Rapunzel and the Griffin Prince

by Savage, Vivienne

  * * *

  Everything hurt. Everything. He’d tumbled at the end and came out of it in a heap, discovering the frigid ground of the vineyards was every bit as hard as it appeared at a distance.

  He’d been prepared to go in for the kill until he’d realized his assailant had a feminine shape with curves—the traits of a woman well into adulthood.

  Groaning, he flopped onto his side and lurched to all fours again before dropping his hind end against the cold ground. He tried to shake it off, but the unrelenting pain in his left wing didn’t abate. The warm trickle of fresh blood soaked through the downy plumage beneath it, a broken blood feather leaking fat droplets on the ground. Shit.

  Movement shifted in front of him. His gaze darted from the injury to the female snow creature, her small hand outstretched and icy fingers extended toward his wing.

  Instinct took over. He rose tall and fluffed up to appear larger, spreading his wings, although it hurt like hell to move the left one at all. His show of enormous size lasted only a few seconds before he realized she wasn’t attacking.

  She shrank back instead.

  Hot blood continued to well from the broken feather shaft, prompting him to ignore her long enough to twist his head beneath the injured wing. He tugged the feather free and tossed it aside on the vines. The last thing he needed was to bleed to death and be found on the hillside while Ana and Alistair charged Eisland wrongfully for the crime. Stars above, it’d be all his fault. He didn’t fear death, but if he died, he at least wanted it to be for a reason.

  Relieved the worst was over, he dropped his haunches again and relaxed. The creature had moved toward his discarded feather and lifted it in the air without using her hands, staring at it with amazed eyes.

  James had described the female elementals of the mountains as hungry and bloodthirsty stone nymphs, barely human creatures, but this thing seemed curious. Her snowy attack hadn't harmed him, and his injury had already clotted. He watched her for a while with his head canted.

  “Are you a nymph?” he asked, wondering if such creatures spoke.

  She shook her head and turned the feather over and over in the air, studying it. The drop of blood at the very tip of the broken shaft froze into a perfect ruby drop.

  Fascinated, he shuffled his wings and moved closer despite the frigid wind emanating from her. “What are you?” he persisted. Certainly not human. He racked his brain, thinking over the many creatures he'd learned about over the years. Ifrit were fire and air. Was there a variant of jinn that created ice?

  She shrank away from him. Blast.

  Now that he thought of what happened, he felt like the foolish one who had terrorized her. He’d been snooping in the garden and disturbed some poor creature. Perhaps she was a simple ice spirit, the Eisland equivalent of a sprite. He’d ask James and Ana—not his hosts, as he didn't want to tip them off that he’d been creeping around at night.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said in a softer voice. “I know I may look large and terrifying, but I’m not. You may have startled me, little one, but I swear you have nothing at all to fear from me.” He folded his wings down to his sides, the tenderness fading, and relaxed his posture until he no longer towered above her.

  The creature stiffened, no longer skittish and shy. Both hands went to her hips, the language of an angry woman identical across all cultures and kingdoms. He blinked at her. What had he done?

  “I meant no offense,” he murmured, bowing his head to her until his beak was almost level with his knees.

  She blew on the feather with its frozen blood drop and sent it back to him. Then her form dissipated into snowflakes and mist.

  He spun around in a circle but saw no sign of her, no frost on the wind or gentle snowflakes. He sighed. Whatever she had been, she had been lovely indeed. He plucked up the feather in his beak and tested his wings, delighted to find nothing ached too much for the return flight to the castle.

  Tomorrow night, he’d look for those vineyards supposedly tended by slaves. Tonight, he’d better hurry back before his presence was missed.

  * * *

  At the start of the next day, Muir drew a hot bath and soaked away the lingering aches caused by his crash, only twice having to chase away amiable maids offering their services. They were constantly there, batting their lashes at him and asking if m’lord needed any company during his baths, or warm comforts during the nights.

