Page 12

T he Mirage proved more luxurious than I expected. As night settled over Saltmire, the mist curled around the ships, turning our sanctuary into something from children's tales. Tariq had insisted I join him aboard his vessel, claiming it was "an insult to the gods themselves" to refuse a blood relative's hospitality.

I'd accepted partly out of curiosity, partly out of diplomatic necessity, and partly because the storm showed no signs of abating. Better to learn what I could of this newfound brother than waste the opportunity fate had presented.

"Welcome to my humble abode," Tariq announced with a theatrical sweep of his arm as we entered his private quarters.

Humble was hardly the word. The captain's cabin spanned the entire stern of the ship, with windows that would have offered a magnificent view of the sea in clearer weather. Now they revealed only swirling mist illuminated by the strange, phosphorescent life that dwelled in Saltmire's waters. The cabin itself was a riot of color and texture. Thick Savarran carpets covered the floor, silk hangings in jewel tones adorned the walls, and intricately carved furniture of dark wood gleamed in the lamplight.

"You've done well for yourself," I remarked, trying not to sound impressed. "For a pirate."

"Creative redistributor of excessive wealth," Tariq corrected with a wink. He shrugged out of his elaborate coat and tossed it over a chair. Bash, his miniature dragon, immediately curled up on the discarded garment. "And I prefer 'gentleman adventurer' if titles are necessary."

Caris, who had insisted on accompanying me, picked up an empty goblet and sniffed it.

"My dear commander," Tariq lamented, "if I wanted to eliminate my newfound brother, I'd hardly do it so clumsily. In Savarra, we have people for such delicate matters. Poison at a first meeting lacks both artistry and proper etiquette." He flashed a grin. "Besides, in Savarra, it’s considered rude not to attempt an assassination or two. It's a mark of respect."

"You'll forgive us if your word alone isn't a sufficient guarantee," Caris replied, her expression remaining professionally neutral.

Tariq sighed dramatically. "Such suspicion. Very well, then." He reached for the goblet Caris had just examined, drained it in one long swallow, then offered her a dazzling smile. "Satisfied? Or shall I wait a reasonable interval to prove my continued respiration?"

The corner of Yisra's mouth twitched, the closest to a smile I'd seen from the weathered captain. "Your reputation precedes you, Al'Sharif," she said, leaning back in her chair. "Three merchant guilds have put bounties on your head."

"Only three?" He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I must be losing my touch. It was five last time I checked." His golden eyes sparkled with mischief as he poured more wine into our goblets. "Though I must say, the price on my head has risen considerably. Twenty thousand silver pieces from the Brucia Merchant's Guild alone! I'm thinking of turning myself in just to see if the pauper queen actually has that much coin."

The evening meal passed with similar banter, Tariq entertaining us with outrageous tales of his exploits that sounded too fantastic to be true, yet carried enough specific detail to suggest at least some basis in fact. Through it all, Bash remained curled on his coat, occasionally opening one golden eye to assess us before returning to sleep.

After the remnants of our meal had been cleared away by members of Tariq's crew, Captain Yisra stretched and rose. "I should return to my ship. The storm may be stronger than expected, and I'd feel better keeping watch."

"A prudent decision," Tariq agreed. "Though nothing in Saltmire will threaten vessels flying our flags. The locals know better."

I raised an eyebrow. "Locals? What locals could possibly inhabit this place?"

Tariq's smile was enigmatic. "Saltmire has its permanent residents. They keep to themselves unless disturbed." He shrugged. "We have an understanding."

Caris stood as well, her hand never far from her sword. "I should accompany the captain."

"Are you certain, Commander?" Tariq asked, reaching for an ornate wooden box on a nearby shelf. "I was about to introduce my brother to the finer points of Savarran hospitality." He opened the box to reveal several small bottles nestled in velvet, filled with amber and ruby liquids. "These spirits rarely make it beyond Savarra's borders."

Caris glanced at me, clearly torn between her duty to stay by my side and her discomfort with our host.

"I'll be fine," I assured her. "Post guards on deck if it eases your mind, but I suspect if our host wanted to harm me, he's had ample opportunity."

After a moment's hesitation, she nodded. "Two guards at the cabin door, two more on deck. I'll return at first light."

