When I sit up in bed and find a purplish dawn sky through my porthole, I have a moment of disorientation. I know where I am, but I’m startled that I slept so well. I hardly even remember falling asleep. The ship’s rocking, which at first was nauseating, was somehow calming after the tumultuous moments with Corrick.
But now it’s morning, and he never came to my door. I expected him to apologize. Or … at the very least, to make amends.
He didn’t. And now it’s morning.
My mouth still burns with the feel of his kiss. Maybe I am naive.
The prince boarded the ship like a tornado, sweeping me into his quarters with no hesitation, taking me into his arms like a famished man set before a feast. I could see every ounce of emotion in his eyes, just like King Harristan in those few moments when he asked me to prepare his medicine. This journey means something to them both. Corrick’s eyes were wild, but his hands were warm and sure. Eager. Desperate. Wanting.
And then it all fell apart. I don’t know if that’s my fault— or if it’s his.
do.
I scrub my hands over my face. At least I have a job to
After taking care of human needs, I dig through one of
the trunks that was delivered last night. If it’s windy, I don’t want skirts, so I’m pleased to discover trousers and boots and vests along with more formal attire. Once I dress and rebraid my hair, I dig through my apothecary kit to find the individual bags of Moonflower. It doesn’t take long to grind petals and make six vials, though the rocking of the ship makes me spill more than I’d like. I’ll have to be more careful when I make the evening doses.
I take one vial for myself, then plug the rest and arrange them in a small velvet bag that I tuck inside my vest. Once complete, I make my way to the door and find Kilbourne in the hallway.
The guard doesn’t look surprised to see me. “Miss Tessa,” he says, then offers me a smile. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I say. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Half past six,” he says without looking at a timepiece. “Rocco just retired.”
I wonder if they have a strict schedule already worked out. I hadn’t anticipated them standing guard through the night, but maybe I should’ve.
I feel antsy and uncertain, but I definitely don’t want to lock myself back in my quarters, waiting for a conversation that clearly isn’t coming. “I’m going to head up to the main deck,” I say. “I need some fresh air.”
“Should I wake His Highness?”
“No!” I say too quickly. I have to clear my throat. “No.
Thank you.”
“I can call for Silas to accompany you.”
I think of the guardsman who’s probably younger than I am. “No, I’ll be fine.”
For an instant, I expect Kilbourne to refuse. While I’m certainly not a prisoner, there’s no secret that everyone from Kandala has suspicions about this endeavor. I’m not entirely sure how much freedom I have here, and the last thing I want is a shadow in the form of a guardsman everywhere I go. But there must be some level of understanding that the guards can’t be everywhere at once, because he nods. “I’ll alert the prince as to your whereabouts when he wakes.”
That might be the best I’m going to get. “Thank you.” I hesitate, my hand on the bag of elixirs. I want to leave it with him, so everyone can take their dose when they awaken, but the king was very clear that no one was to tamper with my medicine—including the guards. I pull one vial free. “This is your morning dose,” I say to him. “If you wouldn’t mind making sure everyone knows I have their doses prepared once they wake.”
“Yes, Miss Tessa.”
I nod, then tuck the bag back into the inner pocket of my vest.
It’s early, but I see no one else as I head for the staircase. When I climb out into the fresh air, the wind catches tendrils of my hair and the laces of my vest. The deck dips and sways with the current, only slightly less tumultuous than yesterday. We’re miles from shore, so I can just make out the largest buildings, the occasional gleam of lights from the cities lucky enough to have electricity. The sails billow and snap overhead, and the wind roars in my ears.
I gaze up at the stars, barely visible at this hour, and see that the storm is still behind us, a solid line of deep purple clouds looming in the distance. But we seem to be outrunning the weather, because the morning sky ahead is clear all the way down to the pink horizon. The bare edge
of the sun gleams over the southern stretch of Artis that borders the east side of the Queen’s River.
“Miss Cade,” calls a male voice, but it’s faint in the wind, and I turn.
“Up here,” he calls again, and I look straight up, at the miles of ropes and broadcloth that make up the rigging and sails. For an instant, the sway of the ship makes it dizzying, and I put a hand out for the mast, but then I see him. Captain Blakemore, at least thirty feet above me, one foot on a stretch of rope, the other braced against the main mast.
“Good morning, Captain,” I yell up to him.
The sky is still too dim for me to see much, but I catch the sudden gleam of his smile. “The rigging’s just a bit fouled,” he calls, tugging at the ropes. “I’ll be down in a moment. There’s coffee in my stateroom if you’d like some. Don’t mind the mess.”
Coffee. It’s very rare and ridiculously expensive in
Kandala, because the plants only grow well in the southern parts of Sunkeep. It’s the least populous sector, leaving few people to work the fields. Most harvesters and field hands find better money in Emberridge and Moonlight Plains anyway, where the Moonflower grows. I don’t know anyone outside the palace who’s even tried it. I once asked Corrick, and he made a face and said it tastes like a hot mouthful of dirt. They don’t serve it in the palace unless someone requests it.
