Chapter 1
Anders
As the ship sailed into the harbour, a warm, salty breeze filled the sails and tousled Anders’ hair. He opened his sketchbook to a new page and shielded his eyes as he took in the sight of Orovia, the capital of the Southern Isle. An imposing city of pale stone and terracotta tiles.
But, if there was any truth to the tales told during the Longest Night, back home in the Northern Isle, beneath the glittering façade lay a dark heart of pride and greed.
The Gilded Palace stood high on the hillside, bearing down upon the rest of the city and casting a shadow over the winding, cobbled streets. Even from here, Anders could see movement along the battlements and atop the high towers. Archers keeping watch over the King and his two daughters, ready to defend them from attack. Or, more likely, to discourage would-be thieves. The vast wealth of the Southern Isle was well-known across the Four Continents, as was their love of flaunting it.
Anders tucked his sketchbook and pencil back into his bag and pulled his hood forwards to hide his pale-blonde hair. As the youngest prince of the so-called Silver Isle—the kingdom to the north of Orovia—he was something of an unwelcome visitor. With no papers and only his name and characteristic hair toprove his identity, he was risking his life simply by setting foot on Southern land.
He’d been making his way back home to D’Argentis for over three weeks now, and the offer of passage on an Eastern trade ship transporting silks had been too good to refuse. Despite the fact the destination was a little farther south than he would have liked. He’d attempted to haggle with the captain, but it had been a waste of breath, even the Easterners knew the North wasn’t the place to sell luxury goods. Instead, Anders had agreed to pay half up front and the rest on his safe arrival in Orovia. He would simply have to walk the rest of the way to the north coast, where he prayed a sympathetic ferryman would be waiting.
Assuming he escaped the notice of the city guards. But that shouldn’t be too difficult. As the once-in-a-generation Shadow Graced, he’d mastered the ability of hiding in plain sight long ago.
“Don’t go getting yourself into any trouble now, lad.” The captain of the trade ship took the fistful of silver coins Anders handed him and gave him a stern look. “Nice northern boy like you, they’ll string you up if they catch you in these parts.”
“I’ll be careful.” He nodded his gratitude to the white-bearded captain and turned back to the city rising up out of the Southern Sea, its tall spires and tiled roofs reflected on the surface of the dark water. Foreboding was a cold fist in his chest, but he didn’t let the fear show on his face.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see the captain still standing there, a folded document in his outstretched hand.
“Take these, lad. They were—” He swallowed, eyes shining. “They were my son’s. If you keep your head down and your hood up, they might just get you home.”
Anders hesitated, unsure whether to take the man’s kind gesture and assume his late son’s identity. Would it be more disrespectful to accept, or refuse? The captain’s son didn’texactly need the documents now, and Anders was sure no piece of paper could take away the man’s memories of his child. Nodding and clasping the captain’s hands between his own for a brief moment, gratitude swelling in his chest, Anders took the papers and slipped them into his pocket.
“Thank you.” But the captain was already turning away, pinching the moisture from his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and shouting to his men to throw out the mooring lines.
The ship docked, and Anders stepped off, squinting in the bright sunlight that bounced off every polished surface. The port was alive with sailors singing and whistling as they worked. Traders shouted to one other as they lugged pallets and crates from far-off lands, containing spices, silks, dyed leather and wine. Gulls cried out, swooping overhead and diving on any scraps of food they could find. The air was crisp with brine, the scents of fish and smoke mingling in Anders’ nostrils as he made his way from the harbour towards the town.
He was surprised to find that it reminded him of home; the hustle and bustle of the fishers and farmers in the south, the tang and clamour of the salt mines in the north.
“Looking for work, boy?” A tanned, shirtless man called as Anders passed. He was hauling a net that had seen better days out of an open fishing vessel while a scrawny youngster heaved buckets of water out of the bottom of the boat. “I could do with a strapping lad like you on my boat.” The young boy threw a glare in the direction of the fisher, who, from their similar features, Anders assumed to be his father.
“Sorry, I’m just passing through,” Anders replied, attempting to disguise his accent. Or what was left of it, after five years fighting overseas.
