CASSEN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He studied Annora as she lay on the deck of the bow, chest rising and falling near in rhythm with the motion of the boat on the swell. Though she was not the Adeltian model of beauty that was Crella, he could find no flaw in her appearance. The many diaphanous layers of her skirts had become damp from the spray and clung to her, outlining her sensuous hips and breasts separated by so slender a waist. How tempting it had been for him, surrounded by such youthful beauty, and always forbidden to indulge, having all the power yet keeping constant abstinence. Calling them daughters was his own ill-humor, for they were truly his pets, his toys, his trinkets—delicacies to be consumed at a later date. And yet as he looked at her now, all he felt was fear… Fear that men such as he would be the first they encountered as the wind carried them southward.

Cassen scanned the horizon but saw nothing. They had lost sight of shore soon after raising sail, and that was just more than a day ago. The lack of fresh water was making itself felt like a toddler tugging a mother’s dress—and Cassen had no tolerance for toddlers. It seemed neither hot nor cold, yet the humidity forced him to sweat, the ocean continued to cover him with life-sapping salt, and the Dawnstar burnt him with vengeful wrath. Annora was fairing better due to her islander complexion and lack of predisposition to swelter, but even she would be crazed with thirst in a day or two. His own tongue felt as if it was twice its normal size, and he had given up trying to produce any moisture in his mouth.

The solitary swig of the cheap rum he’d finished hours ago had been the best drink to ever cross his lips. A mouthful of seawater would feel so nice, salty though it may be, and he could spit it out after. But he knew better. Daemun’s draught, it was called, though most sailors called it demon’s or deadman’s out of ignorance, making the same mistake they did when naming the abandoned keep far to the east. The story of Lord Daemun was a dark one—one Cassen would rather not recollect, even if he believed it to be mere fabler’s fantasy. Still, it helped turn his stomach to the idea of drinking from the sea, and for that he was grateful.

How did you arrive here, you damn fool? He knew, for he had asked himself more than once already. It seemed he had made mistake after mistake ever since the death of Lyell. Ever since you murdered him.

Yes, he must not forget that he was now a killer of kings. It gave him strength, having done what most men would tremble at the thought of. Kings were near gods with bottomless purses that afforded them vast amounts of spies and information. Everyone was an informer for the king. When questioned by such authority there were few who would dare lie, except perhaps when posed questions that condemned themselves or their closest kin. And yet Cassen had disposed of such a god-like man the way one might toss aside a worn kerchief.

His fingers stopped their chronic stroking of Crella’s fabric as the action met his conscious thought. His mistakes were too grievous to rank, but of all of them, allowing her to fall into Warin’s clutches was the worst. He is a known rapist. It was the most reviling thought—that Warin might be having his way with her this very moment, and Cassen punished himself by remaining focused upon it. Is there a more contemptible man in all the realm? Cassen could certainly think of none. His loathing of Alther had paled in comparison to Warin, for at least Alther was not completely blind to his own ignorance. Warin, on the other hand, was a knife too dull for butter, convinced he was sharp enough for shaving. The memory of when he first confronted Warin about his lady servant returned. Warin had denied the charge in its entirety, claiming he’d never so much as touched her, but he quickly changed his defense. How long will you be able to pretend your acts with either of them were consensual when I return with the Satyr’s army and string a harp with your entrails?

Cassen’s thoughts of revenge were enough to calm him, along with the realization that Crella had been Warin’s captive for much longer than since he’d taken her north with him. More importantly, marching with an army and his fellow Guard members would not afford him the privacy to do any of the things Cassen feared. Warin would need to maintain his guise of virtue.

Cassen pressed Crella’s kerchief deep into his pocket, resolved not to think of her anymore. He forced himself instead to ponder one of his more recent missteps. The fisherman… How is it that you were outwitted by a lowly docksman, a man so transparent that Annora was able to read and manipulate him with ease? He looked at her once more, his beautiful and oddly strong daughter. We are even now, I suppose, he thought, then scanned the horizon for salvation.

