Chapter 74 James
James
The ship sailed west first and then north, and while they were spotted by naval vessels, the Harendellian crews showed no interest. Why should they, given the ship was Cardiffian in style, flew Cardiff’s banners, and had a crew dressed in garments from the north?
James had discovered that the Ithicanians had quite a selection of ships and disguises in their collection. Most vessels had been captured during attacks on Ithicana’s shores, but he learned that this particular vessel was a ghost ship.
“We found her floating in our waters with all the passengers dead in their beds and the crew missing,” one of the crew told him.
“The reasonable theory was that the crew had poisoned the passengers and abandoned ship, but all their wealth and goods remained aboard. So there was some thought that the vessel had been hexed by a witch.”
The time he’d spent in Cardiff with his uncles had ensured that James had learned everything about the customs and beliefs of his mother’s people.
Whenever he was in Harendell, it was easy to dismiss many of the powers and gifts Cardiffian women claimed to possess, but while in Cardiff, it all felt very real.
One could not stand in the room with Calythra and deny that she had power, and there had been times in Lestara’s presence when he felt the same way.
It was that feeling of unease that had fallen over him the moment he’d set eyes on the vessel that would take him north, and learning of its dark history only made the sensation worse.
He could barely sleep the entire journey, and what sleep he had was plagued by violent dreams that left him in an irritable fog when he was awake.
It was hard not to feel relieved when they entered the northern bay and Cardiff itself came into view. Heavily treed and mountainous, it was a wild place, and as he had since his youth, James felt the call of this land.
“Drop anchor and row me in under the cover of night,” he instructed the crew. “Alexandra and Katarina will both have spies here, so no need to draw attention to my arrival.”
The skies were clear when they reached shore, the stars a million pinpricks of light overhead as James stepped into the shallows, frigid water filling his boots.
He tightened the fur cloak that he’d taken from the Ithicanian collection, all of it moldy and moth-eaten, but the chill of the north felt welcome after the oppressive heat of Ithicana, where the air had been so humid it had felt like breathing in water.
“Bloody freezing,” one of the Ithicanians muttered. “Haven’t felt this sort of cold since Devil’s Island.”
“At least the Cardiffians won’t eat you,” another one of the men replied.
“They’ll just have one of their women capture your soul.”
James ignored their speculation over Cardiffian witches and focused his gaze on the dark forests.
His uncle’s castle was called Bryngaleth, and unlike rulers of other nations, he kept it as his only home.
When he left to hunt or to battle, Ronan Crehan slept in the open air, his favored ceiling the stars in the sky.
So of all the places in Cardiff to find him, this was the surest bet.
“Thank you for your companionship,” James said to the Ithicanians. “Safe travels south and may God, fate, and the stars all keep watch over Ithicana.”
“In the tempests we trust,” one said to him, and then they both inclined their heads. “Good luck, Your Grace.”
His jaw tightened at the title, no part of him having grown used to it during their travels.
James left the Ithicanians to row back to the ship and started walking down the banks of the bay, his boots crunching on the frost-laden pebbles.
The moon had risen, and the crescent illuminated Bryngaleth in the distance.
The castle loomed like a crag of black stone at the edge of the bay, its towers stark against the sky.
Bryngaleth seemed to drink in the moonlight, its walls gleaming faintly, almost alive in their stillness.
Yet it was the sounds of the bay, not the castle, that held James’s attention as he walked.
The lap of waves against the rocks was soft and rhythmic compared with the violent seas around Ithicana.
Both seas were beasts, but this one slept, each wave a soft breath of slumber.
From somewhere out in the darkness came the low, mournful cry of a loon, its voice haunting as it drifted over the icy water.
Closer, a fox barked sharply, its yip a sudden, wild punctuation to the silence, before it fell still once more.
James glanced toward the edge of the path, where a dark tangle of undergrowth met the slope of the shore.
A rustle there, brief and faint, set his nerves on edge.
Perhaps it was just the wind worrying at the brambles, or some small creature—a stoat or a hare—scurrying through the frozen brush.
