Chapter 2

In the chill of a moonless night, Symonnet was abruptly roused from slumber by the icy grip of his uncles fingers digging into his shoulder.

“Uncle? What in the Seven Hells…” Symonnet groaned, sitting up and rubbing sleep from his eyes with a weary hand, head cocked and listening for movement and words. “What hour is it?”

“Up, now!” Amaury snarled, his voice a low growl. “Quickly!”

With a reluctant obedience, Symonnet stumbled out of bed, his senses still clouded with the remnants of sleep. He no longer needed to feel his way to the edge or upright, and the room was bare enough that nothing would trip up his feet. “Whats happening? Is there danger?”

“Get dressed,” Amaury commanded, thrusting an armful yesterdays attire into Symonnets arms. Symonnet fumbled with the garments, using his hands to carefully feel for which was which, struggling to untangle them as Amaury impatiently hovered only a stride away. “A messenger from the court. Thats whats happening.”

“A message from my mother?” Symonnet asked, bewildered.

“Isnt that what I said?” Amaury snapped. “By the gods, boy, can you do nothing for yourself? Here!” He yanked Symonnets nightshirt off with little regard for its fastenings or Symonnets dignity, tossing the more formal day-clothes at him once more. Symonnet hurriedly dressed, aware of his wrinkled and disheveled appearance but hesitant to incur Amaurys wrath by mentioning it. Amaury watched on with grim impatience, the flickering candlelight casting harsh shadows across his flushed face. Symonnet noted with unease that his uncles demeanor suggested he had yet to retire to bed. Symonnet prayed silently that Amaury had not indulged in enough wine to mar his already tenuous composure.

Nervously, Symonnet ran his fingers through his tangled, silvery curls, attempting to tame them into some semblance of order, breaths shallow with fear. It wouldnt be the first time one of his mothers messengers had seen him looking as unkempt as a beggars whelp, but the thought offered little comfort amidst his midnight anxieties. “How do I look?” he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty as he followed Amaury into the lodges modest receiving room.

The messenger, elegant despite the road-weary attire, appeared to be a year or two older than Symonnet himself. He exuded an air of nobility, his hair a silken pallor and his eyes the hue of an impending storm. Turning his gaze from Amaury to Symonnet, he inquired, “Are you the Prince Symonnet Bittencourt, sole heir of Symmaix the Third and Basilia Bittencourt?”

“Yes,” Symonnet replied, his bewilderment growing.

And then confusion compounded confusion as the messenger deliberately and with perfect grace prostrated himself on the threadbare rug. “Your Highness,” he intoned.

“Get up, man, and cease your prattling!” Amaury interjected sharply. “We were under the impression you bore messages from His Highness mother.”

“Indeed, we do not,” the messenger replied, rising to his feet with feline grace. “We carry tidings from the Court of the Heron.”

“Please, explain,” Symonnet interjected hastily, seeking to prevent further escalation.

“Your Highness,” the messenger addressed Symonnet. “As you know the Imperial Army of Inor has ravaged the other coastal kingdoms in the spring, and as of the Month of Rains, had come to our borders. The Court of the Heron had convened before winters breaking, to attempt to treat with them… There is word that the envoys mean to broker peace, by way of marriage. Your marriage, highness.”

“Mean to broker peace... by way of marriage,” Symonnet repeated slowly, his mind struggling to grasp the gravity of the situation.

“Yes, Highness,” confirmed the messenger. “I am meant to have you aboard The Delafosse before dawns breaking.”

For what felt like an eternity, Symonnet was lost in a haze of disbelief. Nothing made sense; nothing had made sense since he was jolted awake by his uncles unwelcome grasp. And then, with chilling clarity, realization dawned upon him. “And the… emperor.. agreed?” he inquired, his voice hollow with dread.

“Does it matter?” Amaury scoffed.

