A Masquerade of Twins
Chapter 1
Lyla
I stare at myself in the mirror inspecting myself for cracks in my appearance. Finding none, I turn to the countertop and pick up a comb with a wicked, sharp tail. I use the tail to split my hair in half and begin carefully braiding each side. When they’re exactly how I want them, I twist the ends into a slick bun and fasten my hair in place with pins. The braided hairstyle coupled with my simple outfit, give me the appearance of an ordinary soldier. Military-issue camouflage pants, a black turtleneck, a black vest. Only the five scarlet stars emblazoned on my breast give away that I’m anything more than an ordinary engineer or foot soldier.
I dab a little bit of makeup and powder under my eyes, just enough to disguise the sleepless nights that have left their marks on my face. I switch on the curling iron and give definition to the few wisps of hair that have slipped free from my bun. Satisfied, I step out of the bathroom and walk towards the kitchen, where a simple but delicious meal awaits. Breakfast:. A green smoothie, orange juice, scrambled eggs and two deliciously crisp hash brown patties. At the palace, I know my sister is probably gorging herself on a meal that would make my weak stomach turn for days. Fresh pancakes, figs, enough whipped cream to fill a bucket. Sugar is expensive, but that hardly concerns her. Here, in the military compound I reside in, we keep our meals plain to avoid stomach upset and waste. I’ve grown used to the fare, and I actually prefer it over the rich meals I ate at the palace.
Once I’m done eating, I walk down the hallway and across a bridge suspended by cables into the meeting room for today. My five stars silently announce my rank, and many ordinary soldiers stop to salute me. I can’t pretend that a part of me doesn’t relish those little gestures, the kind of respect that I know I’ve truly earned myself. Much better than half-baked compliments from whatever diplomat was visiting that day. I let my sister, the queen, handle such matters. And she does. Brilliantly. My role is a much simpler one, really. All I do is decide the placement of our troops on the front lines of the endless wars we fight here in Crejin Sove. One day there are pirates on the coast, the next it's the upstart Kilvans, begging to be destroyed for some peculiar reason. I’ve met with their king before, and he seems a perfectly sane and amiable fellow, so who knows why he makes the choices he does.
When I reach the meeting room, I knock and take a step back to leave room for the door to swing open. General Leonard Stevens opens the door and welcomes me to where my advisors have gathered this morning.
“General Lyla Havensborough has arrived,” he announced. “Would you care to attend my presentation on the Kilvan front, Ma’am?” My proper title is Princess or Highness, but I prefer to be referred to as my military rank. I nod my assent, and he begins, sticking pins in the deerhide map we have on the wall. He drones on about the need to put a swift end to the fighting before it becomes a full-blown war, which is something we can all agree on. At the end, he thanks us for listening.
“In essence,” he adds, “I’m asking the esteemed General Havensborough permission to blow them up.” He winks at me in a most undignified manner and salutes to me.
“Blow them up? Is that the technical term for it?” I ask.
“No Ma’am. We call this technique the Accelerated Rate Firebombing technique. Or ARF for short.” He punctuates his point with an impression of a dog yapping.
“Very well,” I say. “Permission granted. Go forth and blow it up. Anything to avoid peace talks with that upstart King Damarion.” Kilvan Sove is an interesting little country, with plenty of scenic locales, but they truly needed to stand down before we bombed them to dust. I guess it was too late for that, actually. We were going to blow them up, and I could sense Leo’s eagerness to do so radiating from him. I sensed it from everyone, actually. We were tired of being bullied by a tiny little country in the mountains. Curse them and their advanced tanks and artillery. It made countering them very difficult, hence us resorting to a firebombing campaign. It certainly wasn’t my first choice. I knew that the image of their front lines being incinerated would join my long procession of nightmares tonight. Maybe playing the diplomat wouldn’t have been so bad, if only I had my sister’s charm and good looks.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The next day, I forgot all about maintaining my polished appearance and dressed in an even more practical manner than I ordinarily did. A full military uniform and combat boots instead of sneakers. I wouldn't be going directly into the fray today, but I did need to present in order to write a report about our latest sophisticated technique, ARF. Well, the design of the bombs was sophisticated at least. It had taken our best and brightest to figure out how to put gunpowder in an aluminum shell. We had rigged the land between the trenches with mines too, to take out the tanks that might survive the bombing campaign. Now for the finest bit of technology we had, that the Kilvans had somehow never discovered in centuries of inhabiting a frozen wasteland: Planes.
We heard the planes before we saw them, as the one in front was pumping water vapor out to partially conceal them. You could still see them if you looked hard enough, but the Kilvans didn’t know about this particular bit of Crejin innovation. Their eyes were squarely on the lines of troops we had sent out as a decoy to disguise the true nature of this battle. It would be over before it began.
Hopefully.
If some engineer had somehow managed to fail at making pipe bombs, or worse, sabotaged them, then someone was getting fired. Or executed.
Who could tell these days, in the period between barbarism and modernity. The line blurred more often than I would have liked.
As I watched the planes float closer and closer to their target, I turned ideas over in my mind, trying to figure out how exactly to make my report reach the three page requirement. Bombs dropped. Lots of dead people. Nasty smell. Mission successful. That was nowhere near three pages. I supposed I would have to focus on trying to make it a story. I could pick out a face or two in the enemy lines and watch how they reacted to their impending doom. I chose two that I saw in the first row of enemy soldiers in white camouflage that were suited more for their mountainous home than the gentle meadows we were fighting on. The only peculiar thing I noted in the pair’s plain faces is the twin smiles they wore. In all my years of conducting war, I had never seen that expression on a soldier’s face. Determination, anger, confusion, those were the faces I was used to seeing on the battlefield. Nervous smiles perhaps, but never gleeful ones like those that face me from across the trenches. It’s as if they know something I don’t. As if they know… what?
A great roar sounds from above as the bellies of the planes open up and release their explosive cargo. Only they didn’t explode on impact with the ground. They just… sat there. Ah, I thought to myself. A timed explosion. They would wait for the enemy soldiers to decide they were harmless and attempt to cross the trenches and begin the battle. Then these seemingly unarmed bombs would go off. How could the engineers have messed up building a pipe bomb? Any terrorist in his basement can make a half-decent pipe bomb. Were my University trained engineers truly this incompetent, or had we been betrayed? The latter option was seeming more likely as the minutes stretched by and the bombs still hadn’t gone off. Even when the battleground was filled with enemy troops, they still didn’t detonate. And I realized that they probably never would. On a whim, I marched myself into the fray and picked one up. I was betting against the engineers on this one. If it really was a delayed detonation, the little bomb would probably blow off my hands. But it didn’t. I took out my multi-tool, cracked the top open and sniffed. It wasn’t gunpowder at all. My nostrils instantly recognized that scent. Cane sugar. We had been betrayed. And those who betrayed us had the nerve to waste God knows how much perfectly good cane sugar. It’s very expensive. They could have just used chalk, and it actually would have resembled gunpower more and doesn’t have a scent. They just wanted to sow chaos, whoever had betrayed us.
