Chapter Eight
The final person to hold the prestigious position as head of the Queen’s Guard was Petya of Stenyar.
Official Imperial history tells us that Petya perished with the rest of the castle defenders in foolhardy defiance of General Akeisa’s offer of amnesty to those who threw down their swords.
Local legends, however, attest that she escaped with the infant prince.
Perhaps that is why Petya and its derivations remain one of the most popular names among locals even now, more than two thousand years later.
Akeisa: An Overview of Prominent Historical Figures
by Guildmaster Klement
Though Einar was loath to give the Empire credit for anything, even he had to admit that the deep-water harbor that sat beneath Gwynira’s palace was a marvel of innovative construction.
Even Dianthe’s harbor at Seahold—the most sophisticated in the Sheltered Lands, with ramps leading to floating docks that rose and fell as the moons tugged at the tides—could not compare.
The village that served the harbor had still been built on solid ground, after all.
Here, they had built on the ocean itself.
The steps were the most fascinating part.
They connected the main stone landing to the massive floating platforms. At the highest tide, it was only a few steps down to the first dock.
Now, nearing low tide, the platforms had dropped with the water to reveal several dozen wide steps.
Einar wasn’t entirely sure how they worked, but he suspected Dianthe would find out before she returned home.
The first platform held the office of the harbormaster, and a guard who bowed deeply to Einar as he passed.
Ramps branched off in all directions, leading to floating warehouses, berths for smaller boats, shops, and even inns.
He crossed over onto the next platform, and music from the tavern reached him.
There were three such establishments, apparently, in the massive sprawl that made up the harbor—his crew had sampled them all and found their personal favorites.
Other vendors sold food from little stalls, cooked fresh from the haul brought in that morning.
The deeper into the labyrinth he went, the larger the ships got.
Fishermen, traders, merchants . . . even a few that seemed to ferry folks across the Ice Queen’s Strait to the Port of Kasther on the other side—though the captains of those ships had clearly seen a stark drop in interest. Einar imagined the chaos in the Empire had disrupted many businesses.
The Kraken had delivered them to the main landing in full ceremony upon their arrival, but now it floated in a place of honor at the end of a long, narrow dock reserved for Gwynira’s personal, long-term guests.
His burly third mate was the only one on the deck, lounging with his feet up on a crate and a book open on his lap.
He looked up when Einar stepped onto the deck, and tossed him a jaunty salute. “Captain.”
“Brynjar. Everything quiet?”
“More than usual.” Brynjar grinned. “They’re over at the Anchor Ale House again. Silvio has struck up a friendship with the owner, and the whole lot of them drink for free on tales of the Kraken’s greatest sea battles.”
Einar tried not to wince. He trusted his crew to protect his personal privacy with their lives, but he did not trust them not to encourage the locals in their awe of their lost crown-prince.
And those who had been with him for centuries—like Silvio—had plenty of stories of Einar’s private war against the Empire.
Einar imagined that the crowds who would flock to hear those legends would fill the tavern coffers and more than make up for the fact that his crew had hearty appetites for ale.
Then again, once news of Naia’s display this morning spread, Einar suspected the locals would be far more interested in tales of their goddess.
The crew had plenty of those, too, after watching her fight against Sorin in the final battle of the last war.
The tavern owner would be beside himself once he found out—and Einar suspected the only reason the harbor wasn’t buzzing with the news already was thanks to Naia’s new and unorthodox methods of travel.
He’d still do well to hurry if he wanted to be the one to tell Petya. News this momentous would move as swiftly as those reindeer. “Is Petya in her cabin?”
“Last I heard, she was.”
“Good.” He clapped his third mate on the shoulder as he passed him. “Make sure you take a chance to enjoy free drinks, too. The youngsters can keep watch.”
“I don’t mind it.” Brynjar picked up his book with a satisfied smile. “It has been far too long since I had a chance to enjoy a book.”
True enough. Life had been hectic for the crew of the Kraken in the long moons leading up to that final, desperate battle in the heart of the Empire—and equally busy in its aftermath.
Trouble would come again soon enough, which Brynjar knew well.
