Margrete twisted. Blue eyes lined with smudged kohl stared back at her in wonder. The hand holding hers belonged to a woman with straight white hair, her weathered skin a beautiful shade of copper.
“Excuse me.” Adrian made to intervene, but Margrete held up her free hand. There was something about this stranger that demanded her attention, and when she opened her mouth to speak, the frenzied sounds of the market lowered to a dull roar.
“For you. Free of charge,” the woman said, thrusting something cold and metal into her hand. Margrete frowned. “It’s not every day I meet a creature such as you.”
The stranger still grasped her wrist, but Margrete opened her palm to find a stunning ring. Delicate and feminine, the ring bore intricate swirls and sea stars, all etched into the thin metal. They reminded her of Bash’s tattoo.
“I—I can’t accept this,” she stuttered, attempting to free her hand and return the unusual gift. The woman shook her head and pushed the ring deeper into her palm.
“It was meant for you. I knew it as soon as I saw your face.”
Margrete’s heart thundered as the woman cocked her head, blue eyes examining Margrete’s face with chilling interest.
“I see it in you, girl,” the old woman said. “Something dark and old. Something I can almost remember feeling long ago.”
Now Margrete did jerk her hand free. The ring felt oddly heavy in her palm.
“Let’s go.” Adrian ushered her to move along, but she couldn’t stop staring at the woman. Couldn’t cease replaying those eerie words over and over again in her mind.
“They’re looking for you!” the stranger called as Adrian pulled Margrete away.
A rush of patrons pushed onto the street. Margrete peered over her shoulder, seeking out the woman, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“Who was that?” Margrete glanced at her hand, eyeing the thin band warily.
Adrian sighed. “Arabel. She’s slightly crazed but completely harmless. Don’t pay her any mind.”
Easier said than done.
Margrete shuddered but slipped the ring onto her pointer finger. It was ice against her warmth, a pleasant weight that centered her.
“Come on.” Adrian smiled, luring her out of her thoughts. “There’s still more to see.” And so Margrete followed, pushing the old woman and her cryptic words far from her mind.
By the time they’d journeyed to the last bazaar, it was getting late. The stands here teemed with impressive coconuts, tangy oranges, spiky pineapples, and colorful mangos. Vendors bragged to all who would listen that their fares were the best in a never-ending screaming match amongst neighboring stalls.
A merchant peddling skewered slices of pineapple advanced, and Adrian readily tossed him a silver coin. “Try this. It’s heaven.” He handed Margrete the wooden skewer.
Margrete strolled the coral streets, sampling the sweet fruit. Its juices dripped down her chin, which she wiped away with a sleeve. The sun was setting, its apricot and saffron rays striking against a clear sky. Margrete was about to suggest they head back to the palace when she spotted a familiar face across the way.
She swallowed hard. Bash. He strode through the streets, taking the time to pause and greet every islander who called his name. They shook his hand and some bowed. Small children dashed up to him, tugging on his shirt and offering smiles. Instead of shoving them off, Bash beamed, his sly grin turning into something radiant. When a girl stumbled and scraped her knee in an effort to get to him, Bash scooped her up into his arms, instantly ridding her of a frown.
“They love him,” Adrian said at her side.
Something inside her chest squeezed. “I see that.”
Indeed, the Azantian people appeared to favor their king, and Margrete was stunned that he freely strode about without guards or security. Her father employed four guards wherever he ventured, the people of Prias not so content with their unofficial leader.
Bash caught Margrete’s eyes from across the way as the girl in his arms jumped down to race back to her mother. For a moment, Margrete stood transfixed, heart thundering, a rush of adrenaline pounding inside the confines of her chest.
He appeared to be under the same spell, his auburn hair flying wildly about his face in the descending sun, highlighting the scar on his brow. Margrete wondered how he’d received such a wicked wound.
Was he recalling last night? The moment they almost shared? Perhaps this morning?
Margrete wished her pulse didn’t quicken and her breath didn’t catch, but it was useless. Whether they were bantering or arguing or staring, Bash’s presence had a way of setting her nerves on fire. It was exhilarating and altogether dangerous.
Bash’s attention drifted momentarily to the ring on her hand before he broke contact. With a curt wave to Adrian, he turned down a side street, one that led in the opposite direction. She noted how his hands formed into loose fists at his sides, his strides growing more forceful.
Margrete composed herself and looked to Adrian, whose impassive expression gave nothing away. She would miss him when she left. Adrian. Not Bash. Had they the opportunity, Margrete imagined that she and the commander might have become the dearest of friends. She didn’t have many of those.
But her new friend wasn’t looking at her. Adrian was too busy gazing at Bash, sprinting away, a curious expression twisting his features.
“Hmmm,” was all he said, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “Interesting.”
Chapter Sixteen
Margrete
Margrete and Adrian were on their way back to the palace when she glimpsed a line of islanders walking to the beaches. Young and old, they carried tiny wooden baskets in their hands. An abundance of bold orange and yellow flowers decorated the woven sides.
“Where are they going?” Margrete asked, grabbing at Adrian’s arm and bringing him to a stop. The sun was nearly set, the moon rising to reign in the sky.
