Page 9

T he horizon refused to stay in place. It pitched and rolled like a drunken dancer, mocking my attempts to find steady footing on Captain Yisra's treacherous deck. My stomach lurched as the ship crested another wave, sending a freezing spray across my face. I swallowed hard against the rising bile in my throat, determined not to humiliate myself again before the stoic Broken Blades who had maintained their dignity despite the churning seas.

"Still finding your sea legs, Lord Consort?" Captain Yisra's voice carried the rough edge of someone who had spent decades shouting over storms. Her weathered face creased with what might have been sympathy or amusement. It was impossible to tell with the perpetual squint she'd developed from years facing salt winds.

I managed a weak nod, not trusting my voice. Three days at sea had done nothing to acclimate my body to this constant motion. The irony wasn't lost on me; I, who had faced torture, slavery, and death itself, was being undone by simple waves.

"Here." She pressed a small cloth pouch into my hand. It smelled of ginger and some bitter herb I couldn't name. "Put this under your tongue. Old Savarran remedy. Won't cure you completely, but might keep your breakfast where it belongs."

I mumbled thanks, tucking the pungent sachet beneath my tongue. The taste was foul, but the alternative was worse. My third day of sickness had left me hollow and weak, my throat raw from emptying what little I managed to consume.

Captain Yisra's weathered face tightened as she stared northward, her eyes narrowing to slits against the wind. Her hand went to the silver pendant at her throat, a sailor's charm I'd noticed she touched only when troubled. She stood absolutely still for several moments, reading the distant horizon with the expertise of decades at sea.

"Storm's gathering," she said finally, gesturing toward the northern horizon where dark clouds massed like an invading army. "Might be we need to change course, seek shelter until it passes."

The news should have concerned me more than it did. Delay meant Michail had more time to strengthen his position, more time to spread his poisonous faith throughout Homeshore. But my treacherous body felt only relief at the prospect of solid ground, however temporary.

"How long?" I managed to ask, the words bitter with herbs.

Yisra's eyes narrowed as she studied the horizon. "Half day to reach the nearest safe harbor. Might be there a night, might be three. Winter storms are fickle beasts. They linger or pass as they please, not as elves or men command."

Behind us, Commander Caris of the Broken Blades approached, her black armor gleaming despite the salt spray. "Dangerous to delay," she said, her voice pitched low enough that only Yisra and I could hear. "The king expects us in Homeshore within the week."

"The king expects his consort alive," Yisra countered bluntly. "We sail into that, we might all be feeding the depths before nightfall."

I straightened, forcing steel into my spine despite the nausea swimming through me. "The mission comes first. If we can push through—"

"With respect, Lord Consort," Yisra cut me off, "I've been sailing these waters since before you were born. That storm's no natural thing. See how the clouds move against the wind? How they gather rather than scatter?" She spat over the rail, the gesture oddly formal, almost ritualistic. "There's magic in that tempest. Battle magic, if I don't miss my guess."

Caris' hand dropped to her sword hilt, a warrior's instinctive response to threat. "Michail's mages?"

"Or Vinolia's," I suggested. The thought sent ice through my veins despite the heavy cloak wrapped around my shoulders. "Either way, sailing directly into magical storms seems unwise."

"There's a place we can shelter," Yisra said, her voice dropping lower as she leaned in. "Saltmire. Half a day's sail east. Not on any proper charts, but I know it well."

The name alone conjured images of rot and decay. My mouth twisted around the taste of the bitter herbs. "Saltmire?"

"Not the most welcoming port," she admitted, weathered fingers tapping against the ship's rail. "But the safest harbor within reach. Deep water approach through a narrow channel, protected cove behind. Storm might rage for days out here, but we'll feel nothing more than its breath in there."

Caris frowned, her sharp features shadowed beneath her helm. "I know of no such place on our maps."

"And that's why it's served smugglers and those seeking... discretion... for generations." A ghost of a smile crossed Yisra's face. "Some places are better left off official charts."

I swallowed against another wave of nausea as the ship pitched. Magic storms meant someone knew we were coming. Knowledge meant preparation. Preparation meant danger. And yet pressing forward seemed equally treacherous.