So it looked like I would be fighting after all. Goody. I slung my rifle off my shoulder and began blowing the heads off of soldiers with all the aim I’d gained by training firearms since I was old enough to walk. It felt good and right to wipe the smirks off of the enemy soldier’s faces. They knew. Somehow the colossal failure of the simplest possible military technique had reached the front lines, had reached the ears of these ordinary soldiers. Did they not realize that they could still die today? That this would still be a battle, regardless of whether my side had the backup from the bomber planes that we thought we would have. And here I was, the highest ranking member of the Crejin military, as mortal as anyone else on the battlefield.
I hadn’t always been a five star general. Believe it or not, I actually worked my way up, despite my parentage and rank in the palace. I worked hard, and eventually became a five star general instead of a three star. It was really hard. But still, I knew what I was doing. I spent every waking moment reading and studying and shooting. I even learned how to use a sword, in case the age of barbarism reared its ugly head again. I polluted family game nights with my hunger for strategy, insisting that we play nothing but chess and Risk. I am very good at my job, and even better as a foot soldier. Which is why I’m still here to tell you this tale. I’m writing a book, and I guess if you’re reading this, I finished and published it. Welcome. You may call me Lyla. Or General Havensborough. Or Princess Lyla. Whatever suits you best, I don’t mind. This is my story. I hope it enthralls and entertains you, and I hope that you leave it behind knowing that I am indisputably the better choice for Queen than my inept sister. Please remember that when the 1724 general elections come around. Oh wait. It’s a monarchy. I guess I’ll have to wait for Lydia to kick it.
This story begins on a battlefield. The battlefield I was just telling you about, remember? The bombs are full of cane sugar, and lie useless on the ground. We were betrayed, by someone with no regard for their budget, since they made the unbelievably stupid choice to use cane sugar as their gunpowder substitute instead of chalk. I’m no economist, but whoever did that is an idiot. Almost as stupid as whoever didn’t do any final checks on their extremely simple bombs to ensure they were assembled correctly. Unless the quality control inspector had defected too… I don’t get it. What had those frozen bastards up north offered my soldiers that we didn’t supply ourselves? A noose? Because that’s what those fools were going to get, if I had anything to say on the matter. I wasn’t a barbarian, but high treason had to be punished. No sense in letting them languish in prison so they could conspire against their country a little more. They had done enough damage as it was. So the Kilvan king Damarion must have offered them protection if they defected, but what else? Money? Could it be that my most brilliant engineers who figured out how to make a pipe bomb all on their own could be bought for coin? If it was that simple, I would have been happy to offer them a raise. They needn’t commit high treason over that. So what else had they been offered? I was out of guesses, but we would find out soon enough when the traitors were interrogated and hanged.
The battle raged around me as I slipped into these thoughts. Still, I couldn’t quite figure out what could be so valuable that the traitors would risk their lives to win. When I had met King Damarion for the first time, I was struck by the gray pallor his brown skin had, how dull it was despite there being no possibility that he was malnourished. Perhaps he had some mysterious illness and was dying of it. Hopefully. Once I caught a glimpse of him drinking something that looked to be a potion, when I was spying on him. Yes, I admit it, I’ve played dirty too when it comes to war. But not this dirty. In order to pull off this move, the Iron King would have had to effectively bribe at least a dozen engineers and three quality inspectors, plus their general. My stomach lurched at that last addition. A general of the army of Kilvan Sove had defected to the enemy's side, whether openly or not. Who was it? Hopefully just a one star general, but anyone of such a rank had access to a lot of things. Dangerous things, like our tactics and formations. Secret things, like our espionage ring and clandestine weapons development. We needed something a little more clever than a pipe bomb that my elite team of engineers still couldn’t manage. They had clearly been sabotaged, but come on now. How do you manage to screw up a pipe bomb? Even me, someone with little aptitude for engineering, can do that much. But this is Crejin Sove, so somehow these “genius engineers'' had failed us. We managed to win the battle regardless. I made sure of it. And I lived to write a ten page report of the day’s events.
Chapter 2
Lydia
In the garden of my castle, there are dozens, hundreds of flower types. Silvery statues dot the premises, depicting my ancestors in their various heroic poses. I sit on the throne in the great hall, dressed in a golden gown with a matching crown on my brow. I long for my gardens, but I must focus. This meeting with King Damarion could determine if we were at war or not. So I smiled pleasantly and tried to hide the ache I could already feel from being indoors for so long. My loyal sister, the general of my army, had done the hard part for me, winning the first battle of what I hoped would not become a war, despite her bombs not going off. That was another matter entirely, the betrayal of those engineers and the pilots who flew those planes. Here, the task at hand was to come up with an amicable solution to this conflict, with the king who sat across from me, marking himself as my equal.
“In my mind,” the king said, “the solution is simple. Marry me, and this war will be over before it begins.” He waves his hand around vaguely. “You will have your treaty of course, but you will also have the benefit of a very powerful husband.” He watched me with falcon-sharp eyes, looking for any trace of expression on my face. I betray nothing on my face, only with my words. I made a point of scowling and being oppositional, mimicking the tendencies of my sister, Lyla.
“Are you sure you would not rather have my sister? She is much more… more strategically minded than I.”
“No,” Damarion says simply. “I don’t need strategy. I need a diplomat. I need you. Well, I want you at least.”
“Say I agree,” I start. “What’s in it for me?”
“Not being at war, for one. Access to our ports and trade connections. And all the benefits that come from a handsome husband. In return, I ask that you please stop trying to bomb my soldiers. It’s a very cowardly technique, really.”
“First, stop sabotaging my bombs. Cane sugar, really Damarion?” He had wasted precious stores of it, while also ruining three dozen perfectly good bombs. A tragedy. Luckily, Lyla had managed to win that first battle regardless, which had brought us here to the negotiating table.
“Of course I would stop sabotaging your military if we got married.”
“I’ll have to consult with my generals. If we can win this war without a marriage, I would much prefer that.” I say.
“You really despise my presence that much?” he says, putting his hand to his chest as if I’ve greatly insulted him. But there’s a slight smile playing on his lips. He knows I’m going to agree eventually. When the door to our right opened, as I knew it would, his face shifts to barely concealed shock. The woman who walks through the door… is me. Well, she’s my identical twin. But Damarion doesn’t know that I have one. She’s wearing a dazzling navy blue gown with silver stars bursting along the bodice. I wear something similar, only in crimson and gold. He is used to seeing a pleasant expression on our face, so my sister’s stormcloud glare must be especially jarring to him. Lyla would have to learn how to mimic the easy grins that pass often across my features, if we were to pull this ruse off. We’d done it before, for exams only one of us had studied for or practical jokes we played on our parents, but nothing like this. We were going to stop this war, investigate Damarion’s spy network, and gain some of our historical land back in one easy maneuver. All it took was Lyla and I swapping places, and doing it well. Why? Because as we had established, I was not the strategic one out of the two of us. I was here for parties and tea cakes, here to impress guests and keep the clergy and foreign ambassadors enamored by my hospitality. Not to hide in my room and play chess until I won every round.
