Royal Airs
With all his strength, Rafe yanked on a cord, and the world exploded.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Rafe shot up in the air so fast and so far that he couldn’t help a shout of alarm, and he was moving so swiftly, so randomly, that he could hardly get his bearings. Sky—ocean—land—ocean—clouds—ocean—he was spinning and tumbling through the air as the flying bag whipped him through a wild and constantly shifting course. He thought that the chemicals were still combining, delivering little bursts of speed that jerked him in one direction or another. Higher. Closer to land. Farther out to sea.
There seemed to be a dozen straps dangling over his chest and he fumbled through them, trying to find the ones that Clay had said would offer directional control. But it was hopeless. He couldn’t tell which one was supposed to do what, and all the cords kept flopping about anyway, as he dipped and dove and shot higher over the water. So he just yielded to the vagaries of the device and concentrated on trying to figure out where he was.
A fresh burst of chemical combustion spun him around again. Now he was facing land and it wasn’t impossibly far away. He seemed to have migrated to a point equidistant from the ships and the shore. That was good, right? Once he came down, he’d be able to swim to the harbor.
Or he might have been able to, if his hands weren’t tied.
And if he hadn’t been attached to this great puffy ball of heavy canvas. Squinting against the sun, Rafe peered up at the flying bag, which, inflated, was about the size of a massive desk, though rather more spherical. What happened when that hit the water? How quickly would it drag him under?
Almost as he had the thought, the bag emitted a sour, soughing sound and seemed to collapse in on itself. Rafe felt himself plummeting toward the ocean with an ominous directness. Just as he gathered the breath to yell, he was jerked upward again as some late-firing chemicals gave off their own precious gases, momentarily slowing his descent.
Another terrifying plunge, another head-snapping reversal of course—another drop—another brief ascent. Rafe was so disoriented, nauseated, and terrified that he could hardly monitor his progress, but he could see the great sparkling immensity of the ocean growing implacably closer.
Ghyaneth kills me after all, he thought.
The flying bag made a sputtering, hissing sound and utterly deflated, settling lumpily over Rafe’s skull and shoulders. Seconds later he went feetfirst into the water and continued downward a good distance under the surface. At first the shock of cold and the inability to breathe left him paralyzed; the water pressed in on him from all sides, eager to crush him.
Then his own natural buoyancy pushed him upward, and he regained both sense and will. He kicked hard for the surface, feeling the strain in his legs, his back, his lungs. His open eyes were slitted against the salt water as he strove for the pale strip of blue above him where sunlight played on the sea. His head burst clear and he gasped for breath, flailing with his hands and feet to try to keep his face above the water. The canvas flying bag spread out behind him like a spill of sewage, half-submerged, half floating, as a few bubbles of stubborn gas still kept it yearning toward the sky. But it was easy to see that soon it would take on enough water to sink toward the bottom of the ocean.
If I only had a knife! Rafe thought, trying not to panic. I’d cut myself free! It was another five seconds before he remembered he didn’t need one. Buckles. Buckles. The bag is held on with buckles. He clawed at the straps across his chest, greatly impeded by the waterlogged ropes tying his hands together. His fingers were clumsy with cold and his head kept slipping underwater, making it hard to see, hard to function, hard not to succumb to mounting fear. The last little pocket of air seemed to sigh out through the seams of the canvas, and the whole bunched mass of material drifted below the surface of the water. Down—down—down, slowly but inexorably, pulling Rafe with it.
The top of his head was just fully submerged as he worked the last buckle free, tore the final strap from his shoulders, and kicked his way up to the light again. He took a few deep, shuddering breaths—swallowing more than a little salt water as he did so—and tried to figure out where he was and what he should do next. He was so low in the water it was hard to tell which way was land and which was open sea. He was so cold and his muscles were so exhausted that he wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to fight his way to shore even if he knew in which direction to go.
You can’t give up now, he admonished himself, squinting at the sky, trying to determine where he was by the angle of the sun. You can’t escape Ghyaneth just to drown!