"What exactly is this Saltmire?" I asked.

Yisra's laugh was like stones grinding together. "A brackish swamp cove filled with half-drowned shipwrecks and tangled mangroves. The kind of place where ghost stories are born." Her eyes gleamed with something like fondness. "Mist curls over the water at dawn and dusk, thick enough to cut with a knife. Some say creatures lurk beneath the surface, waiting for careless sailors."

"You recommend we shelter in a haunted swamp?" Caris' tone made her opinion clear.

"Better haunted than dead," Yisra countered. "And the stories are just that—stories. Mostly."

My gaze traveled back to the horizon, where dark clouds churned against nature's will. The sea between us and Homeshore had become a killing field. We could brave it and perhaps die or divert to this Saltmire and survive.

"Saltmire it is," I decided. "Send word to the Broken Blades. I want double watches once we arrive."

Caris nodded sharply, clearly relieved we wouldn't be testing ourselves against whatever waited in those unnatural clouds. She moved away to relay orders, leaving me alone with Yisra.

"Wise choice," the captain murmured, already turning the wheel to adjust our course. "The herb helping your stomach any?"

I realized with surprise that the constant churning had indeed subsided to a dull discomfort. "Some," I admitted. "Where did you learn of such remedies?"

"Spent three years sailing the Savarran spice routes in my youth." She barked commands to her crew, who scrambled to adjust sails. "They have medicines for ailments we elves haven't even named yet."

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm not an elf."

Her weathered face creased in what might have been a smile. "Neither am I, Lord Consort. Not fully. My mother was human, from the southern shores." She shrugged, as if this revelation meant nothing. "We're more common than the high lords like to admit, those of us with mixed blood."

The admission surprised me. Captain Yisra had been introduced as one of Ruith's most trusted allies, her loyalty to House Starfall stretching back decades. I'd assumed she was as purely elven as the rest of his inner circle.

"Does Ruith know?"

She laughed, the sound like waves against a rocky shore. "The king knows everything about those who serve him. It's why he values me. I navigate waters others fear to sail—both literal and political." She adjusted our course a few more degrees eastward. "Besides, times are changing. Mixed blood isn't the shame it once was. Not with you standing at his right hand."

The sails snapped tight above us as we changed direction, the wind carrying us away from the gathering storm. Already the air felt different, less charged with that unnatural energy that had set Yisra's instincts on edge.

"How long to Saltmire?"

"Four hours if the wind holds," she replied, her eyes constantly moving between the sails, the horizon, and the dark clouds behind us. "Longer if we're fighting currents."

I nodded and moved to the railing, needing solitude to process what this delay meant for our mission. The sea stretched endlessly in all directions, making me feel small and insignificant despite my titles. In Ostovan, I had always known where I stood, could orient myself by familiar mountains and forests. Out here, there was nothing but shifting water and treacherous sky, changing from one moment to the next with no consistency to anchor the senses.

My fingers found the hilt of my sword, its solid weight the only familiar thing in this alien world of water and sky. I thought of Ruith, of the boys we'd left behind. Already the distance between us felt like a physical ache, a hollowness beneath my ribs that no food or drink could fill.

Time blurred as we sailed eastward. The mysterious herb under my tongue gradually dissolved, leaving a bitter residue that somehow kept the worst of the sickness at bay. I forced myself to eat a small portion of bread and dried meat, knowing I would need strength for whatever awaited us in Saltmire.

The first sign of our approach came when the water changed color, shifting from deep blue to a murky green-brown that seemed to swallow light rather than reflect it. The air grew heavier, thick with moisture and the pungent scent of decay.

"Mangrove forests ahead," Yisra called, her voice carrying across the deck. "Watch for the channel markers!"

I moved to the bow, squinting against the late afternoon light. At first, I saw nothing but an impenetrable wall of twisted trees rising directly from the water, their tangled roots creating a natural barrier. Then, as we drew closer, a narrow opening appeared, barely wider than the ship itself.

Yisra took the wheel personally now, her weathered hands caressing the polished wood with intimate familiarity. "Tight passage," she warned. "Everyone, keep your eyes sharp. The markers will be on our starboard side."