  Afterward, he donned his formal garb, pairing his clan tartan with one of many fine shirts tailored for the occasion of rubbing elbows with royalty and nobles alike. Anastasia had insisted he dress the part of a high lord, even sending him to Creag Morden’s royal city of Lorehaven to be fitted for a new wardrobe. He’d been disappointed by their lack of knowledge when it came to Ocland fashion, but the tailor had made a solemn vow to be well-versed when he returned.

  For a moment, Muir admired the pale cream shirt against the charcoal, silver, and dark purple tartan, turning left and right in the mirror. He ran his fingers through his hair a few times, eventually caught on that he was preening, and tore himself away from it.

  Fillian waited for him in the hall, the man’s fist poised to knock. “Ah, there you are, my lord. King Harold is prepared to grant your personal audience as requested.”

  “Excellent.” He would have clapped Fillian on the shoulder if the fragile man wouldn’t bend like a reed beneath his hand. “Thank you for arranging this on short notice. It couldn’t be easy, given how often the king is busy.”

  Navigating the castle reminded Muir of wandering a silent graveyard, its vacant halls occupied by the occasional feather-dusting maid or stoic guard. An oppressive gloom lingered in the air, heavy and palpable, crushing his shoulders like iron weights whenever he entered the immense structure.

  Wrong. It pervaded everything, but he shook it off time and time again as their guest. Fillian led him to an open door flanked by two armed members of the royal guard in white steel. Another two waited inside.

  The study had to be one of the least ostentatious rooms he’d seen in the palace. No gold, silver, or jewels winked from the various corners. Instead, the wood-paneled walls had been polished to a satin sheen and marble statuettes gleamed from displays in recessed alcoves. Horns from an unfamiliar creature hung over the hearth, and a shaggy white pelt occupied the floor before it. Perhaps they belonged to the same animal. Whatever it had been, it must have been immense in size.

  “Ah, Lord Muir, welcome.”

  “Greetings, Your Majesty.”

  The king gestured for him to take a seat on a high-backed chair opposite his sturdy desk. “Fillian tells me you desire a private audience to discuss matters on behalf of your kingdom.”

  “I do, Your Majesty. They are matters I hope to keep between our two kingdoms, words for your ears alone.”

  King Harold nodded to the motionless, armor-clad guards standing watch in the corner of the room. Both slipped away and left the study, though their scent lingered in the area, a smell of stale sweat and metal. They hadn’t gone far.

  “I must apologize. I’ve been a poor host since your arrival. I’m not the young man I once was, and the rigors of ruling for so many years have taken their toll.” His thin smile never reached his eyes. They were bleak and black, appearing more shark-like by the second, like the enormous beasts cruising in the Viridian, sometimes surfacing to capture a sea bird. “Now, tell me, what was of such vital importance we needed to speak in absolute privacy?”

  “King Alistair is ready to bring our kingdom out of its isolation. We have enjoyed trade with Creag Morden for many years, and now that we have a bay, we are looking to expand our trade with other nations.”

  “Yes, I was most curious to learn about your bay. I remember sailing past your coastline in my youth. It was nothing but cliffs.”

  Muir smiled, pride in his countrymen overcoming the discomfort the king’s presence created. “A marvel of Oclander ingenuity and cooperative work.”

  “Yes, yes,
it certainly must be a sight.” The king steepled his fingers together. “Of course, there is the matter of the people you’ve put in charge of your burgeoning fleet.”

  “You speak of your former naval officer, James Hook.”

  “A traitor to my country, Lord Muir. One your monarchs refuse to hand over despite the compact our countries are a part of.”

  Having expected the topic to come up, Muir spread his hands and put on a placating smile. “Would you not say the matter of piracy has been resolved without further bloodshed or the loss of more lives?” he asked smoothly.

  “Piracy still exists.”

  “Yes, but the greatest and most powerful players have been defanged.”

  “Be that as it may, Hook should still be brought to us, as per the compact agreements.”

  “One of our own citizens, a great fairy, spoke of an enchanted weapon of great destruction aboard one of your vessels. As I understand, such a creation is a dire breach of the compact.”

