Siren's Fury

by Mary Weber

  Without replying, the head wriggles and stretches and suddenly the body it’s attached to comes tumbling out, catching itself with its hands on the hole’s rim before sliding swiftly and neatly to the ground.

  It’s a boy.

  A very short one.

  I wrinkle my nose. And quite dirty by the smell of him. He’s wearing a suit that’s black and red like the Bron guards and soiled from soot and grease. Even though the clothes look about three sizes too big for his small frame, his dark skin and proud set of his shoulders suggest he’s used to wearing those colors.

  A Bron stowaway?

  “Are you her?”

  I cross my arms and stare.

  He narrows his gaze and pulls a knife from the back of his oversize pants. “I asked a question. Are you her?”

  “Depends on who you’re referring to.”

  “The Elemental. And don’t lie ’cuz I already know you’re her because of the—” He juts the blade toward my hair.

  Very observant. I sniff and glare at his knife. “Are you here to stab me then?”

  “Maybe.” He eyes me. “Maybe not.”

  “Well, if it’s all the same, I’d prefer not. All that blood. And what would your parents think? Or have they lost you?”

  “They did no such thing.” Fury flashes through his gaze and across his face. He lifts his chin. “I am responsible for myself.”

  I try not to smirk. Or acknowledge the fact that, despite my weary mood, I might like this small person. “Yes, I can see that.”

  I pick up the cup of water left by someone beside my bed during the night—probably a guard, hopefully a guard—and take off the lid to sip it as the ship shudders and rolls to the right. I take a seat on the cot and continue the bizarre stare-down with this boy who can be no older than eight. “Would you like a seat while you decide what it is you’ve spent the better quarter of an hour climbing through my air vent to do?”

  He scowls. “I know what I came to do.”

  “Right. Perhaps we can start with our names then before commencing with the knife poking. I’m Nym.”

  He shifts his feet but says nothing.

  I wait.

  A moment longer and he utters a sigh. “Kel. And I just wanted to get a look at you.”

  I take another sip of water. “Now you’ve seen me—”

  “Is it true?”

  “Pardon?”

  “That you could’ve done more damage to our army but you stopped?”

  I slowly replace the lid and set the cup down. “Who told you that?”

  “That’s my business.” He needles his blade toward me in a smooth gesture that says he actually knows how to use the thing. “Now answer the question. Are you more powerful than you showed everyone at the Keep?”

  Who in blazes is he and why does he care? I study him harder as he stands there holding his breath, waiting for my reply, because something about this boy seems familiar. Not in looks or size, but in spirit.

  It takes another moment for the awareness to dawn that, oh hulls, he reminds me of Colin.

  A simultaneous ache and warmth hits my chest, and I swear my heart nearly splits open over this boy whose expression is still puckered in arrogant demand.

  “Yes,” I mutter. “And yes, I could’ve.”

  “A lot more? Then why didn’t you?” His tone is insistent. Desperate.

  “Just because you have power doesn’t mean you have the right to harm others with it. I did what I had to for defense, not damage.”

  He nods and it’s so serious, so solemn-like, as if this is somehow the answer he was seeking, although I have no idea how that helps anything. “Are you coming to Bron to attack us?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why are you coming?”

  “To be a delegate.” I eye the blade still pointed at me. “How long have you been on this ship?”

  “Since the battle at the Keep.”

  “You’ve been on here for a week? Hiding in the air vents?”

  He pushes the toe of his soft boot into the carpet. “Only certain ones. And not all the time. There are a couple pantries and closets they don’t use often.”

  “How’d you get to the battle in the first place?”

  A shadow crosses his face. “That’s Bron’s business and not your concern.” Without warning, he sheathes his knife and deepens his scowl. “I have to go now. They’ll be flushing one of the cooling vents soon and I don’t want to get caught in it. But . . .” He glances to the door behind him, which groans as the airship shudders on a wind current. “I warn you not to tell anyone you’ve seen me. Or else.”

  I put my hands up and try not to grin. Got it.