But here it is on a sailing ship, being offered as easily as a glass of water. That’s almost as shocking as the casual way the captain told me to help myself to his stateroom. It’s so different from Corrick, who reveals so little that every admission feels like I’ve stolen something. I’m so intrigued by this unexpected trust that I weave across the swaying ship to make my way toward the doors at the back of the
deck. There are three, and I hesitate for one second before Captain Blakemore calls, “Starboard side.” That doesn’t make things better, but he quickly adds, “The one to your left.” I turn the knob.
His stateroom is larger than I expected. A massive round table sits in the center of the room, with books and maps spread everywhere: navigational maps and country maps and river maps and star maps. Some are pinned down, while others are held in place by books and ledgers. On the one windowless wall is a massive clock, its ticking loud in the enclosed space. Below that are three long swords, sheathed and held in place by small wooden pegs, followed by two spears, bolted similarly. A few more pegs sit empty, but fading on the wall tells me that weapons are usually there. I wonder where they are.
A small coal stove sits in the corner, filling the room with warmth, and there’s a cast-iron pot situated in a little slot on top. Windows fill the three other walls, so I can look out behind the ship, then off to the west—starboard, I remind myself—and then out across the main deck. Wind whistles through the window hinges, rattling the door a bit. I don’t want to touch the coffee, or anything else for that matter, but I let my eyes linger on the maps.
I’ve never seen a detailed map for a country other than my own, and here in front of me is a map that shows Kandala and the islands of Ostriary—along with two more land masses set farther to the north and west. My eyes are wide as I trace the borders of the islands, each much larger than I assumed, stretching westward, all connected by the bridges Captain Blakemore mentioned. All together, the land mass is almost as large as Kandala. I wonder if Corrick has seen this.
I consider the way I left his quarters last night, to say nothing of the way he never came after me, and I rather
doubt I’m going to have the chance to ask him anytime soon.
Motion on the deck catches my eye, and I glance up to see the captain climbing down the rigging, quick and sure on the ropes as the ship tips from side to side. He’s still ten feet above the deck when he springs to the boards like we’re on solid ground. His dark hair is windblown, his cheeks a bit flushed from the cool morning air. His jacket is loose, revealing a maroon shirt that’s unbuttoned at his neck, leaving his sun-kissed collarbones bare. A short blade hangs belted at his waist, with a longer one buckled to his thigh. I don’t think I’ve seen him wear a weapon before.
Then he’s at the door and his eyes meet mine, and I realize I was staring.
I’m no stranger to the mouth of a sailor.
The words pop back into my thoughts, and I feel myself redden. As the captain pulls the latch and comes across the threshold, I snap my gaze back to the maps.
“I’ve never seen a full map of Ostriary,” I say. I have to clear my throat. I’m probably talking too fast. “When you mentioned the islands, I didn’t realize they’d be so big.”
“Much like the sectors of Kandala, they’re all different in their own way.” He steps up beside me, smelling of sea, wind, and sunshine. He points, naming each, and I remember the way he related them to his palm and fingertips: Fairde, the largest in the center, followed by Iris, Kaisa, Roshan, Estar, and Silvesse. His finger settles on Kaisa. “Here is where the Moonflower grows. It’s the northernmost island, and one of the most populated. Two bridges to Fairde, though both were destroyed in the war.”
“Is that the capital city?”
“Fairde is, yes.” He points to the southeastern shoreline. “There was a citadel here: Tarrumor. The royal residence was once called the Palace of the Sun, because the center
courtyard was paved with gold, every window made of stained glass in reds and yellows. Quite spectacular, really.”
“What is it called now?”
“Nothing.” He hesitates, and his voice takes on that hollow note. “The palace still stands, but much of the citadel is in ruins. Without the bridges, it’s difficult to rebuild swiftly.”
I put a hand over his. I know he wasn’t born in Ostriary, but as he said to Corrick, he spent a quarter of his life there. He lost his father there. And that was during a time the country was being torn apart by war. “I’m sorry,” I say softly.
He glances up in surprise, and I withdraw my hand. “I didn’t mean to be so forward,” I say.
“You’re not being forward. You’re being kind.” He studies me a little too intently, so I swallow and look back at the map.
He follows my lead, and his finger shifts to the southern space of ocean between the countries. “The winds here can be very strong, easily fifty knots on a calm day, and the currents coming from Silvesse Run—which you know as the Flaming River—flow fast into the ocean. It’s the toughest part to navigate, especially compared to what you’ll discover once we come out of the Queen’s River. Off the southern point of Sunkeep, the water is so clear and smooth that you could swim alongside the ship for miles. But here—” He points to a spot in the ocean where there’s a small square drawn on the map. “This is the hardest part. On Kandalan maps, it’s Bedlam’s Berth. In Ostriary, it’s Chaos Isle. The winds can be intense, and storms come up quick. The water gets shallow unexpectedly, so you can find yourself on a sandbar if you’re not careful. Between the wind and the currents, this is where many ships turn back
—or wreck.”
