by Alex Lidell
A vein pulses at Darius’s temple, and I wager he is thinking of a way to clarify that no compliment was intended. “No matter,” he says finally, clearing his throat. “I’m not here to talk about the silly games of a bored admiralty. This is a personal matter, Tam, and I would appreciate it if you give it the gravity it deserves.” He pauses, straightening himself to his full height. “Your wife mutilated and tortured my son!”
Wine sputters from my mouth, the drops peppering my coat and the floor. “What?”
Beside me, Tam’s expression gives nothing away.
Darius finds a chair and sits, shaking his head. “I just left the poor lad. Face bloodied, teeth missing. His body broken. It’s all he could do to rescue himself from the underwater coffin he was marooned in.”
“Oh for storm’s sake, Lord Darius.” I set down the remnants of my wine. Dealing with midshipmen’s parents is a well-known ordeal of naval officers, and apparently, my first taste of it has decided to come calling today. “Vikon mouthed off—again—and received a backhand from the first officer for it. As for lost teeth and bruises, that happened two days earlier when he fell while skylarking in the rigging, which he had been warned against doing in foul weather at least twice.”
Darius whirls toward me, finally condescending to acknowledge my presence. “You admit it, then.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Let us drop the veil and speak plainly. Your son has less discipline than a powder monkey and would have been bent over a gun long ago on any other ship. And if he thinks the midshipmen’s berth is a coffin, perhaps a career outside the navy would better suit his sensibilities.”
Darius locks eyes with Tam. “You heard her, Tamiath. A piece of Tirik filth laid his hands on my son.”
I whirl on Darius, my blood pounding in my ears. “You are speaking of my first officer, sir. I will ask you to keep your tongue civil.”
In the corner of the room, Bear raises his head, locks eyes with me, and whines.
My heart sinks into my stomach. No. Bear whines again, and Tam’s eyes join the dog’s in their concerned stare. I clench my jaw. I don’t feel anything, not yet. But I know it’s coming. Gifted. Magic. Elemental Attraction. All fancy names for a disease without a cure. And mine is choosing now to flare up. Not now, I beg my body. Just give me a minute.
“Civil?” Darius, plainly oblivious to the exchanged glances, is still continuing a now irrelevant for me conversation. Spittle flies from his mouth. “Civil?”
I’m barely listening. My hand clenches into a fist, my jaw grinding. I never asked for the bloody magic, never granted it leave to wreak havoc on my body. Bear alerts again and my heart quickens, the too-familiar dread already washing through me.
Putting down his glass, Tam saunters toward Darius.
The room spins before my eyes. Too quickly. It’s happening too quickly.
“—You let a Tirik-bred dog aboard ship, allow him to give orders to a royal-born Felielle, and dare defend him when he can’t keep his hands to himself?” Darius’s voice builds to a crescendo. “I want this Quinn flogged. I demand—”
“You’ve given me much to ponder on, cousin.” Tamiath puts his hand on the shorter man’s back and nudges him out of the chair and toward the door. “I can’t thank you enough.”
I back away, getting clear of Darius’s line of sight while I can still move. Fear replaces dread in my veins, coming and ebbing in waves that grow with each breath. A green light begins to pulse in my right eye. Its flash flash flash blinds my thoughts.
“But—” Darius starts to say. His words are distant, as if said on the edge of sleep.
“Let me discuss the matter with the princess.” Tamiath pushes his cousin into the corridor, closing the door behind them.
My legs stall. I throw my arm out toward the table, my hand aiming for its solid surface. I catch Darius’s discarded wineglass instead. With no purchase, I fall hard to my knees, the shattered glass slicing into my palm. The green light multiples, the flashing speeds. With its next pulse, my whole body arches up off the floor. My teeth sink into my tongue, blood welling up in my mouth and trickling into my throat before darkness claims me.
Chapter 6
Kyra
When Kyra finally made her way to the docks, her oiled cloak wrapped as tightly against the rain as she could make it, she found nothing there except the distrustful glares of merchantmen skippers. The Felielle fleet and Princess Nile were out playing war games at sea, pitting their great guns against unsuspecting wine casks.
