by Bex Hogan
I look up as someone approaches. Bronn has left the celebrations. He stands at the railing, facing out to sea, deliberately distant but close enough to keep an eye on me. Presumably to make sure I don’t do anything reckless. My father can’t afford to lose his commodity.
‘Did you know?’ I ask him, unable to keep the accusation from my voice – though it’s been a long time since we’ve been anything close to friends.
‘Captain only tells us what is necessary.’
‘And what about me?’ I round on him. ‘Will anyone tell me what’s necessary? Will you?’
He says nothing, once more impervious to my pain, and I turn away in frustration. There was a time when Bronn would have told me anything, his silence now all the more hurtful because of it.
I was only five when he came to live on the Maiden. Father found him on the docks, an orphan surviving by stealing from the ships, brimming with raw potential, and saw an opportunity to groom a young thief into a killer. Father brought Bronn aboard as a cabin boy, where he quickly shamed half the crew with his ability to shimmy up the mast and swing from the sails. Though almost three years older than me, he didn’t mind when I trailed around after him and he would sit for hours on deck patiently teaching me complicated knots. I adored him.
But the Bronn I grew up with is nothing like the man he has become: a man who can kill with effortless precision, as brilliant in that as in everything else. Of the two children who grew up on the ship, he should have been my father’s heir.
Everything changed after his Initiation. He stopped speaking to me, going out of his way to avoid crossing my path – no easy feat when you live on a ship. The loss of my best friend without explanation cut me deeply, but what happened a few weeks later was so much worse. It took me a long time to recover from his treachery. I had no choice but to harden my heart towards him.
‘I’m not going to jump if that’s what you’re worried about.’ I don’t bother concealing the venom in my voice, because he damn well knows it’s not going to be an issue.
There’s no reaction, though, not even a flinch of guilt as he turns to face me.
‘Will you do it? Marry him?’
‘What makes you think I’m being given a choice?’
We fall silent and, as the light fails, memories of watching the stars with Bronn creep into my mind. There was a time, years ago, when I trusted him with my every secret, including my fear of water. To lessen my dread we would lie under the night sky and he would tell me how the stars were like nautical charts, mirroring the seas we sailed. How if you were ever lost, the stars could guide you home. I had been confused because the Maiden was my home and if I were on it, how could I be lost?
I look up at him again, his betrayal as raw as ever. His face, which was once so open and warm, is now hard and unyielding. And utterly closed to me.
I turn away, pushing the memories back to where they came from. ‘As if you care. Leave me alone, Bronn.’
The familiar thud of boots on wood makes me glance up to see who else has escaped the farce of a celebration. To my surprise Prince Torin has come looking for me. Feeling it’s rude to sit in a heap while addressing royalty, I clamber to my feet, struggling not to trip over my own skirt.
‘Ah, there you are.’ Torin glances over at Bronn. ‘Would you excuse us?’
But rather than leave, Bronn takes a step closer to me. ‘I have orders to stay with her.’
I can’t decide what’s worse: hearing him admit he’s only here at my father’s request, or that he’s dared to defy the Prince.
Torin’s thrown too, I can tell. He didn’t expect to be challenged. ‘She’ll be perfectly safe with me, I can assure you.’
I was perfectly safe without either of them, but they don’t seem too interested in that right now.
Bronn folds his arms. ‘Nevertheless.’
An awkward silence descends as the two men enter a stand-off. I look from Torin to Bronn and bristle with irritation. Who the hell do they think they are?
‘The Viper answers to the King, so I ask again, would you excuse us?’ Torin is polite, but firm, and I find it curious that he doesn’t seem afraid. Especially as his sullen personal guard is nowhere to be seen. The rumour that he’s a coward doesn’t appear to be true.
‘I’m a Snake, not the Viper. And you’re not the King.’
I’ve had enough of this. ‘Bronn, you can go. The Prince and I will be perfectly fine without you.’
Bronn opens his mouth to object, but I get there first.
‘I don’t need you. I want you to go.’ It comes out harsher than I intended, laced with years of bitterness.
For a moment Bronn simply stares at me, expressionless, but then he blinks and nods his head. ‘M’lady.’ The word is dripping with sarcasm and I have to swallow down the retorts I want to fire at his back as he turns and leaves.
Instead I give Torin a weary smile, trying to convey my apologies for Bronn’s behaviour.
Torin raises his eyebrows. ‘That’s your father’s most valuable assassin?’
‘Yes, I think being introduced like that may have gone to his head.’ I’m hoping he might return my smile, but he doesn’t. Like Bronn, he is impossible to read.
The man I’m supposed to marry comes and stands beside me and leans over the railing. Following his lead, I do too, listening to the gentle lapping of waves against the ship. I should probably try to talk to him, but can think of nothing to say.
It turns out I don’t need to, because he speaks first. ‘When the sky is dark, the moon lost to the world, the water lies still. Silent. All magic is paused, frozen, for tonight the Night Hunter hunts.’
He’s quoting one of the stories Grace used to tell me, one of my favourites.
‘His prey: a devil. A vast, fierce devil. And across the waves the raptor roars.’ I finish the passage for him. Perhaps the scholar rumour was right after all.
