Blackthorne Read online

  I will do what I have to do. Is Eledore not my home? The questions were weighted with months of exhaustion. She had been far too long living in uncertainties. It was time for that to end. One way or another.

  James Slate turned to Ilta when she placed a hand on his arm. For a moment, the lenses of his dark spectacles reflected the light shining in from the high windows overhead like a mirror.

  “The tea is ready,” Ilta said. Her voice was informal, almost a whisper. “It’s directly in front of your right hand. Be careful. It’s hot.”

  Suvi looked to Ilta. Is he blind? Ilta hadn’t mentioned it in her letters.

  After a short pause, Ilta seemed to catch her unspoken question and nodded.

  Why hasn’t she cured him of it? Suvi thought. Is it possible she can’t? Or is it that she’s too afraid to try? Before the war, Ilta had been the former Silmaillia’s impulsive apprentice and had been rumored to be the most powerful healer in the country. She had been passionate and unafraid of her power, but a great deal had happened since then, and one of the consequences was that the queen had died of variola. Has Ilta grown more cautious? Surely, that is a good thing, isn’t it?

  Suvi watched Ilta prepare the tea as if her motions might reveal some secret. Ilta looked up from her task, and Suvi lifted her gaze to the windows. She thought she recognized their shape, but she couldn’t place where she’d seen them before. Probably scavenged from one of Father’s buildings he was so obsessed with. Of course, those buildings were now rubble for the most part—thanks to Acrasian artillery.

  And now here I am. Examining the room, she had to admit that James Slate had done a wonderful job of disguising the stronghold’s original purpose. The forced neutral expression began to hurt as she willed away the beginnings of a bitter smile. The idea that she was now inside what had once been a grave mound held a certain symbolic correctness.

  “Please permit me to formally welcome you to the Hold, Your Grace. Are your accommodations to your liking?” Councilor Slate asked, picking up his cup with expert care. His grey-peppered brown hair was neatly gathered with a black ribbon at the nape of his neck. He dressed like an Acrasian professor of philosophy—in austere blacks and browns—which was, she told herself, as it should be, since that was exactly what he’d been until a little over two years earlier.

  “I’m quite comfortable for the moment, thank you,” Suvi said, relaxing her face. If the man was blind, there was no point in maintaining her control.

  She wondered if he knew about the former Eledorean taboos surrounding death and anything and everyone associated with it. If so, her father would’ve been offended to the point of making the Councilor throw himself on his own sword. Staring at those dark lenses, she found it was difficult to read the man’s intent. Perhaps that’s the point?

  Is he as blind as he pretends? Surely, there is an advantage in being thought more blind than one is?

  If so, I must be careful. She caught herself almost smiling at the thought of the challenge of getting to know his unspoken cues. It’d been one of the things she’d enjoyed about court—the little intrigues, at least the harmless ones. She’d been very good at reading people, and on some level she already liked this James Slate.

  As for the choice of lodging … does it matter? Times change, she thought. And those who beg do not have the option of choosing. Of course, this isn’t the first time the people have had to hide in barrows underground.

  She had grown tired of living like an unwanted guest—an unwanted outlaw guest, to be more precise. How does Nels do it? As much as she loved Otter, she craved a space of her own with a real bed. Oh, goddess, you’ve become a landlubber. Four years before the mast, and this is what has become of you? “My trunks are being transferred from my ship as we speak.”

  “Good,” Slate said. “The Hold is yours, Your Grace. Please feel free to make yourself at home.”

  I shouldn’t delay, Suvi thought. I should seize control and leave no question as to who is in charge. Yet all the time spent negotiating with no actual power made her reluctant to adopt a direct approach. “Forgive my rudeness,” she said. “I find myself overly tired.”

  “Would you rather postpone this meeting?” James Slate asked.

  “No. Thank you.” The longer she waited to assume her place, the harder it would be to battle the Acrasian for political power. He hasn’t given a sign of resistance yet.

  A worried look passed over Ilta’s fine features, marred by a single variola scar high on her forehead. It was clear she was as concerned about the outcome of this meeting as Suvi was. Ilta moved close and whispered, “I promise. Everything is as I wrote to you.”