Once they departed, Tariq's posture visibly relaxed. "Finally," he sighed, selecting one of the bottles from his collection. "I find it difficult to properly enjoy myself with people who look like they're contemplating the most efficient way to separate my head from my shoulders."

"That's just Caris's natural expression," I said, settling more comfortably in my chair. "She looks at everyone that way."

"Even you? Her lord and master?" He uncorked the bottle, releasing a scent like honey, spice, and fire into the air.

"I'm not her master," I corrected sharply. "No one is. The Broken Blades serve Ruith by choice, not compulsion."

Tariq's eyebrows rose slightly at my tone. "Interesting." He poured a small amount of the amber liquid into two tiny, intricately carved cups. "You seem rather sensitive about the distinction."

I accepted the offered cup, but didn't drink. "I was a slave not long ago. The distinction matters."

Surprise flickered across his face, quickly replaced by a nod of respect. "Well then," he said, raising his cup. "To freedom, in all its complicated glory."

The liquor burned a path down my throat, warming me from the inside out. It tasted of desert spices and sunlight, utterly foreign but not unpleasant.

"What is this?" I asked, examining the empty cup.

"Safra," he replied, already refilling our cups. "Desert honey fermented with rare spices, then distilled under the full moon. The process is a closely guarded secret, passed down through certain Savarran families for generations."

Outside, the wind howled around the ship, making the lanterns sway gently. The strange, muffled quality of sound in Saltmire transformed the storm's fury into something almost musical, a backdrop to our unusual reunion.

"In Savarra," Tariq continued, settling back with his cup, "sharing safra is a ritual of trust between equals. Each person drinks, then shares something true about themselves. A secret, a hope, a fear. Something genuine."

"Is that what we're doing?" I asked, the liquor already warming my blood. "Building trust?"

His smile was smaller now, more genuine than the dazzling performance he'd given at dinner. "We're blood, you and I. In Savarra, that means something. Even unexpected blood, even blood discovered by chance."

He tossed back his second cup, and I followed suit.

"I've never known another of my father's bastards," I admitted, feeling the alcohol loosen my tongue. "Michail was thorough in his purge."

Tariq nodded, his expression darkening. "I lost three half-sisters and a brother to his madness. I never met them, but my mother's spies confirmed their deaths." He poured again, this time from a different bottle containing ruby liquid. "This one is called bloodfire. Appropriate, given our conversation."

The red liquid tasted of berries and heat, with an underlying bitterness that lingered on the tongue. It was stronger than the safra, hitting my system with immediate effect.

"To siblings lost," Tariq said quietly. "And unexpected ones found."

We drank in silence for a moment, letting the potent spirits work through us. Bash stirred on the discarded coat, stretching like a cat before fluttering over to land on Tariq's shoulder. The miniature dragon chirped, eyeing my cup with evident interest.

"No, you little menace," Tariq scolded, stroking the creature's copper scales. "Remember what happened last time? You hiccupped fire for three days straight and nearly burned down that pleasure house."

I couldn't help but laugh at the image. "Your dragon drinks?"

"Bash has expensive taste in everything," Tariq sighed. "Spirits, jewelry, fine fabrics… She's bankrupting me with her extravagances."

As if understanding his words, Bash made an indignant sound and puffed a small cloud of smoke at her master's face.

"See what I mean? No respect." But his tone was affectionate as he scratched under the dragon's chin. "She's been with me for five years now. Won her in a card game against a Savarran fire priest who'd vastly overestimated his skill at Three Kingdoms."

"I've never heard of miniature dragons," I said, watching as the creature preened under Tariq's attention.

"They're rare even in Savarra. Bred originally as companions for the royal family, though the practice fell out of favor generations ago." He offered Bash a morsel from a nearby plate, which she delicately accepted. "Most are much less agreeable than my dear Bashqara. But then, she knows I saved her from a life of being some spoiled brat’s pet."

We continued drinking as the hour grew late, progressing through Tariq's collection of exotic spirits. With each cup, the conversation flowed more freely. He told tales of Savarra, of the floating markets of Qeresh, the great library towers of Almir, the blood-sport arenas where citizenship could be earned through combat. I found myself sharing stories of Ostovan before Michail's rise, of the palace where we'd grown up, though at different times.