  The king froze. His eyes turned hard and beady, dark in his ashen face. “Do you accuse my kingdom of—”

  “I don’t accuse you of anything, King Harold. I am merely stating facts. Queen Anastasia and King Alistair consider themselves peacekeepers. This is a vast sea with many kingdoms at odds, and the fae are an integral part of our nation. They also do not lie.” He leaned forward. “One would say they are almost incapable of lying.”

  “Admiral Teach—”

  “Must have taken his vendetta against James Hook to extremes and acted against your wishes. Unless you’re saying you approved of his methods.”

  “No. No, of course not. As you said, such a weapon is against the compact.”

  “As we all thought. But dear Tinker Bell took quite a liking to Captain Hook, and in favor of maintaining order, our queen proposed the only solution to our dilemma. By taming Hook, we’ve drawn half of the Viridian’s pirates under our control. With them, we will squash any who remain.”

  Harold’s white-knuckled grip upon the arms of his chair eased. “Your queen is a wise woman.”

  “That she is, Your Majesty, and part fae herself.”

  “While I now see the advantage, as you say, to keeping Hook on a tight leash in your kingdom, there still is the disturbing matter of the lies he has levied against us.”

  “Allow me to ease your worries. The only slavery concerning our monarchs are the trade and sale of our fae. As I said, the sprites are an integral part of Cairn Ocland and tied to the births of our little ones. Their number is finite, as they do not breed in the traditional sense.”

  “I see.”

  “Unfortunately, our neighbors do not see, and ties with Liang are strained more than ever.”

  “I’ve found Emperor Da’Wio to be an obstinate and difficult man. They’ve raised the price of silk twice this year and levy incredible taxes against our wines. He’s no friend of Eisland.”

  “An observation you and I share, Your Highness. Despite our best efforts, our negotiations with them have gone poorly, and we’ve had to barricade our border against their continuing encroachment.”

  King Harold’s brows rose. “Worse off than us, I see. At least we still do trade. But not for your sort, I assure you.”

  “We have no reason to believe you are dealing with Liang when it comes to our sprites. Though, we do ask, should any cross your shores, that you free them at once and let us know. We would be most grateful.”

  “Of course, we could certainly do that.”

  “Excellent.” Muir leaned back in his seat, accomplishing the impossible by swallowing the bile in his throat. Spewing so many falsehoods made him feel oily and unclean, no better than the man before him.

  I am better. It’s for a good cause. A necessity, he reminded himself.

  “I’m glad we could come to this understanding. Eisland would be happy to negotiate trades with Cairn Ocland. After all, I’m sure there is much we have to offer one another. But let us save that discussion for another time. Until then, I’ll instruct Fillian to arrange a visit to our vineyards. It is good for our trade partners to observe what goes into our wines, so you better understand their value.”

  “I look forward to the education.”

  Chapter

  Muir’s chance to visit the vineyards came five days after his arrival. Five long, boring days with nothing to show for his presence other than a headache. The chance to escape the castle and its stuffy occupants made the hour-long carriage ride with Fillian worth every torturous second of the steward’s inane prattling.

  He had hoped to find people with a different mindset this far from the city, but their greeting party proved otherwise. Muir was welcomed by a man in a red velvet frock coat and hair powdered mint green. The woman beside him sported matching hair and a pink dress covered with so many frills and layers that Muir thought she resembled an iced cake.

  “Lord Muir, please allow me to present Vintner Jarkon and his wife, Primilla. They produce the absolute best vintages Eisland has to offer.” Fillian bowed to their hosts for the day. Muir settled for a respectful nod.

  “Welcome to Crestreach Estate, Lord Muir.” Jarkon bowed. “We are humbled to have you honor our vineyard with your presence.”

  Muir forced a pleasant smile to his face. “It is I who am honored. I’ve been most eager to see the vineyards your kingdom is so famed for.”