“This must be the princess I’ve heard so much about. It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.” Damarion says, flashing his bright white teeth at her. The expression resembled an animal baring its teeth more than a human smile. Lyla’s gaze hardened.
“Indeed,” she replies. “You may also refer to me as General Havensborough, if it suits you.”
“Does the general usually wear such extravagant dresses?” he asks. Lyla pursed her lips, and I answer for her.
“My sister tends to prefer a practical style most days, but she has made an exception hoping it would please Your Majesty.” I say.
“Very well. It is a pleasure,” he repeats himself, rising to shake her hand. He saw her as an equal in a way he did not see me. That much was very clear. I could picture the two of them hunched over a deerskin map, moving around pieces and putting together battle strategies. Perhaps they would, if given enough time. If she ever was safe enough to reveal her true identity, because surely such an action would reveal our little trick. If our two countries became allies in the way we were hoping. If we worked together to defeat our mutual enemies, the pirate clans at our northern border. Maybe, just maybe, we could begin using those ports again, and regain access to the New World. Maybe we didn’t need to, and access to Damarion’s ports would be enough for now. I knew, one way or another, this ruse was going to be worth it. It took everything in me not to let one of my frequent, sly, fox-like grins show on my face. Not yet. This was our chance to get everything we ever dreamed of, and it would happen soon. I had been hoping that Damarion would outright choose Lyla over me, but he had flatly refused to do so. Trickery it was, I supposed. The only distinguishing feature between my sister and I was a mole on her left cheek, which I had tattooed onto mine. Now we were truly identical, and nobody, certainly not Damarion, could tell us apart. I hoped that I had done a convincing job today acting like Lyla that he would not be startled when her mask inevitably slips.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Good job,” Lyla says breathlessly when we are alone in a war room. “Those acting classes really paid off. I almost believed you were miserable like me.” The problem was, she had also been her usual haughty self.
“I think it would have worked a little better if you had at least tried to smile,” I say, demonstrating in case she didn’t know how.
“No thank you,” she says, making a big show of glaring at me with dark gray eyes. My eyes. Our eyes. Only mine were a shade lighter and had the beginnings on crows feet from smiling so much. They reminded me that we were 35 and not getting any younger. We needed husbands to secure our titles and expand our diplomatic reach, as I frequently reminded Lyla. I knew she despised the idea, but perhaps Damarion would be a good match for her. Much better than him and I together, at least. She sighed dramatically.
“Do I really have to marry him?” she asks.
“Yes, of course you do. Well, I do. But he’ll never know it's you.” We’d been switching places ever since I got that mole tattooed on my cheek, and even the servants and tutors who have known us our entire lives failed to tell the difference. As long as we swapped expressions, we could morph as easily as silt melted away under the waves. Lyla stands up, moving the pins around, accounting for the alliance we had just made.
“We’ll have the pirates pinned on two sides now,” she says, grinning. “And the other two sides are the ocean. We’ve got them this time.” I wasn’t so sure, and I knew that pirates would have little difficulty escaping into the ocean, but I also knew better than to contradict the strategic mind of my sister. But now it was my turn. We had invited Damarion for dinner and to see the orchestra with me, so we might get to know each other better. That would be my time with him. But then, tomorrow night, when we went to see the opera, that would be all Lyla. I would tell her everything that happened on my night with him, then she would do the same tomorrow. We would play this game, swapping places night after night, until next week, when the wedding was scheduled. I had agreed, sending a letter with a courtier to Damarion’s guest suite, and he had replied instantly.
It occurred to me that perhaps he needed this alliance just as much as we did. If the rumors were true, Kilvan Sove was nearly bankrupt, losing ship after ship to the pirates that roamed their neighboring islands. From what I’d heard, it was nearly impossible to get any shipments to the New World, which meant no sugar, no milk, and no chicken eggs. Those species were all native to the other continent, and had trouble acclimating to the climate here. I was no geopolitics expert, but that was a recipe for disaster. King Damarion could only turn his nose away at these newly discovered delicacies for so long before it began to arouse suspicion.
So that must be why he was so desperate to find a wife here. And with me gone, “Lyla” would have free reign to become Queen and start planning a vicious military campaign against the pirates that crowded our northern border. She had something already in the works, I knew, but I would have to be the one to finish it off. So far, being diplomatically minded has won me prosperity for my country, but it couldn’t last. There was no negotiating with pirates. The war, the real one, would be long and bloody and probably end in failure yet again. But without it, we would forfeit any resource that came from the New World, and that was an unacceptable possibility. If we didn’t have a trade alliance with the nations of the other continent, we didn’t have anything, and we would fall into opulent obscurity just as the country at our southern border, Jihan Lo had. Despite having every advantage, access to two seas, being far from the pirate’s lost isles, and having a mountain range at their rear, they became complacent, over and over again. The monarchy would falter, some general would take over and declare himself king, and the cycle would restart every century like clockwork. So why was I marrying their crown prince? For his good looks, of course.
I jest. While Prince Yamar is very handsome, it is his lands that I lust for. Lands unmarked by the reign of the pirate king, which had not seen a war for fifty years. This was the best time possible to make an alliance there, and put a stop to the endless cyclical wars. But I dared not invite him to the palace yet, not until the matter of Lyla’s marriage was settled. Now that we each had a pairing, I could put my brilliant sister to work on her true calling: Spying. She had been doing it since we were children, acting naive, sneaking up to the doors of the war rooms and listening with her left ear pressed to the door. She was a natural at it, and eventually the generals gave up and started allowing her in meetings. They taught her chess and other strategy games, gave her books to read, and made sure she had every opportunity to nurture her skills. When she turned thirteen, they granted her a place at their table. Now, she sits at its head. Now, she would be taking on the greatest task anyone had ever asked of her. She needed to infiltrate the Kilvan military and figure out who the spies were, all without getting caught and without revealing herself. There was no one else I trusted to be up to the task.
Chapter 3
“Lydia”
The charades opened that night with an opera. I had been practicing easy smiles and laughter, the expressions in endless conflict with my nature. If I wasn’t scowling and glaring, was I even Lyla? Of course not, not anymore. We had switched places, our highest profile ruse yet. As I sat next to Damarion in the theater, I noted that his ghostly complexion had returned to its natural bronze color. The last time I had seen him was a year ago, and he’d looked half dead. A sickly part of me had wished he would die, but then who would help us fight the pirates? His brother? That bumbling fool wouldn’t know strategy if it walked up to him, introduced itself, and slapped him in the face. No, we needed Damarion alive. Unfortunately.
He looked at me with a faraway look in his eyes. Us elves were immune to the glamor that the performers used, but a human like Damarion was utterly vulnerable to it. Interesting. That was an exploitable weakness, should we ever need one. I was passable at best at glamors, but I could conjure a simple one should the need ever arise. When it ends, he turns to me and smiles, looking drunk despite not a drop of wine touching his tongue. Really? The glamor wasn’t even that powerful. I had barely felt it, even with no defensive charms. It was meant to keep attention on the actors, nothing more.
