Stormshadow (Storms in Amethir Book 2)

by Stephanie A. Cain

  It was an obvious attempt at excusing her impertinence, but Azmei decided to go along. She tilted her head to one side. "Why were you troubled, Orya?"

  The other woman looked down. "I should not trouble you with it, princess."

  "And yet you will, because I ask it of you," Azmei said.

  Orya dipped her head in obedience. "I was thinking of my brother, your highness."

  "Your brother." Azmei held out her hand and Guira placed a cup in it. "You have three, I think you said."

  "Your highness remembers well." Orya's lips curved in a brief smile. "I don't care for my two elder brothers. They have made a sport of trying to best me in our business. But my youngest brother, Yarro... He is different. Special." Her lips curved up again.

  "Tell me about him." Azmei sipped her wine. She would invite Orya to sit soon, but not yet.

  "He is fourteen. He should have been prenticed already, but he has always been...delicate." Orya's lips pursed. "Our grandfather has no use for anyone who cannot contribute. I agreed, many years ago, to take up whatever burden my brother left slack." Her hands knotted together.

  Azmei wondered if she resented that agreement now. "Go on," she urged.

  Orya sighed. "I worry about him. I worry what will happen if I fail to secure all the trade agreements my grandfather has demanded of me." She turned her face away, and Azmei heard a sniffle. "I fear my grandfather will try to force him into apprenticeship, and Yarro's health will not allow it. I cannot stand the thought of seeing my brother's frail body broken by the harsh demands of our trade."

  "Is it so harsh?" Azmei asked, keeping her voice neutral. "I have seen your lame cousin's work, and she is quite skilled. Could Yarro not take on the same duties as she?"

  "I fear not. His eyesight is poor, and he hears almost nothing." Orya looked back at her, and Azmei saw tears glistening in her eyes. "Delicate needlework would ruin whatever eyesight he has left, and without his hearing, he could not take directions."

  She seemed truly distraught over her brother's situation. Azmei took a slow breath and waved her hand at the chair. "Be seated, Orya. There is no need for you to be so formal when you are distressed."

  Orya's smile was tremulous. "My princess is most generous."

  "Tell me more about your brother," Azmei said. "Perhaps my own brother could use a squire. Even if it were in name only, it would surely protect him from your grandfather."

  She waved off Orya's profuse thanks and urged her again to talk about Yarro. It might take some time, but Azmei felt confident their friendship could be repaired.

  The next day, Azmei met Arama in the courtyard where she and Vistaren had first met. She wore the brown silk tunic, which made her feel more confident and less silly, compared to the brave sea-captain. She didn't want Arama to think her nothing but a spoiled princess.

  "Thank you for allowing me to sit in the sun for a while." Arama grimaced. "It's not easy on an old seadog, being trapped on dry land indoors."

  Azmei laughed and sat next to Arama. "Come, you can't have any right to call yourself 'old'. I don't believe you're above a decade older than I."

  "Mm. Perhaps not. I'm thirty this year. Feels old." Arama glanced over at her, lips pulling to one side. "You're just a bit older than the prince, aren't you?"

  "Twenty-one," Azmei confirmed.

  Arama nodded. "It seems late for royalty to wed. They didn't break a covenant to arrange this, did they?"

  Azmei felt her face heat. She didn't think the other woman was being malicious in pointing it out, just blunt. But it was a valid question. "I believe my father was hoping for Prince Anderlin of the Strid, but..." She trailed off and shrugged. There had never been much hope for that in the first place, and when Anderlin had demanded the Kreyden as her bride-price, Marsede had done an abrupt about-face. The threats Anderlin had issued when Marsede broke off negotiations still made Azmei shiver.

  "Ah. You wouldn't want Anderlin anyway," Arama said. "There's at least one illegitimate child already, and I don't doubt he would laugh at the notion of fidelity." She grinned crookedly. "That's one area where I can vouch for our prince. He's always been shy with women." Her blue eyes fixed on Azmei's. "It's one of the things surprised us about all this, honestly. He took to you right quick, and it seems you've taken to him. I hope I'm right in thinking that?"

  Azmei tasted the peppermint of her lip color as she licked her lips. "I like him a great deal. He is a lovely man, and I hope we will grow to love one another."

