Page 70 of Crown of the Courtesan

“And I warned you what would happen when I became a commander in your army!” She throws her hands in the air and asks incredulously, “Are you ever going to be where you say you’ll be?”

“In moments like these, you’re as stubborn as your sister,” he counters, and her expression falls before she quickly recovers.

Guilt flashes across Ashland’s furrowed brow, but Valora has already moved past him to help a sparring group; she’s clearly not open to talking anymore.

He motions for me to join him, so I reluctantly follow him along the shoreline, away from the other women. My pulse quickens at the thought of being alone with him again.

“We need to talk,” Ashland says as the cold tide laps at our feet, sending gooseflesh up my calves.

I’m afraid to ask, but I do anyway. “About what?”

He runs a hand through his wavy hair. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that last night. I got carried away, but if you’re searching for your circlet, it’s not there.”

Heat wraps around my neck as I peer into his unwavering eyes. I sputter, “I only went in there because I thought you were melancholy. I wasn’t looking for the circlet.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

The heat lingering around my neck tightens like a noose. “And if I were searching for it, could you blame me? You stole it.”

Ashland searches my face, and I force myself to hold his gaze. He remains quiet and doesn’t counter my argument.

Out of nowhere, his shadow hounds leap and bounce past, running into the frothy tide and splashing us. I try not to wonder where Lir might be as I taste salt on my lips.

He finally says, “Without the sea, we would have starved and crumbled under Alexandria’s blockades long ago.” He looks toward the ships swaying on the choppy waves that beat toward the land, unrelenting yet ever patient.

I lift an eyebrow. “I suppose that’s why you serve fish so often here?”

He smirks, scratching his stubbled chin. “You get used to it.”

This may be true. I’m beginning to appreciate the variety of seafood that the cook prepares. The various herbs from her garden make her dishes surprisingly savory.

Another rowboat carrying sailors lands near us. Their leader stands tall and calls to his king, “Your Grace—she’s taken two more in the past hour.”

Ashland lets out a groan as if he’s been expecting this. With a tilt of his head toward me, he asks, “You truly wish to train?” He pushes the confiscated Neriene back into my palm. Our fingers brush slightly.

* * *

I sit rigid beside Ashland, the boat swaying and rocking as he moves the oars back and forth into the resistant waves, while another boat of sailors follows us. After an hour or so, we arrive at an alcove on the farthest tip of a nearby peninsula. A small house sits atop a cliff, smoke swirling out from its crooked chimney.

The drizzling rain clings to our skin as we climb onto a beach littered with thousands of broken seashells. They crunch under our feet as we fight the wind and trudge up the shore to the steep, winding stone steps leading upward.

“That’s the Sea-Witch’s hut, that is,” says a sailor from behind, cupping his hand over his eyes to better see the cliffside.

Ashland leans down to ask over the wind, “Are you sure you still want to come along? It’s not too late to turn back.”

Not wanting to be left out, I shake my head, my heart thumping. He nods in agreement before motioning for me to move ahead of him. We climb the path higher and higher until I’m out of breath. I grip the cliff’s rough-hewn wall to brace against the wind’s abuse—but it isn’t enough support, and I lose my footing on the stone steps slick with moss and sea spray.

As my foot slips, my body lurches awkwardly to one side. In that split second when the rush of my heartbeat meets freefall, Ashland’s steady arm shoots out, wrapping firmly around my shoulders. His grip anchors me while his other arm hooks around my waist, pulling me against the barrier of his chest and providing unexpected shelter as I regain balance. The warmth of his hands contrasts starkly with the cold, wet air, and for a moment…

I nearly forget he’s the enemy until a sudden, sharp shift occurs between us.

We’re both remembering last night.

My eyebrows draw downward as I look up into his rain-soaked face, rivulets running down his sharp jawline. His breath billows out in calm swaths of steam above me as my heart pounds against my ribcage. “Don’t fall,” he says, his voice a whisper against the roar of the crashing waves. We share a brief, awkward, and somewhat annoyance-laced moment before he releases his hold stiffly and we restart our climb.

After what seems like hours, we mount the cliff’s crest to find a weather-beaten hut nestled among the boulders and scrubby vegetation. A delicious aroma of cooking tangs in the brine-filled air.

As we walk through the yard, the sailors murmur about the men tilling and working an overgrown garden behind the house. There’s something inhuman about their jerking and automatic movements. They don’t bother looking up when we approach.