AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Itry to swallow the faint stirrings of disquiet in my gut and take a seat at the table in the cabin of my father’s ornate ship. With both my home and my business destroyed, I wasn’t sure where else to go to have this conversation. Sure, I know a half dozen places in Cairncliff that serve excellent food and offer private rooms, but would any of them accept me now? Unlikely.
So we’d taken a rowboat to my father’s ship, which was even more gauche than I’d remembered. He’d apparently covered everything that stood still in either gold or crimson, and his figurehead was a fire-breathing dragon. Honestly.
His crew seemed to respect him, at least, although they’d narrowed their eyes at both me and Rayne in a way that made me wish I had a dagger. And when he’d led us into the cramped little cabin at the back of the ship, I chose a chair that faced the door.
That same chair squeals as I pull it across the polished floorboards. This cabin feels cramped and stuffy, even though all the windows are open, and the way the floor sways under my feet has me tasting last night’s dinner in the back of my throat. Three ornate golden chandeliers swing above us; my father ducks carefully to avoid each one as he pulls the door shut behind him and then swaggers through the cabin. Rayne lowers herself slowly into a chair as my father walks to a bookcase along the far wall. The gilded bookcase has a series of wooden bars across the book’s spines to keep the books from launching themselves across the room during heavy seas, a thought that does nothing to quiet my gut.
My father runs his fingers along the side of the bookshelf, and one of the shelves swings open. He pulls an ornate bottle from the darkness beyond and then comes back to the table and sets three tiny crystal glasses on the polished wooden surface. They’re so elegantly engraved with sharp geometric patterns that they look like miniature vases. Geredan pulls the cork from the bottle with a loud pop, then pours thick, golden liquid into each of the glasses. The scent of strong spiced rum fills the air. He hands one of the glasses to me in silence.
“I haven’t even had breakfast,” I stammer.
Geredan makes a face like I’ve disappointed him yet again, then slams back his own glass of rum and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. I swallow my sigh and follow my father’s example, pouring the contents of the glass down my throat.
Mothers, it stings! My vision blurs as I try to keep from gagging out loud. The rum sears a flaming path down my gullet and into my stomach, where it sits uneasily above the constantly undulating floor. Geredan pushes the third glass across the table toward Rayne. She smiles, then runs her finger politely around the rim.
“Flaming Mothers above,” my father finally says, after sucking in a deep breath and huffing it out through his beard. “I never thought she’d go out like that.”
My chest still feels tight, although the burn of the rum is bleeding some of the tension out of my shoulders and neck.
“I mean, in battle, yes,” he continues, pacing around the cabin and ducking to avoid the chandeliers. “But not like this.”
He shakes his head, then blows another breath through his whiskers.
“I always thought we’d have time for one more fight,” he finally says, in a low, sad voice.
Rayne carefully smothers the flicker of surprise that crosses her face. I shake my head. I could never understand my parents’ relationship myself; there’s no way I could explain it to her. Geredan shoves the cap back into the bottle, places it inside his bookcase, and swings the shelf closed. Then he pulls out the largest and most heavily gilded chair, sinks into it, and puts his massive black boots on the polished wood table.
“So,” he says, raising an eyebrow from beneath the ridiculous black scarf he has wrapped around his head, “who’s the motherless hell-spawn who did it? Or do you not know who just burned down your house and my shop?”
I glance over my shoulder and out the open windows. Fishing boats bob in the sparkling waters of Cairncliff’s harbor. Somewhere out there, just through that narrow little window, people are having an ordinary day. They’re working, fishing, and setting up their market stands. They’re fighting with their kids, pining over lovers, and wondering if they’ll have enough stupid gold to buy the next stupid thing they’ll want.
I turn away from the ordinary world with a sigh. I don’t know if my mother would trust my father with this information. There might be a reason she didn’t send me to him. There might be a chance, however small, that my own father is now working with Rensivar.
But, what the hell. At some point, you have to trust someone.
I glance at Rayne, give her what I hope is a reassuring smile, and then tell my father everything I know. Rayne helps to fill in the details about the alliance between Valgros and Cassonia, and together we weave the threads of the story into something so horrible I can barely stand to look at it.
Rensivar infiltrated the Iron Mountains; that much my mother clearly knew. Did she also know that he controlled the throne of Valgros? Did she realize he was allying with Cassonia, that he was sending their soldiers to the flanks of the Iron Mountains?
No. Grief closes around me like an iron fist. I can’t believe my mother knew that much. She would never have told Rensivar about the Queensmoot if she knew how powerful he’d become and how many resources he had at his disposal. My father hisses through his teeth, a sound that’s oddly similar to the irritated sort of huff he makes as a dragon.
“So Rensivar is alive, and he’s laid quite the pretty trap for us,” he finally growls, shaking his head.
A sort of hopeless desperation settles over my shoulders like a cloak. I feel like I’m sinking into the shifting floorboards of this damn boat. He’s right. Rensivar has laid a trap, and I’m not sure if there’s anything we can do to stop it.
“But now we know it’s there,” Rayne says. “We can warn the dragons. The Queensmoot might be a trap, but at least they won’t be going in blind.”
My father nods, then makes a growling sort of agreement sound in the back of his throat. He pulls his feet off the table, and his boots thud heavily as they hit the floor. Then he meets my eyes, and once again I feel like a child, pinned in place as he asked me to recite something I should have memorized.
“Who’s our contact in the Iron Mountains?” he asks. “Who can we trust?”
“The Historian,” I reply, swallowing hard. “He’s the only one Mother said to trust.”
“Son of a whore,” Geredan mutters under his breath. “The Historian’s dead.”
“What?” I cry.
Shock travels through my body like lightning. Geredan shakes his head again, and even his beard looks angry.
