I’m such an idiot.
I spent so much time trying to convince Corrick that Rian was good, that this wasn’t a trick or a trap.
And now Kilbourne is dead. Rocco might be close. We’re all tied on the deck, sweating in the midday sun as those brigantines get closer. A half-starved woman is claiming Rian is the king of Ostriary—and he’s not denying it.
I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised at myself. I spent years thinking Weston Lark was a friendly outlaw. Look at how that turned out.
A hand appears in my vision, holding a slice of fruit. It’s so unexpected that I almost flinch.
“Eat,” Rian says, and his voice is quiet. “I know you didn’t have breakfast.”
Wind whips at my hair, and I clamp my mouth shut and keep my eyes on the deck. I remember Corrick feeding me berries, how it felt like a peace treaty.
This feels like an act of war.
“No,” I say tightly. “Your Majesty.”
He ignores my contempt. “Call me Rian.” “That’s not even your name!”
“It is, actually. A nickname from childhood. The only true lie was Blakemore—but if you prefer it, I’ve grown accustomed to it. Call me what you like.”
I snap my head up. “Oh, I’m sure you don’t want me to do that. Was any of it true?” I demand. “Or did you make up the entire spy story, too?”
“All of that was true,” he says. I blink. “Wh-what?”
“All of it,” he says. “The entire existence of Captain Blakemore and his journey from Kandala were all true. This ship, the documentation, the ring, the son who made the journey with his father—”
“None of this makes sense!”
“It makes total sense,” Rian says. “Only … I’m not Blakemore’s son. I just borrowed his identity.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “You’re diabolical.”
“You’re acting as if I’m the criminal here,” Rian says. “When you’re the one who broke into a room I was quite clear should remain untouched.”
“You were holding that woman prisoner.” “I was keeping her safe.”
“I feel like she would disagree.” “This is complicated.”
“It’s not complicated. You killed Kilbourne.” Emotion tightens my throat when I say the words, and I try to swallow past it. It doesn’t work, and I have to clench my eyes closed. I wait for Rian to say that it was the cost of battle, or to brush off the death as the ends justifying the means.
But he says, “I know, Tessa.” His voice is soft and low, closer, like he’s dropped to a crouch. “And I am sorry. Truly. He seemed to be a good man.”
I don’t want to hear sorrow in his voice, but I do. I hate him for it.
“His wife was going to have a baby,” I say. I draw a shaky breath, remembering the gleam in Kilbourne’s eyes when Rocco teased him about it. He was so excited to be a father. “Kilbourne only took this assignment because they wanted a bigger—”
“Miss Tessa.”
Rocco’s voice, rough and strained, makes me snap my eyes open. I’m bound facing away from him, but as I suspected, Rian is in a crouch in front of me.
“Don’t give him that,” Rocco says. He’s right. I clamp my mouth shut.
Rian is still offering the food. “He was a guard, Tessa.
He died doing his job. The prince is alive.” “He died because you killed him.”
For the first time, a thread of anger slips into his voice. “No one would have died if you’d followed one simple order.”
I look away from him. “This is your fault. You’re a liar and a fraud.”
“I will not take blame for this. Did you ever consider asking me about that room yourself? I might have told you.”
A chill grips my spine. That has to be a lie, too.
“Oh, but of course you wouldn’t,” Rian says, that anger in his tone growing stronger. “Because Prince Corrick convinced you that I wasn’t to be trusted, even though every decision he makes is fraught with conflict and unnecessary risk. Just look at where you are right now.”
He might as well slap me across the face.
“In truth,” Rian says, “I lied about very little. Nothing more than was necessary.”
“You lied about everything!” “Eat the food, Tessa.”
I don’t want to take the food from his hand, and I can’t quite make myself spit at him the way I heard Bella do.
I glare at him instead. “What are you going to do to us?” “I’m going to keep you where I can see you until we’re
out of reach of those brigantines and we’re past Oren Crane’s stronghold. Then you’re all free to go wherever you like, with the exception of Prince Corrick.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. “You’re going to kill him?”
“No. People only want to kill you when you’re the king. When you’re a prince, you’re generally worth more alive. Trust me. I know the difference.”
