Chapter 47
The sun had almost entirely sunk by the time Richard guided the Maiden’s Promise into the island’s shallows.
It had not been an easy approach. With Kaelen and Flint trussed to the mast, Richard had been forced to manage the sail, the wheel and the chart all at once—though they helped by calling out instructions.
After Richard had eased the ship past the headland and dropped the anchor, he allowed himself a sigh of relief.
“Right.” Richard clapped his hands and crossed the deck. “I shall release your bonds, but if I catch a single yearning glance at the waters, you are going straight back to that mast.”
Kaelen and Flint chorused their agreement—Flint rather more colourfully—and on release, immediately fixed their clothes—the knight yanking up his trousers and the bandit adjusting his vest and pulling on a more modest tunic.
Richard stared at where the island awaited—its shore barely visible in the dim light. “The rowing boat. Let us go fast before we lose the light.”
* * *
The beach was finer than expected. Pale sand, threaded with broken shells and long strips of seaweed. To the east, the cliffs rose sheer, and bordering the beach, dense and dark, stood the forest.
Richard helped Kaelen haul the rowing boat past the tideline. The sun’s last sliver was sinking, and the sea behind them darkened to a churning black.
“We could sleep here upon the sand,” he said. “I should rather not blunder into that forest.”
“Not here.” Flint glowered at the water. “Those bloody mermaids might try their luck again. Or they might just climb up the coast and rip our throats out.”
“Edge of the trees,” Kaelen suggested. He carried a lantern from the ship that gilded his jaw in gold. “We can sleep within the border and take watches.”
Richard considered the dark wall of trees with distaste. The wind that slunk through their branches sounded like a child’s screams. But Kaelen’s reasoning was sound, and Flint’s objection was not without merit.
“Very well.” Richard grimaced. “The trees, then.”
* * *
Richard did not like the forest. It was quiet—too quiet—and these trees reared too tall, with thick trunks and bark of strange patterns.
They looked, Richard thought as he traced a furrow, like faces.
A slack mouth above a patch of moss, which hung like a beard.
Two eyes where almond-shaped holes punctured the bark.
Then, there were the spiders.
They were small, no bigger than Richard’s middle finger, but they scuttled over the trees in masses, hiding from the lantern light.
Large cobwebs wreathed the branches, and Kaelen—striding ahead with his sword—yelped each time he walked into one.
Flint, who trailed behind him, fared no better, often cursing and brushing at his hair to remove the strands.
It all made Richard’s skin crawl. An eight-legged siren.
Was it a spider too? Were these smaller arachnids the siren’s eyes? Did it know of his arrival to its isle?
“Richard.”
The whisper came from behind his left shoulder, barely more than a sigh. Goosebumps prickled his arms.
“Who is that?” Richard turned, only to be yanked back by his elbow.
“The hell do you think you’re doing?” Flint hissed, wrenching Richard into a brisk walk.
“I thought I heard my name.”
“Yeah? Well, next time, you button your fucking lip and pretend you’ve gone deaf.” Flint waved an impatient hand to Kaelen, who’d stopped to check. “If a thing calls your name in the middle of fucking nowhere, you don’t go announcing it has the right person. Have some bleeding sense.”
“I see,” Richard said meekly.
“Just be careful, handsome,” Flint muttered. “We aren’t in Ardenia anymore.”
* * *
Kaelen built the fire in a small clearing.
They’d picked some branches and twigs along the way, and Kaelen worked at it with quick hands.
Once the fire bloomed, the spiders swarming the ground scattered to the clearing’s edge, finding refuge among the trees.
It was only then that they laid down the bedrolls—Kaelen hurrying to arrange Richard’s, batting away spiders that still clung to it.
Flint sprawled by the fire and shut his eyes. “Wake me when it’s my turn to watch.”
Richard settled into his own bedroll and recalled the leather bracelet he’d bought the day before. Quickly, he fished it from his inner pocket and lobbed it in Flint’s direction.
The bandit caught it without opening his eyes. “What’s it?”
“A bracelet.” Richard beamed, giving Kaelen a wink. “There was a stall in the market yesterday, and I thought of you. The raven, you see. For your guild.”
Flint lifted his head from the crook of his elbow and flicked at the dangling raven bead. “You bought me a piece of cord and a tin bird.”
“You might well try to be gracious,” Kaelen snapped from where he was feeding branches into the fire. “It is the thought that matters.”
Flint tugged the bracelet around his wrist. “There. I am garnished. I am festooned. I am the prettiest cutthroat in all the Seven Realms, and I shall doubtless be murdered for my finery in my sleep.”
Richard tried not to smirk. “It suits you.”
“Like hell it does.” Flint flopped back into his bedroll. “I’ll wear it till I can sell it for a copper coin. Goodnight.”
Soon, his breathing had slowed, and light snores echoed. Richard turned to find Kaelen watching him.