He nods his head appreciatively. ‘So. We are to be wed.’
My breath catches in my throat. ‘Apparently.’
I raise my head slightly to glance at him, only to find him watching me closely. He really is startlingly handsome, his skin gently sun-kissed so it’s almost as brown as mine. I hold his gaze, and can’t shake the feeling that he’s doing precisely what I am: trying to read his opponent. Mistrust hums in the air between us.
‘Will you miss this?’ he says, gesturing to the ship, the sea, the life I live. ‘Or will the luxury of the palace suit you better?’
There’s almost a hint of contempt in his words and I resent any implication that I’m using him for a more comfortable existence when, as I see it, I’m simply being traded from one prison to another.
Squaring up to him, I say, ‘I think it’s foolish for either of us to pretend that what I want matters in the slightest, don’t you?’
The smallest crease forms across the bridge of his nose as he weighs me up. It seems like he’s about to say something, but then the moment passes as he steps away from me and I realise we are no longer alone. His bodyguards are congregating, as are some of my father’s men.
‘It’s time,’ Torin says to me, and I frown, unsure for a moment what he means. And then it hits me. No. Surely not. With my world capsized I hadn’t even thought about what Viper tradition dictates would happen tonight. I’d always half thought it was a myth, made up to discourage Vipers from putting anything or anyone before their kings. It can’t be real. But for the first time the look on Torin’s face is unmistakable, and I understand he’s been warned. My stomach lurches in terror and I would run if there were anywhere to go.
My father is coming on deck, his cheeks flushed from rum, his eye bloodshot, and he beckons for us to approach him.
There’s nothing to do but obey.
When Torin and I reach him, the crew lock into a circle round us.
The binding ceremony has begun.
I’m not sure where to look, so hoping no one sees the fear spreading across my skin like a rash, I just
stare ahead until my eyes water a little from the effort. Because I know what’s coming, and I know I can’t escape, and perhaps my eyes aren’t watering from the strain, but from the tears I’m fighting to hold back. Cleeve is approaching us now, holding a silver platter upon which lies a chain made of many links that glow with heat from the furnace. The very sight of it makes my heart scream with panic.
My father pulls on thick gloves as he asks me to raise my left hand and Torin his right. We press our wrists together and maybe the fact I’d rather run, plunge overboard and die the death I fear above all others than do this is transmitting through my skin, because to my surprise Torin turns to look at me.
‘Breathe,’ he whispers, so softly it’s possible I imagined it. And for a split second there is no pretence in him, no insincerity. We are simply two people about to endure a shared pain, and I offer him a small nod in solidarity.
Father is holding the red-hot chain now, and with precision he wraps it round our extended wrists, binding them together. The pain is immediate and searing as the metal melts through flesh, eating into skin to leave its imprint. Clenching every fibre of my body I force myself not to flinch. I will not show weakness. I will not let my father believe he’s won.
‘Let you all bear witness to the marking of their promise.’ My father’s voice carries loudly into the evening air, though the solemnity of the moment is somewhat tarnished by the drunken slur of his words. ‘Viper and royalty shall become one, their bodies carrying this brand as a symbol of the vow they have made.’ And with that he lifts the chain, pulling ribbons of skin away with it.
The pain is a thousand knives slashing viciously and I lower my hand, not wanting to see how bad the wound is, how much of my raw flesh is now exposed. I swallow back a wave of nausea and the sob that accompanies it. If Torin is thrown by the barbaric ritual, he doesn’t show it. He thanks my father for his blessing on our intended union and declares the future of the Eastern Isles safe in this momentous alliance of our peoples.
I am not required to speak, and though I usually resent my opinion being overlooked, for once I’m grateful. I have absolutely nothing good to say.
Rum is brought out, and the flagons are filled once more as everyone toasts our binding ceremony. Yet again I am not offered any, though it would help numb my pain. Instead I distract myself by focusing all my energy on avoiding Grace. I’ve felt her gaze fixed on me throughout this display, and I daren’t meet it, because I fear her pity will undo me entirely. Losing my composure would only strengthen my father’s hold on me, would only tighten the noose. He’d love nothing more than to have to castigate me for exposing my shortcomings.
My sight rests instead on Torin’s glowering bodyguard, the only other person not drinking, who makes no effort to hide his displeasure at this whole spectacle. I imagine watching his prince get scorched, even willingly, must go against all his instincts, and though he’s not offered me the merest hint of friendliness, I find myself respecting his devotion to duty.
Bronn, on the other hand, is drinking enough for all of us. He stands slightly apart from the crowd, and even from a distance I can see danger flashing in his eyes. No one will cross him tonight, not when he’s so clearly looking for a fight, and I can’t decide if I’m pleased he seems miserable, or resentful that he can sulk unquestioned while I daren’t move, daren’t speak, daren’t breathe lest someone perceives my slightest vulnerability.
Eventually the rum runs dry and Prince Torin comes to bid me farewell.