The crew's tension was palpable as we approached the narrow channel. Even the Broken Blades, normally stoic in the face of any danger, gathered at the rails to watch our progress. The silence was broken only by the creak of the ship and the soft lapping of water against the hull.

"There!" A crewman pointed to what looked like a weather-beaten post jutting from the water, topped with what might once have been a lantern. Now it held only broken glass and rusted metal.

Yisra nodded in approval. "First marker. Seven more to follow. Each one guides us through a turn in the channel."

The ship slowed to a crawl as we entered the passage. Branches from the mangroves scraped against the hull, the sound setting my teeth on edge. The light changed, filtered through the canopy overhead until it took on a greenish quality that made everyone's skin appear sickly and strange.

"Second marker!" called the lookout.

We turned slightly, following the twisting channel deeper into the swamp. The air grew thicker, filled with buzzing insects and the calls of unseen birds. My hand remained on my sword hilt, every sense alert for danger. This place felt ancient and watchful, as if the very trees assessed our worthiness to enter.

"Third marker," came the call, more uncertain this time.

Yisra frowned, peering ahead. "It's been moved," she muttered. "Someone's been through recently."

The implications sent ice through my veins. Someone else knew this secret place. Someone who might still be here, waiting.

"Should we turn back?" I asked quietly.

Yisra shook her head. "Too late for that. Channel's too narrow to turn around, and the storm will have reached the open water by now." Her jaw set in a grim line. "We press on, but cautious. Commander!"

Caris appeared at her side instantly. "Captain?"

"Arm your warriors. We may have company in the cove."

The Broken Blades moved with silent efficiency, checking weapons and adjusting armor without a word. I drew my own sword, the familiar weight centering me despite the unfamiliar surroundings.

"Fourth marker!"

"Fifth!"

The channel twisted deeper into the swamp, each turn revealing more of this strange, forgotten world. Mist began to gather around us, tendrils curling across the water's surface like ghostly fingers. Through the haze, I caught glimpses of the skeletal remains of ships less fortunate than ours. Their broken hulls provided perches for birds with wingspans wider than a man was tall.

"Seventh marker!" The call seemed to come from impossibly far away, though the lookout stood just at the bow.

"Last turn," Yisra murmured. "Prepare to drop anchor. The cove opens up just ahead."

As if responding to her words, the mist parted like a curtain drawn back. Before us spread a natural harbor, perfectly circular, as if carved by some giant hand. The mangroves rose in a protective wall around the perimeter, their tangled roots creating a natural breakwater that kept the waters unnaturally still.

And there, anchored in the center of the cove, was another ship.

Unlike our practical vessel, with its black sails and reinforced hull, this craft seemed built as much for beauty as function. Its lines were sleek and elegant, the hull painted a deep burgundy that appeared almost black in the fading light. Gold leaf adorned the railings and figurehead—a topless mermaid with generous curves, her hair flowing around her as if caught in an eternal current.

"The Mirage," Yisra growled, recognition and wariness mingling in her voice. "I might have known."

"Friend or foe?" Caris asked, her hand already signaling her warriors to spread out along our deck.

"Neither," Yisra replied. "And both. They call him 'the gentleman pirate.' He's known for wild but honorable antics. Word is he duels the captains of ships he boards. If they win, he lets them go. If not, he takes their cargo but spares lives, unless they've done something truly evil." Her mouth quirked in what might have been reluctant respect. "Not your usual cutthroat."

The mysterious ship showed no immediate signs of hostility. No weapons bristled along its rails, no crew visible on its decks. It sat serenely in the center of the cove, as if it had grown there like the mangroves themselves.

"Drop anchor," Yisra ordered. "But keep your weapons ready."

As our ship settled, the mist swirled around us again, thickening until The Mirage became little more than a shadow within the whiteness. Night was falling, turning the greenish light to deepening purple. Along the shoreline, tiny lights appeared, fireflies or perhaps something stranger, dancing between the mangrove roots.

The silence stretched, broken only by the soft lapping of water against our hull and the distant calls of night birds awakening. I stood at the rail, sword still drawn, waiting for something to happen. The waiting was always the worst part.

