The silence stretched into tension, which made distinct the soft slapping of the water against the hull, the creak of wood, the click and ting of silver utensils on porcelain plates. The three ate, the boy and the prince waiting for the war commander to speak.
The power of the moment lay with him, though it was not his ship, but the men up on the deck obeyed him and only him.
Right now the Randarts are the only ones here not faking a role.
Finally Randart leaned forward and tapped the paper. “What’s this?”
Jehan said, “My suggestions for new training. Old training to be adapted to new. We all think our own experience best. Why not try what I learned out west? Combine it with what we have here in the east.”
“We can’t do worse, Uncle. I saw that today,” Damedran put in, surly and defensive.
Dannath Randart’s slack-lidded eyes flicked from nephew to royal heir and back again. Impossible to tell whether the silence meant surrender or threat. Maybe he didn’t know himself. He opened his palm toward Damedran. “Very well. Do what you like. I have to take ship tomorrow. I have pirates to find and destroy.” He picked up his fork, then shot a glowering assessment at Zel. Ahah, he was reassessing her status. Would she be invited to eat? There was that extra plate, congealing fast.
She lay curled up on the bed, the two gold-framed lanterns making a fiery aureole of her wispy ringlets. She uncoiled her feet and stood, drifting in a deliberately provocative, swaying walk, to lean against Jehan’s chair, one of her hands playing with one of her fans, twirling it, swirling it idly.
“Sit down and eat, my dear,” Jehan invited, pointing to the fourth plate. “It’s getting cold. And you know how Lasva threatens to go back to Colend if we do not treat her food with respect.”
“I’m not hungry now,” Zel said in a crooning voice. She smiled up at me. “The Colendi are forgiving, I know. I will paint you a fan, Lasva.”
“Yiss. Iz gud,” I sounded more like a TV Russian spy than a TV Frenchwoman, I realized too late.
Randart’s face crimped in disgust. He said nothing, though. Just dug in, rapidly finishing his crepe.
No one spoke as they devoured the meal—Damedran surreptitiously helping himself to the fourth plate. For a time the only sounds were those of the ship and of the rising wind, the water.
Once I moved into view to pour more wine. Jehan mouthed the words thank you, though he kept his gaze unswervingly on his guests. At his side Zel leaned, one finger twining in his hair in a way that made my insides squeeze, so I looked away. The uncle ignored me as if the wine poured itself.
When his plate was clean he stood. “I have ordered the mages to make you another gold message box, your highness. Do try not to lose it. I’ll return now, and send a message to your father. If you discover anything you wish to tell me before morning, I can be found in the command tower before we depart on the morning tide.”
He marched out, his boots thumping up the stairs to the deck, where he gave an abrupt command.
That caused the force of brown tunics to line up and climb down into the boats, a kind of reverse-play of their arrival. I wondered if they’d gotten any dinner before the summons to make this trip. From the mutters of some of them and the black looks sent their commander’s way, it didn’t seem likely.
The crew doused the yacht’s deck lights. The ship faded to darkness, except for the golden glow in the cabin, and faint light from the hatchway and the galley beyond.
Jehan moved to the rail to watch them begin to toil their long way back to the harbor through an increasingly choppy sea. Zel and her husband joined him on one side, the two of them holding hands, whispering and occasionally laughing, the relieved laughter of danger passed by. Owl drifted up on Kaelande’s other side.
The other two crew were at their posts, one on the mast, one at the helm.
Since Jehan had no one at his left I joined him, peering out to sea as I absently pulled off the knit cap, and yanked free that horrible thing binding my hair so tightly. As there were no lights, I figured we had to be invisible from the boats by now. Even starlight was gone, covered by thick clouds.
The husband and wife moved off, talking in low voices. The last I heard was Zel offering to help dunk the dishes and tidy the galley.
Owl vanished down the hatchway, yawning.
Randart’s lights were nearly diminished behind the rising waves when a long purple branch of lightning split the sky, and rain struck with breathtaking suddenness, on us, on the sea, and on the departing rowboats.