‘It seems it’s time for me to leave,’ he says, his face betraying no sign of the pain I’m certain he must be in. Nor is there any trace of the man I thought I glimpsed behind his royal façade during our shared torture. ‘But I do hope you will be able to visit me at my home some time soon, perhaps when our fathers agree a wedding date, so I can return your hospitality.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Until then,’ he says, giving me a little nod before turning to join his men.
Farewells are made and the royal party departs. Ren sets about weighing anchor and soon the Prince’s ship is just a speck on the horizon, its lanterns glowing in the darkness. There are no lanterns lit on our deck, the Maiden choosing to be an invisible predator. My father returns to his cabin without saying a word to me, no explanation, no thanks, no apology. Not that I expected any.
The moment my presence is no longer required I head to my quarters, my wrist burning as fiercely as my father’s betrayal. Only once I’m alone, away from scrutiny, do I start breathing too fast, the rush of panic taking over. But the waves of emotion that crash over me aren’t familiar and it’s then that I realise it’s not panic. I’m seething. So angry I could choke. All the years of suppressed fury bursting the dam and flooding me.
Desperate to be free of my stupid dress, I claw it off, the struggle to get out of it almost as hard as putting it on was. When I’m standing in only my undergarments I snatch up my knife and, with a howl of rage, send it flying into the wall. It hits the centre of a small scrap of cloth that’s been caught on a splinter of wood and, despite my mood, I smile. Years of target practice have paid off and there are few things I can’t hit with pinpoint accuracy. Something my father knows nothing about. I walk over and pull my knife free, then try again, this time with my eyes shut. Again, again, again, I send the dagger into the wall, and every time the blade hits its mark. Satisfaction outweighs my other worries – for a moment at least. It’s late by the time I finish, my anger still simmering but my body tired.
I need to speak with Father. I want to burst into his cabin, tell him exactly what I think of his plan to marry me off without warning, demand to be given the freedom to make my own choices. But I don’t. Because I remember the last time I openly spoke my mind and challenged my father’s schemes.
I was thirteen and sick of being trapped on the Maiden. Though I’d longed to go ashore my whole life, my father had made it clear that it wasn’t safe for me off the ship given how many enemies he had, and I had only ever been allowed on land twice, both times to the First Isle, and both times under heavy escort. We were approaching the Fourth Isle, on some errand for the King, and in a wave of petulant madness I had deluded myself into thinking my opinion mattered to my father. Driven by a craving for power – and, if I’m honest, attention – I had marched up to my father and questioned his decision. Why wasn’t I allowed to roam the islands freely? I was his heir after all. There should have been no illusion for me over what would happen – I had first-hand experience of the kind of man my father was, knew I was courting a thrashing – but for some reason I thought because I was his daughter I was beyond severe punishment. That he would never truly hurt his little girl.
I was right. Instead he ordered one of the younger deckhands to be tied to the foremast and had Cleeve flog him in my stead. Forty flesh-ripping lashes were given to that poor man on my account, each one serving to remind me to watch my mouth, know my place, respect my father. When it was over, the sailor was barely conscious, his lacerated back a pulpy mess. Though I was banished to my room I later sneaked below deck to the crew’s sleeping quarters to find him in his berth where he lay on his front moaning. When I tried to apologise he unleashed a tirade of abuse that left me in little doubt exactly what he thought of me. He died not long afterwards, thankfully not from those injuries but on a mission for the King, and though it shamed me, I was relieved not to have to endure his contempt any longer.
In the years since then I have become guarded, learning the importance of keeping my mouth shut and my opinions to myself. I know it would be futile to go to my father now and beg him to reconsider.
I roll over in my hammock to face the wall. Maybe I shouldn’t want him to anyway. Maybe marriage is my way out. But here at least I understand the game, know the rules to keep myself alive. Leaving the Maiden won’t end the game, just alter it, and then how can I keep myself safe?
And if I run away altogether?
Well, desertion is equal to mutiny, and I
would be hunted to my death.
The violent swinging of my hammock wakes me from a troubled sleep. A storm is raging, and above me I can hear shouting as the crew try to keep control of the ship. I screw my eyes tight shut, willing it to be over. My father’s rules are clear. I am not allowed out of my room at night, for any reason, and each time a storm whips up while I’m sleeping I fear the ship will go down with me trapped and helpless below deck.
But as I lie there, determined to ignore the elements, another sound carries on the wind. The clash of steel on steel. Sitting bolt upright, I listen closely, and after a moment’s hesitation I pull on my clothes before grabbing my knife and heading for deck.
Another of my father’s strict instructions is that when we’re carrying out a mission I must remain in my quarters. For my protection. But I know nothing about any current missions, so I’m guessing we’re under attack – which never happens. I can’t imagine who would be brave enough to take on the Viper and there’s no way I’m going to hide in my cabin when our ship needs defending. And technically I’m not defying my father because he’s never directly specified what I should do in this scenario. Not that I intend for him to see me.
I’m greeted with chaos. Another boat is alongside ours, grappling ropes preventing her from escaping, as my father and his Snakes wage their attack on her crew. My mistake is painfully clear. For some reason no one’s told me about this mission, but there’s no denying we are the ones doing the attacking.