The next night, the real Lydia, armed with the finer points of our discussion last night, took my place. They attended an orchestra, and connected well from what she shared with me. He was head over heels with us, oblivious to the tricks we played on him. Anytime he got suspicious, a simple glamor did the trick. Another opera and two state dinners later, I woke on the day that we were to be married. I found a jade dress hanging in my bathroom, the traditional wedding color in Crejin Sove. The color suited our greenish skin, and represented the nature we held so dear. I swiped some waxy balm the servants had left on my lips. It tasted like sweetened mint. Then I went about dabbing powder and rouge on my face, thickening my lashes, and finally swiping on a cherry red lipstick. Two emeralds hung from my pointed ears, and the look was complete. I was not myself anymore. I was fully and completely Lyla. And I would have to keep up that ruse for the rest of my life. Such fun.
When I’m done getting ready, a servant girl helps me pull the dress on and lace up the back. I was unnerved by how exposed my bare arms and back felt, open to the elements in a way they rarely were. Even the knee-length black dresses I normally wore for state dinners didn’t make me feel so vulnerable. I was still in control then. I still had accolades pinned to my sash at state dinners, reminding everyone around me that I answered to no one. Except perhaps Lydia. But most often she trusted me to handle matters of state on my own, weighing in only on rare occasions. She technically outranked me, but I appreciated the freedom I experienced under her reign.
I pull on high heels that I spent the last month learning to walk in, and then I’m ready. I had breakfast brought to me, the simple fare provided by the nearby base. Just how I liked it. I couldn’t stand the rich, creamy food the real Lydia preferred, but I choked it down in public. Like I would have to tonight, at dinner. In the space of a few short hours, I would be married, and I would never get my real name back. But if that was the price I had to pay for my country's security, I was grateful that we could avoid bloodshed. At least until our war against the pirates was won. It should be simple enough with the help of Damarion’s kingdom, but still I worry. Pirates are not generally known for upholding treaties, so that left us exactly one option. We would have to destroy their kind completely. Men, women, and children. I didn’t savor the idea, but if that was what it took to achieve peace, so be it. I would bear the blame for the bloodshed myself, and their faces would join my nightmares like everyone else.
But all that would have to wait. First, it was time for my wedding. Smile, Lyla, I could hear my sister telling me as if she were really there. I forced a closed-lip smile, hoping I looked shy but excited, rather than slightly pained. I practice in the mirror until I hear the noon bells ring out, then I eat the lunch the servants brought me. A turkey sandwich and potato chips, my favorite. My afternoon was spent reading the list of etiquette rules married women were expected to follow, which included all sorts of ridiculous things, like curtsying in a specific way. I’d been informed that Kilvan Sove was much more lax on such things. Women were expected to act just in the way that men did, even permitted to wear pants. Only female soldiers and farmers in Crejin Sove did so, but apparently that was the standard dress for bureaucrats over there as well.
When I felt confident in my abilities to play the lady, I stepped out onto my porch for some fresh air. It was Lydia’s routine to take a stroll around the gardens around this time, so I did that. The spring air was pleasant against my skin, and the garden was bursting with flowers. Pale blue forget-me-nots, daffodils, even rose bushes sparkled in the midday sun. They released a saccharine scent in the air, a heavy perfume that brought tears to my eyes. I would need to retouch the mascara on my lashes later. I picked a few white roses and strands of baby breath, weaving a flower crown from them as I walked. The real crown I would be wearing was a slim thing, gold filigree encrusted with opals and emeralds. It was beautiful, but the flower crown I’d created was charming in its own way.
Eventually, the six o’clock bells rang as the sky began to darken. It was time. I walked over to the palace and went back to my chambers to touch up my makeup and hair before arriving at the dining hall. The private dining room we were eating in tonight was a beautiful place, with windows and skylights dotted around it. The wooden wall panels were carved with flowers and creatures from our mythology. Elves, high fae, tricksters, goblins. And in the center, a regal king with pointed ears. Each carving was inlaid with mother of pearl, giving the impression that the figures were glowing. The dining table itself was covered in sculpted vines, shining in the candlelight. I was the last to arrive, and my guests stood and bowed or curtsied.
“Rise, rise,” I told them jovially. “Today is a day for celebrating.” They were all smiles and laughters, and I did my best to stretch my lips the way they did, but the movement still felt foreign to me. With a start, I realized that Damarion was either already drunk, or under a glamor. Had he tried to back out of the wedding? One look at the wine glass in his hand told me everything I needed to know.
“How are you already in your cups?” I hiss indignantly.
“That is not for you to question, wife. Now laugh as if I’ve just said something hilarious.” I force a dry chuckle, and he glares at me. “That’s the best you can do?” I smile and laugh a little louder, remembering who I was supposed to be.
“You’re too funny, Your Majesty,” I say, breathless from how hard I’m pretending to laugh. He nods, satisfied.
“Good,” is all he says. “There’s my Lydia.” Now I’m really laughing. He really is a fool, at least when it comes to women. His political acumen was just fine, honed by years of being a pupil to the best tutors in the world. Just like me. Maybe we would make a good pair. If I ever felt safe enough to reveal my own prowess, which would likely never happen. Lydia and I would have to switch back at some point before the war. We planned to send each other frequent letters in Jihani to prevent them from being intercepted. After asking Damarion a hundred times in a hundred different ways, and raiding his guest chambers here, we were nearly certain that he didn’t speak it. There was no reason to, so far north. He only knew Crejin, Kilvani, and the rough dialect of the pirates. He was passable at Ancient Runes. For my part, Lydia and I both knew three languages and were fluent in Ancient Runes. I was working on a fourth, but it was slow, grueling work.
When the overly rich dinner was finished, the ceremony began. I walked, slow and dramatic, to the altar, decked out in my stunning green gown and gemstones. Damarion wore his own traditional wedding color, stark white. The color brought out the unnatural white of his teeth. I reach the altar, recite the words the priest supplied me, and watch as Damarion does the same, speaking clearly despite the alcohol he’d consumed. Perhaps he gave drunken speeches very often, because I would not have known had I not seen it for myself. The priest gives a long speech of his own, speaking of love and the beauty of matrimony. He laments the fact that he may never experience it for himself.
“The groom may now kiss the bride,” he finally finishes. Damarion pulls my face towards his with a gloved hand and presses our lips together. They feel unnaturally hot even with the cooling balm on my lips. They taste metallic, like blood. Except I couldn’t see any blood. Slowly, finally, the pieces fit together in my mind. Iron. The only thing that could burn an elf like that. What did he do, drink the stuff? It was plausible. I’d heard rumors. That day a year ago, when he’d looked sick. Anemic. Perhaps his supply had been coming up dry. Who was to say. All I knew was that I would never be able to touch my new husband, never hold his bare hand. The realization filled me with sorrow, an emotion that didn’t come to me often.
When I’m back in my chambers after the wedding, I begin to remove the rouge and lipstick from my face. I hear the door handle turn, and Damarion stumbles in, angry and still a little drunk. He reaches me in three quick strides.
“Hello, Lyla,” he murmurs.