The crack of wood against wood made everyone jump. A small boat had materialized from the mist, now bumping gently against our hull. Through the swirling vapor, I made out not one but several figures—four men in total, their silhouettes distinct yet shadowed in the gathering darkness.

"Ahoy there! Permission to come aboard, my dearest Captain Yisra?" A voice rang out—male, cultured, with a melodic Savarran accent that turned each word into something resembling music. "It's been far too long since I've had the pleasure of your scowling countenance!"

Yisra's hand went to her blade, but her posture remained relaxed. "Show your face first, Al'Sharif. I don't invite shadows onto my deck, no matter how silver their tongues."

The answering laugh was rich and unabashed, carrying across the water like warm honey. One of the figures struck a lamp that flared with surprising brightness, illuminating their small party.

"Is this better, alazhīrus ?" He spread his arms wide, turning slightly to give us a full view. "I've brought some of my most charming companions, though none, I assure you, as charming as myself."

Behind him, three men stood at attention, their hands conspicuously near weapons. They wore similar Savarran garb in more subdued colors, marking them as his crew.

"You look as insufferable as ever," Yisra replied, though I caught the barest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. "State your business before I change my mind."

"Shelter from the storm, same as you." He gestured toward the north where, beyond the protective mangrove wall, we knew the magical tempest raged. "And perhaps a conversation with your distinguished passenger."

Caris stepped forward, placing herself between the stranger and me. "The Lord Consort has no business with the likes of you."

"Ah, but he might, Commander," the man said, his gaze shifting to find me in the gloom. "We have more in common than he realizes."

Something about his face tugged at my memory, a familiarity I couldn't place. The set of his jaw, perhaps, or the way one eyebrow arched slightly higher than the other.

"Let him aboard," I said, surprising myself as much as Caris.

"My lord—" she began.

"I'll hear what he has to say," I cut her off. "Under guard, of course."

Yisra nodded to her crew, who lowered a rope ladder. The stranger climbed with practiced grace, bringing with him the scents of exotic spices and something else—a faint smell of smoke and brimstone that seemed to cling to his elaborate coat.

Up close, he cut an even more striking figure. Desert heritage marked his bronze skin and strong features, though his eyes—a startling amber that caught the light like a cat's—spoke of mixed bloodlines. He moved with fluid grace, each gesture deliberate yet seemingly effortless. The curved Savarran blade at his hip bore elaborate engravings along its scabbard, the hilt inlaid with mother-of-pearl and topped with a large amber stone that matched his eyes.

His gaze swept the deck, pausing appreciatively on several of the Broken Blades before settling on me with sudden, sharp interest. The smile that bloomed across his face transformed his handsome features into something truly magnificent.

"Well now," he practically purred, stepping closer than propriety would normally allow. "Had I known Ruith's consort was blessed with such... attributes, I might have made this acquaintance much sooner."

His guards took positions around him, alert but relaxed, clearly accustomed to their captain's behavior.

"Tariq Al'Sharif," he introduced himself with an elaborate bow that somehow managed to be both theatrical and sincere. "Captain of The Mirage, trader of exotic treasures, occasional liberator of excessive wealth, undefeated duelist, appreciator of beauty in all its forms, and—" he paused, eyes meeting mine with unexpected intensity that cut through his flirtatious demeanor, "—your half-brother."

I raised my sword instinctively, the tip hovering inches from his throat. "Explain. Now."

He didn't flinch, didn't even look at the blade. "Same father, different mothers. Mine was a Savarran merchant princess who caught King Zygfried's eye during a trade delegation some thirty-three years ago." His smile turned wry. "Our father did have such varied and excellent taste, didn't he? You really think you were his only bastard?"

My mind raced. Father had been notorious for his appetite, his wandering eye. Rumors had always circulated about children scattered across neighboring kingdoms, but I'd never met any. After Michail's purge...

"Michail had all father's bastards killed," I said, the words bitter on my tongue.

"He tried," Tariq agreed, the easy smile slipping for just a moment to reveal something harder beneath. " I've never set foot in our father's kingdom. I was born and raised in Savarra by my mother's family."

I studied him more carefully, looking for my father's features in his face. The jawline, yes. The shape of the eyes. And something in his stance, the way he held himself with that particular blend of arrogance and calculation that had been our father's trademark.