Yet the sound lingered in his mind as he walked, a reminder of how alone he was.
Of how empty these lands often seemed, despite this being the heart of Cardiff.
Bryngaleth seemed to grow taller, its form sharpening with each step.
The castle’s gates were dark and closed, a void in the wall of frost-covered stone.
Somewhere high above, a single owl screeched, its cry slicing through the stillness like a blade.
James paused, his breath misting in the frigid air, and listened.
Not an owl. A signal.
James stiffened right before a voice said, “State your business, traveler. It’s late to be out and about on a night such as this.”
He turned to find two men dressed in heavy furs standing behind him, one with a sword in his gloved hand and the other with an arrow loosely nocked in a longbow. Slowly, so as not to cause alarm, James pulled back his hood so that moonlight illuminated his face.
Their eyes widened in recognition. Not because his face was well known in Cardiff, for his uncles had kept his presence hidden, but because these men were part of the king’s war band. Close as brothers to both Ronan and Cormac, and James knew them well.
“Look who the cat dragged in,” Theryn said. “You’re supposed to be dead, boy. Dead at the Ithicanian princess’s hand. They held a funeral for you at Verwyrd. Ronan took it hard, but Caly told him not to weep over an empty grave.”
James’s skin prickled, but he ignored the sensation.
“The rumors of my death are grossly overstated,” he replied with a shrug. “I need to speak with my uncle, but I also need discretion. For reasons I’ll relay to him, there’s a target on my back, and I do not care to make it bigger.”
Theryn’s bushy blond eyebrows rose. “This is bound to be a good story, but good stories are worth the wait. Hood up, lad, and we’ll get you to him.”
James pulled up his hood and followed them into the town nestled at the base of the castle.
Light glowed from around closed window shutters and doors, the air heavy with the smoke of hearths that burned all night to ward off the chill.
Nearly every wooden surface was carved with constellations, and wind chimes formed from the skulls of small creatures hung from the eaves of every home.
Yet despite everything that was said about astromancy in Harendell, none of it felt ominous.
How could it when he could hear singing and laughing from inside the homes, the sound of children quarreling about having to go to bed, and from the taverns, reed pipes and drums playing joyful tunes accompanied by the unmistakable thuds of people dancing.
“All seems well in Bryngaleth,” he murmured. “Spirits seem high.”
“Why wouldn’t they be?” Theryn replied. “With the blockade on the bridge, the Harendellians have no choice but to trade north. Edward’s treaty of peace lives on with William and Lestara, and while they buy our furs, we fill our bellies with their beef and win the hearts of our wives with their shiny trinkets.
We have you to thank for it, Jamie. That will never be forgotten. ”
James gave a tight nod. He could not feel good about what he’d accomplished for a multitude of reasons, not the least being that he was about to ask them to give it all up.
Yet he’d also heard a thread of tension in Theryn’s voice, which was confirmed as the man added, “I do not wish to be the bearer of dark tidings, but your uncle Cormac is dead, lad. Poisoned by the Amaridians. Yet when pressed for action against Amarid, your brother gives only platitudes. Katarina has the blood of two Crehans on her hands, and that cannot go unavenged. The stars care not for profit—they care for blood.”
“If I have my way, they’ll get their blood and more,” James replied. “But I don’t rule in Cardiff. Ronan does.”
Both men grunted their agreement and approval, and they carried on in silence.
They reached the base of the hill and began the climb to the castle itself.
The road to Bryngaleth twisted and turned in a relentless series of cobbled switchbacks that clung to the hillside like the scales of a vast serpent.
The stones were old and uneven, polished smooth in some places by centuries of wear but fractured in others where frost and time had pried them apart.
It was a hard climb, the incline growing steeper with every turn, the switchbacks carving a deliberate, unhurried path upward as if daring anyone who did not belong to turn back.
Halfway up, James was breathing heavily, each inhalation laced with the faint tang of the sea far below. The walls of the castle rose high and unyielding, their stone blackened with age, and the towers jutted upward like broken spears.