Oathen (22 page)

“No, please stay. Please. I…I just wanted to
be fully honest with you, because I care about you. I see now that
you’re not interested, but I hope you’ll not go back on your word
to keep up appearances for the crew, especially now.”

He sighed through his nose, turned his head
away from her. “No. I’ll not go back on my word.” He slipped off
the edge of the bed and turned to face her. “But I’ll not share a
bed with you anymore, under any circumstances.” He stepped through
the red silk curtain, and she heard him sit in one of the chairs
around the table. Wood creaked as he found a comfortable
position.

Rhona sat on the edge of her bed for a long
time, but Geret didn’t return. Soon, his snores began to buzz
around the room. Another flash of rage burned through her, and she
considered using her claim favor to compel him to act. It fizzled
quickly, however, leaving her discontented. Using claim favors to
compel a man to bed was only one step up from being rejected by him
outright—a circumstance she refused to acknowledge, since there
were still many more days until the Shanallese coast made an
appearance on the horizon. She desperately wanted him to join with
her of his own volition. Yet now her own quest’s outcome was
looking grim indeed.

~~~

Hours passed, and the depth of night wrapped
the
Princeling
in a shroud of cold rain. Unable to sleep
because of the ache deep in her chest, Rhona eased out of bed. She
picked up a wool blanket and slipped past Geret, his head pillowed
on his arms on the table. Leaving her cabin, she padded barefoot
down the short corridor. As she passed into the crew’s common
sleeping chamber, festooned with brightly colored hammocks and
mats, she paused and stared at the men and women who served aboard
her ship, happily ensconced in slumber. Jealous, she turned and
climbed the stairs to the upper deck.

In the blustery night, the winds whipped
through the rigging and a light, stinging rain flung itself nearly
horizontally across the deck. The insistent cold was a nice
distraction.

It didn’t last long, though. She slipped along
the rail to a corner next to the castle wall, then crouched down,
out of the rain. Silently, her shoulders began to shake, and she
cried onto the blanket edge that covered her forearms. Her beloved
Princeling
rocked her as it climbed and descended the
endless sea swells.

If only I had never loved him!
she
lamented.
But I do. I can’t stop needing him, even when he
completely rejects me. Why can’t I be more like my
mother?

As she looked across the deck, a hand swung
into view, offering a champagne bottle in its grip. She looked up
and saw Salvor, his dark hair loose and wet. She took the bottle
from him and drank. Handing it back, she asked, “You following
me?”

“Currently, yes.”

“Why?”

“I heard your cabin door open.”

“You thought I was Geret?” she asked over the
howl of the wind.

He paused before replying. “I try not to
assume. I followed you up to see what was going on.”

“Don’t you sleep?”

He grinned, teeth glimmering in the dark. “I
was asleep. So what are you doing up here?”

She shook her head, a bitter expression on her
face. “Geret hates me.”

“Geret, hate you? No. He’s not that good a
liar.”

“How do you know?”

Salvor grinned again, a more predatory showing
of teeth. “I’m better at it than he is.”

Her shoulders slumped under her wet blanket,
and her braids dripped as she lowered her head. “This in-between
existence is driving me mad. He’s so close to me, yet he’ll never
come any closer. In fact, he’s backing away.”

Salvor put his free hand on her shoulder. “I’m
not going to ask how close you got, but I can tell you this: he’s
an odd egg, even by Vinten standards, and he’s a prince now on top
of everything else. He’s got certain duties he simply can’t
ignore.”

Meena’s mysterious comment came to her mind,
and she locked her gaze onto his. “Tell me what that
means.”

He frowned. “Hasn’t Geret already told
you?”

“Told me what?”

“Idiot.”

Rhona blinked.

“Him, not you,” Salvor amended. He licked rain
from his lips. “How about I explain in my cabin, where it’s warm
and dry, and the rain’s not diluting the champagne?”

