Her mouth fell open. That? They were sailing on that monster? “Is there a war on I’m not aware of?”
He huffed an amused laugh. That sound… It made her smile.
She frowned. Strange. She’d always loved it as a child but, in her nine years at the Tower, had come to rue it, as it had often trailed after comments at her expense. But now, it had whispered its way back into her good graces. She narrowed a critical eye at him as they reached the Liberté.
He flinched. “Are you going to tell me why you’re giving me the evil eye?”
“It’s not the evil eye!” She pursed her lips while he shook his head. “And anyway, how did you know? You didn’t even look this way.”
He grinned crookedly. “Your usual perfect stealth amazingly faltered.”
Poking fun at her? She dismounted, and he removed their packs.
“I can feel when you look at me,” he said as he set them down.
Her feet stopped. He could… feel when she looked at him? She pulled the halla lower over her forehead. Could he always feel it, then? Whenever she looked at him?
He leaned in and raised her chin, his hazel eyes unabashed. “Every. Single. Time.”
She looked away, straining against his hold until he let her go with a deep sigh. Did he mean to make her so uneasy? The sun brightened in the sky, its fiery hues slowly golding.
He handed off their camels to a merchant and then talked to the Liberté’s quartermaster, a black-haired rakish man, no older than his mid-thirties. By his angular face and stiff carriage, a Pryndonian.
Relishing the cool breeze, she closed her eyes and breathed in the salt air, the smell of fish, wood, and oil. It smelled like home, lacking only the freshness of the coastal grass or the effervescence of wintry air. Laurentine was a seaside march, its castle looking out over the Shining Sea, and every morning had been a brilliant blue, bright and hopeful, refreshing. And being near the sea had always reminded her of Papa and Mama.
He took her hand, and she jumped. His hold was warm, firm but not tight, just enough to feel secure. He’d always had a quiet confidence about him, and as a girl, she’d never doubted his ability to protect himself, his family, or her.
She hadn’t needed that, not since her éveil, but the thought was still a comfort.
His breath warmed her ear. “Married couple, remember?”
A shiver shook her, and her skin contracted with gooseflesh. All this nearness and familiarity was too much, but yes, how could she forget their convenient disguise? She nodded, and they boarded the ship.
Laurentine had made a fortune in shipping, shipbuilding, and fishing, and she’d been around ships all her life, but the Liberté’s size and grandeur belittled any she’d ever seen. Wide-eyed, she craned her neck to look at the top of the mainmast, then glanced from bow to stern. It had to be over one hundred feet long—maybe one hundred and forty, with a fifteen-foot draft.
A young sailor wearing an eye patch showed them to the lower deck, the berth deck where the crew slept, and directed them to an empty area where two crewmen secured a hammock and blanket and deposited their packs next to a bolted-down chest. After thanking them, Brennan stowed their belongings in the chest, locked it, and pocketed the key.
The young sailor—no, the boy—couldn’t be older than seventeen; he had long, dark hair tied in a long tail, and stood just smaller than her own five feet ten inches. How had he lost his eye? Had there been no healer?
“Once we set sail, Captain said to stop by his cabin.” The boy threw his head back, throwing a wisp of hair off his eye patch.
She’d been staring. Her chest fell. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
The boy shook his head and offered her a smile. “It’s all right. Lost the eye in a knife fight on the streets of Zehar when I was nine. I’m used to it by now.”
Her mouth dropped open. Knife fighting at nine?
He straightened. “If it earns me a second look from a pretty woman, it’s not all bad.” He gave her a wink. “Not often we have a woman aboard… usually, it’s just us and the mermaids. I’m Zero. What’s your name?”
Brennan huffed a half-laugh. “Out of your league,” he murmured, with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
Grinning, Zero raised his hands, inclined his head, and nodded to Brennan, whose eyebrows peaked; then he took his leave.
“Brazen boy.” Brennan rested a hand on their hammock and tested its stability. “I like him.”
She smiled. “Me, too.”
He patted the hammock. “Well, shall we test it further?”
