The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn
Chapter Ten
Margrete
Margrete wasn’t retrievedfor breakfast the following morning, though she couldn’t say she was surprised. Two guards had been posted outside her door the night before, a reminder that breaking out was futile.
After last night, she’d been too exhausted to consider the balcony and its chance at escape. Instead, she climbed into bed and didn’t leave it until shortly after sunrise when a servant delivered a platter of fruits and cheeses. The boy set the tray on Margrete’s bed, then handed her a small, folded piece of parchment before leaving her alone again.
She opened the note, only to be met with a few lines of elegant scrawl.
Let me know if you need anything.
Shade
Margrete studied the note, half wanting to crumple it and half thrilled that at least one person seemed to care about the prisoner locked away in the tower. But how was she supposed to let Shade know if she needed help?
When she finished eating, she paced her room, praying someone would come for her, give her answers. Anything, really. She needed out. An hour passed, then another, and another, driving Margrete mad.
She went to the portal and peered through the dense mist in hopes of making out the sentries she knew to be flanking her door. “How long is he going to keep me here?” she shouted, her voice harsh, but no answer came.
Frustrated, Margrete groaned and collapsed on her bed, holding back tears that constricted her throat. She missed Birdie, worried for her. If only they’d made it to Cartus, they’d be together now. Gods, she couldn’t believe she actually wished she’d been married off to the handsome count. Instead, she was stolen by a pirate king.
She sat up, her attention wandering to the stack of books that had been left for her. There had to be something in those pages she could use.
Margrete crawled out of bed, scooped the books beneath her arm, and carried them to the balcony. Sitting in the lone chair, she picked up the first book.
Enemies of Azantian.
It was thick, weighing heavily in her lap, the leather cover worn from age. She opened it to the first page.
A map of the island stared back. While half of the illustration was covered in splatters of what appeared to be spilled ink, enough of the map was visible for her to glean just how large Azantian was. A delirious chuckle bubbled up from her throat. Bash didn’t trust her, and leaving this for her to find was a mistake he might regret.
She planted her finger on what had to be the palace. Azantian’s sigil, a crescent moon and star, had been drawn right above the towering building. It was located on the southern side of the island, and most of the homes and markets were concentrated around the fortress. She scanned the page, noting a few scattered settlements farther inland surrounded by dense trees, at least a day’s journey away.
She found nothing helpful when she flipped through the rest of the book, as the majority of the text was dedicated to the art of war and combat. Before setting it aside, she tore out the map, folded it neatly into a square, and tucked it into her pocket. She might find a use for it later.
The next book was a compiled history of the mortal realms, and while she remembered her studies well enough, she thumbed through the pages until she came across one of her favorite stories.
The legendary story of Madius and the Gates of Haldion.
A city located across the sea and nestled on the coast of Vlesa, Haldion was often a stop for traders dealing in goods and spices, its lively markets brimming with travelers and wealthy merchants. According to the tale, a ship bearing hundreds of lost souls—refugees fleeing war in search of a better life—landed at the gates of Haldion. The ignorant king turned the ship away, claiming his city hadn’t the room to house so many. In truth, the king didn’t want the impoverished refugees polluting his lands, and he certainly didn’t wish to waste supplies and efforts on what he deemed a hopeless people.
So, on the second night, the wayward vessel was moored, and a holy man traveling amongst the refugees greeted the king. He was described as a giant, otherworldly, and cruelly beautiful.
He gave the king two options. He could either open the gates and let them in, or he could refuse. However, if he refused, a great plight would overcome Madius and his people—a disease spread by greed.
The king had scoffed, disbelieving of such a grand threat made by a seemingly lowly and desperate man. So, the gates were closed and bolted.
When the second day turned into the third, the sun rose upon a crimson tide. Just as the holy man had warned, death came to the king’s home. It spread through the exchange of coins and valuables. It jumped from hand to hand, the jangle of silver the tolling bells of loss.
Death by greed.
The legend goes on to say that when the city was wiped out, and once every woman and man and child lay still and cold in their beds, the people aboard that ship opened those gates. They settled in the land of Haldion, making their home upon the bodies of the fallen. It is not said where the infamous holy man went, but he disappeared soon after, vanishing into the waves.
