by C. L. Wilson
No one—not even her beloved sisters—knew the true extent of Gabriella’s magical gifts. They didn’t even know about the magical gift for mind control that she’d inherited from her mother and their Seahaven relatives. They simply thought that she—like their mother before her—was so naturally kind and charming she could soften even the hardest heart.
“Thankfully,” Spring said as Summer prepared her tea, “I doubt any of us need ever fear being married off to a Vermese. After the manner in which Wynter refused the Maak’s latest offer, I feel safe to say that particular door has not only been closed, it’s been welded permanently shut.”
“Thank holy Halla, home of all good gods,” Autumn said with heartfelt sincerity. Widely acclaimed as one of the most beautiful women in Mystral, with her dark Summerlander skin, pansy purple eyes, and rich, auburn hair, Autumn had been the object of the Vermese emperor’s relentless marital pursuit since the day she turned thirteen. “Given the price Maak Korin offered this time, I thought I was doomed for sure.”
“Wynter wouldn’t do that to you,” Summer said.
“Wynter is a king,” Spring said. “Kings do that sort of thing all the time.”
As princesses of Summerlea, now wards of Wintercraig, the three of them had always known their fate was to be married for the advantage of their monarch. In Summerlea as in Verma and Cho, men still ruled—both the kingdom and their families—although Summerlanders at least considered women to be people, not property. Here in Wintercraig, society was even more egalitarian on the gender front. The harsh conditions bred not just physical hardiness but fierce independence. A woman who had to chop wood, tend her farm, and keep her family and livestock safe from hungry predators while her husband was out hunting and trapping didn’t take kindly to being bossed around by anyone. But just because Wintercraig women were independent didn’t mean kings cast aside the rights of their rule.
“Not this king,” Summer said staunchly, then ruined her show of unwavering support by adding, “Khamsin wouldn’t let him.”
Autumn grinned. “True,” she agreed. “The Winter King has well and truly melted. And a year ago, who’d have believed we’d be saying that?”
The three of them laughed in shared delight. One of the most astonishing—and endlessly entertaining—aspects of living here in Wintercraig these last months was the opportunity to watch the fierce and fearsome Wynter of the Craig, terrifying Bogeyman from the north and conqueror of Summerlea, dote on their youngest sister. Khamsin didn’t exactly have him wrapped around her finger—Wynter was too much his own man for that—but there wasn’t much she truly wanted that he wouldn’t move Halla and Mystral to provide for her.
“Be that as it may,” Spring interrupted, “the fact remains the three of us are going to have to marry someone. And Wynter, no matter how much he dotes on Khamsin, is going to make sure that someone will benefit Wintercraig. So, which of us is going to take the pirate?”
“Sealord Merimydion isn’t a pirate,” Summer said.
“He’s a mercenary who sails the sea, selling his services to the highest bidder,” Spring countered. “That’s close enough to a pirate for me.” Setting her tea aside, she leaned back in her chair to regard her sisters. “Still, I suppose even a pirate is a better potential husband than a Vermese.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” Autumn muttered.
“Sealord,” Gabriella corrected. “They call themselves Sealords.”
Spring leveled a cool, grass-green stare Summer’s way. Not quite a glare, but close. A definite warning. Spring wasn’t as volatile as their sister Storm, but she could work up a decent tempest when it suited her, and it looked like it was about to suit her.
Considering Summer’s earlier lapse in control, the last thing she needed was to have Spring’s temper tearing at the mental walls she’d just repaired.
“Here, have a little mint in your tea.” Gabriella crushed a sprig and leaned over to drop the fragrant leaves in Spring’s tea glass. “It’s very soothing for when you’re out of sorts.”
“I’m not out of sorts,” Spring snapped. Then she realized the tea in her glass was starting to boil, and she grimaced. “Or maybe I am. Sorry. Entertaining that Vermese ambassador for three days put me on edge, and now we have to spend three months entertaining the pira—the Sealord.”
“Well, Storm promises he’s very engaging, at least,” Autumn said. “And handsome. Nothing like that dreadful Prince Rampion Papa was courting on our behalf before the war.”
