by Kel Kade
“Yet he has tasked me with the endeavor. Speak your lies, and I shall learn the truth of it.”
“Very well,” Rezkin said, “but I suggest we keep the fact that you know between us. We do not wish for you to have an accident. Ilanet has been missing since the night of the ball.”
“Impossible,” said Dronnicus.
“Is it?” Rezkin watched as the past few days’ events danced in the guardsman’s gaze. When Dronnicus appeared sufficiently uncertain, he continued. “Ionius plotted with the archmage to murder Ilanet that night and blame the death on Prince Nyan. The king intended to take the prince prisoner and blackmail Vargos. His plan failed when the princess was rescued and secreted away.”
Dronnicus’s face reddened with fury. “That is absurd. My king would never harm his own daughter.”
“Do you truly believe that?” Rezkin asked. “Rumor has it that Ionius bears a heavy hand.” Again, Dronnicus seemed at a loss. “You do not have to take my word for it, though. The Order knows.” After a brief pause for effect, he said, “You may even ask the princess,”—he tilted his head toward the pier—“but do not make a scene. I do not wish for others to know her identity, and your chances of survival are higher if no one knows you have spoken with her.”
Dronnicus glanced toward the pier again and asked, “You have spoken to her?”
“How would I do that? She arrived at the same time as you and has not yet boarded the ship.”
“Then how do you know what has occurred?” the guardsman asked.
“Ionius underestimates my strength and resources. You should not.”
“Why would you tell me this? I am the captain of the Royal Guard. What I know, Ionius knows.”
Rezkin shook his head. “You would tell him what? That I know of the plot? That you do? A war is brewing unlike any our kingdoms have endured. Ashai is only the beginning. Kingdom borders are invisible to this foe, and old allegiances will carry little value. You will remember this when the time comes to choose your side.”
Dronnicus’s fury radiated from him in his every word and expression. “I serve my king and kingdom by oath and allegiance. If you think I would so easily betray that, then you do not understand the meaning of honor, Your Majesty.”
Rezkin shrugged and said, “Honor is a relative term. For now, we have a group of passengers wishing to disembark so that they may return to their homes, and the new arrivals must be accommodated lest your kingdom sell them into slavery. We shall soon set sail.”
Ilanet pensively stared up at the ship’s railing from beneath her hood. She could no longer see the masked man who appeared as a demon incarnate. She wondered why anyone would desire to look like such a fiend but reminded herself that this was a warrior, or more aptly, a warlord. Of course, he would want to frighten his foes, even incite such terror as to seize submission without a fight. Ilanet had no intention of submitting to him, mask or no. A man skulked behind that mask—just a man. She nearly laughed aloud at herself for the sentiment. Men were dangerous, perhaps more so than demons. Men were real, and from her experience, were easy to anger, and they hit hard. For the Maker’s sake, she was standing beside an assassin who, for all the world, looked to be nothing more than a weary traveler. She was disheartened at how easily these beasts disguised themselves. At least the one on the deck was honest in his concealment.
“Stop staring,” the assassin called Xa whispered in her ear.
“Everyone else is staring,” she whispered in return.
“No longer. They have lost interest. Pay attention,” he hissed.
Ilanet glanced around and saw that it was true. The deportees were huddled in groups of three or four, some with children. Those who were not crying or simmering in anger were grumbling their frustrations about being plucked from the streets or yanked from their beds. Most had been given only moments to gather their most prized possessions, at least those they could carry, and then were shoved out the door under escort of the city guard. Some of the Ashaiians had apparently immigrated to Channería years, even decades, ago and had families who were either left behind or forced from their homes. Ilanet was disgusted with her father once again. These people had nothing to do with the crimes of that distant King Caydean.
