(I didn’t mind these whispers, by the by. If I had mermaid blood, that would explain a lot.)
Not to mention my skin wasn’t bad a’tall. Nary a blemish. Pale to porcelain, if I was out in the elements, or had made some effort, what I thought was a becoming rose would tint my cheeks.
I wasn’t unsightly and the abundance of suitors I still had regardless of the fact I demonstrated I had a brain twixt my ears would demonstrate this as truth.
At least to my thinking.
“It’s my understanding he has no choice,” my father replied.
“The Firenz women are known for their shocking beauty. They are tall. Lush. He will not be best pleased with the beauty our Silence can give him, even if it is most remarkable in a variety of ways.”
I settled as that kindness, coming from my mother, was not surprising and part of it not being surprising was that it was lovely.
My mother was often kind like that (and gentle and thoughtful), with me and everybody.
That was, she was like that when my father wasn’t around.
“I prayed to the gods for years to give her at least another inch, though I would have preferred five,” my father murmured. “At the best of times, you can barely see the girl.”
Sadly, he had not noticed that this was due to an effort I made, not simply because I was petite.
But I had seen some Firenz on occasion, men, often with their women, who had come through Wodell to hunt or acquire wool or attend our merchants.
They were all uncommonly tall, like their brother nation of Airen were.
Indeed, although I had only seen him from afar—and even though True was exceptionally tall, his build was lean—therefore Prince Cassius, with his height and bulk, seemed like a veritable giant.
The Firenz men were just like that.
And their women were far from dainty.
“Though, if I know a Firenz, at the very least he’ll enjoy her curves,” my father carried on.
One could say I did have curves.
“Johan, I beg you,” my mother did indeed beg. “Speak with my brother. Ask him to find someone else to make this alliance. I know he’s angered King Mars…”
This he had.
King Wilmer, my uncle, had angered the King of Firenze. Repeatedly.
It was a daft thing to do.
Everyone knew their warriors were unbeatable. They might fight amongst themselves, but when threatened, their clans allied and the front they made was invincible.
Even Serena of the Nadirii, who didn’t seem to have trouble picking a fight with anyone, wasn’t stupid enough to go against the Firenz.
Uncle Wilmer picked fights with them all the time.
“…but the Firenz are boisterous and rowdy,” my mother continued. “They have more celebrations in a month than both Wodell and Airen together have in a year. They live so very differently than we do. The shock of culture change would be difficult for our Silence to countenance. She would not fit. She’s safe here, with me, you, Tril, her amusements. She’s our daughter. It’s our duty to keep her safe.”
“She’s our daughter. It’s her duty to strengthen our title,” my father returned. “But you heard the messenger, Vanka. The Beast rises. The coven has made the matches. It is out of Wilmer’s hands. It’s not even in Mars’s hands. It’s definitely not in our hands. She must wed Mars. It’s not simply her duty to me, her king, her country, but to all of Triton.”
I heard my father, but I was having difficulty breathing.
The Beast rises?
The tremors.
Oh faith, the Beast rises.
And I, somehow, in the misfortune that seemed to make up the entirety of my life, had to wed the king of a barbaric, but wealthy, nation in order to…what?
It was not lost on me I could hear quite well. I had also learned some time ago that I read more simply regarding a person’s expression than anyone I knew. And testing this mermaid theory, I was, indeed, able to dunk my head in the bath and hold my breath for long periods of time.
And then there was my shadow.
But I was no Nadirii, that was for certain. That Sisterhood of Warriors carried most of the magic in all the land. They’d amassed it ages ago to instigate the Night of the Fallen Masters. Even the weakest of their witches was stronger than any sorceress of Wodell.
But it was not lost on me I held magic.
And this must be the reason why I was destined to be consort to a barbarian king.
“But we have an opportunity,” my father decreed. “We will make the best of this match as we can. Our daughter will be his wife, and it is known wide, even if fidelity is not expected, a Firenz warrior dotes on his chosen one. We will make the most of this with Firenz rubies, saffron, silk. We will be the richest house in Wodell. She finally has come to mean something to my title, her title. And if this is true, if she can make an alliance that will somehow defeat the Beast should it rise, she, and this house, will be legend, my Vanka. Not to mention, we will also be rich.”
“And you’d sacrifice your own daughter to such aspirations of greed,” my mother stated with disgust.
There was a moment of silence before my father’s voice came again, and now it was gentle.
Therefore now, I knew that he had approached my mother and was cupping her cheek in that tender way he had that, even with the difficult relations I shared with my sire, always melted something inside me.
“I very early came to love you, my beautiful wife,” he said. “It was impossible not to, and not simply due to your great beauty.”
Yes, I felt that something melt inside me.
“But you know, my dearest love,” he went on, “that your father made that same sacrifice of you. Yes, he was king, but you were the seventh of seven daughters, his chest was running low due to war with the Firenz, and the Arbor is the richest estate in the land. No other of your sisters made a better match, even begotten by the king. Our marriage was arranged to further strengthen his house, his chest, his alliances, and thus, also his title. Now, shh…” he shushed her, and I knew she’d opened her mouth to speak. “It is how things are done and you know it. So think not of what may come for Silence. At the very least, fates are explained for she is no frivolous chit with no thoughts of her own. She is canny and vigilant. This will aid her in the months to come.”