“I’m Lydia,” I reply. The lie comes easily after repeating it so often, but there’s still a stabbing pain in my chest. The high fae cannot lie at all, but elves can, for a price.
His lips brush against my ear, raising blisters on the exposed skin. I can smell the liquor on his breath.
“I don’t think so,” he breathes. “Your mole.” He cradles my cheek in his gloved hand and rubs the mole with his thumb. “It’s flat. Like a tattoo.” I reach for a lie, but come up empty. A variation on the truth would have to do.
“It is a tattoo. A beauty mark. Fashion,” I reply smoothly. “But Lyla’s is too. I can prove it.” I move towards my desk and shuffle around, pulling out a photo of us when we were younger. Her mole had been carefully blotted out of the image. “See,” I say. Another stab of pain. I bite my cheek to keep from crying out.
Damarion steps back, drawing himself up to his full height. He can’t seem to pick an eye to focus on. If he means to frighten me, it’s working.
“All right,” he says finally. “But if I find out you’re lying to me, there will be consequences. No one is above the law, certainly not you. This isn’t an exam you don’t want to take or a speech you don’t want to give. This is life or death. Do I make myself clear?”
“Very clear, Your Majesty,” I reply, because what else could I say? I dip into a deep curtsy. “Is there anything else you require of me tonight?” I ask. Sex was obviously out of the question, as even a simple kiss had burned my lips.
He shakes his head, looking disgruntled.
“Go get that ear checked out. Then get out of my sight.” I take the hint and walk downstairs to the doctor, thinking of a lie as I go.
“A servant gave me an earring that contained iron by mistake,” I tell the man. He looks startled, as though I’ve just described an assassination attempt, but says nothing. It isn’t his place. He applies that same minty salve on it, then sends me on my way. I let out the breath I was holding, coming out ragged and thin. Only now do I realize how close I had been to getting caught. Just two lies and a photo away. But I am a married woman now. Things are falling into place, bit by bit.
Chapter 4
Cameron
The Captain of the Blue Maiden is in his early thirties, tall, covered in scars, and very cross with me. I can’t imagine why. All I did was attack his fleet and kill 27 of his men. I’d lost five of my own, and the other 40 were executed, their heads unceremoniously removed from their bodies and dumped in the sea. Even the thought of it turned my stomach. I had only escaped that fate by being rich and ransomable. I hope they never find out just how low our coffers were running. My brother Damarion insisted on spending all our money on social programs, leaving our navy and army ten years behind where they should be. Hence why we had suffered this very embarrassing loss. But perhaps there was a silver lining. There always was. Right now, it was easy to see what it was. I was on the most notorious pirate ship in all the Lost Isles, perfectly positioned to do some snooping.
“A prince, eh?” the captain says, sounding excited.
“Yes, sir. My brother would be more than happy to pay whatever ransom you require,” I say smoothly. “However, I do believe I outrank you, and treating your superior this way is quite poor form-” A sharp slap sends me sprawling on the deck before I can finish what was sure to be my best speech yet, equal parts lengthy and eloquent. These outlaws truly had no manners. This was no way to treat a very wealthy and important prince. But laughing now would probably not end well, so I save it for when I’m alone that night. After three days on the Blue Maiden, my enemies have been lulled into a false sense of security. The bumbling fool I played so well was clearly no threat to them. Or was I? Convincing everyone that I was a poor student and a worse strategist was my proudest accomplishment. Even my parents were convinced that I was an idiot, and there was even speculation that I was a bastard. None of it was true, of course. I read books and wrote essays until every candle in Kilvan Sove burnt out. I speak seven languages, have memorized 62 sonnets, and I play the flute. My pride means nothing compared to the unadulterated joy of being a secret genius. Thus far, I had only made a name for myself as an alcoholic and a womanizer. Both were a little more accurate than I would have liked, but they were part of the character I played, the charming bastard of Kilvan Sove.
The fun was just starting, though. From a hidden pocket in my jacket, I pulled out what looked like a pen. It even wrote. But when I screwed the top half off, a thin blade glinted in the lantern light. I used it to slice through the rope that bound my wrists together, then got to work on picking the brass lock. It was surprisingly simple compared to the ones I practiced on. This was going to be easy.
With phase one of my very carefully thought out plan complete, I glance down the hallways before walking towards the captain’s office in quick, quiet strides. The lush carpet under my feet muffled the sound of my approaching footsteps, and I silently thanked the ridiculous taste of the legendary Captain Williams. He was an idiot, or maybe he was pretending like me. Either way, I could tell within seconds of meeting him that the true power of the Lost Isles did not reside in his greasy hands. That alone was valuable intel for our cause, but I intended to find much more tonight. Then, all I had to do was wait for Damarion to pay Williams and get the hell out of here. Simple enough.
The office door is locked, just as I expected it would be. I slip out the slim metal lockpicks I had brought and get to work. This lock is considerably more complicated, but I had come prepared. Within minutes, I was turning the handle and stepping into a neat, organized office. The room carried the pleasant scent of incense and parchment, a lantern still lit in the corner. The captain’s log sat open on the desk, with the latest entry drying slowly. My eyes skimmed over the text quickly, and I listened for footprints as I memorized the words. Most of it was him gloating about how rich he was about to be, and I flipped the page, disappointed. A lot of it was written in neat Ancient Runes, better calligraphy than I myself could manage. Luckily it was one of the many languages I knew, and I read it easily. Most of it was ledgers for the ship’s finances. Food, black tar, all the things required to keep a ship running.
The real gold was the sections in Jihani. There were letters addressed to someone named the Falcon. A moniker, I assumed. Perhaps the Falcon was the person causing all this ruckus. I skimmed the pages, probing for any information I could find on who this man was, but I came up frustratingly empty.
Then I came to a page much different than the others, written in sweaty, rushed penmanship. At the bottom of the page, I found a set of coordinates. I committed them to memory instantly, and wrote them in the little notebook I carried for good measure. This was worth being captured. Even as my stomach roared in protest from hunger, I grinned from ear to ear. We have a location now, hopefully the right one. The rest of the letter made it very clear that this was the place where the Falcon lived. A little nameless island off the northern coast.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When I finally make it to shore and into the arms of my wailing mother, I immediately request an audience with my brother, to share what I had gleaned. His eyes grow wide with shock, and I know I have won his admiration this time.
“And how did you happen upon this information?” Damarion demands.
“By looking through the captain’s log. He might as well have told me himself,” I say with my typical smirk. “It was easy.”
“If you say so. So, what do you plan to do with this information?”
“I was hoping you or that lovely bride of yours had some ideas. I am but an informant,” I say, dipping into a mock bow. “I leave military strategy to greater minds than mine.”
“So literally anyone else?” he asks.
“I believe I could outsmart a chimpanzee if the need arose, Your Majesty.”
“Enough jokes. I’m assigning you to lead a force to invade the Lost Isles. I’ll come up with the battle plans, just follow my instructions. And no funny business this time. If you lose another 45 men, I’m stripping you of your title.”
