Frozen Tides (8 page)

“Why are you always so kind to me?” she asked. “No other servant cares how
I
feel.”

His expression grew thoughtful. “I suppose when I see someone in pain, I want to help them.”

“Some injured animals will bite the hand that tries to help.”

“Then I suppose it's a good thing you're not an animal, isn't it?” He allowed himself a small smile. “One day, perhaps we'll become close enough that you'll feel free to confide in me all manner of feelings and secrets.”

“And allow myself to trust a Kraeshian man?” she said, half to herself. “I'm not sure that's possible.”

“Perhaps I'm different than other Kraeshian men.”

“A phrase many Kraeshian men might say,” she countered.

They reached her chambers and stopped in front of the entrance. She stood at the door for a moment, regarding Mikah's handsome face.

It was difficult for her to see him as more than an indentured servant, still working to pay off the fee for which his parents traded their strong, healthy son to the Empire. And even though he'd always been kind and considerate to her, Mikah
was
Kraeshian. In Kraeshia, all boys—and girls, too—were brought up believing that only men were worthy of respect and honor, while women existed as mere ornaments and playthings, with no influence on others or the world at large.

She refused to let herself fall for a Kraeshian man, only to be deceived by him.

“I need to rest after my long journey,” she said. “But first, send for my grandmother. I wish to speak with her.”

He bowed. “As you wish, princess.”

Amara went inside, closed the door, and leaned against it. All of the roiling emotions that Amara had pushed so deep down inside herself during the journey home now came rushing to the surface. She ran to the mirror and clutched the sides.

“I'm alive,” she reminded her wild-eyed reflection. “Nineteen years later and I'm still here. I can do anything I want. I can
have
anything I want.”

“Yes, my sweet. You certainly can.”

She spun around to see her grandmother Neela sitting by the window that overlooked the sea.

“Grandmother!” The joy of seeing her chased all of her doubts
and sadness away. She loved this wrinkled, gray-haired woman, her only confidante, who still took the time to dress impeccably in her finest silks and jewels. “You were waiting for me?”

Neela nodded and rose to her feet, extending her arms. Amara rushed into a tight embrace, knowing that, despite her seemingly frail appearance, her grandmother was the strongest woman she knew.

“Is it done?” Neela whispered, patting Amara's shining hair.

“Yes.”

There was a moment of silence. “Did he suffer?”

Amara swallowed the lump in her throat and stepped back from the old woman. “It was quick. Just as you suspected, he betrayed me at the first opportunity, choosing to give his trust and loyalty to a boy he barely knew rather than to his own sister. Grandmother, I know it had to be done, but I have so many doubts.”

Neela nodded, her lips thin and expression plaintive. “Your brother had a good heart. But that was his fatal flaw. He trusted strangers too easily; he saw good in those who only had bad within them. He could have been a valuable ally to you, to
us
, but when it came down to the crucial moment, he didn't prove himself.”

She knew Neela was right, but it didn't make any of it easier. “He spent his last moments hating me.”

Neela pressed her cool, dry palm against Amara's burning cheek. “Then let that hatred make you stronger,
Dhosha
. Hatred and fear are the most powerful emotions there are. Love and compassion make you weak. Men have known this since the beginning of time, and they use this knowledge for their own gain.”

Her grandmother spoke without a trace of anger or pain in her voice. Rather, she made her statement simply, as a truth handed down from a woman who'd lived her whole life under the thumbs of oppressive, controlling men.

A question Amara had locked away inside her heart her whole life burned on her tongue, brought back to the surface after having been insulted and dismissed by her father. She needed to ask it now—needed an answer that could help her make sense of so much.

“
Madhosha
 . . .” It was the Kraeshian word for grandmother, just as
dhosha
was for granddaughter. As he continued to add new kingdoms to his empire over the last three decades, Emperor Cortas had allowed their language to fade away in favor of the universal dialects spoken by most of the world. Neela had always mourned the loss of her native language, and had privately taught Ashur and Amara several Kraeshian words to ensure that they would retain some of their heritage. Amara had a large Kraeshian vocabulary, but the language was complex and she wasn't nearly fluent.

“Yes?” Neela replied gently.