Kyra made a tour of all the newsleafs posted—the pillars having clever little ledges that kept the worst of the rain off the print—taking in the grim daily news: estimates of the Tirik force had increased, as had the number of battles fought and seamen lost. It was only a matter of time until the Tirik made landing and brought the war from sea to sand.
The rest of the day, as the rain died down, Kyra divided between earning pennies reading the same newsleafs to dockside visitors and silver crowns reading the fortunes of the wealthier marketplace patrons. Between the taste of the customers’ emotions and the newsleaf updates, it was simple enough to concoct stories decent enough to buy her dinner. Together with selling the mushrooms, she did all right—though it was all a circle that never progressed anywhere.
Hunter’s pin prickled Kyra’s thigh through the pocket of her dress, refusing to let the morning’s images rest. It seemed disrespectful to sell or toss the damn pin away, but Kyra little wished to keep it either, especially since her fingers kept slipping down to fiddle with the metal edges. She needed to leave it somewhere and forget Hunter altogether. Meddling in the world’s business was what had gotten Kyra into trouble in the first place, what tempted her to sail from her home to a mainland that despised her.
Tomorrow. She would get all her business done tomorrow. Princess Nile Greysik would be done with the exercise by then, and Kyra would find her, plead her case, convince the young woman to hire Kyra on. With that plan firmly in mind, Kyra turned her coins over for a fish freshly caught and fried on heaped coals, and returned to her cavern to eat and think.
Except it wasn’t working. By the time the sun had set and the moon rose to keep watch over Port Mead, Kyra’s mind could see nothing save the butt of a rifle rammed into a man who did nothing to defend himself. Over and over and over. Why? Kyra demanded of the memory. What broke, Hunter? What led to that?
The distant toll of the port bell called two hours past midnight when Kyra gave up trying to close her eyes and ducked out of the cavern. She needed a walk to clear her mind. To help her sleep. She needed to know whether Hunter was here again, and she needed to make a decision. Kyra wouldn’t delay leaving the mainland, but if she could help Hunter before she left, it would make her months in Biron worth something beyond empty misery.
It took Kyra an hour until she tasted him, but once she did, her chest tightened. Hunter was atop the ridge, but some distance from both the Spardic camp and the spot where Kyra had met him the previous night.
Picking up a stick, Kyra let her magic call to the heat until it coalesced into a small flame on the branch’s tip, well away from her hand. The moon cast fair light, but Kyra wasn’t about to climb up unfamiliar stones without a torch. This side of the rise might lack the cliff face facing the ocean, but it was steep enough to twist an ankle without trying.
Kyra’s legs burned by the time she hauled herself to the top of the ridge and blinked at the empty space. Hunter had to be here. She’d felt him. She… There was no taste in Kyra’s mouth, as if whatever had baited her to climb the stones was gone, melted like a mirage. Kyra turned about, careful to keep back from the cliffside drop. Her heart quickened, her blood rushing through her. Someone had been here. She was certain. Someone—
A knife pressed into Kyra’s throat, a hard body rising like stone behind her. The smell of earth and steel filled her nose. Her stomach clenched, a scream escaping her lips as her torch fell and sputtered out. The bitterness of her own terror
filled her mouth and throat.
“How did you find me?” Hunter’s soft voice scraped against Kyra’s ears. “How and why?”
Kyra’s dry tongue refused to move, her hands trembling as they clawed at the arm holding steel to her neck. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. She’d been tracking a wounded animal, never considering that it might maul her before she could set its leg. She’d meddled and fallen into her own trap. There was no one to hear her screams here. And even if there were, there was no one in Port Mead who’d care.
Hunter shook her so hard that Kyra’s teeth clacked together, and for a moment, she couldn’t squeeze a breath past her closing throat.
“Talk,” Hunter ordered again in that same too-soft voice. “Now.”
“I saw your dog,” Kyra said, her thoughts racing to conjure an explanation. “I was curious—”
Hunter snarled softly, calling out Kyra’s lie.
She froze. He could kill her if he wanted to. And he had killed, she was sure of that. He’d killed and he’d enjoyed it. The pressure from the knife increased, and Kyra’s neck stung, a dribble of something warm and viscous slithering down her neck.
