Chapter Three #3
The crowd parted naturally before them as Aleksi led them across the hall.
One or two clutches of nobles whispered behind their hands with arch looks that all-too-clearly speculated as to what had kept the three of them abed so late.
Einar ignored them—for now—and kept his attention focused on the powerful women waiting for them.
Aleksi bowed before the dais when they reached it. “Good morning, Grand Duchess. Lady Isa.”
“Is it?” Gwynira asked archly. “Morning, that is.”
He flashed her a rakish grin followed by a wink. “I apologize for my late arrival.”
“Your smile betrays your lack of remorse, my lord.” Gwynira’s lips twitched. “You are anything but apologetic.”
Aleksi straightened. “You see me far too clearly, Your Grace. I admit it—I was enjoying the society of my companions far too much to relinquish it easily.”
Gwynira’s usually icy expression broke into genuine warmth as she laughed. “What a delicate way to convey that you would have much preferred to remain naked in your bed.”
“I am nothing if not delicate.”
“I’m going to get something to eat.” Naia stretched up to kiss his cheek. “Try to behave, Aleksi.”
“When I could scandalize the nobles instead? That would be a pity.”
Naia drifted away with a sweet smile, pausing next to Einar long enough to twine her fingers with his. There was a promise in the quick caress, a vow that they might be forced to separate now to pursue their individual missions, but they would find their way back to that bed.
With a tiny smile, Einar teased his thumb suggestively over her knuckles before her hand slipped away.
Aleksi had already turned to address an older woman with a tower of gray hair threaded with flowers—an extravagance more telling than jewels in this frozen kingdom—and Naia had her sights set on the end of the buffet table where several servants waited to assist the guests.
He supposed it was time for him to face his own trial.
Biting back a long-suffering sigh, he turned . . . and was utterly unsurprised to find his quarry already bearing down on him with a positive gleam in his eyes.
The man stopped in a swirl of gold-embroidered robes, his thick golden medallion thumping against his chest. The medallion apparently betokened an elite status in the former Empire, one so coveted that Klement had been among the few in his generation to receive it.
His promising career had taken a sharp turn, however, when his research into the cultures the Empire had crushed in order to build their capital city made the nobles—and the Emperor—uncomfortable.
The result had been his banishment to this island, where his research would languish unread and his presence would serve to annoy Gwynira.
That last part had been a wild success. Einar had seen firsthand how annoying the Grand Duchess found the loquacious scholar. “Captain Einar!” Klement exclaimed, clapping both hands together in front of him. “I’m so glad to see you.”
At least someone in this court was, even if the old man’s obsessive fascination with Einar could be off-putting.
Over the centuries he had grown used to those who revered him as a god or feared him as a monster, but this was the first time he’d encountered someone eager to make a name for themself by writing a book about him.
Perhaps he should ask Aleksi how to deal with it.
After all, the Lover had spent thousands of years with storytellers and musicians flocking to his gorgeous villa, eager to bask in his presence and make him their muse.
Einar had heard the others on the High Court joke about it dozens of times—the devotion of artists and poets had kept Aleksi’s allure strong, after all, even when the Mortal Lords had tried to turn the people against their gods.
For the first time, Einar understood how unsettling that must be. But he’d been given a task, so he managed something approaching a smile. “Guildmaster Klement.”
His half grimace must have passed as welcome—at least to Klement—because the man beamed at him. “I was starting to fear you had taken your leave of us for good. I must say, your abrupt absence from the court’s festivities was a terrible disappointment.”
The words seemed earnest. Self-involved, certainly, but earnest. Fortunately, it wouldn’t take much to encourage the man to elaborate. “Oh?”
“Oh yes, terrible, indeed.” Klement reached into his robes and pulled out a leather-bound book with gilded pages. Shiny foil caught the light as he held it up, revealing the title: Akeisa: A Comprehensive History (Volume One). “I’ve been carrying this with me in hopes of seeing you again.”
Of course it was more of the man’s obsession with the history of the island—and Einar’s place within it.
Einar had found a dozen of the man’s dry and endless tomes in the library, interesting mostly for what they revealed about the flora and fauna of the island itself.
Reading the Imperial perspective of Einar’s own family story had been less amusing.
Einar suspected that Klement thought himself an objective scholar, but Imperial superiority practically seethed beneath every word.
Einar reached out a hand to accept the book, only to blink when Klement pulled it back, cradling it against his chest. “Oh, my apologies, dear boy. That was misleading, wasn’t it? No, this copy isn’t for you, though I’d be happy to personalize one for you, as well.”
He wasn’t sure if he should feel affronted, or as if he’d had a narrow escape from a terrible fate.
Maybe the grinding of his teeth was audible, because on the other side of the hall, Aleksi glanced his way and arched one perfect brow in a look so eloquent, Einar could practically hear the Lover’s teasing words as if whispered against his ear.
You’ve survived terrible battles and weathered epic storms. Surely you can manage one single conversation with a self-important scholar without punching him.
