by K.N. Lee
But, Cook had paid the price he had to have known was coming. After all, Elian was nothing if not clear in the exact degree of loyalty he expected from his crew.
Uncaring of the witnesses, Elian paused and centered himself, stilling his senses so that the tangible world wobbled, bending and revealing currents and waves of energy, emotions, and one soul about to escape a very dead body. He would not normally have taken in a soul like Cook’s, after all, a man had to have some standards. But, the bastard knew too much, and to release a soul full of knowledge into the oceans of the Other Side would be foolhardy.
Pursing his lips, Elian forced the breath from his lungs. With a burst of unnatural power, he breathed in, frowning with the strain as he inhaled fiercely. Energy swirled, emotions snagged and tugged on each other, and the black shadow of a man’s soul wavered, bending like a sapling in a storm toward the mighty pull of Elian’s breath.
He called up more magic, his vision pulsing with the pounding of his heart. Cook’s soul shook and fluttered in his direction, finally snapping away from the body like a topsail rope come loose in the wind. His lungs swelled painfully as he inhaled the soul through his lips. The soul burned as it went down, as if the man’s last scream was silently clawing at the tender tissue of his throat.
Then, it was done. The world shivered back into solidity, with no one the wiser except for Siddhe, who gave him a look that was both shrewd and bored.
“The next one needs to be smart enough to keep his trap shut,” he said to the woman.
She rolled her green eyes, being perhaps the only one who could do that to Captain Westin of the Wandering Star and live to do it again.
“This time, I want a Wordsmith, not just a scribbler.”
Siddhe quirked her eyebrow. “Full abilities to transcribe memory?”
He nodded. She pursed her lips. He wasn’t fooled.
She’d find him what he needed. She always did. That’s why he kept her.
He began to smell the stink of the dead man soiling himself and decided he was done here. He glanced down one last time at the corpse on the floor then grinned at the barkeep. “Clean that up, will you?” he barked. “Bad for business, that.”
The portly barkeep’s frightened jump set his belly jiggling like a pudding, and it was with an amused smile on his face and whistle on his lips that Elian walked out.
The sun was beginning to set as he left the tavern. It never failed to strike a bittersweet chord with him that something as achingly beautiful as the sun turning the sky to flames and the ocean to glass could be inevitably and implacably accompanied by the putrid stench of the docks.
The wet rope and mildewed wood of a hundred ships clashed with barrels of fish heads and bait. Not to mention the simply lovely aroma of too many men and too little soap. This port of Lidenhold on the Agion Sea was just like all the others. Dirty. Smelly. Dangerous.
Elian shifted and settled himself underneath his tunic and jerkin. He’d be glad enough to get back to the ship tonight and soak in the deep copper tub in his quarters. It would be a good, quiet time to think, as well, and he needed to think. The loss of Cook was nothing, but his treachery could spell disaster for the hunt. He shrugged as if to shake the burden from his shoulders. It wasn’t as if this hadn’t happened before. He could deal with it. There was always a way.
He was so calm and certain, he almost convinced himself.
Siddhe came up and fell into step with him. He appreciated her silence. Once upon a time, he had appreciated her full breasts and the sway of her hips as well, in a vivid and detailed manner. But, every day closer to the Red Dragon was a day that his interest in such trivial things washed away like water grinding down a stone, though a man with his appetite could never bear to completely starve.
“Did Cook actually get a message out?” he asked.
“Yes, but I haven’t found out to whom. Yet.”
The ‘yet’ was telling. Siddhe was angry, though her expression was serene to the point of blankness. She didn’t like not knowing, feeling like she had failed. She would chase this down until she got her answers, uncaring of the blood and chaos in her wake.
He liked that about her.
He also liked that her ‘yet’ had never failed him.
Yet.
The day it did? Well, with luck, that day would be a long time in coming. She was useful. He caught her twitching her mahagony braid over the swell of her breasts and felt a familiar stirring. Hopefully, a very long day in coming.
“It wasn’t to any of the others,” Siddhe said suddenly.
