Miestryri
A Dreg Novella
Bethany Hoeflich
Copyright © 2019 Bethany Hoeflich
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publishers, except in the case of brief quotations in reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover Art by DwBookCovers
For Steel,
who insisted on having
a book of his own.
1
It was a good day for a funeral.
The waves were still. Quiet. As if the sea itself were holding its breath in homage to a legend. Even the sky had cleared of clouds, leaving no blemish on the cerulean expanse. The morning sun glistened on the gentle waves as they lapped the curving shore. A small crowd, wearing the traditional white mourning clothes of Crystalmoor, had gathered on the pale sands of East Rock to pay their respects to the fallen Miestryri. More still were picking their way down the perilous staircase that had been carved into the cliffside. For many of them, it would be their first and last chance to see the fallen Miestryri with their own eyes.
But no matter how pious and respectful they appeared, the funeral had not drawn them to the beach like lemmings tumbling over the cliff. Nor had the dozen priests, bedecked in splendid ombre robes that began as white at their shoulders and darkened to the deep, gray-blue of an angry sea at their ankles. On their heads, they wore woven crowns of seaweed, and around their necks, strings of sea glass and shells that rattled as they moved like waves on bare feet, sinking into the dance of death to honor the fallen. It was a spectacle that would draw even the most critical eye with wonder, yet no one bothered to watch. Every eye, every gaze, was rooted to the figure waiting in the shadows of the cliff.
The exiled prince—long presumed dead—had returned.
Shaking off the weight of the crowd’s speculative gaze as a horse shakes off the irritating sting of a fly, Prince Silvano Miore’ watched the procession with his heart in his throat as the priests of the sea god carried his father’s funeral raft past the sheer cliffs and down to the shoreline.
Any moment he expected to wake up and discover that this was nothing more than a nightmare.
Was it only yesterday that he had met with his father in the hopes of reconciling their differences? It felt like a lifetime ago. Instead of the touching reunion he’d hoped for, his father had greeted him with an outstretched sword. With no other choice, Silvano was forced to defend himself. He’d cut his own father down like a spindly tree in the forest.
But the people wouldn’t accept his explanation, even if he wished to give one. Even now, he heard their accusations—kin-killer. Their whispers followed him like feral dogs, nipping at his heels as he strode past the crowd. No matter what he said, they wouldn’t accept his defense. In their mind, he was the banished prince. A playboy turned murderer. Disgraced beyond redemption.
And so he stayed silent, accepting their scorn like the sting of a whip in penance. Maybe then it would ease his guilt.
They didn’t know that his own father had hired his Shield, Mikkal, to kill him after they crossed the border into Lingate—a task that Mikkal had failed, much to Silvano’s relief. He very much enjoyed keeping his head attached to his neck where it belonged. While the betrayal still ate away at his mind like acid, the lesson it had taught him was invaluable. He would never again trust blindly.
Muffled footsteps drew near, interrupting his musings. Silvano took a deep breath before turning toward the approaching guard. Dressed in the official uniform of the royal guard, Jax cut an imposing figure in his tailored gray tunic and linen breeches. Due to superstition, few of the Crystalmoor guard would dare wear iron, but Jax wore the chest plate and shoulder guards with pride. Or possibly insanity. Flaunting his disregard for tradition in front of the priests at a funeral wasn’t the wisest idea. His proud face was drawn in a frown, and his gaze traveled over the gathering crowd.
“Anything to report?” Silvano asked. Jax was one of his oldest friends, and it meant the world that he would support him without question, despite the rumors. And with a powerful Gifted at his back, Silvano could breathe easier knowing that his position, while tenuous at best, would be defended to the last.
Jax dipped his head and whispered, “Our counts show strong opposition, sire.”
Silvano waved him off. “None of that formal nonsense. Speak freely.”
“The majority would support Arianna if she challenged your claim.” Jax winced and turned toward the sea, his eyes roving the crowd for a threat, whether real or perceived. “I see she’s not here.”
“No, she’s not.” His sister was the one person who would be an asset to his ascension, or a threat. She was smart, charming, and she had a deep-rooted interest in the people’s wellbeing. On top of that, she’d taken a keen interest in politics while Silvano had been out partying and womanizing.
A reputation he had earned only because people were too ignorant to see past their expectations.
Arianna’s absence chafed. Why wasn’t she here with the rest of the mourners? Their step-mother stood at the head of the procession, dressed in a white gown and veil, her arms wrapped around their half-sister, Lucinda. Even Lucan, his father’s advisor, had been retrieved from the dungeon so he could pay his respects. But not Arianna.
Silvano eyed Lucan with barely-concealed hatred. He wanted nothing more than to throw him from the cliffs.
“Sire,” Jax began, clearly reluctant to speak his thoughts, “we must consider the possibility that she’s plotting against you.”
“Enough. I will deal with my sister when she deigns to make an appearance. Tell me of the rest.”
“A few would prefer to follow Aravell’s lead and elect their own representatives. Only a handful will support your reign without question.”
