In the Wake of the Ruined (The Siren Mage, #2)(17)
I gave a silent nod and took his hand. I could hardly keep myself upright. “The wedding—it’s…”
“It’s at midnight.”
We stepped onto the upper gun deck and its expanse of hanging hammocks. A sparse scattering of lanterns swayed with the movement of the ship, but as the nepenthe spread further they began to look like streaks, like little balls of flying light. Lachlan led us toward one of the open gunports, where a cool swirl of salty air pushed its way through. I adjusted the hammock’s canvas and cautiously settled myself inside. “You’ll wake me… wake me before?”
Lachlan wouldn’t meet my eye. “Sleep, Imogen.”
I settled into the hammock and forced my focus to the sway of the black sea, the hush of the wind through the gunport, the syrupy effects of the nepenthe. “Lachlan,” I whispered a moment later.
“Hmm?” It sounded like he sat below me, but I couldn’t be sure.
“Maybe…” I swallowed around my thick tongue. “He… maybe he… call it off.”
There came a long pause, or perhaps I had started to drift. Finally, a soft word echoed through the dark.
“Maybe.”
6
Theodore
No moon silvered the sky.
The night was heavy, endless, but the center of the main deck glowed with the light of dozens of swaying lanterns. The vines around the masts fluttered madly in the wind.
Below them, crew worked, and courtiers milled and mingled, all dressed in clothes that were far too fine for a voyage over the rough Obelian Sea. I lingered in the shadow of my stateroom watching them, arms crossed firmly over my chest, wishing no witnesses had come at all.
There had been no secrets in my court over what had transpired between Imogen and me. And now, word was spreading as virulent as a sickness, that I had altered my marriage contracts. The news widened the courtiers’ eyes and sent gossip buzzing through the air like flame sparks.
Over the musician’s plucking strings, I could just make out their words.
He’s heartsick.
He certainly won’t go through with it.
Of course he will, he’s not gone wholly mad.
I stood there listening, lungs tight and eyes locked on the vine-choked altar before the ship’s wheel.
Whoever had grown the vines up the altar’s posts had filled them full of big white blooms. It was easy to do when coaxing them with power, to make the pale flowers grow large and moonbeam bright, but at the behest of my instructors I’d learned to avoid weighing the vines with too many when I’d been young.
From my spot in the darkness, I watched Eftan inspect the altar and vines with a firm clamp to his mouth. He lifted one tendril higher, plucked a bloom to tuck into his coat, then pulled something small and glinting from his pocket.
A ceremonial knife—the kind used for marriage bindings.
My anger landed like a bolt through the chest, sudden and deep.
He set the blade beside the altar and made his way to stand between my steward and my marshal, strong chin tipped proudly up. His hands moved passionately through the air as he spoke to them, no doubt going on about the altered contracts, how wayward I’d become, and how desperately I needed their guidance.
Markis Gabros, the steward on my council, listened to Eftan intently, nodding sagely. His gaze kept cutting my way before he patted Eftan on the shoulder and left the small huddle. Night shadows and lantern light passed over him as he strode my way.
“Your Majesty.” He bowed. “I’m surprised you’re not dressed yet.”
Markis was a loyal, but sly, man. Even when we’d been children, he’d had an air of artful cunning about him, and a quick enough mind to ensure that he almost always got his way. Qualities that made him an excellent steward of the purse, but a mediocre friend.
Reluctantly, I opened the door to my stateroom. “I suppose it’s time.”
“I’ll pour you a drink.” Markis followed after me. “Dare I ask you how you’re faring in your last hours as a bachelor?”
I dismissed the question with a grunt. “Eftan was complaining to you about the contracts, I take it?”
Wine gurgled into a goblet. “Ahh.” He sounded wary. “He’s in a right mood over them, yes.”
I yanked the fine black shirt over my shoulders as Markis brought me the wine. “What would you do?” I asked, drinking half of it in one gulp. “If the woman you agreed to marry worshipped a monster that hunted your people?”
Markis chuckled gravely. “If that were the only complication, my answer would be simpler. But you ignore the hefty detail of your betrothed’s parentage. One does not abandon the daughter of the empress of Obelia at the altar and hope to survive it.”
My stomach sank low. He was right. Only a reckless fool would offend the empress so gravely.
Markis gave me a sidelong glance from where he’d perched on the arm of the settee. “Eftan’s… upset stems from something else, though. He believes there’s a different reason for your refusal to wed Halla properly.” He gave an oily smirk and dragged his fingers through his beard. “A certain Siren who’s got her talons in you.”
I pulled on my coat and scowled at the way my chest ached.
“All right.” He popped himself off the settee, his elegant voice taking on a cloying quality. “What I do know is that your power is incomparable.” He swiped the shoulder of my coat and I fought the impulse to drive my fist into his weak chin. “Eftan can gripe all he likes, but you’re both a king and a God, and you can do as you please. I’ve read the amendments. You’ve kept the trade clauses intact; you’ve considered the kingdom and the continent’s overall well-being. The rest is sentimental, inconsequential detail. Obelians don’t care about bindings.” He gave a nonchalant shrug. “If you want the princess as your mistress, but not as your divinely bound wife, that is your right.”