All the Tides of Fate

by Adalyn Grace

  The plea in his voice is enough to knock the wind out of me. No longer is the weight of his body a comfort; it’s suffocating. I push myself free from Bastian and clutch my tightening chest.

  The sides of the room sweep inward, until all I can see is a tunnel ahead. My breaths come fast and hard, and my body is too heavy and too cold for me to be able to focus enough to do anything about it.

  I can no longer see Bastian at the end of that tunnel, though somewhere in the back of my mind I know he must still be sitting in front of me. Instead I see Father, dead on the ground. I see Kaven smiling over him, a blade dripping with Father’s blood raised to his lips. When I do see Bastian, it’s him convulsing on the ground, eyes rolled backward into his skull as a crowd of the dead swarm around him, watching with hunger in their smiles.

  Then, all I see is the blood, weaving itself over my vision.

  Red.

  Red.

  Red.

  Red.

  There are sounds now, coming from the tunnel. I can’t decipher them at first, but they grow louder and louder until they’re beating against my skull like the painful hammering of a struggling Kerost.

  I try to drown them out, humming a familiar sea shanty under my breath, trying to steady the rhythm. I try to focus on it amid the pounding of the hammers, but I keep losing it. I keep losing—

  The sudden weight on my body is enough to give me pause. To make the tunnel expand just a little as the hammers cease their pounding. The shouting I’d heard becomes clearer, and I recognize now that I’m not the only one humming.

  The tunnel snaps.

  Bastian holds me tightly from behind, arms wrapped firmly around my chest. “It’s okay,” he says with a soothing firmness. “It’s okay, I’m right here.”

  I wrap my hands around his arms and sink into his chest as the shaking steadies and the tightness in my lungs ebbs away. He picks up humming the shanty when I can no longer continue, not needing to be asked. My body is lead against his, so heavy and tired I can barely move. But at least I can see, again. At least I’m back in reality.

  “Are you with me?” he asks, to which I manage a quiet grunt in response. The tension in his shoulders relaxes some, and he loosens his grip. I tighten mine in response, anchoring myself back in reality and away from the memories I’ve desperately been trying to keep shelved in the farthest crevice of my mind.

  “Take your time,” Bastian whispers. “Just breathe. We can stay like this all night if we need to.”

  And though I know he means it, I also know he’s wrong. Because I’m not a tourist here for a spa trip; I’m the Queen of Visidia, and there’s an entire island expecting me tonight.

  There’s nothing I want more than to remain exactly like this for the rest of the evening. Unmoving, protected and whole, listening to the soothing sound of this boy humming spectacularly off-key. I don’t know if I physically can move. Even breathing is painful, and my vision is still so bleary that I worry it’ll never normalize. But I don’t have the luxury of sitting in my feelings, no matter how much I might need to.

  “I have to get up,” I tell Bastian, though neither of us takes any step toward moving. Instead, we sit there for another long, quiet moment before he eventually stirs.

  “Is this what happened a few days ago? When you saw the ginnada?”

  I swallow the slowly shrinking lump in my throat. “It’s happened a few times.” I worry he may ask for more details, like the things I see when this happens, but he doesn’t. Instead, he presses a kiss to my temple, still cradling me.

  “I’m sorry you’re going through this, Amora. But we’re all here for you.”

  I’m not sure how long we sit there, but Bastian holds me until my muscles relax, the tension ebbing away. My body aches as I force myself to roll off his chest and rise shakily to my feet. He’s standing within the second, waiting to see if I need him as I fix my ruffled hair and smooth my pants. Looking in the mirror, I see my lips are swollen and my eyes red-rimmed and puffy. But in the darkness of the night, I’m hopeful no one will be able to tell.

  Once I’m ready, I take hold of Bastian’s offered arm and let him lead me through the hall, grateful for his presence. My body feels as though I’ve overused my magic, thoroughly exhausting myself. I focus my energy into every step, hoping that with some food and distraction from my own thoughts, I’ll be able to ease up enough to believably participate in tonight’s festivities.

