by K. M. Shea
“I believe the festival was a success. The closing ceremony went well,” Prince Callan said. “I hope the marina opening tonight goes just as well.”
“Yes, even if it is more than a little superfluous to open it. Until those typhoons die down, our trading is dead in the water. Even our two weather mages can’t force their way through the storms now,” King Rory said, his mouth a grim slash. “It was only good luck that Viggo made it back in time from the wedding of those Erlauf royals.”
Weather mages can’t get through? Dylan tried to open her mouth to ask and glared at her plate when no noise came out.
“Why can’t I attend the marina opening?” Princess Nessa asked.
“Because you’re too young,” Prince Viggo said. Princess Nessa stuck her tongue out at him, and Prince Viggo playfully sneered back at her. “You’re not missing anything. It’s dead boring,” he added.
“You’re just saying that,” Princess Nessa said.
“Am not. Would you like to listen to grownups talk about exports and imports and gross national product?” Prince Viggo asked. “I’d much rather be riding.”
Dylan helped herself to two biscuits from the tray of bread as she watched the brother and sister. Viggo wasn’t much over fifteen, but the way he played with his sibling reminded Dylan of her sisters. Dylan sighed wistfully and leaned back in her chair as she remembered swimming with Maili, Muriel, Murphy, Mairead, and Maureen. It was always so much fun to twirl through kelp and seaweed with her sisters.
Stop it. Pay attention! Dylan shook her head to clear it. There’s no sense sighing over memories when I have my pelt to seek. Besides, it wasn’t that picture perfect. Bossy Maureen would never leave me be when we swam!
“You were confident last night, Father. If you act the same tonight, I don’t think anyone else will catch on to your worry,” Prince Callan said.
“Perhaps not, but they know it. They must know it. We’re a trading country that’s been forcibly isolated. Our most powerful families all own trading companies. This weather hurts them, and it hurts us all. Banditry is on the rise—probably due to all the unemployed sailors. And they’re making a killing,” King Rory said, shredding a piece of toast.
“How?” Prince Viggo asked. “We don’t land trade. At all.”
“You are correct. The Chronos Mountains prevent land trade routes with other countries. But, all our inner-Ringsted trading must be shipped from one end of the country to the other by land traders, since the boats are stranded,” King Rory said.
Dylan took in the defeated slump to his posture as she ate some elderberries—they were out of season, but she suspected they had been frozen over the winter, for they were iced—like a desert. The conversation paused as the royals chewed, and she longed to have a voice to prod it onward.
Bandits? Land trading? Someone, please ask for more information. Or comment on it. Anything! Curse my unspeaking tongue—I want to know!
“I wouldn’t be so sure the bandits are out-of-work sailors,” Prince Callan finally said. “It’s unfair to blame it on them. Besides, our sailors are the good sort. I don’t think they would turn to marauding.”
“Perhaps not,” King Rory sighed.
“You eat a lot,” Princess Nessa said, looking at Dylan with curious eyes.
Prince Callan froze next to Dylan, but Dylan nodded in acknowledgement and offered the princess a slice of dried apple from her plate.
Princess Nessa grinned and took the slice. She popped it in her mouth before offering Dylan a funny-looking pastry she had been trying to avoid.
Dylan reluctantly tried the pastry, surprised to find it was sweet and flavored with honey. She smiled at Princess Nessa and nodded in thanks.
The princess giggled and ate a mouthful of eggs.
Prince Callan looked from Dylan to Princess Nessa, a bemused smile on his lips, but the king hadn’t even noticed the exchange.
“We must hope the Veneno Conclave will soon have time to investigate these storms—to be so unmoving is unnatural. And their position is disconcerting,” King Rory said before eating a piece of toast.
“And the storms continue to build,” Prince Callan added, picking at his eggs.
So the storms stop country business, er, trading. Based on the king’s posture, I would say it must be terrible. I wish they would talk more about it. And how do they not shrivel up and starve, eating as little as they do? Dylan looked back and forth between King Rory and Prince Callan.