  “They, uh . . . might not know I’m here.” He turns to jump up twice toward the vent, only to discover he isn’t tall enough to reach the hole’s edge with his fingers. He lunges for it a third time while I watch, arms folded across my chest, impressed at his incredible prowess that is, unfortunately, unmatched by his height.

  He growls and I bite back a chuckle.

  I’m just debating whether to offer to hoist him when he apparently realizes that if he climbs onto the bed beside me and uses the extra two feet of height it gives, he can easily touch the opening. Before he leans forward to pull himself up, he flips back around to me. I straighten to look as solemn as him.

  “I’m not finished with you, Elemental. I’ll return when you least expect it.”

  “I sincerely hope you do.”

  And I mean it.

  Then he’s climbing back through from where he came, and I wait until he’s disappeared to stand on the bed and put the small metal square back in its place.

  And smile in total confusion.

  CHAPTER 9

  Open your eyes, Nym.”

  I do and Eogan’s face is the first thing I see. My heart lunges and soars all in one inhale—we’re back in the Valley of Origin. I can taste the magic misting the air.

  Tiny jeweled water droplets cling to his dark lashes. The drips shiver as he smiles before they release to join the millions of others floating around us in rainbow-lit colors. His brilliant green eyes smolder down at me, his heartpulse alive against my hand, sending my stimulated lungs clamoring for my throat.

  I swallow and the storm in his gaze crackles in amusement. “You have no idea how extraordinary you are.”

  Suddenly I can feel the hunger pouring off of him as thick as it’s leaching from me.

  My jaw drops. The clouds in the distance roar and the floating droplets ascend to create new clouds of their own as a gale picks up, whipping my hair back.

  Eogan raises a brow, and that thing in his eyes blazes. As if the same lightning storm above us is now poised at the edge of his heart, determining whether or not it will engage. I hear his breath shudder as my mind forms a definition for the look in his eyes: Craving. Conflict. Apology. The pulse in his neck quickens as his gaze slides down to my lips. He pushes a hand along the side of my throat and into my hair, then runs a thumb down my jawline as he tilts his face to hover an inch from mine. His finger stops beneath my trembling lower lip.

  My world pauses.

  His eyes flicker up. An agonized smile, and suddenly he’s clearing his throat. But his voice is still husky when he says, “Look up.”

  “Nym. Look up.”

  I open my eyes.

  “Nym. Nym.”

  I blink.

  And wake up, only to have my heart wrench through my rib cage as Eogan’s face evaporates along with the memory of our afternoon spent in the Valley of Origin.

  They’re replaced by Rasha invading my vision. “Finally!” She’s bending over me with an expression of relief and pushing open the small rain-speckled window.

  Two seconds later the whole room rolls to the left and she loses her balance and tilts into me before the ship rights itself. The loud, incessant droning sound grows even noisier—like a swarm of bees that invaded an oliphant nest.

  “Sorry.” She shoves herself
off. “The ship flies rougher than I expected. Seems they still have some problems to work out.”

  I sit up and look back to the window, and then I turn over to press my face through the open pane to the day-lit endless mass of glittering gray.

  The familiar saltwater taste pricks my tongue and skin with that Elemental ache the sea invokes. That melodic whisper that strums like the notes of a death toll and solstice waltz all in one. But before I can grasp onto the sound, it’s gone, and I can’t recall the sensation.

  I push the covers down and peek up at the metal square in the wall, half expecting to see the boy’s face from last night. But the bars look as unmoved as before. Where did he disappear to? And why did he stow away in the first place?

  Suspicion says he couldn’t pass up the opportunity for an adventure or a chance to get a look at his, until recently, enemies. I smile. Good for him.

  Glancing at Rasha, who’s busy smoothing down her hair, I stand and promptly cringe at the flaring soreness in my legs. “What time is it?”

  “Afternoon. Didn’t you hear the men bring your meal this morn—?”

  Her gaze lands on my arm. On the makeshift bandage covering it.

  “Oh Nym,” is all she says.