So Einar left him to his story and made his way to the narrow hallway where his officers enjoyed more comfortable quarters.
Petya’s cabin was at the end, the door slightly ajar to indicate the crew could come to her with questions. Einar still knocked, and waited for her clear “Come in!” before pushing it wide.
His first mate’s home on the ship was surprisingly spacious, with a generous bed, a comfortable chair, a tidy desk, a screen hiding a hip bath, and a table large enough for several people to share a meal with her.
Two large portholes above the bed were thrown open to let in light and the fresh sea breeze.
Between them hung a framed painting of a much younger Petya standing on the cliffs of this very island, gazing down in adoration upon a woman in the distinctive robes of a Rahvekyan priestess, with flowers wound in her curly red hair.
The Kraken’s cartographer had the rare gift of being able to pull memories from the people she touched and coax ink to render them on paper.
The original painting of Petya on her wedding day had been lost when the island fell, but Nusaiba had recreated it as a gift that had become Petya’s most prized possession.
It wasn’t the only memory of this island that adorned Petya’s cabin.
Shelves held seashells and brass tokens.
One wall had a weaving of a still ocean night made of what Einar now recognized as Rahvekyan tundra cotton—its deep-teal hues as vibrant as the day she’d found it a thousand years past. One shelf had a miniature that Bexi had carved from driftwood—Petya had told him once that it was his parents’ castle.
Clean stone, strong lines—a fortress more than the fantastical palace Gwynira had raised in its place, but Einar imagined he would have preferred its unpretentious simplicity.
This entire cabin was practically a shrine to a world that waited only steps from this ship. But Einar knew better than to invite her onto the island. Petya would not set foot upon its shores while an interloper still ruled. Her grief was simply too vast.
Not for the first time, Einar tried to imagine what it had been like that night—Petya’s last on her beloved island.
The castle aflame. The queen she served fallen.
Chaos had reigned as the priests tried to organize the people to flee, overseen by the High Priestess—Petya’s wife.
Had there even been time for a hasty goodbye, or had duty torn them apart without even that simple closure?
What had come next must have been even worse.
A fast gallop into the mountains on the giant reindeer native to the island.
Realizing that Imperial soldiers had given chase.
Twelve of the fiercest members of the Queen’s Guard had been tasked with carrying the infant crown-prince to safety, but when the midnight moons rose over the newly conquered island, only Petya and Jinevra had survived to steer the tiny, fragile sailboat into the deadly tangle of icebergs known as the Storm God’s Maze.
Einar, barely a week old, had made the journey strapped to Petya’s chest, a prince who would never be crowned king.
Petya’s voice broke into his thoughts. “I can’t imagine you came here just to stare at my bookshelf.”
He turned to where she sat in her comfortable chair, one leg hooked over the arm. Her cat was curled up in her lap, its too-knowing eyes glaring at him as if she knew already that he brought news that would shatter their peaceful afternoon.
The cat was not wrong.
Petya herself was eternal—wiry and strong even with wrinkles creasing her face and silver streaking her hair.
A book rested on her knee with her finger marking her place—Klement’s book, which Einar had asked one of the servants to deliver to her.
He bought time by nodding to it. “Are you enjoying the book?”
The withering noise Petya made certainly did not sound like enjoyment. “That’s one word for it.”
So much for Guildmaster Klement’s literary aspirations. “Is it that bad?”
“Oh, he got enough details correct, I suppose.” She opened the book and paged through it, then adopted a haughty tone that dripped condescension.
“Many wonder why Akeisa lacks the comforts of civilized life seen throughout the rest of the Empire. The truth is that the common folk of the island prefer the rustic traditions of their ancestors . . .” She made a disgusted noise.
“The man certainly thinks highly of the Empire. And not so highly of us.”
And that must be why the man scratched so relentlessly at Einar’s nerves.
He had no doubt that Klement’s fascination with the island and its history was real enough, but his reverence held an uncomfortable proprietary edge.
Paternalistic, even, as if even Einar’s ancestors’ greatest achievements had been little more than the tricks of a clever child, for which Klement offered only backhanded praise.