After what seemed an endless wait, Dronnicus, the captain of the Royal Guard, came tromping down the gangplank followed by his men and the elder of the priests. Behind them flowed a group of people who looked to have been aboard the ship for a while. They were worn and carried little. Ilanet noticed that most appeared to be foreigners not of Ashai. Her gaze returned to the guardsmen. When first she had seen Dronnicus ushering the crowd toward the pier, she had worried that he or his men would recognize her. None of them had paid much attention to the sea of unfortunates being forced from the kingdom at sword point, though, and Xa had maintained position between her and the guardsmen. Much like her experience with the Raven, she was both relieved and petrified by the presence of the assassin. She had confidence that he could protect her from most threats and equal confidence that he would kill her if he so desired.
As he descended the gangplank, Dronnicus’s gaze roved over the crowd. When they landed on her, she quickly ducked her head. At first, she worried that he had seen her, but when she looked up again his attention had passed. A sudden chatter surged through the crowd followed by a round of hisses demanding silence. The dark wraith was standing at the top of the gangplank. A chill ran down her spine as he began to speak in Ashaiian.
“King Ionius has decreed that all Ashaiians in Channería are to be deported, sold, or detained in work camps,” he said. A rumble of disgust rolled through the crowd. “Some of you may know that I lay claim to the throne of Ashai by Right of Ascension, as King Bordran’s true heir. You may or may not believe I bear this right. It matters not. A new kingdom has been born, the Kingdom of Cael, negotiated lawfully and recognized by the Kingdom of Channería.”
“Cael is worthless!” hollered a voice from afar.
It was Lord Braxen, a lesser Ashaiian noble who had attempted to gain favor with her father to receive an exemption from an import tax. Ilanet had little interest in taxes, but for her own edification, she had tried to listen to most of the court proceedings from the hidden balcony. Lord Braxen was repugnant, though, and Ilanet would have been pleased to never see him again.
“You can hardly call it a kingdom when ownership of the land is disputed by Gendishen,” Braxen added.
“I will deal with Gendishen,” Dark Tidings said. “That is neither here nor now. You all must leave Serret immediately if you do not wish to be sold or imprisoned. I have a ship, and I am offering you refuge in my kingdom. You may accept or find your own way. If you accept, you must swear allegiance to the Kingdom of Cael.”
A strongly built man with dark hair and eyes leaned in to whisper something to Dark Tidings. The man wore armor and bore a sword, so Ilanet thought him a guard, but he held himself with more self-assurance than a typical soldier.
Dark Tidings added, “You, Lord Braxen, are not invited. The rest of you may begin boarding. You will be questioned and your identities recorded.”
The crowd began to surge around her as people pushed and shoved toward the gangplank. Ilanet felt a tug on her arm from Xa, and then she suddenly tripped, toppling to the ground. Xa abruptly crouched over her, but when she looked up, a second set of eyes had found her. Dronnicus was also crouched, giving the appearance that he was gathering her spilled belongings. In a rush, he said, “My lady, did you leave the castle of your own accord?”
“What?” she asked in alarm.
“Quickly please, there is little time,” he hissed. “Did you run?”
Ilanet paused as she considered whether to confide in the captain. He had always seemed a good man, but she was not confident in her ability to identify such an anomaly. Finally, she said, “Yes.”
The captain’s gaze flicked to Xa, and for the first time Ilanet noticed the dagger the assassin held over her in warning to the guar
dsman. Dronnicus dropped his gaze back to her and hesitated. His voice was choked when he asked, “Did your father try to kill you?”
With conviction and without pause, she said, “Yes, I believe he did.”
Dronnicus inhaled sharply and looked away. “Be well, my lady. By the Maker, may you find your way.”
Before she could respond, the captain was moving through the crowd. Xa pulled her to her feet, and they shuffled with the others toward the gangplank. Ilanet could not understand why people were pushing to get ahead when they knew the ship would not be leaving until everyone was aboard. Maybe they worried that the ship would run out of room, or perhaps they hoped to find the best spots to call their own. She wondered what kind of accommodations she might expect. As the king’s ward, she should be afforded the best available, but she was supposed to be incognito.