Eyes can play tricks on a person at sea, so Cassen closed them for a count of three before taking a second look in the same direction. Five white spokes protruded from the horizon, same as he had seen before, the same he saw every time the Maiden’s Thief first came into view. The sight was almost enough to send him to tears, but he laughed instead. “Never leave a mortal enemy who yet draws breath,”—it was a tenet he lived by and had broken having left Stephon struggling with the knife in his hand. It would have been easy to put the boy to death and assure the Satyr’s victory, but Cassen wanted Stephon alive for what was to come. The five glorious specks in the distance, gradually becoming triangles, reassured him that he had made the correct decision.

I will let her sleep, he thought, though the desire to wake her was overwhelming. No doubt Annora would be cheered by the knowledge of their rescue, but she would need all her strength just to handle the stares of the men aboard that vessel. Cassen had never seen the Satyr interact with women but was confident the man would respect Annora, given whom she belonged to.

With a turn of the rudder they were headed east, and slowly at that. Cassen fumbled with the lines on the boom in an attempt to get more speed, concerned only with putting their vessel in the direct path of the Satyr’s boat as quickly as possible. He did not need to close his eyes to verify what he saw on the horizon this time, for the massive square sails of the second ship were plain to recognize. The warship was not only closer than the Satyr’s ship—it was headed directly toward them.

“Wake,” Cassen said, his voice too scratchy for his panic to show. “Annora, there is trouble.”

She roused like a painting come to life, though Cassen had no time to appreciate the sight. How simpler things would be if she were an ugly toad as he guessed a true daughter of his making would be.

“What could be more trouble than dying of thirst?” She was rubbing her eyes and stretching, her long hair falling down her back. We should cut that hair, he thought, but shoved the idea aside like the rubbish it was. Desperation was the last thing they needed to show if they were to survive this ordeal.

“A boat!” Her glee was sickening as she pointed toward the massive ship now only several miles off. “But they are not your friends?”

“Friends of friends, but not the type I’d want to meet. My friends are there,” he said, pointing to the south with his head.

Annora studied the distant sails for a moment. “Your friends’ ship looks more menacing than the one that approaches.”

That it may be, but not to us. “We need to discuss how to best handle this encounter.”

Cassen steered the vessel directly toward the oncoming ship. Satisfied with their trajectory and minutes away from contact, he reached over the side of the skiff and scooped a handful of seawater into his mouth. I will have death or fresh water soon, the success of which depends on the slickness of my tongue, he reasoned.

Though he was determined to not be outwitted by another seaman, some serious hurdles remained in Cassen’s way. All the logic in the realm may do little good to convince these war-hungry men that Annora was not a mermaid sans tail, sent to them by the gods to do with as they pleased. What was worse, they may not understand a word of his common tongue—Sacarans had their own language.

“Throw a ladder, and be quick about it,” Cassen shouted.

Men with barbed spears attached to ropes lined the bow’s railings three men’s height above. Cassen and Annora would be hauled upon the ship one way or the other, and Cassen preferred the method that did not require puncture wounds.

Annora climbed first, as they had discussed, and Cassen followed, allowing their skiff to drift off. As greedy hands pulled Annora over the rail, Cassen struggled to remain tranquil—anger he could show, but all panic must be repressed. As he himself was hoisted over the rails, that became difficult.

Of the hundreds that must be aboard, they were greeted by no fewer than ten, two of whose strong arms had pulled Cassen over with the force of malice. They stared at Cassen and Annora—mostly at Annora—while mumbling amongst each other in words that had no meaning. They looked amused. Eager smiles crossed most of their faces, faces covered with dark unkempt beards grown from weeks at sea. All stood Cassen’s height or shorter, none of them large men, but all looked to possess a seafarer’s wiry strength.

Cassen tried to appear to pay them no mind as he brushed his clothing with his hands. “Fetch water and see our course corrected,” Cassen commanded. “I will have words—”

Annora let out a yelp, and Cassen glanced upward just in time to see that one of the men had squeezed her breast. It was the second time in so many days that one who meant her harm had accosted her in such a way, though this olive-skinned assailer smelling of acrid sweat appeared a far greater threat than had the Adeltian boy.