This stopped him in his tracks. He gave her his full attention.
“I can track anything that goes to the Spindlewald, the Black Fairy, or any of the other ships.” She frowned. “Cook’s message wasn’t headed for any of them.”
He waited.
“I don’t think it was sent to a ship at all,” she said finally and resumed walking.
Elian pondered her words, but not for long. They soon reached his destination in the miserable warren of dock houses and narrow streets. A wretched, battered little door to a sad, squat tenement of mud and sticks, liable to wash away as to blow over.
He knocked three times, and the door opened to reveal a plain girl, barely over the threshold into maidenhood. Stoop-shouldered and skeletal, she’d never be beautiful, and her life would be short. Her freckles reminded him of the spattering of stars he used for navigation in the night sky.
“Captain,” the girl chirped, a wide grin revealing buck teeth.
“Cota,” he answered gently as she ushered them both in. He didn’t miss the way she wrinkled her nose at Siddhe or the way Siddhe curled her lip at the girl. He sighed inwardly. Women.
There were too many stale smells in the hovel, and Elian had no desire to try and pick apart their origins, each, no doubt, less savory than the last. A rough bench sat before a rusted brazier where a few forlorn coals wheezed out a pitiful amount of warmth. He and Siddhe took the bench while Cota bustled about the room, pulling chipped jars and pots from corners and piles of rags, assembling them before the brazier.
“Where’ve ya’ been?” she asked cheerfully.
“Harrow.”
“I ain’t daft.”
“Nor am I, young lady. And, is that any way to speak to your elders?”
She cackled, and Siddhe shifted beside him, resolutely looking anywhere but at the girl.
“How many before Harrow?” Cota asked slyly.
“Twenty-three.” Twenty-three souls to feed his own.
“How many after Harrow?”
“Twelve.” Thirteen, if he counted Cook’s soul.
Cota snorted. “Not exactly making my job easy, now, are ya? Even fifteen would’ve been better for me. The more Dark Soul you’ve got on board, the easier I can swim through the visions.”
Elian suppressed a smile at the girl’s grousing. It didn’t fool him at all. She was angling for more money. Just as she always did.
“It’ll be like paddlin’ through treacle today, it will,” she grumbled.
“Double for today, Cota.”
Like magic–he chuckled to himself–she was back to her usual spry movement and keen glances. Siddhe glowered, and he slipped his hand behind her to give her bottom a little caress and pinch. Her jaw twitched. All was well, then.
Cota began throwing pinches of powder and herbs on the brazier, poking the lethargic coals to life. Blue smoke began dancing up from them, pulsing, swaying, bucking. In Elian’s mind, the forms became intimate, almost obscene in their motions. The hard walls of purpose and practicality melted, slithering away from his consciousness.
Ambition and desire bubbled up, drowning his thoughts. Then came indolence, indulgence, libertinage, gluttony, carrying him along on a tide that was rolling toward a shore of bright, blazing glory.
In a haze, he saw Cota kneeling motionless before the brazier. Her eyes were wide and unseeing, and her mouth hung open, a line of spittle hanging from her lips.
/> “Dragons in the water. Skies full of flames.” Her voice was disturbingly sonorous. “Inside out. Upside down. The map will lead you to your heart’s desire. Your heart’s desire will be the death of you. Unless you learn to desire differently. Dragons in the sky. Oceans full of flames. Treachery for truth begets treacherous truth. That which you seek is not what you want. That which you want is not what you need. Lines are drawn by men. Both men and lines do lie. Water may tame a dragon, but a dragon can burn a ship. Pursue, but with caution.”
Cota’s head fell forward. Siddhe’s snort rang in his ear. He blinked, the haze becoming nothing more than perfumed smoke, and Cota nothing more than a girl in rags.
“Well?” Siddhe demanded callously.
The girl shook her head and rubbed her eyes, but there was no cheeky smile that usually accompanied her predictions. She looked from Siddhe to him with dull, frightened eyes.
“Do we proceed?” Siddhe pressed.
“It’s always a choice, ain’t it?” Cota answered with a weak shrug.
