The Bridge Kingdom

by Danielle L. Jensen

  Standing, Aren frowned at the mist-covered waters of the cove. The Amaridian navy was well acquainted with Midwatch’s shipbreakers, but the vessel had sailed right into their path, making them easy pickings. Perhaps an ancient ship with a crew of convicts was all the Amarid Queen had been willing to risk on the tail end of storm season, but still . . . What was the point?

  Aren turned back to Gorrick. “Write a report and have it sent to the Watch Commanders informing them that raids have come early.” Then he strode up the path toward the barracks, having no interest whatsoever in returning to his house.

  “Wife chase you out already, Your Grace?” Jor was lounging next to the fire, a book in one hand. “She didn’t seem too pleased with the Ithicanian form of mercy.”

  That she had not.

  Lara had sat and brooded on the cliff edge until he’d wondered if he needed to get someone to drag her back to the house. Then abruptly she’d risen, trotted down the steps to the beach, and stormed past him without a word, the guards he’d posted on her looking as though they’d rather be swimming with sharks than watching over their new queen. About an hour later, Eli had arrived with a letter written by Lara to her father, and now, Aster’s comments fresh in his ears, Aren was debating whether or not to send it.

  “I doubt she’s seen much of the way of violence before.” Aren headed toward his bunk before thinking better of it and sitting next to the old soldier. “Read this.”

  Taking Lara’s letter, the older man read it, then shrugged. “Looks to me like a proof of life letter.”

  Aren was inclined to agree. The letter said little more than that she was well, was being treated kindly, along with a lengthy description of his house, with a great emphasis on the hot spring. Even so, he’d read it over several times looking for code, not sure if he was happy or disappointed when he found none.

  “Interesting that she doesn’t mention you. Me thinks you have a cold bed in your future.”

  Aren snorted, the blurry remnants of the dream he’d had of Lara in his room, in his bed, in his arms, flashing across his thoughts. “She seems to take issue with being a treaty prize.”

  “Maybe she was expecting a better-looking husband. Some people handle disappointment poorly.”

  Aren lifted one eyebrow. “That’s probably the only thing that hasn’t been disappointing for her.”

  Jor shook his head. “Maybe she dislikes cocky little bastards.”

  “I’ve heard there are kingdoms where the people show a little respect for their monarchs.”

  “I can respect you and still think your shit stinks just as bad as the next man’s.”

  Rolling his eyes, Aren accepted the mug that Lia, one of his honor guards, passed him, smiling until she said, “You’re just pissed that the Rat King of Maridrina sent you a girl with an opinion rather than a brainless twit who’d”—she made a vulgar gesture—“without question.”

  “Like you, Lia?” Jor said with a wink, laughing as she tossed the contents of her cup at him. Aren snatched the letter out of the man’s hand before it could suffer any further damage.

  “You don’t actually intend to send it, do you?” Jor asked.

  “I told her I would. And besides, if Silas is wanting proof she’s alive, it’s best we satisfy him. The last thing we need is to give him an excuse to come looking for her.”

  “Lie. We can get a forger to carry on the correspondence.”

  “No.” Aren’s eyes drifted across the lines of neat writing. “I’ll either send it or tell her that I chose not to. Is there anything on the surface here that we need to be worried about the Magpie seeing?”

  Jor took it back, reading it once more, and not for the first time, Aren cursed having been born those few minutes before Ahnna. Those few damning minutes that made him King and her Commander, when he’d have given anything for their roles to be reversed. He was suited to fighting and for hunting and for sitting around the fire making bad jokes with other soldiers. Not for politics and diplomacy and having his whole goddamned kingdom depending on his choices.

  “From the description of your fancy house, they might guess she’s at Midwatch with you. They’ll realize from her details about the jungle that we’re granting her some liberty to move about. Speaking of”—Jor lifted his head—“what was she doing running around the island? She came from the same direction as you, which wasn’t from the house . . .”