We were drenched in moments, but behind us lay warmth, food, shelter. The commander and his force had a very long row ahead of them.
“Perfect end to a disastrous day,” Jehan said.
Lightning flared again, reflecting in his eyes so they shone like sapphire, and burnished his hair to silver. He smiled straight into my eyes, and laughed.
I smiled back as my hair streamed into the wind—forgetting Mom, and Canary, and roles, and lies, and all the distresses of the day. For that moment I was proud and triumphant and caught by Jehan’s gaze, so brilliant in the flare of lightning, and I laughed, too.
I laughed until his hands caught me by the shoulders, and rain glittered on his eyelashes as soft lips met mine, warm and tasting of sweet wine, and then my thoughts unribboned, my muscles unlaced, and I couldn’t think at all, at all.
Part Two: Twice a Prince
Chapter One
“Prince Jehan did what?” King Canardan exclaimed.
Magister Zhavic, one of the king’s mages, stroked his gray beard, making sure his voice was detached. Disinterested. Academic. “After the academy cadets finished the midsummer games, His Highness Prince Jehan had himself rowed out to his yacht. In the middle of the harbor. He’d had it moved out there earlier. No one knew why.”
“Probably in hopes of a breeze. If it’s been half as beastly hot in Ellir as it’s been here. Even my son,” he added wryly, “is not too dreamy to overlook this weather.”
The stars shone in the rain-washed midnight sky over the royal palace in Vadnais, but the palace room was still too warm. Magister Zhavic resisted the temptation to wipe his sleeve over his damp forehead, and got to the important part of his report. “When he heard that the prince had gone out into the harbor for the night, War Commander Randart rowed out with a force into the harbor after him.”
Canardan sighed, his gaze straying to the pile of papers waiting on his desk. “Randart’s orders are to set sail at dawn, in pursuit of that curst pirate Zathdar. What’s he doing chasing after my son? Did he decide to commandeer Jehan’s yacht? Or maybe he’s taking Jehan out to help catch the pirate?”
“The war commander did not see fit to inform us. He departed without a word to anyone, and was subsequently seen rowing back again, without the prince, just before I transferred myself here to report. They might be docking right now. If the threatened storm did not slow them up. He did not have the prince with him. I made certain of that before I left.” He lifted his left hand, on which lay the magical transfer token, bespelled for a trip to the royal palace and back again to Ellir Harbor.
The king’s attention flicked from the brassy token to the tall, lean, gray-haired man sitting before him. “You have no idea what Randart was after, then?”
“There is speculation, of course. But the war commander did not inform us directly. All I can tell you is that he took his nephew with him, along with half a company from the garrison.”
The king regarded the mage with brooding question. Magister Zhavic sat squarely on his chair, his face stiff, gaze diffuse. But Canardan, used to listening for clues, heard the subtle satisfaction emphasizing certain words. Zhavic was gloating. “All right, let’s hear the speculation.”
“According to Patrol Leader Hathmad, the war commander and his force rowed out to the prince’s yacht to make a search.”
“A search? For what?” The king leaned forward. “My son’s art collection?” Despite the joke, the king did not s
mile.
“They weren’t told, just ordered to search for anomalies. The captain of the war commander’s honor guard seemed to have private orders, but the others weren’t given those orders.”
“What did they find on this search?”
“Nothing. The prince had gone to his yacht to get one of his, ah, female artists to paint a fan for her majesty. The entire force overheard that.”
Huh! If Randart was still in the process of rowing back yet Zhavic had this fresh report, that meant one of those men—probably this patrol leader—was a paid informer to the mages. Canardan was not surprised at that so much as at the fact that Zhavic was in such a hurry to tattle on Randart that he revealed the existence of the spy.
“Female artist?” Canardan repeated. Could that possibly be the reason behind the search? There was only one missing female of import—Sasharia Zhavalieshin, daughter of Princess Atanial, whom Canardan had closely guarded up in the tower, ostensibly as a cherished guest.