Rhona agreed, and they descended again. Once
they were inside his cabin, he lit the lamp from the slow-burning
night wick. He took her wet blanket from her and pulled free the
one on Geret’s bunk. She took it from him and wrapped it around her
shoulders, then sat on Salvor’s bed, her curls dripping. He handed
her the bottle, then wrapped a small towel around his loose hair
and squeezed it a few times. Turning his back to her, he began to
take off his wet shirt.

“We Vintens get indoctrinated on the teachings
of Wisdom from the cradle,” he said, pulling off the wet
linen.

His torso was lean and hard. Rhona watched his
muscles flex as he retrieved a dry shirt from the small trunk at
the foot of his bunk. “What do you mean, ‘teachings of
wisdom’?”

He turned to face her, pale green shirt in
hand. “Things that we do or don’t do as a culture, depending on
what the long-term effects will be. Meats must get to market
quickly so the people don’t eat spoiled food, get sick and lose
efficiency at their work. Roads are planned out before buildings
are constructed, so that travel within towns is efficient. And when
the Magister’s Dictat council decides they want Vint to become an
empire for the betterment of all Cyrmant, they not only use spies
to see how easily neighboring countries would submit, but they also
try to recruit a new, like-minded leader to replace the Magister,
because they know the current leader will choose to step down to
avoid bloodshed. “

Rhona blinked. “A…Vinten empire?”

Salvor smirked. “Their plans were interrupted,
though, and on top of that, Geret turned them down. Do you begin to
see how Vint thinks now?”

“Geret…? Aye, I see. Seems like a lot of extra
work to me, though.” She frowned.
Seems Geret’s in the habit of
turning down a lot of good things.

“In Geret’s case,” he said, pulling his shirt
over his head and sitting on the other end of the bunk, “he’s
constrained by the tenet which advises that we only bed those we
plan to have children with.”

Rhona’s mouth opened. “But that’s…”

“Now sure, even Vintens ignore this advice
sometimes; we’re only human, after all. Some of us more than
others.” He lifted one side of his mouth at her. “But for Geret,
it’s a much larger part of his life than for the average
Vinten.”

“But that’s exactly what claiming is about.
The daughter of a Vinten prince would make an excellent leader for
the next generation of Clan Agonbloom. You say he doesn’t despise
me, but he was pretty clear with his rejection of the concept
earlier. He didn’t even tell me why.” She crossed her arms with a
pretty pout, and the blanket slipped off her shoulders.

“Simply put, by following this tenet, he’s
protecting his country and his family from future
conflict.”

She frowned. “I don’t follow.”

“Imagine that he does let you complete your
claim and gives you that daughter, whether he stays with you for a
year or not. Twenty years from now, will his wife and children back
home in Vint be pleased when a rogue bastard princess who was
raised by the lawless Sea Clans suddenly shows up, demanding her
rightful place in the royal family?”

Rhona’s eyebrows shot up. “I’d be royalty by
association, wouldn’t I?”

Salvor paused at her interested tone, then
continued, “Or, said bastard royal shows up with an army of
Agonbloom Clansfolk, promising them the riches of an entire kingdom
if they help kill the rightful ruler and install Geret’s daughter
as their own puppet Magister.”

“Oh, that’s shiny,” she murmured, grinning at
the concept.

“You see, then,” Salvor said, smoothing away a
hint of a frown, “how far ahead of you Geret is thinking. How far
ahead he was raised to think. Though it must be said, he often
fails to see past his nose.”

She squinted at him. “I’m not sure whether
you’re insulting him, or me.”

He smiled warmly, letting his eyes slide down
to her damp white blouse. “I try not to discriminate,” he finally
said, meeting her eyes again. “It interferes with my
work.”

Rhona studied him in the lamplight. The kiss
he’d given her after their duel made more sense now that he’d also
undressed before her. “I see your tactic, Lord Thelios,” she said,
letting her own eyes trail along his features. “You’re jealous of
Geret’s influence with me. You want it for yourself.”

He tsked. “Is that all you believe me capable
of?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Why else would you
do as you’ve done?”