“Prince Rampion was a nice man,” Summer reproved.
“He was a deadly dull, skinny as a stick, and couldn’t dance worth a piseta. And he had a big nose and spots.” Autumn grimaced at the memory.
Summer sighed. It was true, Prince Rampion hadn’t been particularly attractive, but there’d been a kindness and vulnerability beneath his stiff pride that garnered her sympathy. “He was very intelligent,” she said. “And he grows roses.”
Spring rolled her eyes. “No wonder you liked him.”
Gabriella smiled. She’d inherited their mother’s looks, her gift for Persuasion, and her love of flower gardening. Though Spring was, hands down, the best gardener in the family, she preferred turning her gifts in a more practical direction: the cultivation of fruits, vegetables, and grains. “Flowers are all well and good,” she would say, “but they won’t feed a family in winter.” Summer was the one with their mother’s passion for flowers. There was something very soothing about tending flowers on warm summer days, the rich smell of loamy earth, the heady scent of fragrant blooms, a fresh breeze on her face. Gardens were peaceful, and Summer loved them for that.
But Spring was wrong. Summer and Rampion’s shared interest in gardening wasn’t why he had appealed to her. He was, quite simply, a gentle, kind man she absolutely would never fall in love with.
And that had made him perfect husband material in Summer’s opinion.
Unfortunately, Papa had not agreed. Rampion wasn’t rich enough, his father’s kingdom not influential enough. Papa had been determined to wed his three beloved daughters to the wealthiest, most powerful kings on Mystral—and for the best, most advantageous marriage contracts. Oh, he prettied it up, of course, when talking to them. Saying things like, “I only want the best for my daughters,” and that was true enough, else Autumn’s fierce objections wouldn’t have stopped him from accepting one of Maak Korin’s previous offers.
But Summer had also always known that as much as her father loved his three, beautiful Seasons, in the end, he’d loved power even more. Had their brother Falcon not forged an alliance with the Calbernans two years ago for an army of mercenaries in exchange for the island prince’s pick of the Seasons, Autumn would already have become Maak Korin’s forty-first wife.
It wasn’t that their father had been a bad man—at least, he hadn’t started out that way. It was simply that Verdan of Summerlea’s truest, deepest, most giving love—and he had once been capable of truly great love—had died with Mama. Then that love had turned to grief, and grief had turned to rage and an insatiable, ravening hunger for power, for wealth, for anything to fill that yawning emptiness once filled by his love for his wife.
Or so Summer had decided this last year as she’d tried to come to terms with the madness that had consumed her father so completely that he’d destroyed his son’s life, thrown his kingdom into war, and sought to kill his youngest daughter on multiple occasions—only to lose his own life in her stead on the last attempt.
And as horrible and awful as King Verdan’s descent into madness had been, Summer was perhaps the only one of his daughters who truly understood it. Because, despite everyone’s belief that Summer was like her mother in all ways, the truth was, she the one most like Papa when it came to how deeply and unreservedly she loved, and how completely those emotions could consume her.
And that was precisely why, no matter what, Summer Coruscate, who longed for a true, deep, passionate love, would never marry any man who could lay the slightest
claim on her heart.
She closed her eyes briefly, clamped unyielding chains around the caged monster in her soul, then opened her eyes again and pasted on a pleasant smile.
“I’m sure you’ll both find Sealord Merimydion much more to your taste than Prince Rampion,” she said. She was pleased that not a hint of her inner struggle showed in her voice or expression. Her meditation in the grotto had done its job.
“That’s not saying much,” Spring grumped. “I’d find eating ceiling plaster more to my taste than Prince Rampion.”
“At least he wasn’t Korin beda Khan,” Autumn pointed out.
“Point taken.” Spring steepled her hands before her. “Now back to the p—Sealord. Reports aside, what do we really know about this Dilys Merimydion?”
“We know that he’s wealthy, he’s a skilled warrior, he’s handsome, charming, and helped save the world from a dread god who would have plunged the whole of Mystral into unending winter,” Autumn added. “Not to ruin your determination to find something wrong with him, Viviana, but that last one tells me all I need to know. The man literally helped save the world.” She shrugged. “I can spend three months of my time being nice to him for that.”
