My world was very sheltered when I was a child, but never so much as Harristan’s. As the often ill heir to the throne, he was coddled and protected, with nurses and physicians never far off. Fires were kept roaring if he was in the room, and he was always given the most reliable horses, the least drafty carriages, the most genial tutors and instructors. As the second-born son—as the healthy son—I wasn’t guarded so closely. I could ride along for hunts through the densely wooded parts of Kandala, galloping behind other nobles on mounts that were far too spirited for royalty. Riding in a carriage? I never bothered. Schooling? Tutors could rap my knuckles. In the training arena, I could spar with anyone I liked, because no weapons master ever had to worry about leaving a bruise.
But I was still protected. Surrounded by guards and
advisers who kept my leash very short, even though sometimes I wasn’t aware of it.
Harristan knew, though. He was the one who first taught me to sneak out of the palace and lose myself in the Wilds. That’s part of why it was so hard to keep my nightly adventures with Tessa a secret.
I’m often surprised he never guessed. He was always more savvy than our parents realized.
He’s savvy now, too. I thought he’d want to go immediately to the throne room to greet our new visitors, but he told Quint to make this “emissary” comfortable, and then invited me to his private quarters.
“Do you think it could be true?” I say to him.
He drops into a chair by the table, then looks at the window. “If it’s true, he was sent by Father.”
“Six years ago, you were seventeen. Do you remember any mention of ships making it to Ostriary?”
I expect him to give me a withering glance, followed by a long-suffering sigh. I know how old I was, Cory. But he’s silent, considering for a while, a line between his eyebrows as he studies the sunlight. He’s unsettled.
“No,” he finally says. “Father didn’t bring me in on all
affairs of state.”
But he was brought in on most of them. I remember. I didn’t start joining them until I was fourteen, and by then, I was desperate to know what kinds of fascinating work was done at those meetings. I quickly learned that they were interminably boring.
Well, until a year later, when assassins burst into the room and our parents were slaughtered right in front of us. “Allisander remembers that emissaries were discussed,
but he doesn’t know of anyone being sent to Ostriary,” Harristan says. “But his father was consul then. I’ve sent word to the others, to see if any of them remember Father arranging for such a thing.”
“I’ve heard nothing about this since you took the throne,” I say. “Some of the consuls have changed, but a missing diplomat seems like something that should have come up once or twice.”
“I agree.” Harristan thinks about this for a while. “And I have no idea who he could have sent. Most shipbuilders consider the Flaming River to be near uncrossable. I don’t know that we have many sailors who’d be willing to chance it without a chest full of silver to make it worth their while.”
That’s true enough. Weeks ago, Tessa asked me directly if Ostriary could be a new resource for the Moonflower. I remember the hope in her eyes, how it cost me something to dash it away. In the Wilds, I was able to be a hero. As Prince Corrick, my hands are often tied by a dozen different knots.
I told her it would be costly—and difficult—to arrange a way for anyone to make the journey to Ostriary. Crossing the river has been done, but it’s rare. The northern half has deep rapids and ice floes. The southern half has unexpected rocks beneath the water that have torn so many ships in half that there’s a drinking song about how the Flaming River turns longing lovers into widows.
“The emissary docked at Artis,” I say. “He didn’t come across the Flaming River. He would have had to travel the Queen’s River.”
“Then you believe he came from Ostriary by way of the ocean? That’s even harder to believe. And if so, why sail into Artis at all? There are ports in Sunkeep and Trader’s Landing. From Ostriary, he’d have to sail halfway around Kandala and up the Queen’s River to reach Artis.”
All true. I think for a while. “Artis holds the closest port to the Royal Sector. Quint said he sailed right into the port and announced himself. That’s a rather bold entrance for nefarious purposes.”
“I’ve sent guards to retrieve the logs from his ship,” Harristan says. “And his flag. It should be aged if it’s been
so long. There should be proof that he came from Kandala originally.”
He inhales to say more, but instead, he coughs into his elbow, then frowns.
“You’re still coughing,” I say. “I noticed during the meeting.”
“I’m fine.”
I rise from my chair. “I’ll fetch Tessa. She’ll talk some sense into you.”
“I’ll send her right back out. We have more pressing matters.” He coughs again, but lightly, then glares at me when I don’t sit back down. “Truly, Corrick. This emissary couldn’t have come at a worse time. After the way Allisander conducted himself with the rebels, Lochlan will be returning to the Wilds with stories of how we’re planning to use the poor to test wild theories.”
“I don’t think Lochlan will say anything of the sort,” I say.
My brother looks up. “You don’t?”
“No. I think it’ll be worse.” I cross my arms and lean back against the table. “He’ll tell everyone that we don’t care about their plight, that their efforts were wasted, that we have no plans for real change, only deceit and trickery.”
Harristan looks exasperated. “Oh, is that all?”
“Of course not. He’s probably calling for revolution already.”