  Some of the brightness in Arama's gaze faded, but she nodded, her grin slipping into a chagrined smile. "I suppose it isn't easy, being thrown together so and told to make a go of it."

  Azmei shrugged and turned her back to the sun, enjoying the feel of it against her back. "Did you know we met by accident before our introduction?" she asked.

  Arama laughed. "He did mention it after that formal introduction. I don't know that I've seen him so nervous before then. He was glad you forgave him."

  Azmei felt a pang of protectiveness that surprised her. Arama, of all people, likely had most right to criticize Vistaren, but Azmei jumped to defend him. "I lied to him before he lied to me. I told him I was just one of the princess' party. I know why I lied." She paused and wet her lips again. "But do you know why he did?"

  Arama gave her a long, considering look. Her eyes were very blue, and startling in her light brown skin. Azmei felt her face heating again before the pirate even said, "Why did you lie?"

  "I..." She scuffed the sole of one slipper against the stone paving. "I was afraid to face my future." She realized it as she said it. She wanted to pretend it was to have an honest conversation with someone lower in rank, but there was only a tiny grain of truth to that pretense. The truth was simple, as Guira had pointed out a fortnight ago: Azmei wished not to grow up.

  Arama's head bobbed slowly. "I think that is probably why Vistaren lied as well." She tilted her head. "He is intelligent and mature, but in some ways he's very young yet."

  She stopped speaking, her gaze tracing up something behind Azmei's back. When Azmei looked over her shoulder, she realized there was a trellis growing there, flowering with peaceblossoms. She wondered if Vistaren had cut the flowers himself that he sent to her. It seemed the sort of thing he might do. Azmei felt her lips curving. She didn't love him, not at all, but she was quickly growing fond of him. He was a very genuine person, despite being a prince. It was one of his most admirable qualities.

  Arama sighed and Azmei turned to look at her, recalled to their present conversation. The pirate made a gesture of dismissal. "Then again, what does a harridan pirate know of love, eh?" She grinned.

  That was an opening Azmei couldn't let pass. "Oh! I thought..." She trailed off as if embarrassed. "I mean, aren't you and the general...That is, I..." She wished she could blush on demand. She settled for glancing aside and down. "Oh dear."

  There was an extended silence. Azmei gave Arama several heartbeats for the words to sink in, then glanced up at her again. She surprised the tail end of shock, but as she looked at Arama, she saw the shock begin to fade into rue. At least there was no outrage; Azmei had no desire to offend Vistaren's sea-captain, but she was wildly curious, now that he'd mentioned it, what the relationship was between Arama and Lozarr.

  "Damn," Arama said finally. She sounded almost guilty. Azmei widened her eyes, hoping she would go on, and was not disappointed. "I let myself go on thinking you hadn't noticed what room I was leaving that first morning we met in the hall." She sighed and looked away in her turn. "Does everyone know?"

  Azmei's mouth dropped open as the realization hit her. The first time they'd met, Arama had been sneaking--and apparently sneaking out of Lozarr's rooms. Oh, I'm such a fool, she thought. How could neither of us have realized it sooner? "I--think it safe to say Vistaren does not know," she said, trying to stifle the sudden mirth crowding up in her throat. She wanted to crow in triumph. Arama had given in to the general's devotion, after all. They were just keeping it a s
ecret! Wait until she told Vistaren.

  One brown hand lifted to scrub across Arama's face. "You have keen sight," she mumbled. "Ah hells. Lo and I...well, it's complicated." She twisted her mouth as if wishing she had a strong drink. Likely she did, Azmei thought.

  "Is it?" she inquired, making her tone as innocent as possible. "As complicated as trying to fall in love with someone in order to stop a war?"

  "An honest hit," Arama said drily. She arched an eyebrow. "You're a formidable match for Vistaren, I'll give you that. I don't know if either father knows what they've wrought in this treaty."

  Azmei folded her arms and gave her an unrepentant stare.

  Arama huffed a sigh. "We've been friends far too long. I can't stand the thought of losing that friendship. And Lo's an idealist of the first rank. He doesn't see me as I truly am, just as he wants to see me." Her eyes darted away and then back to Azmei's. "When he learned my true character, he'd regret it. And if things went sour, it would ruin what we have now."

