I’ve never even seen her.
I had begun to think that she was just a myth. Nothing more than a legend to scare royals from leaving their lands. But every time I entertain the thought, another prince turns up dead. It’s yet another reason why I can’t return to Midas and be the king my father wants me to be. I can never stop. Not until I’ve killed her.
“Of course, how could they know?” asks Halina. “It isn’t the right month for it.”
I realize that she’s speaking the truth. The Princes’ Bane only attacks in the same month each year. And if she murdered Cristian, then she was over a fortnight early. Does that mean she’s changed her habits? That no prince is safe on any day?
My lips twitch. “Evil doesn’t follow a calendar,” I say, even though this particular evil has always seemed to do just that.
Beside me, someone clears their throat. I turn and see my sister. I’m not sure how long she’s been standing there, but the amicable smile on her face leads me to assume that she’s heard most of the conversation.
“Brother.” She takes my arm. “Dance with me, won’t you?”
I nod, welcoming the break from the sort of polite conversation the Pasha and his wife seem to enjoy. Which makes me want to be anything other than polite.
“No suitors vying for your attention?” I ask Amara.
“None worth my time,” she says. “And none our charming father would approve of.”
“Those are the best kind.”
“You try explaining that when the boy’s head is on a chopping block.”
I snort. “Then it would be my pleasure,” I tell her. “If only to save some poor boy’s life.”
I turn to Nadir and Halina and give a swift bow, then let my sister lead me onto the floor.
7
Elian
DESPITE ITS NAME, THE Golden Goose is one of the only things in Midas that is not painted to match the pyramid. The walls are crusted brown and the drinks follow in the same hue. The clientele is nothing short of brutish, and most nights, glass crunches underfoot, with blood patching the beer-soaked tables.
It’s one of my favorite places.
The owner is Sakura and she has always just been Sakura. No last name that anyone knows of. She’s pretty and plump, with white-blond hair cut above her ears and thin, angled eyes that are the same brown as the walls. She wears red lipstick dark enough to cover her secrets, and her skin is paler than anything I’ve ever seen. Most people have guessed that she’s from Págos, which sees constant snow and little sun. A land so cold that only natives are able to survive it. It’s rumored, even, that the Págese rarely migrate to other kingdoms because they find the heat to be suffocating. Yet I can’t remember a time when Sakura didn’t own the Golden Goose. She seemed to always be there, or at least, she has been there since I started visiting. And though she’s beautiful, she’s also cruel enough that not even the thieves and felons try to get past her.
Luckily, Sakura likes me. Whenever I’m in Midas, it’s common knowledge that I’ll visit the Golden Goose, and even criminals can’t resist a chance to meet the famous pirate prince, whether it’s to shake my hand or try to con me at cards. And so when I visit, Sakura gives me a smile that shows her straight, milky teeth and lets me drink for free. A thanks for bringing in more customers. It also means that my crew is allowed to stay long after closing to discuss sensitive matters in the dead of night with people I don’t dare bring to the palace.
I suspect half of this is because Sakura enjoys being privy to my secrets. But that doesn’t bother me. As many secrets as Sakura knows about me, I know far more about her. Far worse. And while she may choose to sell the best of mine to the highest bidder, I’ve kept her most valuable mysteries close. Waiting for just the right price.
Tonight my inner circle sits around the crooked table in the center of the Golden Goose and watches as the strange man in front of us fiddles with his cufflinks.
“The stories don’t lie,” he says.
“That’s what a story is,” Madrid says. “A bunch of lies by no-good gossips with too much time on their hands. Right, Captain?”
I shrug and pull the pocket watch from my jacket to check the time. It’s the one present from my father that isn’t gold or new or even princely. It’s plain and black, with no ornate swirls or sparkling stones, and on the inside of the lid, opposite the clock face, is a compass.
I knew it wasn’t an heirloom when my father gifted it to me – all Midasan heirlooms are gold that never lose their shine – but when I asked my father where the watch came from, he simply said that it would help me find my way. And it does just that. Because the compass doesn’t have four points, but two, and neither represents the cardinal points. North is for truth and South is for lies, with a resting place between that indicates either may be possible.
It’s a compass to split the liars from the loyal.
“My information is solid,” the man says.
He’s one of the many who approached me near closing, guaranteeing information to hunt down the mighty Princes’ Bane. I put the word out after the ball that I won’t stop until I’ve found her, and any clues leading to that will be met with a heavy reward. Most of the information was useless. Descriptions of the siren’s burning hair, talk of her eyes or seas she apparently frequents. Some even claim to know the location of the underwater kingdom of Keto, which my compass was quick to see through. Besides, I already know where the kingdom is: the Diávolos Sea. The only problem is that I don’t know where the Diávolos Sea is. And neither does anyone else, apparently.
But this man piqued my interest. Enough so that come midnight, when Sakura announced she was closing and motioned for everyone to leave, I gave her a nod and she proceeded to lock the doors with me and my crew – and this strange man – inside, before heading to the back room, for whatever it was she did when princes commandeered her bar.
The man turns to me. “I’m telling you, Lord Prince,” he says. “The crystal is as real as I am.”
I stare at him. He’s different from the usual caliber I see in the Golden Goose, refined in a way that is forcibly precise. His coat is made of black velvet and his hair is combed into a tidy ponytail, with his shoes polished to gleam against the crusty floorboards. But he’s also uncommonly thin – the lavish coat swallows his pinched shoulders – and his dark skin is quilted red by the sun, like my crew when they’ve spent too long on the deck after a hard day’s sail.
When the man taps his fingers on the table impatiently, the ends of his bitten-down nails catch in the cracks of the wood.
“Tell me more.”
Torik throws his hands up. “You want more rubbish to line your ears with?”
Kye produces a small knife from his belt. “If it’s really rubbish,” he says, thumbing the blade, “then he’ll get what’s coming to him.”
I turn to Kye. “Put it away.”
“We want to be safe.”