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “We’ll be back where we started.”
I should disagree—but I can’t. He’s right.
Tessa has been so hopeful, but nothing about this situation is simple or easy. If it were, we would have solved it long ago. She once implied that my brother could snap his fingers and turn his desires into laws. I wish he could. I
wish I could. I don’t want life in the palace to burn out her hope just like it’s done to so many others.
Harristan’s expression is grave. I’m sure my own isn’t much better.
“Shall we go find out what news this emissary brings?” I say. “Perhaps he has a ship full of Moonflower petals and we can toss Allisander from the palace roof.”
I’m joking, but he doesn’t laugh. He makes no move to rise either. His gaze falls on the window again.
Anyone else might think he was stalling on purpose. I know better. He’s the king, and the world has a way of turning at his whim, but Harristan never uses his station as a means of manipulation. As the silence stretches on, I wonder if there’s more to my brother’s decision to come here, instead of immediately addressing our visitors.
“Do you not want to meet with this emissary?” I say quietly.
“I don’t trust this,” he says. “Why?”
He shakes his head faintly. “It’s too much time. Too … unexpected. Why now?” He pauses. “We were attacked once already. Father and Mother were caught unaware, too.”
I say nothing. I remember.
A guard raps at the door, and Harristan calls, “Enter.”
The door swings wide, and the guardsman there says, “Master Quint requests an audience, Your Majesty.”
“Send him in, Thorin.”
Harristan’s tone is mellow, which shouldn’t take me by surprise, but somehow it does. Quint has been a close friend of mine for years, so my brother has always grudgingly tolerated him for my sake, but they’ve never been friends. I’ve been present on more than one occasion when Harristan has told Quint in no uncertain terms to go
away. Quint sometimes comes across as a bit scattered and melodramatic, and many people in the palace find him to be a bit … much.
I can count on one hand the number of times that my brother has said, “Send him in,” without at least demanding to know what the Palace Master could want now.
This ship from Ostriary really does have him unsettled.
Quint strides into the room. If he’s surprised, it doesn’t show. “Captain Rian Blakemore has been shown to the White Room along with his first officer.” He flips open the little book of notes that he always carries with him. “A Lieutenant Gwyn Tagas.”
Captain Rian Blakemore. It’s not a family name I know, and I know everyone of consequence in the Royal Sector. I glance at Harristan to see if the name sounds familiar.
He meets my eyes and shakes his head. To Quint, he says, “Have the guards returned with his ship’s logs?”
“No, Your Majesty.” Quint snaps his book closed. “Captain Blakemore indicates that he has a small crew as well, all of whom remained with the ship. I’ve asked the guards to confirm.”
“Does he seem forthright?” I say.
“He does, in fact. His initial claims have not changed: he went to Ostriary six years ago as part of a contingent to determine whether relations with the Ostrian court would be a possibility. He is now returning with news of his journey.”
“What news?” says Harristan.
Quint clears his throat. “He says he’s been instructed to meet with the king alone.”
“Absolutely not,” I say.
“The guards searched him and found no weapons. He’s made no demands. He’s been patient and well mannered.
Quite cordial, really.”
“Consul Barnard never raised his voice,” Harristan says, “and he conspired to have our parents killed.”
“I’ll meet with him first,” I say. “What news could take six years to deliver?”
“Surely my father didn’t expect this journey to take so long,” adds Harristan. “What explanation did he offer?”
“Well, King Lucas didn’t specifically send Captain Blakemore,” says Quint. “He was only a part of the team. Due to instability in the royal court of Ostriary, it has apparently taken him some time to be able to make the return journey.”
I exchange a glance with Harristan again. “What does
that mean?”
“It means he was a young man when he left Kandala.
The diplomat King Lucas sent away was his father.”
 |
Despite what Quint said, I expect to find someone older. Between the words young man and the fact that he’s a captain of a sailing vessel, I presumed I’d be meeting someone close to thirty years of age. But when I stride into the White Room, I discover that Captain Blakemore isn’t much older than I am. He’s definitely no older than Harristan. He’s got thick black hair and light eyes that are more gray than blue. His jaw is sharp and clean-shaven, his skin the deep tan of men who spend their days in the sun. If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume the woman waiting with him was the captain. Lieutenant Gwyn Tagas is easily past the age of forty, with weathered skin the color of driftwood, and short, dark hair that’s shot through with gray.
They both rise to their feet when I come into the room with Quint, and their eyes take in the six guards that follow us to stand along the wall. I watch to see if the captain or his first officer are startled or alarmed, but they’re either not, or they’re very good at hiding it. They’re both dressed as if they came straight off the water, in heavy canvas trousers and broadcloth tunics, though the captain has a loosely buttoned jacket. Nothing about them speaks of wealth—or diplomatic status, for that matter. Then again, they’re standing in the nicest room on the top floor of the palace, and neither of them is wide-eyed about the opulence surrounding us. During our failed meeting, Lochlan and Karri looked like they were going to pass out over the presentation of the food.
