Chapter One

Lisandra, Lisile - 1655

Ilan té Nui had never really thought much about this day, despite its inevitability. She had never wanted to examine the consequences of marrying a mortal. On their wedding day, she’d had known that someday Marril would die and she had, with youthful ignorance, accepted it. But as she stepped out of their chambers, she wondered at the wisdom of marrying a man she knew would die. Her heart would mend after time, but it wasn’t herself she was concerned for. She would live comfortably enough without her husband, perhaps even find a new one in the decades and centuries before her, but she did not have to face his death and the responsibility that had been Marril’s as one, entwined misery. No, Ilan did not fear for herself, nor for her eight-month-old daughter. She feared for the child she and Marril had created thirty-seven years ago, on their wedding night, a son given by the gods to bless and condone their marriage.

Her bare feet fell silently on the cold, polished stone as she ascended from the ground-floor suite she’d had Marril moved to a month ago to her son’s chambers on the fifth and uppermost level of the cliff wing. She caught sight of her reflection in the dark windows she passed, illuminated by the flickering lamp she carried, and winced. Dark circles gave her mist-colored eyes a hollow, vacant look and her hip-length, pale blond hair was a tangled mass of waves that seemed dull in the darkness. The soft, wrinkled white silk of her dressing gown hung off a body that had, less than a year ago, been full and lush with a new life. The light, the glow, whatever people chose to call that thing which set her race apart from the mortals, was fading. It was not a condition that would last, she knew, but simply an outward sign of the grief and torment in her heart.

“My Lady,” whispered a servant. He bowed hurriedly at the waist.

“Have they been sent?” she inquired.

“They have.”

“Thank you, Daron. Back to bed with you. The day will be long and we will all need our strength.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” the boy murmured. He bowed again and darted off in the direction of the servants’ quarters.

Ilan padded up the last flight of stairs and came to stand outside her son’s door. She did not want to wake him with her news, but he should hear it first from her and the sooner he knew, the more time he would have to adjust and the better he would be able to face the coming days and weeks. She opened one of the tall, heavy doors and slipped silently inside. In the waning moonlight, she could see him, asleep on his massive bed. He lay on his back, his blankets askew and twisted around him as if his sleep this night had been fitful, but then, being half Elasan, he would have sensed his father’s death. It would not have woken him as it had his mother, but it would have disturbed his dreams.

His wife was curled against his side, her back to him. A tear slid down Ilan’s cheek and she pulled her thin robes tighter around herself. Despite Marril’s kind-hearted intentions, it had been a cruel trick to force their son to choose between his heart and his country. He would find comfort in his wife’s arms, yes, but only the comfort of mutual friendship, not the release of love.

Ilan wiped the tear away with her thumb and smiled down at her son. He was so beautiful, the perfect combination of his Elasan and mortal bloods, and in sleep, he still looked as a boy just coming into full manhood. He had his father’s dark hair and a long, strong body that was a gift from both his bloodlines, but when he opened his eyes, she would see glittering silver that could shift from green to blue to teal with his moods, from the shade of dewy grass to the dark palm fronds, from sunlit to moonlit sky or from the turquoise of shallow bays to the deep teal of the open seas. His eyes were a gift of her blood. She did not want to see the pain of his father’s mortality in them.

“Gods give us strength,” she whispered.

His eyes flickered open, sleep-disoriented. It took only a moment for them to focus on her and she saw that Marril’s death had indeed been in his dreams. His eyes were sapphire blue, the color of deepest sorrow. Ilan bowed her head and waited for her son to speak.

“He has passed,” he said quietly. It was a statement, not a question.

“He has.”

She looked up and saw, for the first of many times, the man who would be her Emperor. And it was not her husband that met her gaze, but her son. Not Marril, but Shonagan.

(Scene Break)

The city of Lisandra looked sullen in the face of the approaching bank of early-morning fog. The sky was a dim gray and although he could not see it, Shonagan sensed that the sun had just risen. Few of the inhabitants were up and out, walking the streets below Shonagan’s lofty palace balcony. He braced his forearms on the polished marble rail, bent in a most unroyal slouch. At the moment, he didn’t care. His father had died sometime in the night, so recently that the solemn clangs from the Belltower had not yet begun. He hadn’t even had time to send word to the Bellmaster yet. He stared out toward the tower, perched on the monolith in the bay. It remained obliviously quiet and dark, but in less than an hour, the Bellmaster would light the fire atop the bellhouse and the first peal of the bell would ring. The bell would not be silent again until midnight, when his father’s body was given to the sea in a flaming dinghy. All the Lords of Lisile had already arrived in Lisandra, summoned two weeks ago, when his father’s failing health had led to a seizure and a weakness from which he never did recover.