“I shall take first watch,” Richard said. “You have had a day, and your face is still a sight.”
Kaelen touched his swollen nose with a rueful grin. “Yes. I imagine it is.”
“Sleep.”
The knight unrolled his own bedding beside the fire, settling on his side with his sword in hand. “Wake me at the slightest cause for concern.”
“Of course.”
Kaelen seemed satisfied with that. He closed his eyes, and soon he, too, was breathing deeply.
Richard drew his knees to his chest and watched the fire crackle and spit. Who’d have thought he’d come so far from Ardenia? That he’d be sitting between his knight and a bandit who hated his crown.
Tomorrow, they would go after the eight-legged siren, whatever it proved to be. They would rip out its heart, and it’d be a step closer, finally, to stopping the spread of Rot.
But Galdran… that was a matter yet to be resolved.
He’d been trying not to think of it, but once the veil fell and Gloamvarn’s might marched forth, what hope did Ardenia have, in truth?
With only Frostheim as an ally, how could they withstand the onslaught?
The fighting would cost thousands of lives, and if Galdran won, Richard knew, all those he loved would be flayed in front of him. Such was the elf’s nature.
“Richard.”
The voice came from the trees behind. Richard’s head jerked so fast that his neck cricked. Kaelen muttered into his bedroll and shifted onto his other side.
“Richard.”
Richard stared. He knew that voice as he knew his own hands. Rich, low, with a warm timbre.
It could not be.
Richard staggered to his feet and wandered towards the trees. The forest stretched before him, looming, dark.
“Father?” he called softly.
Footsteps crunched dead leaves, and from between two trees, a tall figure stepped into the clearing.
Richard released a shuddering breath.
Golden hair. Sharp blue eyes that lit easily with laughter or fury. Proud chin and high cheekbones that carved Richard’s own face.
“Father,” Richard choked out past the lump in his throat. “Is—is it really you?”
In the back of his mind, a voice screamed. He’s dead. He’s dead, you fool. You lit his pyre with your own hands—
But with each passing heartbeat, a fog rolled in, and the voice grew muffled.
What did it matter? His father was here.
Haldric was here. There was that splitting grin Richard had always tried so hard to receive.
There was that scar at his brow where Corwin had nicked him with the dagger one summer.
There were those broad shoulders, always so strong, so firm.
All would be right, Richard knew, when his father took charge.
“Son.” Haldric opened his arms with a tilt of his head. “Well, boy?” He laughed. “Won’t you give your old man a hug?”
Richard ran into the embrace, stumbling forward as if he were six again. His arms wound about Haldric’s back, his face buried itself in Haldric’s shoulder, and the familiar cedar perfume wrapped around him like a blanket.
“Father,” he whispered. “Father, it has—it has been so very hard.”
Haldric’s hand carded through his hair. “I know, boy. I know. I shall sort it all now that I am here.”
Richard’s knees nearly buckled. Of course, his father would sort it.
His father, who had stood between Ardenia and danger for over thirty years, who had stopped the dark mages of Joplin, who had carried the crown without ever appearing to feel its weight, who had laughed and roared and slammed his fist upon tables and made the High Council fall into line.
Words tumbled from Richard. “There’s an elf of Gloamvarn. He—he has marked me, seeks to unmake me, and I fear him so.”
A growl rumbled through Haldric. “And think you I’d let anything harm my firstborn?”
Richard’s shoulders sagged. “No. No, Father. Of course not.”
Haldric pulled him closer still. The arms about him were iron-strong. Galdran could not reach him through those arms. His father had slain any enemy that had tried to hurt him, and the elven king would meet the same fate.
“You need not carry this any longer,” Haldric said. “I shall take it from you.”
“You shall?”
“All of it.” A kiss pressed to the crown of his head. “Every load. Every burden. I shall fix it, my son. You need only sleep.”
“Sleep,” Richard echoed.
A great heaviness was gathering behind his eyes. His limbs seemed attached to an anchor dragging him down. His eyelids drifted shut.
“Close your eyes, boy,” Haldric murmured. “You have been awake too long.”
“I—Father.” Richard’s legs gave way, but Haldric took his weight. “I’m sorry I didn’t kill Marius and wage war.”
The hand stilled in his hair. “You sought peace. I understand, boy.”
Something in the phrasing snagged against the fog. His father had never shirked from battle or vengeance. Haldric should be furious. Should grab him by the collar, give him a hard shake, and demand why Marius still drew breath. Never had Haldric forgiven his mistakes so easily—
But the fog thickened, and Richard’s thoughts grew lost. The arms about him rocked, gentle, so gentle, and his fists loosened in the cloak.
“Father,” he managed to mumble. “Please. Don’t leave me when I wake.”
The last sound he heard before the dark folded over him was Haldric’s murmur, “I will keep you always, my boy. Always.”