Chapter Two

Romney led him to shore.

A rowboat was beached on the sands. Sea Snake, as his uncle had named her, was a plucky fourteen footer whose once gleaming gown of white paint had long since chipped and faded, and who over the years had grown a most unladylike beard of creeping barnacles. Yet a lady she was, and loved she was too. The tide was low and the sand was soft beneath his boots. They launched her straight off the beach, pushing the stern until cold water swallowed his knees and the surf peppered his face and they clambered over the transom and were away.

Romney did the rowing while Ciaran sat with his hands clasped and his head bowed. Sea Snake bobbed along merrily, water lapping the hull, gulls squawking overhead. The castle punched out of the white cliffs like a bad memory. A miserable pile of stone crumbling under the grey sky.

“Fess up, then,” Romney said. “Or do I have to guess?”

Ciaran frowned. He had laboured under the impression that a silent accord excused him from the embarrassment of having to explain his failure. But apparently he was the only one who signed up for that. “Be my guest.”

Romney grinned, showing his brown teeth. Joviality was one of his uncle’s more annoying habits. But it also made him a popular man. In the Black Tower men used whatever weapons they had available to them. Steel, silver, darkroot, blackmail. Whatever it took to survive. His uncle was master-of-coin, but what kept him alive was his ability to get along with others. And for that reason alone Sir Romney Ryker was the rarest of nobles; without an enemy living or dead.

Romney stopped rowing. He removed his tricorne and ran a veiny hand through his greying widow’s peak. A beak of a nose arched from eyes that were sharp despite his forty summers. “You tried to get Edwin to take the Chair in your place.”

“Obviously.”

“Blackmail?”

“Of course.”

His uncle chuckled. “You caught the fool with his grubby hands in the wrong jar.”

“More or less.”

“I assume it involved the black market?”

Ciaran raised a brow. “What makes you say so?”

“The idiot’s been prancing about the castle in surprisingly fine clothes of late. He has no land or silver, and certainly no courage. How else would he come by such wealth?”

Ciaran deflated. He had thought he was the only one who put the pieces together, but if Romney had noticed, others might have too. Suddenly he felt a whole lot less clever.

“It didn’t pan out.” Romney let his arms rest on the oars. “But you should be proud. You had the nouse to notice what others didn’t. And you showed your teeth.”

“But?”

“There’s no but, lad. You were toppled by chance. That’s all. There was no way you could have known Willem was in on it too.”

“How do you know that?”

“A scheme like that takes two dunces.”

He chuckled despite his mood. It went some way to loosening the tension that gripped his heart, as if laughter had some unfathomable ability to shake free the ropes of worry, anxiety and pain that strangled a man’s soul. But the relief was limited, and sadly, short-lived, and as his laughter died his misery came lurching like a kick in the groin.

“And it explains how Willem found you,” Romney went on. “They probably arranged to meet last night, and when Edwin didn’t show, he came here in search of his fellow dunce.”

Every word out of his uncle’s mouth made sense. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, uncle, you’re doing a piss poor job of it.”

Romney laughed again, a little too long and hard. “Sorry, lad. But you spend your life knee deep in schemes, and plans, and plans within plans, it gets hard to break the habit.”

“You don’t have to tell me, uncle.” Ciaran smiled without joy. “It’s in the blood.”

“Speaking of which.” Romney reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small portrait. He held it out so Ciaran could see. “For you.”

A young girl sat on a ruby lounger. Her face was pleasant enough; well proportioned and pale, and a river of red hair tumbled down her gown. 

“Katherine of Muir,” his uncle said. “A beauty.”

Ciaran pulled away. “They exaggerate those portraits.”

“I sent the man myself, with strict instructions not to exaggerate. It’s a true likeness. I promise you.”

Ciaran sighed. “She’s an Elderwood girl.”

“So?”

“She’s probably used to a life of comfort. Argyle’s a hard place. Maybe too hard for a girl from the Westfold.”