  "Oh, you mean him pining and you cutting him needlessly?" The words were out of Azmei's mouth before she'd thought them through, but she found she didn't regret them. Arama did love Lozarr, however afraid she was to admit it. How dare she throw that away? She, who had the freedom to love where she wished--what Azmei wouldn't give for that freedom!

  Arama bristled, her small frame straightening, her shoulders going back. Azmei pictured this stance on the deck of a ship and understood how the slight woman commanded hardened sailors and pirates. "Now listen--" Arama began, but Azmei was in no mood to let her off lightly.

  "Perhaps you should listen to me, captain," she said, injecting every bit of imperiousness she could muster. "Have you considered how short and uncertain life is? Lozarr's fervor for you is clear. Many people live their whole lives without such devotion." Azmei felt a sudden shudder of anxiety.

  "Some of us have little say in our fate," she went on. "But those who can choose their own path?" She shook her head. "It is arrogance to take such a privilege for granted. What I would give for the freedom to--"

  Azmei broke off. Arama wasn't meeting her gaze now. Her jaw was still tight, but her shoulders slumped. Azmei drew in a quick, shaking breath.

  "Shame on you, that you would use such a good man so." Azmei stopped speaking. She was afraid if she went on she would begin shouting, and calling the prince's sea-captain a fool, no matter how well deserved it was, would not endear her to the Amethirians. Instead she knotted her fingers together in her lap, tracing them with her eyes and trying to get her breathing back under control.

  A flutter of wings brought a bright yellow and green bird down onto a branch that reached out from a stone planter next to her. Azmei blinked several times and pursed her lips at it, trying to make a chirping sound. She failed miserably. It cocked its head at her and flew away.

  "Perhaps I am being a bit of a fool," Arama said at last. Her voice was low. She wouldn't look at Azmei. "It isn't quite as simple as you want it to sound, though."

  Azmei cleared her throat. "Neither was Fann and--I mean, Aevver and Rona." Damn. Now her own ridiculous speculation was creeping out into her conversation.

  "Hm." Arama glanced up at her through the blue-black wave of hair that fell across her forehead. "Why did you choose that epic, in particular?"

  "Because I didn't know about The Four Daughters of the Storm when I set out to translate something for the prince," Azmei said, flippant. After reading a sampling of Amethirian tales, she had been drawn to Aevver. It wasn't until she began reading the cycle of tales more closely, with an eye towards translation, that she'd discovered the strange undercurrents between Rona and Fann.

  "Huh." Arama rubbed a hand across her forehead. "I'm not a kind person, Azmei. If Lo sticks around long enough, he'll realize it, and I'll fall off the ivory pedestal he's put me on."

  Azmei lifted her chin. "I can't pretend to know General Algot well, but I doubt he is quite as blinded to that as you wish to think." She twitched her lips into a smile. "Besides, it seems to me Lozarr doesn't care about that, or he wouldn't be in love with a pirate."

  Arama gave her a reluctant smile. "Brat. I'm a privateer. I have my letter of marque from King Rekel."

  Relieved that Arama wasn't angry at her meddling, Azmei laughed. "Ah, but you're talking to a Tamnese princess, remember. To me, you're nothing but a pirate until I marry Vistaren."

  "There's nothing," Destar grumbled. "Nothing set in stone, nothing I can point to and say, 'Yes, this proves someone is watching you.' But something is not right here."

  Azmei, dressed in her favorite brown silk, was examining the knife Vistaren had given her. The more she looked at it, the more she liked it. She had tested the edge already and found it keen. "Very well," she said. "Forget set in stone. What do you think? What do you feel?"

  He grunted. "I think the fact there has already been one attempt on your life proves there are those back home who want this wedding not to go forward. If there are Tamnese who wish the wedding averted, there must be double that number of Strid. Our kingdom will only lose by your death. Strid stands to gain a great deal by it, if you're assassinated before the wedding."

  "Because until Vistaren and I actually marry, my death won't offend Amethir," Azmei said, looking up at Destar in time to see him grimace.

  "Exactly. No one wants to offend Amethir. The Strid may be powerful, but the Amethirians, quite frankly, rule the sea."