  Chance would have it that Aren had arrived at the house right before Lara departed on her unsanctioned exploration of the island, and rather than have Lia stop her, he’d decided to see where his wife intended to go. “She was wandering.”

  Jor’s eyebrows rose. “For what purpose?”

  “Looking for the bridge.”

  All eyes in the common room turned to look at them, and Aren scowled. “It was mere curiosity . . .” He didn’t know exactly why he was defending Lara, only that the things she’d said to him had struck a chord. It had been so easy to focus on the sacrifices he was making as part of this marriage that he hadn’t stopped to think of what it had cost her. Of what it would continue to cost her. The exact same things he wanted to protect Ahnna from, and why he’d pay Harendell a fortune rather than force his sister into a marriage she didn’t want. “Nearly got herself bitten by a snake, so I expect she won’t go wandering again anytime soon.”

  “I wouldn’t be so confident about that,” Lia said. “When we blocked her from the boats, she looked about ready to punch me in the face. She might not be a warrior, but she’s no coward.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Jor said. “I’ll have a couple extra guards stationed to keep an eye on her when you’re not around.”

  Aren nodded slowly. “Send the letter to Southwatch for Ahnna and our codebreakers to look at and get a forger to transcribe it onto fresh paper. Then send it to Maridrina.” His people knew every one of the Magpie’s codes. If she was using one, they’d crack it.

  “You think she’s a spy?”

  Exhaling a long breath, Aren considered his new wife, who was nothing like how he’d expected. Maridrinian kings used their daughters as bargaining chips, ways to secure alliances and favors within the kingdom and without. Lara and all of her sisters would have been raised knowing an arranged marriage to him—or someone else—was part of their future. They’d have been trained to do their duty as a wife, regardless of the circumstances.

  Yet Lara had made it clear that the treaty secured her presence in Ithicana, not her compliance as a wife, and he respected that. Every woman who’d shared his bed had done so because she’d wanted to, and the idea of spending his life with a woman who was there solely out of duty was unappealing. He’d prefer a cold bed. “I’ll give her some space. I think if she’s been sent here to spy, she’s going to come to me in pursuit of information. Maridrinians aren’t known for their patience.”

  “And if she does?” Jor asked.

  “I’ll cross that bridge when it comes.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  In a way, if Lara was, in fact, an innocent girl who’d been sent to secure a peace treaty, it made Aren’s task harder than if they exposed her as a spy. Because he had his own agenda when it came to his Maridrinian wife, and he wouldn’t get very far with it if she hated his guts. “I’ll win her over, I suppose.”

  Lia’s drink sprayed out from between her lips. “Good luck with that, Your Grace.”

  He gave her a lazy smile. “I won you over.”

  Lia gave him a look that implied he was the stupidest creature to walk the earth. “She and I are not the same.”

  Yet it wasn’t until Lara had continued to give him the cold shoulder for one night, then a week, then two, that he started to think that maybe Lia had been right.

  12

  Lara

  The weeks after the shipwreck and the slaughter on the beach passed without incident. Aren rose at dawn and didn’t return until late in the evening, but he didn’t leave her unattended. Wise to Lara’s prior unsancti
oned exploration of the island, the servants kept close watch on her, Clara always seeming to be dusting or mopping nearby, the scent of wood polish perpetually thick on the nose. Though in truth, the storms that passed overhead did more than the servants or guards ever could to keep Lara contained. Violent winds, lightning, and a ceaseless deluge of rain were regular occurrences. Moryn, the cook, told her these were the last gasps of the season and nothing in comparison to the typhoons she’d witness when the next began.

  Though she was desperate to get another look at the opening into the pier, Lara, by design, did nothing to provoke interest, using the time to discreetly search the home for any clues that might assist in planning Maridrina’s invasion of Ithicana. Maps were her primary goal, and the one thing she failed to find. Serin had countless documents detailing the islands that made up the kingdom, on which a long line depicting the bridge was always drawn, but none with any detail. Lara had now seen for herself—the kingdom was nearly impossible to infiltrate due to the lack of beaches, compounded by the defenses in the water, which the Ithicanians seemed capable of shifting and changing at will.