Adrian sighed, tilting his head toward the growing assembly. “They’re preparing to honor their dead.”
Margrete squinted into the dying light, watching as a young girl with blonde hair and bright blue eyes tugged on her mother’s skirts, dried tears on her ruddy cheeks. She couldn’t help but think of Birdie.
“When an Azantian finally passes,” Adrian continued, “we weave baskets, place our loved ones’ most treasured possession inside, and offer it to the God of the Sea. It’s our way to say goodbye.” He paused. “Our way of honoring the waters from where we came. We’re born in the waves, and we die amongst them.”
The little girl beamed up at her mother who must have whispered soothing words into her child’s ear. They vanished down the path, replaced by more islanders and their brightly colored baskets.
Adrian followed when Margrete headed toward them, compelled by curiosity, perhaps. She didn’t stop until her booted feet struck gilded sand.
Dozens of islanders wearing silks and jeweled finery littered the patch of beach, arms laden with treasures, their families at their sides. Some had tears in their eyes, and others wore sad smiles, but all reverently stared at the calming waters lapping at Azantian’s shore, the endless horizon an untouchable line in the distance.
“What are they waiting for?” Margrete asked.
“They wait for night to come,” Adrian answered. “Then they’ll place their offerings in the sea and say their loved one’s name.”
Adrian slipped his arm through hers, although he remained captivated by the procession. Margrete leaned into his embrace, and the pair shared a silent moment of contemplation.
When full dark arrived, a chant, deep and reverent, filled the air and mingled with the salty breeze.
Margrete listened. She didn’t recognize the words, but her heart understood them well enough. One by one, the small groupings wandered to the waves, their bare feet tickled by crystalline waters. Families gathered around the floral baskets as they prayed, the deceased’s name murmured on their lips.
It was heartbreaking and beautif
ul, and Margrete found herself yanking off her boots, sighing when the grains touched her exposed skin. Respectful of the mourners, she didn’t move closer to the waters. The beauty in which the families relinquished their love to the sea mesmerized her, melting her heart.
The chanting swelled until it triumphed over the whistling breeze, until all she could hear was the mourner’s prayer. The little girl she’d watched earlier took her place next to her mother. It was their turn to say goodbye, and the mother choked on the tears that escaped.
Margrete startled when the woman stumbled, her feet as unsteady as her heart. She was about to tumble into the waves when a man dashed to her side and wrapped a secure arm around her waist.
His auburn hair glinted in the gentle moonlight, his green eyes doleful as he held the grieving woman upright. Margrete hadn’t seen Bash arrive. Then again, she’d been too focused on the sorrowful procession to notice much else.
But now, the king was all she could see, and her chest constricted when he tightened his hold, enfolding the tearful woman into a hug. The child held the basket now, staring up at Bash with questioning eyes. He nodded, shushing into the mother’s ears and soothing her flying blonde strands as they whipped at her cheeks.
The young girl waded into the waves and placed the basket on the swaying sea, a single tear dripping upon the woven offering. She stood there, watching as the waters accepted the basket, her skirts drenched and her hair a tangled mess from the merciless wind.
Bash stood his ground as the waves delivered the basket to the God of the Sea. His attention remained fixed on the woman he held close, rocking her back and forth in his arms as she cried, whispering words of comfort.
A rush of icy wind, so at odds with the humidity of the island, wafted across Margrete’s cheeks. She shivered, goosebumps pimpling her arms. The oddness of the cool breeze left her mind as quickly as it arrived, however, because a spark of light flickered across the waves.
Her breath caught when that spark became a blaze.
The offered baskets had been ignited. Pale blue lights lit up the darkness, the souls of the deceased seeming to bid their final farewell.
The baskets swayed on gentle crests, their luminescent glow altogether unearthly, an enchantment Margrete couldn’t tear her eyes from. Her lips parted as a whoosh of air left her lungs, the display of magic and somber splendor breathtaking. Beside her, Adrian let out an audible gasp. She’d forgotten he was there.
“That hasn’t happened since…” The king lifted his head to find his commander. Their eyes met, and they exchanged a knowing look.
“Since when?” Margrete whispered, turning to Adrian. His jaw slackened, and his eyes widened. He swallowed hard before answering.
“It’s been well over two decades since the sea showed its acceptance.”
Margrete’s brow furrowed when Bash lifted his head to her now, his eyes seeking and fierce. He gazed at her as though she were a question he couldn’t answer, a riddle set before him to solve.
She was about to ask Adrian why it had been so long when a rumble shook the shore. What began as a quivering tremor quickly transformed into a great quake. Margrete’s knees gave out as the world shuddered, the glowing baskets blurring into a distorted blue line on the horizon.
“Margrete!” Adrian wound his arms around her waist and yanked her to the ground. A chorus of shouts and screams echoed as the islanders rushed from the waters back to the beach, their baskets gripped in their trembling hands.
“What’s happening? Margrete choked out. Adrian’s giant frame blocked her sight as vibrations danced up her body and a foreign wind hummed in her ears.
Panic surged. She wrapped her hands tightly around her companion, though he remained silent.