  I force down the guilt that flares just as a knock sounds down the hall. We both jump, and I scramble to cover my arms before a Bron guard appears in the doorway.

  “The dining area is now open if you ladies desire to join the other delegates there.” He scowls at me.

  “About time,” Rasha says. “A day and a half’s a bit dreadful to coop us up in these rooms, handsome. That is”—she sniffs and her voice goes airy—“if one can call these closets a room. We’ve been locked in these quarters since we took off—very inconvenient. I mean, look at me!” She swags a hand down her brown silk dress. “All but two outfits are in the storage bay! I made Lord Myles put a bag there for you as well,” she says to me. “You’re welcome.”

  The guard’s eyebrow twitches. “Keeping everyone in their quarters was necessary for safety. The size and increased speed of the airship combined with the storm require we have as few individuals as possible in the main areas.”

  And what about in the ventilation pipes? I’m tempted to ask.

  “And my men? I’ve not seen them since boarding.”

  “As I assured you earlier, they are being attended to with the utmost care.”

  “Of course they are.” Rasha pats his cheek. “You’ve too friendly a face to treat them otherwise. Right, Nym? But I’d still like to see them.”

  This time his lips twitch, as if he’s trying not to be flattered. “My apologies, but that’s not possible at this time. They’re rooming on the ship’s lower level.”

  He steps out of my room and she follows. “So you’re saying you have no access to the lower levels?”

  “The weather and speed combination require us to maintain balance in each section. It would be unwise to allow any of the delegates into other sections while we’re out over the sea.”

  I follow them into the narrow passage and bump into the two Faelen soldiers I saw the other night when Myles took my knives. “You and Myles got to keep your bodyguards. Well, at least two of them,” Rasha says.

  She sniffs. “Although I suggested he assign you an entire brigade.”

  The two men nod at me. In the light, one looks strikingly like Tannin, so much so that he could be his brother. Did they hear the boy and I talking last night? If so, they don’t hint at it.

  “Thank you for being here,” I tell them before shadowing Rasha to where the Bron soldier is knocking on what I presume is Lord Myles’s door. He’s met by a loud groan of, “Go away,” from within.

  “He’s been in there for hours. Apparently, airsickness.” Rasha grins as the guard turns back to lead us down the short hall and out a metal door into a good-size dining area made up of stark metal walls, thin red carpet, and lanterns hanging from the ceiling. All focused around a long, thin, metal table at which the three Faelen delegates are seated. My stomach coils. I glance around but Eogan’s not here.

  “By the way,” Rasha whispers in my ear, “Myles informed the other delegates that you’re here at his request and King Sedric’s permission. However, one of them’s not, uh . . . too thrilled.”

  Glancing up, I catch the polite curiosity displayed on the faces of Lord Percival and Lady Gwen. Both of whom I recognize from attending Adora’s parties. The third, Lord Wellimton, is openly ignoring me.

  “Impressive, yes?” Lord Percival says to Princess Rasha, his eyes wide on mine. “A dining room that actually flies.”

  I turn in a full circle to take it all in as they stand to greet Princess Rasha. The airship must be the size of a glorified common house. On one side, two windows give a heart-gasping view of the sea, and there’s even an outside deck. Clearly this is a royal airship rather than the battle ones we so recently sent running. Not exactly luxurious, but definitely impeccable in its simplicity—formidable even.

  I look at the Bron guard and don’t have to wonder how he feels about that. About losing the battle. And us.

  “Where’s Eogan?” I ask.

  “King Eogan regrets he will not be joining the group at this time.” The guard stiffly indicates the table laid out with mainly fruit and a type of gummy substance.

  “It tastes like bread and keeps you chewing until it dissolves,” Rasha whispers as the guard moves to stand with my two Faelen soldiers against one of the walls, which is reflecting a sliver of afternoon sun coming through the windows.

  I nod at her and then stride over and peer through the thick panes at the stormy sea and gray sky pierced with yellow rays. The expanse of ocean is endless, and we’re above it, soaring beneath the interspersed cloud covering. This must be how it feels to break free from the dust and flit away to inhale the sky. Like the bluebird carved into my arm.

