by Stacey Filak
“Do you think we’ll be here long?” Tollan asked. In the back of his mind, he saw his brother. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that Iven was participating in the mage women’s plans willingly. If the mage women hadn’t killed him, the fire may have. That thought made him tremble with impotent rage, but Tollan refused to give up hope. If they had no proof that Gemma was even at the safe house, and if they were going to have the Ain assist them, they had to find Gemma. And without the Ain …
“I’m a prickling idiot,” Tollan groaned, leaning against the wall in resignation.
“How’s that?” Elam asked, as he climbed back up and closed the trapdoor.
Tollan sighed. There were a million reasons, but in this case, he had one thing in mind. “I’m not the king. Not really. I don’t have the mark anymore, and everyone thinks I’m responsible for my father’s death. No one at the castle will listen to me, and I’ve got no assets to help rescue my brother, if there’s even anything left to rescue. I’ve been trying to do the right thing, but it’s useless. It’s all pricked.”
Elam shrugged. “I learned a long time ago that the lines between right and wrong aren’t worth paying attention to. Those of you from Above think you’re in the right, that your hands are clean. But those of us from Under—the ones lining your pockets—we know that there’s no magic wall that divides us. We’re all just doing what we can to get by. We hope that at the end of the day, when we lay down, at least our hands don’t look too dirty.”
Tollan stared down at his own hands. After his night spent on the lawn, his search in the alley for Wince’s coin, his escape through the tunnels—there was a map of filth laid out on his hands. He chuckled ruefully. “At least there’s no blood.”
Elam’s gaze softened. “Some days, that’s the best you can hope for.”
Sobered, Tollan nodded. “Can I ask you a favor?”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“I’ve just told you that I’m not really the king. So, will you call me Tollan?”
“As you wish,” he said softly.
Tollan turned to see what was keeping Wince, but he felt the Dalinn’s eyes following him long after he’d left the room.
Hours passed. Sitting off to the side of the wide north-facing window, they took turns watching the safe house. They raided the larder and played a game of cards. Elam won handily, and Tollan turned out his pockets. “I guess I’ll have to owe you,” Tollan said.
“I look forward to cashing that in,” Elam replied.
Tollan turned away, unsure what Elam meant—or what he wanted him to mean. An embarrassed silence settled over the room until Wince whispered, “Someone’s leaving!”
Elam crawled across the floor, rising up just enough to peer over the sill. Too curious to wait, Tollan followed suit. A man was standing in the front garden of the safe house, arms crossed in a stance that spoke of frustration or anger. He began to pace the walk—running his hand through his hair and occasionally stopping to stare off into the distance.
“What’s got you so irked, Devery?” Elam whispered, never taking his eyes off the man.
“That’s Devery Nightsbane?” Tollan asked.
Elam nodded, his mouth turned downward. “Yes, and he is anxious about something.”
“How do you know?” Wince whispered, his back still pressed to the wall beside the window.
“I just know. How do you know where the sun rises?”
“Some things you just know,” Tollan answered.
“Exactly,” Elam said. “And the last person anyone wants to meet is an anxious Devery Nightsbane.”
In the dark of the root cellar, Tollan could barely breathe. If he did, he drew in the scent of Elam—who lay so near to him, Tollan could feel the man’s breath on the back of his neck. The scent of the prayer keeper had driven him to the point of distraction, and he could not push aside his desire to touch him, here in the dark where it was safe. He would have never dared, in the light of day, in the world Above.
Fighting the urge to flee, Tollan found he had only two options—to give up entirely, or to be brave. His decision made, he rolled over, his hand coming to rest very near Elam’s. His fingers were close enough that he could feel warmth radiating off Elam.
He heard Wince tossing once more and realized that Elam’s breathing was no longer even. He was awake. Long, empty moments in the dark spread out between them until Tollan’s finger brushed gently against Elam’s hand. Tollan held his breath, waiting for the inevitable rejection.
Elam stretched out, curling his fingers around Tollan’s trembling hand. Tollan gasped at his touch but said nothing, afraid to break the perfect sweetness of the moment. And soon, fingers intertwined with Tollan’s, Elam’s breathing steadied and the prayer keeper drifted off to sleep.