“Highness,” the messenger interjected, directing a deliberate nod in Symonnets direction. “Those involved expect that he shall. The foreign beasts are fascinated by all things magical, and have heard of…. Your condition..”

“Thank you,” Symonnet murmured, his emotions a tumultuous whirlwind. Uncertain of what he felt or what he ought to feel, he nonetheless understood what he needed to do next, the next imperative step. “You mentioned... we must go now?”

“Yes, Highness.” Retrieving his dispatch case from the side table, the messenger produced a solitary letter, extending it toward Symonnet. Amaury seized the letter, breaking the seal with unbridled aggression. Scanning its contents, his customary frown deepened into a furious scowl, before he flung it at Symonnet and stormed out of the room. Symonnet made a futile grab for it as it fluttered to the floor.

The messenger knelt to retrieve it before Symonnet could, offering it to him with a stoic demeanor.

Blushing with embarrassment, Symonnet accepted the letter, acutely aware of his uncles impulsive outburst. He resisted the urge to explain or apologize for Amaurys behavior, focusing instead on the missive before him. It bore the seal of his mothers Lord Envoy, Raoul Bombelles:

To the most royal Prince Symonnet Bittencourt, heir to the throne of Vénissieux, greetings in this hour of greatest grief.

Knowing that Your Highness would of course with the fullness of his heart accomplish any feat to save his people the ruin of prolonged warfare, occupation, and subjugation, we have ordered arrangements put in train for a full ceremonial wedding in seven days’ time, that is, on the twenty-third day of the Month of Rain. We will notify the seven counties and their Precepts. We have already ordered the courier office to put ships at their disposal for the transport of lords who wish to attend ceremonies in Inor, and we have no doubt that they will use all necessary haste to reach the Imperial Palace in good time for the wedding.

We do not, of course, know what Your Highness’s plans may be following your nuptials, but we hold ourself ready to implement them.

With true sorrow and unswerving loyalty,

Raoul Bombelles

Raising his gaze, Symonnet found the messenger observing him, his expression impassive save for the telltale tension in his shoulders.

“I… must confer with our uncle,” Symonnet said, the formal speech feeling foreign and awkward. “Would you... that is, are you in need of rest? Let me summon a servant to attend to your needs.”

“Your Highness is very kind,” the messenger replied, betraying no hint of the fact that there were scarcely two servants in the entire household of Vertou, much less a dedicated one for the messengers comfort.

Symonnet rang the bell, anticipating Pelchaixs eager curiosity. Heliot, who handled all the outdoor tasks, was likely still asleep; Heliot had the sleep of the dead, a fact well-known to the entire household.

Pelchaix appeared, his ears perked up and his eyes alight with inquisitiveness. “This gentleman,” Symonnet said, embarrassed by his lack of knowledge of the messengers name, “has traveled far. Please ensure he lacks for nothing.” He faltered at the thought of breaking the news to Pelchaix, murmured, “I will attend to my uncle,” and hurried out.

Light seeped from under Amaurys door, accompanied by the sound of his brisk, determined footsteps. Let him not have succumbed to the wine, Symonnet prayed silently, a futile hope, and rapped on the door.

“Whos there?” Amaurys voice, thankfully, was free of any hint of inebriation.

“Symonnet. May I come in?”

The door flew open with unceremonious force, revealing Amaurys scowling countenance. “Well? What troubles you now, boy?”

“Uncle,” Symonnet began, his voice barely a whisper, “what must I do?”

“What must you do?” Amaury scoffed. “You must be wed, boy. You must be wed, and rule over all Vénissieux and cast out your kin as you see fit. Why do you come whining to me about what you must do?”

“Because I don’t know.”

“Simpleton,” Amaury muttered, though his disdain seemed automatic, his focus elsewhere.

“Yes, uncle,” Symonnet acquiesced meekly.

After a moment, Amaurys attention sharpened, though this time devoid of the earlier fury. “You seek advice?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“Come in,” Amaury invited, and Symonnet entered his uncles bedchamber for the first time.

