He opened his eyes and pondered the words of counsel.
Moments later, Caelan nodded and drew in a breath. His path had become clear. His father’s advice to serve his people meant he could not see them suffer. He would take his people into war against Zomotia. He would rally the other islands and they would join against the king. He would keep his father’s counsel uppermost in his thoughts and remain mindful that all was not as it would seem. If he were to be aided in ways he could not yet anticipate, he would take rest this night and allow the Gods of the universe to speak with him in dreams. Were they willing, he would be shown the way.
He stepped away from the cliff, his mind lucid for the first time since his father’s death. He would be shown the way and he would trust his instincts. Never had they let him down before—not in peace and not in battle. He would trust them now.
With one last glance out at the ocean, he turned to walk away, but something drew him back. He peered out beyond the rocks, beyond the reef, and saw what had caught his attention. It glinted in the sun, and bobbed against the swell of the reef.
He strode toward an opening in the cliff where the terrain became rocky, and picked his way down to get a better view. But the object seemed to have disappeared.
Driftwood, Caelan thought as he hunkered down and continued to watch. Yet what had alerted his eye, strummed a feeling in his gut, about a piece of driftwood?
The object appeared once again, bobbing dangerously close to the reef. Narrowing his eyes, Caelan strained to see. Sunlight caught the side of the object, clearly indicating that what he watched was a small boat.
He knew it was not one of the island’s fishermen. Every inhabitant knew the treachery of the reef and never ventured near it.
Caelan’s instincts sharpened. He’d heard warnings of spies on the island, envoys planted by the king with the aim of discovering if rumors of Caelan’s plans to reunite the islands against Zomotia were based in truth or merely conjecture. Were the bungling fools manning the small boat and attempting to sail to shore more of those spies?
He glanced out toward a rocky outcrop where a small troop of the island’s guards were stationed. What were those fools doing? Why had they not sounded the alarm? He would have them in chains for their incompetence.
Not that he worried at this point for the island’s safety—the reef would claim the boat and any of its inhabitants soon enough, this part of the island was virtually impenetrable—but those damn fool guards would pay for their ineptitude.
On his way back to the royal pavilion he planned to call on the ocean guard and instruct them to dispatch an investigatory party to search for bodies and debris. An enquiry would be launched into who had dared try and infiltrate his island.
He took another glance out to the ocean and saw the boat tip and churn as it negotiated the reef. Unable to let the matter be, Caelan negotiated the rocks that led down to the sea with the ease of a man who had done so all his life. He ran over cool wet sand and toward the water’s edge as the sun beat down with its midday heat.
He waded into the sea. The tides here meant he walked several hundred yards and was up to his waist when he came upon what was left of the small craft. He grabbed the rope that trailed in the water and pulled it to him. Inside the debris a small bundle lay huddled in the corner. He reached out and the bundle groaned softly and moved.
A girl, he realized. Her long hair fell across her face like wet straw. As he touched her bare arm, his fingers connected with a fierce heat. Her flesh was scorched from the sun’s fire, yet she shivered uncontrollably. He hoisted the rope across his shoulder, turned, and pulled the boat ashore, dragging it from the water until it shifted onto dry sand. The girl moaned again as he lifted her from the boat and into his arms. Her head dropped back, revealing the delicate arch of her throat. Her free arm dropped away to her side, revealing the strips of clothing barely covering her. Not a girl, he realized without breaking stride as he made his way up the beach. A woman. Most definitely a woman.
Striding up the beach toward camp, he felt his cock jerk in reaction to the plump, ripe breasts that spilled from beneath the rags. Her nipples were dusky and dark, and his mouth went dry as a sharp desire to taste those breasts filled him. Dear Gods of the Universe, he had most definitely been without a woman for too long.
Groups of workers parted as he strode past them toward the royal pavilion, bowing from the waist as their leader passed by. He heard the surprised gasps, the gentle murmurs, and knew they were less a
imed at the woman in his arms than they were at their prince being caught in such close proximity to a strange half-naked woman.
Acknowledging nobody, he strode through the corridors toward his chambers where he lay her down on his bed and began to strip off the sodden rags that had once been her clothing.
Two women servants of the court rushed in and gasped. “My lord…”
“Water,” Caelan snapped without taking eyes from his task. “And Thistle Pulp. Now!” As the women continued to stare, and seemed rooted to the spot with shock, Caelan cast them a challenging glare. They visibly paled as they stared down at the small, unconscious female lying on the royal bed. A bed only the ruler’s chosen consort was permitted to sleep upon. He realized he was breaking protocol. They knew, as did most of the islanders, that when their ruler needed a man’s release, he took to the royal tent at the Doe Park or to his current lady’s bed. Never would he be permitted to have a woman who was not his wife atop his own bed.
“Is your hearing impaired?” Caelan snapped at the woman nearest to him. “I said water.”
One of the women hurried away, but the other, more senior, moved toward Caelan. “My lord, you must permit me to do that.”
He glanced up into the eyes of the woman who had all but raised him when his mother died after giving birth to him. Tansa’s censure stopped him in his tracks and he quickly drew his hands away from where he had been removing what remained of the woman’s clothing.
Stepping back, he folded his arms, watching as Tansa glanced from him to the shivering woman and back again. “She must not be here, my lord.”
“She’s ill, possibly close to dying,” he snapped. “Do what needs to be done. We will deliberate the fineries of protocol at a later date.”
He thought Tansa might argue, but then she nodded, leaned over the woman and lay a hand across her forehead. “She has a fever.” She glanced over to the door. “Where is that girl? I’ll take a strap to her one of these days.”
As if on cue, the younger servant girl hurried through the door and thrust the water jug and a bowl of pulp at Tansa.
“Pour it, girl,” Tansa said as she indicated the water jug. “And mix the pulp with bled leaves.”
Caelan snatched the jug from the girl and reached for a cup beside the bed. He poured water and placed the cup to the woman’s colorless lips. She rolled her head from side to side, rejecting the feel of the cup against her mouth. Caelan held her head with one hand as he pressed the cup against her lips again. “Drink,” he ordered, hoping that the instruction would seep into the woman’s subconscious.
When her head stilled, he tipped the cup slightly and watched the water slip between her lips, the residue trickling down her chin and onto her throat. Such a tantalizing throat, Caelan thought as he watched the trail of water. Delicate skin, fine features. Where in the heavens had she come from?
“You should leave now, my lord.” Tansa’s terse instruction snapped Caelan’s attention back to the task at hand. “I need to get her out of these wet clothes and bathe her. She will also need treatment for the burns of the sun upon her skin.”
Caelan wanted to argue, but he had already pushed stately etiquette further than he dared and saw no sense in courting more trouble. He feared the wrath of no one on the island—except Tansa.
He strode from the room, but could not resist one last glance at the pale beauty lying on his bed. And she was beautiful. Even half alive, her skin burned by the sun, her voluptuous body trembling with fever, she was beautiful. It was perhaps not entirely chivalrous to find the sight of her lying against his bed cloths erotic, but he was nothing if not an honest man.
His concern should not be directed to such ends, but should be focused on finding out who she was, how she had found her way to his island, and what her purpose was.
It was not beyond the realms of reasoning to fear that the king had sent her as a plant. Had charged her beauty to infiltrate Caelan’s mind, to discover his future plans. To weave her magic around his fortitude, and get him to reveal his strategy, should he be planning to regain his land from Zomotian rule.
All is not as it will seem...
His father’s warning came thickly, and Caelan knew he needed to guard his initial response to the woman. He needed to find out about her. And, to the detriment of his myriad other tasks, he would begin with what was left of her boat.
End of sample chapter
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