"You could be lying," I said, though doubt had already crept in. "How would I know for certain?"

Tariq's laugh was short and sharp. "Think about it, brother. Why would anyone pretend to be a bastard of Zygfried?" He gestured to the scar visible at his collar. "Not many people go around falsely claiming to be someone Michail wants dead. It's terrible for one's health."

He had a point. Claiming kinship with the former king of Ostovan, especially claiming to be one of his bastards, was essentially painting a target on his back. Michail's purge of our father's illegitimate children had been thorough and brutal. No one would invite that kind of attention without good reason.

"Besides," he added, "look at us." He gestured between our faces. "Same eyes, same jawline. My skin's darker from my mother's side and years in the Savarran sun, but the blood shows."

He wasn't wrong. The resemblance, now that I looked for it, was unmistakable.

"What do you know of Michail's activities?"

Tariq's expression sobered, the playfulness dropping away like a discarded mask. "Only what I've heard from merchants and refugees fleeing Homeshore. I've never met our brother in person. I've made it a point to keep my distance. Assassination attempts tend to sour familial relations. Besides, in Savarra, we have a saying: 'Beware the man who claims to speak directly for the gods, for either he is mad or the gods have chosen poorly.'"

"And Michail claims to speak for the gods?" I asked.

"According to every sailor, merchant, and refugee crossing the Barren Sea." Tariq's golden eyes glinted in the lamplight.

Every Broken Blade tensed as something moved beneath his elaborately embroidered coat, creating an unsettling ripple across the fabric. Suddenly, a small scaled head emerged from his collar, followed by clawed feet that gripped the rich material as a creature about the size of a large cat crawled out and settled on his shoulder. It blinked sleepy golden eyes, then yawned, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth.

"Meet Bashqara," Tariq said, as if having a miniature dragon emerge from his clothing was perfectly normal. "Or Bash, as she prefers. Won her in a card game against a Savarran fire priest two years ago. One of my more fortunate victories, though the priest might disagree." He winked at Caris, who remained stoically unimpressed. "Don't let her adorable face fool you. She's outlived three assassins who thought they could catch me sleeping."

I stared at the creature. It was unmistakably a dragon, though smaller than any I had ever heard described. Its scales gleamed like polished copper in the lantern light, and tiny wisps of smoke curled from its nostrils as it studied us with intelligent eyes.

"A dragon," I said flatly. "You brought a dragon aboard our ship."

"A very small dragon," Tariq corrected. "Barely more than a hatchling, really. And quite well-behaved when she chooses to be."

As if to contradict him, the creature hissed and a small jet of flame shot from its mouth, singeing the edge of Tariq's elaborate coat. He didn't seem surprised or concerned, merely tapping the dragon lightly on its snout.

"Manners, Bash. We're guests here."

The dragon snorted, more smoke curling from its nostrils, but settled back against Tariq's chest like an oversized, scaly cat.

"So you oppose Michail on principle?" I asked.

"I oppose murder and tyranny wrapped in religious justification," he corrected. "In Savarra, we value freedom. The freedom to worship as we choose, to love whom we choose." He spread his hands expansively. "From what I hear, our brother doesn't just want power. He wants to impose his narrow vision on everyone. The tales reaching Savarran ports speak of public executions, of families torn apart for not showing proper devotion."

I thought of the messenger's dying words in the undercroft. Salvation. Cleansing. Faith. The pieces aligned with what Tariq described.

"And now you're sailing straight toward Homeshore," Tariq continued, his golden eyes serious despite his casual tone. "Word travels fast on the trade winds. Every port from here to Savarra buzzes with news that the elvish king's human consort is heading to confront his brother." He glanced at the Broken Blades arrayed around us. "I thought we might... accidentally cross paths. Call it family curiosity."

The coincidence seemed too convenient, but there was an earnestness beneath his flamboyant manner that gave me pause. "You diverted from your usual routes just to meet me?"