“Captain Blakemore,” says Quint. “May I present the
King’s Justice, Prince Corrick.”
If he’s disappointed to be getting me instead of my brother, it doesn’t show. He puts a hand to his waist and bows like he’s been in the presence of royalty all his life. “Your Highness,” he says.
“Captain.” I look to the woman who stands just behind him. “Lieutenant Tagas, I presume.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” She bows as well, although it’s not as graceful as Captain Blakemore’s. There’s a bit of watchful tension around her eyes that doesn’t exist in his. Then again, she’s not the supposed emissary. Maybe she’s used to being watchful.
I extend a hand. “Shall we sit?”
We do, and Quint steps to the side to give orders to an attendant. I’m certain he’s calling for food. I’m not hungry, but food has a way of dispelling barriers, so I’ll pick at whatever arrives.
“I understand you’ve had a lengthy journey,” I begin. “Master Quint says you’ve been traveling for six years. You
must be hungry.”
There’s the tiniest barb in my voice, and I see the moment Captain Blakemore hears it, because the side of his mouth turns up. “I sense that our story has already cast some doubts.”
“More than a few.”
“I’ll answer any questions you have,” he says. “I understand your caution.”
I can see why Quint called him cordial and well mannered. Nothing about this man’s demeanor is suspicious. If anything, he’s more direct than most of the consuls and courtiers, all of whom load their polished words with dual meanings.
But if he’s going to be direct, I will be too.
“Your father was the one sent to Ostriary,” I say. “Ordered by my father, King Lucas.”
“That’s right.”
“And where is your father now?”
“Dead.” He says this simply, without emotion. “The same as yours.”
Quint was approaching the table, but he goes still when he hears this. I’m sure he’s wondering how I’m going to take it.
Lieutenant Tagas sighs tightly. “Rian,” she says under her breath.
“He is,” Captain Blakemore says. His eyes don’t leave mine, and he lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. “They are.”
I can’t decide if I like this man or if I want to push him off the roof of the palace alongside Consul Sallister.
“So you took up his duties?” I say.
“Of course. A son has an obligation to carry on his father’s legacy, don’t you think?”
He says this just as steadily as everything else he’s said, but there’s a tiny barb hidden in there, just like the first
one I threw at him. He waits to make sure it lands, then continues as if he didn’t expect an answer.
“I knew the initial journey took quite a bit of expense,” he says. “I may have been young, but I was not ignorant to the importance of my father’s mission.”
“It seems I am a bit ignorant to the importance of your father’s mission,” I say. “I am unfamiliar with your family name, Captain Blakemore. My brother has no recollection of it.”
“Please,” he says. “Call me Rian, Your Highness.”
That’s a clear opening for me to tell him to call me Corrick, but I’m just petty enough to ignore it. “I’ll be calling you a prisoner if you don’t explain yourself a little better than you’re doing.”
To my side, I hear Quint sigh very much the way Lieutenant Tagas just did. He won’t say a word, but I can imagine his voice. Honestly, Corrick.
Rian smiles. “My intention was to be polite, not deceptive. I recognize that the loss of your father and mine puts us at a bit of an impasse. I understand that guards have already departed to search my ship. There, you will find my father’s log from the initial sailing to Ostriary—as well as my own for the trip here. My crew, admittedly, is entirely comprised of Ostrian citizens, so you will find few answers there, though you are welcome to question them all if you wish.”
“I will,” I say.
“Good.” He nods, then hesitates. “They are good women and men. They’ll speak honestly. They shouldn’t be harmed if you don’t like what they have to say.”
My eyebrows go up. “Why would they be harmed?”
“I’ve caught wind of your reputation,” he says evenly. “Your Highness.” The words are spoken quietly, but he might as well have lit a cannon.
Quint clears his throat. “I do believe everyone could do with a cup of—”
I lift a hand and he stops short, but I don’t look away from Rian. “You’ve been here all of five minutes. You’ve caught wind of my reputation?”
“That should tell you just how very impressive it is.”
He says impressive like he means something else. But he’s given me a vulnerability, albeit a small one: he cares about his crew. They care about him, based on the way Lieutenant Tagas said his name.
“I still feel as though you’re talking in circles,” I say. “If you don’t want your people harmed, give me plain truths, Rian. If your father was an emissary, if your father was a member of this court, then I should know your name. My brother should know your name. We don’t.”
A light sparks in his eyes. “Ah. Well, allow me to eliminate any confusion. I didn’t say my father was an emissary, Your Highness. He wasn’t a diplomat or a courtier. As you were a boy yourself, I imagine that’s why you don’t have any recollection of his presence.” He glances around the room. “I imagine you won’t find many in your palace who might know him by name.”
I frown, then glance at Quint, who looks just as perplexed as I feel. “Then … what was he?”
Rian smiles. “A spy.”