Sometime later Tollan awoke. Elam’s breathing still had the ring of slumber, and he heard Wince’s quiet snores. His hand, still clinging to Elam’s, was warm despite the chill of the cellar.
His heart hurt from too much grief, his shoulders ached from the stone floor on which they slept and his head throbbed from lack of sleep. He felt weary beyond his years. He longed for some sense of normalcy, a thread of familiarity in the unknown waters he found himself in. He longed to feel safe and at home. He knew he should let go of Elam’s hand, but he didn’t. It was the only safety he could find.
On the evening of their second day in Brighthold, Tollan and Wince were sitting in the sweltering attic of the manor house, their gazes fixed on the newly discovered view of Dockside. They had exhausted their desire for cards and dice games and had fallen into a watchful stupor.
A handful of people scuttled along the shore, their movements as fleeting and mysterious as that of an anthill. There was no telling whether the people there were friend or enemy, the distance was too great, but Tollan was infatuated with them as they went about their business.
Suddenly, beside him, Wince gasped. “Look,” he said, pointing away from the shore and into the depths of the Hadriak.
Tollan’s gaze followed where he indicated and his heart began to pound. There were ships coming, a whole fleet of ships. As he watched Tollan counted at least ten. Then, across the horizon, he saw the crimson sails of his mother’s ship. “Oh, Aegos,” he said, his mouth dry. “The pirates have come home.”
As he raced down the attic’s ladder and through the rooms of the manor’s top floor, Tollan pondered the arrival of the pirate fleet, and more personally important, his mother. Just days before, he had wished fervently for her return, but now all he felt was a nervous panic.
Without stopping to think, Tollan burst into the library, trembling with pent up energy.
“Ships!” he hissed, flailing his arm to point in the general vicinity of Dockside. “Ten, at least!” His hand struck a tall vase, which tumbled off its pedestal, hit the floor and shattered with enough noise to wake the dead.
“Oh, prick,” Elam moaned, turning back to the library window. He looked out the window with a pained expression before a hint of relief crossed his face. He held his hand up before the window and snapped his fingers twice in the same odd way he’d done to Gemma at the hospit.
Tollan cleared his throat, drawing Elam’s attention back to the library. “I’m sorry,” he said, bending to pick up a piece of the shattered vase. “Did someone see you?” His voice trembled slightly.
Elam moved toward where he knelt. “Devery was out there,” he said, bending to help Tollan pick up the pieces. “For good or ill, we’re not alone any longer.” His hand brushed Tollan’s, and their eyes met for a long moment as each of them leaned over the shards. “You were saying, about the ships?” Elam leaned closer, a soft, reckless smile on his lips. Tollan, eyes wide and heart pounding unevenly, leaned in, too. Tollan took a shaky breath. Their lips met. A thrill of excitement raced through Tollan as his lips parted slightly at the probe of Elam’s tongue.
“What are we going to do about those prickling boats?” Wince blurted, bursting into th
e room.
Tollan bent to examine the piece of vase in his hands, while Elam scooted quickly away. Neither one made eye contact with Wince, who stood in the doorway, mouth open and eyes wide.
“What in the Void happened to that vase?” Wince stammered. “I, um, I’ll go look for a broom in the kitchen.”
“Sorry, uh, ships!” Tollan said, before he, too, fled the library. His face was flush with desire and embarrassment. He felt both like he could fly, and also like he was drowning. Afraid to look back, he ran to find someplace to hide from Wince.
Suddenly, everything in the world made sense to Wince and yet nothing did. He trusted Tollan like a brother. Void, sometimes he trusted Tollan more than he trusted himself. He knew Tollan Daghan as well as he knew anyone. Or so he’d thought up until the instant he had walked into that library.
