Chapter Five
WITH THE BULK OF A CERTAIN TROLLISH FRIEND, we maneuvered my trunk into a corner of the vast room.
“Cubby,” Prescott announced before moving the fireplace screen to claim the hearth as his own space.
Much like a hound, he preferred to be in a den.
We assumed he had spent some time in a cave before being dumped off near Quinn’s Quay to be eaten by predators.
On the ship, he had an area in the hold where he had piled crates to form a large cavern of sorts to rest his weary head while asea.
“Let me find you some bedding,” I said before he curled up on the cold stone. I found a plethora of down pillows and extra blankets in the wardrobe, along with silken robes, soft slippers, large lengths of toweling, and rows of soaps in different scents and colors. “These are for your cubby.”
“Cubby,” he purred, hugging a pillow to his face. I reached up to tug it gently downward.
“Remember our talk about holding a pillow to your face?” The rich smells of the bath soaps flowed out of the wardrobe, whispering to me to use one or several of them.
“Is bad for life,” he replied. I nodded.
A grin split his face. He turned to make a bed in the hearth as I padded around, pleased to find a large four-legged tub behind the changing screen.
I should send Prescott to the kitchen for hot water, but his appearance might startle the cooks.
A soft knock at the door grabbed my attention.
I waved at Prescott as he gathered his blankets up in a soft bed while humming merrily.
If only other people were as easy to please as a troll with a pile of quilts.
Opening the door, I came face to face with a rather cute young man in white and blue livery, his dark hair cut short, his long ears fetching to say the least. His small feet were bare, but his arms were laden with a large silver platter with covered dishes and two bottles of wine.
I could smell roasted meat, and my stomach growled.
“Your Grace, I have food for you and your traveling companion.” He bowed as much as he dared with a platter of food and drink.
“Please, come in. And I have no grace whatsoever, so please call me Captain.” I held the door open for the servant. He was a bundle of nerves, his gray-blue eyes darting from me to a very happy Prescott curled into a small ball under several blankets. It took that many to cover him.
“Yes, Captain.” He wasted no time in setting the tray on the desk and removing the coverings from the dishes.
I moved over to stand at his side, enjoying the size difference between us.
“Widow Poppy has sent up what was left from the midday meal. Roasted hare, seasoned turnips and carrots, dark wheat buns with honeyed butter, and two pots of plum pudding.”
“Pudding!” Prescott shouted from under the quilts. The servant squeaked in fright. So word had spread through the castle that I was bunked with a troll. That might prove to be a detriment to my ability to charm a randy footman into my bed any time soon.
“No need to fret. He’s harmless. This looks lovely, but my companion will need a larger serving of pudding.”
I plucked the small ceramic pudding pot from the tray. It fit in the palm of my hand like a goose egg.
“Oh, yes, of course, Captain. How many more would you wish sent up?” He shot worried looks at the hearth.
“Does your Widow Poppy make the pudding in a large cauldron?”
“Yes, Your…Captain.”
He really was cute. I could easily picture him bent over the tub, lean arse up in the air, as I—
“Pudding!”
Right. Yes, pudding.
“Then bring up the cauldron,” I said and gave him my cheekiest smile. The one that lured countless dozens of lovers to my mattress. It had no effect. Fear overrode his cock. What a pity.
“The…cauldron, Your…Captain?”
“Mm, yes, the cauldron.” I nodded. He bowed and then ran from the room with as much dignity as the poor thing could muster. Sighing, I sat on the edge of the bed to watch Prescott wiggling about under his covers. “You’re going to impede my cock getting into any tight arses, I fear.”
“Cocker tight arse,” he sang out, his words muffled but loud.
Glorious. He now had a new song. I fell back onto my bed, my eyes locking onto the mural of an elven knight pledging his fealty to a king with long golden locks.
Aelir perhaps or one of the other kings before him.
Cupping the back of my head with my hands, I lay there as the sounds of the sea washed in on salty winds.
I grew drowsy, as the sea had always been my lullaby, but a knock on the door broke into my sleepy state.
Muttering to myself I went to answer the door.
Two lean footmen, both very pleasant to look at, struggled into the suite with a cauldron large enough for me to bathe in filled with plum pudding.
