by Ellyn, Court
“It was the Admiralty done the injustice, sire. I believe the officer in question felt justified in his actions because the captain once sailed under the crossed cutlasses.”
“Ah,” he said, as Commodore Lo’el had. “Why would he deliver his prisoners to me instead of to Windhaven?”
“Because he had to deliver me as well. My ship sank after battling Admiral Madon. Captain Rehaan was good enough to rescue myself and my lieutenant. More….” Athna found herself wringing her hands and clenched them into fists at her sides. “More, I told him he would be compensated for his show of generosity, Your Majesty. Do not let him be punished for my lies.”
“You repaid this man’s kindness with lies? Why?”
Athna’s mouth opened but nothing came out. The truth sat too heavily on her tongue. She had to swallow it fast. “On principle, sire. He was a pirate. I, a pirate-hunter. But I have since come to regret my deceit and he suffers for it.”
“Suffers?”
“Imprisoned, sir. He and all his crew. And, I hear, they are treated cruelly. I beg you to order their release. Captain Rehaan is our ally for as long as Fiera is our enemy. Worse, this pirate happens to be the cousin of the Duchess of Liraness.”
“Received?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Damn.” Bano’en drummed his fingers some more, this time as he pondered, gazing out tall narrow windows at the late morning sky. Pigeons swirled past like scattered thoughts. At last, the king’s stern, swollen face broke into a half-grin. “You once boasted to me that you meant to win renown as the most feared pirate-hunter on the seas.”
Athna’s face heated. “I’m aware of the irony, sire.”
“Very well. Our ally while the war lasts. You may deliver this … sailor … back to his ship.”
~~~~
The prison reeked of human waste and dead rats and interminable damp. Athna descended the third tier of steps at the warden’s direction, while doing her best to avoid brushing against the mildewed walls. The cell was the last on the left. Rehaan sat on a pile of straw, arms wrapped about his knees, head ducked. The red coat hung across his shoulders, surely a poor defense against the chill seeping through the high slit of a window. At the scuff of Athna’s boot, he glanced up, startled. One of his eyes was swollen half-shut. Bruises contorted his face and bloodied his knuckles. When he recognized his visitor in the lamplight, he grunted. “Come to drive in a thorn before they hang me?”
She waggled a key ring at him. “Lucky for you I’ve got connections.”
“Lucky? If it weren’t for you, woman, I wouldn’t be here.”
“I disagree. You chose to grieve as you did, and I’d be damned if I’d play your victim.”
“I got what I deserved, is that what you’re saying?”
“Probably. But I’ve won you your freedom. What a royal writ will do.” She plied the key to the lock.
“Hnh, I’d rather they hang me.”
“Is your pride really so precious that you would play that game?”
Rehaan stood slowly, stiffly, and slung the red coat over his arm. “No. Though I do not trust you.”
“Our suspicion is mutual.” The door squealed open.
“Why bother then?” he asked.
Apologize to the this sea-thief? Was her pride so precious? It seemed so. “Seeing you in this place was not my intent.” There, that would suffice. “I’ve made quite a practice of lying in your favor, Captain. For instance, I failed to mention to His Majesty or the commodore a certain letter you meant to put into a shoeshine boy’s hand. Do you still have it?”
“Probably. I ate it.”
Athna chuckled. “Good. I hope it rankles your belly.” She started back down the musty corridor.
He stopped her. “My ship. My crew?”
She offered a smug smile. “Bano’en has freed them as well, as this was a terrible misunderstanding. The jollies from the Aurion are on their way to pick them up now.”
“Generous, your king is.” His sideward glance implied that he didn’t know whether to believe her.
So she tossed in the catch. “Freedom, on the understanding that you have every intention of honoring your agreement with the duchess.”
Rehaan groaned.
“Yes, my honor is at stake now as well. Don’t turn me into a greater liar than I already am. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.” She led him out of the dungeon and into the clear winter sunlight. Beyond the dungeon’s fortifications, a carriage waited to deliver them to the wharf.
