Trevn

Prince Trevn exited his cabin and ran down the dark corridor, enthused by the movement of the ship around him. By the time he reached the first crossway, however, he was so winded he had to stop and steady himself.

His second chance at life had brought an eagerness to make each moment count, but perhaps moving ahead slowly would be wise. It would not do to have his appearance frighten Miss Mielle Allard.

Cadoc, his High Shield, pounded to a halt behind him. Brawny, with keen eyes and a dozen braids bound in a warrior’s tail, the man was determined not to let his charge get the best of him. He had five years on Trevn yet stood a hand shorter. “Your Highness? Is something wrong?”

“No, Cadoc.” A few deep breaths calmed Trevn’s heart well enough. He moved forward at a walk, hands on the bulkheads on either side. He felt better. Truly. His head no longer burned with fever, and the gash Hinck had accidentally stabbed into his abdomen had mended to a pucker of light pink skin. A vast improvement over the wound brimming with pus that had left him delirious with fever. His mind spun at all he might have missed. “Are we nearing Odarka yet?” he asked.

“Left the port yesterday,” Cadoc said.

“Already?” Trevn stopped and faced his shield. “How many days did I sleep?”

“Three, Your Highness. We only stayed one night at the Port of Odarka. It’s been five days total at sea so far.”

Disappointment flashed over Trevn to have missed such a historic moment. “How many ships were waiting to meet us?”

“We added ninety-five from Armania and another seventeen from Rurekau. Lost about a hundred reamskiffs between us all. Last I heard, total ships in the fleet numbered six hundred twenty-nine, and we’ve accounted for just shy of one hundred seventy-nine thousand people.”

Almost triple the number that had left Everton five days ago. “What happened to the reamskiffs?”

“Too small to handle the rough seas. People kept falling overboard. King Echad held council in the Port of Odarka with Prince Loran and Emperor Ulrik. They ordered all reamskiffs abandoned or tied for tow and the passengers dispersed among the rest of the fleet.”

That seemed wise. Reamskiffs were little more than rafts. “Is King Jorger ill?” Trevn had learned of his cousin Ulrik’s ascension to the throne of Rurekau from Sir Kalenek, but what had become of King Jorger?

“Missing. Princess Nabelle as well. Prince Loran had hoped they were together, but Lady Zeroah saw her mother taken by angry commoners when they were driving through the Sink.”

How awful.

Cadoc went on. “Prince Loran is holding out hope that his father took refuge on another ship and will make his way to the Kaloday soon enough.”

In light of the time that had passed, such a thing seemed unlikely. Trevn continued down the corridor, wondering what else he’d missed. “How did Odarka fare in the Woes?”

“Little of the island remained, but the duke had managed to evacuate all who lived there.”

All. A pang of guilt seized Trevn for the thousands who had perished in Everton. Though he supposed it would have been less complicated to evacuate a sparsely populated island over a city of forty thousand souls—closer to seventy thousand considering the rural populations.

This remnant from the Five Realms had survived a harrowing ordeal, yet the mood on board the Seffynaw had been optimistic—before Trevn’s fever had put him in bed, anyway. The fleet had left death and destruction behind and was sailing toward Captain Livina’s new island, eager to start over and build a bright future. A thrill ran through Trevn at the excitement of it all. Once the people settled on the new island, Trevn would go out with the explorers and look for more land. He was finally getting a chance to travel beyond the bowl. His dreams had come true, though the cost had been far too high.

Trevn reached the next crossway and paused, suddenly uncertain where he was. The ship descended a large swell, knocking him against the bulkhead. He stayed put and jerked his head for Cadoc to go ahead. “Lead the way, Cadoc. I’m completely turned around.”

Cadoc moved past, and Trevn followed, his thoughts drifting to how Ottee had made him so late. Because of the boy he would hardly have any time to spend with Mielle before Wilek’s meeting.

“For a moment there, I feared I might have to punish young Ottee for disobedience,” Trevn said of his new—temporary, he hoped—onesent.

“It was clever of you to ask him to choose your clothing for the morrow after he finished his chores,” Cadoc said.

Desperate was more like it. “He is overly obsessed with my wardrobe. It seemed to be my biggest hold over him.”

Cadoc reached a crossway and turned right. “He is quite eager to please.”

“No, he is eager to tag along.” Trevn followed Cadoc around the corner. The crossway stretched out ahead. In the distance Trevn could see the indentations of two more lengthways. His cabin was on the starboard side of the ship, he reminded himself. “I fear Ottee is too wild to make a good servant. A onesent should make his master’s life easier, not more trying.”