“Respectfully, that was not my fault. If we had more funding-”
“I’m not cutting healthcare, or the retirement accounts,” Damarion hisses. “Don’t ask me again. Besides, we have plenty of money now from our new alliance. You’ll get your ships. Now get down to the war room and talk to your generals.” God, it was fun pretending to be stupid. I never have to do any work, it all falls right into my lap.
But my generals know better. In this war room, my easy smiles vanish, replaced by grim determination. My voice even changes, becoming flat and monotone. I’m all business here. And I never drink with a battle coming up, as fun as it might be. Now is when the real work begins.
After three hours of back and forth, my generals and I have the beginnings of a fantastic plan. It was three-pronged, starting with gathering intel. Once we had a better idea of what we were up against, we could work out the finer details.
“You could always pretend to be captured again,” General Mehmet suggests glibly.
“I think it starts to get suspicious if I do it too often,” I reply. “But very well. I am willing to sacrifice for the good of my country, just as any of you would.”
“But we wouldn’t be worth much of a ransom, so the pirates would just kill us,” General Eliza replies.
“Which is why it has to be me again. Lovely.” I did not relish the idea of starving on a pirate ship again, but sacrifices must be made sometimes for the greater good. And I was usually the one to do it. I gave my sweat, tears, and far too many drops of my royal blood to my country.
And so the cycle repeats itself. Another weak invasion, executed crewman (though I’m careful to only hire 44), and a pissed off captain. Such fun. Another captain’s office, this one much messier, another few secrets to glean, another rush of adrenaline as I found far more than I had the first time. I discover an entire network of spies, and my eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets as I scan through a list of their names. Three of my top generals grace the list. Shit! No wonder our campaigns had gone poorly for so long. That was our trick, how we had beat the Crejin century after century. It was a dirty play, but a useful one. There is little honor to be concerned with when it comes to warfare, I often found.
As I’m silently cursing out General Mehmet and the two others on my list, I hear a gun cocking, feel the barrel pressed against the hair I’d just styled. These pirates truly had no manners.
“Well, well, well,” a voice drawls out behind me. “What do we have here? A spy in our midst?”
“I could say the same about you,” I retort, and instantly regret it when the side of the pistol slams into my cheek. That was going to leave an ugly mark. But I wore bruises like medals, proof that I was not a pampered prince. At least not as much as people thought. My main concern had been my hair just now. I really needed to sort my priorities out. But first I needed to figure out how to get out of this unfortunate situation alive. I had charm and a ridiculously small knife, but neither seemed useful right now.
A hand lashed out and grabbed my arm, half-dragging me to another room. This one I hadn’t seen before, but the blood crusted on the floor suggested it was an interrogation room. Uh oh. This would be a great time to have a bigger knife. With my free arm, I ran my hand along another hidden pocket and felt the cyanide pill I always carried with me, reassuring under my fingers. Would I have time to take it? Would I, even if I had the chance.
Of course not. The sallow look of dead bodies would ruin my complexion, but at least I wouldn’t be around to see it. No. I needed another way off this ship, hopefully one that didn’t involve any bleeding or cyanide.
The captain set his gun down on the table, with a thud.
“I’m going to make this very simple,” he said. “Tell me who sent you here, or I’ll shoot your hand.” I thought with horror about how hideous I would look and how impossible it would be to get the blood out of my perfect curls. I took a shaky breath in.
“I’d rather not,” I say, praying that I knew what I was doing. I estimated that I had about ten seconds before the captain made good on his threat. I flicked the little knife I carried out of my sleeve and into my hand, leaping across the table. Before the captain could even flinch, blood spurted from the neat incision I’d made at his jugular. Blood ran red and sticky, getting all over the floor. I avoided the worst of the spatter, but some had gotten on my shirt, hopelessly staining the white linen. Oh well, at least I killed the guy and he hadn’t screamed. I carefully snuck onto the deck of the ship, and spotted an island in the dark. Thank God. I slipped into a rowboat and made my way to shore.
I lived off of the fruit and fresh springwater for a few days, plotting my grand return. Among my resources was a tiny rowboat, an even smaller knife, and exactly nothing else. My only option seemed to be stealing a bigger ship. By myself. In the middle of enemy territory. This day kept getting better and better.
Chapter 5
“Lyla”
I rub the stiff fabric of the army fatigues Lyla usually wore, frowning. It was strange to be wearing pants at all, much less a uniform like this. Despite being fully covered, I felt naked, exposed. I’m living at the base now. The food is terrible here, I don’t know how Lyla stands it. She sticks to a rigid routine, including a workout that leaves me sweating buckets. I grow used to passing soldiers saluting to me, and even begin to enjoy it a little. The gesture of respect feels more genuine somehow than the bows and curtsies I usually receive. Like they admire me, and aren’t just putting on a show. For all I know about the art of hostessing, I am utterly hopeless at being a general. I listen more than I speak in the war room, praying that no one can pick up on just how inept I am. I want my dresses back.
I can’t believe this is the rest of my life.
Lyla, the real one, must be just as uncomfortable in her own predicament. She’d begged me to come up with a different plan, but there was none. Get the alliance. Destroy the pirates together. Open up the northern trade routes. There was no other way to get the results I was looking for. As my father was fond of saying before his passing, it was our duty and distinct pleasure as leaders to sacrifice for our people, as much as was necessary. As much as we could give. It was an incredible burden, but what else could we do?
I realize that I haven’t heard a word of what General Stevens has said.
“Cut the bullshit,” I say, in a feeble imitation of Lyla’s foul mouth. “Summarize your presentation in five minutes or less.” And so he did. After corresponding with Prince Cameron, we had all sorts of intel to work with. Even my untrained eye could see that we had our work cut out for us. These pirates were wily, and we would be fighting them on two fronts: The ocean and the jungle. My father had spent his entire career trying to rid us of them, but we had something he didn’t. The help of Kilvan Sove. That was worth more than either of us had realized, and might be the key to our shared success. If only he’d been alive to see it. Unfortunately, we had lost contact with Cameron four days ago.
So the strategizing began without him. I chimed in occasionally, mostly to ask questions Lyla should have known the answers too. None of my generals dare question me, though. They patiently explained their tactics to me, until I’m up to speed. Then they start coming up with new ideas, weaving them together like a tapestry unfolding before my very eyes. My eyes floated across the faces before me, wondering which one was the traitor Lyla spoke of.
When this dreadful meeting is finally over, I retire to my rooms and crack open a dusty tome. I wipe the fine powder off, revealing a faded gold title: War For Absolute Beginners. That was me! I really should have paid more attention when my tutors tried to impress this information on me. But what use was all that when I could be learning the language of diplomacy, learning to ride the fine line between bribery and threats. I have been most successful in that arena, presiding over the longest era of peace Crejin Sove had ever seen. Until now.
Now I was planning a war, plotting to destroy an enemy as old as the earth itself. I never imagined we would have to ally ourselves with humans, much less the Iron King himself, but here we are. The enemy of my enemy and all. I wonder, what was going to happen when the pirates were destroyed, when every war had been fought and won to the bloody end. Then could we live in peace? Could we develop civilian technology instead of weapons, write literature instead of execution orders? It was a dream worth fighting for, day after blood-stained day.