  “You’ve got this,” he says, and I try to sink into those words. To wrap them around myself as armor. “I’ll be right there if you need me.”

  “Thank you.” I squeeze his arm, just once, and feel his body go lax. “And I can try to be there, too.”

  His expression softens and he looks ahead, knowing just as I do that there’s no turning back, now. Not from him, and not from the hundreds of bachelors hungry for the title of king as we throw ourselves into the fray.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Parties on Curmana are far from the loud, bustling events I’m used to.

  There are no merchants perched behind stands of sugary-sweet ginnada. No cooks with sweat on their brows as they dole out skewers of freshly roasted meats or glazed Ikaean desserts, and no uninhibited laughter from dancing partygoers who flock around barrels of wine and ale that line the streets.

  Instead, there are Curmanans dressed in sleek onyx robes who use levitation magic to float tiny portions of food and moderately filled flutes of sparkling red wine around the crowd. Swapped for the loud drums and horns I’m familiar with is a harpist who’s positioned off to the corner, playing music that’s so soft and beautiful one could easily fall asleep to it. Hardly anyone speaks, and when they do their voices are smooth and quiet, offered with only the politest of smiles.

  Back in Arida, we wouldn’t call this a “party.”

  My skin crawls from the silence. “Why is no one talking?”

  “They are.” Bastian takes one cursory look around the bay, looking from bachelor to hungry bachelor. The tension in his shoulders swells. “Just not out loud. Mind speak, remember?”

  Gods, I can only imagine the things they’re saying about me. I’ve enjoyed mind magic when Mira’s used it; she always has the greatest gossip to share about the kingdom. But on this side of it, it’s possibly my least favorite magic of all.

  I spy Ferrick making conversation with a grinning Nelly, who sneaks looks behind her every so often at Vataea, who Ferrick is clearly talking about. His entire face is scarlet as Nelly leans in and whispers something to him conspiratorially. Ferrick nods, listening intently to whatever romantic advice she must be offering.

  Ilia stands beside them, listening with only a quirk of amusement upon her lips. While Nelly’s dressed in a gorgeous gossamer gown of black with brilliant emerald touches, Ilia wears a velvety onyx suit and rich matching cape. Her hair’s been fastened into a long plait that drapes over one shoulder, while Nelly’s has been elegantly curled and piled atop her head in a fashion that shouldn’t work but miraculously does.

  While Ferrick wears clothes similar to Bastian’s, the harsh color makes his pale skin almost ghostly. A few yards opposite him stands the focus of his interest—Vataea’s beside Shanty, who has taken an entire tray of food from one of the workers and holds it between them while sipping on sparkling wine. A crowd of admirers linger around them, casting hopeful glances toward the girls, some working up the nerve to ask them to dance. Vataea looks positively ferocious in the silk gown that sits on her body like a second layer of skin. Used to cooler temperatures, she’s neglected any form of coat or cape, showing off the full extent of a plunging neckline and thin diamond straps. Shanty’s chosen to ignore Curmana’s signature color and style in favor of enchanting her own slinky dress to be as startling a lilac as her hair and eyes. The short dress hugs her curves fiercely, and she revels in the attention she’s receiving.

  Behind them, I see Nelly give Ferrick a small shove, and he makes his way to the two girls, nearly dragging his feet
with every step. He looks like a fish out of water, fiddling with the neck of his shirt as though it’s too tight. Eventually though, he makes it to Vataea, speaking words I can’t hear with cheeks that are red as wine. But they make her smile, and the moment he reaches his hand out, she snatches it. Vataea practically drags him to the dance floor.

  It’s the small boost of morale I need to drop my arm from Bastian’s as we approach the party. Immediately my skin cools with the chill of his absence, and it takes everything in me not to reach out, again.

  “Save me a dance.” There’s a tightness in his smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I’ll be around.”