That way. If the sun was setting toward the west, land had to be northward, straight in front of him. Rafe aimed his bound hands in the direction he hoped was home, laid himself out in the water, and kicked himself forward.
He began sliding backward through the ocean.
He let out another shout of dismay, momentarily convinced he’d become entangled in the heavy canvas, maybe even a thick weave of seaweed, that he was being pulled down as well as backward. But nothing dragged on his hips or ankles; he didn’t slip below the surface. In fact, he seemed lighter all of a sudden, higher in the water—which had heated to a bearable, almost delicious, temperature. He continued to be carried away from land with an irresistible pressure.
Away from land. Back toward the boats. By a warm, vagrant current designed especially for him.
Zoe, he realized, suddenly suffused with a relief so dazzling it mimicked joy. The coru prime had dipped her hand in the water and commanded it to carry him straight to her side. He was safe. He would not drown after all.
• • •
Rafe had never in his life been so glad to see anything, anything, as the lead ship from the Welchin navy taking shape against the horizon line. Someone spotted him and began shouting and waving, and then the whole railing was crowded with people shouting and waving, and somewhere there was the small splash of a dinghy hitting the water. Moments later, two soldiers pulled up next to him and hauled him into the little boat, and then it was hardly any time at all before he was being raised to the deck by a set of straps and pulleys, because he was too exhausted to climb.
The minute his feet touched the hard planking, women fell on him from all sides. Josetta, Corene, and Zoe hugged him and chanted his name and hugged him again, heedless of his soggy state and the very real possibility that they would suffocate him. He could tell that the princesses were crying and he thought Zoe might be crying, too. He was laughing, when he could catch his breath, but he thought it wouldn’t take much for him to start weeping as well.
“Enough—give him some room—he needs a change of clothes and a quick update on our situation,” came Darien’s voice, slicing cleanly through the feminine commotion. The women reluctantly moved aside to let Darien through, although Josetta kept her hold on Rafe’s arm and seemed unlikely to ever release him. Which suited Rafe just fine.
Darien surveyed him a moment. “I commend you on both your luck and your quick wits,” the regent said at last. “Kayle explained to us what unlikely invention made your escape possible—further explaining that it was wholly untested. You were brave and smart. And fortunate. We saw that scene playing out and were convinced you were going to die.”
“Stop saying that,” Josetta moaned, turning her face into Rafe’s wet shoulder.
He patted her awkwardly with his lashed hands, and Darien made an almost imperceptible gesture. Instantly, one of his soldiers appeared with a knife and quickly sawed through Rafe’s bonds.
“I thank you most gratefully for sailing to my rescue, but I don’t know how many times you’re going to want to save me,” Rafe said gravely, shaking his hands to send blood back to his frozen fingertips. “In the few moments I had to discuss my fate with my cousin, he made it clear that he will never forgo the desire to see me dead. Maybe I would be safer in Malinqua, I don’t know. But I am afraid I will always be a hunted man.”
> “As to that, Zoe has some ideas,” Darien said. “Once we have found some dry clothes for you, will you be up to discussing a deal with the prince?”
“Discussing—will he treat with you? Will he listen?”
“At the moment, he has no choice,” Darien said. “He is in our possession.”
“He is—” Rafe supposed it was the effect of the stress or the water but he was having trouble comprehending what the regent was saying. “What?”
Darien nodded to something over Rafe’s shoulder, so Rafe twisted around to take in the whole tableau of Berringese and Welchin ships. All three of the big warships were surrounded by the smaller navy boats; it was clear soldiers from both nations were prepared for combat, but all of them were awaiting some kind of signal.
“One of the side benefits of your unconventional escape from Ghyaneth’s hands was that you knocked him into the ocean as you shot into the air,” Darien said. “Naturally his own men went diving after him, but—well. If a man is in the water, he is Zoe’s to command. We brought him aboard our ship and we have him now.”
