Page 14

I hung over the railing of The Mirage, my stomach heaving for what felt like the hundredth time since dawn. Nothing came up, though the bitter taste of bile filled my mouth as the ship swayed beneath me. The morning sun pierced my skull like molten daggers, each shaft of light a fresh torment against my closed eyelids.

"Never again," I groaned, the words scraping past my raw throat. "If the gods are merciful, I'll die right here and be done with it."

"The mighty consort of the Rebel King, defeated by a few humble Savarran spirits," came Tariq's amused voice from behind me. I didn't have to look to know he wore that insufferable smirk. "How the Assembly of Elders would tremble to see you now."

I managed to crack one eye open and turn my head slightly. My newfound half-brother looked maddeningly unaffected by our night of excess, his elaborate coat pristine, his golden eyes clear and bright with mirth. The contrast to my own miserable state only deepened my suffering.

"I hate you," I muttered, clutching the railing as another wave of nausea rolled through me.

"You're not the first to say so, nor will you be the last." His tone was light as he approached, holding a steaming cup of something that smelled strongly of herbs and spices. "Here. Savarran hangover remedy. Tastes like a minotaur's backside, but works wonders."

I eyed the cup suspiciously. The liquid was thick, greenish-brown, and utterly unappetizing. "If this is another of your exotic spirits, I'll throw you overboard myself."

"And waste my best cure? I'm wounded by your lack of trust." He pressed the cup into my reluctant hand. "Drink. Unless you'd prefer to spend the next three days as you are now."

Desperation won out over suspicion. I took the cup, studied its contents with disgust, then drained it in one long swallow. The taste was somehow worse than I'd anticipated, bitter and pungent with an underlying sweetness that made my stomach clench. But I kept it down through sheer force of will.

"Good man," Tariq said, patting my shoulder. "Now the memories of last night should start filtering back. An entertaining evening, I must say. I particularly enjoyed your detailed description of how your elvish king likes to—"

"Stop," I cut him off, heat rushing to my face despite my misery. The events of the previous night crashed back into my memory: the endless parade of exotic spirits, the increasingly personal revelations, the discussion of Ostovan's future that had ended with... what, exactly? I struggled to piece together the final moments before I unceremoniously blacked out.

"What happened at the end?" I asked, my voice hardly recognizable even to my own ears. "The last thing I remember is..."

Tariq laughed, the sound making me wince. "The tears of the desert moon happened, brother mine. Not many can handle more than a thimbleful. You managed three before collapsing mid-sentence while explaining your detailed plans for Michail's personal guard."

I straightened slightly, noticing with surprise that the remedy was already taking effect. The pounding in my head receded from unbearable to merely agonizing, and my stomach began to settle. Morning light still seemed too bright, but no longer threatened to blind me with each ray.

"Bash helped," Tariq added, gesturing to where his miniature dragon curled on a pillow near my head. "She insisted on staying with you. Apparently, she likes how you smell when you're drunk. A dubious compliment at best."

The copper-scaled creature regarded me with what seemed like smug satisfaction.

"We talked about Michail," I said slowly, fragments of our conversation returning. "And Ostovan's future."

"Among other things," Tariq agreed, leaning against the rail with catlike grace. Even after matching me drink for drink, he looked frustratingly unaffected. "You have quite the colorful vocabulary when drunk. I particularly enjoyed your detailed description of how my dear half-brother Michail likes to arrange his personal quarters. The revelation about his collection of preserved insects was... unsettling."

I grimaced, not just from the lingering taste of the remedy. "I said too much."

"On the contrary," Tariq countered, his expression growing more serious. "You said exactly enough. I meant what I said last night, even if the tears of the desert moon loosened my tongue. If Michail falls, someone must step into the vacuum. Why not someone with Savarran pragmatism and Ostovan blood?"

The hangover remedy was working with impressive speed, clarity returning to my thoughts despite the lingering headache. "You really would consider it? Taking the throne?"

Tariq shrugged, the gesture elegant despite its casualness. "I've spent my life avoiding responsibility while pursuing pleasure. Perhaps it's time to try the reverse. Besides," he grinned, the expression transforming his face, "imagine the outrage among the stuffy nobles when a half-Savarran pirate with questionable morals claims the crown."

A knock at the door interrupted before I could respond. One of Tariq's crew approached with a respectful bow.

"Captain, Captain Yisra requests the Lord Consort's presence aboard her vessel. The storm appears to be breaking."

I glanced toward the horizon, noticing for the first time that the perpetual mist of Saltmire seemed thinner, sunlight breaking through in scattered beams.

"Tell her I'll return shortly," I said, pushing myself fully upright and taking stock of my condition. The remedy was working with impressive speed, though my body still ached in protest at the previous night's excesses.

"A shame to cut our family reunion short," Tariq sighed dramatically. "Just when we were getting to the interesting part."

"The part where we overthrow our insane brother and you become king?" I asked dryly.

"Precisely that." He flashed another grin. "What could be more entertaining?"

"Almost anything," I muttered, but found myself smiling despite my lingering discomfort. There was something irresistibly charming about Tariq's cavalier approach to even the most serious matters.

