Chapter
18

Aodren

IN THE AFTERNOON, THE SUMMIT MEETING adjourns so we all may travel to the port of Celize, the hub of Shaerdan’s sea trade. A road runs southward from the summer castle over a few low hills and past the flat grassy stretch where the camps, merchants’ tents, and the tournament field are located. Patches of forest break up farmlands. And beyond, Celize’s white-painted buildings ascend the ocean-side cliff like tight rows of soldiers. Shoulder to shoulder, and at varying heights, they stand proudly beneath orange roofs.

The carriages roll through town to where the cliffs level into a wide bay. Seagulls squawk at our arrival.

Once we all disembark from the carriages, Judge Soma guides the group onto Shaerdan’s newest ship. His tour takes us through the berth, where he points out passages from the sleeping quarters to the cargo storage below.

“After her maiden voyage, she’ll be the largest vessel on the open waters,” Soma states proudly when we return to the main deck. Salty winds temper the day’s heat.

Gorenza squints out at the calm blue. “And an easier target for pirates.”

“A fair wind abaft her beams, and no one will catch her.” Soma sweeps his arm upward to the rigging and the masts. “Not even your pirates.”

I’ve heard Judge Soma’s roots are in cargo ships and trading. Based on the sailing and sea trade knowledge he uses to counteract Gorenza’s barbs, it’s likely true. While their conversation carries on, leaders and dignitaries wander off the boat, some in favor of shade, others drawn to the shops lining the port. The guards who traveled with us from the summer castle split up, two men to each leader. Soon townspeople notice us and gather around, slowing our ability to separate.

“There goes the bloody king o’ Malam,” I hear someone say.

The guard at my right side draws his sword and searches for the guilty party, but it’s impossible in the amassing crowd that’s gathered. “Back up,” he calls to them. “Or we’ll have you arrested.”

The surrounding crowd obeys, though the barbs keep coming. “A right bludger he is,” someone shouts.

“Channeler user!” a woman shouts.

I cringe and consider returning to the boat, but wherever I go, disfavor tends to follow.

The man protecting my left lunges for her, his sword drawn. I shout for him to stop, and the crowd goes silent. The guard’s baffled expression at my insistence spreads to the others. The men cannot understand why I would allow disrespectful comments to be uttered in my presence. In truth, a small voice inside me wonders the same.

Punishing this woman won’t earn the respect I desire for Malam. Nor will it inspire my people to change. The royal decree to end the Purge Proclamation starts with A kingdom ruled by fear is destined to fall. I believed those words when I wrote them, and I believe them now.

“What are you doing?” Segrande presses through the crowd and comes to my side.

“The only thing the blade can force is fear,” I tell him. “Respect must be earned. And I suppose I have not done enough to earn it yet.”

He pulls his lips in tight, and I wonder if he’s reserving judgment until we’re alone.

“Let us cheer the champions who did well last night,” I shout out to the crowd, hoping to redirect conversations. Then I continue up the hill away from the crowds. The guards are silent, stoic sidepieces to me and Segrande, who has fallen back a step, disapproval creating a barrier between us.

I used to think the custom of respect for royalty erected walls of solitude around me. Now I see how fear, disapproval, and animosity have the same power.

The farther we walk, the more the crowd thins until we’re almost alone. My back aches from yesterday. After the long hours in meetings, the tightness has increased. Ahead, a shopkeeper sweeps the cobblestones. Two sailors emerge from a doorway, only to change direction when they notice me and the guards at my rear.

“Seclusion prefers a nobleman’s company best,” Segrande says.

“You mean a nobleman prefers seclusion?”

“Do I? I hadn’t thought so.” He looks pointedly at the retreating men who scurried away. He is right. Few people dare approach me, let alone meet my eye. The seclusion is sometimes like a prison sentence for high nobility.

“What of the nobleman’s preference?” I ask.

He shrugs. “For some, it would be wealth and power, but I think that you and I would rather smile at faces that will smile back, instead of those etched into coins.”

“You are right. If only there were more willing to smile.” Though Segrande often seems like a watchdog more than an ally, people are important to him. Malam is important to him. And I think, perhaps, I am too. The thought is comforting.

Ahead, a door swings open. A bawdy song filters out, and a man stumbles forward before the door slams closed behind him.

Segrande stiffens. The man ahead is Baltroit, and he’s fallen too far into his cups to walk straight. He crashes into two women stepping out of a bakery, and Segrande curses.

“The day of rest between fights was wise,” I say, to ease his distress. “It gives champions time to celebrate their victories.”

“Or drown their sorrows,” he grouses.

I wave toward Baltroit. “See to him. He has tonight to catch up on rest.”

Now that the crowd is gone, one of the guards follows after Segrande. The other remains behind me.

The bakery door flies open as we pass, and a woman rushes out, tripping into me. Her arms flail, and I’m forced to grasp her so we both don’t fall. She smells of sea breeze and honeysuckle and warm bread. When I move away, the guard lunges toward her, as if he might detain her for accidentally crashing into me, but I put out my hand.

“It was an accident,” I say, and he retreats, giving me space to help the woman.

The familiar blue eyes that stare back at me above a pink lace fan are a pleasant surprise. Her hair, partially drawn away from her face, falls around her shoulders in shiny curls that have always looked black to me, though I see now strands of deep brown woven into her raven hair. Against her yellow dress, the contrast is striking. Beautiful.

“Lir—”

“Your Highness,” she says with reverence. Did she intentionally cut me off?

The fan flutters in front of her face, and her lashes sweep down, as if she’s chagrined. The Lirra I’ve come to know is near impossible to ruffle, let alone embarrass. Her free hand flattens to the skin above her sweeping neckline. I force my gaze to the top of her head as she dips in a wobbly bow to the cobblestones.

“I b-b-beg your forgiveness. I didn’t see you there.” Her eyes flit everywhere but at me and sink behind the fluttering pink lace.

Is she nervous? How is that possible?

“Accidents happen. No apology necessary,” I say uncertainly.

She squeaks or giggles, I cannot tell. This version of Lirra, painfully shy and simpering, throws me. I cannot make sense of her behavior in contrast to the girl who slept in my room last night.

She apologizes profusely again, and then adopts a frightened-rabbit expression when the guard tells her to move along.

It’s a ruse. It must be. And yet, even when she’s playacting, this girl manages to render me speechless. I watch her go, questions building, but the moment she’s out of sight, I shut them down, remembering Segrande’s comment about solitude. Curiosity over Lirra is unimportant in comparison to the summit and the tournament. Whether I like it or not, my business with her is done.

Back at the pier, the other leaders are still busily exploring the wide array of shops. I climb into an empty carriage, thankful for a moment to finally rest. I collapse forward to loosen the bunched muscles in my back. That is when a crunch sounds.

I straighten and pat my chest, feeling a crinkle under my palm.

A folded piece of parchment has been stuffed into my jacket. I smile to myself. I should’ve expected there was more to the run-in with Lirra.

AC,

Meet me just before sunrise. Cathedral on the cliff. Remember to take two rights, two lefts, a right, left, right, and right. Come alone.

LB