The Rage of Princes: A Portal Fantasy Adventure (The Chronicles of Otherwhere Book 2)

by Cassia Meare

  Lamia could not see a palm in front of her nose and was too scared to retire to a cabin without knowing what was happening. The crew was more terrified than she was, but their choice had been to take the princesses to Deep Realm or be torn apart by the Tuaa’s magic where they stood.

  They had a small chance of making it to the Realm, which was better than instant, painful death.

  Huddling in her cloak, the hood down to her forehead, Lamia reflected she hated the mist now. Mist, mist, mist! It was pretty in the morning or evening from the windows of Crystal Hold, but after weeks in Mistkeep it had become tiresome. She didn’t like the smell of it in her hair. And now, more mist, wind and salt water.

  And utter darkness.

  Would Nemours forgive her? He might kill Ahn for some things, but most likely he would just bind her, at least for a while. Maybe forever.

  Would he do that to Lamia? But she had warned them about Lotho, that must count for something. And Delian would want her back. And one knew that deep down Nemours was merciful. Unless you got as horrible as Virso or Ydin and tried to kill everyone.

  Which might just be what Ahn had done to mortals. Werewolves and guards — that had been far too dirty, especially if you weren’t sure to win.

  Lamia could at least see her sister, who in her own cloak and hood offered a grim profile as she stood behind Hesir. If some monster came, let the Tuaa deal with it. That must be Ahn’s thinking. Otherwise, let her guide the boat to shore.

  At least until she got to Deep Realm, Ahn would keep skirting magic and letting others use it in her stead. The Realm would either be the one place where magic was most utterly forbidden, in which case Hesir might have her heart torn out — or the place where it flourished, in which case Ahn …

  What would Ahn become?

  "Crap, crap, crap," Lamia muttered.

  Only a while ago there was nothing better to do than have parties, make love and drink ambrosine. A little gossip, here and there. Shopping. Little trips to the Shadow World. When had everything become this morbid and tragic? Or this ominous?

  Little Ty gone forever, Sefira not back yet, a war between brothers and sisters, the apocalypse coming.

  How had all that happened? How had she ended up on some ship, going to the scariest rock in the world in exile?

  She had half a mind to just disappear with Crossing, get to Highmere, and throw herself on Nemours’ mercy. Delian would help her.

  But Nemours would absolutely bind her as punishment; he was so vindictive and self-righteous when he wanted to be. What was Binding like? What if she were aware the whole time, and her body frozen for ages?

  Her inner monologue was interrupted by a large swell in the waters. She let out a shriek as she was thrown back and hit a mast. There was a murmur, the project of a cry, from the sailors. They were so frightened they couldn’t even scream.

  Not even when a form surfaced from the sea, and kept rising, rising. It was as if they were a tiny toy boat in a giant’s bath and he had just moved, creating an enormous wave as he stared down at them.

  Hesir stayed in the same spot as if she were glued to it or made of the same wood as the ship — whereas Ahn stepped forward, unafraid.

  The form was made up of water and mist. It changed and churned, even while keeping eyes and a mouth, and something like arms and hands.

  "Princess of the Night," it said in a cavernous voice. "And the Serpent Princess."

  Oh, shit. Lamia held on to the mast, trying to seem invisible. She suspected an utra tala wouldn’t do much here.

  "And you carry the heart of Ydin, Prince of Burning Twilight. And the heart of Sefira, the Sword Princess." The giant laughed. "What an honor. Four of Aya’s children."

  "We are on our way to Mother," Ahn said in a firm voice. "And as you say, we are her children. Let us pass."

  A strange little chuckle emerged from the monster. "Oh, I will. But you know there is a fee."

  Yes, throw the Tuaa in! Lamia thought.

  "You can’t go into the Realm by avoiding things, Princess," the creature told Ahn. His eyes widened until they were like pools whirling in the darkness. "Give me what you love."

  She doesn’t love the Tuaa. Lamia shrank in her cloak: Don’t look at me!