Cassen turned to another man, this one having the look of authority. “Take that man’s hand and feed it to the fish, and I will see that the Satyr does not take your own.” Cassen had no need to fake his disdain, but was purposeful in his self-assuredness. It was a risk calling Sacarat by his informal name as it might be considered slander, but Cassen had already weighed it in his mind.

The man inspected Cassen intently, but did not speak. He does not comprehend my words. Cassen widened his eyes, incredulous. “Chop…off…his…hand.” He repressed the urge to mime a chopping motion as it seemed beneath a man of Cassen’s station—whatever station it was he was pretending to have.

The presumed captain did not break his stare. It penetrated Cassen not unlike Duke Calder’s had, but this was a man who hunted men, not animals. These Sacarans were a people who had waited a full millennium to kill, humiliate, and subjugate Adeltians such as Cassen—not be ordered around by them. Cassen returned the man’s stolid glare with one of his own, not even contemplating letting his gaze wander from the man’s black eyes.

“Amavaeo elmanuus,” the man finally said. No action took place until he turned from Cassen to his men, at which point clamor ensued.

And now we die.

Cassen searched the waves for some discernable pattern, but the rollers and breakers seemed to come and go without purpose. Much like the actions of men, he thought. To be at the mercy of such randomness was disquieting, and his hand crept toward his waist. He let his fingers rest atop the fabric tucked beneath his belt, content to know it was still safe.

The porthole that he peered out of was a vertical slit, barely a finger in width. Such quarters seemed ill-fit for a captain of such a colossal ship, but Cassen reminded himself this was a warship—there is no luxury in having a larger window through which flaming projectiles may come.

“Will we reach it soon?” asked Annora. She sat on the edge of a hammock in the room, still unwilling, it seemed, to allow herself to be at ease.

“I cannot see the ship from here, but I would assume so.” His words did not appear to comfort her. “How is your burn?”

“It will heal,” she said, chagrinned. “So long as no more men grab at it.”

Given what had just happened to the last man, Cassen did not expect she need worry for the time being.

“What kinds of friends are these people anyhow?”

“Sacarans,” Cassen replied.

“Sacarans?”

The name of the people had not gone completely from Adeltian vernacular, but had come instead to be fictional in nature. Mothers used threat of being shipped to Sacara to frighten their brats, no longer believing such a place existed.

“Our friends in Adeltia will know them well in the coming days. This ship is one of hundreds carrying armies to their shores. And Adeltia’s mighty king has but one good hand to defend his people.” Cassen finished with a smirk.

“These people are degenerate savages. I now see why you get along with them.”

“Oh, you have become quite the Adeltian princess. You would no doubt say the same thing if we had run into a ship full of Spiceland sailors.”

Annora scowled at the accusation. “I would,” she said in defiance.

Cassen snorted. “Well, you will soon have the chance. The men aboard this ship are Sacaran, but those aboard my friend’s ship are mostly Spicelanders. Spicerats to be more precise.”

“You cannot be serious…”

“But I am. They are not so bad as you have been led to believe listening to the gossip of the women in the laundry. Well, at least not when seen from a different perspective.”

“Being friend to a murderer or tyrant does not make that murderer or tyrant decent.”

“You are right in that,” said Cassen. “But a person with no tyrants as friends is like to be a slave. Better to befriend ruthlessness than call it master.”

Annora exhaled and shook her head.

“And that should be the last we hear of the word ‘friend’ lest we offend our new host. He is not fond of it.” Good that I remembered.

“I hope your acquaintance speaks our tongue as opposed to just barely understanding it.”

“Ah, he speaks it well, though it is his second known language. The captain of this vessel is like to speak it also, but Sacaran pride does not allow one to do something poorly. I do not think they intended to ever use the common tongue for any reason other than to know what it was those they were soon to conquer screamed in the throes of death.”

Annora hid her face from him. She worries for her friends. Perhaps she is right to. “They have promised not to harm the nobility. They know there are some I have a vested interest in.” The sentiment did not have its intended effect.

Minutes later as they sat in silence, a knock was heard at the door.

“Time for you to meet my good rival, Sacarat,” said Cassen to Annora. “Though I do not think you will be very fond of him.”