Greythorne (Bloodleaf 2)

“They’re very good at their work,” Castillion said. “They’ll treat your friend with the utmost quality of care . . .”

“I’m not worried about her,” I said. “I’m worried for the nuns.”

He regarded me with his dark eyebrows knitted together, creating a series of furrows in his brow. “You’re not exactly what I expected.”

“And what did you expect?”

“Honestly?” He shrugged. “I thought you’d be prettier.”

“With everyone calling you ‘the silver-haired despot from the north,’ I thought you’d be elderly.”

“Can’t believe everything you hear,” he said.

“Can’t disbelieve it, either,” I said. “Or are you not a raving tyrant bent on domination of two realms and the destruction of thousands of years of tradition and history?”

“I much prefer the term ‘forward-thinking political outsider.’”

“And that’s what all the refugees are running to Renalt to escape? Your forward-thinking ideas?” I paused, and repeated for emphasis, “To Renalt.”

“Change can be frightening,” he replied, unruffled.

“Especially if it comes with an army.”

Castillion considered me for a moment and then said, “Would you, perhaps, honor me with a walk around the promenade deck, Your Highness?”

Mere weeks ago, I’d spent hours poring over diagrams of this boat, memorizing the intricacies of its workings inside and out, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality. The promenade floor was made of polished mahogany and lined with plush carpets the same purple-black as Castillion’s flag. Above the gallery, a network of tiny, faceted glass squares formed an arching skylight. At night, you’d be able to look up and see the stars.

There were dozens of people milling in the gallery, laughing with one another while a musician plucked away at a heavy gilded harp in the corner. They were dressed as though for a ball, the women in crushed velvets and clinging silks, arms dripping with jewels, while the men wore opulent formfitting jackets studded with gem-encrusted buttons. In the center of it all, a pair of women slow-danced in a beam from the skylight, one in a silver gown and the other in gold, like a sun and moon orbiting only each other. Small tables were scattered about, at which players tried their hands at dice, chess, and even a game of Girl, Goat, and Dragon.

Stars above, I thought. I wish the Canary Girls could see this.

The rumors of Castillion’s ship of revelry did not do it justice. I doubted I could have earned enough to buy a stay here if I’d won a hundred rounds of Betwixt and Between.

And though we made an incongruent pair walking arm in arm, no one looked at us askance.

“All right,” I said. “Now, where do you keep all your prisoners?”

“That is just gossip, Highness. I do not imprison people. Nor do I enslave them.”

“No? I wonder, then, why these people refuse to look directly at us? Is it because they are exceedingly courteous, or because they’re afraid of you?”

Castillion smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Perhaps it is you they fear, Princess. You’re the blood mage who infiltrated Achleva and brought down its impenetrable capital. That’s no small reputation.”

“I’m getting too much credit,” I said.

“Or too much blame?” He brought me to the edge of the starboard side. “I’ve heard a rumor or two saying that whatever caused the wall to fall also robbed you of your ability to cast spells.”

“That’s true. Whatever power I had before . . . it’s all gone now.”

He nodded. “I will admit, when I was given information that a fugitive might be hiding in the ruins of Achlev, you are not the one I expected to come across.”

“You thought you’d find Valentin?”

“I thought I might find the horseman,” Castillion said. “I only recently began to suspect that he and Valentin—”

“King Valentin,” I corrected.

“—?were one and the same.”