2
ZARRAH
Lieutenant Zarrah Anaphora, niece to the Empress of Valcotta, cast her eyes skyward, watching the clouds swirl north, the deck beneath her feet rising and falling with growing violence. “The calm season is coming to an end, would you not agree, cousin? Time for us to return home?”
“Soon. But not yet.” Her cousin Bermin’s voice was deep as the thunder rolling in the distance, and she cast a sideways glance to where he stood at the rail. Head and shoulders taller than her, and more than twice her weight, Prince Bermin Anaphora was everything that could be asked for in a warrior. Unparalleled in strength and bravery and martial skill.
Unfortunately, he was also something of an idiot.
Which was why, when their fleet returned to Nerastis, Zarrah would be taking command of Valcotta’s armies.
The letter she’d received from the Empress containing the orders was hidden in an inner pocket of her uniform, and it took a great deal of self-control not to take out the heavy piece of stationery, the power it granted her making her blood boil with anticipation. Making her want to reach for the knife belted at her side, the opportunity to enact the revenge she’d sought for nearly a decade so close she could almost taste it. Especially with Vencia only a half day’s sail away.
A shout filtered down from the lookout above, and a heartbeat later, the captain of the ship was at her cousin’s elbow. “General, there is a fleet on the horizon.”
“How many?”
“Fifteen, at least, sir.”
“Hmm.” Her cousin pulled a spyglass from his belt, Zarrah doing the same.
Since the Ithicanians had sided with the Maridrinians and broken the Valcottan blockade on Southwatch, her cousin’s fleet had been patrolling the Ithicanian coast, gleefully sinking any Maridrinian ship that came in range even while it protected the Valcottan merchant vessels risking the violent seas to bypass Ithicana’s bridge. They’d had a few glorious skirmishes with the Maridrinian navy, but their murderous prick of a king, Silas Veliant, seemed content to use his forces to protect his own merchant vessels running the gap to Southwatch.
Except judging from the flags flying on the ships racing in Zarrah’s direction, that was about to change.
Her pulse throbbed, her weapons begging to be drawn, to be drenched in Maridrinian blood. Vaguely, she heard her cousin give the orders to sound the alarm and ready for battle, her ears ringing a heartbeat later as the bells jangled, the dozen ships that formed Bermin’s fleet echoing them.
Soldiers poured onto the deck from below, men and women armed to the teeth and ready to fight, and Zarrah pulled loose her staff, lifting it into the air. “Perhaps fortune will smile on us today and there will be a Veliant princeling aboard,” she shouted. “And when we are through, we’ll sail back to Nerastis with the vermin dangling from the mainmast by his entrails!”
The soldiers roared, lifting their own weapons to the sky, all eyes fixed on the approaching fleet.
Laughing, Zarrah lifted her spyglass. But her heart skipped, anticipation washed away by concern even as those in the crow’s nest shouted warnings.
Not fifteen ships, as had originally been counted, but many more. Twenty. Thirty.
And though they must have caught sight of the Valcottan fleet by now, they weren’t moving into position to attack. “Cousin…”
Bermin didn’t answer, so she twisted to grab him, her hand looking like a child’s against his massive forearm. “Look! They’re bypassing us.”
All around her, soldiers paused in their preparations and moved to the rail, eyes on the fleet that was upwards of fifty ships, all sailing wide of the Valcottan fleet and heading north.
“Where are they going?” someone muttered.
But Zarrah knew. The Empress had said this moment was inevitable—it was only a matter of when and how. Yet knowing didn’t lessen the shock. “They’re attacking Ithicana.”
Bermin made a sound of agreement, then rested his elbows on the rail, a slight smile curving his round cheeks.
“We must engage.” Zarrah’s heart thundered in her chest. “Disrupt the attack!”
Bermin ignored her. “Stand down.”
The alarm bells went silent, no one on deck speaking a word.
She rounded on him. “They’re stabbing Ithicana in the back! We need to engage and send warning to Southwatch.”
“No.” Her cousin’s word rolled across the deck like thunder.
“We have to!” The words came out breathy as panic rose in Zarrah’s chest. Silas Veliant wouldn’t commit this many ships to an attack unless he was certain of victory. And if Ithicana fell, it would mean the bridge and all its wealth in Maridrinian hands. In her enemy’s hands.
“You bed down with snakes, you must expect to be bitten,” her cousin answered. “The Empress saw this and warned the Ithicanian king, but he seemed more content to listen to the snake in his bed.”
The soldiers around them laughed. Zarrah did not. “Our ship is faster. We can beat them to Southwatch and warn them. If Ithicana knows the Maridrinians are coming, they’ll at least have a chance of repelling them.”
“And risk having them fire their shipbreakers at us? I think not. And as it is, the Empress was specific that if this were to come to pass, we were not to interfere.” Her cousin motioned to the captain. “Set sail for Nerastis. It might be the Rat King has left himself exposed, and we must capitalize upon the opportunity.”
As alluring as that opportunity was, Zarrah knew what would happen if they allowed this. Had seen the results of Maridrinian raids before, burned homes and slaughtered civilians and orphaned children, and the sickening helplessness she felt every time she came too late to stop it churned in her guts. The same helplessness she’d felt ten years ago when Silas Veliant had murdered her mother and left Zarrah for dead.
“We must act!” Cold coils of panic filled her guts. “If they take Ithicana, it will be a massacre. Not just soldiers, but families. Children! We must intervene.”
The soldiers within earshot shifted uneasily at her words, their eyes moving to the fleet, every last one of them familiar with the outcome of a Maridrinian attack. But her cousin only shrugged. “It is not our concern. Ithicana spit upon our friendship, and now they will pay the price.”
Except it wasn’t Ithicana’s people who deserved to pay.
The letter in her pocket giving her the authority to take command burned like fire, but her aunt had been specific: say nothing until you are returned to Nerastis.
Zarrah’s mind warred with the order, with her desire to do something, anything, to stop what was about to happen to Ithicana. “Cousin, please. King Aren may have spit on our friendship, but it will be his people—innocents who had nothing to do with that decision—who will pay the ultimate price. For them, we should do this.”