The book turned out to be just boring as it seemed, but I finally finished it right as my candle burnt out. I looked up, satisfied, and went to bed. The next day was more of the same, and the one after that. Finally, it came time for the Jihani prince to visit. At last, the chance to dress up and slide back into my old habits. I couldn’t risk wearing my usual ridiculously poofy dresses, so I settled for one of Lyla’s plain crimson dresses that only fell to my knees. I added a sash full of my sister’s accolades, most of which were purely ceremonial, a pair of black heels, simple jewelry, and a tiara. Just in case Prince Yamar forgot that I, too, was born of noble blood.
He came the next night, bearing chests of jewels to bestow on me. I delighted in them silently, knowing that to wear them would reveal my identity to all. My own people would probably laugh at our little trick, just as they did when Lyla took tests for me, but I would be putting her in mortal danger. She was close enough to a noose as it was, and I didn’t dare endanger her further. So I bit back girlish squeals of joy and nodded staidly.
“My thanks for these gifts, Yamar,” I say stiffly. He nods, matching my unenthusiastic attitude.
“You are most welcome, my betrothed.” I felt color rise unbidden to my face as he spoke. Why not admit it, he was attractive. Bronze skin, black hair slicked back, perfectly straight teeth. “I will shower you with jewels upon our marriage.” Good. When this ruse was over and I could go back to normal, I would have a loving husband and more jewels than I could fit in my room. And peace, more valuable than any sapphire or emerald, and just as beautiful. I would sell every jewel and dress in my closet for even just a shadow of it. If I could guarantee the safety and prosperity of my people, I would even give my own life. It would be an easy choice. The easiest one I’ve ever made. If only it were that simple. No, this peace would be won through months of painstaking, bloody war. Hopefully there would be something left when all the smoke cleared. I pray that I survive this ordeal to go back to my old life, with my betrothed and a newfound tranquility.
I realize that I’ve just been staring at Yamar. Blushing furiously, I say the most ridiculous thing possible.
“I would like that. A lot,” I say. Thankfully, the eight o’clock bells rang out and it was time for dinner. Yet another fancy dinner in the dining room. Such fun. I would never turn down a good meal with good company. This was shaping up to be one of the best evenings I’d had in a while, and not a dusty book in sight. Not that I had anything against books, but my taste did not usually include military tactics. That was entirely Lyla’s domain, and she did it well. As the dinner dragged on, I made polite conversation with my future husband, pleased that he was just as intelligent and cultured as my intel had said he would be. And God, was he handsome. Tall, muscular, with the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. The first time I elicited a laugh out of him, it sounded like music to my ears. Like poetry melted into liquid sound. I haven’t felt this much joy in months, years.
He almost made the next day, filled with even more meetings and books to read, bearable. Even just the thought of him had the power to warm my cheeks, and I flushed every time he so much as looked at me. I had always been a hopeless romantic, and here was a fairytale come to life before me. The queen, the handsome prince, betrayal, trickery, a war with pirates. It all seemed too good to be true. Except for the betrayal and pirates, both were rather unfortunate side effects of a good story. But I hope my tale enthralls you, reader. I hope it sucks you in like a vicious tornado and spits you out forever changed by the words on these pages. That is the hope of every author, after all.
And so the masquerade of twins began, with sleight of hand and a wardrobe change. It was that easy to convince everyone that I really was Lyla, as long as I kept a scowl on my face and haughty authority in my voice. The hard part would be pretending that I had even a drop of my sister’s acumen when it came to being a general. I could wear the uniform and read the books, but I would never be half the general she was. Good thing my subordinates were sworn to secrecy, bound by honor and vows to serve and protect me. And if they did falter, I could always have them executed. Such was at the discretion of their leader and princess, the one and only Lyla Havensborough. At least one general had already betrayed me, or Lyla, and I was determined to find out who.
The true purpose of all these meetings was to watch my generals carefully, watch their faces, their reactions. That was my gift, reading people. After days of this, I still had nothing. Whoever it was knew better than to let surprise cross their features in my presence. That left intercepting their mail and figuring out if anyone was sending letters to Damarion, or worse, the pirates. Messing with the post was highly illegal, but nobody told the queen what she could or could not do. Sometimes I felt so powerful it was almost like being drunk. That was when I knew to pull myself back from the darkest, knowing that the dullest spark burns the longest. It was best to spread my power thin, to use it sparingly, yet often enough to remind people that I had it. That I could do whatever I wanted, including invading their privacy. I found letters to family, and a few confessions of love, but nothing worth my time. Perhaps the letters had stopped, since there was now open communication between our armies. Still, though, the traitor had to be made into an example.
The fact that someone could infiltrate our ranks so seamlessly was disturbing enough, but that they had not been caught yet was even worse. Who could it be? Sly Yolanda? Charming Stevens? Someone else?
Then a thought occurred to me. Besides the five generals in our war room, there was someone else. A small man by the name of Theodore, who kept meeting minutes and recorded our conversations in careful penmanship. Perhaps he was the traitor. That would be quite embarrassing, to find that the mole had been a common secretary rather than a great general. I almost hoped it was him, but I knew it wasn’t. He had no reason to, nothing to gain from the betrayal. So who did? Who was growing rich off of the bits of information he or she sold to our enemies? I was almost certain that we had been betrayed for money, what else could seduce a general to give away his secrets?
Yolanda drones on about supply lines, which should be quite manageable since we were working through Kilvan Sove this time. The only thing we had to be careful about was making sure they weren’t destroyed by the pirates, or sabotaged like the bombs had been.
“Question,” I say. “Wouldn’t it be better to have our soldiers live off the land, rather than having our supply lines become a target?”
“We thought of that,” she replies bluntly. “Have you not been listening to a word I’ve said?” As much as I appreciated her honesty, that was too far.
“You will not speak to me that way,” I say quietly, letting my voice drop dangerously low. She flinches, I note with some satisfaction.
“I apologize.” She goes on to explain all the reasons a supply line is the superior choice, and the meeting comes to a close. I read another book, let my drooping eyes close, and repeat this miserable day over and over for the next two weeks. That’s when a mysterious letter arrives, wrapped in a blood-red ribbon. With a start, I realized it was soaked in blood.
To whoever has the most money,
I have your Prince Cameron in my custody. It’ll cost 30,000 coins and a full surrender before you get him back. If we can agree to get along, I might consider opening up the northern trading routes. For a price. As long as you promise not to wage war against our fair nation, I see no reason we shouldn’t be the best of friends.
Warm regards,
The Falcon
Even dried, the iron in the blood sends blisters blooming across my finger tips. I shriek and drop the letter. My hands are shaking. 30,000 gold ones. That was a hefty price. I cared not for the fate of Prince Cameron, but I didn’t trust him not to spill all of our secrets. So we had no choice but to rescue him. I say rescue, because I had no intention of paying a ransom. It was time for the real Lyla’s skills to shine. This will make a great story someday, I’m sure. For now it’s just terrifying.
