I stare at my mother, biting my tongue so hard that my teeth almost meet.
She doesn’t want to punish me. She wants to humiliate me. Show a kingdom whose fear and loyalty I’ve earned that I’m no different from them. That I don’t stand out. That I’m not worthy to take her crown.
I’ve spent my life trying to be just what my mother wanted – the worst of us all – in an effort to show that I’m worthy of the trident. I became the Princes’ Bane, a title that defines me throughout the world. For the kingdom – for my mother – I am ruthless. And that ruthlessness makes each and every sea creature certain I can reign. Now my mother wants to take that from me. Not just my name, but the faith of the ocean. If I’m not the Princes’ Bane, then I’m nothing. Just a princess inheriting a crown instead of earning it.
6
Elian
“I DON’T REMEMBER THE last time I saw you like that.”
“Like what?”
“Put together.”
“Put together,” I repeat, adjusting my collar.
“Handsome,” says Madrid.
I arch an eyebrow. “Am I not normally handsome?”
“You’re not normally clean,” she says. “And your hair isn’t normally so—”
“Put together?”
Madrid rolls up her shirtsleeves. “Princely.”
I smirk and look in the mirror. My hair is neatly slicked back from my face, every speck of dirt scrubbed away so that there isn’t an ounce of the ocean left on me. I’m wearing a white dress shirt with a high-button collar and a dark gold jacket that feels like silk against my skin. Probably because it is silk. My family crest sits uncomfortably on my thumb, and of every piece of gold on me, that seems to shine the brightest.
“You look the same,” I tell Madrid. “Only without the mud smears.”
She punches me in the shoulder and ties her midnight hair away from her face with a bandana, revealing the Kléftesis tattoo on her cheek. It’s a brand for children taken by the slave ships and forced to be murderers for hire. When I found her, Madrid had just bought her freedom with the barrel of a gun.
By the doorway, Kye and Torik wait. Just as Madrid, they look no different. Torik with his shorts unraveling at the shin, and Kye with sharp cheeks and a smile made for trickery. Their faces are cleaner, but nothing else has changed. They’re incapable of being anything other than what they are. I envy that.
“Come with us,” says Kye, threading his fingers through Madrid’s. She glares at the uncharacteristic display of affection – the two of them are far better fighters than they are lovers – and breaks away to run a hand through her hair.
“You like the tavern so much more than this place,” Madrid says.
It’s true. A horde of my crew has already made their way to the Golden Goose, with enough gold to drink until the sun comes up. All that remains are my three most trusted.
“It’s a ball thrown in my honor,” I tell them. “It wouldn’t be very honorable for me not to show up.”
“Maybe they won’t notice.” Madrid’s hair swings wildly behind her as she speaks.
“That’s not comforting.”
Kye nudges her and she pushes him back twice as hard. “Quit it,” she says.
“Quit making him nervous, then,” he tells her. “Let’s leave the prince to be a prince for once. Besides, I need a drink, and I feel like I’m messing up this pristine room just by standing here.”
I nod. “I do feel poorer just looking at you.”
Kye reaches over to the nearby sofa and throws one of the gold-threaded cushions at me with such poor aim that it lands by my feet. I kick it away and try to look chastising.
“I hope you throw your knife better than that.”
“Never had a siren complain yet,” he says. “Are you sure you’re okay for us to go?”
I stare back into the mirror at the prince before me. Immaculate and cold, barely a glint in my eyes. As though I’m untouchable and I know it. Madrid was right; I do look princely. Which is to say, that I look like a complete bastard.
I adjust my collar again. “I’m sure.”
THE BALLROOM SHINES LIKE its own sun. Everywhere glitters and sparkles, so much so that if I concentrate too much on any specific thing, my head begins to pound.
“How much longer do you plan to have your feet on land?”
Nadir Pasha, one of our highest dignitaries, swirls a gold glass of brandy. Unlike the other Pashas I’ve spent the evening in idle conversation with – either political or military ranking – he’s not nearly as trite. It’s why I always save him for last when I consult with court. Matters of state are the furthest thing from his mind, especially on occasions when the brandy glasses are so large.