“Tchah!”
Elian studied Cota, refusing Siddhe’s quick pull on his sleeve to stand.
“Tell me,” he said gently.
Cota slumped back on her heels and picked at the calluses on her hands. “It’s conflicted, ya see? Used to be just one thing out there you were chasin’, one thing you were wantin’. Now, there’s two of ‘em. But, I canna see if you’re chasin’ both or if one of ‘em is chasin’ you.”
“Two?” Elian’s head spun, and not from the residual effect of the drugs. There was only one Red Dragon. Nothing had ever mentioned a second one.
“Two,” the girl affirmed, nodding wearily. “Near just the same.”
For a horrifying moment, the room closed in on him. Two dragons. The Red Dragon and then… another? How could this be? It felt like a betrayal, yet he had no idea of who or what the traitor was.
Siddhe had clearly lost patience with the whole thing. She pulled him to his feet and gave the girl a scant nod before storming out the door. Numbly, Elian dug through his pocket and paid Cota double her price. He turned to leave, but was held back by a grimy little hand on his arm.
“I didna’ like to say it in front of your trout-in-trousers,” Cota whispered, a ghost of her old grin peeking through as she deftly insulted Siddhe’s mermaid heritage. “But, there was one clear thing that came through.”
He waited, hardly breathing.
“Withrae,” she said. “Go to Withrae.”
Chapter 3
MORNING CAME TOO quickly, ushering Rowen out of the comfort and safety of her bed.
The night before had been sobering, reminding her that she was sent to the castle with a mission.
She was too close and too deep into the scheme to leave now.
Leesha, her personal maid from back home helped her dress for the day. She ran her hand along the silk which was nicer than anything she’d ever had at home, and every morning she loved the feel of it slipping over her skin.
But, not even that could erase the fear that left her hands shaking. She exhaled and closed her eyes. The mysterious newcomer to her dream wouldn’t fade from her thoughts, even while awake.
“Ready for your jewelry, Mistress?”
Rowen nodded to Leesha.
Life in Withrae Castle was a show, and even Princess Noemie’s ladies-in-waiting needed to be in costume.
She dressed in a long-sleeved gown over her undergarments and chemise. She slipped her feet into leather slippers and stood before her mirror. She looked tired. That much couldn’t be denied. A long night of tossing and turning would make for a miserable morning.
“Where did Lady Brea go?” Rowen asked, noticing how Brea’s bed was neatly made and empty.
“Macana summoned her earlier,” Leesha said, keeping her brown eyes fixed on applying cream to Rowen’s cheeks.
“Right,” Rowen said. “I suppose I will see her at breakfast.
She walked over to their tiny window and looked out to the lake behind the castle. Memories of swimming in her own pond came to her. Days where she could do as she pleased were few and far between. But swimming had once been a favorite pastime. She and her younger sister would swim and pretend to be mermaids, saying that one day they’d both see and talk to a real one.
Sighing, Rowen turned away from the chill of the morning air. Mermaids. How ridiculous.
She wasn’t any closer to her dreams but teetering on the verge of a bitter death. Her sister Ophelia was a full-blooded Dragon shifter and thus had been married off to a nobleman from a neighboring village at the age of fifteen. Rowen feared the opportunity to reunite might never present itself.
Not if her stepfather had anything to do with it.
“My lady,” Leesha called as she fastened Rowen’s opal necklace around her neck. “Are you feeling well?” She reached for a cloth. “Your nose is bleeding?”
Rowen took the cloth and turned away from the girl. She dabbed at her nose and handed it back. “I’m fine,” she lied. She could never reveal the side-effects she sometimes suffered from using magic. Even if Leesha was her subordinate.
The castle was abuzz with activity and noise now that all the servants were awake and off to their posts. Rowen kept her head down as she navigated her way from her room to the dining room where the other ladies-in-waiting took their meals.
A quick breakfast was all she was afforded before she was expected to join the princess for whatever tasks and errands she may have. Withrae Castle would host a birthday feast for Prince Rickard the next evening, and the castle was in preparation for the elaborate festivities.
