Stormsinger (Storms in Amethir Book 1)
Read Stormsinger (Storms in Amethir Book 1) Online
Authors: Stephanie A. Cain
Stormsinger
Storms in Amethir : Book One
Stephanie A. Cain
Also by Stephanie A. Cain
Storms in Amethir
The Weather War (forthcoming)
Storms in Amethir Holiday Novellas
Faith and Fealty
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Contents
Dedicated to my parents, who have always believed in me
Following seas and a clear sunset. Arama Dzornaea closed her eyes and relished the feel of the wind in her face. It would be a short, easy sail from Maron Palace to Ranarr. She could do the run in under three days, with a good tailwind and skimming in close to The Blades. With Prince Vistaren on board, she had the dubious benefit of a stormwitch to provide those tailwinds, but there was no way she would risk the prince through The Blades. They would swing wide and take a leisurely week to make the trip.
Arama didn't think Prince Vistaren would mind the extra days; after all, they were going to Ranarr to meet his bride.
"Tighten up that topsail," she ordered, and watched her crew leap to obey. "Good. We'll be crossing the sandbar any minute. As soon as we're out, signal the lightkeepers."
Next to her, a man with short, spiky black hair gave a contented grunt. "It's been too long since I've been to sea. I'd thank his highness for this chance, if I didn't know he was so sick over the whole thing."
Arama glanced at him. "You're welcome on my ship any time you want, Lo."
He chuckled. "Aye, I know that. I suspect his majesty wouldn't care."
Arama turned her gaze back to the sea, smiling. "You might be surprised. King Rekel listens to me from time to time."
"He ought to. That last Strid vessel you took outfitted half the army."
She rolled her eyes at Lo's exaggeration, but there was no denying she was the king's top privateer. She'd received her letter of marque twelve years ago, after the
Bounder
went down off Swordfish Island, and she'd captured more ships than the next two privateers combined. She never had trouble filling her crew of twenty, and though she was a half-Crelin of no particular rank, she had pull most aristocrats could only dream of.
"Are you expecting any trouble?" Lo scratched at the stubble on his chin, not looking at her. His light gray eyes were focused on the sea.
"Nothing from Strid or Tamnen, if that's what you mean," she replied. "And we've that stormwitch to protect us from bad weather." She couldn't quite keep the distaste out of her voice, so to hide it she shouted, "Get that signal flag up, and sharpish! We've crossed the bar and the lightkeepers need to send word to his majesty."
Lozarr hadn't missed it. "She's a good stormwitch, Arama," he said, his voice low. "I hand-picked her. She's prickly as the seven hells, but she's strong and resilient, and she knows her craft."
Arama cleared her throat. Lozarr saw her too clearly. It threw her off balance, though she had tried for years to settle into it. They'd met on the
Bounder
. He knew she hated stormwitches--and why. Sometimes his understanding about it made her want to shout and throw things. Other times--not often--that same understanding made her want to lean against his chest and let him wrap strong arms around her. Whenever that particularly disconcerting desire hit her, she went looking for a Strid ship to attack. Blowing things up always made her feel better.
It bothered her that Lo knew her well enough to understand all of that. He straightened and shrugged his shoulders. "Anyway. You'll meet her tomorrow. I'm going to check on Prince Vistaren and make sure everyone's settled. I'll see you in the morning." He leaned in to brush a prickly kiss against her cheek, and she permitted it only because he'd never tried anything more familiar.
"Dream well," she said, hoping her voice wasn't too flinty. She loved Lozarr. As much as she could love anyone, she loved him. She couldn't afford to drive him away. She wouldn't want to. She just couldn't afford to let him too close.
She didn't look as he climbed down the ladder from the quarterdeck. When he'd passed amidships, though, she turned and watched his broad, wool-clad shoulders as he went below deck for the night.
Arama Dzornaea, King Rekel's privateer, infamous Storm Petrel, couldn't afford the luxury of love, but she wasn't so far gone that she didn't lament the sacrifice.
"Will she like me, Lo?" Prince Vistaren had no illusions about himself. Despite his good Crelin genes and olive skin, he would only be called handsome by a particularly charitable observer. His face was too round, his frame too short. He was, to put a fine point on it, pudgy. Everything, in Vistaren's opinion, that a crown prince should
not
be.
"Of course she will. You're intelligent and affable, and you understand both the pressure and the privilege of duty." Lozarr Algot was a kind man. Not at all what a general ought to be like, Vistaren thought. Thank the gods for that.
"I've wanted to meet her since I was ten," Vistaren admitted. "I was studying the conflict between Tamnen and Strid, and read about the battle between the
Dawn Star
and the
Kerava
. Did you know her back then?"
