Elodie of the Sea Read online

  As expected, he says, “You know I cannot—it would affect things in the worst of ways.”

  I rub my temples. I can already feel the telltale signs of a headache forming. “At least tell me where to start.”

  He tucks the flask away. “I’ll promise you this: I will point you in the right direction when the time is at hand. For now, you must be patient.”

  Patient.

  Knowing I’ll get nothing else out of him—and likely make him angry if I try, I give in. “All right.”

  I thank him for the water and then excuse myself before I resort to begging.

  What does he know that I don’t?

  “Elodie,” he says, using my name even though I never introduced myself. “Meet me here tonight, right after the rain abates.”

  The first raindrop falls, stinging my arm. I look up. More are surely on their way.

  Disconcerted, I nod slowly and make my way below deck before I’m caught in the downpour.

  ***

  Gingerly, I open the door and peek out at the deck. Night has fully fallen, and it’s darker than usual due to the thick mass of clouds that continue to churn overhead. I had hoped they’d clear after the storm, but it seems they aren’t quite finished with us yet.

  Before I step onto the deck, I hold out my hand, testing the weather. It’s thick with moisture, something that wouldn’t bother me if I’d been in the sea recently, but it burns now. The little bit of salt water just wasn’t enough.

  But I don’t have a choice. This is when the gimly told me to meet him. At least he waited until the storm let up a bit.

  The boat rocks in the agitated waters, rolling us side to side. I walk across the deck, pulling a magic-made cloak tight about my shoulders, and attempt to keep my balance without reaching for the rain-soaked crates or rail.

  Most of Everson’s crew is below, including the captain himself. A man in a hide cloak mans the wheel, but he doesn’t notice me slipping through the shadows.

  “You’re late,” the gimly says, leaning against the rail. “The rain let up ten minutes ago.”

  “You’re early—you knew exactly what time I would be here, so if you showed up too soon, that’s on you.”

  He huffs out a breath that might be a snort, and then he gets down to the matter at hand. “I’ve seen several different paths your life may take, Elodie. I won’t lie—none of them end well…save one.”

  Eager, I hug myself, not daring to press until he’s ready.

  “There are still a dozen ways you can botch it up,” he warns, as if it’s my fault I can’t see my future and therefore won’t know the best path to take.

  “Unless you tell me now,” I urge.

  “I can’t do that.”

  Frustrated, I toss my hands in the air. “Then why are we here?”

  Without warning, he clasps my arm, and our two distinct magics meet. It’s an uncomfortable sensation, and I try to jerk away.

  “I apologize in advance,” he says, “but you will understand eventually.”

  I give my arm another hard tug. “What are you—”

  Before the words have the chance to leave my mouth, he forces his magic through our connection. It washes over me like a white fog, dulling my senses, stealing my conscious thoughts.

  Before the magic envelops me completely, I vaguely register a firm shove to my shoulders, and then I’m falling down, down, down, tumbling from the ship. In less than a heartbeat, I smack into the angry sea below with a stinging crash. The water washes over me—cold but welcome. Immediately, as natural as breathing, I reach for my magic, ready to shift.

  Nothing happens.

  Panic sets in just as my world goes black.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Bran

  My mother sets her hand on my shoulder and pauses next to my chair. If anyone were to glance over, it would look like a heartwarming moment shared between the queen and her son.

  It’s not.

  “You’re being unsocial,” she says just loud enough for me to hear.

  I sit, watching our guests mingle in the great hall. Stuart and my knights loiter in the middle of the vast room, laughing. The men idolize him.

  Even though I am a grown man about to be their leader, I feel like a boy when I attempt to join them, begging for their approval. They still see me as the ten-year-old mock-fighting with wooden swords while they sparred with steel.

  Vaguely irritated, I move my attention from them.

  The tables have been moved to allow people room to socialize, but there will be no dancing tonight. Mother’s saving that for the feast on the eve of my coronation.