With a swift swat at his arm, she clenched her teeth. “Could you please just”—she hissed—“behave?”
He gave her a blank look. “I meant lie down for a bit.”
She shook her head, planted her right leg in the hammock and spun into it onto her back.
All of this familiarity and proximity played tricks on her. It had been years since she and Brennan had fooled around—to catastrophic effect—and that night in House Hazael had made touching him, kissing him… feel like it had all happened yesterday.
Did time heal all wounds? Was that it?
Some part of her had opened to him, welcomed him, despite their history. Not fully, but had she forgiven him?
It was all happening far too fast. Far too much at once. She needed to go up to the weather deck, take in the fresh air, the sea, the sun, and the sky. Reacquaint herself with the beauty that was so reminiscent of home.
Brennan rested a hand on her knee. “So do you want to rest or go watch as we disembark? I know you didn’t sleep well last night, but then again, I know there is little you love so well as the sea.”
“You know me too well.”
“We’ve known each other a long time. The window from your bedchamber in Laurentine overlooked the Shining Sea.” He squeezed her knee. “Come on. I can tell you’re in no mood to rest.”
Indeed, she wasn’t. No part of her would rest comfortably here. She needed to be back in Courdeval. To Jon.
Brennan had come all the way to Sonbahar to find her, had died for her, and she would be forever grateful—but falling into old delusions of feelings long destroyed would be a mistake, for a multitude of reasons.
She had to get far enough away from him to forget how handsome he was. And how good he smelled. How warm he felt… And to remember the ordeal that had been the last ten years of his wrath.
But when he offered her a hand, she took it, allowing him to help her out of the hammock. The crew bustled in the midst of various tasks, and Brennan led her around them and up onto the weather deck.
Main sails furled, sailors scrambled on every part of the ship. It teemed with activity. Brennan warmed her shoulder as he leaned against the railing next to her. Beyond the white sails, yellows and golds gave way to light cerulean in the skies, where not a single cloud dared intrude on the brightness. The sun had woken steadily and would soon beat down on them with all its might. But until then, the morning was cool, eased by the winds, and the turquoise waters of the Bay of Amar glimmered with gold.
Back on the Sonbaharan coast, Gazgan bid adieu with a wave of sandy-colored buildings and the dazzling golden domed roofs of the Temple of the Divine and the zahibshada’s palace. Across the bay, tiny dhows bobbed on the sun-dappled waves, their lateen sails loosed as they sailed to deliver their cargo.
There was beauty in this land, beauty Sylvie would never see.
She crumpled, blinking heavily. No, time didn’t heal all wounds. It couldn’t.
I will see you again someday, Sylvie.
The city faded into nothing more than a small dot on the horizon.
Her hands shook, and she clutched the railing tighter. She looked inward. With her anima bright enough for only a few spells, she’d need the resonance the captain of this vessel had agreed to provide.
Captain…
Captain Sincuore. The name intruded, uninvited. She shivered. Her time aboard the Siren had been a bone-chilling mix of abuse and amnesia. And they
both made her go rigid. She clenched a fist.
A red stain. She’d promised herself that day on the Siren. Someday, Captain Sincuore would be no more than a red stain. Just like Shadow, who’d suffer as Sylvie had suffered.
“What’s on your mind?” Brennan didn’t look over from where he leaned against the railing, his eyes fixed on something in the distance.
“My enemies.”
A touch of wolfish amber gleamed in his dark eyes. “Our enemies.”
She stiffened and faced him. “It’s not your—”
“The moment they acted against you, it became my concern. And so shall it remain, until their blood goes cold.” He flashed a rictus grin, predatory.
His intensity was unadulterated. Unstoppable. And his interest in her survival was undeniable. She nodded.
He straightened and offered her his arm. “Come. Let’s go see the captain, as promised.”
There was no other choice. Circumstances required a visit. She took his arm, and they headed toward the aftcastle cabin. Brennan raised his knuckles to knock, but then quickly shuffled her aside.