  The other mystery was where the islanders themselves resided. No civilizations of size had ever been spotted from the sea, and successful landings and raids only spoke of small villages, leading Serin and her father both to believe the population small, violent, and uncivilized, dedicated to basic needs, vicious defense of their bridge, and little else. But though she’d only been in Ithicana a short time, Lara was not inclined to agree with that assessment.

  It was what Aren had said to her in the tower. The bridge . . . For Ithicana, it’s everything. And Ithicana is everything to me.

  The tone in his voice showed genuine sentiment. There were civilians here. Civilians Aren believed needed protection, and all of her training told her they would be Ithicana’s greatest weakness. She need only determine where they were and how to exploit that knowledge. Then pass it back to Maridrina.

  She’d sent her first letter to her father already, a code-free missive carefully crafted to ensure it gave no reason for the Ithicanians to detain it. A test to see if Aren would allow her to correspond before she attempted the riskier task of trying to get intel past the codebreakers at Southwatch.

  Proof that Aren had been true to his word came in a response from her father. And the letter was delivered by none other than King Aren himself.

  She’d seen him arriving home through the window, soaking wet from the most recent downpour, and not for the first time, she wondered what it was he did during his days. More often than not he returned wet, muddy, and smelling of sweat, his face shadowed with weariness. Part of her had wanted to approach him—had feared that she’d erred her strategy of gaining his trust and had alienated him entirely. But another part had told her that she’d made the right choice in forcing him to come to her.

  “This arrived in Southwatch for you.” He dropped the folded pieces of paper in her lap. He was bathed and changed into dry clothes now, but the exhaustion lingered.

  “You read it, I assume.” She unfolded the letter, noting Serin’s spidery imitation of her father’s script and feeling the faintest stab of disappointment. Of course it had been him to write it. He knew the codes, not her father. She set it aside, not wanting to read it just yet.

  “You know I did. And to save you the trouble, my codebreakers helpfully translated the piss-poor code. Transcription is on the back. I’ll let the deception slide this time because it didn’t come from you, but there won’t be any second chances.”

  So much for Marylyn’s unbreakable code. Flipping over the page, she read aloud, “Relieved that you are well, dearest daughter. Send word if you are mistreated, and we will retaliate.”

  Aren snorted.

  “What did you expect? That he’d marry me off to you and not care what became of me?”

  “More or less. He got what he wanted.”

  “Well, now you know otherwise.” And now she knew that getting information out of Ithicana would be just as challenging as predicted. “Perhaps you might send him a letter yourself reassuring him of your good intentions.”

  “I don’t have time for carrying on a casual correspondence with your father, or”—he picked up the letter—“the Magpie, judging from the penmanship.”

  Bloody hell, the Ithicanians were good. Lara averted her gaze. “Your time is clearly precious. Please do carry on with whatever it is you need to do.”

  He started to turn, then hesitated, and from the corner of her eye, she watched him catch sight of the deck of cards she’d left sitting on the table. “You play?”

  A mix of nerves and excitement filled her, the same feeling she got before stepping into the training yard to fight. This was a different kind of battle, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t win.

  “Of course I play.”

  He hesitated, then asked, “Do you care for a game?”

  Shrugging, she picked up the deck and expertly shuffled, the cards making sharp snapping sounds in her hands. “Do you really wish to gamble with me, Your Majesty? I must warn you, I’m quite good.”

  “One of your many talents?”

  Lara’s heart skipped, and she wondered if he remembered more from their intimate encounter than she realized. Yet he only eyed her for a moment, then took the seat across from her, resting one booted foot on his knee. “Do you have any coin to bet, or am I risking my money on both sides of every wager?”

  She gave him a cool smile. “Pick a different stake.”

  “How about truths?”

  Lara cocked one eyebrow. “That’s a children’s game. What are we to do next? Dare each other to run around the house naked?”