“He’s a boy,” Cadoc said, as if this excused Ottee’s insubordinate tendencies. “I suspect he will try your patience a great deal, but he’s young enough to train well. And Captain Livina assures me that it is against Ottee’s nature to lie.”

“So he might be disobedient and trying, but at least he will be true? Is that to be my consolation?”

“After Beal’s betrayal, I should think such a trait would be most welcome.” Cadoc turned right at the center lengthway.

Ah, Trevn had his bearings now. King’s galley behind them, main deck straight ahead. They swept into the narrow companionway and started up to the quarterdeck, which was the quickest route to the stern deck, where Ottee had said Miss Mielle Allard might be. “I would rather have Hinck,” he said.

“Hinck was your backman, not a onesent.”

“He did both for me,” Trevn said, knowing that wasn’t the full truth. But Hinck couldn’t serve even as Trevn’s backman at the moment since Trevn’s brother Wilek had given Hinck over to Janek, Trevn’s other—possibly false—brother, to continue spying on the traitor.

Everyone sought to make Trevn miserable, it seemed, but today was a new start. First and foremost, Trevn was healthy again. This enabled him to start his apprenticeship with Admiral Vendal, in which he would not only be learning to captain a ship, he would better understand the kingdom’s dilemma at sea. Right now he was on his way to see Mielle, who always brought him joy. And, perhaps most important of all, Wilek and his cobbled-together Wisean Council were going to question Janek this midday. Should the man be as treasonous as they all believed him to be, he would remain in his prison in the hold and Hinck would return to Trevn’s side where he belonged. Let Hinck train Ottee for onesent duties and leave Trevn out of it. He’d much rather spend time with Mielle.

Trevn and Cadoc exited onto the Seffynaw’s quarterdeck. Daylight seemed overly bright after spending so many days inside. He took a deep breath of salty air. Commoners crowded the quarterdeck, most of them sitting in circles on blankets as if enjoying a picnic. Trevn followed his shield up a simple stairway, which now marked the division between classes topside.

He did not see Mielle among the scattered nobles on the stern deck. Trevn kept to the rail and nodded in reply to bows and greetings from those who recognized him. One of his half sister’s maids suggested Mielle might be serving food on the main deck, so Trevn and Cadoc went back down to the quarterdeck, this time crossing its length. They approached the mizzenmast and helm, the latter of which had been fenced in by a makeshift rail that hadn’t been there when they’d left the Port of Everton. The sailor at the whipstaff wore the blue half-cape of an officer. His sharp golden eyes followed them, so Trevn stopped and asked, “Your name is?”

“Norgam Bussie, Your Highness. Second mate.”

Trevn nodded. “You have a light hand on the whip, Master Bussie.”

“Every able man can ‘hand, reef, and steer,’” Bussie said.

Trevn had heard the sailors’ phrase before. Very soon he hoped to handle lines, reef sails, and steer the Seffynaw. Steering was the only thing he’d done before, so he knew enough about that to sound wise. “Very true, Master Bussie, but there’s a knack to steering a beast this vast. She takes time to change directions. My guess is that one doesn’t become second mate by leaving a twisting trail in the ship’s wake.”

This earned Trevn a grin and a nod of respect.

“What is the purpose of this fence?” Trevn asked of the rail around the helm.

“Captain Livina ordered it built to keep people from sitting here,” Bussie said. “Dangerous enough having so many on deck. We need ’em outta the way so we can work.”

Indeed. Trevn gazed beyond the mizzenmast, over the front rail of the quarterdeck and down the length of the ship. People covered the main and forecastle decks like pebbles on a road. Should a storm come . . . “There is no more space below deck?”

“Just as many people below and no more hammocks, or we’d hang ’em triple,” Bussie said. “They’re already doubled up most everywhere.”

“I see.” And Trevn would go down and see with his eyes when he got the chance.

“The Heir’s mother, Rosârah Brelenah, has organized a troop of women to tie rope into new hammocks,” Cadoc said. “Perhaps that’ll help.”

“Some,” Bussie said, “but we can’t use all our spare rope for hammocks either. Gotta keep some for sails.”

Trevn nodded. No matter what, such a crowded ship was a pending disaster. At least they weren’t going far. Captain Livina had discovered his new island an eleven-night from Everton. The fleet was likely moving much slower in order to stay together, but even if the journey took twice that time, as long as the weather remained in their favor, they should survive easily. The Seffynaw had enough water to last three months, food to last even longer. But were all the ships in the fleet as well prepared?

