He nods. “Exactly like it. Though far larger, and much more powerful. Those tuning-fork spires? When a siren inside the structure or within fifty feet of it sings or hums, the spires react. Not just noise—they send feedback. Vibrational magic. Enough to disrupt a glamour, silence a song, even render a siren unconscious if the tone is strong enough.”
My skin prickles. “So even the queen…”
“She is not immune,” Ezra says. “The entire palace is attuned to the Diapason’s frequency. If she were to attempt anything…persuasive… she’d be incapacitated before finishing her first note. That is why they used to hold the symposiums here, to assure an equity of power.”
I swallow, turning back to the shore. “Seems like a cage with a pretty view.”
Ezra says nothing, but his silence speaks volumes.
Another sound reaches my ears. It’s faint, but the breeze catches it now and then.
“Is that… singing?” I tilt my head, trying to hear the sound more clearly.
“Yes. That sound would be theEirenes, the siren peacekeepers. They dwell high in the mountains, their sole purpose being to maintain thetranquility of the island, lulling it, so to speak, into a peaceful nation.”
“So, there are no fights or disagreements in Messanya?”
Ezra chuckles. “I wouldn’t go that far. But there are no disputes with the queen or her reign, as far as I know. The Eirenes don’t replace the queen’s soldiers, but they do a pretty good job of making her soldiers’ duties easier. Think of it this way: in the same way the air in Bastos gave people the tendency to be more, um, lax with their inhibitions, the Eirenes create an atmosphere that dilutes feelings of aggression and hostility.”
“‘Dilutes,’” I repeat, “but doesn’t totally eradicate.”
“Correct.”
The ship rocks gently as the wind shifts course, the white sails above us billowing with renewed force. Most of the crew is occupied adjusting the rigging, their voices blending with the call of gulls overhead. I remain at the rail, watching the shoreline inch closer, when a flicker of movement draws my eye to the quarterdeck.
Silas stands there with his hands linked behind his back as he surveys the approaching land. He emanates that smug, self-satisfied air he wears like a second skin. Queen Eleanor is beside him, her veil pinned in place beneath her coronet, the folds of her dark sea-cloak rippling against her slender frame.
She reaches up, so slowly, it almost looks like a breeze caught her hand, and attempts to adjust his crown—just slightly, a tilt here, a smoothing there. A gesture most would interpret as a dutiful wife tending to appearances.
But Silas jerks his head just enough to dislodge her fingers.
“Don’t you have anyone else to bother, woman?” He swats her hand away, and I don’t miss it when she flinches. “I should have listened to Farvis and left you at Ivystone.”
Eleanor’s hand lingers midair before retreating, folding with practiced grace beneath the other on her waist. She says nothing.
“Besides,” he spits out, “you’ve outgrown your usefulness since your womb has withered up and dried.”
The words aren’t loud, and there are no guards close enough to hearthem. But I feel the crack of them in my ribs like a punch.
The queen does not respond. She simply stares forward at the water, face unreadable.
I grip the rail harder, wishing I had the freedom to step between them. To tell him he doesn’t deserve to wear that crown at all. That it doesn’t sit crooked, it sits bloodstained. That Eleanor shouldn’t have to deal with such a monster.
But I keep my place, knowing that I can only do what’s expected. For now, anyway.
I’m still watching Eleanor when a quiet rustle draws my attention from the quarterdeck. Nadya approaches, blinking against the sun as the wind plays with her curls. She adjusts the edge of her shawl, her eyes sweeping across the deck and catching immediately on Sir Holden, who walks the stretch of deck between us.
One of the crew, lean and freckled, hovers near a stack of tarred barrels, a coil of rope slung over his shoulder. As he shifts his grip, something slips from his pocket—a small, metal tool that clatters across the planks. Before he can retrieve it, Sir Holden steps forward and picks it up. Instead of handing it over to the young man, Sir Holden slips it into the crew member’s pocket.
They exchange a look, but the crewman lingers, a half-smile playing on his lips as his gaze drifts appreciatively over Sir Holden’s broad frame. The smile isn’t brazen, but it’s bold enough to spark curiosity.
Sir Holden says nothing, yet when he turns to move on, his eyes catch mine. The look is fleeting, but there’s something sly in it, like he knows I’ve seen everything and he’s daring me to say a word.
I bite my cheek and turn my attention to Nadya, pretending there was nothing to see.
When Nadya reaches my side, she exhales dramatically. “I can’t blame Holden. The sailors on this ship might make me forget all about the barkeep in Podrosa.”
“And the dancer in Bastos?”
