Eliza grabbed a satchel from the nearby table and darted from the room, so Caecilia followed on her heels. The prince’s room was just down the passage, and a group of sailors had gathered there, one of them an older man wringing his hands.
“By gods, he’s not looking well at all, Eliza,” the old fellow said. He whipped his spectacles off and cleaned them on his shirt. “Puke everywhere.”
The smell hit Caecilia the moment she stepped inside to see James and another sailor lifting Joren from the floor onto his bed. The front of his shirt was stained with vomit.
“I’ll send someone for the mop,” Nigel muttered before his steps thundered up the ladderway.
“Why does his breath also smell of rum?” Eliza asked, leaning close enough to put her face to face with the prince.
Neither Joren nor James answered.
Eliza narrowed her gaze on James. “I specifically gave orders that this man isn’t to have any alcohol. The nature of his brain injury will only amplify the effects of liquor and inhibit his recovery. Did you give him rum?”
“Maybe…I mean, it may have been a little bit—”
“James, how could you?!”
“It was only a little alcohol. Barely more than I would give a child.”
“James—”
“We’ve given more to Peter!”
Eliza stared daggers at him. “Get out.”
“Eliza, I had no idea—”
“Out, out, out! Go make something useful of yourself, you witless git. Honestly, why should I even serve on your vessel if you disregard my orders as the ship’s physician?”
Caecilia shrank back out of the way as James hurried from the cabin and into the passageway. She’d never feared humans before, not in all her centuries as a goddess, and certainly not when she’d been a powerful yet hideous hag. Lacking her magical gifts changed that. Everything became frightening when one was absolutely defenseless.
“That man is going to be the death of me one day. His wife needs to hurry back and rein him in,” Eliza muttered. She twisted around, lips pursed, and scanned the room. “Could you fetch me some clean cloths? There should be some in that chest.”
Grateful for a job to do, Caecilia fetched the cloths and brought them to the healer. Then she moved to the other side of Joren’s bed, out of the way, and stroked his damp hair back from his brow. He burned with fever.
And she had no magic to help him.
Eliza continued to mutter under her breath. She yanked herbs and powders from her satchel, then an inscribed bowl. Caecilia recognized runes meant to conjure heat. Once the healer poured water within, curls of steam swiftly began to rise. The clever use of magic delighted her and gave hope that this woman could actually help Joren.
“Here, bathe his brow with this,” Eliza directed in a gentle voice as she passed over a dampened cloth.
Joren shuddered beneath his blankets. Nothing calmed him. When he thrashed against the sheets and groaned, Eliza clenched her jaw. His tremors strengthened until his entire body shook. Eliza put both hands against his shoulders and rolled him to his side. Unsure what to do, Caecilia rubbed his back in a desperate bid to lend what comfort she could.
What seemed to stretch on for ages actually lasted only a moment, then his body sagged. Eliza wiped his face and gently returned him to his back on the mattress. His pale face resembled a corpse’s death mask, ashen with little color in his cheeks.
“We’ll have to change his shirt for him, the poor dear.” Eliza began unfastening the buttons, revealing inch after inch of sun-bronzed skin. “Are you going to help me or ogle him, Coral Shell?”
Caecilia jerked and hurried to Eliza’s aid, guiding the prince’s arms from the sleeves. Exposed from the waist up, he was all muscle and brawn, his chest chiseled in a way she hadn’t expected to see in human royalty.
Admiring such a fine man made her realize just how much she’d missed intimacy. How much she’d craved it over the decades, and how much she’d taken sex for granted.
Eliza tossed the foul shirt aside while Caecilia wiped down his face, neck, and upper chest. Then the rest came off, and Caecilia’s face burned hotter than the lamp oil. Afterward, they tucked him in then stepped away from the bed where he lay resting, far too quiet for Caecilia’s liking after the way he’d seized and shaken like a dying fish.
“For his safety, he’ll need to be watched.” The healer sighed and rubbed her temples. “I suppose I’ll work up a shift rotation.”