“This is true,” my mother murmured.
“And she may be legend, and this might not be something she desires for herself, but I have seen her disappointment that she consistently disappoints me,” my father continued. But this was not true. My disappointment was that he disappointed me. “She will be glad of this match. She will be glad she has something important to do. She will be glad she’s of service to her parents, her country, her continent. She will do her duty, my dearest. And in however way it comes about, in the end, it will be fine.”
To that, my mother whispered something even I could not hear, and I sensed their discussion was ending.
Therefore, I scanned the corridor with eyes and ears before I released my shadow, stepped out of the recess and my inanimate (which was often how I preferred it) company of the bust, and hurried along the hall toward the stairs to get to my rooms.
I did this not sharing my father’s sentiments.
First, the Beast was rising and that took more than a few moments of reflection.
I’d heard tales of the Beast as far back as I could cogitate, these coming from my nanny (who was a harridan, for what nanny would share such stories with a wee child? I remembered being very happy when my mother sacked her, and I fancied myself kind-hearted, but I was not sorry to see her go). And then spoken of freely around fires for no purpose but for the teller to spook the listeners.
But such tales always ended with the fact the Beast would someday again be roused. He would rise. And he would feast on wee children and snack on the babes and tear the women asunder with his horrifying shaft and rip the heads from the men, drinking their blood from their necks and makin
g the women weave the hair together so he could wear them as a necklace.
Larger than a gogmagog by thrice, faster on foot than an eagle in flight, able to spew venom from his mouth—venom that with a single drop touching the skin could stun entire villages into immobility for days, beings wasting away from no food or water, unable to save themselves, frozen in the poison as still as statutes.
His rising was not to be borne.
And apparently, I somehow played some part in stopping it.
Which, frankly, scared the knickers off me.
Far more than being wed to the barbarian King Mars of Firenze.
But it must be said, if not equally as terrifying (for nothing was as frightening as the Beast), it was still bloody terrifying.
I did not want to be legend.
I didn’t like any attention a’tall.
It seemed I had no choice in that.
Worse, the king of a neighboring country who evidently didn’t exactly get along with my king (it must be said, King Wilmer did some rash things, he truly needed new counsel, I knew that even before True shared with me his (vast) frustrations about this very topic) had no choice in it either.
This absolutely did not bode good tidings.
What was worse, when I entered my bedchamber, I saw Tril standing there, her pretty face pale, her chignon at the back of her head coming loose like she’d been worrying it, and her mouth instantly moved.
“I’ve had orders from your father. I’m so very sorry, but we need to make haste in a wedding trousseau, my lovely. I’ll explain on our way, but we must needs get to town. We have lace, satin and velvet to look at and it will take far less time for us to go to them than for me to summon them to us.”
I stared into her charming, but anxious, hazel eyes.
Balls.
And bloody begorrah.
5
The Damned
King Aramus Nereus
Throne Room, Keel Castle, Nautilus
MAR-EL
Aramus felt like a bloody damned fool sitting on his ridiculous throne.
He never sat his throne.
If he was not on his ship, marauding, or hunting, he was in a pub, drinking, or at a table, feasting, or at a wench, doing other things.
And it didn’t help that his men stood around the foot of it—or the eight-foot high sirens-damned pedestal of the thing—bloody snickering.
“Be gone,” he ordered.
“And miss this?” his man Bondi asked.
Fuck, but if he relished the idea of marking his wife’s perfect skin, something he did not, he’d have the bitch brought up, tied to the pedestal under his ludicrous throne and order her flogged.
“Cap, not sure it’s a good idea to sit your throne,” Tintagel called up to his seat. “Also not sure I need to remind you she’s not cowed by authority.”
Ha-Lah was not cowed by anything.
At first, he liked this about his wife.
Being married to the bloody woman for six months and not even tasting her cunt with his tongue, not feeling its wet even on the tip of a finger, this feeling was waning.
“Tint, take the men and get out,” he ordered his most level-headed seaman.
“Let’s go, men,” Tint said without delay.
There you go.
Level-headed.
“Tint, my brother, this is bound to be good,” Oreti, Aramus’s least level-headed seaman protested.
Xi was looking up at his king, thus catching his expression, and therefore repeating after Tint, “Let’s go, men.”
Aramus got looks from Nissi, Navagio, and Catedrais. They read their captain and king and spared no time rounding up the dissenters.
Aramus watched as they walked across the cavernous expanse of the room, their boots sounding, then echoing in the massive space.
He had learned, at his father’s knee, a father who sat in that very chair with Aramus’s arse on a cushion on the wide dais surrounding it, sheltered by the six colossal ibex-whale horns that formed the base which measured at least fifteen feet across, the ten-foot tall tips curved around it, that the throne of the King of Mar-el had been built to intimidate anyone who walked in that room.
