Chapter 17
Ihardly managed to hit Harthon at all, and any strikes I did land were ones he fully allowed.
But after hours of work, our session ended with me feeling like I’d made progress.
Building on Callen’s foundation, Harthon had shown me more ways to capitalize on my size and scrappiness.
Quick jabs. Dirty maneuvers. More evasions.
At one point, his tunic disappeared again, but there was no opportunity to appreciate that, not when every distraction or mistake ended with me on the deck, or my arm twisted behind my back, or his weight crushing me.
The bruises beginning to color my skin were a testament to how many of those mistakes I’d made.
Wringing out the washcloth, I scrubbed my legs, noting the track of yellow splotches along my right thigh.
I glanced in the mirror to see those splotches extended up past my hip to my ribs, likely from when he’d swung me into the side of the ship.
With the ugly, stitch-marked scars on my abdomen and leg, the light marks looked perfectly at home—which was ironic, given the gaudy captain’s cabin surrounding me.
The room was far more luxurious than I’d expected, in both size and décor.
Elaborate moldings were painted gold, a colorful fresco covered the ceiling, and the bed, desk, and shelving showcased elaborate woodwork that belonged in a Citadel.
Yet the ship’s captain, who was apparently sleeping elsewhere, was a salty, crusty man.
The space didn’t fit him at all—or me, for that matter.
It was likely a relic from the previous Princeps’ time.
Just another example of the wasteful opulence our leaders enjoyed while their people suffered.
After I finished washing, I scrubbed my old tunic in a bucket of sudsy water and searched for a place to hang it.
My eyes landed on the chair behind the desk, one that was probably too expensive to be treated like a drying rack.
As I draped the fabric over the backrest, I glanced at the shelves lining the wall behind it. They were filled with books.
In any other circumstance, I wouldn’t have cared, but I had nothing to do.
Calm seas meant no help was needed on deck.
My body was too sore to train more, and appearing on deck might entice Harthon into throwing me to the sharks again, just to confirm my failure this morning wasn’t a fluke.
Besides, my reading needed practice. Merelda’s lessons had barely qualified me as literate.
As it was, the faded, swirling words carved into each book spine before me were nearly indecipherable.
Giving up on the titles, I grabbed a random volume and brought it over to the bed. Age had faded the cover, but the yellowed pages were in pristine condition, like they’d never been read.
Lying on my stomach, I flipped to the middle.
“…five classes—a system which is synonymous with our modern civilization. The King, indeed, is in a class of his own. He is untouchable, indisputable, and synonymous with divinity. Beneath him are the Princepes who govern each Territory. They are dependent on the King; they have no power without the King. They do not act independently, but rather…”
I flipped to a new page.
“…See the example set by Jonathan IV’s reign.
His Majesty allowed each Territory to name themselves after several petitions from his Princepes and Lords.
The result was six states with strong identities.
While numerous factors contributed to the revolt during his successor’s rule, such a frivolous allowance undoubtedly encouraged the spirit behind several Territories’ rebellions, hence why the Territories reverted to their original numerical designations after Jonathan VI… ”
If I remembered correctly, the Jonathans ruled over fifty years ago. This text was incredibly old. It was also mind-numbingly boring. I flipped to another page. After ten minutes, I realized it was lecturing me about the intricacies of the bartering system.
No wonder no one had read this book. It made Harthon’s shark trial seem like a preferable option. At least that experience had been stimulating.
Closing the book, I returned to the shelves to look for a more well-loved option.
The ship rocked just as I reached the desk.
I dropped the book to catch myself, wincing as my bruised hip made contact with the desk.
The floor quickly leveled, and I waited, heart in my throat.
One more lurch, and I’d be sprinting for the deck.
I wasn’t about to get sick again.
But as seconds passed, the ship remained steady. Breathing a sigh of relief, I glanced down. The book was splayed open, pages down. I swiped it up, ready to put it away, when a glimpse of a bolded title stopped me short. Settling against the desk, I brought it into focus.
Origins of Power.
Beneath it was a list. At first glance, the items listed were obvious. Food. Education. Gold.