Spring sighed. “Yes, yes, but in the reports I’ve read, there isn’t one bad thing about him listed. Not one, and that’s just not normal.”
“You’re complaining because the reports say Dilys Merimydion is a good man?” Summer shook her head.
“Not just good. Too good. As in too good to be true. I’m just saying, something smells fishy to me.”
Autumn laughed. “You know, there’s a good joke in that remark.”
Spring rolled her eyes. “Don’t. Please. Spare us.” In addition to her addiction to food, Autumn possessed a terrible love for pranks, puns, and bad jokes. Which, of course, she took inordinate glee in inflicting on her family.
Autumn sniffed with mock indignation. “As if I would cast my pearls before swine. What were we talking about again? Oh, yes, Dilys Merimydion. The Scrumptious Sealord.”
“Oh, dear gods,” Spring groaned. “You’ve nicknamed him. Alliteratively.”
“I thought about Delicious Dilys. Or Manly Merimydion. After all, from what Storm said, he’s very easy on the eyes. I don’t know about the rest of you, but after ten years of being pursued by the Verminous Vermese, I’m looking forward to being courted by a handsome, young suitor who actually respects women and considers them—gasp!—real human beings. Like men, but without the dangly bits. Shocking, I know, but there you have it.”
Summer couldn’t help it. She started laughing.
Spring glowered. “Stop that! Don’t encourage her!” She turned the glower on Autumn and said, “Aleta Seraphina Helen Rosalie Violet Coruscate, can you please, for one moment, take this seriously?”
“You’re taking it seriously enough for the three of us, dearest Viviana.” Autumn lowered her voice and boomed sternly, “He wants to marry a Season so he must be investigated. Something about him smells fishy.” Cupping a hand over her mouth, she quipped to Summer in a loud aside, “I dunno, do you think maybe it’s—you know—the gills?”
Summer covered her mouth with both hands and spluttered with laughter.
Spring regarded them both with disgust. “Talk about pearls being cast before swine. I’m telling you in all seriousness that I’ve been looking at this from every possible angle and something about this situation just doesn’t add up. The Calbernan made not one but two contracts, risking thousands of his men in war, specifically to claim—or have a chance to claim—a Season for a wife. Why not some other, less costly bride? There are other princesses out there—even some with magic that’s at least on par with ours. Why us?”
“The Maak of Verma and Cho just offered the largest bride price in history to claim Autumn,” Summer pointed out. “Maybe Sealord Merimydion wants the same thing.”
“Perhaps, but if that was the case, don’t you think Khamsin would have told us Autumn was the one he wanted? He’s interested in our weathergifts—Kham said he admitted that—but he didn’t care that they wouldn’t be passed on to our children.” The divine gifts bestowed upon Summerlea’s royal family by the Sun God, Helos, never passed out of the immediate royal family. Though Spring, Summer, and Autumn all inherited their gifts from their father, only Khamsin, now the ruling Queen of Summerlea and Wintercraig, would pass on those gifts to her children.
“I think you’re seeing suspicious motives when none exist,” Autumn said. “Calbernans do rule the sea, after all. I assume they want to rule the weather as well for a while. What sailor wouldn’t? Guaranteed clear skies and fair winds? Maybe stir up a few storms to belabor the competition. Even a single generation of that would give them a considerable advantage.”
Summer reached for a perfectly iced tea cake topped with a sparkling sugar snowflake and took a delicate nibble. The tangy sweetness of the redberry jam filling, sweet almond icing, and delicate lemon cloud cake filled her mouth with delight. “Oh, sweet Halla, that’s good.” She pushed the plate towards Spring. “You really should try one of these tea cakes, Vivi. They’re delicious.”
“Seriously?” Spring regarded her two sisters in disgust. “Aren’t either of you the least bit interested in getting to the real truth about our future bridegroom? I can’t believe you’re both being so cavalier.”