Trevn and Cadoc continued on. When they reached the main deck, the stench choked him. He pieced together a combination of unwashed bodies, feces, urine, livestock, and what passed for a slaughterhouse. Trevn had sailed dozens of times before and had never smelled anything so wretched. Some people sat in clusters. Some alone. All were refugees, fully reliant on the Seffynaw and her crew to keep them afloat. They each lived on the small piece of deck they occupied. No more, no less.

Trevn would never again complain over the smallness of his cabin.

With so many seated on the deck, it was difficult to traverse. Trevn and Cadoc kept to a narrow path someone had chalked out on the wooden deck. When people recognized Trevn, most stood and bowed. He stopped to talk with some, wanting to know their thoughts. The chalk path, he learned, had been Captain Livina’s idea. An attempt to provide a clear way for his sailors to move about the ship.

Trevn spotted Mielle on the forecastle near the starboard rail. She stood nearly as tall as his own six feet, had ginger skin, eyes a man could swim in, and long brown hair braided into a hundred fine plaits. She wore her light blue dress and held a basket over her arm, passing its contents—rounds of bread—to the people around her.

“May I have some?” Trevn asked.

She looked up, and her face broke into a smile. “Trevn!” She threw her free arm around his neck, and he hugged her close. “Oh, I was so worried.”

“About me? Just taking a long nap.”

The commoners around them cheered. Over Mielle’s shoulder Trevn found nearly every face on the foreside of the mainmast fixed upon them.

“Are you fully healed?” she asked, letting go.

“Nearly so.”

“I’ve missed you. Kiss me.”

Trevn glanced around. “In front of all these people?”

“Yes! I want them all to know I am yours. Few believe it now that Lady Zeroah has cast me aside.”

So Trevn kissed her well and good, drawing another cheer from the crowd, which made him laugh and put an end to the fun. He took hold of her hand. “Tell me, what have you been doing?”

Mielle nodded to a young noblewoman, who looked near her age. The girl was shorter, strikingly pretty with soft brown skin, long black coils of hair, and a figure accentuated by a fitted green-and-gold dress that bordered on teasing.

“You remember my sister,” Mielle said.

“Miss Amala?” Trevn quickly tried to hide his surprise. But this couldn’t be. Mielle’s younger sister was only weeks past thirteen. Trevn had last seen her in a child’s dress that bared her knobby knees.

The girl curtsied, glanced up through long eyelashes, and smiled slowly. “I am so pleased to see you fully mended, Your Highness. We were all desperately concerned about your welfare.” Her silky voice gave Trevn a chill. Was she talking that way on purpose? Mielle did not seem at all bothered, so Trevn assured himself he must be imagining Amala’s forward behavior.

“We have been helping Rosârah Brelenah distribute food above deck,” Mielle said. “There are ever so many people and no good way to reach everyone but to take it directly to them. Amala helps me. As do the sârahs Hrettah and Rashah and their mother when they have the time.”

“Some of the guardsmen help as well,” Miss Amala added.

“Because they are ordered to, not because they care,” Mielle mumbled.

“Master Gelsly cares,” Miss Amala said. “His contingent was stationed in the Sink before the Woes. Every day he gave a portion of his midday repast to beggars. I feel much safer when one of the soldiers accompanies us, Sâr Trevn. They are all so strong, and with all the attacks, some of these common men frighten me.”

“Tuhsh, Amala! Hold your tongue,” Mielle said, before Trevn could ask. “Take your basket and hand out the bread to those people there.” She pointed Miss Amala down the rail toward the stern. “Sâr Trevn and I will finish here.”

“Very well.” Miss Amala curtsied to Trevn. “Pleasure and joy to you until we meet again, Your Highness.”

Trevn nodded politely. “Good midday, Miss Amala.”

Once the girl was out of earshot, Mielle growled and stomped toward the closest group of people.

“What’s wrong?” Trevn asked.

“Would you like some bread?” she asked, passing a roll to each who held out a hand. “When we finish,” she told Trevn in a low voice, “I’ll tell you exactly what’s wrong if you take me someplace private.”

Trevn needed no more motivation that that. He helped Mielle distribute the remainder of the bread, then spirited her away to the stern deck, where they might talk, Cadoc following all the while like a distant shadow.

“Now, tell me what is bothering you,” Trevn said when they stopped to stand at the taffrail.

“Too much! You were ill, and I feared you would die. I had nightmares that you did. I have nightmares of the Woes too. I feel guilty all the time, just for being alive. So many died. So many I couldn’t save. I still see them in my memory. I fear they will haunt me forever.”

They haunted him as well. “You saved so many, Mielle. You did the best you could.”

“And Sâr Wilek came and took the Book of Arman from me. He said the prophetess told him to read it. I didn’t think you would mind, but I’ve been feeling so guilty about not asking you first.”