No, Aleksi likely would have been far kinder. But the gentle encouragement in his gaze was a reminder to Einar. This was a game, and he had to play it out.
“Who is it for?” He thought he’d managed to sound mildly interested. “The book, I mean.”
“It’s for Petya, of course.” Klement stroked the gold leaf on the cover with unmistakable pride. “I’ve signed it and inscribed it to her personally. But since she still has not left the ship, I thought it only right that I bring it to her.”
Oh, no. Not a chance. The woman who had raised Einar refused to leave the ship at all.
The last time she had set foot on this island had been over two thousand years ago, on the night General Akeisa had finally seized victory for the Empire in a war of conquest that had been raging for three generations.
Petya had been the head of the Queen’s Guard, a renowned warrior married to Rahvekya’s High Priestess.
She had been fully prepared to lay down her life in defense of the land she loved, but her queen had given her a far more difficult task—to take the infant crown-prince across the mountains to the northern side of the island, and flee with him to safety.
Einar had heard the story so many times he could recite it word for word, in the reverent cadence Petya gave it that made it more than just a story.
Twelve of the Queen’s Guard left the palace at dawn.
Six reached the northern coast. Only two survived to see midnight.
But the crown-prince lived, and with him, hope. You are our hope, Einar.
Petya had left her wife, her queen, and the home she’d spent her life protecting.
She had carried Einar to safety and had raised him to respect the history of his people—and to hate the Empire that had tried to destroy them.
She would not leave the Kraken while a scion of the Empire still ruled in the land she’d once served.
The last thing Einar planned to do was send an Imperial scholar to violate the sanctity of the only home Petya still had, to poke and prod as if her very real memories of tragedy were nothing more than fascinating historical anecdotes.
“I’m afraid you can’t do that,” Einar said. “The ship is off limits to all but her crew. For everyone’s safety.”
The man’s expression drooped, then rallied. “But surely if I am willing to undertake the risk—”
“I’m sorry, but no.”
His shoulders sagged now, too, and Einar might have felt bad about it if he hadn’t opened his mouth again, his tone almost wheedling.
“I understand perhaps it is an imposition, but I assure you that I would treat Petya with the utmost respect. I should like her to see how well I have preserved her story—”
Could the man not take no for an answer?
“It isn’t possible,” Einar said sharply, with the rumble of the Kraken in his voice.
He could tell by the way Klement took an abrupt step back that his eyes had begun to glow their eerie teal—the warning that power stirred within him.
His skin felt too tight again, and it was tempting to let his other form rip free.
Not the full monstrous kraken in all its glory, but the demigod form that let no one forget that he was so much more than a simple man.
He might have done it, too, had Naia not caught his gaze from where she stood beside the table, raised her eyebrows, and tilted her head in teasing admonition.
Fine. He wouldn’t spoil the afternoon—or his very nice clothing. Glaring was enough—perhaps too much, from the way Klement had to wipe at the sweat beading on his too-pale face.
For once, the scholar said nothing. Einar almost felt bad. Almost. Unbending somewhat, he extended his hand again. “If you would still like for her to see it, I could bring the book to her. If she wants to meet you after that, I will make an exception.”
Einar imagined the chances of that were roughly equal to the chances that the sun would reverse course in the sky and turn time backward, but Klement beamed as if he already had an invitation in hand.
“Wonderful!” he exclaimed, pressing the book into Einar’s hand.
“Oh, I absolutely cannot wait to meet her.”
The man certainly had confidence in his literary achievements. Einar struggled for something passably polite to say, but had only gotten as far as parting his lips when a prickle of warning skittered up his spine.
Instinct swung his gaze to Naia. She was watching the large double doors with calm expectation, as if waiting for . . . something. Aleksi, meanwhile, sighed deeply and bowed his head.
Something brushed across the edge of Einar’s senses like a whisper heard from leagues away—the crashing of angry waves.
The prickling intensified, raising the fine hairs on his arm as an impossible feeling of power thrummed through the island.
He glanced up, unsure what had prompted the instinct, until thunder cracked above them, shaking the entire palace.
Glass shattered behind him. Someone in the crowd cried out in panic. Wind whipped through the ballroom, carrying the gasps of shock through the room as it tugged at gowns and coats and perfectly coifed hair before gentling as it found Aleksi and swirled around him in teasing greeting.
Einar knew the taste of that wind.
All at once, the flames on every candle in the room surged, drawing more startled yelps from white-faced nobles who huddled away from the wildly dancing fire. The ground beneath the palace shivered—not a violent shaking, but a gleeful welcome.
Einar knew that feeling, too.
He turned toward the door just as a smartly dressed herald bustled in, wild-eyed and flustered. He waved a trembling hand, and the guards on either side of the door banged their staffs against the floor in three sharp raps.
Silence fell across the room. All gazes turned toward the man, who drew in a deep breath and unleashed panicked whispers with the booming announcement Einar already knew was coming.
“Your Grace, may I present the High Court of Dreamers.”