On the next page was an elaborately drawn picture of the open gates of Haldion, refugees spilling inside. Standing before them was a man cloaked in black, his face obscured and hands lifted to the skies. Margrete squinted at his depiction and noted the glint of a gold band on his right hand. A twinge of familiarity struck her at the sight of it, but she shut the book with a groan. It was only a myth, though, she could certainly use the holy man’s aid right about now.
With sinking hope, she moved on to the next book, the collection of various plants and herbs of the western islands. She recalled the stunned look on Bash’s face when she told him she was interested in botany. The pirate probably thought she didn’t have a thought in her head. She grinned at the prospect of catching him off guard.
She spent the remainder of the day flipping through the pages, committing to memory the many plants she wasn’t familiar with. There were quite a few that stood out, though she’d yet to see them in person. When she could no longer concentrate on the words, she lost herself to the view of the sea and the endless horizon always just out of reach.
Tonight, under the cover of darkness, she’d make another attempt to leave this place.
She set her book aside and walked to the railing to peer over the side of the palace. The balcony below, the one connected to the terrace and its double doors, beckoned. She noted that the room had been quiet all day. Maybe it was an unused study or library.
Margrete was gauging the distance between her balcony and the ledge when a familiar voice cleared the air.
“Preparing to jump?”
Margrete startled as the deep voice wafted from her chambers and out into the balmy heat. She faced the King of Azantian, her cheeks heating at being caught.
“I’m daring, but I’m not mad.” Margrete straightened her spine and formed her hands into loose fists. She was grateful her voice never wavered.
Bash sauntered closer, the twilight painting his face a rosy blush. Dressed in fine onyx trousers and a matching shirt with the top buttons carelessly undone, he was the picture of a rakish king and rogue.
“I’m not sure what to expect from you anymore, so excuse my assumptions.”
“Assumptions are dangerous things. You remember last night clearly enough?”
He took a step closer, and her pulse quickened.
“I’d be impressed if the world wasn’t at stake,” he said.
The breeze picked up, blowing his coppery locks across his forehead. This close, she could see the thin scar running through his right eyebrow, the light casting it in a nearly pearlescent shimmer.
“How about you tell me what it is you seek, and maybe, maybe, I will be inclined to stay put.”
His masculine scent of smoke and sea wrapped around her like a cloak, her every inhale filled with him. She made to step back, but she only pressed further into the railing.
“I’m surprised your father never told you,” he said, an accusation evident in his tone.
Margrete kept from rolling her eyes. “We must have skipped the topic over our many heart-to-heart conversations,” she snapped.
She expected him to reply with a cutting remark of his own, but instead, his lips dipped into a frown. “In any case, at the insistence of my advisor, I’ve come to fetch you for dinner. Are you hungry? Or would you prefer I let you starve?” He extended an elbow. “Your choice, princess.”
She released a frustrated sigh and, after a long moment of deliberation, linked her arm with his and let him lead her from the room in silence. She had to eat. She needed all her strength for the hours to come. Besides, having lived with her father, she recognized that dull edge lacing the king’s tone, the danger lurking behind every syllable. In his eyes, she was an enemy.
If only he knew they shared a common foe.
The silence was deafening during their march down—only the crunching of boots on stone filling the uneasy gaps. The lack of idle chit-chat wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, as she and Bash weren’t exactly friendly, but Margrete couldn’t stop from asking him what she’d wanted to know since the moment she woke on his ship.
“How did my father come into contact with something so precious that you would ransom his daughter? Isn’t Azantian supposed to be hidden from the mortal realm?” At least, that’s what lore claimed. “And if it’s hidden, how did he manage to find it and evade your forces?”
It didn’t make sense. Margrete knew she was missing a larger piece of the puzzle.
This gave Bash pause, one boot hovering over a step.
He let out a heavy sigh before turning around, rubbing at the nape of his neck. “Your father stole something vital to the island, something that he shouldn’t have been able to get his hands on but did. All I will say is that he used his cunning to fool a very powerful man.” He gripped the banister, knuckles turning white. “Now, we just want it back. We want what is rightfully ours. What he lied and killed to take.” A new tattoo slithered across the back of his hand, a squid with spindly tentacles. It spun in a tight circle before a plume of ink spread across Bash’s skin.
Margrete chewed her lip in thought, doing her best to ignore the impossible creatures that thrived upon his body, the works of art she secretly desired to explore.