  Suvi nodded and granted her a small smile. She regretted hesitating. It displayed distrust in her Silmaillia, and she didn’t wish to make the situation with Ilta any more uncomfortable than it was. In any case, Suvi knew the Waterborne were highly skilled at hiding their vessels when forced to conduct their business on land. Dylan had been the one to first repurpose the Hold as a Waterborne warehouse and business office, and in truth, it’d been Nels’s idea to house the refugees in this place, not James Slate’s.

  Stop being a coward, Suvi thought, and took the plunge. I hate treating anyone like this, but it’s necessary. “I find myself in the need to be frank, Mr. Slate. I hope you won’t be insulted. It is not my intent. You have done my people a great service.”

  James Slate’s serene expression didn’t change. Suvi found it unsettling.

  “I highly value honesty, Your Grace,” James Slate said, seeming to address the whole of the room and not merely one individual within it. “I’m flattered by your candor.”

  “My Silmaillia has informed me that you’re a man I can trust,” Suvi said. “Are you?”

  “I believe I am,” James Slate said.

  “Do you know what a Silmaillia is, Mr. Slate?” Suvi asked. “Did Ilta tell you?”

  “She’s your chief counselor,” Slate said. “My Eledorean is not terribly good, but I believe it means ‘Eye of the People.’ ”

  “That’s close enough.” Suvi nodded. “However, there are some details about the Silmaillia of which you may not be aware. For example, Ilta can hear the thoughts of those near to her.” She watched James Slate’s expression for any sign of surprise or dismay and saw none. Unless you count that twitch of an eyebrow? He’s very good. “She also has visions about the future. These abilities have been most useful to the Eledorean crown in regards to palace intrigue. Do we have an understanding?”

  “We do, Your Grace,” James Slate said.

  “One last thing,” Suvi said. “I assume you’ve heard of command magic?”

  It was at this point that she noticed him grow pale. “I have.”

  “All the stories are true,” Suvi said. “Would you care for a demonstration?”

  He cleared his throat. “There is no need, Your Grace.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Suvi said. “Because I am not my father. I don’t believe in abusing those who work for me. However, I wouldn’t recommend taking that as a sign of weakness.” Are you going to fight me for control? Even a Silmaillia can be wrong. Of course, he didn’t need to know that.

  “I give you my word as a gentleman, Your Grace.” James Slate folded his hands in his lap. “I have no lofty aspirations. My interest in governance is strictly an academic one, I assure you. We had need to organize while you were away. I thought a democracy based on the philosophy of the humanist Charles Davidson would serve—”

  “I’m familiar with Davidson’s works,” Suvi said. “They bear a striking resemblance to certain Waterborne texts.”

  “Miss Korpela indicated that Your Grace is well educated in a broad range of political and philosophical subjects,” James Slate said.

  “My mother believed study of political theory to be of great benefit for a queen. In truth, she hoped I would institute radical changes in the Kingdom of Eledore. Improvements for the sake of all the people, not merely the nobility. She was Y
tlainen, after all, and her politics were those of an Ytlainen. Mine, to be frank, aren’t much different from hers.” Suvi didn’t use the words “constitutional monarchy”. She assumed James Slate knew enough of Ytlain to be understood. “Unfortunately, due to certain circumstances, that didn’t happen.”

  Ilta looked away.

  I meant due to my uncle, not you. Suvi said, “Traditionally, a queen’s position of power in this country isn’t exactly stable. Therefore … I hope you’ll forgive my being blunt.”

  “It’s quite all right,” James Slate said. “In truth, I would’ve been disappointed if you hadn’t.”

  Suvi let go of the tension in her shoulders. “I’m finally home.”

  Ilta smiled. “You are.” Having finished serving the tea, she took a seat in the green chair to Suvi’s right.

  “Mr. Slate,” Suvi said. “May I call you James?”

  “You may,” James said.

  “All right, James,” Suvi said. “Tell me about this council of yours.”

