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“No needfor blades to be drawn.” Maelstrom held out his hand when Celine unsheathed a dagger. “Are we not all after the same thing?”
“You tell me, Maelstrom,” I said. “Why has Lady Narza’s house taken hold of another?”
Hot rage knotted in my chest. If my own grandmother had betrayed me in my absence, I would do as promised and burn the Ever, only to start anew with new folk, new lords, new laws.
“We joined with the bone lord in a council.”
“And where is Lord Gavyn?”
Maelstrom shifted on his feet. “Gone. I’ll explain inside.”
Celine broke. Her voice trembled. “And how do we know you speak true? How do we know you’ve not harmed the lord of this house?”
“I’ve not, young miss,” said Maelstrom, sympathy swirling his eyes even more.
I held out a hand, urging Celine back. “Where is Narza? I wish to speak to her.”
“The Lady of Witches is not here either.” Maelstrom took a stepcloser. “After a curious meet with the bone lord, he told her where you went. She kept me here in her stead, and took to the winds, searching for you.”
“No light in the mists?” Sewell muttered, a clear strain to his voice.
“My man has a point,” I said. “If you are here, if Narza is gone, who guides the House of Mists?”
“For now, it is in the hands of trusted advisors. I will return now that you are back. My son was asked by the Lady of Witches, should you return first, that he join in your search with one of our ships and a small crew, My King.”
The front entrance opened, and a tall man dressed in a mist green tunic entered the room. His copper hair was tied off his neck and neatly tucked behind his pointed ears. He looked like a pleasure sailor who traveled gentle tides in the coves, never facing far seas with wind and storms.
Perhaps Tavish Spellbreaker preferred folk to underestimate him.
I did not know the man’s character, but I did know he was a fierce spell caster. One of the few who had a voice capable of sniffing out weaknesses in a witch’s curse. Not many spells could withstand Tavish should he wish to unravel it.
Tavish dipped his chin, a sly kind of smirk beneath the stubble. “My King.”
The man was a little over ten turns my senior, and highly valued in the House of Mists.
“He will aid you should you need, King Erik,” Maelstrom insisted.
There was respect in his tone, a gentleness that set my skin aflame with disquiet. Then again, I’d always been unsettled around the man. Maelstrom stood at the right hand of Lady Narza, one of her trusted few she welcomed within her inner circle.
No one truly knew Narza’s mate, only rumor and suspicion. I was never told anything about my mother’s father, but I’d often wondered over the turns if every time I looked at Maelstrom, I was looking at my grandfather.
Maelstrom took a step off to the side, beckoning us into the great hall of the manor. “Come. I will explain what I know.”
I sent Stormbringer to bring word to the Ever Crew to make their way through the inner markets of the square, eat, resupply, rest, bed folk, whatever they pleased while they waited. The royals, Tait, Celine, and Sewell remained at my side.
Without a word, I shoved past Maelstrom, ignoring Tavish and the few witches and sea folk from the House of Mists in the corridor. Their silk robes, coral pink and silver-blue hair, out of place amongst the muted colors and reserved expressions of the servants of the House of Bones.
Maelstrom took us into a large parlor room with a polished desk topped in neatly stacked parchment and fishbone quills. Kelp satin sofas were arranged over woven rugs, and overhead was a glass chandelier with fragrant wax candles, casting the room in the constant scent of morning sea mist—clean and cool.
Docile servants slipped in, leaving silver trays of sponge cakes, sweet wine, and a roasted fish rolled in savory herbs.
Alek was the first to snatch a handful of food, Jonas close behind. Mira rolled her eyes, complained at their wolfish manners, but subtly took a handful of cakes before retreating to a corner beside Celine and Tait.
Near the two women, three men gathered empty serving trays, readying to leave until one caught sight of the princess. One hand went to the pocket of his woolen trousers. I turned away until a few plucks of string transformed into a lovely sort of tune, gentle, sweet, the sort of music to listen to on a bright morning.
I thought nothing of it until Jonas’s voice broke out over the sound.
“Good hells, Mira. What are you doing?”