  Ahn started shaking her head. "There must be another way. Mother wouldn’t want me to—"

  "I’m not Mother." Something like a smile formed on the giant's face. "Am I?"

  "Let us through," Ahn begged. "I shall reward you. Let us through to Aya, and I shall pay the price there."

  Another movement from the creature sent the ship rocking left and right into a wave as high as a hill. This time the sailors did scream. Some of them were washed over the side, and Lamia only avoided the same fate by hanging on to a rope.

  That’s it. Nemours will be better than this!

  Lamia closed her eyes and invoked Crossing — but there was nary a warm feeling on her upper arm, and she was still hanging on to a rope while a ship swirled like a bug being sucked by a drain.

  She also screamed, while the Tuaa remained calm (how did she manage?) and Ahn crouched on the side, howling against water and wind. She was crying too; positively weeping in agony.

  "Let’s turn back!" Lamia shouted into the noise.

  Ahn did not hear her. The wave fell still, and the ship righted itself. Clutching the banister, Ahn rose to her feet.

  "No, Ahn," Lamia screamed.

  For her sister was holding a glass case; it held a heart, red and still beating.

  "No, no, Ahn!"

  Lamia began to run, but she found that no matter the effort she made, she remained in the same place. It was that Tuaa. The bitch wanted Ahn to do this!

  "What have you for me?" the monster in the sea asked. "Is it what you love?"

  "Give him Ydin," Lamia shrieked.

  Ahn now stood on the highest point of the prow, holding the heart aloft as a gift. As a sacrifice.

  "It is the Princess Sefira," Ahn said.

  As Ahn threw the heart into the sea, Lamia’s scream was long. A long no. But nobody listened.

  43

  Elinor liked to sit by Sibulla, and Nemours believed Sibulla liked it too.

  Sibulla had stopped drawing circles in the air; instead, she listened when Elinor read to her, or recited poetry by heart, or sang. Kent liked the princess’ lap, and Sibulla caressed him as she listened, her golden forehead moving, and smiled. The golden bird had even flown to Elinor's shoulder and perched there, resting his head on her head.

  But there was something Nemours had to tell Elinor, and he was glad to find her alone in the Hall of Waters that afternoon.

  It was one of the most beautiful rooms in High Hall, if not the most beautiful. Built next to a natural pool below, it was cunningly fitted with mirrors and glass surfaces that reflected the water outside. As the day changed, so did the Hall of Waters, becoming different colors at different times.

  Now it was silver and gold, like the late sun. The waves and ripples of water moved on walls and on the floor as he crossed it toward her, and the light made her eyes more lovely.

  "If you really look, you can see it," she said, nodding at the sky.

  The cracks.

  "Yes," he said, sitting by her. "We need to think of that again."

  "We have the clue, and now we will have time to ponder on it. When shall we go to Earth? Or should I go with Delian ahead of you?"

  When he said nothing, she turned to him — and waited.

  "Elinor, I must beg your forgiveness once more."

  "Why?"

  "Because I did decide for you. When I took you from your home."

  "Is this about the Stockholm Syndrome again?" she asked. Her expression became grave. "You should not think me a fool who cannot tell a thing from another."

  "I think you anything but a fool," he said. "But when poor Lord Tayne was dying, he said no father should outlive his child. And because of me, perhaps your father thought he did."

  She looked
down and smoothed the cover of the book. He knew she would not vex him by showing the tears in her eyes. The tears almost always came when she spoke or thought of her father or her nurse. And what hurt her hurt him.

  "I was arrogant," he explained. "I made too quick a decision, as I do at times. I thought I saw a father who would have married his daughter to any man, as long as he could have an heir. I thought I saw a daughter who was bright and strong and full of dreams, and who should not be wasted. But it was not that simple, was it?"

  "No," she whispered. "My father became impatient with me once the war ended and I turned into a woman. Now I believe it was because he loved me and feared for me. Although I read later that His Grace Henry Tudor did create great tranquility, and no more wars till much later, we did not feel safe at the time. No family like mine did."

