Once the door closed on them, Kamran said, “I’ve always said she was a witch.”
“She’s no witch!” Brelenah said. “If you doubt her words, you are a fool.”
“Silence,” Wilek said. “This is the rosâr’s ageday celebration. We will not discuss Miss Onika again today, is that understood?”
The remainder of the meal passed in awkward silence, and Trevn couldn’t help but dwell on all that had gone wrong. Where was Mielle? Had poor Hinck made it to Rogedoth’s ship? If so, what might the former Pontiff do to him?
While Trevn ate, he thought of all who were suffering and felt ashamed that he had been moping about the ship like some kind of victim. Yes, he missed Mielle, but he knew she still lived. He could not allow the spell the Magonian witch cast upon them make him useless and pathetic. The sooner they found land, the sooner he could find Mielle, rescue Hinck, and seek out a new normal for his life.
Trevn didn’t finish his meal. He stood, bowed deeply, and excused himself. He set off for the sickroom, fully determined to use his position as the Second Arm to do all he could to find a way to communicate with the pale strangers.
Hinck
The men had taken turns rowing, directed by Lady Zenobia, who received her instructions from Kabada, the golden bird shadir. Kabada, Hinck had learned, was a common shadir, the most powerful of the five shadir that had come along.
Harton turned out to be the one who had stolen Errp the newt from Janek. He now kept the tiny creature in his shirt pocket, where it huddled in a ball to keep out of the chilly sea wind.
By the second day Hinck had lost count of how many times he had been at the oars and was completely out of strength. Still they saw no other boats, and each time he dozed off, Lady Zenobia prodded him in the back, nagging that his slowness was taking them off course. If she thought it was so easy, she should go ahead and row for a while.
Shortly after dawn the third day, a ship approached. It looked to Hinck as if it were being pulled by several hundred shadir attached to the bow with bands of color. An impressive and fairly terrifying sight.
“Moon Fang has come for us,” Lady Zenobia said.
It appeared that he had.
Their dinghy was quickly attached to cables and hoisted aloft. Armed guards dressed in Sarikarian green escorted them to the stern, where they entered some kind of throne room. Three thrones sat in a row. The former Pontiff of the Rôb church, Barthel Rogedoth, also known as Prince Mergest III of Sarikar, sat in the largest, center throne. On his left sat his daughter, Rosârah Laviel, Sâr Janek’s mother. No one occupied the third throne.
“Kneel before King Barthel of the Five Realms,” a herald announced.
Surprised by that title, Hinck knelt with the others.
“You!” Rosârah Laviel pushed off her throne and stalked toward Sir Jayron. She raised her hand, yelled, “Puroh!” and a bolt of fire shot from her fingertips to Sir Jayron’s face. He screamed, the flames circling his shaved head and catching fire to his tunic.
“You should have died!” she screamed. “It was your duty to protect him and you failed.”
Again she launched a fireball at Sir Jayron. This one ignited his trousers. He fell thrashing to the floor.
Rosârah Laviel moseyed toward him, eyes gleaming as she watched him struggle. A wave of her hand doused the flames. “What say you, shield?”
Sir Jayron gasped from where he lay on the floor, his face blistered, his tunic burned to strips. “Had I been there, I would have gladly died for him. But we were arrested and put in the hold. Oli Agoros betrayed us.”
They thought Oli had turned them in? Relief warred with fear for Oli’s life.
“Do not speak that name. Guard!” Laviel waved over a guard, drew his sword, and raised the point above Sir Jayron’s heart.
“Your Highness, please!” he cried. “Let me avenge him. I will go after the Duke of Canden and bring you his head.”
“No,” she said. “Your death will give me great pleasure.” She stabbed down, but Sir Jayron twisted aside. The sword’s point struck the floor. Sir Jayron scrambled back, got to his feet, and reached out to her with his hands spread wide. “Have mercy, lady. I can serve you better alive. Whatever you ask, I will do.”
“I ask only that you die. Natal.” The sword floated out of her hand, pointed at Sir Jayron. She waved her arms forward, repeating that same magical word, and with each wave another sword slid out from the sheath of a guard and floated toward the first. Hinck watched in horror as two dozen blades spiraled through the air, slowly, heading straight for the first.