“But what did he steal?” She hoped he might answer her question now that he’d opened up, if only slightly.
Money? The captain had plenty of that. Ships? There were hundreds in his fleet. Maps? While rare and precious, an abundance of detailed maps littered his study at home.
“It’s not something that could ever be replicated or replaced,” he answered. “It’s not something from your world.” Shadows danced across his face, the flames from the sconces illuminating all the dark secrets of his eyes. Secrets, and all the shades of honesty as well.
Captain Wood had truly wronged this man. People tended to reveal a great deal about themselves when love or vengeance was the root of their pain.
“I’m sorry,” Margrete said, meaning the words. Bash’s eyes flitted to hers in surprise. “He’s not a kind man,” she added.
Bash frowned. “You truly speak as if you do not like your own father.”
While it wasn’t a question, she answered, truthful and without her usual restraint.
“I thought I made it quite clear that I do not.”
Bash loosened his grip on the banister. The squid glided away, the inky stain swept along with it. “What has he done for you to hate him so?” he asked reluctantly.
Margrete could almost mistake his voice as caring. Maybe it was the rawness in his tone, or how he appeared to hold his breath in anticipation of her reply, but her lips parted on their own accord.
“He—”
“There you are!” Shade appeared around the next curve in the staircase, gliding up the steps in a deep emerald dress that matched Bash’s eyes. “I was wondering what took you so long, so I decided to come up and check on you. Make sure Bash wasn’t giving you too hard a time.”
The moment Bash released Margrete’s gaze, she experienced a hint of regret. She wasn’t sure why.
“Thank you, Shade, but we’re fine. Margrete just had a few…questions.” His eyes flickered to her before lowering. “But let’s not keep everyone waiting. I know how testy they get when they’re hungry. Especially Adrian.” The smile he forced was strained, but Shade didn’t seem to notice. She merely dipped her head and began the descent, shooting Margrete a timid smile over her shoulder as if to say, ‘I’m here for you.’
Margrete gripped the railing and craned her neck, eyeing Bash with interest. He stood immobile, watching Shade as she took the stairs slowly. She could sense an inner battle brewing just beneath his surface, and a part of her longed to understand the tumultuous thoughts that had him scrunching his brow.
At that moment, she heard more whispers, a chorus of hisses that spun around the spiral staircase in a hollow echo.
“We should go.” Bash cleared his throat and shook his head slightly. She noted how he scanned the stairwell, his jaw ticking.
Had he heard the whispers, too?
If he did, he made no mention of it, walking past Margrete as he led the way down. Occasionally he’d peek over his shoulder to assure himself she followed, though he never lingered for long. She found she was thankful for the silence. Telling her secrets would have done nothing but pain her. Whatever compulsion she’d felt to trust him had to have been borne from exhaustion. This was what she told herself, at least.
With the last step taken, Bash delivered her to an opulent dining hall. Golden beams met with sea glass walls, and arched windows reached for the top of the cathedral ceiling. Seashells of varying color and design lined the massive table of polished wood, and six place settings were set out before high-backed chairs of winding metal. Four courtiers were already seated, and the three she recognized—Shade, Adrian, and Ortum—eyed her with curiosity.
She held Ortum’s stare as they glided into the room. The man’s lips tugged up at the sides, clearly glad for her presence. In the light of the dining hall, he appeared older and more rugged, but she still felt the power—the danger—lurking beneath his thin skin. She glanced away quickly.
The other courtier, a lithe woman with pallid skin and straight, jet-black hair, kept her eyes on her lap, though she briefly brought her gaze to Margrete, taking her in with a quiet appraisal. The two open spaces were at the head of the table and a spot beside Adrian.
Bash situated himself at the head of the table, leaving her to sit next to Adrian. The commander offered her a timid smile.
“Good evening, my king,” Adrian greeted.
Those assembled tilted their heads to Bash in a sign of respect. One he returned.
“Well, don’t wait on my account.” He motioned to the food laid out on plates of gold—a delectable dish of pan-seared snapper on a vibrant citrus salad.
A cautious chatter picked up around her, everyone seemingly content to ignore the prisoner at the table. The entire situation was peculiar.
As Margrete pretended to pick at her salad, she listened to a conversation taking place between Shade and the dark-haired woman to her right.
“Anything today, Nerissa?” Shade asked beneath her breath.
