Tangyre opened Raed’s pack and fished out some fresh clothes. “If only you had been born in Vermillion as the Curse dictates. If only those worthless Princes had crowned your father instead of—”
“That’s a lot of ifs.” He closed his eyes again, trying to imagine how his life would have been different. “Perhaps if we could go back and change my grandfather to a kinder Emperor—but we have to live in this world, Tang. This reality.” Raed, finding some little remaining strength, pulled himself upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He took several long gulps of air. “How far to Orinthal?”
“We should be there by nightfall.”
Chioma was not one of the principalities that had slavery, but they allowed slaver ships to pass up the massive Saal River to places that were less enlightened. It meant they profited from the vile trade—yet remained aloof from it.
It was not just this aspect of Chioma that disturbed Raed. He had studied a lot as a young man: history of the Empire, family legends and all his ancestors. Something from that time was worrying at him.
“In the bottom of my pack,” he croaked weakly to Tangyre. “My grandfather’s journal.”
Captain Greene frowned. “I don’t think you—”
“By the Blood, Tang!” Raed growled and immediately wished he had not. His head felt stuffed with snapping turtles. He waved his hand. “I can at least read. I promise not to get up immediately.”
His friend let out a sigh, retrieved the journal and handed it to him. “Just promise to keep to that bed.” Then she tucked a blanket over him and retreated out of the cabin.
With a ragged sigh Raed obeyed, even as he opened the book on his lap. The last Rossin Emperor’s journal was not studded with gems or even terribly thick, and it was not the official record—that still remained in Vermillion Palace. Instead, this journal contained Valerian’s personal writings; after his death it had been carried away by his few remaining supporters.
The Young Pretender had been born years after the last Rossin Emperor had died, but he had read enough of his writings to have a pretty good idea why the Assembly of Princes had chased his son out of Vermillion. It mattered little to them that the meek heir, who was branded the Unsung, was nothing like his father.
Raed shivered and pulled the blanket closer. He had no way of telling if his life would have been better if his father had retained the throne; he might have grown up as foolish as his grandfather and met just as untimely a death. But he would never have had to live with the Rossin.
Raed’s jaw clenched, and he began to flick determinedly through the journal. Having already read the damn thing before, he was aware it was soaked in the arrogance and pride of the dead Emperor, yet there was still much of value to be found in its pages. As a young man Valerian had traveled with his father the length of Arkaym and visited every one of the principalities. Even with his many faults, the last Emperor had still been a shrewd observer of character.
After a few moments Raed found the section that dealt with Chioma, the spice land of the Empire. It remained a strange case among the principalities of Arkaym, skating at times perilously close to independence. Its history could be traced unbroken as far back as the written records went and, curiously, its royal family had never changed throughout the ages. No other principality could lay the same claim.
Raed frowned and read on. Valerian recorded his impression of the Hive City, the vast markets for spices and dyes, and the beauty of the women—even if he could have been only thirteen at the time.
However, it was the portion about the Prince of Chioma that caught Raed’s attention.
The ruler of Chioma keeps himself in remarkable seclusion that no other Prince we have visited would dare. None have ever seen the heirs to the throne of Chioma—nor the face of their liege. Even in the presence of his servants, his nobility and his women, the Prince’s form is covered in blue robes—scandalously close to Imperial purpl! When my father and I were taken into his presence, it was like we were the penitents rather than he. I was horrified to find even then, when we were in his presence, a glittering wall of crystal beads obscured his face.
He bowed most politely, correct to the tiniest degree, yet he did not once offer to remove the covering before his face. I wanted to take my sword and smite him down for the offense given to my father—but he held me back with a stern look. After the audience I said to Father, “He should be whipped for his insolence.” He only replied, “In Vermillion he would be, but in Chioma that would be dangerous,” as if that were explanation enough!
Later that night I managed to corner some of the Imperial Guards, who told me the rumors surrounding this Prince. One told me that he was so hideously scarred none could look on his face and not go mad, while another fool suggested the Prince was immortal. The final one whispered the Prince had died years before, and it was his mother concealed behind the veil.
Raed scanned the pages further, until he found another mention of Chioma.
Only three years after taking power, Valerien had nearly lost his throne to a conspiracy of aristocrats in Vermillion. He had not been able to prove the involvement of any of the Princes—but he knew very well that some of them must have taken part.
Valerian wrote tirades against those he thought most likely—but one name caught his grandson’s eye.
I have had reports that the poison meant to do me in may have been traded in Orinthal—that serpent’s den of thieves and assassins. My spymaster was only able to get this information with application of the rack, but then the trail ran cold. I am sure that hidden viper in Chioma, our ancient enemy, is responsible.
Raed paused, his finger tracing the word with some confusion. This was the first he had ever heard of such a royal feud. Flicking back through the pages, he passed another hour trying to find what that curious reference could be in relation to. Finally, he had to admit defeat.
Closing the journal, he let out a sigh. His scholarly instincts had been piqued, but unfortunately, trapped on the Sweet Moon, he had no way of doing further research. Raed had studied all the official accounts available—except for those held in the palace library—and he had never heard of a feud between the Imperial family and the Chiomese ruler.
“My Prince?” so engrossed in his study had he been that Raed had failed to notice Tangyre’s reappearance.
“I am all right.” Raed sighed and pushed himself out of bed. “We must put all efforts into finding Fraine so that I can get back to open water. The tide of the Otherside has obviously turned against us.”
Tangyre nodded but offered no comment on his Curse. Instead, she stuck to what they could control. “We are nearly to the port of Orinthal. Slavers do not stay here long; there are no markets for their cargo. I hope you have a plan to explain our presence there.”
Raed ventured a smile. “I do indeed—and I think the crew will enjoy it.”
After getting dressed, he joined Tangyre and the circle of sailors on the deck. They would not meet his gaze, and he didn’t blame them. Even those who had been with him since the beginning had not seen him transform for a long time.
Raed cleared his throat and addressed the stocky crew member closest to him. “Balis, go below with a hammer. See what damage you can visit upon the Sweet Moon without totally sinking her.”
The sailor grinned. “It’d be a pleasure, Captain—though sinking this filthy tub would be a kindness.”
“Not in the plan”—Raed gave him what little smile he could find—“but I very much agree.”
By the banging and whooping that came from belowdecks a short while later, Balis was making the most of the opportunity to take out his frustrations on the slave clinker.
“Nice to know this ship won’t be used again,” Tangyre said as the river port appeared round a bend in the river.