“My men will never agree to it,” he said, staring out the carriage window, “nor will they follow a captain who makes empty promises, even if they were spoken in grief.” Between the houses of Graynor, the waters of the harbor glittered pewter and iron under the sun, and a line of jolly boats rowed between the brig and the pier.
“No, I didn’t think so,” Athna said, wondering if she had become a woman of empty promises as well. “Your only option is to replace them. All but Rygg, I suppose.”
She never expected him to agree, but he nodded. “Angrev, too.”
“Really?”
“His life belongs to me. ‘Tis a long story, and deep down, he truly wants that tavern on a beach. I’ll release the rest and hope I don’t earn a knife in the back for it a few years hence.”
Athna harrumphed. “So you choose honor over pride, after all.”
“Ach, don’t make me sick, lady.” Despite his gruff tone, his bruised mouth toyed with a grin. The new plan pleased him; Athna discerned that much.
Climbing from the carriage and onto the pier, Rehaan pondered how he was to get a hundred angry and abused pirates off his boat. But that was his ruse to play, and doubtless he’d had to play it before. Half his crew still waited on the pier for the jollies to return. Rygg appeared to be keeping them in order, though their mingled complaints echoed along the street.
Rehaan took his time joining them. Buttoning his red coat to hide the blood and filth staining his silk shirt, he asked, “You will ply for a new boat?”
“Certainly. If the Admiralty clears me, that is. I sank the Shadow of the Seas, however, and not many can claim that.”
“Who was she, the ship you lost?”
Athna raised her chin. “She was the Pirate’s Bane.”
Rehaan’s laughter bounced across the harbor. “Of course.”
“And so she was, mate, many a time.”
“I trust you’ll call the new galleon Pirate’s Bane Two?”
“That’s precisely what I intend to call it.”
Rygg and several others heard their captain’s laughter and hurried up the street to greet him. Rehaan took Athna’s elbow and urged her back into the carriage. “Best they don’t see you.” She didn’t fuss as he helped her up. Shutting the door, he said, “I’ll be watching for you along the skyline.”
She opened her mouth to utter some quip, but he hurried away to intercept his men and shepherd them back to the pier. All the way, they rattled with complaints about their treatment in the dungeons and bitter oaths against every Leanian. Rehaan uttered sympathy and vows of revenge, but soon they were too far along the wharf for Athna to hear more. She watched out the carriage window while the last of the sailors piled into the boats. Rehaan took the prow of the last, so that all the way back to the Aurion he faced the receding wharf and Athna’s carriage. Eventually, the red coat ascended the ladder and disappeared over the rail.
Still Athna bid the driver wait. The Aurion’s sails dropped one by one, and slowly she dwindled away between the seawalls.
~~~~
59
When Shadryk’s brothers were burned to ash and he was all who remained to inherit the throne, his father told him, “The people should never see a king’s fear. If things are going badly, celebrate, and don’t forget to smile.” Though snows drifted past the windows, the banquet hall sweltered. Pipers and drummers churned out a lively tune, and lords spun with their ladies, beads of sweat like jewels on their skin. Rich wine
and glorious food made the rounds; there was such an abundance of fine dishes that platters of roasted meat grew tepid and sugary concoctions melted in the heat. Most of the bounty was local, of course, since the blockade had prevented exotic foods from Dorél and Ixaka from arriving.
Bad form, all of it. Shadryk sat on the dais between his sister and his middle son, caring nothing for the tumblers cavorting among the tables or the mime entertaining the diners, but calculated the soldiers he held in reserve. The very lords dancing across his floor this evening might soon be charging the field. Shadryk’s response to Bano’en’s declaration of war had been merely, “Most regrettable. The blood of your people lays solely on your hands. ~S.”
So far the only blood lost to Leania had been spilled at Stonebrydge. Apparently, the Fieran guardhouse amid the massive bridge was too close for Leania’s comfort, as the Leanian guardhouse was to Fiera. The report said the skirmish had lasted only ten minutes, but the guardhouses had both been torched and seven men killed, four of them Fieran. The militia stationed on the bridge had moved their defenses back onto Fieran soil. The Leanians had done likewise. So far, Bano’en did not appear to have intentions of invading Shadryk’s lands. He and his armies just sat up there, waiting. Waiting for what? Where was Goryth when Shadryk needed his advisement? He didn’t trust his other war counselors. And yet, it hadn’t been their brazen move that had brought Leania into the fighting. Damn the man. And where were his dispatches? Shadryk expected one or two a week, but for ten days, nothing but silence from Aralorr. Anything could be happening up there.