There was another hand that grasped her arm now, the touch hot and searing. Bash hovered above them like a wrathful god, snaking his fingers around her arm while he scanned the island.
“Adrian.” Bash narrowed his eyes. “Check on Ortum.”
Margrete didn’t have time to grasp what that meant, because Adrian jumped up, leaving her cowering beneath Bash.
The ground still trembled, but as the reverberations grew weaker, Bash hoisted her up against him, wrapping his warm arms around her like bands of steel.
“Are you all right?” Bash pulled her to his chest, holding her just as he had the grieving mother. Margrete didn’t understand what was happening, but when she opened her mouth to claim that she was fine, the quaking world shuddered to a halt.
She lifted her head and surveyed the island. The screams that had filled the air were replaced with eerie silence. No sound filtered to her ears—none except Bash’s heavy breathing.
“What happened?” she asked once more, gripping Bash’s shirt, her hands at his back. She wasn’t sure she wished to know, given how his face contorted in uncharacteristic fear.
“I plan to find out, for certain, but I cannot ignore what I know to be true,” was all he said, hauling her closer to his chest. She could hear his heart beating wildly. What did he suspect?
As much as she wanted to ask him more, her lips remained frozen, her heart beating wildly from the island’s initial assault. Bash’s hold was as fierce as his heart, even though the apparent danger seemed to have passed. He moved his hands to the small of her back and rubbed absent, soothing circles there with his fingers.
“I’m fine, Bash,” she said again, searching his wild face for answers. He turned his attention from the island and peered down to meet her eyes.
As if realizing he still held her, Bash loosened his grip but didn’t let go entirely. “We need to get you back to your rooms. You’ll be safe there.”
Safe there? She felt safe here. With him.
She hated how secure she felt in his hold. He didn’t have to send Adrian away. He could’ve let his commander deal with her instead of personally seeing to her wellbeing. He was a king, after all. And yet, he was here, wrapped up in her arms, guarding her in the only way he knew how.
Suddenly, the humid breeze felt too heavy. Suffocating.
“You can let go now,” she whispered, even though she liked the feel of his weight.
Bash flinched at her words. His hands fell to his sides, and the king took a step back, his eyes never leaving hers. She took in the shark on his forearm, its beady eyes reproachful as he vanished to the underside of Bash’s arm.
Something had happened tonight that frightened the king, and it wasn’t just the offerings or the quake that shook the island.
Could it be…
Among the myths surrounding Azantian, one stood out in her mind, a story that claimed Azantian was a prison, and that the sea’s nefarious children, the beasts of sailors’ worst nightmares, were entombed below its shores.
Margrete shivered and looked up at Bash with wide eyes. She was ready to open her mouth and ask him if what she feared was true, but the rigid set of his jaw deterred her. The alarm twisting his features told her now wasn’t the time to ask questions.
“Let’s get you back,” he murmured, lifting a hand for her to take. “I’m sure the danger has passed, but I’d rather you be safely inside the walls of the palace.”
Margrete looked at his outstretched hand, contemplating. She noted the slight tremble.
When her fingers grazed his, surprise softened his sharp features as though he hadn’t expected her to accept. Margrete was stunned that she did as well.
Chapter Seventeen
Margrete
The morning after the quake, her breakfast arrived on a silver tray as usual. This time, however, something else accompanied her eggs and toast.
A book.
Before digging into her plate and devouring her tea, Margrete picked up the thick tome which looked to have been read numerous times. The pages were yellowed with age. Tides of Revenge, the title read, and a sword embossed the cover in gold.
She brought the cup of steaming tea to her lips and opened to the first page. There, she found a single word circle
d in black ink.
Pirate.
Her brows scrunched, but she kept reading…until the tenth page, when rogues attacked the protagonist’s ship. In the scene, one of the rogues held a dagger to the hero’s throat, but the assailant hesitated to make the killing blow, and the story’s hero escaped his hold.
Scrawled in the bottom right corner of the page, with an arrow pointing to the skirmish, were five words.
This reminded me of you.
Margrete scoffed, knowing exactly who bestowed this gift. She flipped through the pages and found several other notes, most teasing. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine the laughter that laced Bash’s every scribbled word.
That afternoon, Adrian fetched her for another training session, and she abandoned the novel, but when he brought her back to her chambers, she hastily grabbed it and resumed her reading. More often than not, she found herself smiling at the king’s jokes. At the circled words meant for her eyes only.
At dinner that night, Bash didn’t mention the book, but she caught him looking her way whenever she glanced up from her plate, a spark only a secret could ignite.
She bit back her smile.
The next day, after she stayed up well into the night to finish reading of the pirate and his high-seas adventure, another book arrived with breakfast, this one thin and blue.
She opened it, expecting another work of fiction, but she wasn’t prepared for what she saw hidden between the pages.
Poetry.
Margrete flipped the book in her hands. It had to be some kind of mistake. A man like Bash wouldn’t favor such heartfelt and flowery words.
There were no scratches of ink scribbled in the corners of this book, though she found the corners of several pages folded, as though the owner wished to be able to return to his favorite poems whenever he desired.
One particular earmarked page caught her interest—
The Lure
* * *
The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea Page 13
