On the other hand, Her Highness looked cheerier than she had in days. She was probably encouraged by the prospect of stepping onto solid ground again. She stood, chin up, shoulders back, drinking in the view, as if storing it away for future use.
The helmsman shouted orders to the rowers as the Siren made a graceful turn, coming up alongside the largest of the docks, which was emblazoned with the siren emblem Breon had come to associate with the empress.
The empress descended from the quarterdeck and strode toward them, smiling. “Welcome to Celesgarde,” she said. “You’ll be housed in the palace as my honored guests.” Her purple eyes flicked over them. “I am not surprised that you have an affinity for the sea,” she said to Breon. “You have . . . so many gifts.” Impulsively, she drew him into her arms, so that his face was pressed into her leathers while her other hand toyed with his hair, raising gooseflesh across his back and shoulders. “I have waited so long for this day,” she murmured. “We will be so great together, I promise you.”
What did she mean by that? Was she speaking of some sort of . . . relationship?
Breon’s heart slammed around in his chest, as if it might break through skin and bone. Fear and revulsion shuddered through him by turns, and his magemark seethed and burned. He steeled himself, focused, reaching out, listening for any whisper of song.
When it came, it was hauntingly familiar, as if it was already embedded in his bones. He couldn’t help thinking, Is it really her song, or my own?
This is where it all begins.
This is where it all ends.
The shattering,
The rejoining.
Forged in the bleeding earth,
As it has been, it shall be again.
At midsummer,
When the sun pauses in the sky.
It echoed between them, reverberating into a clamor of notes until he pressed his hands over his ears—but there was no way to shut it out.
Finally, blessedly, Celestine released him and turned to Her Highness. “I trust that you are more capable on land than you are on the water.” It sounded like some sort of threat or warning.
“I am more capable on land,” the princess said, with a flash of her usual spirit. The color had returned to her cheeks. She stood, hands on hips, studying the harbor, the ships, the new-built town, the palace—no doubt looking for any vulnerability or advantage in an impossible fight.
Good luck, Your Highness, Breon thought.
This thought was interrupted by shouts from the others on the quay. They were pointing at the sky, some crouching and covering their heads with their hands. Breon looked up in time to see a dark shape flap across the face of the moon. It circled once, glittering, then beat it toward the mountains, its flight disjointed, erratic, as if it was injured.
They all watched it until it was out of sight. Lyss turned to the empress. “What was that?”
“Sun dragon,” the empress said. “The mountains in Carthis are infested with them, but we don’t see many of them this far north. Most can’t make it through the Boil, but it’s good hunting for those who do.”
33
THE BLACK WIDOW
In the days following his visit with the Matelon brothers, Destin wished he could warn Evan that their gambit had failed. But he had no idea where he was. When they’d parted, Evan had mentioned sailing north, which was why, for one heart-stopping moment, Destin had thought that Evan was the prisoner Matelon described, the target of Celestine’s attack on Chalk Cliffs. Especially when Matelon said that he was from Tarvos.
But no. This red-haired busker did not match Evan’s description. So, who was it? Was it another magemarked target that had brought the empress here?
Be careful, Pirate, he thought. Be smart. Keep moving. In the meantime, he resolved to do whatever he could to keep Celestine from expanding her foothold in the wetlands. He needed a plan.
These days, though, it seemed events were moving too fast, spiraling out of control. These days, his plans seemed slapdash and reactive. But he had to try.
Destin found Queen Marina on the terrace with the princess Madeleine and a handful of her most trusted ladies—the survivors from among those who had come with her from Tamron when she’d married King Gerard. Whenever Gerard had wanted to punish Marina for some particularly grievous sin, one of her ladies-in-waiting would disappear, to be replaced by a Montaigne loyalist. It was heartbreaking to watch Marina become more and more isolated.
Until Destin was put in charge of the disappearing. He stashed the ladies in a temple in Tamron, and they’d gradually returned to their queen since the king’s death.
The queen spent much of her time on the terrace, or in the gardens—places where there was less risk of eavesdroppers. It was something she’d learned from Gerard. It was a good thing she lived in a warm climate.
When she saw Destin, Marina lit up, rising in a rustle of satin and extending her hand for kissing. “Look, Madeleine,” she said. “It’s Cousin Destin.”
Madeleine charged at Destin and threw her arms around him. The princess was nine years old going on twenty-five. It was no wonder—she’d seen too much in her brief life that was unsuitable for children. Or anyone.
When the general had dragged Destin back to Ardenscourt, Marina had welcomed him into her small circle of hurt. She would tend his wounds, both physical and emotional, and he did his best to reciprocate, by sharing information and commiseration. By putting as many weapons into her hands as he could.
“Please. Sit,” the queen said, waving him to a bench. Destin sat, and Madeleine squeezed in beside him. Marina motioned to two of her ladies, who immediately picked up their basilkas and began to play loudly enough to cover the conversation in case anyone was listening.
The queen was dressed in black and purple, as was her custom these days.
“Mourning suits you, Your Majesty,” Destin said. And it did—she looked happier and healthier than he’d ever seen her. The colors she’d chosen set off her raven curls and Tamric complexion.
Marina lifted her skirts and kicked out her feet, exposing bright-red shoes. “I chose these colors in memory of Gerard—to remind me of all the bruises I received at his hands. I don’t want to forget that there are worse things than being a young widow.”
Destin laughed. “Things can always get worse, but every now and then they get better.”
“Maybe,” Marina said, her smile fading. “We’ll see. I think Gerard should have died sooner, when Jarat was younger and I had more influence over him.”
Destin slid a look at the queen. He’d long suspected that Marina knew more about the king’s tragic end than she let on. If she did, she had not shared it with him. While they exchanged information, they each had secrets they kept close.
“Speaking of King Jarat,” Destin said, “what news of the young hawk?” He and the queen often played at pretty speech when discussing the ugliness at court.
Madeleine leaned toward him. “My brother has been drinking all afternoon with Charles and Georges and Luc.” She rolled her eyes. “They’re disgusting.”
Charles and Georges Barbeau and Luc Granger were members of a group of young lordlings—what the young king called his “privy council.” Emphasis on privy. Most were in their early twenties, and so a few years older than Jarat (and Destin, for that matter). They were the sons of thane loyalists, and were minor bannermen, with a lot to gain from a relationship with the king. None were tainted by a history with King Gerard, nor were they spoiled by wisdom or experience—or common sense. They were more than happy to take the young king under their tutelage in the study of drinking, hunting, dicing, wenching, and swordplay.
“I’ve told you to stay away from them,” Marina said. “It’s not suitable conversation and company for a young lady.”
“How else am I supposed to find out anything?” Madeleine said. “Jarat was bragging that he’s going to marry a northern princess.”