A roar of laughter rose on his right. One of the mimes had made his way to the high table. Face painted green and white, he knelt before Ki’eva, looking lovesick. A hand over his heart, the other tossing silent kisses, he professed his admiration for her, and produced a white rose from his sleeve. A bit of magic, that, for the roses had withered with the snow. The princess, looking smug, tossed the mime a gold coin. He swept it up, and in a dramatic show of swooning, moved on.
Ki’eva was a marvel. Perhaps because she was aware of Shadryk’s worries, she made up for his lack of congeniality tenfold. She proposed the toasts, carried the conversations, and led the guests in laughter. Glancing his direction, she raised an eyebrow in warning, silent as any mime, and Shadryk realized he’d forgotten to smile. He remedied that, though the expression felt wooden, and he forced this thoughts to disengage from the battlefield.
He found his son watching him, as a physician watched a worrisome patient. When Arryk saw the White Falcon’s smile, he affected one of his own. He had barely turned seven, and how large and vigilant his green eyes were. “Have you learned these dances, son?”
Arryk blushed behind a spattering of freckles. “I’m not very good, sir.”
“Then you must practice more.”
“Yes, sir,” he said to his plate.
“In truth, I don’t care for them much either. But on occasion one must present a face one does not feel. Eh?”
“Like when Nathryk comes into a room?”
“You do not miss your brother?”
Arryk’s lip curled, as if someone tried to convince him to eat worms.
Shadryk laughed. Yes, the nursery had become remarkably quiet since Nathryk had gone away to Endarán, and Arryk, meanwhile, had emerged from a shell that Shadryk hadn’t noticed before. Though he remained shy and quiet, he no longer crept about, timid around his own shadow. One day, however, Nathryk would return, trained with sword and shield, ready to be knighted and more dangerous than ever. Shadryk would have to consider how to divert his attention from his brothers then as well. Goddess forbid the war last so long, but a war may be exactly the kind of diversion Nathryk would need.
Arryk leant forward and peered around his father. “Do you think,” he whispered, “do you think Aunt Ki’eva would dance with me?”
Grinning, Shadryk nudged his sister. She abandoned her conversation with Lady Ri’allyn of Brathnach and turned with a receptive face. “The prince requests a dance.”
Her face closed like a dungeon door. “I beg your pardon?” Despite being named the princes’ caretaker, she had yet to learn love for them.
“Refuse him,” Shadryk hissed through his teeth, “and I’ll marry you off to the first fool I find.”
She tsked. “You needn’t threaten me that severely, Your Majesty.” She bowed her head toward her nephew. “I should be delighted.”
Arryk hurried to help his aunt rise and offered his arm. She chuckled and nudged him along with a hand to his shoulders instead.
“Father says I need to practice more,” he said.
“This is hardly the time for practice,” his aunt retorted. “You’d better know what you’re doing. Everyone is watching.”
As if she should know better, Arryk said with vast aplomb, “Everyone is always watching.”
Shadryk swallowed his laughter until his son was out of earshot. They descended the dais and the dancers made room for them, their own dance forgotten while they watched the young prince and his splendid aunt claim the floor for themselves. Arryk’s arms were too short yet, and he got his feet confused on occasion but he deported himself admirably, and Ki’eva did well to instruct him in whispers to save his pride. Shadryk reclined in his chair, heart full, and for a moment, he wished this was all there was. No war, no dreams of expanding his kingdom, no golden crown to covet. Just his family and their private concerns. “Is it worth it, Jilesse?” he whispered. He knew what her reply would’ve been, and he tuned it out. Too late to turn back. His son would wear a golden crown. Not surprising that he imagined giving it to Arryk, rather than Nathryk. But he had no choice in that either.