Caecilia took hold of Eliza’s arm and gestured to herself.
“You want to watch him?”
More than anything, but since she couldn’t speak the words, she nodded instead.
* * *
Gentle fingers brushed Joren’s hair back from his forehead, the touch warm and delightful in an otherwise cool room. Then he made the mistake of blinking his eyes open, exposing them to the blindingly intense light of the lamp beside his bed.
“Gods, that lantern is brighter than the sun.” He squeezed his eyes shut but heard someone scrambling, the touch retreating from his brow. Seconds passed, and then the light seeping under his lids dimmed. Sweet relief. “Thank you.”
Joren dared to seek out his nurse, expecting to see Eliza’s disapproving face. Instead, he gazed into soulful brown eyes framed by the thickest, darkest lashes, set in russet face. He plucked her name out of his foggy memories despite the sensation of a mallet pounding his temples. Coral Shell.
The name fit her.
“Thank you,” he said to her again. “I truly appreciate your kindness. Where are the others?”
Coral gestured to the door.
“Left you with the invalid, did they?”
Her mouth flattened in unveiled disapproval.
He couldn’t help but think of himself as one, useless as the injuries had made him. He hadn’t even imbibed more than two full shots of rum, but that had been enough to set him on his ass, and now he was miserable, almost in enough pain to wish death would claim him.
Trying to sit up made it worse. His head swam as if he’d been shaken, and the world spun out of focus, dizzying. He groaned and became aware of Coral’s soft hands on his chest, her touch silky and smooth.
Then his cock realized Coral’s hands were on his chest and jolted straight upright, thankfully concealed by the blanket—regrettably large enough to create a noticeable bulge beneath it.
Coral Shell glanced at him, back to his tented bedcover, and to his face again. Her brow rose.
I’d like to die now. Now would be nice, Joren thought.
After a knowing, too-sweet smile, she propped a few pillows behind his back. Gods bless the woman. Any time Joren moved, his head punished him. Lying still appeared to be the only relief.
As he focused on breathing, she lifted a shallow bowl from the bedside table and offered it. He only managed a few sips of broth before his stomach threatened to rebel. To his relief, she didn’t force him to finish the rest, but she did set the bowl aside and offer water, which he also turned away.
“In a little bit, I promise.” He closed his eyes again and waited for the nausea to pass. After a while, he cracked open one eye, expecting to see her gone, the room was so quiet. She remained in the same spot, watching him. Rather than discomfort, he felt a sense of relief at not being left alone, even if she couldn’t speak with him.
“Eliza must be furious with me.”
Coral’s mouth turned up at one corner and her eyes crinkled as she shook her head. Then she mimicked Eliza, finger pointing and all, in a silent scold to an invisible figure.
“Ah, poor James. I imagine he’s used to her rants by now, but I feel sorry for him all the same. I’m the one who asked him to break her rule.”
Her shoulders lifted and fell, drawing his attention. Everything about her was slender and graceful, even in men’s garb. Maybe it was his delirium, but he thought he’d never seen a woman so lovely before. Not even his sister, renowned for her beauty as much as her long, silver hair.
/> “I’m sorry you’re saddled with playing my nurse. I imagine you’d rather be out there.” When she shook her head, he blinked. “No?”
Coral touched her throat then gestured to him. She took the cloth she’d been dabbing his brow with and dipped it into a nearby bowl.
“Thank you,” he said, humbled by her kindness. “Your people have generous hearts. We’ll see you returned home safely, I promise.”
His silent caretaker only shook her head and stroked his hair. The soothing gesture lulled his already drowsy mind into the blissful embrace of sleep.
Chapter 5
From a high balcony overlooking the recent delivery of Eislandic cargo, High King Gunnar watched the spectacle down below in the quarantine pits. Some of their fresh slaves arrived feistier than others. As they proved unwilling to mind their manners, they didn’t receive the privilege of a roof over their heads.
