Or at least, he thought that was who they were. The faces fromthat memory seemed separated from this current moment as though hidden behind every storm cloud strung like pearls across the Divide during the swell of summer.
Renard claimed a dying torch from the wall to allow him a better view of the inhabitants and approached the first person his hazy memory could pluck out—an Eritrian boy with healing bruises about his grimy face. Despite the recent head injury, the boy saw an immediate opportunity and shot first to his feet and then to the bars of his cell. He wore a soiled Pyrenee guard’s uniform and smelled of horse dung.
“Prince Renard, sir,” the pirate fumbled, clearly shocked but unafraid.
Revulsion simmered under the fury that coursed beneath Renard’s skin. He could not remember this pirate’s name—only that he’d once thought about killing him under the Torrentian sun. Somehow his fingers still itched to do it, that wrath within him aching for a quick release.
The pirate’s accomplices were not about. There had been two with him—a Torrentian girl and a Myrcellian with shoulders that could topple a tree trunk if given a running start. Staring at this boy somehow made it easier to remember them by association.
“Where are your friends?” To his own ears Renard’s voice sounded like it was powered by smoke rather than breath.
“I—I gave that captain my report, uh, Your Highness.” Better with the title, but Renard did not react. This seemed to bother the boy as if he had been expecting some sort of praise. “The big guy with the blond hair—Nikola. Your mother had the dragon’s piss scared out of him.”
At the mention of Inés, Renard’s focus sharpened on this boy. He reacted visibly to this change—lips stammering and gaze dropping nervously. Well, at least he was pliable.
“But I will give it to you again now, if you like,” he offered, hurriedly. “My acquaintances stole the harbor note I carried and likely my ship, too. TheGatzal,that is its name. They stole my rings, too! Right after my own guy smacked me.” Here, he tapped at his mottled temple. “Hard to find good help these days, isn’t it?”
The pirate laughed as if they had this in common and inspected his hands, which were bare, as he said, but pale above each knuckle. Renard did not laugh with him. This kidnapper seemed to thinkcracking jokes would make this more comfortable for him or somehow endear himself to Renard. It would do neither. He was either too stupid to know this, too desperate, or simply could not help himself.
The boy’s laughter quickly died, and he tried to school his face to match Renard’s.
Finally, the prince asked, “What happened to me?”
“Um…” The boy’s pale eyes lingered on Renard’s naked chest and sutures in the torchlight.
Renard lifted an impatient brow. “Do you know or shall I offer another prisoner the chance at freedom simply for telling me?”
“Oh, no, yes, I can tell you.” The Eritrian presented a slick smile that did not have the effect he clearly hoped it would. “It’s just that I wasn’t in the chapel when it happened, Your Highness. All I know, I know from what I have been told and deduced. Your man, Captain Nikola, he questioned me on your mother’s orders about my ship and the manner of our relationship—the contract. They wanted that for some reason.”
The fury beneath Renard’s skin pulsed. “Please get on to what happened tome.”
The boy gulped.
“Well, I learned you died.”
This wasn’t a shock so much as a confirmation. The snatches of memory and unending anger pointed to this truth.
The kidnapper blanched, his eyes again pinned to the puckered skin about Renard’s naked chest, clearly concerned that Renard might kill the messenger. And though ithadcrossed his mind, Renard needed more facts as much as the confirmation of his death.
Renard spun his fingers in a gesture that he hoped the boy would read as “get on with it.”
Another hurried gulp and then a rush of explanation.
“You died, the princess killed you, and then my acquaintances and her stableboy rushed in dressed as Pyrenee guards and managed to get her out. They escaped the Bellringe, eluded your soldiers, and it seems, stole my ship. It is likely they returned to the Torrent or Ardenia. Though, maybe they’re simply circling the continent, living off fish and anonymity.”
Again, the Eritrian chuckled here at what he clearly thought was a clever turn of phrase. Renard did not laugh.
“And my mother and brother?”
The boy regained a serious expression. “Your mother was leaving immediately—the captain was in a great hurry to spin his interview with me into a plan and—”
“Where did she go?” Renard cut in, tired of the boy’s asides. “If you don’t know, it would be best you didn’t guess because I have no patience for being led astray.”
The boy nodded. Wet his lips. Swallowed. Answered clearly and more succinctly than Renard believed him capable. “To Basilica.”
Of course, that was where she went.
That fury spiked again, and Renard’s free hand formed a tight, hard fist.