“And you have no trouble?”
“I won’t say it’s not a challenge.” He shrugs, but there’s no arrogance to it. “Calm seas don’t make sharp sailors, Miss Cade. I’ve done it before. I can manage it again.”
I just watched him climb a thirty-foot mast in the wind when the sun had barely crested the horizon, so I believe him. “You really can just call me Tessa,” I say.
The side of his mouth turns up. Half a smile, but half not. “If I did that, I’m worried Prince Corrick might try to put a knife in my back.”
Mention of Corrick makes my temper sit up and pay attention. “He’d better not,” I say hotly. “He’s not in charge of my name, Captain Blakemore.”
“He’s not in charge of mine either.” His smile turns a bit more genuine. “You really can just call me Rian.”
He says it so equably that it eases some of my anger. “Oh,” I say. “Forgive me.” I hesitate. “Rian.”
I expect him to call me Tessa, but he doesn’t. “Why are
you awake so early?” he says. “I usually have the deck to myself at this hour.”
“Oh—I’m an early riser.” After his comment about Corrick, it feels dangerous to say anything about the doubts that kept me awake for many hours last night.
Rian smiles. “I’ll look forward to your company, then.” He glances down to see no drink in front of me. “No coffee?”
He says it so casually that it almost startles a laugh out of me. “Coffee is quite the delicacy in Kandala, so I couldn’t quite tell if you were being serious.”
He blinks as if he’s appalled. “I never joke about coffee.” He moves away to take two heavy ceramic cups from a low cabinet. “And it’s not a delicacy in Ostriary. I have barrels of it.” He takes a small cloth and lifts the cast-iron pot from the stove, then pours. “Here.” He extends the first to me.
I take it, inhaling the steam. It does smell a bit like dirt, but in an earthy way. It’s not a bad scent. The color is a deep brown, darker than any tea I’ve ever seen.
I venture a sip, then make a face before I can help myself. “Ah—forgive me.”
Rian notices, and he smiles. “It’s definitely an acquired taste by itself.” He finds a few stoppered bottles. “Here. Cream is a bit hard to come by on a ship, and we usually make do with powdered milk. But we do have sugar.” He gives me a wry glance. “Gwyn was able to stock the galley when we weren’t being interrogated by the Crown.”
I wince and take the bottles he offers. “You have to admit—you did show up with quite the story.”
“I knew we would be doubted,” he says. “I’m sure we still are.”
That sounds like a prompt. I stir the milk and sugar into my coffee, and I keep my eyes on the cup. “I won’t be a source of gossip about the royal family,” I say.
“I don’t expect you to be. I don’t need you to be. Secrets
never last long on a ship. You don’t think I noticed the way that man Lochlan was looming over you in the hallway? The way he faltered once the prince arrived?”
He’s so forthright that I forget that I don’t have to look for prompts and hints, the way I would with anyone in the palace. Heat rises to my cheeks, but I say nothing.
Rian speaks into my silence. “When I asked His Highness if his people were going to be a problem, he immediately said it wasn’t his people who were causing trouble. That’s very telling.”
“Why?”
“Because Lochlan is one of his people, is he not?”
I frown. He’s not wrong. It makes me think of everything Lochlan said last night. He might be boorish and
aggressive, but the rebel leader showed hints of kindness, too. Tell Karri I loved her.
When I asked Corrick about whether he intended for Lochlan to fall overboard, he said, I wouldn’t shed a tear if it happened.
Right this instant, they’re both being so pigheaded that I don’t feel compelled to defend either of them. But it still stings a bit to hear the captain’s criticism of my countrymen.
I’ve been silent too long. The room is warm, and while the windows don’t make the space seem small, there’s a bit of intimacy here that I didn’t expect.
Rian is studying me. “Have I made you uncomfortable?” “Oh. No.” I take a hurried sip of coffee, prepared for it
to be terrible.
Heavy warmth swells over my tongue, and my eyebrows go up. It’s not like dirt at all. It’s a rich, milky sweetness with hints of cinnamon. I think I like it better than the chocolate creams I used to share with Karri.
Rian smiles at my reaction. “What do you think?” “I think you’ve spoiled me for tea forever,” I say.
“I’m glad to hear it.” He takes a sip of his own. “I have to check the rest of the rigging if you’d like to walk with me. But you’re welcome to stay out of the wind if you’d rather.”
I imagine all the ways Corrick would spin this into a trick or a trap or a manipulation, the way he brushed off Laurel Pepperleaf’s praise of my skills.
But then I consider the way the captain sent me into his stateroom without hesitation. The way he talked about wanting Ostriary to rebuild, or the way he wants to make sure Kandala gets the medicine we so desperately need. The way he so openly professes a desire to help everyone— not just whoever might line his pockets.
The way he’s offering to leave me here, among his private belongings, while he attends to his duties—without one single moment of hesitation.
The hell with your cynicism, Corrick.
“I’d love to walk,” I say.