  Jarkon puffed up, proud as any griffin. “Excellent. If you’ll please follow me, I have a carriage ready to give you the grand tour. I hope you won’t mind, but my daughter, Linette, asked if she may join us.”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  They left the royal carriage behind and took seats in a smaller wagon with sturdy wheels designed for rough terrain. Linette waited for them, already in her seat with a fur blanket draped over her lap. Her long, golden hair showed no signs of colored powder, but flowers had been woven into the long tresses.

  Muir felt plain by comparison, lacking their bright colors. Makeup was still a new fashion statement to reach Cairn Ocland, but here in Eisland, even the men had blushing, rosy cheeks and eyes traced by silver.

  Fillian, Primilla, and Jarkon took one bench, forcing Muir to sit beside Linette. It wasn’t that he disliked female company, but that he didn’t understand Eisland women whose every action seemed choreographed to invite a man between their legs. Linette shifted, the movement putting her a little closer. Her dress, the same purple color as her painted lashes, barely contained her breasts.

  “Have you tried our wines in your kingdom?” she asked.

  “I have, yes. My queen is quite fond of your vintages and has brought them in through Creag Morden.”

  The carriage started forward, drawn by two black horses, down a packed road crusted in old snow past the large manor house and into the surrounding hills.

  “As you can see, it is a long and arduous job here in the vineyards.” Jarkon gestured to the vines on either side of the dirt lane. Lines of adult workers filled the narrow rows, each of them wearing thick gloves and protective coats.

  “How much work do the vines require?” Muir asked.

  “Many hours. While the gloves protect the workers, they also make the picking process slower. They can only harvest a few berries at a time. The most skilled can grab four or five.”

  “And how many grapes to make a single bottle?”

  “Hundreds. So, as you can imagine, it takes hours of long, cold labor to bring in a harvest. The results though are worth the effort. Here, have a sample.” Jarkon produced a bottle and small crystal glasses from a basket at his side. The sweet, chilly liquid looked like pale sunlight. “We haven’t exported this vintage beyond Eisland yet, so you’re in for a treat.”

  “The workers must be paid extraordinarily well to devote so much time to the task,” Muir said slyly.

  “Ah, well, yes, of course.” The first tiny glass shook in Jarkon’s hands. He passed it over to Muir before a drop could spill and filled the rest to pass around.

  “D
addy pays those who are free workers,” Linette said during his silence. “Others work here to pay off debts.”

  “Oh?” One of Muir’s brows raised. “Are there workers who aren’t free?”

  “All are here by choice, I assure you,” Jarkon said.

  “It is customary in Eisland for those who owe debts to society or lenders to volunteer to work the vineyards until the balance is paid,” Fillian explained. “They are, of course, given food and shelter during this tenure.”

  “Indeed.” Jarkon regained his smile. “In fact, many stay on afterward as hired hands. Shall we toast?”

  “To good company,” Linette said.

  Muir tilted the glass to his lips. It was delicious wine, but he knew that from sampling a bottle or two of the fine stuff James shared from his private collection. Once he finished his wine, he returned the glass to the vintner.

  “I find your system of employment quite fascinating. However—and I am embarrassed to speak of it—there are rumors concerning slavery in your country.”

  “Slaves. Posh.” Jarkon laughed, though to Muir’s keen ears the sound seemed forced.

  “We deal in no such things,” Fillian said. “Lies perpetuated by that traitorous pirate.”

  Muir considered what tact to take and decided to play it careful, infusing his voice with sympathy.

  “Of course. When Hook came to my kingdom with his ridiculous story, I doubted in the veracity of his claims. My clan is full of historians and scholars, and everything I know about Eisland has taught me otherwise.”

  Jarkon’s strained smile eased into a more natural expression. “Ridiculous indeed. Now then, shall we adjourn inside for food and drinks? If you’ve seen one vine you’ve seen them all, I like to say.”

  “Only if this beautiful creature will be joining us.” He raised Linette’s hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. Maybe he’d have better luck if he got the daughter alone.

  Linette giggled. “I will show you whatever you like, Lord Muir.” She pressed in a little closer, a breast threatening to escape her bodice. “Anything at all.”