“What function are we throwing tomorrow night?” Prince Viggo asked.
“A royal dinner, I think,” King Rory said, his brow puckering. “Your mother is organizing it.”
“Yes,” Prince Callan confirmed. “Although I believe it is, above all else, an opportunity for the ladies to parade their beauty about.”
Wait! What about the storms and bandits?
“I thought that’s what tonight’s marina opening is for.” Prince Viggo frowned.
“Tonight is for the nobilities involved with trading. The festival was for the commoners,” Prince Callan said.
“Then when do we get to do something for us men?” Prince Viggo asked. “Like…a riding party?”
“Not in the first week, I’m afraid. Sorry, son,” King Rory said with a half smile. “You could always organize your own outing. Just be sure to take some guards. All these bandits,” King Rory growled.
WHAT BANDITS! I was a dunce for asking Angelique to seal my voice—by a humpback’s tail!
“That’s a jolly idea,” Prince Viggo brightened.
“Can I come?” Princess Nessa asked.
“No,” King Rory said.
“Perhaps you would like to join the party, Miss Dylan?” Prince Callan asked. “I would guard your safety myself. And your…companions…are welcome to come along as well,” he said, glancing back at Bump and Lump.
Dylan almost choked on her shrimp, caught off guard by the sudden offer. She took a sip of her apple cider before shaking her head at Prince Callan.
“Are you sure?” Prince Viggo asked. “I could lend you a horse, if you don’t have one. I have a nice mare I was planning to let Nessa use when she gets big enough. She’s calm and steady.”
Dylan gave the prince a tight smile, but shook her head as she finished her dried apple slices.
Princess Nessa watched Dylan curiously. “I’ll be right back,” she announced and pushed her chair away from the table. She ran across the room and thundered down the spiral staircase, narrowly avoiding Bump and Lump.
“Don’t run indoors,” King Rory called after his wayward child. “Where’s Fianna?” he asked, looking down the table with a frown.
“Still sleeping,” Prince Viggo said.
“She was up until the festival ended, I think,” Prince Callan said.
King Rory’s frown deepened. “Was she still swooning over that Logan chap?”
“Son of the Lord and Lady of Twin Falls? Yes,” Prince Viggo snickered.
“Your mother should talk with her,” King Rory said. He grimaced. “Perhaps we should both talk with her.”
Dylan polished off her last roll with a bemused smile. Although there were more differences between humans and selkies than she would have thought possible, it seemed that family conversation was similar. Dylan had also spent many days crowded around the table with her parents and five sisters, talking about everything from clan matters to boys—to her father’s chagrin.
Princess Nessa galloped back up the stairs, holding something flat above her head, with a pouch hanging from her wrist. “I found it! I got the smallest one—it’s easiest to carry.”
“What do you have, Nessa?” King Rory eyed his youngest child.
“A slate—and chalk!” Nessa said, plopping the slate and pouch on the table.
Dylan recognized the items from her childhood—she had learned to write on a slate instead of wasting costly paper. Dylan suspected that was the point of this particular slate as well, as there was evidence of lines drawn on for the y
oung princess to practice on.
Thank you, thank you—bless you, child. As soon as I get my voice back, I will tell everything in the sea to love and adore you! Dylan took the slate with a big smile.
“Nessa, that might not be—” Prince Callan started. He cut himself off when Dylan opened the pouch and selected a piece of chalk so she could write.
Thank you.
Princess Nessa beamed. “Of course! Now we can talk! Do you have any siblings? Are they sisters? I always wished Callan was a girl. He’s more fun than Fianna, but he’d be even more fun if he were a girl.”
Prince Callan shook his head, amused.
“Nessa!” Prince Viggo groaned.
“It is a good idea.” King Rory said.
“To make Callan a girl? Can we call him Claire?”
“No, the slate and chalk,” her father said, entertained.
“Oh, well, it was obvious. Nurse has told me the story of the beauty and the beast a hundred times—it’s my favorite bedtime tale.”
“You mean Prince Severin and Princess Elle of Loire?” Prince Callan asked.