"He was always strange," I said, my tongue loosened by what Tariq had called "midnight tears," a clear liquor that tasted of anise and secrets. "Michail, I mean. Even as children. He used to collect things."

"What kind of things?" Tariq asked, sprawled elegantly in his chair despite the substantial amount of alcohol we'd consumed.

"Dying things," I replied, the memory still unsettling despite the years and distance. "Injured birds, dying plants. He said he was trying to save them, but they always died. I found his collection once. Small bones arranged in patterns, dried flowers pressed and labeled with the date of death." I shuddered, taking another sip of my drink. "Our tutors thought it showed scientific curiosity."

"And what did you think?"

"That there was something wrong with him. Something... missing." The alcohol made it easier to articulate what I'd never fully expressed. "Like he was trying to understand life by studying death, but couldn't grasp why his specimens kept dying under his care."

Tariq nodded thoughtfully, his golden eyes slightly unfocused from drink. "Our father must have seen it, too. Why else name you Captain of the Guard at twenty? He was preparing a counterbalance to Michail's inevitable rule."

"Fat lot of good it did," I snorted, refilling our cups without waiting for an invitation. My movements were less precise now, liquor sloshing over the rim. "Father dead, Andrej dead, me collared and sold. Michail got everything he wanted."

"Not everything," Tariq countered, raising his cup. "He didn't get you. Not permanently. And he certainly didn't get me." He leaned closer, lowering his voice despite our privacy. "And he'll never get what he wants most—a cure for the Rot."

I sobered slightly at the mention. "You know about that?"

"My contacts in Ostovan report he's growing desperate. The Rot's eating away at his face beneath that golden mask." Tariq traced a pattern across his own cheek, mimicking the disease's progression. "He executed three royal physicians for failing to cure him. The fourth fled to Savarra seeking asylum. Now he’s got that blasted cleric of the Sower following him around like a dog."

"It's why he wears the mask," I confirmed, memories of Michail's deteriorating condition surfacing through the alcoholic haze. "Last I saw, it had already taken his right eye. Started as just a patch of dead skin, but it spreads. No magic or medicine has stopped it."

"Poetic, isn't it?" Tariq's smile was sharp. "The man who grasped for everything, rotting from the inside out."

We drank to that, a silent toast to survival.

"So, brother mine," he said, his words only slightly slurred despite the impressive amount of alcohol he'd consumed, "what's it like to fuck an elven king? I've sampled elven pleasures before, but royalty?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "That's a conquest even beyond my considerable achievements."

I choked on my drink, caught between offense and laughter. "That's... not a proper diplomatic question."

"We're far past diplomacy," he gestured at the empty bottles littering the table. "We're blood now. Blood deserves truth."

The alcohol had loosened my tongue enough that I found myself answering. "He's... passionate. Intense. Nothing like the cold, distant creature I expected when I first met him." I stared into my cup, memories warming me more than the spirits. "There's fire beneath all that royal composure."

Tariq nodded appreciatively. "The controlled ones always burn hottest in private. It's the same in the Savarran courts."

"Speaking from experience?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Extensive experience." His smile was wicked. "I've warmed the beds of three minor Savarran lords, two merchant princes, and a temple priestess who did this thing with her tongue that I'm certain violated several religious doctrines."

I laughed despite myself. "Quite the collection of conquests."

"And that was just during the last spring festival." He refilled our cups with ease despite his intoxication. "Back home, they tried to use me as breeding stock, you know. Even as a bastard, royal blood has value. They wanted to match me with some minor lordling's daughter to strengthen political alliances."

"You escaped to the sea instead?" I guessed.

"Precisely." He raised his cup in a mock toast. "No chains for me, golden or otherwise. I refused to be traded like currency, a stud to improve someone else's bloodline."

"I can understand that," I said quietly, thinking of my own journey from slave to consort.

"It wasn't the sex that bothered me," Tariq continued, sprawling more comfortably in his chair. "Pussy is as good as dick to me, as long as there's something interesting on the menu. It was the lack of choice that rankled. Not to mention the assassination attempts. It was all very boring.”