  "I’m old enough to know there are different ways to look at things," he said. "But we didn’t have very good parents, as you’ve seen, so I thought yours was selfish and didn’t deserve you."

  "If you had arrived further in the past and seen us when I was a child, and he was not at war—we were never apart." Her face shone as she remembered. "He called me Lily, like the flower. It was what he always called me, until—" She shrugged. "He would sit me on his knee and tell me stories, or take me riding and show me the lands, the fields, the animals. He would pretend that I could hide from him and spend such a while looking for me behind curtains. He would sit by my side until I fell asleep because I was frightened."

  Nemours scoffed. "You, frightened?"

  "Yes. Of a great many things. Well, ghosts, mostly." She smiled. "Father taught me to be brave. He said we must pretend not to be afraid ninety-nine times, and on the hundredth we will find courage. Delian says it’s called ‘fake it till you make it’."

  Swaying a little on the bench, she dreamed as she thought of her life. He took her hand and caressed her fingers with his. "I was too hasty. I saw something in you, and I didn’t want it to go to waste."

  "You saw all of me very quickly, my lord," she reminded him with a naughty sparkle in her eye.

  He laughed, thinking back to that day, when she had been so frail and wan yet still beautiful. Then he fell serious again.

  "I want you to understand that you have already done great deeds. So great I can hardly believe them, and I’ve seen a lot in my life."

  "Why do you alarm me? Are they over?"

  "Because you must be free to decide whether you will stay or return to your father."

  She winced and turned her arm, finding the heka he had just given her burning for a second in her upper arm. The three arrows, pointing up. "Time …"

  "I know you are not meant to have new hekas, but that you negotiated with Sigrit to use this one twice."

  "Once to go home, and once to regret it."

  He nodded. "And I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you before. I fully meant to, on the day of the northern lights."

  "The day I bound you, you mean." She had lowered her eyes, and now she raised them. Her eyes of honey. "Do you want me to go, then?"

  "I won’t speak of how much I don’t want that." He smiled. "Delian might come and have a fit if he hears any of this."

  "But you would let me go and have no fits?"

  "Perhaps a secret fit," he said after a moment. "But most of all, I want you not to suffer. Not to regret anything. We have not yet exchanged vows, but if we do, it will be a serious thing. For me, it will."

  "And it will be my troth," she said, her expression firm. "And I would not give it lightly."

  "You will have to become an immortal, Elinor. I want no more losses." He controlled his emotion before adding, "Sometimes, to die seems like a joy to us. We know there will be no end to the memory of our griefs."

  "But griefs grow more tolerable when they are shared," she said eagerly. "At least, they are not as heavy. At home, who shall share the grief of losing Ty with me? Of losing Delian? Of losing you?"

  "I could make you forget."

  She snatched her hands from his. "Forget you?"

  "You would keep your health and—"

  "Nemours!" she cried. "Never. No, never. It would be Abuse. I should not even want the pain of losing Ty to be taken away if it means to forget him."

  "Still. A father should not outlive his child. He should not think that he did. I have caused his suffering, and yours. You must consider things, Elinor. You must try to imagine what it is to live forever. You must speak to good Tuii and Tuaa who bear that burden."

  He stood, and could not manage a smile. "I have come to know your generosity — I’ve hardly known anything greater. But please think, and choose only for yourself now."

  As he moved away, he did not plan to look back, afraid of the choice he might see on her face. She had understood what he was asking. She had understood that this was no common proposal; it was one that truly involved eternity. She would be able to imagine what it meant.

  "Nemours," she called.

  He stopped, and slowly turned. Her face was radiant with light, and she was smiling.

  "I wouldn’t have missed a second of it."

  Smiling back, he nodded — and left her to her decision.

  44

  Nemours could not sleep that night.

  The longer he waited to hear what Elinor had decided, the more he believed she might make the choice he would hate.