He stood with a broom in his hands, overwhelmed by the sense of shame that he felt. He slid down to the floor and put the broom beside him. He pulled Uri’s coin from his pocket and stared at the sharp-nosed woman whose face graced one side. “I cocked everything up, Uri,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I never asked him … I just … I just assumed that he …” Wince glanced over his shoulder, making sure that no one was within earshot. “I loved you from the minute I laid eyes on you. And like the big, dumb ass that I am, I assumed that he did, too. Especially after …”
He couldn’t bear to speak of Tollan’s offer, and her death. It rattled his chest to think of the enormous sacrifice that he now saw Tollan’s offer had been. He couldn’t bear to think of the all-too-brief love affair he and Uri had. He couldn’t dwell on the baby—because no amount of wishing and hoping and sobbing would change that she was gone and that she’d chosen death over him.
He rolled the coin across his knuckles and wiped away his tears. As much as it hurt, he didn’t blame her. He only wished he’d been enough to keep her here. “Thanks, Uri,” he whispered as he slipped the gold piece back into his pocket. “I’ll make sure to do better by him than I did by you.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DOCKSIDE
Tollan was surprised at how swiftly things had moved, once Elam made contact with Devery. The same evening that the ships arrived, Devery had signaled Elam, and with their help—and a few well-placed burning bottles of whiskey—the master assassin had managed to escape the clutches of his mother with Gemma’s unconscious body.
Days passed in a whirlwind, and Tollan grew quite adept at the art of avoidance. He’d been avoiding putting himself in any situation that would give Wince the opportunity to mention the scene in the Brighthold library. He’d been avoiding his mother, though, goddess knew, that was getting more difficult by the hour since she’d sailed in with the pirate fleet. And he’d been avoiding facing what was going on in his head like the plague.
He and Wince had taken up residence in Dockside, one street from the waterfront in a tumbledown inn called the Sea Dragon’s Tail. The straggling Guild members now filled its rooms to overflowing.
A petite woman with graying hair named Lian had taken charge, and Tollan was glad to take orders from someone. In the days since they’d come to Dockside, Elam had shown up several times, speaking in hushed tones with Lian and with a ridiculous-looking man named Riquin, whose beard was trimmed into the shape of a bird. Apparently, he was the captain of all the pirates in Yigris. Tollan had seen Elam passing messages to thieves and whores and murderers, had seen him laugh with street rats and share a meal with a pair of filthy sailors while they threw a set of bone dice. Twice, Elam had found Tollan alone and had taken the opportunity to kiss his cheek. He told Tollan that Gemma was still unconscious, and that he’d let them all know as soon as she woke up. Tollan could still feel the soft pressure of the last kiss—warm, tickling with new beard growth—and it sent shivers down his spine.
On the fourth night, he stumbled out of his room to take his turn on guard duty. Lian demanded that the streets be guarded at all times to ensure the mage women didn’t try to finish what they’d started with the Guild. As he tumbled down the steps, he found himself staring at Wince. “Hey, Toll,” his friend said cordially. “Fancy meeting you here. Looks like we’re on watch together.”
Wince chucked him on the shoulder. There seemed to be no avoiding the questions now. They sat on the front stoop of a pub called the Kraken’s Grave. Wince stopped grinning and glanced around to make sure they were alone. “You’re a hard man to find these days,” he said, his attention fixed on the blade of the sword he held across his lap.
“I’m sorry,” Tollan said. “There’s been a lot to do.”
Wince nodded. A long, painful silence followed, until he finally said, “Can I ask you something, Toll?”
Tollan sighed and dropped his head into his hands. “I don’t suppose I could pay you not to?”
Wince chuckled, though the laugh sounded forced.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
There was an emotion in his tone that Tollan had not expected. Not anger. Not disgust. Something else—pity perhaps or maybe something closer to empathy. Without meaning to, Tollan met his gaze. “Would it have changed things?” he asked. “I was the heir to Abram’s throne. What I wanted was of no consequence.”
One side of Wince’s mouth turned up, and he laughed. “Well, I might not have flashed my cock about so much when we were kids. I was always pissing in front of you or swimming in my skin. I mean, that sort of temptation could have been distracting, I’m sure.”
“Aegos, Wince. Just because I’m attracted to men doesn’t mean that I was driven mad by the sight of your childish, flaccid cock. You’re not my type.”