The door flew open, boots pounding onto the deck. The quartermaster strode across the quarterdeck to the main deck and down the hatchway.
She looked after him and leaned in toward Brennan’s ear. “A disagreement?”
“Must be. That’s the quartermaster—Sterling. But it doesn’t concern us.” After a moment’s hesitation, Brennan led her into the open captain’s cabin.
A well-muscled, six-foot-tall man stood silhouetted against the square-windowed quarter gallery, holding a bottle of wine. His long straw-blond hair was bound in a chaotic knot at the back of his head. Broad shoulders tapered to a lean physique clad in a gray cotton shirt, black waistcoat, black trousers, and knee-high leather boots. A rapier with an intricate swept hilt strapped to his belt and a dagger sheathed at his back, he looked every bit the warrior she expected to captain a ship like the Liberté.
He took a drink. “Stand there all day if you want, Sterling,” he said in accented Pryndonian. Emaurrian accent. “We’re going after that ship.”
He thought his quartermaster had returned?
Brennan cleared his throat. “Captain Verib.”
The captain turned, sighed, and set down his bottle. “Ah, the passengers Sterling took on.” His voice was low, business like, and more refined than she had expected of a pirate hunter.
As he met her gaze, his face went slack and his light-blue eyes widened.
Sky-blue eyes… like an Amadour.
Like Mama.
“Rielle?”
Her heart stopped. “Liam?”
On his knees, Leigh rattled the arcanir shackles. Arcanir. It always had to be arcanir. Why couldn’t they be silver shackles? Gold shackles? Something shiny, fashionable, and not quite so… stinging.
With a sigh, he raised his eyes to the woman seated on the vast stone bench at the end of the great hall, a tomb of intricately carved blue-gray stone, geometric patterns angling in etchings.
The woman wore the same black leather armor from foot to—well, chin. Unlike Captain Varvara, this woman wore no black mask over her bone-pale face nor hood over her head of gleaming short white hair. She spoke calm words with hard edges in a deep, self-assured voice.
Next to her stood a hooded and masked black shadow. “Queen Matryona… you… welcome.”
A harsh, thickly accented feminine voice. Captain Varvara.
Sighing, he staggered to his feet as best he could in shackles. He cleared his throat and slowly raised his hands to his chest. “Thank you. I’m Leigh Galvan, Ambassador of—”
“Leighgalvan,” the queen repeated, narrowing her golden eyes.
“No, Your Majesty.” He shook his head. “Leigh. Galvan. Ambassador to His Majesty, King Jonathan Dominic Armel Faralle of Emaurria.”
A soft half-laugh echoed down the hall. “Matryona u Terezila u Nadeva u Vasilisa, Koroleva Kamenila Khevena, Okhotniza Glubinu, Pavi T'my.”
His mouth dropped open, and another laugh—deeper, throatier—echoed. He straightened. “Leigh.”
“Matryona.”
Well, progress was progress.
The queen murmured something to Varvara with a wild-eyed excitement. Even when she was calm, that same wild-eyed excitement menaced beneath the surface.
“What… you… things?” Varvara asked.
He frowned. They weren’t going to make much progress in broken Emaurrian.
She motioned around the great hall. Stacked books, some bottles of wine, statues of well-built warriors.
He shook his head. How to explain what Emaurria desired? “Outside,” he began, pointing up, “dragons. Wyverns.”
Varvara didn’t answer.
He tried again in Old Emaurrian.
“I understand,” Varvara replied in Old Emaurrian.
A sigh of relief demanded exit, but he denied it. They understood each other, but this was still a negotiation. “We have dragons, wyverns, giants, and all manner of dangerous Immortals unleashed upon the land. Our king would acknowledge your territory and offer trade in exchange for joining forces against the beasts.”
Varvara murmured to the queen, who quickly replied. “Our territory needs no acknowledgment. We do not need trade. And the beasts in the sky realm do not stalk our deep.”
Fantastic. He needn’t have bothered coming.
“We could, however, assist your king if he would assist us.”
“What kind of assistance do you require?”