He shook himself, sick of brooding, and decided to rescue his sister. The diners stood for him, but he bade them continue and touched Arryk on the shoulder. The boy was beaming and red in the face from his happiness and his exertion, but he bowed out gracefully.
“You honor me, brother,” Ki’eva said, taking his hand for the next steps of the minuet. “You’ve not danced in years.”
“Not since Jilesse died. I decided I didn’t have to bother with this nonsense after that, but my son is showing me up.” In truth, he felt ill prepared for such a show, but he surprised himself and managed to spare his sister’s toes. Upon the last prolonged note of the pipes, he bowed to her and she to him, and on the threshold the herald’s voice rang out, “Admiral Madon, Your Majesty!”
The herald might as well have smacked Shadryk in the face. He’d received no word at all from the admiral since he’d embarked on his mission, nor had Shadryk left orders for him to hasten to Brynduvh upon his return. Yet there he stood, in full uniform, his green coat and gold ribbons flawless, his hat smartly tucked under his arm. He even appeared nominally sober. Peering about the banquet hall, he said, “Ah! Cause to celebrate, indeed, sire. Graynor’s harbor and half her fleet are ash.” He bowed with a flourish.
Shadryk released a massive breath, realizing he’d dreaded what might come out of Madon’s mouth. The news couldn’t be better timed. The courtiers, musicians, tumblers, squires, and servants cheered. The mime clapped silently. “Aw,” the White Falcon said, swallowing his temper, “shall we send our condolences to King Bano’en?”
The courtiers laughed and shouted, “Never!” and “Down the Leanians!”
He passed his sister off to Arryk, and said to the admiral, “Come, we’ll speak of it.”
~~~~
Ki’eva took one of her harpists to bed with her that night, so Shadryk spent the evening alone. In truth, he slept better that night than he had since spring. The sun was well up when he woke and sent for breakfast. Servants arrived before the food and wrapped him in a heavy robe and stoked the fire. The snow had stopped in the night; not a cloud marred the sky beyond the lead-paned windows, but the room was so cold that Shadryk’s breath clouded. Cuinn arrived a moment later, bearing a small silver tray with a letter upon it. “That had better be from Goryth,” said Shadryk, holding out hi
s hand.
Cuinn laid the letter in it. “I fear not, sire.”
Indeed, the seal was a crowned falcon in blue wax. Shadryk’s heart leapt into his throat. Unless Goryth had taken to sealing his dispatches with the Black Falcon’s accoutrements, the letter was from the Black Falcon himself. With Bramoran taken and Zhiani dragoneers loose all over the country, what else could the letter be but an offer of terms for Aralorr’s surrender? In the least, an invitation for a conference to begin discussing peace.
He broke the seal and read, the words too slow under his flicking, greedy eyes. What was this? He read it twice, three times. The room, the castle, the city spun around those impossible words. Crystal and silver clinked in the parlor. Stiff starched skirts rustled as softly as the serving women’s whispers. Cuinn loomed at the door, watching the king carefully without looking at him. Waiting.
“Ah, Goddess, get them out,” Shadryk ordered, voiceless, then he bellowed, “Get them out!”
The servants dropped the trays, forks, napkins, and decanters on the table and fled.
~~~~
“Goddess rot them!” Ki’eva paced angrily. “Leave them at Whitewood, I say, till spring at least.”
“I can’t,” Shadryk growled. The day had come and gone, but he huddled deep in an armchair, still in his morning robe, with only the hearth-fire for light. He’d had one too many goblets of wine, too, and refused to see anyone but his sister. “Come spring, we’ll be fighting two armies, not to mention two navies. We must use the winter months to plan our offensive. Who will do that but Goryth?”
Ki’eva shook the letter at him. “How will you outfit your militias and mercenaries, if you agree to pay the ransom that bastard demands? Not just men for men, but a fortune as well!” King Rhorek rightly decided that trading fifty Helwende prisoners for five hundred Fierans was unfair and demanded silver as well. Interesting that the trade only included the Fierans and the Zhiani prince. No mention of the dragoneers or their Dragons that must’ve been captured, too.