  Even now, with the tall windows black with night, our great hall is bright. The stone is tan, pale like our sandy shores, and tapestries and crests hang about the room in shades of teal and white—our family’s colors. There’s a balcony to the east. The doors are usually open, allowing people to enjoy the Triblue air. Tonight, they are closed. A storm rages outside, and angry rain beats against the glass.

  A cold front moved in this morning, and it’s lingered. It’s unusual weather for this close to spring. By now, the winter storms should be a memory.

  “I wouldn’t call it unsocial, per se,” I say to my mother.

  My eyes wander the crowd. Rynna glances my way, but when our eyes meet, she gives me a look of disdain and turns away. It seems she wasn’t impressed with Anwen’s pet glasseln—a pony-sized black panther with glossy, feathered wings. I feel a twinge of guilt, but I push it away when I remember the way she forced herself on my arm.

  “Go. Mingle,” Mother says as she shoves my shoulder. It’s not a request.

  Locking in a groan, I stand. Like wild animals sensing movement, half the unattached women in the room look my way. Before they can corner me, I stride through the crowd, nodding and smiling at a quick pace, moving toward the back of the hall where my brother and his wife sit with their young daughter.

  “Save me, Belle,” I say quietly, scooping my niece from her father’s lap. Like her gypsy mother, the little girl has mahogany hair and the loveliest eyes you’ll ever see. Like her father, she’s always smiling.

  “Brad,” she says, though it sounds more like “Bad.” Her face lights with glee as she sets her hand on my nose. She’s only eighteen months, still a baby, but she’s talking more every day.

  “Uncle Bran,” I correct, not bothering to remove her hand from my face.

  She pokes my nose. “Unc Bad.”

  “Close enough.”

  Rosie sits back, watching her daughter with great amusement. She’s just wicked enough to teach Belle to say my name wrong when I’m not around.

  “Half the women in the room are melting right now,” the gypsy says, smirking as she jerks her chin toward the crowd at my back.

  I shudder at the thought, not daring to turn around to confirm her story.

  “Choose any of those lucky girls, and you can have one or five Belles of your own,” Galinor says from behind me, his voice heavy with humor.

  “Don’t pester him,” Anwen chides, appearing with her husband. She gives me a reassuring smile.

  Galinor laughs and drapes his arm around her shoulders.

  The couple disappeared twenty minutes ago, likely tucking their two children in for the night and leaving them with their nursemaid. I’m glad they’ve returned.

  Belle yawns and then shakes her arms as if trying to stay awake.

  “I’m afraid I have to take your shield,” Rosie says, standing, taking Belle away.

  The baby reaches for me, and her face crumples like she’s going to cry. Then, apparently deciding it’s too much work, she sticks her thumb in her mouth and leans against Rosie.

  “Time for bed,” Rosie murmurs against the baby’s head. My brother rises, but she touches his arm, giving him a smile that’s reserved for him alone. “Stay, talk.”

  “I don’t mind.” He sets his hand on the small of her back as he leads her toward the exit. He looks back at us. “We’ll return.�
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  I watch them leave, feeling a bout of melancholy lurking. Before I can let it consume me, the main doors open and in sweeps an auburn-haired woman in a flowing green gown. Conversations come to a halt, and people swivel her way.

  Lady Pippa of Errinton, Princess of Lauramore, is a showstopper, even when she doesn’t intend to be. Her four boys swoop in around her, darting off in all directions, most likely looking for food. Three of them have copper hair, a shade like their mother’s, but the eldest looks exactly like his father, Lord Archer, the man who walks behind them.

  Galinor, Dristan, and I yell out to greet them. Pippa whips her head our way, lets out a laugh that would horrify Collette/Colleen, and hurries through the crowd. She embraces Galinor first, squeezing him for all she’s worth, and then she moves to Dristan.

  Finally, she holds me at arm’s length, inspecting me, her blue eyes bright. “You look awful.”