As austere as Amaury himself, the room held no vestiges of the Court of the heron, no opulence. Amaury gestured for Symonnet to take the only chair, settling himself on the edge of the bed. “Youre right, boy. The wolves are waiting to pounce. Do you have the letter?”

“Yes, uncle.” Symonnet handed Amaury the crumpled missive, now showing signs of its rough handling. Amaury read it, his frown deepening, but this time his ears were pricked with thoughtful consideration. Folding the letter neatly, his long fingers smoothing out the creases, Amaury spoke. “Raoul presumes much.”

“Does he?” Symonnet queried, realizing belatedly. “Do you know him?”

“We were adversaries for many years,” Amaury disclosed, dismissing the matter. “And it seems he hasnt changed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Raoul has no reason to hold affection for you, boy.”

“He claims loyalty.”

“Yes. But to what? Certainly not to you, for you are merely the unwanted progeny of his deceased master, who never desired your ascent to the throne, as you well know. Use your wits, boy—if you possess any.”

“What are you saying?”

“Gods above, grant me patience,” Amaury addressed the ceiling with mock supplication. “Consider, boy. You need no regent once you are wedded. You will be king.. What must be your first act?”

“Uncle, this is not the time for games.”

“And it is not a game I present to you.” Amaury fixed him with a steely glare, and after a moment, realization dawned upon Symonnet.

“The coronation.”

“Ha!” Amaury clapped his hands together sharply, causing Symonnet to start. “Precisely. So why, I ask you, does your coronation not feature prominently in Uleriss plans, or indeed, at all?”

“The funeral—”

“No! You think as a child, not as an King. The dead are beyond caring for the pomp Raoul promises, as he well knows. It is the living power that must concern you, as it concerns him.”

“But…”

“Think, boy,” Amaury urged, leaning forward with a fierce intensity. “If you are capable—if you have ever thought before in your life—think. You arrive at the Imperial Court of those beasts, those wolf-men. You are wedded, and proclaimed king.. What then?”

“I must... oh.”

“You see.”

“Yes.” More than Amaury might realize, for it was at his uncles hands that Symonnet learned this particular lesson; by waiting, he placed himself in the position of a supplicant to Raoul, and supplicants could always be denied. “What must I do next?”

“You must take charge of your destiny. If you do nothing, they shall surely see you murdered in your bed within a fortnight..”

“But how can I?” Symonnet knew nothing of politics, of power, or of the foreign court he had so blithely been promised to.

“Gain favor in their court,” Amaury replied, as if it were the most obvious solution. Youll have no chance to gain favor in your own before the ceremonies. You need protectors.

Symonnets stomach churned. “I couldnt. Theyre evil. Accursed.

“You must. Or you shall be a puppet dancing at the end of Raouls strings, to a tune of his choosing. And the ensuing days may very well see you dead.”

Symonnet bowed his head. “Yes, uncle.”

“Our best chance is to hurry. The ship the messenger mentioned be waiting for him. Now, go. Make yourself presentable.”

“Yes, uncle,” Symonnet acquiesced, knowing better than to challenge Amaurys assumption that he would be traveling to the court with the new emperor.

The merchant schooner, christened The Delafosse, swayed gently at her moorings, a majestic silhouette against the backdrop of the predawn sky, reminiscent of an isolated thundercloud on the verge of releasing its tempest. For Symonnet, the sensation of standing upon a ships deck was a distant memory, one clouded by the shadows of a tumultuous past.

Since the tender age of eight, when he was forcibly removed from the Court of the Heron amid a cascade of tragedy that left a dozen nobles in its wake, Symonnets existence had been shrouded in darkness. Haunted by memories of despair and desperation, he had whispered silent prayers to the unforgiving tides, longing for a release that seemed perpetually out of reach.