"Your romantic life sounds... dangerous," I observed.

"The best ones always are." His golden eyes glinted with mischief. "And yours? The elven king can't be your only tale worth telling."

I laughed, feeling the weight of years and memories shift under the influence of Savarran spirits. "Before Ruith, there was Torrin—the head of my personal guard. We kept it discreet, but it was... significant. Lasted nearly two years."

"Hmm," Tariq studied me through half-lidded eyes. "So you only pursue men, then? No women at all?"

I shrugged, not feeling any need to dissemble through the haze of alcohol. "I've tried. Just never felt right."

"That must have made life in Ostovan difficult," he observed with surprising insight. "Even with Father's tolerance for such things, the noble houses always considered it... what was their charming phrase? 'A phase of immature affection'?" He rolled his eyes. "As if men were expected to simply grow out of it and fulfill their duty to produce heirs."

"Exactly that," I confirmed, surprised by his understanding. "Father never pressured me directly, but the whispers at court were constant. Suggestions of suitable matches, concerned questions about continuing the family line."

"Savarra is different," Tariq said, refilling our cups. "Love is free there. Men marry men, women marry women, those who are neither nor both marry as they please." He gestured expansively, spilling drops of liquor onto the table. "I've attended ceremonies with three husbands and two wives, all married to each other in a great circular union. The celebrations lasted a week."

"That sounds..." I searched for the right word through my alcohol-fogged mind. "Liberating."

"It is," he agreed emphatically. "Though with freedom comes complexity. You should see the inheritance disputes. They’re more interesting than the funerals." He laughed, then grew more serious. "Is your elven king good to you? Truly?"

The question caught me off guard with its genuine concern. "He is. Though our beginning was... complicated."

"The slave collar," Tariq nodded. "You mentioned it earlier."

"It started there," I acknowledged. "But we've moved beyond that. Found something... equal." The alcohol made it easier to speak of things I rarely articulated, even to myself. "He sees me. Not just as a body or a political statement, but as myself."

"Then he's worthy of you," Tariq declared with the solemn certainty of the truly intoxicated. "Though I reserve the right to a ceremonial assassination attempt should that ever change. Nothing fatal, of course. Perhaps just a minor poisoning or decorative stabbing."

The absurdity of this pirate prince threatening the elven king in defense of my honor made me laugh until tears streamed down my face. Tariq joined in, and soon we were both howling, slapping the table and gasping for breath.

Sometime during this musical exchange, Bash decided I was acceptable company. The dragon abandoned Tariq's shoulder to investigate me, climbing my arm with surprising dexterity before settling around my neck like a living collar.

"She likes you," Tariq remarked, looking genuinely surprised. "She doesn't usually warm to strangers so quickly."

"I have a way with difficult creatures," I replied, thinking of Ruith with a pang of longing that surprised me with its intensity. “Do you think she knows we’re related?” I asked, scratching Bash under her copper-scaled chin. The dragon made a purring sound that vibrated against my skin.

Tariq shrugged, spilling his drink slightly with the motion. "Who knows? Dragons are mysterious creatures. But I prefer that explanation to the alternative."

"Which is?"

"That you're more charming than I am." He grinned, refilling our cups with yet another spirit, this one an unsettling blue color. "And that, brother mine, is simply impossible."

The blue liquor tasted like a winter storm - cold and sharp on the tongue before blooming into unexpected warmth.

"What happens to Ostovan when Michail falls?" Tariq asked, his voice clearer than it should have been given how much we'd drunk. "Have you thought about it?"

I was slumped in my chair, Bash now curled in my lap like a contented cat. "Someone better needs to rule," I said, the words slightly slurred. "Someone who understands both humans and elves. Someone who won't repeat the cycle of hatred."

"Someone like you?" He leaned forward, golden eyes suddenly sharp despite the drink.

I laughed, the sound bitter even to my own ears. "I've taken another path. I'm Ruith's consort now, committed to bridging our worlds differently."

"So you've abandoned your birthright?" There was no judgment in his tone, only curiosity.

"I've found a different one," I corrected, stroking Bash's scales as I gathered my thoughts. "Ostovan needs someone new. Someone untainted by the past but connected to its future."