“I . . . I know we're not supposed to speak about the ancient laws, but . . . please, I'm nineteen and I need to know. How did I survive the ritual drowning? How is that even
possible
?”

“My sweet, it pains me greatly that you even know about that horrible day.”

The memory was foggy now, as Amara was not much more than five years old, when she'd overheard her grandmother and father talking about her—her grandmother speaking softly, her father's voice booming.

“Special, you say,” he snarled. “I see nothing special in her.”

“She is still a child,” her grandmother replied, her voice small but calm—a tiny ship in the middle of the sea confronted by a looming hurricane. “One day, you'll see why the gods spared her.”

“Bah. I have three fine sons. What use do I have for a daughter?”

“A daughter means a marriage to the son of a worthy king, to help political negotiations.”

“I've no need for negotiations when all I need is to send my armada to
that worthy king's shores and take his land in the name of Kraeshia. But blood . . . I could certainly use a fitting blood sacrifice as an offering to the gods to keep my empire strong.”

“You already had your chance with Amara,” Neela hissed. “One chance and one alone. But she survived, because she is special and meant for greatness. Make any further attempt on her life and it will be a black mark against your soul. You know this to be true. Even you would not be so bold as to risk so much.”

Neela spoke with a quiet strength that not even the emperor could ignore.

When Amara had tentatively approached Neela about what she'd heard, her grandmother had bristled, sent her away at once, told her she had nothing to worry about.

“Please tell me,
Madhosha
,” Amara insisted now. “Why didn't I drown? Even if I was, somehow,
special
 . . . I was still just a baby. A baby is not a fish; they're not born magically knowing how to swim.”

“
Magically
,” Neela repeated slowly, nodding. “That is an important word, isn't it?”

Amara studied her grandmother's wise gray eyes, her heart skipping a beat. “Did magic have something to do with my survival?”

“It is time you knew the truth.” Neela went to the window and gazed out at the sparkling Silver Sea. “Your mother loved you so much. She barely survived the beating she received for birthing a girl.” Neela's cheek twitched, as if it pained her to recall the memory. “My daughter hated her husband, your father, from the moment she learned they were to marry. He was well-known to be especially vicious toward women who knew their own minds and argued with him. He enjoyed breaking them of this tendency until they agreed with every word he spoke. For years she tolerated his abusive ways. After you were born, she knew that he would invoke the ritual to rid himself of a female child, a symbol of his own
perceived weakness. She had stopped trying to protect herself by then, but she swore to protect you at any cost. She found an apothecary from a recently conquered kingdom, who was rumored to be able to brew a very rare—and dangerous—potion, which she poured in your ear just before the ritual took place.”

Amara knew next to nothing about her mother, who'd died shortly after she was born. Her father—who had yet to remarry, but kept many mistresses—refused to talk about her, and thus so did everyone else in the Spear. “The potion—that's what kept me alive?”

“Not exactly. It was a resurrection potion.”

Amara regarded Neela with widening eyes.

“The potion did not keep you alive,” Neela said gravely. “The potion brought you back from death.”

Amara clasped her hand to her mouth to cover her shocked gasp. She always believed there had to be a simple answer to why she didn't drown—perhaps the water hadn't been deep enough. Perhaps she'd managed to float or a nursemaid had done something secretly to help her stay alive.

There were many potions that could be acquired for a variety of illnesses and uses, but Amara had never heard of anything so powerful. “What is the price of such magic?” she asked, her voice raspy.

Neela curled her gnarled fingers around the locket at her throat. “It is the most costly magic of all. A life for a life.”

An icy wave of dizziness stole her breath and nearly knocked Amara to her knees. She absently grabbed for a chair behind her and sat down with a thud. “My mother gave her life for mine.”

Neela turned to her granddaughter, her eyes glossy but tearless. Amara had never seen her cry, not once. “Like I said, your mother loved you, very much. She knew you would grow up to be strong and brave, like her. And you have. I can see it in your eyes,
my sweet
dhosha
. This is why, from the moment you were able to speak and learn, I've taught you all the specific skills and knowledge I have. And I swear on my life, this one and the next, that I will continue to guide you to your destiny.”

Neela reached for her, and Amara pushed herself up from the chair and grasped her grandmother's hand.