His father’s death was hard enough to bear––although Shonagan admitted he was still numb with disbelief––but thought of what lay ahead of him was daunting. Shemarl’s Queen, Harra, though elected, was dead and very untimely, in the middle of negotiations with Lisile and her replacement, Jyrula, was a shrewd, selfish woman who Shonagan had little respect for. He slowed his mind enough to spare a few moments of regret for Harra. She’d been a wise Queen, well-deserving of her second term in office. Shonagan’s father had always spoken so highly of her. The best Queen Shemarl had ever had, he’d called her. Shonagan had only returned from Shemarl a week ago from her send-off; he’d gone in his father’s place to pay tribute to her as much because of her friendship with the Se’tanara family as for political reasons.

With a sigh, Shonagan returned to the matters facing him in the coming months and years. The countries of Ingardia and Rimside Island had both lost their leaders as well within the last year and Baronis, Chalis and the Eastwind Islands were all on the brink of civil war. The citizens of Baronis were angry over their Crown Prince’s lack of manners, outrageous taxes and the restrictions their King had placed on piracy threatened to break the country into pieces. Chalis’ King was the son of a foreigner and though the people generally seemed to respect him as well or better than his beloved Shemarlese father, many of the Lords still thought one of them should now be King. The Eastwind Islands…. Shonagan snorted. There had not been peace there in his lifetime, nor in his father’s. And Shemarl wasn’t faring much better, come to think of it, with her second and third largest islands threatening to secede. That in itself involved other complications. The ruling family of Chalis, the House of Re’danya, had once ruled the Shemarlese island named for them; Redanya.

Lisile was the only stable nation, and with his father dead, Shonagan didn’t even know how long that would last. He’d already heard the whispers, that he spent far too much time at sea to properly manage things at home––which, until two years ago, when his father had first started weakening, was probably true.

“Maybe the Mainlanders are right,” he muttered, staring west.

“Right about what, dear?”

Shonagan glanced over his shoulder at his mother. Ilan té Nui’s ageless face was lined with grief and the flowing gown she wore was made of black silk. The dark color ill-suited his mother’s fair beauty, made her look washed out and lifeless. He looked away, not wanting to trouble her more than she already was. She pressed him.

“I was just thinking. How can pirates possibly hope to maintain nations?”

“Lisile has managed for more than eleven decades and Shemarl for nearly eight.”

“A blink of an eye compared to the three millennia Sehmadonis can claim. Even Yashan and Gwena have been around for over three hundred years,” he replied. “Lisile is the oldest Pirate Nation, mother. And just a hundred fourteen years old.”

“Perhaps you should not be looking at how old the nations are but what they do for their people.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a sad smile. “An odd thing for an immortal to say. But either way I look at it, civil war is no better for the people than a government that forces conformity.” He stood and waved his hand. “Don’t worry on it, mother. I’ll think of something.”

Her eyes softened in the closest thing to a smile he’d seen on her face since his father had fallen seriously ill and bedridden half a year ago. “You always do. That’s why you’re such a good pirate.”

He watched her turn and disappear inside, then turned his gaze on the palace. It was an immense structure, perched high above the crashing sea. One end of the palace sat atop a thousand-foot-high cliff that was thickly forested with a startling mixture of temperate and sub-tropical vegetation. The wing, which housed the Se’tanara family’s private suites, the private kitchens, dining area, studies and library was sometimes referred to as the cliff wing. From there, the palace turned north and eastward. The southern side sat just above a little precipice that held a small waterfall-fed lake that glittered beneath the sun like a bowl of sky. That wing contained the suites and conveniences reserved for the palace’s most treasured guests. Like the cliff wing, it had its own staff of servants. There was one more wing, that faced the arching spread of the capital city of Lisile and it contained the massive Great Hall, Council Room, Temple and guess suites. Shonagan stood on the balcony of the wide hallway outside the Great Hall, overlooking the glittering city of Lisandra.

Lisandra, capital city of Lisile, home to more than sixty thousand people. It was not the largest port in the Pirate islands––Port Marla of Shemarl had that honor––but it was by far the wealthiest and cleanest. The buildings glowed white even beneath the dull gray sky, an effect attributed to their bricks, which were made using the pristine white sands of Lisile. The roofs looked like a formless mosaic from his vantage, a mixture of greens, blues, and terra cotta red.