He kept his head down as a pair of city guards in brown livery strolled past, headed towards the ship he had recentlydisembarked. Short swords gleamed at their hips, their blades deathly sharp. He didn’t fancy finding himself at the business end of one of those.
Hurrying on, he mentally calculated his remaining funds. After paying for passage, he only had a single gold coin, a couple of silvers and a few coppers left. That should be enough to get him a room for the night and a hot meal. And perhaps even a new pair of boots for the remainder of his journey; his own had worn-down heels and holes in the soles from months of walking.
When he reached the northernmost tip of Orovia, he’d have to pay a ferryman a few silvers to row him across the strait separating the Northern and Southern Isles. More than the journey was worth, perhaps, but the price ensured the ferryman would deliver him safely across the channel of water, rather than handing him in to whichever authorities offered the highest reward.
He tried to picture his father’s expression as his youngest son was hauled in front of him by guards; unshaven and stinking, but unmistakably his boy. Would his father be happy to see him, after all this time away? His mother certainly would be, of that he could be sure.
He could try to swim it, but even at its narrowest point the strait was over a mile wide, and deathly cold. A chill washed over Anders as he remembered standing on the shore as a child, looking out at the icy water, his voice ripped away by the harsh wind as he yelled his best friend’s name. Jürgen had run into the surf after his wooden toy boat and been dragged out to sea by the tide. Despite being a strong swimmer, his nine-year-old frame had been defenceless against the savagery of the ocean. His body had washed up on shore the following day.
Anders shook off the memory and focused on the present moment, inhaling deeply and grounding himself in his surroundings. The feel of the sun on his back, the sharp tang ofsea air filling his nostrils. The sound of leather boots slapping cobblestones from the guards that appeared to be patrolling every square inch of the city, forcing him to keep his hood pulled forward.
The gleaming pavement wound up and around the hill, the pale stone bouncing the sun’s rays in every direction, and Anders was panting by the time he reached a small but well-kept inn. Sweat soaked his undershirt and dripped down the sides of his face beneath the hood. He’d received a few odd looks, but they were nothing compared to the attention he’d garner if he lowered his hood and revealed his blonde hair. He’d have to try and get his hands on some boot polish before he continued on his way, to darken it.
Stepping into the inn’s tap room, he closed his eyes and exhaled, enjoying the respite from the heat of the sun. He’d visited many far-flung places in his time with the army, but there was a dry, suffocating quality to the heat in Orovia that he wouldn’t miss when he finally made it back to D’Argentis. His home, the capital of the Northern Isle, was a place the sun rarely graced with her presence. A stark landscape that saw more than its fair share of rain and spent half of the year in complete darkness; morning, noon and night.
He paid for a mug of frothy ale and a crusty cob with one of the coppers and sat down in a quiet corner of the tavern. He sipped his drink, enjoying the feel of the cool liquid sliding down his throat, and considered whether to enquire after a room for the night or keep walking a while longer and hope he came across another inn. One a little farther from the port and the oddly high number of guards roaming the streets.
Was there some occasion or national holiday going on he hadn’t been aware of? Or were the Golds simply fond of putting their military might on view at all times? The display of strength felt a little unnecessary to Anders, but what did he know?
As he drank his ale and pondered, snippets of conversation drifted over from a nearby table, where three locals were nursing their own mugs of ale and gossiping loudly. A large woman with wildly curly hair said, “My niece is a scullery maid up at the palace, and she told my sister—who told me—” She leaned forwards and lowered her voice into a stage whisper, “It’s witchcraft.” A self-satisfied smile spread across her broad face and she sat back, letting her words hang in the air for a moment. “Mark my words, them daughters of his are up to no good.”
One of her male companions scratched his salt-and-pepper beard and chuckled. “It ain’t witchcraft, Ida. They’re young women now. Probably sneaking out to dance with young men.” He waggled a finger. “Don’t tell me you did nothing of the sort at their age. I know for a fact you used to meet Arlo down at the docks when your mam thought you were in Sunday school.”