“Thank you, Grandmother.”

This chilling revelation only made Amara more committed to her ultimate goal. Killing her traitorous brother and stealing the water Kindred had only been the first step. It didn't matter how long it took her to achieve it. No matter the cost. No matter how many lies she had to tell or how much blood she had to spill.

One day, Amara Cortas would be the first Empress of Kraeshia. And she would rule the world.

JONAS

AURANOS

T
he docks of King's Harbor were swarming with activity by the time Jonas and Lysandra arrived at mid-morning. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men milled about, loading and unloading ships at port. Perched there on the edge of the sea was a lively village, its taverns, inns, and shops ready and waiting for the workers to finish their day.

The plan had been to get there by dawn, but Jonas was moving slower than usual, burdened by his injury.

Lysandra pressed a mug of spiced peach cider into his hand outside of a meeting house. “How are you doing?” she asked with concern.

“Fine.” He forced a smile. “Just fine. For a poor half-blind guy, that is.” He indicated his borrowed eye patch. “By the way, have I mentioned how lovely you look in that gown? Rose is definitely your color.”

She scowled and looked down at her outfit. “Don't remind me of the fact that I'm wearing this monstrosity. I
hate
this dress. Who would ever want to wear such a fancy thing?”

“It's essentially just a cotton frock. It's not exactly all satin and frills fit for a palace ball.”

“I wish I'd have just cut my hair instead,” Lys said, then grimaced and nodded her chin at Jonas. “Or let you or Galyn cut it.”

She was referencing Jonas's new hairstyle, which was courtesy of Lysandra and a sharp blade. His scalp was a tapestry of shaved swatches, scraped skin, and small tufts of dark hair. Thankfully he'd managed to disarm her before she'd drained him of too much blood. The girl was an excellent fighter, but a terrible hair-cutter.

“Nonsense, the gown is just fine,” Jonas said. “And now we're here. Do you see anything?”

“In this crowd? No. We're going to have to split up and start asking around. Someone must know when the king's ship is scheduled to depart.”

“Then let's not waste any time.” He drained the cider, its sweetness giving him a little more energy. Now he only wished his shoulder wasn't on fire and that his fingers on that arm weren't going numb.

Let's worry about one thing at a time
, he thought.

They made a plan to meet in an hour, then parted ways. Jonas watched Lys swish off in her rose-colored skirt. If it wasn't for the large canvas sack slung over her shoulder to conceal her bow and arrows, she'd easily be able to pass for the daughter of a wealthy Auranian.

Many of the men on the docks were bundled up in wool cloaks and heavy overcoats. Jonas knew from looking at them how chilly the morning was, but his fever made him feel as though it were the hottest point of midday. He also felt dizzy, but still he refused to go somewhere and rest while Lysandra took over. This was too important. The king would be here, out in the open. In this crowd, surely he and Lysandra could create enough chaos to distract
any bodyguards, corner the king, and question him about Cleo's whereabouts before Jonas finally sliced his evil throat.

He forced his weakened body forward into the crowd, closer to the ships, stopping several men as he went and inquiring about departure times and passengers. He and Lysandra had prepared a story to tell these deckhands, that they were a couple who'd eloped and were looking for passage aboard a ship to take them overseas on a wedding journey. They thought this fib would be particularly successful in leading into a conversation about the king, since Princess Lucia was rumored to have just eloped herself.

After speaking to at least ten men, Jonas had been offered passage aboard five different ships, but no information of any use.

Feeling frustrated and faint, he took a break and stood on the creaky wooden dock, scanning the line of ships until his gaze settled on one in particular: a rickety-looking boat, half the size of all the others, painted along the sides with grapevines and the words W
INE
IS
L
IFE
.

A Paelsian ship delivering wine to Auranos.

On any other day, the sight of this docking boat might have made Jonas feel nostalgic. But today, nothing but rage rose within him.

“Back to business, just like that,” he muttered.

Of course, no matter what kinds of travesties and violence Jonas's homeland had just endured, Auranians wouldn't dare deprive themselves of their fine Paelsian wine, which was valued for its perfect sweetness and its total lack of any ill effects after a night of overindulging.