  I tip my head back and laugh, genuinely amused for the first time all evening. “Haven’t you heard? I’ve been trapped in this wretched castle by a gaggle of instructors, etiquette teachers, and knights who wish my cousin was taking the throne instead of me.”

  “Etiquette teachers?” Pippa pulls a horrified look, just as I knew she would.

  I turn to Archer. “Was Rigel able to break away?”

  Archer shakes his head. “Things are stable in Errinton, but we’re still not in a position for the king to leave. We’re here for the coronation, representing them on their behalf.”

  Pippa rolls her eyes. “We were coming anyway.”

  It’s customary in Elden for a noble from every royal family from all the kingdoms to attend a coronation, but substitutes are made from time to time.

  “Your boys have grown,” Anwen says, unsure how to greet the princess. The two are friendly, but their history is awkward considering Pippa picked Galinor as her chosen in her marriage tournament eight years ago.

  Pippa looks into the crowd with great affection. “They’re hellions—I blame Archer of course.”

  Archer only shakes his head, amused. We all know where the boys get their wild streak.

  “Are your brothers coming?” I ask, grinning as I watch Pippa’s youngest swipe tiny cakes from one of the tables along the wall. He’s crawled underneath, hidden by the tablecloth. Only his arm is visible as he feels for a cake, pulls it under the cloth, and then goes back for more.

  “Alexander can’t make it, but from what I understand, Percival and Leonora will arrive sometime in the next week.” The princess frowns. “I probably shouldn’t let him eat all those.”

  Without another word, she parts the crowd, heading to gather her wayward children. As we watch her, my father stands, drawing the attention of all in attendance. The chatter slowly dies, and the room goes quiet.

  He begins his speech, thanking those in attendance for coming and reminds everyone about the coronation eve feast—as if we could forget.

  “But we have something else to announce, something I’m sure you’ll all find most exciting,” Father begins, and his eyes sweep the room, looking for someone.

  A ball of lead weighs in my gut, and I stay still, hoping he won’t notice me in the back.

  “At the beginning of summer, we will hold a gala—”

  His eyes fall on me, and he smiles like he’s about to bestow a grand favor on me.

  “And there, Prince Bran, your new king, will announce his bride and the future queen of Triblue.”

  The crowd erupts in gasps and whispers, and my blood goes as cold as ice.

  “Did you know about this?” Anwen asks me quietly.

  I look down at her and yank on the collar of my tunic, feeling as if I’m choking. “No.”

  ***

  I pace my family’s large, private sitting room, the one place in Castle Calland that feels the most like home. No one is allowed past those doors except immediate family and the maids who straighten in the afternoons; it’s a safe place.

  Right now, I feel as if the walls are closing in on me.

  “You should have warned me.” I turn to my parents. They are seated on the padded settee that stretches in front of the large fireplace. It’s rarely cool enough to light it, but flames dance in the hearth tonight. The merry ambiance it lends to the room seems to belittle my desperation.

  “We only want you to be happy,” Mother says, her hands primly clasped in her lap. Her lips are pursed, and her eyes are soft with worry. “And Triblue will need a queen. You’re twenty-eight, Bran. It’s time.”

  Father nods, looking older than I care for. His hair is grayer than blond, and his face is etched with lines that show how often he smiles—around his mouth, around his eyes.

  My parents aren’t cruel people. I know that. But this…

  “A bachelor king doesn’t instill much confidence in his people. They want to know you’re settled, content,” Father says. “Stable.”

  “We’ve invited every girl from every family we could possibly think of,” Mother continues. “And as you know, they came in droves. You have no lack of options. Surely, there’s a girl out there you could be happy with.”

  I lean a forearm against the mantle and stare into the fire. “If I agree—if I promise I will make a decision before this gala you’ve concocted—all I ask in return is that I have the next week to myself. Just one week to keep my own company before I’m crowned, to leave the castle on my own one last time.

  I feel, rather than see, my parents exchange a worried look. The emotion radiates from them, and I wonder if they know the reservations I’m having.