  He nodded. The round lenses of his spectacles once again reflected the light from the high windows. “The council currently consists of myself, Ilta, Jyri Ingersson, Maarit Vinter, and … one other.”

  “Who? What other?” Suvi asked.

  “Nels,” Ilta said. “However, we haven’t convinced him to take the seat.”

  “I see,” Suvi said.

  “He claimed that he didn’t want to assume your place. He’s not interested in ruling,” Ilta said. “We kept telling him that this wasn’t the intent of—”

  “I’m quite familiar with my brother’s recent attitude toward responsibility.”

  Ilta said, “It isn’t that.”

  “Isn’t it?” Suvi asked. She took a sip of tea. It was exactly how she liked it—with milk and a small amount of sugar. Ilta had done so without asking. She reads minds, and I’ve no protection, no souja, thoughtshield. Where once that would’ve frightened, even angered her, now Suvi decided to take the comfort offered instead. “Speaking of Nels, where is he?”

  Suddenly uneasy, Ilta turned her attention to the tea things. “He’s on a ship bound for Ytlain by now, I think,” James said.

  “Ytlain?” Suvi asked, getting to her feet. She felt her brows draw together and her mouth tighten. He did not do that. He wouldn’t. “Why?”

  “He’s meeting with King Edvard to—”

  Suvi addressed Ilta. “I expressly told him not to!”

  Ilta said, “You know how he is. He wanted—”

  “I don’t care what he wants!” Suvi’s shout bounced off the glass above. “I’ll not allow him to waste his life on such a stupid, obvious—”

  “He saw it differently,” Ilta said.

  “Well, he’s wrong!” Suvi began to pace.

  “I’m sure he’ll be perfectly safe,” James said.

  “He’s not safe! If the Acrasians don’t kill him, Cousin Edvard will!” Suvi turned, the force of her anger sending her skirts in an arc all around her legs. “And if Cousin Edvard doesn’t, I will! I swear! That stubborn mule of a—a—”

  “Brother?” Ilta asked.

  Suvi resorted to a Waterborne curse. “Drown it all!”

  NELS

  ONE

  SOMEWHERE OFF THE SOUTHERN

  COAST OF YTLAIN

  TWENTY-THIRD OF KORJUUKUU, 1783

  Prince Nels Hännenen collapsed on the Lorelei’s railing and longed for death. Pitching overboard seemed the best solution. It would end his misery as well as save his sister the trouble of beheading him for a traitor.

  And leave Suvi alone among foreigners? Leave Eledore a smoking ruin?

  Hero. Military genius, he thought, mocking himself. Good thing what’s left of the court is on Treaty Island and can’t see me now, or they’d be lining up for lessons in Acrasian grammar.

  A low female voice spoke his next thought for him. “Are you often this pathetic?”

  Shite. “I hate boats,” he said, too weak to move.

  A slender arm, bared to the elbow, appeared on the rail. Its smooth skin was darker than his own. The hand dangling over the side was callused, and the fingernails had been bitten to the quick. He let his gaze travel upward and discovered a feminine form dressed in a homespun shirt, a waistcoat of somber missionary grey and a pair of breeches. He got the impression of shapely calves bare of stockings. In spite of that powerful motivation, he didn’t have the energy to lift his head for a look at the rest. His stomach stopped him dead with another knife-edged cramp.

  “Lorelei isn’t a boat. She’s a frigate. A ship carrying thirty-two eighteen-pound guns and six six-pounders,” she said, clearly offended. “My ship.”

  She’s right. He had no excuse for making such an error. He damned well knew the distinction. His twin sister, Suvi, had been obsessed with sailing from the time she could crawl, and as a result, he knew more about ships than he’d any right to.

  Well, haven’t you made a fine start as an ambassador? he thought. Damn you, Edvard. I’m no swiving diplomat. Surely, another would have made a more suitable courier?

  Why did Cousin Edvard insist upon me?

  Don’t be stupid. It’s a trap.