“It’s his fault I overlooked you for a few minutes,” Zoe interposed. “I was concentrating so hard on bringing him to us and keeping his men from him that I didn’t pay much attention to you once you went down. You had a bad few moments, I’m afraid, but I promise you were never going to drown.”
“So Ghyaneth is actually aboard this ship?” Rafe said. “What are you going to do with him?”
“Oh, we’re going to send him home again,” Zoe said, “after we convince him that he’s better off leaving you alone.”
• • •
There was no such thing as a large room on a small boat. Once he had changed into a moderately clean tunic and trousers supplied by the captain, Rafe joined eight other people crowded into a space meant for about half that number. Among them were the regent, the princesses, and four of the primes, for it turned out that both Mirti and Nelson had joined the rescue party.
The other two people in the room were Rafe and his cousin.
Ghyaneth was bound exactly the way Rafe had been: hands tied in front of him and his feet free. Like Rafe, he had gone into the ocean, but no one had bothered to give him a fresh change of clothes. He managed to act as if it didn’t bother him to sit upright in a hard-backed chair, his wet garments plastered against his body, his glare falling impartially on everyone in the room.
His turban had been lost in the struggle, and Rafe was sure he wasn’t the only one taking surreptitious glances at the prince’s ear. It had the familiar triangular pattern cut into the cartilage, though Ghyaneth hadn’t bothered to decorate the pointed edges with hoops. The marks were enough for him. By this you will know that I am royal.
“I think, Prince Ghyaneth, it is time we had a very honest discussion,” Darien said with his usual imperturbability.
Ghyaneth turned his bitter stare at the regent. “Just kill me and be done with it,” he said. “Though I warn you. When my cousin Siacett takes the throne of Berringey, she will be just as determined as I am to see this pretender put to death. He is a threat to her and her children as surely as he is a threat to me.”
Darien shook his head. “I am not going to kill you. I want to find a peaceful solution to our differences.”
Ghyaneth nodded in Rafe’s direction. “Then hand that man over to me and let me go.”
“Since I have gone to considerable trouble to keep Lerafi alive, you must realize that is not going to happen,” Darien replied. “We must discuss other options.”
“He is an enemy of my people!” Ghyaneth burst out. “You know his heritage, but do you know why his bloodline is dangerous? Malinqua and Berringey have been rivals for generations. We have never declared outright war, but there have been incidents—ships mysteriously lost at sea, outposts raided, ambassadors murdered. Subriella’s marriage to my uncle was supposed to bring peace between nations. But it only made things worse.”
Ghyaneth raised his clasped hands to gesture in Rafe’s direction. “And now this man who should be dead is returning to Malinqua, possibly to sit on the throne? A traitor with Berringese blood in his veins ruling over the nation that is our greatest enemy? Perhaps your country may be safe from war, but war will come all the same, and thousands will die, if that man becomes king of Malinqua.”
Probably Darien had something he wanted to say to that, but Rafe couldn’t contain himself. “I won’t go to Malinqua, then,” he offered. “I’ll stay in Welce. I won’t look for a throne in either country. I never wanted to be king anyway.”
Josetta looked at him sharply and then looked away; the stakes were too high, just now, to think about what such a promise might mean to the two of them. Anyway, Ghyaneth was regarding him with a sneer.
“You can swear any vows you like while we are talking treaties,” he said disdainfully, “and you can break them the minute I sail away. I have learned all I need to know about the honor of the Malinquese.”
Before Rafe could answer that, Darien took control of the conversation again. “If you could be convinced that Lerafi Kolovar would stay in Welce, never traveling to either Malinqua or Berringey, would that be enough to make you drop this blood feud? Would you agree to return to Berringey without him and make no more attempts on his life?”
Ghyaneth spoke aloud the exact words that were in Rafe’s head. “It seems unlikely you could make such a guarantee.”
“But if I could?”
Ghyaneth gave an elaborate shrug. “Then yes. I would allow him to live out his days here in your backward little repellent nation. But you won’t be able to convince me.”
