Chapter 11
Eleven
ASHLAND
Waves crash against the sides of the dark wooden boat, and sea spray coats my skin in a fine layer of salt and morning dew. I draw in a long inhale, breathing the peaceful aroma that the water gives when I’m alone.
Ahead, the pebbled beach awaits as mist snakes between the emerald pines slicing into the horizon. But before I’m able to reach it, another dinghy filled with a handful of my advisors approaches, clearly too impatient for the slower pace I choose.
The two vessels knock against each other in the choppy waters. As they’re tied together, I toss a netted bag of freshly caught cod into their boat. It lands between the polished boots of Priapus, and he gives it a disgusted sneer.
“Take this to the village—it will have to do. The main boats won’t be back for a few more days.” I shake my head slightly, looking toward the deep sea. “The herring and haddock are becoming harder to find in this area. Even the cod are growing scarce.”
A sailor holding the oars nods obediently and reaches around to set the fish in a basket attached to the inner wall of the boat.
“Your Grace—the generals have assembled as ordered,” Priapus says, wrinkling his nose.
“We have received confirmation: Metalla is dead.” I give him a long stare and watch as crimson patches rise above his collar and up his meaty neck.
“But there’s been a succession issue we weren’t expecting.
It looks like that bitch courtesan had progeny with the king after all. ”
“I already know.” My words are a threat—violence laced with darkness.
A promise.