Ibex-whales, outside angmostros (though, thankfully, those massive eel creatures did not have horns), were the hardest thing in the sea to kill. That throne up on its five-foot wide, eight-foot high pedestal carved out of coral (that also had the stairs up to the damned thing pared out) having the mighty horns of three of said beasts was impressive even to Aramus, who’d killed four times that many in his lifetime.
But this was lost on just about everyone, considering the only being on the mainland he liked was Prince Cassius, thus Cassius and his men were the only ones who’d walked into that fucking room, and none of that lot were intimidated by anything, so it was a waste.
Days of yore, all right.
Now it was just a place the bounden had to mop since now, they might accept visitors on their shores to attend their merchants or collect fish to take to the mainland, but no one not of Mar-el came inland.
And no one not Mar-el came to his castle.
On this thought, one side of the two enormous doors that were three stories tall and thus, if one of his men wasn’t opening it, it took at least two bounden to do it, opened, and he saw the tall, slender, lithe, bloody-sirens-damned regal body of his wife wander through.
Born to be queen, if that body was anything to go by.
And her demeanor.
And bloody fucking everything about her.
She wandered amongst the four-story high columns that held up the domed ceiling, each column’s width spiraled up with identical carvings of what looked like floating vines of seaweed.
And she did this like she had all bloody day.
The dress she wore clung to her body. Sleeveless. Sparkling. With some lace, some see-through sea-green at her calves, and a drape of netting at her middle that could be construed as being ready to cast for fish. But it was hung with some coins that flashed, torn in places that looked deliberate, and the whole fucking thing made a man wish to take long moments dissecting it visually before he ripped it off with his hands.
She stopped at the foot of the pedestal, tipped back her head, and the abundance of long, springy, soft, tight, black ringlets tipped back with her as she gazed up at him with her big, crystal-blue eyes.
“You’ve returned,” she said in her siren’s voice.
And that, Aramus had determined, along with her hair, those eyes, her elegant hands, her perfect lait café skin, her long-arse legs, and her rounded behind, had bewitched him.
Unfortunately for her, through her own endeavors, he was bewitched no more.
“A week ago,” he grunted.
“Ah,” she murmured disinterestedly.
Gods.
“We had another wave last night.”
He noted the tension that hit her shoulders at his announcement.
This was because she knew, as they had, and those waves were difficult to miss. As they’d been doing for months, it came but minutes after they felt the tremor. Fortnight after fortnight, stronger and stronger with each wave hitting the western shores of Mar-el.
The cities, ports, and villages there had been built to withstand just that—waves, and the worst of storms. And his people had learned to batten, long before the regularity of the current strikes.
But even being hewn from the rock of Mar-el to withstand such occurrences, doors, shutters, windows, even latched strongly and barred even stronger, couldn’t withstand a tidal.
And Aramus knew that was coming. Each wave higher and higher, it would take but months before they would face a tidal. Regularly. Every two weeks.
His people were seafarers. Their life was the sea. They could swim. Surf. Ride any wave in boat or by body.
They could not ride a tidal.
No one could.
“Lena has come to see me,” he told his wife.
She could not hide behind disinte
rest at that, as she wouldn’t. She was a bloody witch herself. The most powerful of her kind having an audience of the king, her husband, would be of interest.
“The Beast rises,” he shared.
Her perfectly formed, puffy lips parted.
Right.
And there were those.
Those lips had bewitched him as well.
Bloody hell.
“It seems our marriage was not the greatest beauty of our island mated with her king, as it is now and has been for centuries. Apparently, the fates chose you for me, as you and I consummated will assist to beat the Beast,” he declared.
With that, she shuttered herself away.
“This is not a tale I tell to pry open your legs,” he bit out. “Lena spoke it herself.”
“Then I’ll need to speak with her,” she replied. “For that’s frankly ridiculous.”
“Indeed,” he agreed, staring down at her indifferently. “Great beauty, cold fish. My desire for your charms has faded as the months since our wedding have receded into memory and you’ve kept those charms from me.”
If he was not wrong, those ringlets swayed with a slight jerk of her head.
Aramus no longer cared if he wounded her.
She was his wife and he knew the reasons she withheld were far more than “frankly ridiculous.”
They were, if read a certain way, fucking treasonous.
“But friction, if not passion, will seal the deal,” he concluded.
She had her side partially to him, but at that, she turned to face him full on.
“And as you rode the seas prior to your return a week ago, how many beasts did you kill?” she asked.
He sighed.
“Aramus, you sit on a throne made of the horns of the most magnificent creatures in all of Triton,” she stated impatiently. “Perhaps all of the earth. Did you bring the oil and meat and bone for lamps and perfumes and candles and Airenzian corsets?” She tossed an elegant hand up his way as her crystal gaze heated with ire. “Those horns represent three fathers.”
“These horns are five hundred years old,” he ground out.
The Beginning of Everything (The Rising Book 1) Page 4