As Symonnet set foot on The Delafosse, he was met with a solemn assembly of crew members, their expressions a reflection of the weighty knowledge they bore. They knew of his past transgressions, and they understood the gravity of their mission ahead. In their eyes, Symonnet glimpsed a mixture of grief and fear, emotions that mirrored his own inner turmoil.

An impulse seized Symonnet as the captain greeted him with a tentative Highness at the base of the gangway. With quiet resolve, he halted in his tracks and addressed the captain in a tone laced with reassurance. We have nothing but confidence in you and your crew, he murmured, his words a balm to the captains uncertainty.

Startled, the captain lifted his gaze to meet Symonnets eyes, and for a fleeting moment, the weight of their shared burden seemed to dissipate. A tentative smile graced the captains lips, and he bowed once more, this time with a newfound sense of conviction. Highness, he intoned, his voice resonating with newfound strength and determination.

With measured steps, Symonnet ascended the narrow gangway, the worn heels of his boots echoing against the wooden planks beneath him. Upon reaching the deck, he was greeted by a crewwoman, her stance rigid with formality as she extended her arm in a gesture of assistance.

Your Highness, she intoned stiffly, her demeanor betraying a hint of surprise at Symonnets acceptance of help.

Thank you, Symonnet replied, his voice tinged with gratitude as he acquiesced to her offer, despite not truly needing assistance. In the crewwomans eyes, he sensed a flicker of admiration mingled with curiosity, a silent acknowledgment of his unexpected display of humility amidst the solemnity of their journey.

The transformation to kingship had wrought no miraculous change upon his wardrobe, much to Symonnets chagrin. He yearned for the transformative power that would have rendered him not only regal in appearance but also worthy of the title he now bore. Instead, his attire, while technically fitting for the occasion in its formal whites, bore the unmistakable marks of garments meant for another. Each piece seemed to whisper of its previous owner, their contours ill-suited to Symonnets frame, a constant reminder of their unfamiliarity. These were castoffs from Amaurys collection, remnants of a time when Symonnet was but a shadow in the courts periphery. Too large then, and now barely adequate, they served as a tangible reminder of his subordinate status.

Without the aid of hair pins or combs, Symonnets efforts to tame his unruly locks were met with limited success. He resorted to braiding his hair back with makeshift precision, an attempt to present a semblance of order amidst the chaos. Yet, the result was more reminiscent of a childs hairstyle than that befitting a ruler, further underscoring the disparity between appearance and reality.

Seating himself in the space vacated by Amaury and the Lord Envoys messenger, Symonnet couldnt help but reflect on the irony of his situation. The messenger, seemingly oblivious to the intricacies of court politics, immersed himself in the logistics of Amaurys travel arrangements with a dedication that bordered on fervent loyalty. There was a cruel irony in the messengers unwavering commitment to Symonnets service, a stark reminder of the complex web of alliances and allegiances that defined courtly life.

His relationship with Amaury was fraught with tension from the outset, their animosity stemming from a shared history fraught with tragedy. The funeral of Lord Girardot, Symonnets revered tutor and Amaurys confidant, marked the inception of their mutual antipathy. Bereft of maternal solace, Symonnet found himself thrust into Amaurys care, condemned to a life of isolation within the crumbling walls of Vertou. Since that fateful day, their relationship had devolved into a delicate dance of resentment and hostility, a reflection of the tumultuous undercurrents that coursed through the court.

Symonnets gaze drifted sideways, catching Amaury in the act of glowering—or as close to it as the man ever came—at a mundane piece of woodwork adorning the cabins wall. It was a rare sight indeed to witness Amaury devoid of anger, save for those fleeting moments when he drowned his sorrows in drink, succumbing to a maudlin stupor that offered only temporary respite from his simmering rage. From the earliest days of his adolescence, Symonnet had been subject to the relentless onslaught of Amaurys fury, leaving behind a legacy of scars etched into his flesh like a testament to their tumultuous relationship. The ugly marks on his left forearm bore witness to the belt buckle that had often inflicted punishment during Amaurys frequent lashings, a cruel reminder of the pain he endured at the hands of his guardian.