And now, Shonagan thought, all this––the city, the palace and the surrounding forests, mountains, rivers and islands––was his.

“My Lord! Prince Shonagan!”

He turned to find a young servant boy streaking toward him across the mirror-polished marble of the hall floor. The boy’s arms flailed as he ran and Shonagan caught sight of a roll of parchment in his hand. The child skidded to a halt in front of him, panting. “A message, my Lord, from the King of Chalis.”

Shonagan took the parchment and sent the boy off. He scanned it quickly.

“What does it say?”

He glanced at his mother. “King Krandar Re’danya is in Baronis and thought he’d stop down in Lisile to visit Father. He says he didn’t want to impose or come unannounced… but he should be here some time today, if he departed when he planned.”

“That was thoughtful,” Ilan remarked. Her voice held no trace of sarcasm. “Why is he in Baronis?”

“He’s betrothed his eldest daughter to…. What?! That can’t be right. That poor girl.”

“What is it, dear?”
“He’s betrothed her to Kelath De’yarron.”

“The Crown Prince of Baronis? Poor child. She’ll have a long hard life ahead of her. I’ve heard dreadful tales of that man….”

“Just thirty years of age and rumored to have fourteen bastard children… five from the same mistress, who is just twenty-two now.” He nodded. Shonagan paced the length of the balcony, silent for a long while. He could feel his mother’s silver eyes on him. At last, he paused and asked, “What was he thinking?”

“A union between Chalis and Baronis would benefit both nations.”

“It would only benefit Chalis if Princess Adryn can keep her wits about her and keep Kelath from ruling Chalis when Krandar passes. If she was strong enough, she could rule both Chalis and Baronis, but… Kelath is a hard man.”

His mother smirked. “That’s complimenting him, Shonagan. I believe ‘filthy, chauvinistic, domineering son of Agranor’ is much more fitting.”

Shonagan chuckled. For a full-blooded Elasan, his mother had a tongue as sharp as any mortal man. “I was trying to be nice for political reasons, mother. It wouldn’t do for me to call the man who will someday rule Baronis the son of our enemy god.”

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t.” Ilan looked down at the city. “We need to send a messenger down to the Belltower.”

“No, I need to take the message myself.” He took the sleeveless black velvet robe his mother held out for him and slipped it on. “And so I shall. I hate to ask, but can you––”

“Send riders and pigeons to the rest of Lisile? I had them sent before I woke you.”

(Scene Break)

By the time he’d saddled his bay gelding, silvery tendrils of fog had begun to thread into the city. It was early still, and a rest day, so as Shonagan rode through the streets toward the docks, there were few people out to greet him or ponder his somber expression. Although he hadn’t been out to sea much in the last two years, he was a familiar enough sight on the docks that no one would question his presence there until the bell rang. He dismounted and handed the reins of his gelding to one of the dock workers and walked toward the dinghy used for transporting supplies to the Bellmaster.

“My Lord?” the Harbormaster inquired, frowning. “What drives you out to the Belltower?”

“A sad message, I’m afraid.”

“Your father has passed, then? I thought this fog seemed a little unnatural.”

Shonagan nodded. “In his sleep, sometime very early this morning.”

“Well, at least it was quiet. I’ll hold my tongue until the bell tolls.”

“No matter. The people of Lisandra will know soon enough.”

Shonagan stepped down into the dinghy, gratefully accepting the Harbormaster’s offer to fetch the Prince’s leather slicker from the Lisandra Royal. He hadn’t yet admitted just how much his father’s death distressed him, but the fact that he’d forgotten to bring his slicker from the palace or even to stop by the royal ship first to get his other slapped him with reality. Once he had the coat, he started rowing toward the monolith. It was a short, cold ride and the climb up the steep, mist-slick stairs to the Belltower put an ache in his body he was too young to feel.

“Prince Shonagan, grand soft morning, isn’t it? I’ve been waiting for you.”

Shonagan nodded and stepped past the little man into the cozy warm apartment at the base of the tower. “I assume you thought the fog was unnatural as well.”

“Well… it is, but I saw you coming. You’re the only man brazen enough to row that stretch in the fog all by his lonesome.”

Shonagan forced a smile. “You guessed my reason for coming, then.”

“I did and the fact that you’re wearing a black robe beneath that slicker just proves my suspicions. And your eyes are deeper blue than I’ve ever seen them.” The Bellmaster bowed his head for a moment, then straightened. “The fuel is ready for the fire, my Lord. He was your father, so I think it only fitting that you light it and give the first pull on the rope.”