  Because nudity had been more in line with what she’d thought he’d suggest. The cards were a trick of seduction that Mezat, their Mistress of the Bedroom, had taught the sisters. All men, she had told them, were happy to risk their own clothing for a chance to see naked breasts. Except, it turned out, for the King of Ithicana.

  “We can save the naked sprints for storm season. It’s far more exciting if there’s lightning biting at your ass.”

  Shaking her head, Lara shuffled the cards again. “Poker?” Best to choose a game in which she would not lose.

  “How about Trumps?”

  “More luck than skill in that game.”

  “I know.” The way he said it was like a dare. And for better or worse, she never turned down a challenge, so she shrugged. “As you like. To nine?”

  “Boring. How about a truth for each trump.”

  Her mind raced with questions she might ask. With questions that he might ask, and the answers she’d give.

  Reaching over to the corner table, Aren picked up a bottle of amber liquor, took a mouthful, then set it between them. “To make things more fun.”

  One of her eyebrows rose. “There are glasses on the sideboard, you know.”

  “Less work for Eli this way.”

  Rolling her eyes, she took a mouthful. The brandy, as it turned out to be, burned like fire down her throat. Then she dealt the cards, silently cursing when he had the trump. “Well?”

  Taking the bottle, Aren eyed her thoughtfully and Lara’s heart began to hammer. There were a thousand things he could ask, for which she had no answer. For which she’d have to lie, and then keep that lie alive for the length of her time here. And the more lies she had to balance, the greater chance of getting caught.

  “What is”—he took a mouthful“—your favorite color?”

  Lara blinked, her heart stuttering and then settling even as she looked away from his hazel eyes, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. “Green.”

  “Excellent. Plenty of that about, so I need not ply your favor with emeralds.”

  Giving a soft snort of amusement, Lara handed over the cards, which he swiftly shuffled and then dealt.

  She won the next round.

  “I’ll not ask you nonsense questions,” she warned, taking the bottle from him. Her questions needed to be
strategic—not intended to uncover the secrets of the bridge, but to understand the man who held those secrets so close to his heart. “Did you take pleasure in killing those raiders? In watching them die?”

  Aren winced. “Still angry about that, then?”

  “A fortnight is not sufficient time for me to forget the cold-blooded slaughter of a ship full of men.”

  “I suppose not.” Aren leaned back in the chair, eyes distant. “Pleasure.” He said the word as though he were tasting it, trying it out, then shook his head. “No, not pleasure. But there is a certain satisfaction to seeing them die.”

  Lara said nothing, and her silence was rewarded a moment later.

  “I’ve served at Midwatch since I was fifteen. Commanded it since I was nineteen. Over the past ten years, I’ve lost track of the number of battles I’ve fought against raiders. But I remember all thirteen times we were too late. When we reached our people after the raiders had their way with them. Families slaughtered. And for what? Fish? They have nothing worth taking. So instead they take their lives.”

  Lara pressed the palms of her hands to her skirts, sweat soaking through the silk. “Why do they do it, then?”

  “They think they can learn ways into the bridge through them. But the civilians don’t use the bridge. They don’t know its secrets. You’d think after all these years our enemies would have figured that out. Maybe they have.” His face twisted. “Maybe they just kill them for pleasure.”

  His fingers brushed hers as he passed over the deck, warm against her icy skin. Aren won the next hand.

  “Since we are asking difficult questions . . .” He tapped one finger against his chin. “What’s your worst memory?”

  She had a hundred worst memories. A thousand. Of abandoning her sisters to fire and sand. Of Erik, the man who’d been like a father to her, taking his own life in front of her because he believed she’d been driven to murder her own sisters. Of being left alone in a pit in the ground for weeks. Of being starved. Of being beaten. Of having to fight for her life, all while her masters told her that it was to make her strong. To teach her to endure. We do this to protect you, they had told her and her sisters. If you need someone to hate, someone blame, look to Ithicana. To its king. If not for them, if not for him, none of this would be necessary. Bring them down, and no Maridrinian girl will ever suffer like this again.