“I can relieve you there,” Trevn said. “The book is meant to go to Wilek, so you did right in giving it to him.”

“Rosârah Brelenah says we’re sailing to an island. She says there is plenty of food, yet I am to give only one roll a day to each person. One! In my heart I sense she is lying to me and we have little food. What if we run out? What if we never find this island? It’s what the people fear. I tell them what the rosârah says, but they don’t believe her. And I’m not sure I do either!”

“Believe it,” Trevn said, squeezing her hand. “Captain Livina’s island is only an eleven-night from Everton. It might take us a few days extra to find it since the fleet is moving so slowly, but trust me. We will reach it.”

Her brow furrowed. “Then why ration the food so sparingly?”

“With this many people a little caution never hurts,” Trevn guessed. “Besides, the almshouse back in Everton gave one roll a day. How could the people possibly expect more on board an isolated ship?”

“And then there’s Amala!” Mielle said. “She has decided to dress like a woman and flirt with men. Kal scolds her, but the young sârahs have taken a liking to her and made her over. Kal didn’t dare refuse them. So Darlow and I can do nothing but nag and fret, knowing it will all come to ruin. Then there’s Lady Zeroah . . .” Mielle stifled a sob.

Mielle did seem to be carrying a thousand burdens. Trevn put his arm around her. “Lady Zeroah has not apologized for her ill treatment toward you?”

“She denies it ever took place! Yet she refuses me as her honor maiden, claiming she is too grieved by the loss of her mother to endure companionship.”

That, at least, made sense to Trevn. “Well, I am mended, so one of your wrongs has been righted. Perhaps the others will improve in time?”

She rewarded his words with a small smile. “I hope you are right.”

“I feel sure of it. Now, come. I have an hour or so before the council meeting and want to explore the ship. Will you accompany me?”

“Anywhere,” she said.

Later that midday, Cadoc opened the door to the captain’s private dining room and Trevn stepped inside. Spots danced before his eyes as they adjusted to the lantern light in this windowless chamber, which seemed glaring after the dark corridors and stairs. A woman was speaking. Rosârah Brelenah’s voice, though Trevn did not yet see her.

People had gathered around the long table in the room’s center; a few guards stood around its perimeter. Trevn blinked and counted twelve in the room. Not as many as he had first thought. Everything seemed more crowded aboard a ship. As faces came into focus, they were instantly recognizable. Wilek, Father’s Heir, sat in the king’s place at the end of the table. Behind him stood his shield, Sir Kalenek Veroth, underneath the severed head of Barthos, which now hung mounted on the wall above. Seated on Wilek’s left along one side of the table was Teaka, Wilek’s mantic advisor he had appropriated from Randmuir Khal of the Omatta; beside her the Duke of Canden, Oli Agoros, newly appointed to the council, wearing a wooden arm to replace the one eaten by Barthos; then Kamran DanSâr, a stray the king had fathered on his concubine years before even Wilek was born, also a new council member; and Miss Onika, the True Prophet, who had saved them all with the God Arman’s warnings.

Onika was a pale woman, blind, with eyes the color of water. Every time Trevn saw her, he tried desperately not to stare and failed. In a world where everyone had dark skin, her mere appearance fascinated him. He longed to speak with her, to find out what land she had come from, if all her people had skin and eyes like hers, and what language they spoke.

On the other side of the table sat two original members of the Wisean Five—brothers Danek and Canbek Faluk—and standing in her place to the Heir’s right, Wilek’s mother, Rosârah Brelenah. Trevn wondered what had become of Barek Hadar, the fifth member of the council. On his own ship, perhaps?

The rosârah’s eyes blazed as she spoke. “We have not been at sea a week and already there have been three reported attacks. I insist the women and girls be divided from the men.”

“With all due respect, Your Highness,” Canbek said, “there is no room for any such division.”

“This ship is only so big,” Danek said. “We are going to have to make compromises to accommodate the needs that arise.”

“A compromise will do nicely,” the rosârah said. “There must be some small section of the deck that could be tented aside for women.”

“Why on deck, Your Highness?” Canbek asked.

“Because pregnant women need fresh air, and I will not ask them to fight for a length of rail each time they try to come aloft or wait hours in line to use the heads. Nor will I abide any more attacks upon these innocents. I demand all rapists be executed as a warning to all.”

“I will speak with the captain about a private place for the women,” Wilek said to his mother, “and ask the king’s advice regarding sentences for those who attack women and girls.”

“Thank you, my son.” Rosârah Brelenah took her seat.

