The Black Queen (Book 6) (21 page)

Her father chose
The Elizabeth
not for comfort, but to reassure the Black Queen that he was coming in peace. His entourage included two more Nyeian vessels, one cargo ship, and one Fey warship simply because he couldn’t stomach traveling without one. The ships sailed together, the warship out front, the cargo ship bringing up the rear, and the Nyeian vessels fanned out in the middle.

Gull Riders flew above, searching out troubles in the waters ahead, and reporting back every few instances. Weather Sprites sailed on this vessel to protect the Black Family from the fierce storms that sometimes hit the Infrin Sea, and two Navigators were aboard to talk with the underwater creatures and find out about treacheries within the water.

She didn’t understand all the fine points. She only knew that no Fey fleet had ever run into trouble in the sea because of precautions like these. She listened as her father explained what he was doing, and she watched, knowing someday she might be responsible for a fleet of her own.

The idea made her stomach flutter. She was standing on the deck, her hands on the wooden railing. The wind was strong, filling the sails above her, and blowing spray into her face. The spray felt like a light mist, cool and invigorating. The air here was the freshest she had ever smelled. It made Nye seem like a cesspool, filled with wretched odors. Sometimes, the ocean had a briny scent, but even that was better than the smells she had encountered on Nye.

They had been at sea for four days. Her father said the trip to Blue Isle would last a month or more, depending upon the weather. At first, she had been frightened by the time she would be trapped on this vessel. She had walked the ship with him before
The Elizabeth
sailed. The deck seemed small then, and her cabin, with its narrow built-in bed and single portal, claustrophobic. She wasn’t sure how she would last a day on the vessel, let alone a month or two, all on the choppy water.

But she hadn’t accounted for the fresh air, the wide and beautiful sea, and the clear sky. Sunlight seemed brighter here as it bounced off the white tops of the waves. Any time she felt tired, she could stand at the railing and feel the spray against her face, invigorating her. And if she wanted work, there was plenty. The Nyeian sailors had been teaching her about knots, and she was hoping to learn how to make braided nets before the day was out.

Her father, of course, disapproved of this. He thought it beneath her. But she never saw learning as beneath her. It was something that improved her life, made her better at what she did, made her understand others better. He worried that she spent too much time with Nyeians, thinking, she supposed, that she was more comfortable with them. He worried that she would engage herself to another like Rupert. What he didn’t realize was that the sailors were completely different men from Rupert. Their hands had calluses, and their language could be coarse. They probably wrote the proper poetry for their potential mates, but the language wouldn’t be as flowery as Rupert’s had been.

Rupert had been a good man, and she could have been content with him for the rest of her life. But she hadn’t been trying to marry him so that she could be content.

She had been trying to prevent this trip.

Her hands tightened on the railing. The wooden deck was slick beneath her feet. Her father hated to see her standing here. If he had his way, she would spend the entire trip in her cabin below decks, watching the sea go by through the porthole. Since he insisted that she come, though, she was going to see everything, be as much a part of everything as she could.

Live, as well as possible, because she had a hunch there was nothing but heartbreak awaiting her on Blue Isle.

No matter how tough her father sounded, no matter how much he claimed it to be the natural order of things, she did not want to lose him. He was still a young man in Fey terms, with half of his life ahead of him. The death she had Seen in her Vision, his death, had been a senseless one, a drowning. He had not even died in battle.

She shuddered. She hadn’t Seen her death. The Shaman had asked her if she had. She had wondered how she would know. Most Fey Visionaries foresaw their deaths, but they didn’t understand the Vision. They Saw it up to the moment, and then believed that someone would rescue them, things would change. Or so she understood.

She hadn’t Seen anything that would even come close. She had only Seen things that would harm her emotionally: the death of her father; the birth of a child that somehow broke her heart. A future that seemed bleak and cold and terrifying.

Her water repellent cloak was beaded. Her hair was wet, water dripping off her cheeks. Her special Domestic-spelled boots gripped the wet deck so that as the ship rose and fell with the waves, she didn’t have to worry about losing her balance. She only held the railing because her father had insisted, and she didn’t want to have him see her disobeying him.

A Gull Rider landed on the deck before her. It was in its Gull form: a full sized white bird with what appeared to be a Fey riding its back. But when examined closely, it became clear that the Fey on the bird’s back had no legs. The Fey’s torso was attached to the bird itself.

This Gull Rider was male, his naked chest dark against his white bird plumage, his hair long, black and falling free. He gripped his bird’s neck with his strong hands, and both of his heads—bird and Fey—looked up as if he were surprised to see her.

“Off duty?” she asked, knowing he would have to either fly up to her ear level so that she could hear him, or that he would have to shout in order to respond.

He nodded.

She smiled, and took off her cloak, shaking the droplets off of it. Beneath it, she wore a Nyeian blouse that tied to her wrists and was open at the neck. Its thin material got soaked in the spray. She didn’t care.

“Here,” she said, putting the cloak on the deck. “I won’t watch.”

She put her hands over her eyes, but she kept her fingers slightly apart. She wanted to watch him change to his Fey form. She envied his kind of magick, the kind that had tangible results, the kind that could be controlled. Sometimes it felt as if hers controlled her—her Visions always struck unpredictably. Even if she tried to change them, she would never know if she was successful. Sometimes Visions that seemed to refer to an early part of a life really referred to a middle or later period. And sometimes trying to avert one Vision made another come true.

The Gull Rider stretched his arms and slowly grew. As he reached his full height, his stomach absorbed the bird’s body. In full Fey form, he was as tall as Lyndred, trim and muscular. He looked as if he could fly on his own, without his gull wings. His black hair looked like feathers—even the hair on his chest which worked its way down his stomach. His nose was hooked, like a beak, and his eyes were darker than most, with that beady intensity so common to birds.

