The Duchess's Descendants (Jordinia Book 3)

by C. K. Brooke

  “Komi-cha.” A man who looked like he’d been chiseled out of rock stepped forth. His solid chest was bare, an exquisite cape of black pelt draped over his back. His men raised their bows.

  The Kelti’s crew slowly lifted their hands in surrender, and Ludwig carefully set down his case to do the same. The guards, however, remained in place, swords out.

  To Ludwig’s horror, Andrew didn’t raise his arms. He only marched forward.

  “Drew,” he whispered. “Don’t…provoke….”

  “My good fellows, look here.” Drew outspread his arms gregariously, grinning at their assailants. “We mean you no harm—”

  He was immediately seized.

  “You idiot!” screamed Johanna as the tribe lifted him from the ground. At breakneck speed, they carried him off, the guards soaring after them. The Jordinians dodged their arrows. Ludwig launched after his brother, following the sound of Drew’s hysterical rambling as he senselessly tried to reason with his captors.

  “Keep up, J-Joni,” he encouraged his sister, who was hanging behind.

  “I can’t run,” she wheezed. Her face was pink. “It isn’t good for me.” Seemingly involuntarily, she clutched her abdomen.

  Ludwig called to the guard closest to her. “Bram, Joni’s got a st-st-stitch. Would you—?”

  He hardly needed asking. The guard collected her in his arms and off he took. Despite his cargo, he ran faster with his overlong legs than the lot of them.

  “Perhaps you ought to take her back to shore, Bram,” Officer Terrance suggested between breaths. “We don’t know what we’re running into.”

  “My lady,” panted Bram, “your orders?”

  “I want to go,” she insisted. “I won’t abandon my idiot brother.”

  Bram inclined his head. “The duchess’s daughter has spoken.”

  “Look, I know you PEOPLE don’t understand a word I’m saying, but surely by the way I speak you can tell I’m not a threat?” The treetops flew above him in a blur, his head hanging back as the strangers carried him like a hogtied spoil through a mazelike jungle of evergreens. “Jordinia has so much to offer you! There’s such a thing called civilization, which I’m happy to bring you. Really, this isn’t the welcome you want to be giving me….”

  By the time they slowed, he thought he might vomit. They stood him on his feet, which struck him with another powerful wave of nausea, and they began to bind his hands in natural sort of twine. Grabbing his shoulders, the strangers steered him. Drew squinted as the brush parted, revealing what appeared to be a tiny village. His chest rose and fell in rapid succession as they shoved him along.

  An incredible bonfire burned at the entry, over which some unfortunate, unidentifiable creature was roasting on a spit. Drew prayed it wasn’t a human. His eyes took in flashes of the crude scene before him: huts made of clay and wood, tents large enough to host several families, smoke rising out of their open peaks, children barely clad and chasing one another. Old women with wide noses looked up from the woven rugs they were beating.

  “All right.” Though the air was mild, perspiration dripped from his brow and into his eyes. He itched to wipe it away, but couldn’t move his hands. “You’re serious. I can see that. And you’re all watching me…probably wondering what I taste like…hoping I’ll be the next contender for that marvelous spit you’ve got going there. But I beg you not to kill me.” His voice was higher than usual. “You see, I’m not ready to die….”

  “Relax,” came an unexpected voice in Halvean. “They’re not going to kill you.”

  Drew jerked his neck around. “Who said that?”

  “Over here.” A hand went up between a growing gathering of onlookers. The villagers moved aside.

  A figure wearing trousers and a white blouse stepped forth. A rather shapely figure. His eyes traveled up to meet the plain face of a woman, her eyes bespectacled in silver frames, her dark hair pulled into a forbiddingly tight bun.

  “What the…?” he mumbled, as his captors shoved him past her. It made no sense. What was a Halvean woman doing there? She certainly didn’t belong.

  He didn’t know what to think when she broke away from the rest of the group to keep up with him. His best guess was that he was imagining her. “In my hour of demise, I’m hallucinating.” He inhaled the fumes of the bonfire. “What are these people burning? Do they drug their victims before chopping off their heads and feeding them to their bloodthirsty gods?”