Drink yourself rotten and feel just fine the next day. Of course that was a promise of the utmost importance to these Auranians—still hedonistic, even under the King of Blood's rule.

Now that Jonas believed in the legends, and had witnessed firsthand the life-giving effects of Paelsian grape seeds infused with earth magic, which had brought him back from the brink of death, he was certain that Paelsian wine had
elementia
to thank for its success.

And Jonas still had Auranos to condemn for enslaving Paelsians, monopolizing their vineyards, and binding them into a contract to sell only to them.

It was a good reminder that Limerians weren't the only evildoers in the world.

Jonas swayed on his feet as a wave of dizziness washed over him. It stank near the water—of fish, of waste thrown over the side of the docked ships, of the ripe body odor of the workers. And he could feel his fever getting worse.

Just before he was about to keel over, a hand gripped his arm, keeping him upright.

“Well, if it isn't my favorite rebel!” boomed a jolly voice. “Good morning, Jonas!”

Jonas turned toward the man, who regarded him with a wide, toothy grin. Ah, yes, it was Bruno, Galyn's grandfather. Jonas was well acquainted with the old man, who had great enthusiasm for the rebel cause, as well as a tendency to speak his thoughts and opinions aloud at high volumes.

“Bruno, please, speak softly.” Jonas looked around nervously.

Bruno's smile dropped away. “My poor boy, did you lose your eye?”

“I . . . uh, no.” He absently brushed his fingers over the eye patch. “It's only a disguise. I'm rather recognizable around here, in case you didn't know. So, hush.”

“Well, thank the goddess for that! Two eyes are much more
useful than only one.” The old man signaled toward a worker from the Paelsian ship who'd disembarked and drawn closer to them. “Good, that's good! Twenty cases, yes?”

“Yes, sir!”

Jonas eyed the ship. “You're picking up a shipment?”

Bruno nodded. “Been checking here every day for nearly a week because the ship was delayed. But I had to be diligent so someone else wouldn't sweep in and steal my order. The wine's so popular the Silver Toad would be shuttered for good without it.”

If he'd been here for a week, he could be of great help to Jonas.

“Bruno . . . do you know when the king will be here? Have you heard people here talking about his departure over the past week? Nerissa told us he's taking a trip overseas.”

Bruno frowned. “King Corvin? But he's dead!”

Jonas tried to keep his patience. “No, Bruno. King Gaius.”

Bruno's entire face went sour. “Bah. He's an evil snake, that one! Going to take us all down in flames if we give him half a chance!”

“Agreed. But have you heard anything about his departure from Auranos?”

He shook his head. “Not a thing. However, I did see him.”

Jonas blinked. “You
saw
him?”

Bruno gestured toward the flock of departing ships with his thumb. “Left earlier this morning on a big black Limerian ship with a red sail. Ugly snake crest painted on the side. How could anyone think he's trustworthy, sailing in on an evil-looking ship like that?”

“He left this morning?”

Bruno nodded. “Passed right by me while I waited in this very spot. I tried to spit on him, you know, to show my support for the rebels, but it landed on a seabird instead.”

The king had already left. And it was Jonas's fault that they'd missed him. He'd been stubborn in his insistence that he come along. Had Lys left early, while Jonas was still asleep, like she'd wanted to, the king might be dead right now, instead of fleeing off on his next evil mission.

“My boy.” Bruno patted his arm. “You've gone very pale. Are you all right?”

“No. I am definitely not all right.” This was just another painful failure to add to his lengthy list.

Bruno sniffed the air, then cocked his head and sniffed again. “What is
that
?”

“What?”

“I smell . . . ugh, merciful goddess, it's like a cross between horse dung and rotting meat.” He continued to sniff, then drew closer to Jonas.

Jonas peered at him warily. “What are you doing?”

“I'm sniffing your shoulder, of course. What does it look like I'm doing?” The man's face fell. “Oh, my. It's you.”

“Me?”

Bruno nodded. “I'm afraid so. My grandson gave you some of the healing mud, didn't he?”

“He did.”

“Let me see.” Bruno poked his left shoulder, causing Jonas to yelp in pain. “Come on, let's see it.”