Sir Jayron turned and ran, but Rosârah Laviel cried out another command and the collection of blades shot forward, skewering the High Shield in unison from all sides before he could reach the door. The man grunted, choked out something indiscernible. Blood sprayed the floor around him and he toppled over.
Hinck looked away.
Rosârah Laviel clapped her hands a few times, laughing softly, and strutted back to her throne, the train of her light blue gown sliding across the floor behind her. “That felt good,” she said, settling into her chair again.
“Have you had your fill of vengeance?” Rogedoth asked.
“We shall see,” she said.
Hinck glanced at the others. Lady Zenobia stared straight ahead like a soldier. Harton and Lilou had both fixed their gazes on Sir Jayron’s body. Lady Mattenelle had covered her face with her hands and was sobbing quietly.
“Speak, Zenobia,” Rogedoth said to Rosâr Echad’s concubine. “Give your report.”
“We were to be executed two days ago by Sâr Wilek,” she said, then went on to explain their plan to use Cook Hara’s evenroot to kill Echad, how Sâr Wilek had found out and arrested them all, and the result of their attempted mutiny. “Canbek and Sir Garn were killed. Fonu jumped overboard and likely drowned.”
“He did not drown. He is elsewhere,” Rogedoth said. “Since when does Oli Agoros wield magic?”
“The shadir was Noadab,” Zenobia said. “He did not even require the ancient words.”
“Still loyal to Lebetta,” Rogedoth said. “I will send some shadir to end its life.”
“Just like Lebetta, Oli has deceived us all,” Rosârah Laviel said. “Lady Mattenelle, stop crying and come here.”
Lady Mattenelle ran to the queen and knelt at her feet.
Laviel stroked her hair. “My, you are filthy, all of you. Why do you cry, my dear?”
“My heart is broken. Sâr Janek . . .” She sobbed.
“I know,” Laviel said, her voice cracking. “It is a tragedy beyond what I can bear.”
Rogedoth questioned Agmado Harton next, asking about his sister, Charlon, why he’d wanted to serve in the King’s Guard, and why he’d decided to betray Sâr Wilek. Then he questioned Lilou, who had little to say other than her stalwart support of his rule.
“My shadir have told me of a legless man who has befriended Sâr Wilek,” Rogedoth said. “What do you know of him?”
“He is called Jhorn,” Lilou said. “He boarded the ship after Bakurah Island. I believe he came from Emperor Ulrik’s ship. He is close friends with the prophetess.”
“Did he have a boy with him?”
“No, Your Highness. He came alone.”
Rogedoth grimaced. He waved Lilou away, and his attention landed on Hinck. “You, Lord Dacre, are our connection to Sâr Trevn. What has he done with the Book of Arman?”
“Gave it over to Sâr Wilek, I believe,” Hinck said.
Rogedoth grunted. “And how is your friendship with the youngest sâr these days?”
“Not strong,” Hinck said. “Sâr Janek asked me to take the Duke of Canden’s place as his backman. I agreed and have spent little time with Sâr Trevn ever since.”
“Backman? You?” Rosârah Laviel pushed past Lady Mattenelle and approached Hinck.
Oh gods. She was going to kill him next.
She crouched before him, the fingers on her right hand bent like claws. One wor
d, “Puroh,” and tiny streams of fire shot out of each fingertip.
Hinck held her gaze in his, trying to pretend he wasn’t completely terrified.
Then, like an agitated fang cat, she scratched searing burn lines down Hinck’s face, neck, and chest, leaving five long smoldering slashes in his tunic.
Hinck howled, gasping at the sting, but blessedly Rogedoth spoke.
“Enough! I let you have Sir Jayron, but we must not kill this one. He has royal blood and a childhood connection to Sâr Trevn that might be useful to us now that Trevn is the Second Arm.”
“My son is the Second Arm!” Laviel screamed.
“We will avenge him, Laviel,” Rogedoth said. “Soon our fleet will be bigger than Sâr Wilek’s, and when we reach land before he does, he will have no choice but to bow to my will or sail on.” He waved at the guards. “Take them away.”
