Chapter 31
ChApter
Thirty-One
The sea wind carries the scent of salt and rain as I lean over the rail of the ship, my fingers curled tightly around the polished wood.
The coastline of Messanya grows clearer in the distance, a haze of sun-drenched cliffs and pearl-colored rooftops that glint like shell fragments beneath the sky.
But my thoughts are still tangled in the hot-blooded memory of Bastos.
We left the capital three days ago, our carriages rattling over the cracked ochre roads that led us north through valleys of red rock and olive trees.
The heat clung to everything—our skin, our clothes, our tempers.
And yet nothing there burned quite like the memory of Dante walking the thin path lined with serpents.
Even now, I shudder.
But not all the memories of the Baharat Palace are bad. I smile at the thought of Dante’s tattoo and the meaning behind it. That ink represents us, our coming together, and the intimate moments we shared, hidden in the artwork of a special flower I now hold as my favorite.
A seagull squawks above the ship, drawing me from my thoughts. The farther we travel from the Bastosi capitol, the more clarity I feel. It’s almost as if the air around the palace had been laced with a drug that erased inhibitions. It would certainly explain the behavior of the courtiers.
I haven’t heard what the Bastosi queens decided about Dante’s fate, but I can only assume that because he passed their tests, he received their approval.
This whole tour is a huge mystery to me.
I need to sit down with Ezra and have him explain it to me.
In any case, we’ve made it halfway through the realms.
Two down, two to go.
Another thought occurs to me as I note our halfway point: I haven’t heard from my uncle at all.
Not that he uses his telepathic powers to contact me often, but after what the tsar did to him, I could find some comfort in an update from him.
Even if it’s just to tell me he’s all right.
I considered trying to “speak” to him, since Dante apparently heard my voice in Podrosa and Bastos.
But whenever I accidentally used that power, it ended up hurting me, so I’m too cautious to try.
Not to mention, I wouldn’t even know if it would work or not.
Behind me, gulls careen and shriek over the mast, and the ship creaks as it rocks through the surf.
At the stern of the ship, Nadya is curled up with the book her great-aunt gave her.
She’s hardly put it down since we left Bastos, and I’m not sure if I should be worried or not.
Her eyes gleam with something fierce whenever she reads it, like the words are carving themselves into her bones.
Maybe they are. Maybe that’s how sorceress magic works.
I’m trying to be supportive. I am. But there’s a shadow in her now, a hunger for answers that might lead her somewhere I can’t follow.
Not because I don’t love her, but because I’m struggling with magic myself.
I’m not sure I can help keep Nadya safe from traveling down the wrong path when I can’t even figure out how to keep my body from betraying me when I use my mysterious powers.
Still, when she looks up from those curling pages and grins like she’s holding the key to everything, I don’t say a word.
Instead, I stay where I am, the wind tugging at the strands of hair that have come loose from my braid. Messanya unfolds in the distance—an island of music and myth—and I wonder if it will welcome us or swallow us whole.
My half-veil whips around my head in the cool breeze as we glide toward the nearest port.
The waters, clear and crystalline, shimmer beneath the afternoon sun, casting waves of light against the jagged, black rocks that form the island’s base.
The shoreline is a mix of stark beauty, smooth, marble cliffs crowned with lush greenery and wildflowers in hues of gold, violet, and blush.
Vines creep over the edges, draping themselves like delicate lace over the sharp crags below.
The shore is littered with sharp, jagged rocks.
Footfalls approach, slow and deliberate.
I glance over my shoulder to find Ezra joining me at the rail, the sea breeze tugging at the edges of his robes.
His hands are clasped behind his back, as if he’s been lost in thought—though with Ezra, it’s just as likely he’s been cataloging every shape of cloud and calculating their nautical implications.
“You’ve been quiet,” he says gently, eyes scanning the horizon. “Are you well?”
“As well as one can be on a boat headed toward the homeland of the people my father used to imprison and execute,” I mutter.
Ezra’s lips twist. “That well, then.” He leans closer to the railing, his gaze narrowing on the shore. “Do you see them? The bones?”
I follow his gesture. I thought they were jagged rocks, but I was wrong. Bones, bleached white by time and the sun, jut out from the sand and stones in scattered clusters—a grim reminder of the pirates who were lured to their deaths long ago.