But if her daughter, who had been captured by the pirate Zathdar at last report, was at large, and War Commander Randart was searching for her, surely, surely, the war commander would report that to his king. Wouldn’t he?
“What did this female artist look like?” Canardan asked. “Tall? Frizzy hair? Hawk-nosed?”
“Small, short red hair, very attractive. Perhaps Colendi. The only other female on board was the cook. She was quite tall. Hathmad didn’t remember her hair, so it must have been unremarkable. She was also drunk, covered with flour and wine, so they couldn’t really see her features.”
Hathmad was the spy, then. Canardan repeated the name to himself to commit it to memory. He frowned. “I could have sworn last year Jehan treated me to a meal prepared by a Colendi master cook named Kial . . . Kaer . . . ah, I don’t remember his name, but in any case this was a man. I can understand that a Colendi master cook might get tired of sitting around on a yacht that sees its owner once or twice a year. Did Hathmad observe the cook working?”
“Said she prepared an exquisite meal and served it like an experienced steward.”
“Which the cook has to be, on a yacht that small. Very well, we’ll set aside the fan artist and the cook. Randart certainly seems to have. Go on with the report. Does anyone have any worthwhile speculation on why the war commander had them searching for anomalies on my son’s yacht in the middle of the night?” Canardan rubbed his jaw, wondering if Randart was ruminating on heirs again. Maybe it was time to send Damedran on a long, long journey, to learn diplomacy or observe armies or whatever.
“Something having to do with the prince having arrested or almost arrested or attempting to arrest, a cutpurse, as near as I can tell. There was very little information to be found out about that. Everyone wanted to talk about the games and those mysterious youths who carried every single prize away from our cadets.”
“Yes, just what we needed. Another mystery,” Canardan said with heavy irony.
He turned his gaze back to the papers, but he didn’t see them. Magisters Zhavic and Perran, the king’s mages, both hated the war commander and his brother—a feeling that was mutual. None had any use for the others, which suited Canardan fine. You don’t want your military leaders and your strongest mages allied.
The cost was that they spent a lot of time that ought to have been dedicated to his own concerns trying to prove the others false. Canardan knew that Randart was behind recent whispers that the king “should” disinherit Jehan and put his nephew in his place. He blamed himself for speaking aloud in extreme exasperation once, when Jehan had done something particularly fog-headed.
However, the idea had obviously stuck, and Canardan didn’t like that. Damedran was a military man’s ideal candidate for royal heir: handsome, strong, tough, and courageous. He was also ignorant and bull-headed. His knowledge of trade, of diplomacy, and of all the other aspects of kingship that his father and uncle scorned was even sketchier than Jehan’s.
Bothering the king the most? These sporadic secret missions, as though Randart had caught wind of actual treason. Not that chasing a cutpurse was treason. Neither was chasing a cutpurse any reason to take half a company of handpicked guards out for a tedious harbor trip, after a long day spent in the broiling sun. Nor was it a reason to institute a covert search, his target no one less than the crown prince.
Canardan rubbed his eyes. His own ambivalence gave him pause. A part of him wanted Jehan to be conniving behind his back. That would mean the boy had his brains after all, and his ambition. Jehan when small had shown a distressing tendency to mimic his mother’s impossible ideals, which was one of the reasons Canardan had sent him west to get some sense knocked into him as well as some training. The other reason had been to protect Jehan somewhat when Canardan had parted with his mother.
Jehan had had plenty of time to get used to that. He’d returned beautifully trained, obedient, cooperative . . . but without ambition.
If Jehan was really conniving, hey, that showed the rudiments of ambition! But why not on his father’s side?
Canardan scowled at the papers, still not seeing them. Unlike his own monster of a father (until the old man was killed by Canardan’s siblings, who were both far worse) he gave Jehan a free hand. Unlimited money. Rank. Even some responsibility—as long as he followed orders. And Jehan did follow orders . . . when he remembered them.