“Not cavalier, Vivi. We’re being sensible,” Autumn replied seriously. “First of all, Sealord Calbernan will be the future bridegroom of only one of us. And second, Storm made it clear that the choice to marry him or not would lie with us—not him. So, he won’t be bridegroom to any of us if we don’t wish it.”
“And third,” Summer added, “it’s a beautiful day in this beautiful city. And for the first time since we got here, we have the whole afternoon to ourselves, without a single Verminous Vermese or Perturbingly Perfect Pirate”—she sent a grin Autumn’s way—“in sight, which means, after I finish tea, I’m going to walk along the banks of the fjord past all those gorgeous waterfalls and just enjoy the day. You should both come with me.”
“Ooh, that sounds delightful,” Autumn said. “Count me in.” They exchanged a smile.
“You two go on without me,” Spring said. “You both might think I’m being ridiculous, but I know there’s more to this than meets the eye and I’m determined to find out what it is. The folk here in Konumarr have traded with the Calbernans for centuries. Maybe there’s someone here who can help shed some light on their motivations.”
“Vivi, you’re starting to obsess,” Gabriella warned. Spring didn’t often get riled up about anything, but when she did, she was like a dog with a bone. She wouldn’t let it go. Dilys Merimydion’s reasons for wanting a Season for a wife had clearly become one of these things. Gabriella wanted to be sure Spring’s worry didn’t progress beyond a healthy concern. Because Summer wasn’t the only one who’d inherited one of their father’s more dangerous traits.
Spring opened her mouth to object, then snapped it closed. After a silent, scowling moment, she plucked two iced tea cakes from Autumn’s plate, popped them into her mouth one after another, then drank down the rest of her mint-infused honeyrose tea.
“You’re right,” she said, setting her empty tea glass on the table, “the cakes are divine, and the mint makes the tea very soothing. I think I’ll join you two for a walk after all.”
The three sisters smiled at each other with shared love and understanding. Daughters of a mad king they might be, but they had vowed they would always help each other, as they’d not been able to help their father or their brother, Falcon.
Chapter 3
With the sea breeze ruffling his hair, and his ship rocking rhythmically in the warm tropical waters of the Varyan Ocean, Mur Balat, Mystral’s most infamous, feared, and obscenely wealthy slaver, regarded his guest over a steaming cup of star blossom tea.
The tea was steeped from petals and stamen of flowers that bloomed only once every ten years and only in the highest reach
es of the Chitzkali Mountains, in the heart of cannibalistic despot Gulah Zin’s territory. Prized for both the rarity and difficulty of acquisition of its main component as well as its fabled healing properties, star blossom tea was Mystral’s rarest and most expensive beverage, an indulgence that cost a staggering two hundred golden coronas per half ounce. But Mur Balat was a man wealthy enough and connected enough to feed such indulgences.
He liked the taste and effects of the tea well enough. But he liked more the message it sent to those with whom he shared it.
Here is a man who can obtain whatever your heart desires, that cup of pricey, pale nectar declared. No matter how rare, no matter how priceless, no matter how difficult to acquire.
Provided, of course, that you could pay his fee.
“Sugar?” he asked politely. Born the bastard son of a Balalatika enchantress and a royal prince of a kingdom that had long since fallen into ruin, Mur Balat prided himself on his good manners. Bastard, thief, slaver, and whoremonger, he might be, but his mother had seen to it that he’d been raised, clothed, and educated as well if not better than his father’s legitimate sons. At his father, the prince’s expense, of course.
In the years since his mother’s death, Balat had come to the conclusion that she truly had loved her handsome, devoted royal prince. If she hadn’t, she would never have bothered to murder the prince’s wife. And then, she wouldn’t have laid such a devastating curse upon her lover and his father’s kingdom as she stood on the pyre to be burned for her deed.
Balat’s parents were gone. The once thriving kingdom that had been his childhood home was a shattered ruin of its former self, having been torn apart by war and conquest, its indigenous people murdered or enslaved. His mother’s brilliant mind and most of her life’s work had been destroyed by the king’s men when they came for her. Not the most important treasures of the Balalatika bloodline, thank Halla, but her personal spell book, the one she had begun for herself as a young girl. And for what? Love?