Symonnet had learned the art of restraint in the face of Amaurys wrath. The incident that had marred his fifteenth winter had served as a harsh lesson in the consequences of impulsive action, instilling within him a newfound caution when it came to engaging in physical confrontation. Yet, for all his efforts to rise above the animosity that simmered between them, Symonnet knew that forgiveness would forever elude him. The wounds inflicted upon his body paled in comparison to the scars etched upon his soul, a constant reminder of the pain and suffering he endured in silence.

As the crewwoman entered the cabin, her presence disrupting the oppressive silence that hung in the air, Symonnets attention was drawn away from the brooding figure of Amaury. With practiced efficiency, she secured the door behind her, her nervousness palpable in the tense atmosphere that pervaded the confined space. Clearing her throat to announce her presence, she delivered the captains message with a sense of urgency that belied the gravity of their situation.

Amaurys elbow jabbed discreetly into Symonnets ribs, prompting him to acknowledge the crewwomans words with a curt nod of gratitude. It was a silent reminder of the delicate balance they walked, a testament to the unspoken tensions that simmered beneath the surface of their fragile alliance.

The crewwomans bow was a testament to the weight of responsibility lifted from her shoulders, each line of her body exuding a palpable sense of relief as she retreated to the front of the cabin. Symonnet, momentarily captivated by the subtle interplay of emotions etched upon her features, found himself pondering the impending departure of The Delafosse. Would he be able to discern the moment when the ship cast off its moorings, slipping away into the embrace of the tide?

As the vessel began its gradual drift from the safety of the harbor, a faint sideways lurch signaled the commencement of their journey across the vast expanse of the Bay of Tears. The mere thought of the arduous voyage ahead, spanning three or four days of treacherous waters, weighed heavily upon Symonnets mind. What had initially seemed like a daunting prospect now loomed before him as an insurmountable challenge, exacerbated by the uncertainty of fair weather and swift passage.

Lost in contemplation, Symonnet found himself reflecting on the circumstances that had led to his current predicament. Less than a day ago, the threat of invasion had loomed large on the horizon, casting a shadow of uncertainty over his future. The negotiations for his hand, shrouded in secrecy and intrigue, remained a mystery to him. Had there been a moment of revelation when the inevitable betrothal had been foretold, or had the machinations of his enemies been set in motion since the earliest days of his arrival?

The specter of death lingered ominously in his thoughts, its presence a constant reminder of the precariousness of his position. Should his adversaries succeed in their nefarious schemes, would his demise come swift and sudden, akin to the stroke of an executioners sword? The uncertainty gnawed at him, fueling his anxiety as the ship navigated the turbulent waters of the bay.

He tried to imagine the emperor of Inor, and could not do it. He had only heard and read of them, the mountain folk, the wolf-shifters of the mountains who in ancient times had harried villages and eaten babes in their cribs. Vénissieux was leagues south of their native lands. He had never once in his life even seen a mountain.

Legends said they were dark of skin and hair, with golden eyes, and strong as oxen. Moonstones were mined in their mountains, the pale, rainbowed stones which glowed with their own light even in utter darkness, and most nobles used in lieu of candles. He remembered seeing them braided into his mothers hair, and set into rings on her fingers.

Unbidden, he remembered his mother’s bitter mouth, and her smooth silken voice: get him away from me. It was as clear and frozen in his mind as the state portrait of her that hung in the receiving room of Vertou—and now there was no chance for it to change, no hope for it to be replaced.

Though truly, he thought, leaning back slightly to lessen the likelihood that he would catch Amaury’s eye, even were it to have been replaced, it would only have been with something worse.