“Yeah?” Wince said, his smile growing wider. “Well, you’re not really my type, either.” He held his neck straight and his nose in the air, feigning indignation.
“Wince,” Tollan said, his own voice low. “Why didn’t you tell me about Uri?”
Wince looked at him, his blue eyes like slate. “You said it yourself, Toll. We’re born who we’re going to be, and no amount of wishing was going to make me an acceptable match for her. Before we … before the stable, I thought that I’d spend my whole life pining for her, and I wasn’t wrong. I just pine differently now.”
“I’m sorry, Wince, I—”
“You offered her what I couldn’t, Tollan. It isn’t your fault that your father was a prickling shit, and it wasn’t your fault that she felt there was nowhere else to turn. I just wish that I’d have been brave enough to tell her how I felt. I wish I’d given her the chance to choose a life with me and the baby. Honestly, I wish I’d thought more like the people in Under.”
Tollan nodded in silence. There was nothing more to say. A few moments later, he looked up at Wince. “Did you arrange for us to be on guard together?”
Wince grinned, torchlight dancing in his eyes. “These bloody thieves. I had to pay Lian a silver for the privilege.”
Tollan and Wince sat the next hour of their watch in silence as the sun crested over the horizon. Tollan had to fight against tears of gratitude for Wince’s friendship.
Then, the clang of steel on steel broke the morning calm. They stood, swords at the ready. Tollan pounded on the door to alert those inside. They took the steps two at a time and rounded the street corner just in time to hear his mother, Isbit, snarl, “I don’t care who you work for, you runny little shit. You come onto my boat without permission to board and I’ll end you.”
“Prick,” Tollan said under his breath.
The man on the ground was bleeding from his face and shoulder.
“I’m glad we got that cleared up,” she said. “Be gone before I decide that I’m not in the mood for mercy.” Then she looked up and saw Tollan.
Wince bowed slightly, but Tollan stood his ground. “Hello, Mother,” he said, meeting her gaze as she cleaned the sailor’s blood from her blade.
“Hello, Tollan,” she said. “Wincel.” She nodded. “Come. I’ll have breakfast prepared.” She didn’t wait to see if they fo
llowed. She sheathed her long, curved blade and walked, swaying gently as if she were still at sea, toward the waterfront. Her black-and-silver hair hung past her waist in a mass of braids. It was held back from her face by a pale-yellow turban. She wore loose-fitting breeches and a long coat that came down over her hips. She was barefoot and had several hoops dangling from her ears. The collar of her shirt was open, exposing sun-freckled flesh and a jagged scar along her collarbone, which was accentuated by the leather cord that held a wooden talisman.
Tollan sighed. “What, no bells, Mother? I thought all pirates wore bells in their hair.”
She stopped walking. “Only idiots wear bells, son. You never know when you’ll need to sneak up on someone, and when you do, there’s rarely time for a haircut.” She arched an eyebrow at him.
Seeing the set of her shoulders and the tilt of her head, he was stunned to find that he couldn’t hate her. A piece of him understood why she had run away.
“I was sorry to hear about Jamis’s death,” he said. For most of his life, he couldn’t help but hate the pirate lover who had stolen his mother away from him on the Heart’s Desire, but the view he had from a burning, mage-ensorcelled Yigris had softened his opinion of her and of the pirate, Jamis Heliata.
She smiled, then turned and began to walk once more. “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss him. But there hasn’t been a day that I haven’t missed you and your brother, too.”
Guilt twisted his insides. Elam had assured him that they were maneuvering all the pieces of their plan into place to save Iven, but Tollan still felt helpless. The Ain would not help until Gemma awoke or died, and Tollan did not even want to think about the chaos that would ensue if she did not recover.
Pushing futile thoughts aside, he followed his mother into the waiting dinghy, manned by two greasy-haired sailors who bobbed reverently when they saw her. They were rowed toward the Heart’s Desire, the ship that so many of his nightmares had ridden on. As they approached, he saw what a beauty she was—gleaming wood and scarlet sails, her single mast tall and straight. His mother’s eyes were full of pride.