  “If that’s what you think you need,” Father says after a long moment, “but you must return for the coronation eve feast.”

  Slowly, I exhale, cautious relief flooding through me as I turn to face them. I thought they’d bargain, give me a day, maybe two at the most if I was fortunate. With mixed emotions, I extend a hand to my father. “You have a deal.”

  ***

  There’s something therapeutic about the chaos of a good storm. I walk along the darkened beach, alone. The wind howls and waves crash into themselves, barely visible in the dim light that’s just breaking through the clouds on the eastern horizon.

  The rain let up a few hours ago, but there’s still moisture in the air. The early morning is cold—too cold for Triblue no matter the season, and my fingers are numb from the damp chill.

  After I spoke with my parents, I smiled for our guests, said a few words, acted like a soon-to-be king who wasn’t gobsmacked by his father’s latest announcement.

  Played the part.

  And then I packed a few things and left. I have this week—only one week—and then my life belongs to the people. For now, the courtiers and our guests can have their festivities and parties, but I choose the lonely shore.

  If I’m honest, I don’t know what scares me more—marrying a girl just so Triblue will have a queen or the crown itself. I glance at Saltwreath, at the darkened shops and homes.

  Soon, every one of them will rely on me to keep Triblue safe, to promote trade, to give them the tools to thrive. It’s not a task I take lightly, and perhaps that’s why I’m resistant. Being king isn’t about the castle or the grandeur. It’s about the people, about being the man they need me to be so they can live their lives in peace.

  It’s no small task.

  Stuart doesn’t believe I’m capable, and I think most of my elite knights agree with him. What if they are right? What if I fail Triblue?

  The sun grows near to the horizon, but it does nothing more than lighten the gloomy sky. The clouds swirl near the water, gray and angry. I’m a good walk away from the city, well away from the people who will soon start their day. There’s a cottage not far from here, one Dristan and I would use when we were young and fancied living off the land for a few days.

  I’ll stay there until the eve of the coronation, and then I’ll go back, attend their feast. See if I can find a girl amongst the flock of peacocks that makes me feel something. Anyth
ing.

  I know why my parents didn’t warn me—I would have fought them, and it would have been unpleasant for us all. And in the end, it doesn’t matter what I want. Whether the crown is on my head or my father’s, he’ll always be my king. His word is law. If he says I’m choosing a bride, then I have little choice but to obey.

  And now that it’s been announced, there’s no backing out, not unless I want to lose face in front of my people and the rest of the kingdoms in Elden.

  My eyes scan the shore. The storm brought in a slew of debris—driftwood, seaweed, shells. I narrow my eyes at something near the water’s edge.

  It’s a woman.

  I run without thinking, though there’s no way she’s alive. Her hair is strewn about her head, a curtain of pale gold caked with sand. Seaweed wraps around her long, bare legs like vines.

  She’s beautiful, even shrouded in death, and my heart clenches as if in a vice. I kneel next to her, cursing the sea and its often-cruel nature. Gently, hesitant to touch her, I brush a tangled strand from her face. The girl groans, still unconscious. Startled to find her alive, I hesitate for less than a heartbeat before I check for a pulse. It’s there, but it’s weak. She’s probably nearing hypothermia in this weather.

  I rip off my cloak, caring little that the icy wind digs its fingers into my flesh through my thin shirt, and drape it over her. She lets out a tiny cry, like the distressed call of an injured lamb. I mutter reassuring nonsense as I scoop her into my arms, hoping if she hears me she’ll know I mean her no harm.

  Her hair falls back, giving me an unhindered view of her face. I stare at her like a fool entranced. Despite her blond hair, her lashes are full and dark, and they brush against delicate cheeks. There’s something mesmerizing about her, something that warns me to be careful. She’s a siren, a sea witch, and I’m caught in her spell.

  Another cruel gust of wind kicks up sand, and I turn, shielding her from the worst of it. She lets out a soft groan and leans into my chest, clinging to me in a way no one ever has.