  “You aren’t hallucinating.” A tiny pinch in the bridge of her nose revealed that she was annoyed. “And I told you, they aren’t going to kill you. They’re only bringing you to the chief.”

  “Oh, great, so he can kill me? And eat me?” exclaimed Drew. His hands twitched in his bindings.

  To his shock, the woman rolled her eyes, reminding him uncannily of his sister. “Typical mainlander. Just assume anyone who’s not exactly like you must be a cannibal.”

  The caped warrior in the lead scowled at them and yanked Drew’s arm forward. “They seem pretty savage to me,” grunted Drew.

  The woman spoke in a percussive tongue, sounds he’d heard no lady utter before. When she’d finished, the tribesmen finally released him.

  “Whoa, what did you say to them?” He looked at her.

  “I told them they were scaring you.”

  “Hey.” He frowned. “I’m not—”

  “Brought an army, did you?” She cocked her head, indicating the ensemble that had finally chased the tribe’s footprints into the village. The guards charged in first, followed by the small navy. Drew sighed.

  The woman nodded at the villagers. “They want to know why.”

  Drew raised his voice. “Stand down,” he commanded his party. They held back, heeding him.

  “Listen.” The man fought against his bindings, struggling to work his hands free. No one helped him. “My name,” he finally shook off the dratted twine, “is Andrew, Lord Cosmith, fourth son of the late Duke and Duchess of Jordinia, nephew to His Imperial Majesty, Marley Ducelle, Emperor of—”

  “That’s quite a mouthful,” the woman muttered.

  “We are here,” he growled, “by order of the emperor, to graph these islands. We’ve been charged with charting the landscape, naming every river, forest and mountain—”

  “They already have names,” she cut in.

  Drew was fed up with her interrupting. “Speaking of names, who the deuce are you?”

  “I am Catja Lovell.”

  “Catch-my what-now?”

  Her mouth formed a line. “That’s Professor Lovell to you.”

  “Drew!”

  He turned. His brother came bounding up to him. The tribesmen moved in on Ludwig threateningly, but the professor uttered something to them. The warriors stood back, though they eyed the newcomer with distrust.

  Vigo was too breathless to speak. Drew placed a bracing hand on his back.

  Catja Lovell’s expression warmed. Drew felt ninety-nine percent certain it was only to irritate him. “Who’s your handsome friend?” she asked.

  Ludwig pointed to himself in disbelief.

  “This is Ludwig,” Drew swatted his back, “my brother.”

  The professor’s lips turned upward as she appraised him. “He isn’t speaking. I already like him better than you.”

  Vigo opened his mouth. “I—I—I can speak,” he stammered.

  “Surely you aren’t as obnoxious as him once you get started?” Catja jabbed her thumb in Drew’s direction.

  The villagers shifted. One by one, they moved apart, quieting. Catja looked up, Drew and Ludwig following suit. An older man with wolf-gray hair hanging to his bare shoulders stepped into their midst. He wore a necklace of gray and white feathers, strung with black beads. His face was gnarled, like a carving in a tree. But his pale eyes were focused and alert.

  “Don�
��t speak,” hissed Catja. “It’s the chief.”

  Drew and Ludwig were silent as the man held them under his scrutiny. At last, he spoke, his throaty voice two ancient stones rubbing together, a roll of thunder over the sea.

  Catja nodded, and addressed Drew. “Are you colonists?”

  “We don’t intend to live here.” He hoped the reply would be evasive enough.

  Alas, she saw straight through him. “But you’re scouting on behalf of mainlanders that do,” she guessed.

  “W-w-we acquired these islands in the treaty,” reasoned Ludwig.

  Catja translated over him, and the chief grunted. “He says, ‘what treaty?’ He was never consulted about any treaty.”

  Drew grit his teeth. “Perhaps because we didn’t know he existed.”

  The chief spoke again.