  He disappears into the crowd as Nelly hustles over to me. Casem follows behind her, looking like a proper guard with the royal emblem shimmering bright on his shoulder. Or as proper as he could look, I suppose, given that he’s holding a plate of five meat skewers.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” There’s excitement brimming in Nelly’s voice as she tilts her head to admire the hundreds of white, twinkling lanterns that hover in the sky around us. They’re like tiny stars, held up by mind magic and swaying pleasantly in the breeze. “Talk about mood lighting. The scene is set, the men are here, and now the lady of the hour has finally arrived. Are you ready for your big night?”

  Behind her, Casem’s lips twitch into an amused, knowing smirk as he bites off a chunk from the skewer. I ignore him.

  “I’m bursting at the seams.” I wave down one of the working Curmanans, who responds by using their magic to float over a ridiculously small puff pastry with sweet cream. While delicious, everything is conversation food, too small and dainty. I’m going to need about fifty workers levitating trays my way if I’m ever going to get enough for a meal.

  Another pastry floats toward me, and I jolt when this one bursts on my tongue not with cream, but delicious stewed meat. The worker laughs at my reaction, and suddenly I’m surrounded by pastries that dance around me, just waiting to be plucked from the sky.

  Talk about service. The moment I reach for more, however, Nelly frowns and takes hold of my hand.

  “There will be time for food later.” She pulls me alongside her with a surprisingly firm grip, steering us toward the party with determination glinting in her eyes. Excitement buzzes off her skin as she pulls me straight through the crowd and to the edge of a roiling sea of people. Casem’s hustling to keep up as Nelly drops my hand to loudly clap her own.

  “Esteemed people of Curmana,” she begins with a toothy grin. “Tonight, I have the pleasure of announcing this evening’s most honored guest, the Queen of Visidia, Her Majesty Amora Montara.”

  All eyes turn to me. Verbal conversations ebb as backs straighten. Chins lift and chests puff as appraising eyes roam over me. I do my best not to glare at anyone whose stare lingers too long or seems too hungry. Here in public, before the eyes of everyone, I will be polite. Face-to-face, however, I’m not responsible for whether my dagger accidentally grazes those who eye me like I’m a prize to win, or for how many times I step on their toes.

  When the crowd lowers themselves into a bow, I politely wave their gesture away. In the past, I would have reveled in their display, letting their respect wash over me and fill me with pride. Now when I look upon them, all I see are the faces of the dead staring back.

  How many of these people lost loved ones during Kaven’s attack? During the storms on Kerost?

  I am a liar who should not be standing here; the Montaras are nothing more than a facade, no more powerful than the next person. The beast my great ancestor Cato once warned us about was nothing more than a ploy for him to gain power.

  And yet these people bow to me, because not a single one of them knows the truth.

  I do everything I can to ground myself in the earth, fighting the urge to turn and flee from the eyes watching me. But Ornell could be here in this crowd, and I’ll maintain this charade until I find him, no matter what it takes.

  Cato Montara was a coward. Aunt Kalea was a coward. Father was a coward.

  I will not be.

  “Please,” I say with what I hope sounds like a gentle laugh. “There’s no need for that tonight. Do you see a crown on my head?” I wait, smiling. “Call me Amora. And as the night goes on, I hope I have the pleasure to meet every one of you. Not as your queen, but…” I stall, drawing in a breath to make myself look a little nervous. I press my lips together, then look up at them from beneath my lashes, playing the role of the friendly queen, demure and hoping to find her king. “Just as myself.”

  Casem steps up to be my escort down the shore, his lips quirking in amusement, which I take to mean I’m doing my job right. He sets a hand upon my shoulder and faces the crowd to address them himself, having somehow made his plate of food disappear.

  “As you all know, Her Majesty’s looking for a suitor. Someone who will be king.” He wags his brows, and I try not to gag because there’s no way any random bachelor I meet could ever become Visidia’s king as though it were some contest. Not when I’ve trained so long and so hard for it, and still don’t have the faintest clue what I’m doing half the time. And yet I keep that smile plastered to my lips for dear life as Nelly joins in.

  “The night is young,” she says, “and everyone will have their turn. So, please be patient, and let the festivities begin!”

  Gently, Casem squeezes my hand and leads me down the remaining steps. “Make sure you get some wine,” he says by way of encouragement. “You’re going to need it.”