Tariq's smile widened, revealing perfect teeth. "I've been curious about my remaining siblings for years. When I heard you'd not only survived Michail's purge but thrived—becoming consort to an elvish king, no less!—well, how could I resist?" He winked. "Besides, I was already in these waters. There's excellent plunder between here and the Yeutish coast. Merchants heavy with winter supplies, all sailing predictable routes."

"You're admitting to piracy in front of the king's consort?" Caris asked, her tone incredulous.

"I prefer 'creative redistribution of wealth,'" Tariq corrected with a flourish. "And I only target those who can afford the loss. The truly rich or the truly wicked." His golden eyes sparkled with mischief. "Sometimes both, if I'm fortunate."

"Why should we believe anything you say?" Caris demanded. "A self-proclaimed pirate who happens to appear exactly where we seek shelter?"

"Because I have no love for Michail either," Tariq replied, his hand unconsciously moving to a scar that peeked above his collar. "He sent assassins for me too, remember? Three attempts in the last year alone." His smile returned, though sharper now. "I sent their heads back, of course.”

“We should cut off his head and be on our way,” Caris snarled, hand on her sword.

He turned to Caris, his eyes glinting with mischief despite the grim topic. "Hmm. I'd wager you're devastating with that blade. Though I must say I'd much rather offer you a different part of my anatomy—one I've been told is equally impressive and considerably more entertaining." He flashed a roguish grin. "I've never met a woman who could resist once she'd seen all I have to offer."

Caris didn't rise to the bait, her expression remaining professionally neutral. Tariq sighed dramatically.

"No one appreciates the art of proper flirtation anymore," he lamented, before his eyes found mine again.

"What exactly are you doing in Saltmire?" I asked. "This isn't exactly on common trade routes."

"The best hideaways never are," he replied with a wink. "I know all the forgotten coves and hidden harbors from here to the Burning Seas. Perfect for waiting out storms—both natural and magical."

I narrowed my eyes. "The storm that drove us here wasn't natural. Captain Yisra called it battle magic."

Tariq's eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. "You think I had something to do with that?" He laughed, though it held an edge of wariness. "I'm flattered you think me so powerful, brother, but that wasn't my doing."

One of his men—a thin, severe-looking individual with complex tattoos visible at his wrists—cleared his throat. Tariq glanced at him and sighed dramatically.

"Fine, not entirely my doing," he amended. "Malik here is a weather witch of considerable talent." He gestured to the tattooed man, who offered a stiff half-bow. "He sensed the disturbance in the weather patterns this morning and warned us to seek shelter. We were already halfway to Saltmire when the storm fully manifested."

"So you didn't create it?" I pressed.

"Create it? Oh, Maiden’s tits, no." Tariq shook his head. "Recognize it early enough to avoid its worst effects? Yes. There's a difference between reading the language of the sky and writing it." He gestured vaguely toward where we knew the tempest raged beyond the mangroves. "This storm has all the markings of power far beyond Malik's abilities. Even he doesn't know who conjured it."

Behind him, the mist swirled thicker, obscuring The Mirage completely now. Night had fallen fully, turning the cove into a realm of shadows and whispered movements. In the distance, something large disturbed the water, sending ripples across the otherwise still surface.

Bash chirped, a sound incongruously sweet from such a dangerous creature, and turned her head toward the disturbance. Tariq stroked her scales absently, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Since we're both here," Tariq continued, "I thought we might combine our resources. Family reunion and all that." He leaned closer, dropping his voice. "And between brothers, your elvish king has excellent taste. I'd hate to see anything happen to my new favorite relative before I get the chance to properly scandalize both our kingdoms with tales of our adventures. What do you say? Truce?” He extended his hand.

I studied his face in the flickering lantern light—the features so similar to my own, yet shaped by a different life, a different mother, a different path. Behind him, Caris tensed, her hand still on her sword hilt. Beside me, Captain Yisra watched with the wary patience of someone who had seen enough of the world to distrust coincidence.

And yet...

I clasped Tariq's outstretched hand. His grip was firm, calloused in different places than mine. Bash chirped approvingly from his shoulder.

"Truce," I agreed. "Though if this turns out to be some elaborate scheme, I'll feed you to whatever made those ripples in the water."

Tariq's laugh rolled across the misty cove. "Fair enough, brother. Fair enough."