They placed it on the floor, backed out, and raced away.
I peeked out into the hall. Four guards stood within reach of my door.
I had to smile. The royals were very edgy about the pirate in their midst.
“Pudding!!” The lid to the cauldron could be heard thudding into the wall of my suite. The four guards jumped and spun to face me, eyes round, hands reaching for swords.
“He likes pudding.” I grinned and eased back into my room, closing the door with a soft click.
Prescott had carried his meal to his cubby and was sucking the thick dessert from a tankard.
I took him a spoon, but he was happy to dip and slurp, so I left him to it so I could eat my own meal.
The food was delicious, perfectly seasoned, and the wine was chilled just right.
When I spread myself out on the bed after finishing the first bottle of ice wine, I let the sound of the sea and the soft snores of a contented Prescott carry me into a nap, a highly unusual occurrence as there was always work to be done either on the sea or on land.
Only the rich cockers slept during the day, according to Pontious Cadere, yet here I was sailing off to dream as if I had no cares in the world.
“Now, son, what constellation is that just to the right of the moon sisters?”
“Papa, that is Renilla, the eye of the squid. And the stars that spread out from her eye are her tentacles.”
I was so proud. I’d studied the star logs so hard to please Papa. Time with him alone was one of my favorite things. The sweet, candied rolls Pith baked for us are my second favorite thing.
He patted my head, turning the stationary viewing glass to port side.
“Such a smart lad.” I could have floated away on sheer joy. “And that grouping to the right of Renilla, what is that cluster?”
I climbed back onto the small wooden box to place my eye to the well-worn eyepiece.
The old looking glass was unable to dip down far enough for a child, so I stood tiptoe on the box to view the night skies.
I stared and stared but couldn’t recall the fat cluster of stars.
Had they even been on the star logs my father kept in the captain’s quarters aboard the Cloud’s Shame?
I was bright, clever, everyone on board said so, yet I couldn’t recall that group of stars.
“I don’t remember, Papa,” I shamefully confessed. His hand slid down the back of my head to grip my neck. Tightly. I winced. He leaned down, his bearded chin rough on my ear.
“That’s because you’ve never seen them before, son.
Look well. Get to know that cluster, for it is the crown of silver mold.
Those who wear it will wither and rot, their souls claimed by the need for power.
Landlocked, unable to sing the songs of the seaborne sisters, any who succumb to the call of wealth, power, and greed will be forever cursed. ”
“Papa, my neck…you’re hurting my neck,” I whimpered as his fingers dug into the flesh of my shoulder, pulling at my neck, gouging into my skin to draw blood.
I tried to yank his hands from my body, but he was too strong.
His voice shifted, subtly, from a baritone I knew as well as my own to a watery chorus that loosened the tears that had been threatening.
“Papa, my neck. I’m sorry. I’ll study harder! ”
“Remember well the blessings of the sea, Coelum, for those who drift off course will feed the Iceveil Kraken.”
I began to wail loudly, blood soaking my shirt as the stars congealed into a swirling mass of foam and bile set to suck our ship into the monster’s gaping maw.
“Papa, save me! Papa! Papa!”
“Papa!” My scream woke me. Bolting out of bed, lungs huffing, I stood in the center of a room I did not recognize as the fingerlings of a nightmare released me from its icy hold.
“Fukkate,” I gasped, flipping my hair from my face, trying to suck in as much air as I could while my thoughts sharpened and the fear melted away.
“This is Castle Avolire,” I whispered to myself, Prescott still sleeping in the fireplace, one large foot protruding from his nest of bedding.
“I’ll have to avoid turnips before going to sleep and drink more wine. ”
With shaky legs, I went to the balcony. The sun was not much lower than it had been when I fell asleep.
Turning from the sea and the clinging memory of the ocean opening up to swallow me, I found my boots.
A walk. I needed to do something. Anything.
Idle hands led to anxious minds, as the old sailors liked to say.
Pulling on my boots, I left my hair down because I was a shitter that way and slipped out into the corridor.
Four sets of eyes locked on me. I had no real direct course, so I glanced down the hall to spy the Stillcloud gallery doors.