Shonagan stooped to pick up the torch that awaited him and lit it from the roaring hearth fire. He followed the Bellmaster up the dangerous, winding stairs to the peak of the tower, took a deep breath and tossed the torch up to the firebowl. It burst into flames, casting an eery, reflected glow. He doubted anyone in the city would see it, except perhaps his mother or the Harbormaster, both of whom would be looking for it. The fog was dense and dampened the morning and Shonagan’s exposed skin with a fine, penetrating mist. The bell rope was soaked when he wrapped his hands around it and pulled.

The first deafening clang echoed in his bones. Now Lisandra would know that his father was dead and that Lisile would have a new Emperor. Shonagan trembled with more than the cold. He pulled four more times, shaking so much the Bellmaster finally stepped over and took the rope from him.

“That’ll do, your highness. I’ll take ‘er from here.”

(Scene Break)

Shonagan strode toward the massive doors of the palace Temple, the marble floor beneath his bare feet cold and smoothly polished to a mirror shine. He pushed through, swinging the doors wide, and stopped for a moment. Straight ahead was a statue of Li’sandra Goddess of Thieves, and Na’seri God of the Seas, sitting back to back, wearing matching smirks of mischief. Behind them, looking only slightly more serious with his arms folded across his chest, was Jahoran, the God of Storms. Flanking the left and right walls of the Temple were other statues, four on each side, separated only by marble pillars. Each was outlined by a tall window. On the left were four of the other five goddesses; closest to the center statue was Miyanalla of Love and Fertility and beside her was Asanira of Night, then Ilenora of Forest and lastly Nardana of War. The fifth goddess, Té’yashara of Beauty and Eternal life and creator of his mother’s immortal race, stood with the gods on the right, closest to the door. Her brother, Té’lathon, the God of Death, stood beside her. Then came Evaron, the God of Earth, and closest to the center statue was Tanjoran, the God of Day.

It amused Shonagan that the three gods most respected by Lisileans and the other pirates were also the most mischievous. It fit, really. Miyanalla was well-loved as well, but she had followers all across Rana, as did Tanjoran. Shonagan started forward again, acknowledging each of the eleven represented gods with a nod. There was one more god of Rana, but his representation would never be allowed in any Lisilean Temple. Agranor, brother of Nardana, was as much Lisile’s enemy as the nations he protected.

He stared at Miyanalla’s statue. “Perhaps I should pray to you for love in my marriage, though I doubt even you could bring it.”

“Our hearts will not willingly join, Shonagan. Would you really have Miyanalla force them to?”

He turned to find his wife standing in the doorway, draped in flowing black silk. Royalty suited her beauty, but not her heart, he knew. She missed her quiet peasant life, when she was among the people she loved so much, preferring to help by healing rather than rearranging political lines. And she hated the attention, the prying questions, the need for stiff formality. More than any of that, the constant threat of assassins terrified her. He recalled a night just a month ago when she had lain, curled in his arms, sobbing for him after she’d heard one of the palace guards talking about the assassin who had attacked him earlier that day down by the piers. She had only twice been the target of an attack, but though she was only his wife in title, she feared for him. They were friends, bound strongly by their two years together and he found more comfort and peace in her friendship than in their marriage.

“No, I would not have Miyanalla force us to love each other.”

“Then why did you say it? I know you don’t love me as a wife, Shon.”

“You’re a wonderful Empress, Sarophia, even though you hate it. The people love you.”

“Because I’m one of their own, not some highborn’s daughter with no idea of what the commonfolk go through.”

“No, I think it’s more because you care. But don’t worry. I won’t make you stay at this for more than another two or three months.”

“The agreement was to a year after your father’s passing.”

“I will not hold you to it. It was all to appease him, anyhow.”

“And to keep the Se’tanara line in control of Lisile. You did what you had to for your father… and for your country. I shudder to think what would become of us all if your Tu’ganir cousins ever gain control of Lisile.”

“That dilemma was solved when I married you. My father’s threat died with him. So did our contract. I will not keep you from Jerrian any longer than I must.”

Sarophia stared at their reflections in the marble, then, without another word, turned away. He reached out and gently stroked her shoulder. When she turned her face back to him, her eyes glittered. “You’ll find a wife you love and who loves you in return, Shonagan. You deserve nothing less. There is no better man than you. Few are even your equal.”

