Marion Norindale Books

The hatch opened, flickering a beam of light down into the darkened hold of the ship.

Rowan flinched, then scooted closer to the door of his cell, inching a bit awkwardly thanks to the way his hands were bound behind him. He heard the thunking of bootfalls before he watched a pair of hulking figures amble down into the hold, then navigate the maze of crates, barrels, and other holding cells to where he was imprisoned.

The boy’s heart spurred. He scrambled away from the door, but one of the pirates unlocked the cell and stepped inside, reaching down to yank him to his feet.

“Wh-where are you taking me?” Despite all his training in swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat, Rowan’s strength was but an inconvenience to his captors, not even bothering to slow the men down as they dragged him over to the steps leading abovedeck.

One of the men grunted out what could’ve been a laugh. “Boss wants to see you.”

If Rowan’s morbid theory was indeed correct, and his father really had hired someone to eliminate his useless son once and for all, then why would their leader be bothering to speak to him? Why wouldn’t he just dump him out into the ocean and be done with it?

They reached the top of the stairs. Rowan winced as the scarlet glow of the sunset washed over him. The sky stained with a rich ruby and a fiery gold in the most magnificent sunset he’d ever seen.

Too bad he wouldn’t be alive much longer to enjoy it.

The pirates dragged him towards the area below the aft deck, into a hall lined with several doors. They stopped at one with an ornate detailing stenciled across the wood. One of the men knocked in a distinct pattern, waited for a muffled voice to call “Permission to enter,” and then wrenched it open.

Before they could shove Rowan inside, one of the pirates reached for the bonds around the boy’s wrists. He twisted them tautly, forcing Rowan to wince.

The boy’s heart thrummed once more in a rapid crescendo as the man slid a dagger out of his belt—

And then sliced the ropes free.

Rowan barely had a moment to gape before the other pirate pushed him into the cabin. “Boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

He slammed the door behind Rowan.

The cabin bathed in darkness, broken only by the soft golden glow of a lamp upon the desk at the far end of the room. Shelves to the right cradled books and knickknacks, while a map pinned up against the left wall. A thick rug sprawled across the floor, its fibers dyed as richly as anything Rowan had seen in the palace back home.

The boy frowned. The opulence of the room didn’t match the roughened brigands who’d plucked him from the harbor, slapped a bag over his head, and stuffed him into the hold of this ship. His father wouldn’t have bothered to spend so much money to dispatch his biggest inconvenience—and it didn’t take that much skill in the first place to throw somebody to their death.

“Admiring the décor?”

At the dry voice, Rowan snapped his attention to the back of the room, where he finally beheld the man sitting at the desk.

The captain sat back in his chair, his feet propped upon the desktop. His hair billowed in dark chestnut waves around a pair of calculating eyes, a sharp nose, and a strong jaw. A thin moustache drew across his upper lip, and a short beard pointed down from his chin.

At once, a dozen questions crowded into Rowan’s head. He opened his mouth, giving voice to none of them.

Pirate captain Isaac Gordon shifted his feet to the floor and sat forward, balancing his elbows against the desktop. “Well, don’t be so shy, my boy.”

Rowan wasn’t sure his legs were able to move, but somehow, he crossed the room in a few stiff steps.

Gordon smiled. “There…that’s better.” He reached down to his belt, slowly drawing free a dagger—the blade as long as his forearm, the hilt decorated with the dark glint of jewels. He poised it between his fingers. “Now, tell me, little prince…do you know why you are here?”

Rowan opened his mouth again. “I—I’m not sure?”

“Oh, come now,” Gordon chided. “You must have had your suspicions.”

A sourness curdled in Rowan’s stomach. “Did—did m-my father—really—”

“—hire somebody to murder off his youngest son, and hope nobody would notice?” Gordon chuckled humorlessly. “Yes, yes he did. Not a lot of tact, our dear king possesses.”

Though Rowan had no disillusions about his father’s nature, a cold pit still hardened and sank in his stomach. There went the last of his pathetic hopes that his father could actually care about him one day.

He jerked a hand up to his eyes, wary of the heat prickling within them. “Wh-why—why did he hire you?” he stuttered. “I mean—that seems like a lot of money and effort, just to—to get rid of me.”

Gordon shifted the dagger to clasp it in one hand, angling the blade up into the space between the two of them. It caught the light of the lamp in a bright golden flash. “Well, now, my boy…he didn’t hire me. Not strictly speaking, anyway.” He pointed the dagger at Rowan, who held clammy and still as the man drew the cold tip of the steel against the boy’s jaw. “He reached out to John Barnes, who he didn’t realize was actually an alter ego for the famed and feared Captain Gordon.” The man bared his teeth in a devilish grin. “He’s a bit dense for our beloved lord and savior, is he not?”

Rowan didn’t bother to answer, still too preoccupied with the edge of the blade pressing against his skin. It angled against his cheek now, the cold of the metal caressing the heat in his face.

“So he thinks I’m just a simpleton who’s probably drowned you in the Anazur Sea by now.” Gordon tapped the dagger against Rowan’s chin, then finally, blessedly, pulled it away. He reached down to slide it back into his belt.

“Why?”

Gordon cocked his head. “Why what?”

“Why not—kill me?”

Gordon squinted. “Do you want me to?”

“No!” Rowan cried. “But—why else would you…why would you—”

“Do any of this?” Gordon beckoned.

Rowan blinked stupidly, but then rounded the desk, coming to stand directly beside the captain’s chair. He flinched as the other man reached for him, but Gordon merely plucked him off the floor and settled him on the desk as if he weighed nothing more than a doll.

Rowan’s feet hovered a good several inches off the floor. He gripped the edges of the desktop, unsure whether he should’ve felt relieved or frightened.

“A prince is a silly resource to waste,” Gordon lectured. “All that military training, diplomatic skill, knowledge of court innerworkings…and, of course, an embittered spirit from the knowledge that his own father wanted to kill him.”

Rowan flushed. “You really thought you’d save my life just in case I decided to—join you?”

“Well, you don’t have much of a choice at the moment.” Gordon sighed, leaning back into his seat. “And whether or not I’m hiding my true motives, you won’t realize until it’s too late.”

Rowan had to admit the man was right on both counts. His father would just keep trying to get rid of him if he showed back up. Not that he really wanted to return now, if he knew the king hated him that much. Though he’d miss the way his life had been (or at least, the pieces that hadn’t been totally awful), he’d regrettably be far better off under the tutelage of pirates for the moment.

“That depends,” the boy murmured, his voice small. “Am I still going to be your prisoner?”

“Well, we’d give you a better room, for one,” Gordon reasoned. “And no, you wouldn’t be bound in chains or anything. But we’d probably try to keep you from leaving. If only for your own safety,” the pirate cajoled, laying a hand over his heart.

Rowan rolled his eyes. “Then I guess I’ll put up with being your guest for a while.”

A swell of emotion bloomed in the boy’s chest before he could help it. He couldn’t embrace the reality of his father’s rejection without one last wild thrashing against it.

Gordon slid a hand into his jacket to tug free the crisp white square of cloth. “Oh, my poor boy—” He held it up to Rowan’s face, swiping away the first of the prince’s tears with a surprisingly deft touch. “Best to cry that out in here. The rabble doesn’t take too kindly to weakness.”

Rowan jerked away, but then accepted the handkerchief with a shaky sigh.

Gordon smirked. “What, no gratitude, princeling?”

Rowan rolled his eyes again before muttering, “Thank you.”