by Wren Handman
Cover
Title Page
Command the Tides
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Wren Handman
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Omnific Publishing
Los Angeles
Copyright Information
Command the Tides, Copyright © 2015 by Wren Handman
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
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Omnific Publishing
1901 Avenue of the Stars, 2nd Floor
Los Angeles, California 90067
www.omnificpublishing.com
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First Omnific eBook edition, March 2015
First Omnific trade paperback edition, March 2015
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
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Handman, Wren.
Command the Tides / Wren Handman – 1st ed
ISBN: 978-1-623421-81-6
1. Fantasy—Fiction. 2. Historical Romance—Fiction. 3. LGBT—Fiction. 4. Royalty—Fiction. I. Title
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Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw
Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna
Map by Coreen Montagna
Dedication
To Kali,
for helping me turn a boring backdrop
into a world worthy of the story I was telling.
Map of Midvalen
Prelude
IN MIRANOV, IT WAS SAID that on a night when the sky seemed determined to meet the sea, Ashua was weeping. Tonight she deeply grieved, and it was easy to see how imagination could turn the wind whipping the waves into the goddess’s moaning. Cobbled streets glistened faintly in the distance; a dark space between water and oil lamps was the only indication of the harbor square.
Then, laughter. Piercing the storm, deep voices called out as a crush of men jostled and pushed their way down the gangplank, oblivious to the danger of the rain-slicked boards. A baritone voice cut through the general noise, and heads turned in response.
“Darren! Where are you running to in such a hurry, lad?”
Someone jeered and friendly shoves were exchanged, dark shapes mindful not to knock anyone off the narrow gangplank.
“Is ’e hiding a woman from his mates, then? Go on, Darren! Who is she?” an anonymous voice called from amidst the sailors, cheered by its fellows.
A month at sea is a long time, and the reward of a night spent on dry land made jests come quick and easy. A dark shape, lithe and tall, separated from the group as it reached the bottom of the gangplank, turning to plant its hands on its hips in a defiant pose.
“A better sort n’any o you will see, that’s for sure!” he said. Yelling to make himself heard over a rush of jeers and expletives, he put on a mock high-class voice and pranced a few steps sideways. “Got herself a little shop, she does, just on the corner of that there market square, right beside the baker.”
A few men answered that with inventive ideas about just what Darren and his well-to-do lady friend would be up to so late in the evening. The group transformed back into a mass of bodies as someone dragged Darren back, launching bodily atop him.
The baritone voice from earlier spoke up again, laughing. “I never saw you as the kind to have a girl, my lad—I always saw you as the kind to have a hundred!”
Everyone devolved again into laughter, and for a moment it was impossible to pick out individual words or shapes as they wrestled and played. A few men fought others to the ground, and one was launched almost into the water before a helpful hand dragged him back.
“Go on, then! It’s not what you think, and that’s for sure,” Darren yelled from the center of the group, which was followed by more lewd examples of just what they might have been thinking.
After a few more pushes and another near-dunking, the group dissolved, heading for the nearby taverns and inns that would be their refuges for the next few days. Darren stayed in the center of the square, trying to fix some of the damage done to his already threadbare clothes.
The large baritone man and another smaller form shadowed him, still needling him. “And just what is it, if it isn’t what I think, then? Go on, lad!”
Darren struck a pose, staring off into the darkness of the market in front of them. His hair hung damp against his face, making what little of him could be seen in the dim light a rather sorry sight. “What it is, is—”
His words cut off abruptly, body staggering back like a marionette. For half a second he tottered there, shocked, unable to process the reality of the arrow embedded in his shoulder. Even as he took his first step back, falling, the other two men were in front of him, ready to block the next missile with their own bodies. Down Darren went, a puddle of blood washing away even as it formed beneath him, the beat of the rain and the dark square suddenly ominous.
In total silence his crew mates hunched over him, scanning the streets for a sign of the hidden archer. The faint creak of leather and the gentle touch of their hands against the ground were the only sounds they made. Darren moaned, barely audible over the rain, but the large man put a surprisingly gentle hand against his mouth to silence him. The small man drew a blade and with one quick motion flicked it out, letting the momentum carry his body forward. An unlikely shot in the dark and the rain, but like the impossible arrow, the dagger found its mark, a grunt and rattling gasp announcing its success. Quickly, moving with the surety forged in battlefields, the two men hoisted Darren up.
“Where?” the thin man asked. His voice was still and direct, no hint of turmoil in his stance or what little could be seen of his face. His companion, by contrast, was agitated, his muscles twitching and jumping. He adjusted and readjusted his slick grip on Darren, who had lost consciousness when they hauled him up.
“We haven’t a safe house yet,” the baritone man hissed, mindful that others could still be concealed by the shadows.
“Aye. So where?” the thin man repeated.