His memories of court were nothing more than wisps of cloud. He had not even been sure who was who in the masses of black-clothed courtiers around the tombs of those his visions had seen to perish. And he had felt so innocent in the days before, hurrying with his curls bouncing at his shoulders to grip the sleeve of a man with a kindly face, and plead with him that a knife would find him, a knife in the dark…

It had been the lady charged with his care during the funeral—a minor noble’s wife whose name he could not now remember—who had pointed out the names of other nobles. None of them had ever made overtures of kindness to him, not at the funeral and not since—whether because they shared the queens fear or feared her wrath—and Symonnet had hesitated to make overtures of his own, lest he should anger them.

And now it was too late for that, as well.

He glanced again at Amaury’s granite frown. It was strange in this sleepless dawn to be looking at Amaury and seeing simply another man instead of the tyrant of Vertou, as he had figured in Symonnet’s mind for the past ten years. Middle-aged, bitter, cunning but perhaps not wise. Outside Vertou, Amaury seemed smaller, less dreadful, and it occurred to Symonnet that if Amaury ever struck him again, it would mean a death sentence.

The idea was dizzying, and Symonnet found his hands clutching the arms of the seat, as if The Delafosse herself were whirling about, instead of merely his own mind. He forced himself to relax his grip before anyone else noticed; it would be unkind in the extreme to make anyone think him fearful.

Through the windows on the opposite side of the cabin, he could see the mist of morning shrouding the sea, stained with pinks and reds by the approaching dawn. He remembered an old hymn to the sea his father had taught him and said it to himself in silence.

He was brought back to his immediate surroundings by the approach of the crewwoman, who came within arm’s length and then went down on one knee. “Your Highness.”

“Yes?” said Symonnet, aware of both Amaury and the Lord Envoy’s messenger coming to full alertness beside him.

“The captain wonders, Highness, if you would care to come forward to watch the sunrise from the prow. It is a very beautiful sight.”

“Thank you,” Symonnet said before Amaury could get his mouth open. “We would like that very much.”

He compressed the corners of his mouth against a smile as he stood up, watching Amaury turn an unflattering shade of red with impotent fury. And following that thought—and a host of others that had been teasing about the edges of his mind since Amaury’s lecture on dealing with the Lord Envoy—he turned and said to the messenger, “Would you accompany us, please?”

“Highness,,” the messenger said, rising with alacrity, and they left Amaury fuming, unable to invite himself along now that an express invitation had been issued to another than himself. Symonnet reminded himself that glee was unbefitting a king, and thought soberly as the crewwoman opened the narrow door at the rear of the cabin, I must not acquire a taste for this pleasure. It was heady, but he knew it was also poison.

The door debouched to the decks again, which now, away from the dock, opened to a wide panorama of clouds and sky and billowing sails. Symonnet breathed in the scent of the sea and felt an immediate pang of loss he had not anticipated: he would be leaving to the mountains. He might never see and smell the sea again. A brace of armed guards stiffened as he passed them on either side of the door.

“Highness,” they said in chorus.

“Gentlemen, I thank you,” Symonnet said, having to pitch his voice even louder to be heard over the slap and rush of the waves and the groan of the sails, and allowed the crewwoman to shepherd him into a corner where he could see but would not obstruct anything important. The deck swarmed with bustling, busy activity he could not comprehend. The Lord Envoy’s messenger was likewise shepherded into the opposite corner, and the crewwoman closed the door and braced her back against it.

They stood in silence for fifteen minutes, enrapt and breathless before the glory of dawn rising from darkness.

Against a tightening in his throat, Symonnet said, “I am… am most grateful.I will remember this always as the beginning of my reign.” Much better this than that confused and frightened awakening in darkness, his own glassy, sharp-edged panic, Amaury’s drunken viciousness.

“Highness,” they chorused again, and he could see that he had pleased them.

The crewwoman opened the door and Symonnet returned to the passenger cabin, to spend the remaining time considering ways to make allies of the enemies of his people. How did one befriend savages who lived half their lives as wolves?