Lo scraped a hand down his stubbled jaw, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile. "I did. She was barely older than you are now, and more full of herself than a he-cock on a--" He broke off. "That is to say, she was...well. Arrogant."
There was a warmth in Lo's eyes that made Vistaren's heart jump.
That
, something whispered. That was what love looked like. Not a few stilted words exchanged on a page. Not a promise made for economic and political compromise. Not even lust. Vistaren might be young, but he understood lust. What he saw in Lo's eyes when he talked about Arama was the real thing.
"Deservedly so," Vistaren commented. "She was, what, twenty? And she took down the flagship of the Tamnen navy."
"She was twenty-two." Lozarr shook his head. "And I was twenty." He was smiling, but to Vistaren it looked sad. "We were so young."
"I ought to be offended at that."
Lo chuckled. "You're older at twenty than I was at twenty-five, lad. The shadow of the crown has aged you." He stood. "And taught you better manners than I've ever had. We ought to have been at breakfast five minutes ago, and Captain Arama runs a tight ship, my prince."
Vistaren jumped to his feet. "There goes my chance to make a good impression on her," he lamented. "How do I look?"
"Tidy." Vistaren twitched. He saw Lo fight a grin. After a moment, Lo added, "Elegant, but not arrogant, highness."
Vistaren gave a sharp nod and left the cabin. A man had to have standards, and for the past three years, he had decided elegant was his. Amethir wasn't the sort of nation that needed a sophisticated or flamboyant king. She was peopled with fisherfolk, shipbuilders, and stormwitches. They sang songs and wrote plays, but they did not embrace high fashion as did the Strid, nor did they engage in convoluted political maneuverings as did the Tamnen. No, Vistaren was of Amethir, and he would be what she needed.
Even if that meant denying himself.
Captain Dzornaea was everything Vistaren had hoped for--and nothing he had imagined. She was short and skinny, with skin the color of coffee with cream. Her eyes were blue, which spoke of Crelin blood, as did her blue-black hair. But her nose had the thin bridge and slope of a Sterr. She wore dark blue velvet breeches and a crisp, white blouse, with a fitted leather weskit over the blouse. A crimson sash held her sabre and pistol. Her dark brown jacket draped haphazardly over the back of her chair. Vistaren would have thought her formally dressed, except that her breeches ended several inches above her ankles, and her feet were bare.
"Prince Vistaren." Her voice was crisp but friendly as she bowed. "I hope you dreamt well."
Vistaren smiled. "I did indeed, Captain Dzornaea. And you?"
He didn't think he was imagining the flicker of a shadow in her gaze. "Well enough, highness." She gestured at the table.
Vistaren sat, which allowed the others to sit as well. He took a roll and a piece of meat, glancing at the captain. There were shadows under her eyes. Her hair, which was wavy and cropped jaw-length, looked tousled. For a brief instant, Vistaren allowed himself to imagine that she'd spent a passion-filled night with Lozarr. Then he remembered the lines of sorrow at either side of Lo's mouth and realized that couldn't have happened.
"Tell me about our journey," Vistaren said.
Arama smiled. "It's ill luck to say a voyage should be easy, highness." She sipped from a thick-walled mug. "I have made the run from Maron to Ranarr more times than I can count. If I skim in close to the Blades and have following seas, I can do it under three days. This trip, we'll swing well wide of the Blades and make the voyage in a week."
Vistaren nodded. "The
Dawn Star
is a fine vessel. I've read of your exploits, of course."
"I hope your highness does not expect battles at sea," Arama said. Her mouth was quirked up. Vistaren thought she was teasing him.
He made a show of mulling it over. "Not unless you feel it absolutely necessary, Captain," he said finally. "I understand it is a serious request to make of you."
She laughed. "Your father would have me keel-hauled if I involved you in a sea battle, Prince Vistaren." Her amusement warmed him. She thought he was funny. Then her expression sobered. "And I suspect your bride-to-be would object, as well."
It was like she'd doused him in cold water. "Indeed." He helped himself to several slices of bacon. He didn't want to think about Princess Azmei. "I have complete confidence in you, Captain Dzornaea, to see us safely to Ranarr."
She inclined her torso, which impressed Vistaren. He'd never realized one could bow effectively while seated. He dismissed the topic with a flick of his hand. "Tell me, Captain, how are the seas this morning? I have little sailing experience, so while I find the rocking of the ship exhilarating, I have no idea if we are in heavy seas or...well, whatever isn't heavy seas."
Arama laughed. "The sea is in a fine mood today, your highness. Having little sailing experience is no flaw, but we shall fill that lack before we reach Ranarr."
She launched into a lecture about the many moods of the sea. Vistaren felt his shoulders relaxing as Arama spoke, and soon he had all but forgotten he was sailing to meet his bride.