Instead, they were left exposed to the elements, given oilcloth tents and little else, left to work in the quarry until the slavemaster decided their next destination—or they died. Many did not leave the quarantine pit.
That was their own fault.
The gods of battle and victory had truly showered their blessings over the Ridaeron Dynasty in recent days. The high king considered their latest accomplishment on the Viridian Sea as proof of receiving Odin’s divine favor. How else could they have crushed their opponent so ruthlessly, slaughtering half of the Giddy Madeleine’s crew and capturing dozens more?
On top of that, they’d killed their enemy’s new admiral.
“How badly do you suppose they regret attacking the Green Giant?” he mused.
“With all their hearts, no doubt. Foolish of them to poke the dragon’s nest.”
“Arrogant of them.”
“Just the same, they’ll make good, strong thralls,” his queen murmured, lacing their fingers. Brynhildr smiled up at him, blue eyes twinkling. “Once they have been trained to obey, that is. They are so willful now.”
“As expected of warriors. Would we want them if they easily surrendered to our control?”
Brynhildr chuckled. “No. I suppose not. Does this mean I get to have my pick of them?”
“Of course, my love. When they are ready. One never knows what sicknesses these filthy Eislanders bring.” He gazed toward the quarry again, where the sailors toiled under the threat of a whip and going yet another day without food. They hadn’t eaten in three, allowed only what rainwater they caught. Their trainers employed all methods to force their compliance, but found fear and threat of starvation to be the best tools. “After they are broken.”
“But I want to break one personally,” she crooned, leaning forward to get a better look at the new stock. Her gloved hands curled around the metal rail.
Gunnar hesitated. “It would be dangerous.”
“Was I not the strongest shield maiden across the territories prior to our marriage?”
“You were,” he agreed quietly, rubbing his chin. “Still are.”
“Then let me choose. Consider it an early birthday gift.”
He could never deny her. Worse yet, he owed her the gift, having come so close in the past to losing his remarkable bride. Prepared to relent, the king sighed. “Very well then. We—”
Fire erupted from the center of the quarry in a brilliant mushroom-shaped cloud of embers and smoke. Gunnar would have jerked Brynhildr behind him if she hadn’t beaten him to providing protection, poised before him with her shield out. Down below, their captives were staging a miniature uprising. The mage’s manashackles had fallen to the rocky ground, and flames surged around her knuckles. Prisoners who should have been weak from starvation turned to using rocks and their pickaxes as weapons to overthrow their oppressors.
“Blasted Eislanders,” Gunnar growled. It would be a shame to lose some of their fresh stock before they ever reached the markets, but such was the cost of doing business. The moment he reached for his axe, Brynhildr set her hand on his wrist.
“Allow me.”
* * *
A true shield maiden carried her weapon of choice at all times, and their queen was no different. Brandishing sword and shield, Brynhildr vaulted over the balcony railing and plummeted thirty feet to the rocky ground—a pittance, considering her great height. Most citizens of the Ridaeron Dynasty had been blessed with impressive stature, but those closest to their ancestors rarely stood less than seven feet tall. She measured in at just under eight.
She landed with a heavy thud, raised the round shield, and then exploded forward into the cluster of sailors. The smallest Eislanders flew backward, hurled across the quarry grounds, while the stronger men stumbled off-balance. If she could help it, she would not waste a single life, but that depended on how hard the little cretins wanted to fight.
How much they needed her to put them in their places beneath her.
A line of fire raged down the rock and grit-covered ground, splitting the surviving wardens into two distinct groups, a standard strategy they’d seen from the Eislanders in the past. They loved the divide and conquer approach, penning their opponents in with lethal magic on one side and forcing them back into flame walls or incredible, instantly freezing blizzards.
By using her foul witchcraft, the mage had painted a figurative bullseye on her face. Brynhildr cleared the flame wall in one jump and landed among the sailors, swinging with the flat of her blade toward the backs of their legs. They gave startled cries, toppling when she broke their ranks and punished their unprotected knees. Another fireball streaked across the quarry and splashed against her shield, repelled by a rare wood naturally impervious to magical essence, whether it was flame, ice, or any other variety of vile spell.