“Sure,” Nessa said. “Anyway, the beast’s servants cannot talk—because of his curse, you know? So in order to communicate with the beauty, they used chalkboards.”
A wise idea. Dylan sipped delicious tea served from a dainty cup.
“You do know that story is real. Right, Nessa?” Prince Viggo asked.
“You can’t fool me, Viggo. I’m not a baby,” Nessa said, folding her arms across her chest. “Next, you’ll try to tell me that selkies are real!”
Dylan inhaled her tea and broke into a coughing fit.
“Are you alright, dear?” King Rory asked, concern creasing his lips as Dylan coughed on.
Dylan nodded and gulped a goblet of fresh water to clear her throat.
“Selkie lore is part of our culture, Nessa,” Prince Callan said. He watched Dylan with concern and refilled her goblet with water from a crystal pitcher.
“Everyone knows they’re just bed-time stories for babies,” Princess Nessa said, pushing her nose up.
Dylan stared at her slate, wondering if she should write something, or if she should spill her story to the royal family.
“Even if they are, you’re still just a kid yourself,” Prince Viggo said.
“Am not!”
“Are too!”
Dylan rubbed a piece of chalk between her fingers and considered her options. Should I?
“Am not!”
“Are too!”
“Children!”
“Is something wrong, Miss Dylan?” Prince Callan asked as the two younger siblings glared at each other across the table.
Dylan smiled and rolled her shoulders back. It’s not my secret to tell, she decided. She adjusted her grip on her chalk before writing, No. Thank you for breakfast—it was delicious!
“Of course, dear. Come whenever you like. We are the only ones mad enough to be up at such an ungodly hour—excluding the servants,” King Rory said, brushing a crumb from his lap.
“Whoa, Nessa is right. You really did pack it away,” Viggo said, staring at the empty trays around Dylan’s plate.
“Viggo,” Callan frowned.
“Do you wanna see the palace? I could show you all the best spots,” Nessa said, latching a hand onto Dylan’s droopy sleeve.
Could you show me the kitchens? Dylan asked. Breakfast made her realize that it would be good to be able to find the kitchens so she wouldn’t have to starve in silence in the future.
“Of course! Cook will make hotcakes for you any time of the day if you just ask,” Nessa said, jumping in place.
“Take care not to wake any of the other guests,” King Rory said, standing reluctantly. “And Miss Dylan, please allow me to extend an invitation to you and your guardian for the marina opening tonight. It should be…amusing,” King Rory said.
Thank you for the invitation, Dylan wrote. She stood and picked up the pouch of chalk Princess Nessa had given her with the slate, pulling the strings so the little bag was tightly closed.
“You’re welcome. Nessa—no running!” King Rory called as the princess hurried across the room.
“Come on, Dylan. Viggo, Callan, are you coming with?”
“No,” Viggo answered. “I’m going to see if I can organize a horseback-riding event. Don’t bore our guest to death, Nessa. If you’ve seen one dusty castle, you’ve seen them all.” “Spoilsport. Callan?”
Callan checked a pocket watch that hung from his belt. “I have a little time. I would gladly escort you and Miss Dylan,” Callan said. When he stood up, he held his hand out again.
Again? Dylan thought, pushing her lips to one side. She turned to look at the breakfast table, hoping to find a roll she could give him.
Callan laughed—a rich sound that came from deep within him.
Prince Viggo and King Rory stopped at the door, looks of puzzlement on their faces.
“Are you alright, Callan?” King Rory asked as Dylan swiped two rolls, juggling the food, her slate, and her chalk.
“I’m fine,” Callan said after several extended moments of laughter. He drew his shoulders up and gave Dylan a refreshed smile. “I apologize, Miss Dylan,” he said before holding his arm out.
Dylan, sick of grappling to hold arms as if she were an invalid who needed assistance in walking, took her chalk pouch, hung it on Callan’s wrist, and walked off to the stairs. Somewhere behind her Callan made a choking noise, once again amused by her conduct.