“So, we’re in over our heads,” he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. He took a deep breath of the salty air, allowing it to cleanse him. “I’ve faced worse odds. I’ll admit, it hasn’t been quite the homecoming I’d imagined. Then again, what could I expect from a man who paid my own Shield to assassinate me.”
Jax shuffled his boot in the sand. “Sil… what happened?” he asked, abandoning formality and letting their childhood familiarity shine through his words.
For a moment, Silvano was transported back to being ten years old, burying Jackson up to his neck in the sand on this very beach. The corner of his mouth tugged up in a smile as he remembered the whipping his father had given him when the tide came in and he hadn’t freed his friend yet. Jax had spent the next week coughing up seawater but was otherwise no worse for wear.
His eyes landed on the Miestryri’s funeral raft, and the reality of the situation slammed into him. They were no longer boys wasting time on the surf. The next few days would have far-reaching consequences on the security of his reign, and he couldn’t afford to allow the past to distract him from the future. Silvano’s jaw clenched, and he turned his face away, not wanting to see the judgment in Jax’s eyes. “I do not wish to speak of it.”
Maybe Jax picked up Silvano’s tone and decided to drop the subject. Or maybe his sense of duty pulled his attention back to the growing crowd by the shore. Either way, he stopped pestering Silvano, for which he was grateful. If it weren’t for the tell-tale tick in his jaw, and the way his eye twitched slightly, Silvano might have thought he hadn’t heard him at all.
Silvano’s eyes roved the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of one person in particular. He spott
ed her standing at the front, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, with her new husband waiting at her side. Olielle. He swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the flare of acidic jealousy that bubbled up his gut. How quickly his betrothed had moved on in his absence.
As if she could feel his scrutiny, Olielle turned to look at him and their eyes locked. Silvano’s heart skipped a beat. Though their relationship had never been romantic, he couldn’t help but notice the way her golden skin sparkled, or how her deep auburn hair caught the sunlight just right. If he wished, he could still claim her. He shook his head to clear it. It was never meant to be.
The priest beckoned Silvano forward. His hand darted to the pocket of his white doublet where a single gold coin weighed heavier than a brick. Those who followed the sea god believed that a person was reincarnated according to their adherence to the old ways. While most had abandoned their beliefs, the superstitions remained. When someone died, they would place a coin on their tongues as payment for their new bodies when they were born into a new life. Silvano believed it was nonsense, but he wasn’t willing to take that chance. How could he deny his father if it were true?
The crowd’s murmurs grew louder as he stepped toward the sea—toward the Miestryri’s funeral raft. In life, his father had seemed as great as a giant, but in death, his cheeks were sunken into his skull. Though the skin was stretched tight across his face, the perpetual scowl he’d always worn was absent, making him look peaceful. If only he’d been as stoic in real life.
Without waiting for further instruction, Silvano placed a palm on the dead ruler’s chin, opened his mouth, and slipped a gold coin through his teeth to rest on his tongue. He closed his eyes, sending a wordless plea to the sea god in the hopes that the next life would be better than this one had been. While Silvano believed it was nonsense—his father’s body was likely going nowhere but a hungry shark’s stomach—catering to the beliefs of the people couldn’t hurt.
Four priests stepped forward and took hold of the poles at each corner of the raft, lifting it to rest on their shoulders as they waded deeper into the water. In rich, baritone voices, they incanted, “From the sea we come, to the sea we return.”
“We anoint his head with salt.”
“We bathe his feet with foam.”
“May the sea god guide his way to the depths of Paradisillo.”
“Or return him with glory and honor, reborn.”
The priests lowered the raft into the water, the waves crashing against it, threatening to overturn it in the sea. Silvano stepped forward so the water splashed against his boots. He lifted his hands and pushed, commanding the sea to take his father’s body. A hush descended over the crowd as they observed his power, as he dared to claim a duty that should have been performed by a priest. It didn’t feel right to leave such a personal task for the impersonal priests. If he couldn’t reconcile with his father, the least he could do was honor him in this way.
The crowd was mercifully silent as the raft slipped beyond the reef. For all his faults, the Miestryri had maintained peace in Crystalmoor for the past thirty years. He had expanded trade with Kearar and Talos, and he’d protected the fleet from Belosian pirates. The people were safe, for now, and probably terrified of what would happen under the next Miestryri’s rule.
When the raft was no more than a dark speck on the horizon, Silvano turned to the priests as they waded back to shore. It was time for him to claim his birthright. He tilted his chin upward and broke the silence. “I would have you anoint me now.”
The eldest priest, with long, white hair that hung to his shoulder blades and a nose that could cut through paper, frowned at him. “Would you disrespect the dead?”
Silvano raised his voice to carry to the crowd. The priests wouldn’t dare humiliate him in front of the people. “It is our custom for the successor to be blessed immediately. Would you break a tradition that has spanned centuries for petty gossip?”
“Gossip? You—” he looked over Silvano’s shoulder and lowered his voice, perhaps unwilling to incite a riot. “You murdered the Miestryri. This is unprecedented.”