  * * *

  Casem wasn’t lying.

  Though I expected more courting and less politics, three hours and two glasses of sparkling wine in, I’ve danced my way from one man to the next, having listened to at least a dozen tell me all the ways in which they’re fit to be king, and all the thousand things I’m doing wrong with Visidia.

  So far, no one named Ornell is anywhere to be found.

  As expected, the majority of these bachelors are foolish enough to believe they can win me over with a smart tongue, but I don’t give them the time to hear themselves speak. There are too many people here tonight, but only one I need to find. I have to keep moving.

  “I think Visidia’s forces need stronger regimented training,” one of the men tells me. Nelly introduced him as Lord Gregori. And because he’s connected to nobility, no matter how distantly, it’s apparently given him the belief that he has the right to act like a pompous oaf. He’s somewhere in his early twenties, with snow-white skin and flaxen waves he must have spent far too long combing to perfection. “After everything that’s happened this past year, I think it’s time we better prepared ourselves. We should start with mandatory drafts, and look into creating more effective long-range weapons. I have a diagram of one I think you’d like, operated with blasting powder. Imagine a handheld cannon…”

  “Fascinating.” I cut off his thoughts with a wave of the hand. “Tell me, are you familiar with anyone by the name of Ornell? Ornell Rosenblathe?”

  Nose scrunching with annoyance, he shakes his head. When he starts speaking again, I finish off my wine and flag someone down for what will be my third flute and more puff pastries, drowning out the boy’s haughty words. He doesn’t appear to notice, rambling on about the weapons he hopes to create and about how there needs to be a better budget for their development. I pop one of the floating pastries in my mouth, and jolt in surprise at the new flavor.

  “This one’s mint!” I tell him aloud, glad to finally have a reasonable distraction.

  His eyes narrow in offense. “Excuse me?”

  I point to the remaining puff pastry and take a bite of it before I show him the green jelly that oozes out from inside, then take another swig of wine. “It’s mint jelly. Would you like to try some?” I hold out the remaining half of the puff pastry, and his eyes flick from it, to my flute of wine, and back up. His lips curl.

  “Nice to see our queen is taking her courtship seriously.”

  The words are so ridiculous that I can’t hel
p myself from laughing. Yes, I may be a little wine-hazed, but I’ve still got my wits about me. I’m on a mission, after all.

  “And it’s nice to see that there’s no shortage of men who think they’re more qualified for my job than I am,” I say casually. “Tell me, were you born with your delusions of grandeur, or did you grow into them?”

  Gregori’s mouth falls open, but in his surprise, no words manage to tumble out. Even the quiet pop pop pop of my bubbly is louder than he is as I take another sip and tell him, “I’ve spent every day for eighteen years training to wear my crown. I am the one who defeated Kaven and ended the threat to Visidia. So please, continue to belittle me. Tell me all about your silly weapons, and how they’ll solve our political strife.” I shove my empty wine flute into his hands. “Actually, come to think of it, I’d rather you not. Excuse me.”

  I leave him without once looking back, annoyance burning my skin. Half a year ago, I would have strung that boy up by his fingers for making such a mockery of the crown. It’s unfortunate I no longer have that option.

  It’s not that I was looking forward to this, but stars, I assumed there would at least be a little more dancing and flirting. It would have been nice to have even a small reprieve from being forced to consider and discuss the changes happening within the kingdom.

  “Smile, Amora,” I grumble to myself. “Laugh, Amora. Make them love you, because the standards are different for us, Amora.”

  In the midst of the crowd, I catch sight of a short, squat man dressed head to toe in a soft pastel blue. I’ve no idea what theme he’s going for with his wardrobe, but the oddity of his widely puffed collar and shoulders are enough to know he’s from Ikae. His yellow eyes catch mine briefly before swirling behind me, to where an enraged Gregori still stands with my flute glass clenched in his hand.

  When the Ikaean jots something down on a piece of parchment, I clench my teeth tight so that I can keep my scowl inward, knowing at once he’s one of the reporters Shanty warned us about. And I’m giving him a great story.