2. The Sea-faring King
The Sea-faring King
SAPPHIRA
T he regent’s threat echoes on repeat in Sapphira’s mind as she descends the staircase, down into the courtyard.
Forever.
Forever.
Forever.
Her aunt always knows what to say to make Sapphira behave—with words that cut her the deepest and leave her shaking like a little girl.
Heart hurting, and her shoulders carrying a heavier weight than she can bear, Sapphira’s face falls into a resigned mask, the expression cold and distant like the ice princess she’s rumored to be.
Turning her eyes away from the party guests and rulers waiting for her in the open courtyard, who hold no interest for Sapphira, she gazes up at the night sky. It’s a mix of purples and blues, the clouds like soft pillows, drifting in a great lake.
The courtyard has been transformed, and is even more beautiful than the ballroom at Palais des Renard. Moonlight dapples the grass, and twinkling lights sway above her head.
Sapphira thought it was cruel of her aunt to hold her birthday in the place she’s kept prisoner, but the beauty of the night steals those thoughts from her.
Visiting princes wear intricate headdresses in vibrant reds, greens, blues, and yellows to show off the colors of their kingdoms, and the lanterns strung above their heads shine upon the wash of colors.
Vibrant flowers huddle around a square pond at the center of the yard, their scent misting the air, mingling with the smell of the sea and stacks of steaming meat that cover long tables.
King Luul and Queen Naiqama of Tideholm approach Sapphira first, with their eldest son, Sorin, between them. He has tight, coiled hair and high, protruding cheekbones. He’s pretty, like a girl, Sapphira muses. If she had to marry a man, he would do.
“It has been so long,” the queen says, bowing. The beads crowning her face jingle like bells across her forehead.
“And what a pity,” Sapphira replies, tipping her head in return. “I would have liked to build our alliance long before this meeting, but I hope the Lady Regent has done well on my behalf.”
The words are foreign on Sapphira’s lips, but exhaustive practice with her tutor has prepared her for conversation. What she didn’t prepare for, is how difficult it is to feign happiness. Her smile feels stiff. She’s afraid at any moment, it might crack.
“The Lady has been an excellent host at Palais des Renard,” Queen Naiqama says.
“She knows how to throw an excellent party. But, forgive me for asking, you don’t look sick at all.
” This is said with curiosity. Sapphira senses no ulterior motive in the question.
“You’re a stunning young woman, what they say about you seems to be untrue.
So, why haven’t you hosted the seven kingdoms in Dansui sooner? ”
“Mother,” Sorin hisses, his cheeks tight in embarrassment.
“It’s fine. I know what they say about me.”
She turns to Sorin. The man can’t be any older than twenty. He wears yellow silk around his hips, which accentuates his dark skin.
There is color etched into his flesh, red and yellow ink trails stunning patterns up his legs and his stops at his exposed back. She spies it when he twists his body, as if showing himself off.
It’s a tradition in Tideholm, she’s heard.
New additions are added yearly. On a boy’s eighteenth birthday he receives his final one on the back of the neck.
It signals they are ready to serve in Tideholm’s royal guard.
A prince like Sorin would have some sort of flower etched around his to display his royal lineage.
The queen clears her throat and Sapphira’s eyes snap back to her. She’s mortified at having been caught staring, but the queen doesn’t seem too worried. She’s smiling. Most likely seeing it as a positive that Sapphira is so interested in her son.
“I’m having a spell of good health,” Sapphira says smoothly, gritting her teeth against the lie.
She detests covering up for her aunt. For only a moment, she considers telling the truth.
The Lady Regent has had me locked in Jagun Castle against my will.
She seized control of a young, grieving princess and her kingdom, and she will take yours too.
But, Sapphira’s cowed by the warning look on her aunt’s face from across the courtyard. Her cousins curl their lips in identical sneers. No. There’s no escaping this.
Snagging a glass of wine from a passing tray, Sapphira raises it high above her head. “To my rising health!” She cheers. “And hopefully, more gatherings as joyful as this.”
She takes a sip. The sweet, burning liquid bubbles in her throat.
The king and queen clutch their glasses and shout, “To your health!”
Through the night, Sapphira indulges herself with the wine and food, refilling her glass each time a server comes around. She lets each suitor come to her, and nods at all of the right moments, but her mind drifts to faraway places. When the performers come out into the clearing, she slips away.