He didn’t reply. He couldn’t. He couldn’t speak around the lump of grief and despair in his throat. His promise to set Sarophia free suddenly weighed horribly on him, as if his life, his world was falling around him. The dim morning with its eery fog and the banners of mourning black and gray perfectly accented the emotions in his heart. He was too young to be Emperor. His father had been fifty-one when he took over from his father. Shonagan tried to remember a past Emperor of Lisile who had been younger than he, but couldn’t.

“I am very sorry for your loss,” Sarophia said. “Knowing his death was soon at hand has done nothing to lessen the shock or the pain. I know you’re hurting. I’ll be here as long as you need me.”

He smiled at her. “Thank you. I had best get to work. King Krandar should arrive today and I need to start preparations for his visit. And for Father’s funeral rites.”

She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “I thought you came here to pray.”

“I… I think I did. I don’t really remember now.”

He started to turn away, but she stopped him. “For all that you have given me, Shonagan, and all that you plan to give me, let me give you something in return.”

She placed a finger to his lips to silence him. “You will not ask, so I will offer. I have nothing else to give, nor is there anything that I know of that you need or want more.”

He frowned. “I never asked for anything in return, Sarophia. You have already––”

“Let me give you a child.”

“No.”

“Please, Shonagan. Let me––”

“No, Sarophia. I could never ask––”

“You didn’t.”

“I have done nothing for you that would warrant such a gift. I cannot accept.”

“Even though you need an heir. I can give you that.”

He stared at the statue of Miyanalla for a long while. Their marriage had been consummated, just once, and no child had come of it. Why should that change now, when their contract was nearing its end? Any child Sarophia bore him would have to be raised in the palace, if he or she was to be his heir and Shonagan could not separate a child from its mother. Neither could he risk Sarophia’s happiness with Jerrian. The man had withstood losing his lover––however temporarily––to the Crown Prince of Lisile with little more than the promise he would someday get her back as a wife. Shonagan had not yet mentioned his wish to personally see to Jerrian and Sarophia’s continued happiness, so he felt it unwise to do anything that might turn Jerrian into a willing assasin-for-hire.

He shook his head. “No, Sarophia. For your sake, I cannot accept.” He smiled. “But the offer is repayment enough.”

She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him for a long time.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d have to say that looks like an embrace of farewell.”

Shonagan and Sarophia looked up to see Lord Tygris Tu’ganir standing in the doorway to the Temple. Shonagan straightened, but kept his arm around his wife’s shoulders. He smiled politely at his cousin, bowed his head just enough to give notice of Tygris’ rank.

“Actually, we were just talking about starting a family,” Sarophia remarked sweetly. “What better place to talk of such a thing than in the Temple, where Miyanalla can best hear us?”

Tygris smirked. “Not a bad idea, praying for fertility, as my cousin’s has not yet been proven.”

“Be grateful, Tygris. Any child of mine would have a claim on your title… cousin. Even a bastard.”

“As my sons have a claim on yours,” Tygris replied. “You stand more to lose, I think.”

“Your sons have no real claim to my title without first being claimed as the heir of the Emperor. Lordship depends only on line of descent. Surely you know that.”

“But blood relation is required, Shonagan, to be named the Emperor’s heir.”

Shonagan laughed. “No, blood is preferred, not required. Read the Charter, Tygris.”

“I have. But you fail to recall that the title of Emperor falls to the next of blood-kin if the Emperor dies without a will naming his successor.”

“Pity for you, then, that my will has been made out.”

“And who have you named as your heir?”

“My little sister, of course. She is my closest blood-kin, as you pointed out.”

“Your sister is a baby,” Tygris retorted.

“Quite literally, yes, cousin, she is. But Mara is my heir with our uncle, Wiseman Rathadan, as her Regent. You didn’t seriously think I’d let that matter slip my mind. And you’re more a fool than I thought if you imagined I’d ever name you or any of your sons my heir.”

Tygris opened his mouth, then slammed it shut. At last he sputtered, “Just remember that your marriage to Sarophia is the only reason I am not now the Emperor of Lisile.”

“Even if I hadn’t married her, today, you would only be Crown Prince.” Shonagan narrowed his eyes. “From tomorrow forward, you will refer to my wife as Empress Sarophia.”

Tygris turned on his heel and marched out of the Temple without so much as a bow. Shonagan inhaled deeply to calm his agitated nerves. Why had he been so stupid as to summon the Lords of Lisile to watch his father die? This day would be hard enough without Tygris and his ilk questioning his every decision, watching his every move for the slightest mistake. Today––his last day as Crown Prince––and tomorrow, more than any time past or future, Shonagan was on display.