I want to declare that Harristan will never pay a ransom for Corrick’s return, but he will. I know he will. He’d likely offer the entire kingdom for his brother.
Rian knows it, too. I can see it in his expression.
“So all this time, you were only after money,” I say, seething. “Money and power. All that disdain, and you’re no better than the consuls.”
“No!” he snaps, irritation plain on his face. “Again, I lied about very little. Ostriary is desperate for steel. I have made promises that must be fulfilled. What peace I was able to achieve is very tenuous. If I returned empty-handed, I might have lost the faith of the people, and Oren would have swept in to claim everything.”
“He’ll do it anyway,” Bella calls in a singsong voice before breaking into a fit of coughing. “I hope he hangs you from the bow. Upside down.” A cough. “Naked. Painted with honey for the gulls.”
Rian rolls his eyes. “Last chance,” he says to me, holding up the slice of fruit.
“No.”
“Suit yourself.” He eats it himself and moves away.
Emotion threatens to overwhelm me again, and I have to take a deep breath. I probably should have taken the fruit. It makes no sense to lose my strength when I might need it later.
Then again, the ship is rocking in the strong current, the wind beating the sails so hard that the rigging rattles with every gust. The only thing worse than being tied with my hands behind my back would be the prospect of vomiting on myself in this position. Despite the fact that we’re bound on the deck, the crew has been working tirelessly, moving sails and tying ropes and adjusting chains when Gwyn calls orders.
I make the mistake of looking out at the ocean just as a swell of seawater comes over the side, and for a brief second, I feel like I’m staring straight into the ocean, like the only thing keeping me in the boat is the rope binding my wrists.
Then the boat rights itself, and I’m staring at a wildly bobbing horizon.
One of those brigantines is definitely closer.
A whistle sounds from high overhead, and I crane my neck back. Up at the top of the mast, Marchon clings to the narrowest part of the rigging, where Corrick nearly fell. I’m almost instantly dizzy, but he’s got legs wrapped through the ropes, holding him in place.
“Cap!” he yells, and even in the wind, I can hear the urgency in his voice. “Get your spyglass.”
The ocean swells again, and water splashes onto the deck. My breath catches.
“Is that normal?” I call to anyone nearby.
Tor looks over from where he’s winding rope around a cleat. He laughs. “Oh, Chaos Isle gets a lot worse than that, miss.”
Great.
Rian strides across the deck to fetch a spyglass from his quarters. He takes one quick look, then swears. “Brock!” he calls. “Roll those cannons. Tor! Be ready to man the bilge pump.” The ocean swells again, and even Rian has to grab hold of the rigging. Several of the men shout as the ship tilts in the churning tide.
But a new worry has lodged in my thoughts. Cannons. “What’s happening?” I demand, yanking at my bindings. “Why are you rolling cannons?”
“Because they are rolling cannons.” He looks past me, to where Corrick must be tethered. “That ship doesn’t seem overly friendly now, Your Highness.”
“Maybe they know you’re a lying bastard,” Corrick calls back.
My heart skips to hear his voice sound so strong.
“If you let me go,” Corrick says, “we could try to hail them. I can speak on your behalf.”
Rian seems to consider this for a fraction of a second. “I could never trust you.”
“You can trust that I don’t want to drown with my hands tied to your mast.”
“Please,” I call. I think of the moment in the darkened hallway, when he was going to kill Rocco. Gwyn was urging him to do it, but then he didn’t.
Because I asked.
Corrick was right: I do have the captain’s ear. “Please, Rian,” I beg. “Think of your crew.”
He stares back at me, his stormy eyes full. “I always think of my crew.” He sighs tightly, then unhooks his fingers from the rigging. He draws a dagger from his belt.
I don’t know what that means, whether he’s going to untie Corrick or something else.
I don’t get the chance to ask. A loud crack echoes across the sea, just as Marchon leaps down to the deck.
“Cannonball!” he shouts.
Just as the ball of black steel slams right into him, driving the man straight through the deck in an explosion of blood and splintered wood.
I’m staring, aghast, when Bella starts laughing hysterically.
“Oh, Rian,” she says between bursts of laughter. “I think this is going to be even better than what my father would have planned.”