  He had lived for so long without knowing that a woman called Elinor Woodbrooke existed near Canterbury, England. Why would it feel like hell now if she left?

  One got over anything. At least if your body parts tended to grow back, no one saw the pieces hacked out of you by sorrow.

  His hand went to his side in a reflex. It hadn’t been there, once. Every second for it to grow back had been agony. But being betrayed by your brother, your father — having your mother stand wringing her hands while her children hid in fear of their lives … That piece of him would never grow back, not inside. Losing Ty, that part would never grow back. If something happened to Sefira, nothing would close that wound, a wound of his own making.

  But a human woman he had found in 1496 and known only for a few months: Why should that create such a damned black hole through him?

  He didn’t know, but when he heard a continuous scratching sound outside, he lay listening for a while and smiling, and then leapt out of bed.

  She was in the antechamber at a writing table. Her hair was gathered up and held in place by a stick, and her neck looked slim, like the stalk of a yellow flower. Her thin golden chain shone in the light of the brazier as she worked, writing and dipping the pen in ink with a tinkle of glass.

  Elinor knew he was there, and still he approached slowly — as if she might take off running at any sign of his presence. But no, she only kept writing and dipping her quill.

  The Moste Excellente Historie of the Worlde, he read when he reached her. As tolde to the Lady Elinor of Woodbrooke.

  Her handwriting was careful and elegant, and she had already drawn, on the upper right side of the large page, the figure of a man with one arm and a sword, facing a bigger man. And below, to the left, she had drawn Nemours’ emblem, the panther rampant with forked tongue and tail.

  The rest of the page was divided into lines with a pencil, so she could write a straight tale. She was working on the first letter, an "O" that was a serpent biting its tail.

  "Is that ‘O’ for Otherwhere?" he asked, leaning his elbows on the slanted table.

  She kept working. "’O’ for ‘Once’," she said.

  "Starts like a fairytale?"

  "A true one."

  He watched her profile, delineated by the fire beyond. He watched her lashes, and the way she bit her lip as she kept drawing.

  His eyes fell on the figure with the sword again. "I’m not a hero," he said. "Don’t turn me into one."

  She lifted her chin and dipped the quill in black ink. "I’m afraid that in this princes must bow to historians."

  "All right. But I think yo
u should at least update that coat of arms."

  She drew back and looked at it. "Why? It is your sigil, last I looked."

  "There has been an important change," he said, gently taking the quill from her hand.

  Switching to her right side, he drew a lily coming out of the panther’s raised paw.

  "The lily is the flower of kings," he said. "And I would not be a king without you."

  She had blushed; she was moved, and as usual would try not to show it.

  "You only just discovered I was called Lily," she observed.

  "It will stay secret. Or you might want to start calling me Nemmy."

  Her lips twisted in amusement, but she pointed out, "And you haven’t been crowned yet."

  "Ah, medieval girls. How you stand upon ceremony." He looked more closely at her. "Do I have your answer?"

  She reached toward a platter, taking a large red fruit from it. Digging her finger inside, she opened it. It was red and full of seeds.

  "You give it another name," she said, "but it is like a pomegranate."

  He nodded. "Fairly like it."

  "And in that Stockholm Syndrome story where Hades kidnapped Persephone, she was allowed back on earth."

  Raising the fruit, she raked her teeth over the seeds and swallowed them.

  "But by then he had tricked her, and made her eat of the pomegranate," she continued, "knowing well that whoever ate in the underworld must return."

  For a moment, he only watched her, then remarked, "I didn't trick you."

  "No. You asked me. And I willingly agree to return."

  He took the fruit from her, putting his lips where hers had been and drawing on the juice. "I like metaphors," he said. "Especially when they are sweet. But does it mean—"

  "It means I shall not go home yet. And when we have saved the worlds, I shall give you my answer."

  "Playing hard to get," he said.

  She smiled, and her smile grew as he dropped the fruit and lifted her in his arms.