“Need I remind you, nephew, that you’ve already thumbed your nose at several matches from Argyle?”

“Marriage isn’t to be taken lightly, uncle.”

Romney gave him a long, appraising look. “I spoke to the Farseer,” he said. “He’s keen on this one. You’ve rejected nearly a dozen matches and he’s starting to wonder. His patience wears thin, is what I mean. He wants you wedded by summer’s end.”

“If he’s that keen he can marry her himself.” Ciaran folded his arms. “Leave me out of it.”

“I think she’s a bit young for the old goat. But we did send her your portrait. They said she was pleased. Very pleased.”

“Pleased to be marrying a dead man?”

Romney opened his mouth, hesitated and pressed his lips shut. Ciaran looked out across the waves of Gods’ Graveyard. Long ago Alaric conquered this land and cast the Old Gods of mankind into the sea. Or at least that was the legend’s claimed.

“You can look at it that way if you like,” Romney said finally. “But taking a wife was the best thing your father ever did.”

“Marriage only brought him closer to the Chair,” Ciaran argued. “Why would he be so bloody happy about it?”

“Because of you, you thrice damned fool,” Romney spat. “He had much to regret. We both did. But he never for one moment regretted having you. You were the best thing to ever happen to Garren. He told me himself.”

“Fat lot of good it did,” Ciaran spat. “He didn’t even raise me.”

“No — but I got to. Horned Queen take me, I have more regrets than I can count. If I could bring him back I would. I want that more than anything. But I don’t regret getting to raise you. It cost me a brother. But I don’t regret it.” 

Romney fell silent and stared out across the currents. Where the waves always roiled, where dead gods slept. His uncle’s eyes were as grey as the sea. 

“You were a child the first time I took you out. Your father had just taken the Chair. You wouldn’t stop weeping. I was at my wits end.” Romney shook his head. “The thought hit me like a bolt of lightning. I bundled you out of bed in the middle of the night and went down shore. Maybe I was half-mad from grief, I don’t know. But the moment your little boots touched the deck you fell silent. Not scared, silent. But calm. I could scarce believe it. You sat there, all of six summers, watching me row. Not an ounce of fear in your face. For a terrible moment you looked so much like Garren it shook me to the core.” His uncle looked at him. “I taught you how to sail. How to fish. How to count sums. I’d do anything to get Garren back. But you made me the man I am today. You saved me. You could have that happiness too, lad. There’s no joy in this world greater than a family of your own.”

The portrait was still dangling in Romney’s hands. Ciaran reached out, and when his uncle handed it over, he took another look at this stranger who would be his wife. A second glance revealed nothing new, yet the thought of marrying this woman floated through his mind like driftwood.

“I understand your fear,” Romney said. “Marriage brings you a step closer to the Chair. But it’ll be many summers before it comes to that. The necromancers report robust health for your father.”

“I’m sure they said something similar about my grandfather too,” he said, never taking his eyes from the picture.

“Aye, they did,” Romney admitted. “But that was just poor luck. The chances of a sudden… of the burden falling on you any time soon are remote. Your father’s in good health. You have plenty of days ahead of you. If you assent to the match you’ll have a beautiful wife, and in time, a son. One day you could teach him to sail, how to fish.”

Ciaran clutched the portrait in cold fingers and made little creases on the edges. There were worse fates than taking a beautiful woman to wife. It was the reasons for his marriage he objected too. His family wanted him to wed and bed Katherine of Muir in hopes of getting her with child. Just one in a long line of steps he had taken against his will, each one bringing him closer to the Chair. He could refuse, but the Farseer wanted him wed, and by hook or by crook he would make it happen.

He nodded.

Romney pulled a skin from his jacket. “Let’s celebrate.”

Nephew and uncle shared a drink as their little boat bobbed on the bumpy sea. The wine had a strong, bitter taste as it went down his throat. And he couldn’t help but think; They have plans for me, my kin. Let them. I have plans of my own.