Relief washed over her as she saw that Brea had returned from her morning with Macana. Inside the small, elaborately furnished room was a sitting area for the girls and a dining table where they could eat when the princess dined with the royal family. The princess’ portrait hung on the wall above the fireplace, in between two large windows that were opened to let in the breeze and sunlight.
Sausage awaited, with eggs, gravy, grapes and fresh bread. There was a tiered tray of sweet cakes and rolls in the center of the table, as well as wedges of orange jellies.
Her stomach grumbled as she lowered herself into the cushioned chair beside Brea at the circular table draped with an ivory cloth encrusted with golden embellishments. The warm fire at her back was soothing. It kept out the chill of the castle that seemed to seep into their bones no matter the season.
“Sleep well?” Macana, the chaperone to the ladies-in-waiting asked between sips of tea as a servant girl ladled potatoes onto her plate. Her indigo eyes stared at Rowen as if she knew her secret. “You look tired. Both of you.”
Clearing her throat, Rowen glanced at Brea who looked away and took a bite of sausage.
Rowen noticed the bags under Brea’s eyes and felt bad for waking her up for nothing the night before.
“Very well, ma’am,” Rowen replied and busied herself with scooping thick gravy with her fried potatoes. “How did you sleep?”
“Don’t lie to me, little miss. I know you two ladies were up chattering all night. Don’t think I don’t know what goes on around here. I see and know all. Do not forget it.”
With a snicker, Brea looked up from her meal.
Rowen kept a blank look on her face. “No, ma’am. Never.”
Macana lifted a crimson brow. Her white face was stiff as porcelain from creams crafted from the palace glamourist. One would never be able to tell that Macana was in her late fifties, when her skin was frozen to mimic that of a woman in her early thirties.
“I can’t tell if you’re a good liar or if you tell the truth. You’re quite a challenge to read, Lady Rowen. In this business, that may work in your favor.”
A small smile came to Rowen’s lips. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She did hate lying to Macana. It was her job to look out for all the ladies-in-waiting. She was kind to them all, and wise. Though she was like a mother, Rowen still didn’t trust anyone.
Macana shook her head. “Just as well. We have a busy day ahead of us. If you two chose to stay up all night, you’ll be sorry for it.”
Rowen ate heartily, yet left a bit of food on her plate as was customary for women of her rank.
“All right, ladies. You two are to join Princess Noemie for her dressing tomorrow. But, right now, I have an errand in the city,” Macana said. “Rowen, you will join me.”
Brea’s eyes brightened. “Can I come as well?”
Macana cleared her throat. She seemed to mull over the idea before replying. “I suppose that would be fine.”
“Brilliant,” Brea exclaimed with a clap of her hands.
“What is the errand?” Rowen asked, just as excited as Brea, but her curiosity muted every other emotion she felt.
Tilting her head, Macana’s dark eyes met hers. “Always the inquisitive one, aren’t you?”
Rowen blushed and chewed the inside of her cheek. Macana never looked at her that way before. “Is it a secret, then?”
“That’s it, Lady Rowen. It is a secret,” Macana replied, standing from her seat to her full height which made her tower over nearly every woman in the palace. “We all have those, don’t we?”
Rowen tensed at the way Macana looked at her when she said those last words.
Secrets.
Rowen didn’t like those, especially when an unfulfilled prophecy loomed over her head.
She rubbed her neck as she and Brea left the dining room.
At least she still had hers.
For now.
Chapter 4
THE SCENT OF perfumes and exotic spices filled Rowen’s nostrils as she walked the streets of Central Withrae with Macana and Brea. It was almost like being free. She did miss the villages of her home, and the markets. They weren’t nearly as loud and crowded as this, but had their charm.
The buildings that cluttered the city were tall and made of stone, with shops on the bottom and homes on the top. The wealthier stores had glass windows to display their goods, while others simply had a door with a sign hanging from above. Shopkeepers stood outside, ushering customers in, while young men and women stood in the streets, advertising their goods, or displaying them on hooks.