My eyes snagged on a passage at the bottom, which was punctuated with a small star.
Land, Skies & Seas.
These are, perhaps, the only levers the King cannot influence independently. Rather, the Abomination acts as a bridge between His Majesty and these sources, which demand far more consideration than other items on this list. Consequences appear to be irrevocably tied with all uses.
It was clear the “Abomination” was the magvis.
I knew from Harthon that the magvis had been kept as the King’s pet for years, ever since one swore an oath of loyalty in exchange for protection.
That loyalty quickly morphed into captivity, and that oath was inherited through the magvis’ line—an unending cycle of imprisonment.
The paragraph continued on the next page.
The Abomination calls forth a flood to drown an army or punish a people, and nearby land suffers from drought.
It fertilizes a Territory’s land, and another suffers from unexplainable crop losses.
It demands heat from the sun, and other skies grow cloudy.
It is clear the Abomination draws the power for its feats from other places in the world.
These consequences can last several weeks or months, and are so severe that they demand careful consideration.
Observe the recent event that occurred under Jamison IV…
This was new to me, but it wasn’t surprising. I knew the Domus siphoned the life from our land, but it apparently wasn’t a one-off occurrence. Anything the magvis created or caused used power from elsewhere, which made sense.
As much sense as an unnatural being could, anyway.
I didn’t know what number “IV” represented, but Jamison was clearly a king. The passage ended there, so I began searching other pages for his name.
By the time the letters blurred together and my eyes closed, I really wished I knew what number “IV” stood for so I could stop saying the letters in my head.
The sound of the door opening had me flying upright, book held like a weapon.
The alarm ebbed when I saw Harthon illuminated by the cabin’s warm glow, looking beautifully windswept.
Not in a way that was pretty, but in a way that kept me gazing in both wariness and wonder.
His skin was always tanned, but his time on deck had brushed his cheeks with a hazy red.
His hair was thick and textured from the salty air, and his tunic was wrinkled from the elements, draping open haphazardly at his sculpted chest. The whiskers along his square jaw were beginning to grow long again, like he hadn’t bothered looking in a mirror.
“You missed dinner.”
I dragged my eyes away from his face and to his hand, which held a small platter of food. “What time is it?”
“Three hours to midnight,” he answered, closing the door behind him.
Here I’d thought I’d closed my eyes for only a minute.
“What number does ‘IV’ stand for?”
His brows wrinkled. “Four.”
“How?”
“The I means one, and the V means five,” he explained, crossing the floor to hand me the food. “When it’s written as IV, it means one less than five.”
As I began to eat the meal of meat, carrots, and bread, he leaned against the desk, crossing his legs. “Do you know what an X stands for?” he asked.
I paused mid-chew, hesitating. Then I slowly shook my head.
As a villager, no one expected me to know how to read. Still, I couldn’t help the embarrassment of not knowing a simple number.
“The X means ten. So, if you see an I before an X, that would be nine. If you saw a one after an X—”
“That’s eleven,” I filled in.
He nodded once, then went quiet, like he knew anything more would be patronizing.
Swallowing a tough piece of meat, I asked, “How did you learn to read?” He was raised as a mercenary in a nomadic clan, yet he spoke and read like he’d been primed for nobility his entire life.
“My father.”
The same man who’d killed his mother and beaten him had taught him to read? I didn’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.
“Why would he do that?”
“The one thing he cared for most was power, and even he understood that education, as non-violent as it was, would get him more. When we looted, he would look for documents regarding merchant routes, personal vendettas, information that could be used as blackmail—things like that. He taught us to read so we could help him with those endeavors.”
He’d said us, not me. “He taught the entire clan to read?”
A shadow crossed his face. “Just a select few.”
Noting the way his jaw tensed, I returned to my meal. Despite all he’d told me, there was much to his upbringing I didn’t know. What I did know was that he didn’t like speaking about it—that it was probably painful.
Neither of us spoke again as I finished my food, his focus set on a far wall as his mind seemed to wander.
“Thank you for bringing me dinner,” I said, leaning over to set the tray on the bedside table. The movement jarred my bruised hip, and I winced.