Tariq studied me through the haze of alcohol, his expression unreadable.

"What about someone with Ostovan blood but Savarran upbringing?" he asked finally. "Someone who understands court politics but hasn't been poisoned by them? Someone who could bring fresh perspectives while honoring traditions?"

The implication hung in the air between us. I straightened in my chair, trying to focus through the alcoholic fog that clouded my thoughts.

"You?" The possibility had never occurred to me. "You would claim Father's throne?"

Tariq laughed, but it sounded forced. "I'm a pirate, brother. A scoundrel. Hardly royal material."

"You're also the son of King Zygfried," I pointed out. "Educated in the Savarran court, from what you've told me. You understand diplomacy, trade, the balance of power."

"I understand pleasure, profit, and staying one step ahead of those who'd hang me," he corrected, pouring another round of the blue spirit. "Very different skills."

But there was suddenly a thoughtfulness behind the cavalier facade, as though he were turning over a possibility he'd never seriously considered before.

"Perhaps Ostovan needs a scoundrel," I pressed, warming to the idea despite myself. "Someone who sees beyond rigid traditions but understands the value of stability. Someone who could forge new alliances while respecting old bonds."

"I've never wanted a crown," he said finally. "Too heavy, too confining."

"But you've never wanted to see Michail win, either," I countered. "And leaving Ostovan without leadership when he falls means exactly that. His legacy continues through chaos."

"You speak as though his defeat is certain."

"It is." The conviction in my voice surprised even me. "He's already lost. He just doesn't know it yet. The question is what grows from the ashes he leaves behind."

Bash stirred in my lap, perhaps sensing the intensity of the conversation. The dragon's warmth against my thighs was oddly comforting as I waited for Tariq's response.

"I would need support," he said finally, the words careful despite his intoxication. "Diplomatic recognition. Military backing in the transition. Legitimacy can't be claimed solely through bloodright, not after Michail."

My heart raced despite the depressive effects of the alcohol. This was an entirely unexpected possibility, yet one that solved multiple problems at once. Ostovan would have leadership with ties to both its past and potential futures. Ruith would have an ally on the human throne rather than an uncertain vacuum or another potential enemy.

"You'd have it," I promised, aware even through my drunken haze that I was making commitments that exceeded my authority. "Ruith would support a stable transition to a ruler who seeks peace between our peoples."

"And the Savarran connection wouldn't trouble your elven king?" Tariq's tone was skeptical. "My Savarran mother's family holds considerable influence there. New trade routes would inevitably follow."

"All the better," I insisted, leaning forward unsteadily. "New connections, new possibilities."

Tariq considered his empty glass. "I've built a good life, Elindir. Freedom to go where I please, take what I want, answer to no one but myself and my crew."

"And yet here you are," I pointed out, "drawn to Ostovan's waters despite the danger Michail poses to you. Some part of you already feels the pull of home."

"I'll consider it," Tariq said suddenly, his voice startling me from near-sleep. "The throne. If Michail falls. If the circumstances are right."

"You'll be a terrible king," I mumbled, feeling Bash's warmth spreading through my chest like a physical manifestation of the alcohol in my blood. "Absolutely dreadful. The nobles will be scandalized."

"Precisely why it might work," came his reply, followed by a quiet laugh. "Now, one last drink to seal our pact. A Savarran tradition: the cup of future remembrance."

I groaned, pushing myself upright with effort. Bash complained at the disruption but relocated to my shoulder as I struggled to focus on the small black bottle Tariq had produced from somewhere.

"This," he announced with the gravity of the truly intoxicated, "is the tears of the desert moon. The strongest spirit in all of Savarra. Reserved for the most sacred oaths."

He poured a thimbleful of clear liquid into each of our cups. It looked innocuous enough, but the mere scent made my eyes water.

"To Ostovan's future," Tariq declared, raising his cup. "And to brothers reunited by fate's strange currents."

"To better kings than those who came before us," I added, clinking my cup against his.

The drink hit my tongue like liquid fire, burning a path down my throat and exploding in my stomach. For a moment, everything became crystal clear - Tariq's face, the cabin around us, the weight of what we'd just agreed to. Then darkness swept over me, pulling me into oblivion.