As soon as the transformation was complete, he took the cloak she had placed on the deck. “All right,” he said. His voice was hoarse and full at the same time, with a lot of repressed power, like a caw.

She let her hands drop.

“Like what you saw?” he asked.

She felt a flush rise in her cheeks. She made herself shrug casually, as if nothing had happened.

He tied the cloak around him. Bird Riders—indeed, any kind of Beast Rider—weren’t usually modest about their nakedness, but they had learned to treat the younger Fey, at least those who had been raised in Nye, differently from the rest. The basic Nyeian prudishness had found its way into Lyndred’s generation—into Lyndred herself, if she were honest—and rather than fight it, the Fey simply looked on it as a quirk.

“You’re Bridge’s daughter,” he said. He held out a hand in the Nyeian way. “I’m Graceful.”

“Indeed,” she said with a bit of a smile.

He smiled too, even though he had probably heard the joke a thousand times. “My friends call me Ace.”

“Which is a much better name,” she said, taking his hand. His skin was rougher than any she had ever felt, almost as if it were scaled, and his nails were sharp, like talons. “I’m Lyndred.”

“The one who was going to marry the Nyeian poet.” Ace hadn’t let go of her hand.

“They’re all poets,” she said, keeping her voice light, wondering how he knew about her plans. “At least when they’re in love.”

“No,” he said. “They all think they’re poets, at least when they’re in love.”

She laughed. He had startled it out of her, catching her by surprise. She hadn’t laughed that spontaneously since—when? And then her smile faded as she remembered. Since she got her Vision.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, reclaiming her hand. She ran it through her hair, noting that the strands were plastered against her head. “I must look a mess.”

“Not really,” he said, tucking a strand behind one of her ears.

She smiled. “You landed here to flirt with me?”

“I wish I could say yes.” He turned his face toward the spray, closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He was a magnificent man with a strong profile and an exotic face. The water beaded on it, accenting the planes and angles of his skull. She found that attractive somehow.

“But?” she asked.

“But I’ve been flying for the last day and a half,” he said. “When I saw the ship, I simply came down. I need some rest.”

“I thought you were only supposed to fly short distances.”

He turned to her, opened those dark eyes. Water had gathered on his lashes, reflecting the sun like small diamonds. It made his eyes sparkle even though the twinkle came from without. “I thought I saw something.”

“Did you?”

He nodded. “But it’s something the Sprites can handle.”

“A squall?”

“I think the storm is bigger than that.”

“Then you need to report to them.”

One of his eyebrows went up. “In your cloak?”

“I’m already soaked. Return it later.”

He bowed to her in the Nyeian tradition; only his dark eyes still meeting hers told her that he was mocking them both. She laughed again, and as he stood he gave her a grin that warmed her through. Then he walked away, her cloak flapping around him, looking somehow appropriate against his tall slender form.

She was glad he would bring it back to her. She was glad she would see him again. No one had made her laugh in a long time.

The water ran down her torso. Her pants were probably ruined. Her shirt needed to dry out, and probably needed the help of a Domestic to return the material to its normal wrinkle-free state. She waited until Ace had left the deck, and then she headed for her cabin.

The Nyeian sailors pretended not to see her, which told her that her clothes probably revealed more of her body than anyone except her personal maid had seen in a long time. She walked with her head up—she was Fey and not supposed to care about these things—even though her cheeks were flushed. She almost sprinted the last small distance toward the stairs. Grabbing the rope banister, she climbed down and walked through the narrow corridor to her cabin.

It had become a haven for her, even though she had hated it at first. Amazing how a short time at sea could change one’s perspective. She had thought the room small on land. Here, it felt like a city, with its built-in wooden bed, the desk and chair both bolted to the floor, and the sea chest for her things.

She peeled off her wet clothes and tossed them on the wooden planking. Then she reached into the sea chest and removed a similar outfit—the soft blouse that tied at the wrists and the neck, black pants that gathered at the waist. Before she got dressed, she used a towel to dry her hair. Then she sat for a few moments on the edge of the bed, and wondered at the changes in herself.

She used to laugh like that. She used to value laughter above all else. But in the last two years, since the Visions arrived, she had become so serious. She would never have spent time with Rupert before that; he didn’t know how to smile—and laughter would have been shocking to him. Nothing had value unless it was serious, and even then, its value was in its ability to wound, not its ability to please.

Maybe she wouldn’t have been comfortable with him. But at least her father would have been safe.

She gathered her bare knees to her chest and hugged them, thinking of crawling under the blankets for warmth. Sooner or later, her father would come looking for her, and he would think her ill if he found her in bed at this time of day. There would be a meal soon in the mess, and maybe she would hear more about Ace’s storm.

The storm didn’t worry her overly much. It was the Weather Sprites’ problem, just as he had said. They would either have to call up wind to keep the storm off their bow, or they would have to find spells to dissipate it. Maybe, if they had a target, they could send the storm elsewhere.

All of that would take a lot of casting, a lot of magick, but it was the main reason for Sprites on sea voyages. They kept the ships safe. If this were a war fleet, the Sprites would have other duties: they would create weather that attacked the enemy ships and even sank them. They would make optimal weather conditions for arriving at a destination in secret. Most of the Fey’s sea-faring war stories began with the Sprites creating rain or incredibly dark skies.

She had Seen nothing for this part of the voyage, and neither had the Shaman she consulted, nor did he know of any dire warnings about her family’s journey to Blue Isle.