“We would take the light-elves prisoner.”
Prisoner. They wished to imprison—enslave—the light-elves? The light-elves, who’d already shown him hospitality? Ambriel?
It was repugnant, and would be no less so to Jon himself. “Emaurria is a free kingdom, where slavery never has nor will exist.”
Varvara translated.
A huff, then an expressionless face as the queen dictated her answer. “We are not Emaurrian,” Varvara said. “The light-elves are our oldest enemies. They know there hasn’t been a dark-elf child born since two centuries before the Sundering. The Deep has turned away from our offerings. And yet, they would selfishly keep the Gaze crystal to themselves while our people are destroyed. We shall not allow that. We must acquire the favor of the gods.” Her deep, cold voice echoed across the stone hall.
Ridiculous. Prehistoric races waging wars for the favor of long-forgotten gods.
If they had a low birth rate, perhaps they suffered from a disease? “Our people practice advanced medicine. My king could send some of our physicians to diagnose the cause the infertility.” After Varvara translated, he added, “And I do not speak for the light-elves, but they have not attacked you. They do not desire war.” So stop fighting each other and rebuild your civilizations.
As Varvara translated, the queen arched a brow. “They do not?” Varvara translated. “Then it is because they are weak, and ripe for conquest. This negotiation is over. Deliver your king’s answer within three days.”
Weak. Ripe for conquest. “No, that’s not it at all—”
Varvara strode from her post at the stone bench and pushed him back.
“Wait.” He stood his ground, despite her strong hands. “Your Majesty, surely you know by now that our king is Earthbound.”
Varvara flinched, easing her hold on him, and translated. The queen paused for several breaths, then bit out a harsh answer. “This changes nothing,” Varvara grumbled.
He stumbled and turned to face a massive doorway. She marched him out of the hall and down a sparsely lit corridor.
“That can’t be all.” He strode with Varvara toward—wherever they were going.
“It is.” Her stony voice betrayed no more than her uncompromising bearing.
“So you want to keep fighting? Dying?”
Her gait didn’t falter. “I will do as my queen commands.”
“Even if the light-elves would agree to stop fighting? To establish peace? If our physicians could hel
p your people?”
They moved through another doorway onto an elevated walkway. Above, a mauve glow radiated from… mushrooms? Below, blue- and purple-skinned dark-elves forged and sharpened weapons, some wearing little more than rags. The putrid stench of a tannery infiltrated his nostrils. What animals existed down here to skin? On second thought, he didn’t want to think about it too much. “This is what you want for your people? Perpetual war?”
“It is very simple, mage.” Varvara pushed him through another doorway. “There will never be peace. They have something we both require. We cannot both possess it.”
“And is war and death better than going out into the world?” Ambriel had mentioned the gods’ desire for the elves.
She puffed and looked away. “You lack understanding. Such a thing would end our people as surely as war and death. It is surrender. But we still choose to fight the end.”
Then they truly believed they could win. Destroy the light-elves and steal the Gaze crystal to sustain their civilization. Or at least expect it to.
“And what about the people you imprison? They have families, friends, their own people. You feel no remorse?”
“Spoils of war.” She shoved him through another doorway into a dark room. Utter obscurity, but she proceeded with a confident gait. “Before the End Curse, it was not we but our men who fought. Who took spoils of war. We watched. We learned. And we fight and take as they did.” She moved away from him, footsteps receding. “A wolf does not take pity upon the hind.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. In the dark ages, women were taken as spoils of war—as wives, concubines, slaves. Some countries still allowed such practices. And this ancient race, wise for vastly many more generations before humans, did the same.
Footsteps neared.
He squared his shoulders. “It was wrong then, and it’s wrong now. The only difference is that you have the power to right it.”
“I do not. My queen does, and her decision is law.”
And only a member of the queen’s Quorum or another ruler could challenge her to single combat to the death… and potentially save Stonehaven “You can disagree, can’t you? For the sake of your people? Aren’t you part of her Quorum?”
By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2) Page 43