The girl lifted her head and a fringe of black hair fell over her dark eyes. “The gates are weakening.”
Shade cast a subtle glance to Ortum who nodded his head sadly in return, the pair sharing an unspoken conversation.
“Do you know how much longer he can hold them?” Shade asked, her eyes once more wandering to the advisor.
Margrete hadn’t the faintest idea what they were talking about.
“No,” Nerissa replied, using her fork to poke at her full plate of food. “But everything is what it should be. At least that is how it appeared to me, but I will alert you if another vision strikes.” Her eyes flashed to Margrete, as if those cryptic words had been meant for her.
That was when Margrete realized with startling clarity what Nerissa was.
A seer.
There’d been rumors of those gifted with the Sight, but just as Azantian was painted as a myth, seers were dismissed as remnants of the past. She pondered what abilities this young woman, who looked like she would be knocked over in a gust of wind, possessed.
Ortum cast his eyes to his plate, a contemplative expression marring his weathered face. Margrete could’ve sworn she glimpsed a flash of anger twist his lips, but it was gone before she could fully register it.
“He hasn’t been much for talking these last few weeks,” Adrian whispered against her hair, startling her. As if he sensed them speaking about him, Ortum turned his head in their direction. “He was the late king’s most trusted advisor, and now he’s Bash’s. But Ortum has had a lot on his plate over the years, so he can come off as…peculiar at times. Though I suspect his responsibilities are finally taking their toll.”
So Ortum was the advisor who’d insisted Bash include her tonight? Was that why he appeared so satisfied when she’d entered the room? Although, what she truly wished to know was why he wanted her there at all.
Margrete watched as Ortum turned a knowing gaze to Bash. The king nodded at him with a curt show of respect. What made this man so special as to receive the admiration of the king? But even if she asked, she doubted Bash would give her an answer.
“I might be able to convince Bash to allow me to escort you around the markets tomorrow.”
Margrete abandoned the king and his advisor, looking to Adrian. “I doubt he would. Not after yesterday.”
“Eh.” He waved a hand. “He knows I won’t let you out of my sight. Bay got into enough trouble last night for me to be on my guard.” Adrian’s words weren’t malicious. If anything, he was teasing her. Margrete wasn’t sure what to make of it, but she could use this conversation to her advantage.
“I suppose fresh air would do me good,” she said, even though she didn’t plan on being around long enough to take a tour with him. Her eyes flickered to the knife resting beside her plate. The silver glinted in the quivering light of the sconces.
“Is it a large island?” She angled her body so it concealed her hand as she reached for the cutlery. “My view faces the sea, so I’m unable to take in the city,” she added.
Guilt lay heavy in her chest as she distracted Adrian, engaging him in conversation while she made her hasty grab. In different circumstances, she could imagine them getting along quite nicely.
She gripped the cool metal and dragged the knife below the tablecloth, slowly sliding the blade up her fitted sleeve.
It wasn’t extraordinarily sharp, but it was something with a pointed tip, and if she put enough force behind it, damage could be done. At this rate, it was better than nothing.
“Azantian is larger than it looks.” Pride brightened Adrian’s features. “I think you’ll be surprised by what you see. Our markets are like none in the world.”
“I look forward to it then,” she said, thankful when Adrian’s focus was directed to Shade a moment later.
She may have lost Adrian’s attention, but she’d gained another’s.
Lifting her gaze, Margrete locked eyes with the King of Azantian. Bash boldly drank her in as he lounged in his seat, the sharpness of his stare unnerving. Her pulse raced. She felt the chill of her stolen knife acutely, fearful that the cunning king had caught her in the act. But his fingers only idly tapped the arms of his chair, and his gaze lay solely on her eyes. It might as well have been only the two of them in that room.
Just as he so brazenly inspected her, Margrete decided to delve beyond the mask he wore, past the facade of cunning pirate and stoic king. It might’ve been the first time she really looked at him, and what she saw sent shivers down her spine. She’d recognize that look anywhere—it was what her mirror reflected every morning.
Sorrow. The kind that rooted deep within your bones.
Bash was the first to glance away, and a part of her felt like she’d won.
Margrete smiled, her grin flourishing as the knife pressed against her skin. She almost regretted that she wouldn’t be there to see Bash’s face when he discovered her missing the following morning.