“I felt you,” Kyra whispered. There had to be a wiser thing to say, but her mind refused to conjure anything but the truth. The man’s weight shifted, and Kyra tasted his fury. He didn’t believe her. He thought she was lying again. And he’d had enough. Stars. Her eyes stung, the words tumbling out of her mouth. “I can taste emotions. I felt you yesterday. And today. I’m Gifted. A flame caller. I felt you, and I—”
The blade withdrew, and Hunter pushed her away from him. Kyra stumbled, falling to her knees a pace away from the cliff’s edge. Her breath halted. Too close. Much too close.
Hunter towered over her, his knife still in his hand, his other arm pressed against his ribs. He no longer wore a uniform, but there was a sword strapped down the length of his spine. That he was moving at all after this morning… “Name?” Hunter demanded.
Kyra opened her mouth to speak, but the only words she could summon were ones she wouldn’t stoop to say. Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me.
“I asked,” Hunter said again—only to jerk toward the ocean as an explosion of fire bloomed above the port, shattering the darkness. Hunter twisted back to Kyra just as the first of the screams pierced the air.
“It wasn’t me—” she gasped, her hands rising in surrender.
“Get to cover,” Hunter ordered in a voice suddenly cold as steel. “Now.”
Before Kyra could respond, Hunter gripped the cliff’s edge and, in a smooth, feline motion, launched himself into the abyss below. Hunter’s final words, thrown back to her over the cliff, echoed in Kyra’s ears. “Get to cover. We’re under attack.”
Chapter 7
Nile
“Get up.” Tam’s voice reaches me through a haze.
I little remember falling asleep, but given the feel of a soft mattress beneath me and the velvety darkness, I’ve been out for some time. Everything hurts: my muscles, my head, my tongue. Storms, I must have bitten my tongue when the convulsions hit. In the distance, a bell strikes four in the morning.
“Get up,” Tam says again. “There has been an attack at the port.”
I bolt upright, the world spinning even as I catch the uniform Tam tosses into my hands. A quarter hour later, Tam and I are striding into the inn’s common room turned command center and taking seats at a long wooden table stretching the length of the space. Early rays of predawn filter into the windows, drawing soft splotches of light on the rough wood. A steward distributes mugs of coffee, and I make the mistake of taking a sip before remembering the gash in my tongue and quickly spitting the hot liquid back into the mug.
Other officers filter in, quickly filling up seats. My chest tightens when Domenic strides into the room, giving me a curt professional nod before taking his place. No one else meets my gaze. Unlike Domenic, I’m too junior an officer to be included and too senior a royal to be excluded, thus efficiently upsetting everyone without even trying.
Admirals Pyre and Brice are the last to arrive, filing to their places with little ceremony. Pyre claps Domenic on the shoulder as he passes, saying something too quiet for me to hear.
“Aye, thank you, sir,” Domenic says, ducking his head. Now that the Felielle navy has had their taste of him, Domenic is quickly becoming a favorite. A model seaman and officer.
“Gentlemen.” Admiral Pyre pitches his voice across the silent room. “Thank you for rising from your beds at this hour. Approximately an hour ago, the People’s Republic of Tirik used the cover of darkness to maneuver a small craft filled with gunpowder into Port Mead’s dock. It appears that the crew then disembarked and concealed themselves before triggering the powder’s detonation.” Pyre pauses, his lips pressing into a tight line. “After bystanders and healers responded to aid the victims of the explosion, the bastards came out of hiding and launched a secondary assault with swords and pistols, tripling the body count until they were neutralized.”
Pyre’s words punch me in the gut. Bystanders. Healers. “The Tirik must have known the responders would be civilians,” I say into the stunned silence.
Glares of thinly concealed exasperation shoot my way. Felielle women do not opine on matters of strategy in the presence of professionals, their eyes tell me.
“Of course they knew,” Admiral Pyre says finally.