Jonas tried to concentrate on something other than the stench of the docks and the sweaty bodies passing by all around him. Suddenly, he wished he'd never woken up after his injury, that he was still unconscious in his cot at the Silver Toad.

Grudgingly, he pulled his shirt to the side to give Bruno better access to the bandages.

Bruno gently unwound the bandages and peered underneath.
His expression turned squeamish. “That looks even worse than it smells.”

“And it feels even worse than it looks.” Jonas glanced down at it. Most of the mud had been rubbed away, exposing a raw red wound surrounded by angry purple marks like lightning bolts and green edges that oozed pus.

“You're rotting like a three-week-old melon,” Bruno announced, putting the bandages back in place.

“So the healing mud isn't working at all?”

“That concoction is quite old. It did work moderately when I first received it, but it
never
would have worked for a wound as serious as this. I'm sorry, my boy, but you're going to die.”

Jonas gaped at him. “What?”

Bruno frowned. “I'd suggest cutting off the arm, but unfortunately the wound isn't in the best place for that. You'd have to take the shoulder as well to clear away all the infection, and I'm afraid that just won't work. Perhaps you could find some leeches and hope for the best?”

“I'm not going to go find any leeches. And I'm
not
going to die.” Still, as he said it, even he knew that he didn't sound convinced. He'd seen men in his village fall terminally ill from rotting wounds. Some of the more superstitious Paelsians believed those deaths to be punishments for speaking ill of the chieftain, but even as a child Jonas knew that couldn't be true.

“There's that fighting spirit!” Bruno now patted Jonas's head. “I think that's what I'll miss the most about you when you're dead.”

“I have far too much to do before I die,” Jonas growled. “I just need . . . a healer.”

“Far too late for a healer.”

“Then I need a witch! I need a witch who can heal through touch. Or . . . or grape seeds.”

Bruno eyed him as if he'd gone mad. “Grape seeds, eh? Perhaps there are some witches who can heal a simple scrape, with magical mud or, perhaps, enchanted seeds of some kind. But to heal a wound as deep and putrid as this? Not a chance.”

“But I know one who . . .” He trailed off, remembering that, of course, Phaedra wasn't a common witch; she was a Watcher. And she was dead, after sacrificing her immortality to save Jonas's life.

“You might be able to find a witch with earth magic strong enough to take away your fever and give you some strength back,” Bruno said. “It's unlikely, but I'd say that's your best hope.”

“And where am I supposed to find someone like that?” he muttered, and then a thought occurred to him. “Do you think Nerissa might know?”

“Nerissa might, yes,” Bruno said, nodding. “But she's gone, too.” He gestured toward the sea. “Apparently, Prince Magnus officially requested her presence in the north. See that Auranian ship in the distance there, with the golden sails? That's her, headed off to Limeros.”

“Wait. Did you just say that Magnus is in Limeros?” Jonas said, ignoring another wave of dizziness.

“Yes. On the throne, apparently, with his beautiful wife at his side. You've met the princess, haven't you? She is such a lovely young girl. Of course, I don't support the Damoras by any means, but on a purely physical level, don't you think she and the prince make a rather striking couple? And the chemistry between the two when I saw them on their wedding tour—it practically sizzled!”

Jonas now felt even more ill than before.

“I need to go, immediately. Tell Galyn . . . tell him I'll send a message as soon as I can.” Before Bruno could reply, Jonas was off, his head swirling with new information, far too much to process all at once.

The king had departed, to who-knows-where.

Nerissa was gone.

Prince Magnus was on the throne in Limeros.

And Princess Cleo was with him.

The hour was up, but Lysandra wasn't at the meeting place. Suddenly, he heard a loud shriek coming from somewhere close by.

Lys.

Jonas's legs were weak but still he ran toward the sound, drawing his sword with his right hand.

“Lys!” he yelled as he reached the edge of the village, ready to protect Lysandra from attackers, to fight as hard as he had to to keep her alive.

When he turned a corner he saw her standing there, her chest heaving, her skirts dirty. Two young men lay on the ground in front of her, groaning with pain.

Lys turned to Jonas, her cheeks bright with color, her eyes wild. “This is why I don't wear gowns! It brings about the wrong sort of attention—attention I don't want!”