  The impact of that thought nearly pulls the breath from my lungs.

  Abruptly, the cut in my arm warms along with my insides as the emptiness in my veins remembers it can no longer feed off the sky’s static.

  I join Rasha and the others before the sensation collapses me.

  “And what of Lord Myles?” Lady Gwen asks Rasha.

  “He’s currently admiring the inside of the water closet.”

  Lord Percival nods. “Ah, seasick. Or airsick I suppose it’s called.”

  “Have you enjoyed your time so far?” Lady Gwen reaches for a larkfruit, which as I recall from Adora’s High Court parties is one of her favorite foods. An odd thing to remember except she’s one of the few women on the High Council and, like Adora, comes from a long line of politicians. Although, unlike Adora, I’m not convinced she’s ever wanted the job.

  “Not particularly,” Rasha says. “You?”

  The three delegates’ faces widen with surprise. Lord Percival chuckles awkwardly. As if he’s hoping Rasha’s joking.

  When it’s obvious she’s not, Lord Wellimton clears his throat. “As guests on this ship, I’ve found the time alone to be quite restful.”

  “Well, I don’t consider forced confinement restful,” Rasha says airily. “Nor, I doubt, do my men. If anything, I find it distrustful.”

  “I’m sure you’d agree the confinement has been for our safety.”

  Without peeking up from the tea I’m pouring, I can feel Wellimton’s gaze and tone indicating me. As one of King Sedric’s top officials, he’s the oldest bachelor on the War Council, and he has unfortunately chosen to wear that claim as a badge of honor as well as an excuse for his notorious irritability.

  This is a waste. Where in blazes is Eogan? “I’m not the one you should be worried about,” I say, handing the tea to Rasha. When she frowns, I quickly add, “Does anyone know when we will be graced by Eogan?”

  “As I mentioned, he sends his regrets,” the Bron guard growls from his spot along the wall.

  “Oh, I’m certain this flight hasn’t been all that dangerous, or Nym would’ve used her a
bilities to soften the storm for us. Right, miss?” Lord Percival dabs his mouth with a napkin and doesn’t wait before turning to Rasha. “Princess, are you finding your negotiations with the new king thus far are up to Cashlin’s satisfaction?”

  “I’ve not had a chance to meet with King Eogan yet. Hence part of why Cashlin is sending me to Bron.”

  A pleased look passes over the delegates, as if they’re relieved to still have the advantage of already starting the negotiation process back in Faelen.

  I look at Rasha and consider telling them the truth—that their political insecurity is meaningless in light of what they’re walking into. That there will be no negotiations in Bron because the king is not the king. And that I couldn’t control a raindrop if I tried.

  Rasha continues eating. I glance away and sip my sea-dragon-colored tea and chew on a giant piece of bread goo, leaving them to their momentary ignorance.

  “Is your queen mother planning to send more delegates?” Wellimton asks. “Or has she sanctioned you to decide what’s best for Cashlin without her royal advisement?”

  “Oh, I’m quite sanctioned,” Rasha says cheerily.

  “Not that she’d have any reason to doubt your political talents, of course, Your Highness. But considering the delicacy of the matter, I couldn’t help but feel concerned for you when I observe Faelen has seen this venture important enough to send four delegates while Cashlin is only sending one.”

  I pause midswallow and almost laugh. What a bolcrane.

  “You’re correct she has every confidence in my talents, m’lord. And as I’m certain you’re aware, I was the only Cashlin delegate available in Faelen at the time of our departure.” Her smile stays just as wide, but I swear there’s a falter in her tone. She grabs a plateful of the bread stuff and shoves a piece in her mouth.

  I snap a look up at him. “What about you? Are you fully sanctioned?”

  Wellimton frowns. “Of course we carry the full weight of King Sedric’s authority.”

  “To do what?”

  “To handle anything that may occur.”

  I clear my throat. “I bet. And what will you do if, say, when we arrive the situation’s not as you’ve prepared for?”