With Brynhildr fighting among them, the remaining wardens rallied to her side.
“Cause no lasting harm to the thralls!”
Her side fought with sword pommels and shields, larger and stronger, but less agile than their smaller foes. Brynhildr had never seen such fighting spirit before in an Eislander, despite the number of them sent overseas by the late Lady Gothel in trade.
Gods, she almost missed the trickster despite her abominable talent. Gothel had been the mother of all witches—another proven reason to distrust magic—and yet she’d made the Ridaeron Dynasty great again, allowing them to rise from the crushing defeat dealt by King Harold’s predecessors.
But Brynhildr had loathed the woman, not merely for being who she was, but for her unspoken threats if they didn’t cooperate with her grand schemes and send aid. The current reigning King and Queen of Eisland had done Ridaeron a favor by destroying her.
The nameless mage grew desperate, bringing down a magnificent wave of magical hail. As the sky above them darkened and roiled with her unnatural craft, a storm of jagged ice shards rained down on them, each one sharper than a dagger. One crashed into the top of a warden’s skull, piercing through.
“Shield wall!” Brynhildr roared.
Wardens rushed into formation, raising their shields into a tight barricade. It lasted for an eternity, long enough that she admired the sorceress’s stamina.
She’d be a useful tool.
Another volley of hail pressed down upon them, too fierce, hard, and unrelenting. A particularly large bolt of ice fell into the rear portion of their defensive barrier. One of Brynhildr’s men stumbled too close to the flame wall, and then orange-white tongues of fire lapped over him like a living, breathing force of its own.
Blast! She can control one element while casting another?
Fire consumed the unfortunate warden, licking from his back and spreading over him before he had a chance to realize he’d stepped too close. His skin bubbled and blistered.
Brynhildr narrowed her eyes. The little mage bitch had demolished their wardens and laid waste to the quarry. The fight had to end.
With her shield angled toward the furious sky, Brynhildr launched herself across the field of slain Ridaerons. Ice glanced off her shoulder. Another nicked the heel of
her boot. Still she ran, until she was clear of the spell and among the enemy.
One moment, Brynhildr mowed through the defenses of the slaves attempting to protect their sorceress, in the next, the queen was upon the woman, slamming her back with one brutal crash of her shield. It hit the mage in the face and chest, and might have been lethal if Brynhildr hadn’t shown restraint. Her opponent fell like a stone, completely insensible with blood trickling from her nose.
The magical wall withered and collapsed, leaving little more than ashes and smoke.
“Cara!” a man screamed. A big man. The only man among the Eislanders who looked like a real man.
Brynhildr grinned. “Forward!” she bellowed, leading the charge as the wardens retook their quarry. Above them, her king watched. His gaze never left her, the man radiating pure adoration.
Gods, she loved it when he watched.
Armed with the swords from one of her fallen wardens, the blond man rushed her. She deflected his attack with her shield, then he blocked the riposte with an easy swing, graceful and beautifully effortless.
She tested him again, and he met her swing for swing, fending her off without straining. He must have been their leader, for he was not only the strongest and the largest among them, but the most skilled with a blade.
One by one, as she engaged their leader, his smaller brethren fell, no longer with the benefit of numbers or a mage on their side. Then reinforcements arrived and crushed the final crumbs of their resistance, royal guards battering them into the stony earth.
But none dared step between their queen and her opponent. She had eyes for no one but the skilled warrior who’d dared to challenge her. She didn’t dare underestimate him, but her guards also knew better than to shame her by interfering. Good thing, as he took the upper hand and snuck past her defenses with a swift swing. Pain sliced across her thigh. When her shield struck him, he glanced another blow against her ribs, leaving a deep groove in the tough leather but failing to penetrate the flesh beneath. It smarted like hell, bruising her.
Sea Witch and the Magician Page 6