“To his lady friend,” the baritone said, resigned. “And let us pray he has chosen his lover well.”
In Sephria, it was said that on a night when the sky seemed determined to meet the sea, Yariel was being mourned. Tonight his mother deeply grieved, and it was easy to see how the raindrops against a glass pane could be a mother’s tears for her dying son.
Tonight, the king felt like an old man. He leaned his forehead against the glass, feeling the cold weather on his skin. He could almost see shapes in the dark, and he wondered who was out at their business in this weather. The guardsmen, the porters, the maids making a dash from the scullery to the garden shed? One of the benefits of kingship, he mused, was never being required to travel in inclement weather. Weighed against the pain of a troubled conscience, he supposed the wet would be a greater hardship on his old bones.
The door behind him opened, and Clara burst through, wailing, a torn dress fluttering around her like a ship’s sail. “Papa!” she sobbed, and launched herself into the arms she knew would catch her.
He swung her around and scooped her up, though at ten she was getting too old to hold in his arms for long. He compromised by settling down on the settee by the window, cradling her in his lap. “What in Yariel’s name have you done to your dress?” he demanded sternly, even as he soothingly patted her back.
“It was Celia!” his youngest daughter wailed.
“We do not blame our si
sters,” King Peter Octarion reminded the little princess. “If you have problems with your sisters, you work them out between yourselves. Family should always present a united front.”
She sniffed, turning soulful brown eyes on her father in a blatant attempt to turn him to her side. “I know,” she allowed, “but she locked me on the roof.”
“And what were you doing on the roof? In a storm?” he demanded.
She bit her lip. “Um…well…”
“And what would your mother say, if we told her about this little incident, hm?” he asked, gentle again.
Clara turned this over in her mind again. Of all his daughters, Peter thought, she was the quickest. “Perhaps we needn’t tell her,” Clara suggested. “I could fix up my dress just like new, and Celia could apologize for locking me out.”
“Ah, and how will you make her apologize?” he asked, setting her back on her feet. “Diplomacy is all about leverage.”
“I could say you said she must,” she suggested.
“Only resort to lying as a last move,” Peter cautioned. “It isn’t a ploy you can use twice. It ruins your credibility.”
“Hm.” Clara tapped her foot against the ground, and Peter saw it was bare.
“Clara?” he asked.
“Yes, Papa?”
He pointed to her bare foot and crossed his arms. She blushed and tried to hide her toes under the ripped hem of her dress.
“Go find your slippers, go find your nurse, and go think about how to convince your sister to apologize, and come ask if you need help,” he told her, and pushed her playfully away with his boot.
“I will, Father. Thank you!” she called over her shoulder, already running for the door. He considered telling her to slow down and be decorous, but he decided that was the nurse’s job, not his. He enjoyed spoiling the girls, though Eneika said he was a terrible influence.
His valet entered with a quick, brief knock. “Sire?”
“What is it?”
“Would you like me to send for some more wood for the fire? There’s a chill tonight,” he said, setting down a tray with a glass of port.
King Octarion shook his head, moving back to his place by the window. “Not tonight, Adam.”
Tonight, on his order, men were moving through the storm. Tonight, though he would never have to walk through inclement weather, others would do so on his word. And though, tonight, the blood would not be on his hands, it brought him back twenty-three years. To the night when he was the one with rain-damp boots, with a dagger in his belt, and blood on his hands.
Chapter One
IN MIRANOV, IT WAS SAID that on a night when the sky seemed determined to meet the sea, Ashua was weeping. Taya had always thought it was a stupid expression. It was only weather, and saying it was more than that seemed like a desperate attempt to humanize the uncaring elements. When a sailor drowned, Ashua wasn’t bringing him back to her bosom. He had fallen off a boat.
She moved to the window and flicked aside the curtain, peering out into the dark street. She had stayed up later than she meant to tonight, but it was impossible to tell the hour—rain was pouring down, and thick clouds were completely obscuring the moon. It could have been one hand above the skyline or fully in the middle of the sky, and she would have no way of knowing. Still, the shops beside hers had all put out their lanterns; hers were the only ones on the whole block still lit. It had to be late—even the baker’s across the way was dark, and they were wont to keep their lights on well into the night hours.
Lightning flashed, and the bluish light made the cobblestone street look like a rushing river. Thunder crashed, and she thoroughly embarrassed herself with a shriek of surprise. Dropping the curtain, she marched back to the chair where she had been working and picked up the project that had kept her up so late. The order was due the day after tomorrow, and she had burned through almost an entire candle finishing the delicate hem. It was a waste of good wax, and work she could easily have done in the morning, but she had been too on edge to sleep. Something about the storm was getting to her.