Salvor eased up next to her; she could feel
his warmth radiating onto her pebbled skin. He leaned in close to
her ear, his breath hot on her skin, his lips brushing her cheek.
“I do as I’ve done, fair Rhona, because I’m a whore for my country.
I’m compelled to ensure its cohesion and survival, whether present
or future, by any tactic I see fit.”

Her breathing sped up; she turned and looked
up into his face, so close to her own.

“And,” he added, “because you’re a truly
beautiful woman.”

Rhona drew her dagger from her belt and gently
slid the flat of it alongside his jaw until it rested against his
ear. “Perhaps I feel compelled to maim you for being so forward
with me again,” she said, a small smile playing about her
lips.

He didn’t even blink. “You won’t, though,” he
said, his voice low and confident.

She pressed against his chest, pushing him
onto the mattress, then leaned in over him, dagger still in hand.
“And why is that?” she asked.

“Because,” he said, eyes golden in the
lamplight, “you need to hear what a man thinks of you. Even if it’s
not Geret.”

Rhona’s face shifted, clouding. In one swift
motion, she rose from the bed and slipped out the cabin door,
closing it behind her. Salvor sighed, picked his feet up off the
floor and put them on his pillow at the other end of the
bunk.

“Folly,” he cursed, staring at the planks of
Geret’s empty bed. “Now I’ll never get back to sleep.”

Harbinger
’s bronze port-side cannons boomed in the
muggy night, leaving clouds of smoke trailing in the oddly blue
moonlight that pierced the ragged grey clouds overhead. On shore,
Yaren Fellows screamed and ran through the darkness, fleeing dock
house shrapnel and flaming debris. Marela stalked along the deck
behind her crew, alternately cursing and encouraging
them.

On the starboard side, Count Runcan and Anjoya
slithered down a rope until they slipped into the warmth of the
sea. The Clansman holding the rope on deck gave them a parting
whistle of good luck.

Spitting out a mouthful of seawater, Runcan
murmured, “This way, while she’s exploding things over there.” He
began an awkward paddle toward an undamaged pier a short distance
away.

Anjoya made graceful strokes by his side,
pacing herself to his speed. As they clambered onto the dock, Yaren
Fel began to return fire from cannons along its defensive walls.
The next volley from the
Harbinger
arced high through the
night, its cannonballs falling inside the walls. A few moments
later, fire sprang up inside the walls, and screams reached their
ears.

“I need to stop coming here,” Runcan
muttered.

As the chaos built up behind them, Anjoya took
Runcan’s arm and slowed his surreptitious scurry to an amiable
stroll. Guardsmen darted past them toward the action, paying them
no mind.

“So this is Cyrmant. It smells different here.
Is there usually this much chaos?” she asked.

“More often than I’d like,” he grumbled,
feeling water squish inside his boots with every step.

She smiled. “Do you think you can find the
head of the merchant guild in this city?”

“Probably. Why?”

“He’ll remember me well, and fondly. And his
office will put him in an excellent position to provide us with a
speedy carriage to Highnave. And dry clothes.”

Runcan’s teeth glimmered in the blue
moonlight. “You’re a fine traveling companion, Anjoya
Meseer.”

Something exploded inside the city walls, and
they both flinched.

“On our way, then,” Runcan added, picking up
the pace. “I’m more than glad Vint is a landlocked
realm.”

As they mingled with a crowd of pedestrians
trying to cram through a narrow gate into the city, Anjoya said,
“There’s an appeal in being able to demand that the world respect
the niche you’ve carved for yourself, despite its best efforts to
wipe you from its face. Marela has earned her place. I’m still
searching for mine.”

Behind them, Marela m’Kora drew her blade and
cried invasion, leading her crew down onto the docks of Yaren Fel.
As she darted toward a dockside warehouse packed with goods, her
dark red braids bounced on her shoulders. Among them, secured to a
small comb, was a single lock of long, dark, curly hair.