She hoped she did not have to share a berth with Xa or be relegated to a common room in the hull. If there was a chance she would marry Dark Tidings, he surely would not expect her to sleep and dress among other men. No, the Raven had said women were aboard, and at least some of them were nobles. Some measure of propriety had to be observed. She chided herself for overthinking things again. Mables had always said she worried too much, and truthfully, most of the things she had worried over were inconsequential. Ilanet figured she had plenty of valid reasons for her anxiety at that moment.
When she arrived at the front of the line, Dark Tidings was no longer at the railing, but the dark-haired warrior who had been speaking to him was still present. He was standing beside a younger man with shaggy brown hair that was pulled back with a ribbon. The warrior looked upon the crowd with the sharp gaze of a viper, but the younger one had an easy smile. Both wore swords with comfort, though. The younger man did most of the talking and recorded information onto a scroll. His attention was on his writing as he began speaking to her.
“Greetings. My name is Tam. You may see me if you have any questions. What’s your …”—he looked up and met her gaze where she peeked out from beneath her cowl—“ah … your um …”
The warrior’s stern expression gave way to a smirk, and he jabbed an elbow into Tam’s ribs.
“Your name, I mean, what’s your name?” Tam finally finished.
Ilanet opened her mouth and realized that, in the midst of her rambling, anxious thoughts, she had forgotten to come up with a story. Now, she was on the spot. “I am … um …”
Xa stepped partially in front of her and said, “Her name is Netty. I’m Lus.”
Seemingly out of nowhere, Dark Tidings appeared behind Tam, as if manifested from invisible smoke. Ilanet ducked behind Xa, but the assassin provided a poor shield since she was nearly as tall as he was. She could not be sure, but she thought the black voids of Dark Tidings’s eyes had met hers over Xa’s shoulder.
He turned to Tam and spoke in a most disturbing voice. “Lady Netty will bunk with Frisha, Shiela, Yserria, and Reaylin.”
Ilanet thought that Tam appeared abashed and perhaps disappointed when he looked at her again. “Pardon me, Lady Netty. I meant no offense.” Oddly, though, he lowered his voice and spoke to Dark Tidings with comfort and familiarity. “Are you sure you want to subject her to that?”
Ilanet wondered how anyone could ever be less than disturbed in this man’s presence.
Dark Tidings said, “It will be cramped, but they will make due. Lus will join the strikers.”
Beside her, Xa met the dark-haired warrior’s calculating gaze with a grin. She realized the man must be one of the legendary Ashaiian strikers. While she had been in the presence of a few over the years who had come to visit her father for diplomatic reasons, most of what she knew of them was from rumors. The loyalty of the strikers to their king, though, was renowned. She considered Dark Tidings anew. If he had somehow acquired the loyalty of the strikers, then his claim to the Ashaiian throne had to be genuine. Either that or he had stolen the title and begun calling his own men strikers for effect. The dark-haired warrior’s confidence had her doubting the latter.
Dark Tidings stepped closer to the striker and whispered something in his ear. He then said, “Striker Shezar will show you to your quarters.”
With that, he stalked away, presumably to survey the other new arrivals. Ilanet watched with curiosity as people shied away from him even though he had done nothing overtly threatening since he first appeared. Ilanet was jarred from her thoughts when the striker named Shezar spoke.
“Please follow me.”
Ilanet looked back to Tam, but he would not meet her gaze. She had found his manner of Ashaiian speech slightly difficult to follow, but not as difficult as some of the others. She had the sense that it was common speak. As she followed the striker, she wondered who the young man was and how he had gained his position of trust with the rebel king. She was so wrapped in her thoughts that she nearly collided with the striker when he stopped. From her position behind Shezar, her quick survey of the room had her both relieved and agitated. Two sets of stacked bunks lined the walls, and a fifth had been placed adjacent to the door. There was barely room to maneuver without stepping on people’s bunks or belongings. Five women were present, two of them were obviously a lady and her servant. She was uncertain about the other three.