"You should dress properly," he observed, gesturing toward my disheveled appearance. "Your elven commander already came by earlier. The woman with the delightful scowl. She seemed quite concerned about your extended absence."

"Caris was here?" I felt a stab of guilt at causing worry.

"Indeed. Looked ready to gut me on the spot." Tariq chuckled. "I assured her you were merely sleeping off our cultural exchange. She didn't seem entirely convinced."

I smoothed my rumpled clothing as best I could, grateful that the Starfall blue jacket had survived my night of excess relatively unscathed.

"What will you do now?" I asked, making a futile attempt to tame my hair. "Return to Savarra?"

Tariq shook his head, stroking Bash's scales as the creature climbed to his shoulder. "I think I'll linger in these waters a while longer. The political currents are shifting, and I've always had a nose for profitable changes in the wind."

"You mean you'll wait to see if Michail falls before committing."

"I mean, I'll position myself for maximum advantage while minimizing unnecessary risk," he corrected smoothly. "A lesson our older brother never learned. Ambition without patience is just suicide with extra steps."

Feeling somewhat more human now, I turned to face Tariq, suddenly aware this might be our last meeting for some time.

"If I succeed," I said carefully, "if Michail falls... and you do decide to pursue the throne..."

"Yes?" Tariq prompted when I hesitated.

"Rule better than he did. Better than our father, even."

Something shifted in Tariq's expression, a rare moment of genuine emotion breaking through his carefully maintained facade of casual amusement. "That's not a particularly high bar to clear," he said softly.

"Perhaps not," I acknowledged. "But Ostovan deserves better than what it's had."

"On that, at least, we can agree." He extended his hand in a formal gesture that surprised me with its sincerity. "Safe journey, brother. May the winds favor your sails and your blade find its mark."

I clasped his offered hand. "And may your schemes prove as golden as your eyes."

His laugh followed me as I made my way across the deck toward the boarding plank, Bash chirping a farewell from her perch on his shoulder. The strange little dragon had wormed its way into my affections with surprising speed.

"One last thing," Tariq called as I reached the boarding plank. "That commander of yours, with the impressive scowl..."

"Caris?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Tariq's smile turned wickedly knowing. "If she ever tires of guarding elvish royalty, my crew could use someone with her... particular set of skills. Savarrans appreciate a woman who can kill efficiently while looking magnificent."

I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity. "I'll be sure to pass along your generous offer. Though I suspect her response would involve several sharp objects and your vital organs."

"The dangerous ones are always worth the risk," he replied with a dramatic sigh.

His laughter echoed as I climbed down into the small rowboat that would ferry me back to Captain Yisra's vessel. Despite everything, I found myself smiling. In another life, under different circumstances, I might have enjoyed having a brother like Tariq.

The short journey between the vessels was unpleasant, each small wave making my stomach lurch despite the remedy's effects. The morning mist had begun to burn away as sunlight strengthened through gaps in the mangrove canopy. Captain Yisra's ship bustled with activity, crew members checking rigging and preparing for departure. Commander Caris waited at the rail, her expression stoic as always, though I caught the flash of relief in her eyes when she spotted me climbing up the rope ladder.

"Lord Consort," Niro greeted me, appearing beside Caris. "Caris was beginning to worry."

"No need," I assured her, making my way up the gangplank. "Just diplomatic discussions that ran late."

Her raised eyebrow suggested she wasn't fooled, but she said nothing as she and Niro escorted me to where Captain Yisra waited near the helm.

"The storm breaks," the captain announced without preamble, gesturing toward the fading mist. "We can depart within the hour if you're ready."

I nodded, squinting against the strengthening sunlight. "How long to Homeshore?"

"With favorable winds, three days. Four if the currents fight us." She studied my face, weathered eyes missing nothing. "Recovered from your cultural exchange, have we?"

I managed not to wince. "Savarran diplomacy involves more spirits than I anticipated."

Her laugh was rough but genuine. "Aye, that it does. Their ambassadors are famous for it. Or infamous, depending on who you ask." She turned back to the maps spread before her. "I've plotted our course to Homeshore. We'll approach from the west rather than risk the main harbor. Less likely to sail directly into a trap that way."

The mention of our destination sobered me instantly. Homeshore. Michail. The moment of confrontation I had both dreaded and longed for since escaping my collar.

"Have the men prepare," I told Caris. "Full armor, weapons ready but not displayed. We arrive under a banner of truce, but I want everyone prepared for the welcome we're likely to receive."

"Already done," she replied, her efficiency unsurprising. "General Niro and the Broken Blades will be ready for whatever awaits us."

I moved to the rail, watching as the last of the mist burned away from Saltmire's strange, still waters. In the growing light, I could see twisted mangroves and half-sunken ships that formed the natural breakwater protecting the hidden cove. Beyond lay the open sea, and beyond that, Homeshore.

The anchor chain rattled as it rose from the water. Sailors rushed about, unfurling sails and shouting out orders. I took a deep breath of salt air.

As our ship slipped through the narrow channel between the mangroves toward open water, I touched the hilt of my sword and thought of Ruith. I hoped he was faring well back in Calibarra. Hopefully, the journey home would be less eventful.