  “He says the islands and their indigenous peoples are their own sovereignty, regardless of what the Halveas negotiate between themselves. If you’d like to stay and learn their ways, you are welcome. Otherwise,” Catja surveyed the brothers cautiously behind her spectacles, “if your intentions are less than pure, we advise you leave posthaste.”

  “Well, we can’t.” Drew glared at her. “We were shipwrecked. Lucky it was just miles from the coast. But we’re as good as stranded here till another ship returns for us, probably sometime next spring.”

  “Or never!” She gave him an incredulous look. “No one in their right mind sails through the North Sea. You’ll have to head east to the stopover, and catch a ship on the Ekianic.”

  Drew could feel the accusing stares of his entourage. He tried to ignore them.

  The professor closed the space between them, moving in to speak at his ear. “Listen. If you promise not to interfere with their way of life, I can vouch for you. All of you.” Her serious eyes flickered to his companions, and back to him. “But you have to commit to me now.”

  “Commit to you?” Drew examined his fingernails. “Darling, I’ve not even bedded you yet.”

  She emitted a snarl, and a ring of spears encircled him, just inches from his throat. “I was only yanking your chain, Professor,” he cried. “Take a joke!”

  Catja made a hand motion to the tribesmen, and they eased their weapons. She spoke to the chief at length. The old man bobbed his chin, listening. His response was a single syllable, nothing more. With that, he lumbered away.

  “Well?” demanded Drew. “What did he say?”

  Catja gave him a long look. “He’d like to invite you all to stay as guests.”

  The villagers moved in, a hundred voices blending into one as they approached the Jordinians with offerings of fur caps, stoles and capes. A small boy came to him with a strip of animal skin. Running the silky pelt between his fingertips, Drew received it.

  “The Oca welcome you,” said Catja Lovell, in a tone far from welcoming.

  Whatever LUDWIG HAD been expecting, it certainly wasn’t this.

  As it stood, they had found themselves guests in a village they couldn’t pronounce, to a tribe they had never known was there. While the warriors had previously been fearsome opponents, the Oca now accepted them with open arms—literally. Ludwig had never been embraced by so many strangers in his life. In addition to offering the visitors their furs and jugs of fresh water, the villagers set apart tents for their guests’ use, and invited them to the bonfire for a meal at sundown. Ludwig and his siblings kept close to Catja, the resident professor, who had quickly become their guide and translator, whether she liked it or not.

  The fire was inviting that night. Smoke danced up to the twilit sky as they found a place on the logs surrounding it. All of the Oca were present, the elderly sitting closest to the flames, while children frolicked in a nearby clearing, tended by their mothers. The village men conversed as they passed around hunks of roasted game and ate by hand. Meanwhile, the Jordinian sailors and soldiers kept to each other, devouring their food and downing shared drinking gourds.

  The professor settled between Ludwig and his brother, with Johanna to their left. Catja held a slab of meat by the bone and tore off a bite with her teeth.

  “So, how did…you come to be here, Professor?” Ludwig asked her.

  “My father was a scientist.” She chewed thoughtfully. “He studied the Oca for many years. I followed in his footsteps and have lived here ever since.”

  “And where’s your father now?” inquired Johanna.

  “He died here.” It was evident in the professor’s reminiscent smile that she’d been fond of him. “And I hope to die here someday, too.”

  “Wow,” remarked Drew. “That’s morbid. Say, can I get more of this green stuff?” He twirled an empty clay bowl in his hand. “It was rather spiffing.”

  Catja peered at the dregs in his container. “That was made with fish eyes,” she informed him.

  Drew lowered the bowl, looking pallid.

  Ludwig gazed around the fire. The chief ate with the black-caped warrior and another equally robust young man. Catja followed his eyes. “Those are the chief’s sons, Dag and Zuri,” she told him. “Dag’s the eldest.”

  “Is he n-next in line to become chief?” Ludwig wanted to know.

  “Probably, but chiefdom isn’t inherited. It’s elected by the elders.”

  Johanna’s gaze was directed elsewhere, and she wore an odd smirk. “Professor,” she leaned in, whispering. “Why are that man’s daughters feeding him?”