Two guards grabbed Hinck’s arms and lifted him to his feet. His legs moved by instinct as the guards pulled him through a dark maze of corridors. They eventually entered a royal cabin and pushed him onto a soft bed. He lay there, his face burning and his mind a tumble with the sudden panic that he might die here alone on this ship, away from all those he loved.
Out of the darkness Lady Mattenelle appeared at his bedside. “Lord Dacre, I’m so sorry.” She stroked his hair back from his face. “They’ve refused to let me heal you. Moon Fang—I mean, King Barthel—he says we all must bear the marks we take in war. But I have brought some ointment that will help.”
Hinck tried to make sense of her words as she set about her ministrations. She cut off his ruined shirt and rubbed the cool ointment over the burns on his chest, neck, and face. Exhausted from rowing all night and from the pain, he dozed off until the sound of yelling women woke him.
“What are you doing here, anyway? You don’t care about him.”
“Don’t start with me, Nellie. Like it or not, I’m queen here. Now leave us.”
“I will not. I take my orders from Lord Dacre now.”
“Get out or I’ll have my guards drag you out!”
“Stop yelling.” Hinck pushed up onto one elbow, wincing as the movement made his burns throb.
Standing with Lady Mattenelle at the foot of his bed was Lady Eudora. At first glance she hadn’t changed, and it disgusted Hinck that he still thought her the most beautiful woman that ever existed. A deeper look revealed lines circling her eyes, a creased brow, and a rawboned face.
“Lord Dacre,” Eudora said, softening. “I must speak with you in private. Tell your concubine to wait in the hall.”
His concubine? It was on the tip of his tongue to deny her insinuation, but one look at Lady Mattenelle’s steadfast posture changed his mind. “I have no secrets from Lady Mattenelle. Say what you must.”
Eudora’s lip curled as she skirted the bed. “You once swore you loved me,” she whispered, as if that might keep the concubine from overhearing. “If that was ever true, you must help me escape.”
Was she insane? “I have no intention of escaping.”
“Kamran thinks you are Sâr Wilek’s spy,” Eudora said. “If you are, my husband will find out and kill you.”
That Kamran had spoken against Hinck terrified him, but he could do nothing but continue to play his role. “I am sorry you wish to leave, lady, but I am here because Sâr Wilek ordered my death for taking part in a plot to kill Rosâr Echad. This is my only sanctuary.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but she fixed a cold smile on her face. “See there? You have passed my little test. My husband the king will be relieved to know that Kamran was mistaken about your loyalties.”
Hinck stared after her as she swept from the room, leaving him alone with Lady Mattenelle.
“I’ve brought you something to eat, lord.” Lady Mattenelle hurried to the sideboard and carried a tray back to his bed. The smell of roasted meat made his stomach ache.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked.
Those huge amber eyes, glossy with tears, fixed on his. “You saved me,” she said. “Kamran left me to hang.” She began to cry, pursed her lips, and choked it back. “I don’t care whether or not you are Sâr Wilek’s spy. If you’ll let me serve you, I will do all I can to help you survive.”
Hinck didn’t know what to say, so he gave her a small nod. Turned out he wasn’t alone after all.
Grayson
When Sir Kalenek had told Grayson to row toward the Malbraid, he had neglected to mention that Randmuir Khal of the Omatta was a pirate.
The night Grayson arrived, the sailors had hoisted his dinghy up the side of the ship and dragged him to the captain’s quarters where he’d met the grizzled man.
“What are you doing in a boat by yourself on a night like this?” Randmuir had asked. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to go out in a storm?”
“Yes, sir,” Grayson said, trying to be brave and speak like a man now that he had a man’s body. “I was a prisoner aboard the Vespara. It’s a ship Magonians stole from Sarikar. I had a chance to escape and took it. I’d like to join your crew and earn my keep.”
“Would you now? Well, there ain’t much to you but skin and bones,” Randmuir said, “but I like that you escaped from those Magonian crows. Meelo, you’ve got yourself a new man. Get him a hammock. Now everyone out! I need my second sleep if I’m to maintain my charming disposition.”