Dylan paused by her “guards,” and pinched her lips together before offering them each a breakfast roll. Even the idiot’s men shouldn’t be forced to endure hunger.
Slowly, the two men reached out and took the offered food.
Dylan nodded in satisfaction and glided after Nessa. Callan was close behind her, and Bump and Lump trailed their trio like golems.
“This wing of the palace is mostly bedrooms ’n stuff.” Princess Nessa grabbed Dylan’s hand and held it. “It’s where we live, so it has our school rooms and playrooms, Da’s personal library, and our dining room for when we aren’t throwing parties. The main wing of the palace has the ballrooms, the big kitchens, the portrait gallery, the big library, and lots more.”
Dylan adjusted the princess’s grip on her hand and asked, How does the food arrive so hot in your dining room, then?
“There’s a smaller kitchen just off our dining room. The food is cooked there, but they shut the kitchen down when we aren’t eating private meals. No one will be there for the rest of the day,” Prince Callan said.
“So if you’re looking for a snack, it’s the main kitchen you want,” Princess Nessa said, romping down the hallway. “The main wing is the most fun.”
Why is that?
“The wing off the marina is so boring,” Princess Nessa complained.
“That wing is where most state affairs occur—during the summer, anyway,” Prince Callan explained. “The king and queen receive business visitors there; there are many meeting rooms and offices, and there are rooms filled with records. It’s not very exciting for an eight-year-old.”
“It’s not very exciting for anyone!”
Together, Prince Callan and Princess Nessa trooped Dylan from one end of the palace to the other. She began to think that Viggo might be right. The rooms began to blur after a while. The cathedral, with its stone architecture and colored-glass windows in the main wing of the castle, and the portrait gallery, which held hundreds of portraits and paintings of Prince Callan and Princess Nessa’s ancestors, however, were exceptions. She promised herself—if time and circumstances allowed—to revisit the gallery. Selkies had nothing like it.
They moved on to the practice grounds—there were two, one for guards and soldiers and another for nobility (“More so we don’t get in the guards’ way than for class separation,” Prince Callan said)—were also interesting. It was fascinating to see the different weapons the Ringsted humans used and to watch the ways they fought.
By the time they finished the tour, it was noon, and Dylan’s stomach was growling. The royal siblings showed Dylan the kitchens before hurrying off—Nessa for her afternoon lessons, and Prince Callan for a meeting.
Dylan made instant friends with the kitchen staff—who didn’t even blink at the rough-looking Bump and Lump shadowing her. She carried on over the food they made and ate it with such obvious pleasure that all the cooks and kitchen maids told her to drop by whenever she was hungry.
So Dylan—her belly full after eating a large lunch of crab, mackerel, potatoes, and kale—snagged a roll and made her way back to her room, intending to see if Jarlath had recovered from the festival. She dropped by her room to re-arrange her dagger—it had poked her in the stomach all through meeting the kitchen servants—where she found an official invitation to the marina opening.
Dylan took the letter and her roll, skirted Bump and Lump—who had taken up their usual post outside her quarters—and trotted to Jarlath’s room.
Jarlath sat in a chair, his skin a sickly green, with a cloth pressed over his eyes.
“What?” Jarlath said, his voice petulant.
Dylan delivered the invitation and ate her roll.
Jarlath peeled back his cloth and looked at the invitation. He groaned before putting his cloth back in place. “—nother ruddy party. No! I’m not going. I’m dying.”
Dylan said nothing and finished her roll. He’d been so full of threats back in his “treasury,” but the man was as fierce as a hermit crab. Makes it better for me!
“You can go if you want—but Oisin and Morri will be watching you. Stop chewing so loudly!”
Dylan dusted off her hand, reclaimed the invitation, and left—taking care to slam the door shut with such force it shook. She smiled in satisfaction when she heard Jarlath groan.
Bump was stone-faced as Dylan crossed the hallway with a smug smile, but Lump raised a bushy eyebrow. She paused for a moment to consider the big guard—the only talking one of the duo, the one that knew her name. He didn’t react further, so she continued on to her room.