  "What, the great Destar Thorne can't stand against them?" Azmei teased.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Impertinent girl." His voice was warm. "I actually consider myself fortunate that I've never come up against Arama Dzornaea on the open sea. The Kerava was supposed to be unsinkable, and she took it down without even using a stormwitch against them."

  "She's very impressive."

  "Aye, she is that. More so in person." Destar scratched his chin. "She lives up to the legend and then some. Though I admit, she's shorter than I expected."

  Azmei laughed. "I like her. Her and the general both, though I haven't spoken to him as much."

  "He's a canny one. Young for his rank, but then, there was that uprising west of the Garn Mountains ten years back or so. I seem to recall they lost more than a handful of ranked officers putting that down."

  "Garn Mountains..." Azmei frowned. "They're in the middle of Amethir, aren't they?"

  "More west than middle. The region west of 'em isn't big, but it's more isolated from the rest of the kingdom, and they were only brought into the empire a couple of generations ago. They're restive, you might say."

  Azmei sighed. "I should have read more Amethirian history. I don't suppose I can get a book about it here in Ranarr, so it will have to wait until I'm actually there."

  "No, there are hundreds of Amethirians living here on the White Stone. Large stormwitcheries are outlawed here, but folk of all nations are welcome to settle here. Even stormwitches, if they keep their magic to themselves for the most part." Destar stood and went to his chest. "I'll send someone out to look for a history of the kingdom for you. In the meantime..." He rooted around for a moment, then came back with a slender volume. "This is the past hundred years. It'll give you a good idea of recent history of your new home."

  "I should have known you would have something," Azmei said, smiling. She took the book and stroked a fingertip across its pebbled leather surface. "Thank you, teacher."

  He snorted. "Old habits die hard." He hesitated, rubbing his jaw, then sat on the edge of his chair, leaning towards her. "There's something else you might want to know. It may have no bearing on things between you and the prince, but there's no harm being forewarned."

  Azmei set the book down in her lap and straightened. "What is it?"

  "There's been some unrest here in Ranarr, among the Amethirians who've settled here. Seems they're being taxed higher than Amethirians living in the kingdom, and they don't like it. I'm not clear on all the particulars, and I don't think there's any danger from it. The Diplom
ats are pretty strict on keeping Ranarr a safe place to life. But Vistaren has--well, not enemies, exactly. I'd call them detractors, perhaps. I only thought you ought to know." Destar scratched his ear. "Mayhap the prince will want a sympathetic ear from time to time. I know he's been spending time in the Amethirian neighborhoods here."

  "Thank you." Azmei looked down at her hands. She wasn't sure if Vistaren would confide in her about the unrest, but at least she would know.

  "And in the meantime, I'll keep a weather eye out for anyone who looks at you askance. As I said, there's nothing in stone, but things don't feel right. And I've learned a long time since to trust my feelings in these matters."

  Azmei stood. "I applaud your diligence. I have complete confidence that I am safe in your care, Destar."

  He stood as soon as she did. When she finished speaking, he bowed. Azmei touched his shoulder briefly and left. She had a book to read and much to think about.

  Orya resisted the urge to twist on her stool to see what was taking Wenda so long. The rhythmic tugging at the hem of her skirt had slowed, but there were two hidden pocket slits to put in.

  "You're a much better dummy than I'd expected," Wenda said, her voice bright with humor.

  Orya exhaled. If her cousin expected her to take offense at the term, she was mistaken. "I have a lot of practice at being still."

  "Oh, yes, I expect so. Do you train by sitting about on rooftops or in cellars, waiting for everyone to fall asleep?"

  "Something like that," Orya said wryly. For one contract, she had spent an hour submerged to her neck in frigid canal water. Her spare clothes, stored in an oiled canvas bag atop her head, had scarcely been enough to warm her when she was finally able to climb up from the boat slip into the house of the slaver she'd been hired to kill.

  What was wrong with her, that she took pride in such things? She imagined telling Wenda just to see her good-hearted cousin flinch. She felt no real desire to do so, though. Something about her cousin's innocent worldview was still appealing. All too often, if Orya could not have something, she wished only to destroy it. It should be her reaction to Wenda. But it wasn't.