She shook her head, frustrated by her own foolishness, and blew out her lone candle. The action lost its edge of defiance as she scrambled out of the pitch-dark room, taking the stairs from her home down into her shop at double-time. Each stair protested loudly in its wooden voice, and the familiar noise was soothing. At the bottom of the stairs she stepped into lamplight in a room so familiar she could have closed her eyes and told a person where anything was located, or walked around it blindfolded. The wooden walls gleamed with a gentle red hue, shining slightly from the care she put into them every week. The floor was equally spotless, any dirt from customer’s shoes meticulously cleaned before it could soak in and stain the wood. The counter running along one wall had once belonged to a butcher, and despite relentless cleanings, had never lost the sickening-sweet smell of blood. Along the far wall, cloth dummies had been set up with examples of her work, and a curtain in the back hid both fitting rooms and workrooms from view. Behind the counter were boxes and drawers, carefully labeled, with her collection of trims and buttons inside. She moved over to the counter and carefully folded the finished skirt, laying it beside the matching bodice. Tomorrow she would fasten them together, and the blue ribbon that had come in that morning would be a good finisher.
A flash of lighting lit the room, and she realized she had forgotten to draw the blinds, never mind dousing the lanterns. She cursed herself for the waste, wondering how she had gotten so wrapped up in this project. Lamp oil was none too cheap these days, what with the unrest in Sephria, and it was doing no one any good lighting the stormy street.
Her footsteps echoed eerily as she crossed to the door, and she found herself unaccountably on edge. She had lived on her own for two years now—a storm shouldn’t send her skittering like a child. Yet she found herself glancing nervously over her shoulder into the depths of the stairwell, looking for hints of movement in the gloom. Lightning flashed again, revealing the empty stairs, and her own foolishness. The storm must have been right overhead and thunder rolled as she reached out to untie the curtains. She fumbled over the knots, managing at last to get them untied and closed. She swore at herself, hating to feel ridiculous, but unable to stop the tide of unease. She swallowed a lump in her throat and wrenched the outside door open, sending it crashing against the wall in her haste.
The rain was coming down so hard that the floor in front of the door was soaked in seconds, and she awkwardly stretched one arm out in an effort to reach the small outside lantern without exposing herself unduly to the elements. She managed to pull the lantern’s latch and swing the door open without wetting anything more than her arm and the hem of her pants, and the wind and rain put out the small flame without any intervention on her part. As she repeated the process with the other light, something in the darkness caught her attention.
There were spots in her vision from staring at the flame after so long in the dark, but she could have sworn she saw a huge shape, lumbering toward her down the street. Her breath caught in the back of her throat, and she squinted to see past the blur of white light in her vision. There was definitely something there, but she firmly told herself it was probably a tinker, lumbering home in the rain. She shouldn’t be scared—she should feel sorry for the poor sap, with blocks to go before he made it to his bed. And if it wasn’t a tinker, well, even in weather like this the Gray Men would be out, taking care of any problems. Though the shape had been odd, as wide as three men…
She straightened up and stepped back, closing the door as slowly and deliberately as she could, not rushing. Still, she felt better as she slid the bar into place across the sturdy oak barrier.
“Honestly, woman,” she murmured to herself, scuffing water off the floor with one stockinged foot. She almost left it, knowing she had to be up early the next morning—Annelle would be over, and she always made such a fuss if she thought Taya wasn’t sleeping well, forcing sleeping draughts at her and loading her down with
RestWell charms.
Thinking of her friend made her smile, and helped ground her more firmly in the real world. She grabbed a cast-off piece of cotton from the counter and mopped up the water, then blew out the lamps around the room. When she reached the last one she took it off its hook so she could carry it upstairs, taking the security of its light with her.
She had only reached the second step when a loud pounding rocked the door behind her. She spun in place, holding out the trembling lantern. She half-expected the door to have caved in, from the sound the pounding had made, but of course it was fine. She took a quick breath, staring at it in complete stillness, praying she had misheard—another crash of thunder, surely!
The pounding started again, more urgently, and this time there was no mistaking it. Knocking, and surely a man to judge by the strength behind the blows. She scrambled for a pair of scissors from behind the counter before moving cautiously toward the door. Getting the bar off the door was awkward with the scissors in one hand and the lantern in the other, but she managed it. Holding the scissors loosely at her side she opened the door, letting it swing freely to the side, the light falling past her to illuminate the figure outside. At first, she thought it was some hideous monster—surely it was the strange shape from outside, grotesque and misshapen!
She was thankful she didn’t say anything, because she quickly realized it seemed as large as three men because it was three men—their greased cloaks were all the same color, which was what made them blend into a single form. In fact, on second glance they made an amusing picture. The man on the left towered over the other two, and he had one arm around the middle man, whose chin was touching his chest. The man on the right, on the contrary, was almost a head shorter than his burden, and though he must surely have been overwhelmed, he bore it well, no sign of strain on his face. The outside men were strangers, but as she stared at their unconscious burden, she realized in disgust that she knew exactly who he was.