So Grayson had been passed to yet another master. Meelo turned out to be Randmuir’s son. He was a wiry man with no lips—only teeth that looked to be bared in a constant snarl, no matter what his mood, which was almost always cross. He thrashed men who were slow to obey, and one such beating was all it took for Grayson to know he never wanted a second. The sound of the man’s voice lit a fire under his feet that not even the Five Woes had done. In constant fear of Meelo’s fists, Grayson worked harder than he had in his life.
The red shadir had stayed with him through the meeting with Randmuir, then vanished and never returned. Grayson figured it had reported back to the Magonian Chieftess. He didn’t like that the woman knew what he was and where he was. If a chance came to leave this ship, he’d take it.
In the meantime he wondered daily over Sir Kalenek’s message from Onika. “Hold tight to your secret until you come to those twice your size.” Had Sir Kalenek gotten it wrong? Perhaps Onika had meant until Grayson had grown to twice his size. But . . . well . . . no man stood that tall.
Pirates made their living stealing from others, and Grayson had no choice but to join in. He learned some of sailing, which Randmuir’s crew did much better than the Magonians, but more time was spent learning to fight from Meelo’s second, a grisly man named Satu. The idea of learning to use a sword thrilled Grayson, but unfortunately, even though he was as tall as the other men, he was thin and couldn’t make his long arms and legs move as quickly as he wanted to. After losing far too many matches, he was paired against Danno, a scrawny boy of twelve, who looked the age Grayson felt. The two sparred pathetically and were never allowed to join any of the raids, since Satu said they were more hindrance than help.
Grayson didn’t mind that, and he and Danno formed a friendship. Days passed by and Grayson almost felt normal again. Randmuir attacked a ship every few days, always choosing smaller ships and always giving the crew the option to stay and sail the ship for him. Any who refused were set adrift in dinghies, tossed into the ocean to swim for it, or, if they put up a fight, killed. This had earned Randmuir a small fleet of about two dozen finships and fishing vessels. What he planned to do with his fleet, Grayson had yet to figure out.
One sunny midday when Grayson was on watch, the Malbraid came alongside a fancy ship bearing the name Amarnath. The ships were roped together peaceably, and the sailors lowered a gangplank between the two main decks. Curious, Grayson pushed into the Veil and went down to get a closer look.
Randmuir, Meelo, and six of their toughest men crossed over the gangplank to the Amarnath. Grayson followed, eager to find a better ship. If the ship wasn’t bet
ter, at least he could continue his work as a spy for Sir Kalenek and the king of Armania.
A man in a blue-and-green uniform greeted the new arrivals. “Welcome to the Amarnath, Master Randmuir. If you’ll follow me, I will lead you to the dining room, where a feast has been prepared in your honor.”
“A real feast or rations dressed to look like one, Timmons?” Randmuir asked. “Because I’ve been pillaging for two months now, and most ships don’t have any food left, let alone anything worthy of the word feast.”
“King Barthel never goes hungry,” Timmons said. “He is a king and sorcerer, and I would never presume to understand his powers.”
“Oh, of course not,” Randmuir said, rolling his eyes at Meelo.
Timmons led them to a dining room, where the table was set with fancy bowls brimming with food. A servant walked around the table, filling goblets with wine. Timmons seated the pirates and invited them to enjoy the wine and appetizers while he went to announce their arrival to the king.
Hungry as he was, Grayson couldn’t risk stealing food, so he followed Timmons, curious about this mysterious king.
Timmons didn’t go far before he knocked on a gilded door and pushed it open. “My pardon, Your Highnesses,” he said, remaining on the threshold. “The guests have arrived. He will be expecting you.”
Grayson slipped inside the room. A young woman in a fancy green dress stood before a full-length mirrorglass, three servants around her. One was lacing the back of her dress, another painting something on her face with a small brush, and the third kneeling and stitching the hem of her dress. The young woman was so beautiful, Grayson felt certain she must be a princess.
“Tell the king we are coming,” said a woman, not among those Grayson could see.
“Yes, Your Highness.” Timmons pulled the door closed.
Grayson shifted, looking for the person who had spoken. A chair came into view from behind the cluster of women. On it sat another woman, slightly older than the princess but dressed just as fine. A second princess, or perhaps a queen?
“I don’t want to go,” the young woman said. “I’m not hungry.”
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