No, Randart had to be inventing shadows to jump at. He’d always had a suspicious nature, which had saved Canardan many times in the past.
Still. Taking Damedran out to the yacht? That was very odd.
Canardan returned his attention to Zhavic. “I want someone trusted on the flagship. Reporting every day.”
Zhavic bowed in his chair. “It shall be done.”
“Meanwhile, you return to searching for Atanial’s daughter. I can’t do anything until I have her. The old castle with the World Gate is warded, isn’t it?”
“Perran is there himself. No one can possibly transfer between worlds without our knowing immediately.” Zhavic hesitated, then made a tentative gesture upward, toward the tower above them. “You are content with matters here?”
“You mean Princess Atanial?” Canardan grinned wryly, thinking, You mean her magical tokens. “Oh, I think so. Carry on.” He twiddled his fingers in dismissal.
The mage rose, bowed, murmured and transferred by magic, leaving a puff of displaced air to rattle the papers still gripped in Canardan’s hand.
o0o
So exactly where was the missing tall, wild-haired, hawk-nosed daughter of Princess Atanial?
I was standing on the yacht in Jehan’s arms while we lit up the sky with a supernova kiss.
At least, that’s what it felt like.
The thing about sensory firestorms is, there’s that rock of common sense sitting somewhere in the center of all the heat. Or so it is with me. Because when I came up for air, the rock was right there inside me with all its insistent weight, and I gasped, nearly choking on rain, and pushed Jehan away.
“Sasharia?” he asked.
Lightning crackled, striking the sea not far away. He held his hands out to me, but when I braced myself to resist, he dropped them to his sides.
In the glow from the cabin door, his light blue eyes looked black, his expression lengthening from passion to puzzlement. “What’s wrong?”
I looked at the fine strands of white hair lying across his brow. Tenderness made the insides of my arms ache to hold him, and my fingers twitched, wanting to smooth back his hair, which (I had discovered) was as soft as a bunny’s fur, only long. I clenched my hands behind my back, wishing the lightning would do me a big favor and strike me now. “I hate Fatal Attraction movies,” I snarled.
Of course that made no sense to him whatsoever.
I shook my own wet mop impatiently out of my face, but did not move, despite the lightning and thunder, and the stinging needles of rain. The thunder had rumbled away like boulders falling across the sky to the edge of the world. “I was goin
g to make a joke about sleeping with the enemy and being stupid, but it’s not funny, is it?”
“Enemy?” He stepped back, his chin jerking up as if I’d slapped him.
“Oh, Jehan, I didn’t mean that. I mean I did, but not—oh, I don’t know what I mean.” I gave a strangled excuse for a laugh and tried desperately to smooth a horrible moment over with a joke. “So what’s your place in”—my life?—“Great Events? Did some mysterious mage cast a Shadow of Destiny on you when you were little? Or some weird prophesy turn up with your name in it in reference to a Path of Fate?”
“Fate? Destiny?” he repeated.
The words had come out in English, and I remembered Mom telling me years ago they didn’t have any such concepts. Nor did they talk about luck, either bad or good.
My “joke” was about as funny as mud, but I kept trying to turn the most serious conversation of my life into light banter because if you laugh you can’t get hurt, right? “I mean do you have a life membership in the Villains’ Guild? Now would be the time to zip it from your wallet and get started with the har har har.”
“Villains?” He looked skyward. “How can you think that, Sasharia? What have I done? What have I not done?”
Lightning. Thunder. Neither of us moved. We stared at one another, as if anger and passion and desperate questions could reach past locked gazes into skulls and decode the thoughts there. But though people walked in the world who could do that, neither of us had been born with that particular gift. Or curse.
“Call me Sasha.” I knew it was inane, and that I was acting like an idiot. But I so wanted to hear him say my name. Just once more. Because I was going to stick to my guns, and leave as soon as I could.
“Sasha.” He said my name on an outgoing breath, which sent shivers all through my nerves. “Why won’t you let me explain the pirate disguise?”
Sasharia en Garde Page 24