A bugle made Trevn jump. Shrill in his ears, he quickly recognized his own tune and glared at the herald. Had he seen the man when he entered, he would have insisted on silence.

“His Royal Highness, Trevn-Sâr Hadar, the Second Arm, the Curious,” the herald said.

Everyone stood and accorded Trevn with the bows due his station. Trevn wasn’t sure he liked being the Second Arm of Armania, but if Janek was not the king’s son, he would have to get used to it.

“Trevn!” Wilek turned to his shield. “Kal, send word to Father that we are about to begin. And have the guards escort Janek to the anteroom.” Wilek skirted the table and came to stand before Trevn, looked him up and down, and smiled wide. His shorn hair still looked strange to Trevn. “When I got word from Sir Cadoc that you were awake, I praised Arman. You are truly mended? Master Uhley cleared you?”

“I have not seen the physician,” Trevn confessed. “But I bathed, dressed, and ate a full meal.”

His brother frowned. “I want you to see Master Uhley as soon as possible.”

“As you wish,” Trevn said. “Will you question my mother today as well?” Rosârah Thallah had been confined to her cabin on charges of duplicity, and Trevn longed to know whether they were true.

“Not today, I’m afraid,” Wilek said. “I’ve had to delay Janek’s trial twice now, as Father insists on being present yet has been too ill to be out of bed. I had hoped that distance from Rogedoth and his mantics would bring back Father’s health. I fear it has only made things worse. He has been increasingly confused and forgetful.”

“Perhaps their magic was keeping a sick man well rather than inflicting disease.”

Wilek’s thoughtful gaze fixed on Trevn’s. “I had not considered that, brother. Could be that they were keeping him alive until he declared Janek Heir. Then they would have let his illness take its natural course.”

“A valid theory,” Trevn said, though the set of Wilek’s jaw proved he had already accepted it as fact.

Rosârah Brelenah approached them and curtsied, a single dog cradled in one arm. “Sâr Trevn, it does my heart good to see you here, healthy and strong. The sârahs and Miss Mielle will be relieved as well. Arman is not yet finished with you, it seems, and we are all glad of it.”

“As am I, rosârah.”

A door opened on the bulkhead behind Oli’s and Kamran’s seats. Two attendants pushed King Echad into the room and steered the rollchair to the end of the table, where someone had already moved away Wilek’s seat.

Most stood and bowed, but for Rosârah Brelenah, who curtsied, and Miss Onika, who remained seated.

“I will leave you, my son,” Rosârah Brelenah said softly to Wilek. “May the God be with you. And, Sâr Trevn, I bid you good midday.”

Trevn nodded to the first queen, then turned his attention to his father. One of the king’s attendants had tucked blocks under the wheels to keep the chair from rolling with the waves. Lebbe Alpress, captain of the King’s Guard, stood behind the king, in the position Sir Kalenek had vacated. Sir Kalenek now stood beside Miss Onika.

King Echad of Armania sat in his throne poorly, a husk of humanity. He had lost a vast amount of weight. His brown skin was dotted with sweat and hung loose from his cheeks, chin, and throat; it had a bluish tint, especially under his eyes, which dug deep in their sockets, the whites veined in blood. Lesions marred his face, the biggest of which had cut his left eyebrow in two. Since the king had no eyebrows left, someone had penciled them in. He wore his usual wig of warrior’s braids, which looked pristine and completely out of place on such a sickly body.

Wilek elbowed Trevn and jerked his head toward the king. “Greet our father. And remember he is ill. I pray he keeps his head for this trial. I need him.”

Trevn snapped out of his shock and went to bow before the king.

“It is good to see you well, my son,” Father rasped in a voice that sounded far too weak for what once had been such a forbidding man. “Perhaps I will follow your lead, eh?”

Trevn doubted it, but he said, “I hope so, Father.”

“Prophetess,” the king yelled to Miss Onika, “will I live?”

“You are yet breathing, Your Highness,” the pale woman said.

“Bah!” Father scowled. “She is a terrible seer. Knows nothing of why Janek betrayed us all,” the king said to Trevn, spittle flying from his thin, cracked lips. “All this time, Janek was not even of my blood. He lied to me, as did his mother and father. Deceivers all, and I the victim of their games.”

“You will see them brought to justice, Father,” Trevn said, hoping to appease the man.

“True, my son.” Father coughed, which jiggled the skin under his chin. “Trust that to be my own prophecy, pale one,” he yelled to Miss Onika. “Just you see if it isn’t.” He turned his attention to the guards on the opposite end of the table. “Bring in Janek at once! I want this over and done with before tonight’s full moon.”