  However, King Edvard of Ytlain had been a trustworthy ally. For the most part. What remained of the Eledorean army couldn’t have survived the previous winter without his support. Edvard had made another offer. As the leader of that army, Nels needed the monies promised. With funding, he had a chance of restoring Suvi as Queen. Without it—

  Something is wrong, and you know it. In previous dealings with Edvard, the money had arrived via courier at a predetermined location. This time, Edvard had requested that Nels meet him on a small outpost named Norman Island off the southern shore of Ytlain. Suvi couldn’t come up with a solid reason outside of paranoia to refuse, and neither could Nels, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable with the situation. Still, it wasn’t as if they had a choice.

  Nels swallowed nausea and frustration. Lorelei was a Waterborne ship. In that sense it was safe enough, possibly safer than anywhere else he could be, including the Hold. The Waterborne Sea Mother, in spite of Clan Kask, was known to have taken a neutral position in what had come to be known as the Eledorean War—although in Nels’s experience, it hadn’t been started by the Kingdom of Eledore. That didn’t mean history would agree with him because the historians in question would be Acrasian. To his knowledge, no Eledorean historians had survived. Of course, the Waterborne Sea Mother took a neutral position in all wars. As an ocean nation with no land, the Waterborne survived through equitable trade. Since no other country had control of the oceans, everyone treated with the Waterborne or conducted their trade within the continent of Västmark via the Chain Lakes and the connecting rivers. For Eledore and Ytlain, this was only possible in the warm months. Ultimately, if one wanted to do business, one did it through contracting with the Waterborne Nations.

  The Waterborne, themselves, were divided into clans. To Nels’s knowledge, the clans did not war upon one another without permission from the Sea Mother, and such permission was rarely granted. Each clan had their specialties, loyal customers, and individual contracts. Suvi had close ties with Clan Kask through her friend Dylan Kask. Nels’s passage to the meeting place had been arranged through Dylan. However, Lorelei wasn’t a Clan Kask ship, and these weren’t Clan Kask waters. Lorelei was a Clan Gannet ship, and Clan Gannet maintained a close relationship with the Acrasian Regnum.

  For that reason, Nels had never intended to speak to anyone related to Lorelei. Given the situation, it was best that he remain belowdecks and out of sight, but his tiny cabin reeked, and he’d been desperate for fresh air.

  “Lorelei doesn’t take kindly to insults.” The woman with the husky voice gave the ship a pat and, speaking to it, said, “You’ll forgive the elph for mucking up your sides, won’t you, my love?”

  As if in answer, the deck lurched and then dropped two feet. Nels fought for balance and failed. The woman clamped onto his arms. He sta
ggered, and his face met the front of her shirt. The steadying force of her grip vanished, and for a moment, he pillowed his head in the scent of rosewater. Firm, breasts pressed against his cheek.

  She’s not wearing stays.

  She coughed. He snapped upright, and fierce human eyes the green of spring leaves took his measure. Dark hair parted into a hundred tiny braids curtained a crooked smile, and a scar traced a pale, narrow line up one cheek.

  “You’re a fine specimen. Big, too. I understand elphs have a certain reputation. Might be fun to see if your equipment measured to standard.” She lowered her voice even further. “However, my crew is watching, and I value my post more than a good swiving—no matter how good.” Her face went hard, her pistol bored into his tortured stomach, and the hammer on the flintlock clicked into place.

  He raised both hands in the air.

  “Time for introductions,” she said loud enough for the others to hear. “I’m Captain Gaia Julia. I don’t give a shit how much your man is paying. Touch me again, I’ll kick you overboard and settle for the half he’s paid. Understand? Or do I need to translate it into Eledorean for you?” Her finger didn’t move off the trigger.

  “I apologize,” Nels replied in Acrasian. “I hadn’t intended—”

  “Good.” She uncocked the pistol and secured the scrap of oiled leather protecting the pan from the damp before returning the weapon to her belt.

  It’s a long way to Norman Island, Nels thought. Too bad I can’t swim. After a lengthy uncomfortable pause, he bit back his resentment and gave her his most charming smile. “Call me Gunnar.”

  She stared at his open palm as if he’d offered her a rotten fish and stalked off. “Get the hells below before this slop turns into a full-fledged squall.”

  TWO