The lady, a brown-haired beauty dressed in a frilly yellow frock stood beside one of the bunks as she tugged at a lacy gown laid out on the bed. “Tami, this will not do. How am I supposed to present myself in something so dreadful? These wrinkles! Fix it. Get one of the mages to do it if you must.”
The waif-like servant girl was practically buried in fabric as she gathered the dress and scurried out of the room, bumping into Shezar, Ilanet, and Xa as she passed. The lady huffed and sat on the bunk, furiously fanning herself.
Another woman reclined on the bunk above reading a book. She was attractive but plainly dressed in pants and a tunic, quite unlike the lady below. Oddly, she was not afraid to speak her mind despite her appearance of lower status. “Shiela, nobody cares if your dress is wrinkled. Where exactly do you intend to present yourself? We are on a cramped ship, and everyone is miserable. Who are you trying to impress?”
“The world, Frisha. Of course, I would not expect you to understand.” Lady Shiela raised a hand mirror and ran her fingers through her flawless curls. “A lady must appear as perfection at all times.”
Ilanet had heard those same words enough in her lifetime, though they were in a different language. She wondered if she had looked so ridiculous. Then, she realized it was not the behavior that was absurd but the setting. If she had appeared as anything less than the perfect princess at the castle, it would have been court gossip for weeks, and her father would have punished her for the embarrassment. She had found a kind of freedom in her plain clothes and boyish disguise.
Shezar interrupted the exchange. “Ladies, you have a new bunk mate.”
He turned, and Ilanet was forced to show herself. Lady Shiela took one glance at her and rolled her eyes. “Another commoner? Why must she stay in here? Put her with all the others below.”
Ilanet was now faced with the disadvantage to her newfound freedom. She no longer had the respect of her peers, and she could not blame them. While she would never have been as brash as Lady Shiela, she would have expected the same courtesy the young woman was demanding.
Striker Shezar met Lady Shiela’s glare and said, “The king assigned her to this berth. This is Lady Netty. You may disregard her present state. She is a Channerían refugee who has been in hiding. I expect you will treat her with due respect.”
Ilanet glanced at the striker upon realizing that he knew more about her than he should. But how much did he know?
The woman who had been sitting on the bunk by the door bounded to her feet. She had bright red hair and freckled skin. She was beautiful and feminine, but, oddly, she wore leather armor over pants and a fitted tunic. Her smile was open and friendly, but grief swallowed the light of her bright green eyes. She clasped hands with Ilanet
and said, “I’m Yserria Rey of the king’s royal guard. It’s nice to meet you. Please come in and join us.”
The woman Lady Shiela had called Frisha climbed down from her bunk and said, “Yes, please ignore Shiela. She doesn’t mean to be rude. She just doesn’t know any better. I’m Frisha Souvain-Marcum, and that’s Reaylin de Voss.”
Ilanet glanced around the room as her brain attempted to translate the strange style of speech. For some reason, as with Tam, Yserria and Frisha’s words were a little difficult to make out. It was as if they slurred some of them together, and she had to concentrate harder to understand. She was startled by the snap of Shiela’s fan as she slapped it closed in her hand, and then the young woman sidled over to join the conversation—or, rather, to take it over.
Shiela looked at Frisha and said, “I was not being rude. We must maintain our boundaries, Cousin, or before you know it, the room will be filled with refugees. Already we can barely move in here.” With a condescending glance at the striker, she said, “The men do not consider the needs of a proper lady. We must voice them loudly and often if they are to be met.” She looked back to Ilanet and said, “I am Shiela of House Jebai. It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Netty.”
It was easier for Ilanet to follow Shiela’s speech, but she was surprised by the sudden turnabout.
Frisha gasped. “Oh, I’m sorry. We just assumed. Do you speak Ashaiian?”
Since she had rarely been permitted to speak to visitors at the castle, Ilanet had never had the opportunity to speak Ashaiian outside of her lessons, but her tutor had said her grasp of the language was adequate. “Yes, thank you for asking, Lady Frisha.”