Watching scantily clad men dance to guiro and bone flutes, Sapphira leans up against a pillar at the edge of the courtyard to catch her breath. Maidens appear and disappear like apparitions, weaving through the crowd keeping glasses full and food circulating on trays balanced atop their heads.
Sapphira licks her grease-coated fingers, the smell of spices and oil filling her nose. When her aunt shoots her a glare, she turns down a third shrimp skewer and reaches for another glass of berry wine instead.
With a full belly, she scans the crowd. So many beautiful women, duchesses and princesses who came with their brothers and cousins, twirl across the dance floor in a wash of colors. Dresses that mold to flesh, and flowing fabric that teases a slip of skin when the wearer twirls.
They feel so far away, dancing and giggling, never once sparing the ice princess a single glance. It’s only their brothers who are meant to chat Sapphira. And she does herself no favors, scowling away in the corner.
Sapphira sighs. It’s her first moment alone since the night began.
She introduced the Prince of Neptor, whose Kingdom is the richest due to their textile production, to the Prince of Abyssius, which is known for weaponry and ironwork, and the pair are still chatting away, having completely forgotten her.
She cools her feet from all the dancing, her shoes laid aside while she curls aching feet in the soft grass and stares up at a puddle of stars.
“Who would leave a lovely woman standing here alone?” A thick, rolling voice washes over her. Sapphira freezes at the sound, a chill sliding down her spine as she turns.
A man leans against the pillar across from her, vines trailing up the limestone architecture behind him. He is tall, broad shouldered. A larger than life man with pale skin and turbulent blue, sea-dark eyes.
“This place is beautiful,” he says. His eyes don’t leave hers. “I’d say it’s more beautiful than anywhere else in Dansui. All of the Whispering Isles, even.”
“Are you an architect?” Sapphira asks, amused that he thinks complimenting the structure of her castle will win her over. It’s a different strategy than the other suitors employed.
She twirls the wine in her glass as she scrutinizes the man under the twinkling lights. Dark fur surrounds him, standing out against shockingly pale hair and milk-white skin.
Sapphira wonders who he came with but feels it would be rude to ask. The quality of his clothes and the golden rope draped across his throat tell her he’s someone important.
Agath would flog her for her ignorance.
“Not quite,” the man says, his posture relaxed and laid back.
His expression is playful. “I appreciate the art of building. The armature, the anatomy, the choreography of it all. It’s like a dance,” he says.
He waves his hands in a flourish toward the guests spinning around under the lights.
“Or like war. Commanders are much like architects. They are the tacticians who set up the pieces and structure the battlefield to their advantage. It takes time, dedication, and great leadership, but victory is always rewarding.” He smiles at Sapphira with dazzling teeth.
“So you’re a commander?” she says, thinking she hit the mark this time.
She bends to gather her discarded satin slippers from the grass and pulls them on one at a time.
Her eyes never leave his. It’s fun, the game of cat and mouse.
She screws up her face. “Your accent is strange, so I’d say you’re from Percion.
It’s the farthest kingdom in the Isles, and the one I’m least familiar with. ”
The man appears amused, a smirk dancing at the corner of his lips. “You don’t know who I am?”
Sapphira freezes, realizing what she just gave away. But he doesn’t seem hurt. “I’m not a commander, Princess. Just a man who loves his travels. I’m what you’d call a seafarer.”
“A seafarer?” she gasps, nearly choking on her wine. She looks at the man in awe, seeing him differently than she had when she thought he was only a man with a title. “Where in the world do you go?”
The side of his lip curls upward at her show of interest, sharp canines flashing in the blue night.
“Anywhere.”
Anywhere.
The word sounds absurd. Anywhere. He says it as if it were so easy .
And Sapphira supposes it is, to a free man.
Leaving the Whispering Isles has never crossed her mind; she has always been so focused on just the gates that surround Jagun Castle and turn it into a fortress.
It occurs to her now that her thinking may have been too narrow—the short-sighted aspirations of chattel.
It’s a harrowing realization.
“I fear I may have broken you,” the King muses. “I promise you, seafaring is less about the journey and more about the treasures you find along the way. If only you know where to look, there are many interesting things, and people, to explore.”
Cornelius winks. Sapphira gives the man a curious once-over as he holds out a hand. His cape sweeps around his shoulders as he bends to her.