Jenna Helland - The Fanged Crown

In the early days on Gwynneth Isle, what he had felt for her was so fragile it seemed as if it would break if he thought of it too often. One night at sunset, they had climbed the Delmark, a stony plateau that rose above the treetops at the heart of the forest. Sitting on the edge of the rock with their legs dangling off the side, they watched the sun bleed into the distant ocean. It was windy on the hill. Chilly, but not unpleasantly so. Still, she leaned against him, and the warmth of her body was like a buffer against the cold. In that moment, he knew that she would be with him for the rest of his life, even in those times when they were not in the same place. It was as if she had become fundamental for him, an inextricable part of how he understood the world.

He wanted to touch her, to rest his hand on the small of her back or put his arms around her. But he was uneasy at the idea that their relationship had become anything but a diversion for both of them. He had not planned on falling in love with her. Considering she was engaged, it was inconvenient and complicated. He wouldn’t let it happen, he assured himself. He wouldn’t let himself love her. It would be enjoyable, and then it would be over. As if she sensed a shift in his mood, she turned and gave him a little smile. It was disarmingly sweet, unassuming in its beauty, and utterly innocent of the destruction that would follow in the wake of their affair.

“Do you miss the sea?” she asked, puzzled by his intensity. They had talked of him teaching her to sail, so her question was not unexpected.

“I miss you,” he said.

“You’re silly,” she said, lying down and putting her head in his lap. The first stars were appearing in the twilit sky. “I’m right here.”

He stroked the side of her neck where the delicate strokes of ink disappeared behind her ear. The artist had been a master—shaping leaves, vines, and flowers that were elegant in their simplicity yet somehow enhanced the beauty of an already striking woman. She sat up so she could lean her head against his chest and slip her arms around his neck.

“What?” she asked as he studied her face.

Telling her she was beautiful seemed trite somehow. That word would never convey the emerald color of her eyes, the curve of shadow under her cheekbones, or the way her upper lip was slightly fuller than her lower.

“You have a pointy little chin,” he told her.

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” he said, kissing it. “And pointy little ears. And pointy little elbows.”

“Fortunately, you don’t seem to mind.”

“That’s true. I don’t mind at all.”

He kissed a spot behind her ear and moved down her neck. Lightly, he laid his hand on her belly, feeling the ridges of muscles in her stomach as she arched against his hand. He traced his finger to the hollow at the base of her throat, which was half-hidden by the neckline of her silver cloak. The light was fading, but he could see a break in the design of her tattoo. The silhouette of a crouching cat encircled by twisting vines, it was so small that he couldn’t believe the artist could capture the details down to its tiny eye, a splash of green among the other black stokes.

“You stopped,” she protested. “Don’t stop.”

“What does the cat mean?”

“Cat? What cat?”

“Here, under your chin.”

“Not now. It’s complicated.”

“Do you have somewhere to go?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then we have all night,” Harp assured her. “So go on, tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“What do the markings on your neck mean?” he asked. “The cat, the vines. They’re beautiful, but what do they mean?”

“Are you always so easily distracted? Or is it just me?”

“Believe me, I’m not distracted. My attention is utterly, completely on you. And soon, I’ll be happy to prove it. But for now, humor me.”

“Fine,” Liel said with mock exasperation. “But I expect due compensation.”

“With pleasure,” Harp said.

“It’s the story of my life,” she told him. “It was written before I was born.”

“Really?” Harp said, intrigued by her answer. “What does it say?”

“Oh, that I’ll save the world,” Liel teased him. “And fall in love with an ill-bred pirate.”

“Ill-bred pirates are the best kind. What does your pirate do?”

Liel took Harp’s hand and began stroking his palm with her thumb. “He buys me a mast ship. One with a dragon-head and a golden sail.”

“What a nice pirate.”

“Yes,” Liel agreed. “A very nice pirate.”

Before he went back to kissing her, Harp pressed his fingertip against the cat silhouette. He could feel Liel’s heart beating. “So they are a pirate, a green-eyed cat, and a golden sail.”

“What are?”

“The keys to your heart.”

“As if you need a key,” she said. Tired of waiting, she kissed him instead.

Shakily, Harp pushed himself to his feet, bracing his hands on his knees until a wave of nausea passed. His life had been simple before he knew Liel. He’d had an innate sense of right and wrong that drove his actions—like a hidden compass that always told him which way to go. And all he had to do was make his way toward the horizon and things would work out all right. Take the Marderward . It was the obvious thing to get Kitto off that ship, and to save Liel in the process. No one was going to give him a crown for being noble, but he helped where he could and watched out for himself and his friends no matter what.

Being with Liel had mixed up the compass. Even after his moment of clarity that night on the Delmark, he’d opted for simplicity over truth. Keeping Liel at a distance, turning himself in to the authorities instead of fighting the mutiny charge—those were things that went against his instincts. He’d followed the wrong path, and it had landed him in the Vankila Slab, the razor-sharp edge of death. And it had led him away from Liel, who took root in his mind as both the cause and the salvation of his eroded life. For the first time since he’d been chained to the floor in the Practitioner’s study, Harp’s directional sense had returned. Finally, he sensed true north.

If he were given the day on the Delmark again, he would tell Liel that he loved her—he might have lost her anyway, but at least she would have known. Harp paused in the center of the observatory, listening to the wind whistle through the hinges in the ceiling. The incense still burned in the earthenware dish, so Harp thought it must be the same day, the same moment almost, since he had come up the spiral stairs with Majida.

Reaching for the door handle, he jerked his hand back in shock. Slowly, he stretched out his arm again. His skin was as smooth and as unmarred as when he’d been a child. Majida had done it—she’d removed the scars. She’d healed him and erased the Practitioner’s brand. How that was possible, he didn’t know, but she’d done it.

Trembling, Harp flung open the door and stumbled down the staircase. With his heart pounding and his head spinning, he steadied himself against the wall. Harp couldn’t fight the feeling that something was missing, that he had misplaced something important. He doubled over, fighting dizziness. And then he understood. What he felt was an absence of pain.

Since the Vankila Slab, Harp had lived with constant pain, like the incessant lapping of the tide. Now he felt the beating of his heart, the cool air against his skin, and the hum of his muscles as they moved. But nothing felt like claws against his skin, or needles into his muscles—nothing hurt at all. Harp continued down the steps, enjoying the looseness of his joints and the fluid way his muscles moved. He felt like he could run for hours, move a mountain, or swim to Tethyr. But first, he was going to find Liel, no matter how small the chance that she was alive.