  The professor and Ludwig looked at where she pointed. A portly old man with hooded eyes and a sagging chest was flocked by three, far younger, attractive women popping berries into his mouth. The youngest was a pretty girl with smooth round cheeks and striking amber eyes. She appeared not a day over seventeen—and thoroughly miserable.

  “Those aren’t his daughters,” Catja responded. “They’re his wives.”

  “Hello.” Drew raised his head, for once interested. “And how, exactly, does one acquire multiple wives in this tribe?”

  “Usually by acts of great sacrifice or self-mutilation,” answered Catja, as though these were everyday occurrences.

  “Never mind,” decided Drew.

  One of the wives suddenly spoke in harsh tones to the youngest. Tears trailed down the lovely girl’s cheeks. Ludwig’s brow furrowed. She was much too beautiful to cry.

  Drew noticed, too. “Hey, there. She doesn’t look too happy.”

  “That’s because she isn’t.” Catja dropped her voice, even though the natives couldn’t understand her. “Her husband and his first wives are cruel to her. He hasn’t been able to consummate his marriage to her. And they blame her for his impotence.”

  Drew gaped at the Oca girl, whose hair bobbed at her shoulders and shimmered in the firelight as she wept into her hands. “Well, that’s obviously absurd. Can’t she ask the chief for a bill of severance?”

  “The Oca don’t have customs like that.” Catja thought. “I suppose someone could barter for her, but I can’t imagine who would. Most tribesmen won’t touch a woman who is already wed to an elder.”

  “Not even when the marriage hasn’t been consummated?” asked Drew incredulously. “Not even if the bride looks like her?”

  Catja shrugged. “It’s just the way of things here.”

  “Well, the way ought to change,” said Drew, making to stand, but Catja urged him to sit back down.

  “I told you not to interfere,” she warned him.

  A drumbeat sounded from across the fire, a steady pop-pop-pop-pop. The villagers went about their evening, chatting and sharing courses, no one seeming to notice the music. Ludwig searched for the source. His eyes rested upon a man with a plait down his back, his palms beating an animal skin drum. He had a companion who shook a beaded gourd, complementing the rhythm.

  Ludwig reached for his instrument. “Professor?” His eyes didn’t leave the percussionists. “Would it b
e t-terribly interfering…if I joined them?”

  She regarded his case. “The musicians?”

  “D’you think they’ll…” The rest of the sentence hung in his throat, lodging there. He closed his eyes, embarrassed by her patient smile. Not now. Please, don’t lock up. Just say it. “…let me?” he finished.

  “Maybe show them what’s inside first,” she suggested, “so they can see it’s not a weapon. And then, I’m sure they’ll let you play with them.”

  He rose, stepping around a row of crowded log benches. When he reached the drummers, their eyes were closed, adrift in their rhythm. Ludwig understood. He listened, savoring the tempo until they stopped.

  There was just enough space left on the log for him. He lowered beside them and opened his case. Gently, he lifted the violin and bow from their velveteen pockets, and mutely held the instrument before the men.

  The drummers acknowledged him. Ludwig met their eyes, trying his best to convey his respectful request for permission. They squinted at the violin, murmuring to each other, and one of them chuckled. “Hee.” The man with the gourd bobbed his head.

  “Hee,” the other repeated, indicating the violin.

  I’m going to assume hee means yes, thought Ludwig, and positioned the instrument at his chin. He took a breath and raised the bow. It met the strings in a perfect reunion, making him sigh inside.

  The notes glided out, engulfing him, rich with the depths of his own wonder and longing. He improvised, pouring into his music everything he saw but couldn’t name, everything he felt but couldn’t describe—the sheen of splintered ice in the moonlit sea; the smell of the needles on the pines that bordered the wild little village; the curve in the clearing that led to the womb of the forest, just beyond.

  When his heart felt sufficiently relieved, he wove the melody into a peak, and floated it back into a satisfying resolution. Finished, he lowered the instrument and reopened his eyes.