“Efficient bastards.” Captain Zolan’s words have a drawl to them, as if his thoughts are a few steps ahead of the present conversation. Of a height and age with Tam, Zolan has the same presence around a conference table as I imagine he has on the quarterdeck. His dark, wind-tousled hair frames strong cheekbones and skin tanned to the color of honey. “They had limited firepower and personnel at their disposal. The two-stage setup allowed them to minimize resources for the greatest damage. The Tirik didn’t need to go to the crowd. They made the crowd come to them.”
I tap my finger on the table, ignoring Domenic’s warning glance about speaking out of turn. “The Tirik haven’t targeted civilians before.” My mind riffles through the puzzle of information and comes up empty. “Why start now, when they are winning again? When their flag is supposed to proclaim power to the people?”
Admiral Pyre sighs. “With due respect, Your Highness, the Tirik have been doing a great many things in the past three months that they haven’t done before. And frankly, it’s been working well for them. The Tirik are looking for body count. The question we are meeting to address this morning isn’t about which bodies the Tirik targeted, but rather what it means for the Felielle fleet. That little cutter the Tirik blew to pieces didn’t sail herself from the Tirik Republic—there is a larger Tirik ship somewhere nearby.” He raises his chin and surveys the officers gathered. “Your thoughts, gentlemen?”
Captain Zolan leans forward, muscled forearms braced on the table’s edge. “We end the fleet exercises immediately. Send all ships we can spare to support the Biron kingdom’s patrols. Hunt down the bastards wherever they might be hiding and destroy them.”
Admiral Brice, a potbellied man with a double chin and ample girth, stares at a spot just over my head. “What of the Diante? We’ve a shrinking two-week window. If we redirect our ships to support the Biron, how will we get to the Siaman?”
“The Diante can wait,” I say, leaning forward. “We are under attack and can’t spare ships to—”
“I see your point, Admiral,” says Captain Zolan, talking over me without hesitation. “Perhaps we send a small squadron to the Diante Empire. Three or four ships, under a rear admiral’s flag. We could convert a cabin to make it comfortable for Her Highness during the passage.”
My face heats, but before I can utter a word, Tamiath’s fingers beneath the table dig into my thigh hard enough to bruise.
“I would not venture to speak on naval strategy,” Tamiath says smoothly, “but from a political perspective. I do not see the Diante Empire allowing a squadron of four men-of-war to enter its wate
rs. You may recall that not a year ago, the Diante barred a Lyron Joint Fleet frigate from taking on fresh water at their docks. That they are inviting one ship is a great step in itself. Let us not push our relations by sailing a squadron into their waters.” He shrugs. “We must also consider that the invitation was for one Captain Nile Greysik.”
My gaze cuts to Domenic, sitting with his back straight and mouth shut. He won’t speak unless addressed directly by a superior. Not even to voice support for me.
“The Diante didn’t build an empire by being stupid,” says Admiral Pyre. “They cannot truly expect an eighteen-year-old girl to sail herself halfway around the world.”
I put my palms on the table, my voice hard as my body absorbs the insult. “You will recall that I was in charge of a ship when I met the Diante admiral who issued the damn invitation. Whatever—”
“To Prince Tamiath’s point, it is unlikely the Diante worded the invitation lightly,” Zolan says, barreling over me again. His voice is low and clear, and the men at the table turn to him obligingly. “If we disregard the invitation terms, we risk insulting the very people we are trying to gain as allies. What if the girl sails in nominal command while true seamen run the ship as the first and second officers? A Felielle squadron can still escort the principal vessel to the border, passing custody to the Diante upon the rendezvous, thus minimizing the risk to the princess.”
Admiral Pyre nods along with the captain’s words. “Satisfy proprietary and security without sacrificing common sense. Very good, Mr. Zolan.” He drums his hand on the table. “Moreover, I’ve just the ship in mind—the Helix, frigate at the top end of a junior captain’s possible command. She’s coming out of dry dock in Port Lye next week. How quickly can you get her set to sail, Zolan?”
For the first time since the meeting started, Zolan’s face creases. “Me, sir? I fear I fail to follow your meaning.”
Admiral Pyre’s brows rise as my stomach sinks. “I am accepting your idea, Zolan. Now I would like you to put theory into practice.”