“I was defending myself, priest. And you’d do well to remember it.”
The priest puffed out his chest and raised his chin. “This matter needs further investigation. Do not presume to force our hand. It will go poorly for you.” The priest’s eyes darted to a point over Silvano’s shoulder, and he could feel the weight of the crowd’s gazes on his back.
He fought back a shiver. How quickly the crowd could sway, and a riot would not necessarily benefit him. With great reluctance, he nodded and stepped back so the priests could pass to the shore.
The priest’s words echoed in his mind long after the crowd had dispersed. It didn’t matter if the people supported him or not. Without the priests’ backing, his rule was doomed before it started. He needed to win them over, and fast.
2
After the funeral, Silvano wandered toward the docks where the smaller pleasure yachts and fishing boats bobbed in the water. The water here was too shallow for the naval fleet, which was kept elsewhere. Soft sand squished beneath his bare feet, and the waves washed in, licking at his toes before retreating back into the sea. The constant push and pull of the tides echoed within him. What he wanted to do and what was best for his country warred in his mind. His eyes rose to the cliffs where the water raged against the rocks, pummeling everything in its path with a savage brutality.
If he couldn’t gain control of his throne, would that be his fate as well?
Silvano held a hand to the side, absentmindedly pulling at the waves, allowing the seawater to hover for a moment before dropping it back down again. With a violent sweep of his arm, he shoved the water back and sat on the now-dry patch of sand, resting his head on his knees. What was he going to do now? The priests had turned against him. Half of the guards and castle staff had deserted before his father’s body was even cold. The rest stayed out of fear.
Had the Seer been wrong?
He peeked back the way he’d come. Jax followed at a distance, respectful of Silvano’s need to be alone after the disastrous funeral. He hadn’t pushed Silvano for details of his exile, even though it was obvious that he burned with curiosity. The guard trusted him implicitly. If only the rest of the people could do the same. Still, maybe it was time for him to be honest and share his story, at least with his most trusted guards and advisors.
A shriek pierced the silence, followed by a giggle and a loud splash. Silvano’s head snapped up, and his eyes roved the water before catching sight of movement by the docks. Frowning, he pushed himself to his feet and moved closer to investigate.
“Glass, stop that! No, no. Not that one! Go get another pink one!” a child’s voice squealed.
“Lucinda?” he called out, jogging closer. His nine-year-old sister treaded water just past the shallows. Seaweed hung from her tight, black curls, and water droplets beaded on her bronze skin. A mound of sea glass, coins, and shells were stacked on the edge of the dock. A small, gray dolphin nudged her shoulder with his nose.
Her green eyes widened when she caught sight of him, and her mouth stretched into a wide smile. “Sil! Come on in, the water’s great. I’ll even tell Glass not to nip at you this time.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your invitation.” Silvano eyed the dolphin—her familiar—warily as it swam in circles around Lucinda. His hand went to his thigh where Glass had bitten him two years ago. Foul beast.
“Come on, please?” She pouted and batted her eyelashes. “I’ll show you the underwater cavern I found. And there’s a mama whale who’s due to give birth any day now. She promised that I could name her calf.”
“That sounds lovely, but…” His eyes scanned the beach. Other than Jax, it was deserted. Who had allowed her to go to the beach alone? “Lucy… you know better than to come down here by yourself. It’s not safe.”
“Because father’s dead?” she asked, not even flinching. But then again, she’d always
been the strongest of them all. Silvano’s mother had died after giving birth to Arianna, and his father hadn’t wasted time remarrying. When Lucinda came along a few years later, it was as though an old crone had been born inside the unusually silent newborn. She saw more than she spoke, and she seemed to spend her days in fantasy.
Silvano shook off his discomfort and crouched on the edge of the dock. “Because the country is destabilized. It’s not fair, but someone might take advantage of that fact and use you against me. You’d be safe at the castle.”
Her face puckered. “But Glass is down here. I can’t…”
“I know.” He sighed. Lucinda was a Squama, and like Brutums and Avems, she couldn’t be separated from her familiar for long periods of time without feeling like her soul was being torn in two. Still, it was better to feel temporary pain than to be dead. He raised a palm and commanded the sea, lifting a wave beneath Lucy and depositing her on the dock, dripping wet. “You shouldn’t be out here unprotected.”
“I’m not unprotected.” She scowled and jabbed a finger at him. “You’re here.”
“Not for much longer. I have responsibilities, just like you. Your tutors are probably beside themselves with worry, and you don’t want to miss more of your lessons.”
Lucy made a face. “They can’t teach me anything I don’t already know.”
“Oh really? Can you calculate the distance between East Rock and Orgate? Can you speak all seven languages with as much fluency as our own? Do you know the proper etiquette for greeting the Magnate of Aravell without starting a war?”
“Why would I need to know all that? It’s not like I’ll ever leave Crystalmoor.” She gestured toward the sea. “This is my home.”
“Oh?” he teased. “Are you planning on growing gills and fins and spending the rest of your life in the water?”
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