“They say sirens leave them as a warning.” Ezra’s voice lowers. “The Messanyans never remove them. To remind anyone who comes near exactly what they are capable of.”
A shiver crawls down my spine. This place feels different from the other kingdoms—older, wiser, and far more dangerous.
“Ah.” Ezra straightens, shielding his eyes from the sun. “The Diapason.”
My eyes lift to the enormous structure looming high above the cliffs.
The Diapason gleams in the sun like a polished blade.
Its sweeping, iron beams arc like a ribcage to form a dome.
The curved spires are long and slender, shaped like the tines of tuning forks.
Their sleek, silvery surfaces hum faintly as the wind passes through them, sending an almost-imperceptible tremor into the air.
At the top of the structure waves the Messanyan flag, the top half pearl white, the bottom half seafoam green, the two halves divided by a wavy, silver line, symbolizing the sea.
At the center, the sigil of a silver harp is depicted.
“Magnificent,” Ezra says, the awe apparent on his face.
“The Diapason was built over a hundred years ago, when the sirens’ influence grew too powerful.
To prevent war, the siren nation agreed at the symposium to have it erected upon their shore.
It’s forged from elinvar iron—an alloy enchanted to vibrate in resonance with siren magic. ”
My brows knit. “Like the pendant that was sent to me in Delasurvia.”
He nods. “Exactly like it. Though far larger, and much more powerful. Those tuning-fork spires? When a siren inside the structure or within fifty feet of it sings or hums, the spires react. Not just noise—they send feedback. Vibrational magic. Enough to disrupt a glamour, silence a song, even render a siren unconscious if the tone is strong enough.”
My skin prickles. “So even the queen…”
“She is not immune,” Ezra says. “The entire palace is attuned to the Diapason’s frequency. If she were to attempt anything… persuasive… she’d be incapacitated before finishing her first note. That is why they used to hold the symposiums here, to assure an equity of power.”
I swallow, turning back to the shore. “Seems like a cage with a pretty view.”
Ezra says nothing, but his silence speaks volumes.
Another sound reaches my ears. It’s faint, but the breeze catches it now and then.
“Is that… singing?” I tilt my head, trying to hear the sound more clearly.
“Yes. That sound would be the Eirenes, the siren peacekeepers. They dwell high in the mountains, their sole purpose being to maintain the tranquility of the island, lulling it, so to speak, into a peaceful nation.”
“So, there are no fights or disagreements in Messanya?”
Ezra chuckles. “I wouldn’t go that far. But there are no disputes with the queen or her reign, as far as I know.
The Eirenes don’t replace the queen’s soldiers, but they do a pretty good job of making her soldiers’ duties easier.
Think of it this way: in the same way the air in Bastos gave people the tendency to be more, um, lax with their inhibitions, the Eirenes create an atmosphere that dilutes feelings of aggression and hostility. ”
“‘Dilutes,’” I repeat, “but doesn’t totally eradicate.”
“Correct.”
The ship rocks gently as the wind shifts course, the white sails above us billowing with renewed force.
Most of the crew is occupied adjusting the rigging, their voices blending with the call of gulls overhead.
I remain at the rail, watching the shoreline inch closer, when a flicker of movement draws my eye to the quarterdeck.
Silas stands there with his hands linked behind his back as he surveys the approaching land.
He emanates that smug, self-satisfied air he wears like a second skin.
Queen Eleanor is beside him, her veil pinned in place beneath her coronet, the folds of her dark sea-cloak rippling against her slender frame.
She reaches up, so slowly, it almost looks like a breeze caught her hand, and attempts to adjust his crown—just slightly, a tilt here, a smoothing there. A gesture most would interpret as a dutiful wife tending to appearances.
But Silas jerks his head just enough to dislodge her fingers.
“Don’t you have anyone else to bother, woman?” He swats her hand away, and I don’t miss it when she flinches. “I should have listened to Farvis and left you at Ivystone.”
Eleanor’s hand lingers midair before retreating, folding with practiced grace beneath the other on her waist. She says nothing.
“Besides,” he spits out, “you’ve outgrown your usefulness since your womb has withered up and dried.”
The words aren’t loud, and there are no guards close enough to hear them. But I feel the crack of them in my ribs like a punch.
The queen does not respond. She simply stares forward at the water, face unreadable.