Darien nodded at Zoe and she pushed her way to the front of the group. Her smile was friendly but, Rafe thought, rather wicked. “Rafe, show us your hand,” she said. Mystified, he extended his right hand and turned it from side to side for everyone to see. It was raw from the straps and the seawater and the general abuse of the day, but he supposed that wasn’t the point.
“Prince Ghyaneth, watch closely,” she said, holding out her own hand. She didn’t touch Rafe, but it was clear she was concentrating on him. He had the strangest sensation, as if he’d drunk an entire bottle of wine, or replaced his familiar blood with the burning salt water of the ocean. A dark stain quickly spread along his fingers and knuckles, and he felt a deep, dull pain.
Zoe had bruised him without laying a finger on him.
“I am the prime of blood and water,” she told Ghyaneth in a chatty voice. “If I want to, I can pull the blood out of any man’s body and leave him a dry corpse. I don’t even have to touch him.”
Behind him Rafe heard a sharp crack of laughter and Nelson’s crow of delight. “I think I see where this is going,” the sweela prime said to himself.
Zoe ignored him, taking one step closer to Rafe. “Bend your head,” she instructed, and a little fearfully, he did. Her fingertip pushed gently through his hair and came to rest on the back of his skull. His head pulsed with a sudden sharp ache; he bit his lip to keep a gasp from escaping. The agony lasted only a moment, then she lifted her hand.
Rafe tilted his head back to stare at her. Her expression was still sunny. “I’ve made odd little tangles in a couple of Lerafi’s arteries. If he tries to leave Welce, those tangles will burst apart,” she explained. “There will be a little—” She seemed to search for the right word. “Explosion of blood in his head. It will kill him instantly. Lerafi will never trouble you in Berringey or Malinqua.”
The expression on Ghyaneth’s face was a cross between triumph and suspicion. “Most excellent,” he murmured, “but only if I can believe you speak the truth.”
“I don’t think Rafe is the one who will be troublesome,” Kayle said in a dissatisfied voice. “Ghyaneth is the one who’s running around trying to kill people. He might try to harm Rafe even if he has this—this condition—and how will you stop him?”
“I concur,” Mirti said. “Ghyaneth’s sense of honor is different from ours.”
“Oh, I agree with both of you,” Zoe said. She placed one hand flat on the table and leaned across it, placing the tip of her finger against Ghyaneth’s temple.
The prince jerked his head away. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Hold him still,” Zoe said in a businesslike voice, and Nelson and Darien wrestled Ghyaneth into a tight hold. The prince thrashed noisily, but the two men held his head motionless while Zoe again laid her finger against his face. Ghyaneth kicked out against his captors and almost succeeded in upending the table, but Nelson and Darien were immovable. A few moments later, Zoe lifted her hand and they released him.
“What did you do?” the prince panted, staring up at her with fear and horror.
“Exactly what I did to your cousin. I put a few kinks in the arteries that feed your brain. If Rafe is murdered or dies under mysterious circumstances—” Zoe held out her hand, the fingers splayed, and then suddenly contracted them into a tight fist. Rafe felt all the blood in his own body snap in her direction, and by the murmurs of discomfort that went around the room, he guessed everyone else did, too. “If Rafe dies, I will cause those kinks to burst. And you will die.”
“You can’t do that,” Ghyaneth said uncertainly. “Not from hundreds of miles away. No one can do that.”
“Really?” she said quietly. She pointed a finger in the prince’s direction, and he cried out in pain as a bruise blossomed on his exposed forearm. She pointed again, and he leaned over and clutched his ankle. Again, and he rolled to one side, now cradling his bound hands against his shoulder. “I think I can make your blood respond any way I choose, and it doesn’t matter how far away I am. If Rafe dies, I promise you will learn that I am telling the truth.”
“But anything could happen to him!” Ghyaneth cried. “He might be run over by one of your elaymotives! He might be robbed and killed by thieves! That would have nothing to do with me!”