Chapter 6
Damarion
My little brother had been captured by pirates for the third time this month. Unbelievable. This was starting to get expensive. I was going to have to cut my precious healthcare program if his nonsense continued. Lydia and I suited up, and I was floored by just how lovely she looked in black camouflage and combat boots. Of course she’d looked good in dresses, but now she looked confident. Like herself. Maybe there was another side to this woman, my beautiful, mysterious wife. Smiles usually came easily to her, but now she’s gritting her teeth against the icy wind, glancing occasionally at the tracker we’d had implanted in my brother's skin. He’d protested, of course, but I was getting really sick of losing track of him. The little bit of metal was in his leg, where it would hopefully be hidden by his pant leg.
“Six clicks east,” Lydia informed me. She readied the grappling hooks we were going to use to scale the side of the massive ship that loomed on the horizon. It was the dead of night, and the crew slept, except for a single man at the helm. Deftly, I cocked my gun and sent a bullet right into his skull. He crumpled to the ground, and I gave Lydia the signal. We climbed and heaved ourselves over the side, coming face to face with Cameron. He had somehow escaped the brig and was holding a little penknife, waving it in our faces as if I wasn’t holding a gun.
“Cameron,” I groan. “Can I rescue you? Just once?”
“Brother!” he says cheerfully. “And this must be your wife.” He winks, his usual ridiculous self. But I don’t miss how hollow his cheeks looked from his days in captivity, starved and kept away from the sun.
“That’s right,” I practically snarled. “My wife.” It was silly to be angry at that of all things, but the words are out before I can stop myself.
“Of course,” he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I hope I didn’t offend the lovely Lydia.” I could have slapped him, but it looked like someone had already done that for me. An ugly green mark graced his otherwise perfect face. There was a festering wound on his arm. That was probably where the blood on the ribbon had come from. Gross. These pirates needed a lesson or two in etiquette if they wanted to be a proper country. Which they would not be, now that their leverage was smirking on the deck not ten paces from me.
“Well?” he says. “Let’s go. That guard won’t stay knocked out forever.”
“How the hell-”
“Easy. Baseball bat. Pirates aren’t very good at their jobs, all you have to do is outsmart them. Or just hit them. That’s less clever, though.”
“If only you would apply yourself a little more,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.
“I figured out who the Falcon was,” he says, grinning. “She interrogated me herself. Badly. I made up some random bullshit, and she believed me. I love pirates. Can’t wait to execute that bitch and her friends. Should be fun. Now can we leave?”
“Yes. Climb down the rope, get in the boat.” I didn’t need to tell him twice. Lydia had been so quiet all this time, I almost forgot she was there. Somehow she’s even made her footsteps silent as she slides down the rope with all the grace of a dancer. Cameron loudly regales us with all the details he gleaned from his time in captivity, including the Falcon’s real name and a list of spies in our midst.
“Three generals!” Lydia shouts uncharacteristically. Cameron nods grimly.
“And one of yours too. Some guy named Stevens.”
“Damn it!” she hissed. “I’ll slit his throat myself!” I’ve never seen my wife quite this angry. It was terrifying to behold, and I hoped I would never be the object of her vitriol.
We make it back to the mainland silently, the only sounds are the whip of wind in our sail and the crash of the waves against the beach. In the early dawn, three people make their solemn walk to the gallows, now three bodies hanging from nooses. I order the bodies to be drawn up on the wall of the nearby army base, as an example for anyone else stupid enough to follow in their footsteps. The new generals are younger, but every bit as sharp and hungry for glory. I have them vetted extensively, and find no trace of pirate on them.
The next day, Cameron enters the throne room unceremoniously, white gauze wrapped around the wound on his arm.
“Brother!” he says, bowing dramatically. “I have more intel!” He spends the next five minutes telling me exactly what the Falcon looks like, right down to the shape of her red eyebrows.
“Very impressive,” I admit, but he’s not done. Cameron launches into a detailed explanation of how the base he was first held in was laid out. He was blindfolded, but still managed to keep track of every twist and turn, and could tell whether they were near windows by the smell of sea salt. He managed to produce a decent map, although he didn’t know what orientation it should be. It was better than I could have imagined. Maybe he wasn’t as stupid as we thought, but he needed to stop flirting with my wife before I killed him.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The worst part about waging war was the price tag. Thankfully, with the funding we received from Crejin Sove, I could keep my social programs chugging along. I could have my cake and eat it too. For now, my priority was making sure that there weren’t any more traitors in my military. A quick search turned up thirteen more, all lower level officers. To the noose they went. Idiots. If you’re going to inform on your king, at least do a better job hiding it. The other 6 I wouldn’t have found, except for the list that Cameron had provided. 22 traitors in all, hanging from the wall. The bodies were beginning to rot, so I had them cut down and buried in unmarked graves. No one would remember them, but I think I had made my point well enough by now. Betray me, get executed. Simple enough.
The pieces of our plan fell into place one by one. Unfortunately, it hinges on the information provided by one Prince Cameron, who I normally wouldn’t trust to make dinner. He was clever in a wily, fox-like sort of way, but utterly hopeless when it came to warfare. However, he had one thing I didn’t. An understanding of how pirates think, probably because their patterns matched his own so well. In another life, he would have made an excellent thief.
Every time I think Cameron is done telling me about the pirates, he comes up with more. It’s almost like he got captured on purpose to get information. Was that what he’d done? Crazy son of a bitch. It seemed like something he would do. Either way, he was a wealth of information, most importantly the true leader of the pirates.
Suddenly I hear footsteps and shouts. Someone informs me that the pirates are attacking, only a few miles from the palace and capital city.
“Assemble my generals,” I yell. “Meeting in five minutes.” I had something to do first
I run to Cameron’s chambers, knock on the door. He answers, his eyes bloodshot like he had been drinking. Is he serious? There could not be a worse time for my brother to be drunk. But he’s lucid enough to be speaking clearly. He could probably still give a rousing speech blackout drunk.
“Hello, Damarion,” he hiccups. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Are you drunk?” I ask.
“I’ve been drinking, I’m not drunk.” Sure.
“I came here to have a very serious discussion about your behavior, and you’ve been drinking.”
“Battle’s not for two weeks, Your Majesty.”
“The battle is happening right now, actually. The pirates launched some kind of surprise attack.”
“What a shame. Not sure how that concerns me. Maybe if we actually invested in a modern navy-”
“For the last time,” I hiss, having explained this to him many times. “An army that is sick and elderly might as well be no army at all. You have to build a society from the ground up.”
“Why worry about healthcare when we can barely feed the people these days,” he retorts. That hit a little too close to the mark. We had always relied on trade, as the mountainous soil made for poor farming. But these pirates blocked off all the sea routes.
“Why do you think I married the Crejin queen? We trade with them now. I have not been idle,” I reply. Cameron’s voice becomes soft all the sudden.
“It’s not enough. It never will be. The only choice is to break up the pirate blockade.”
“I guess you’re getting your wish,” I snap at him. “Now get changed, drink some coffee, and report down to the war room as soon as you’re sober enough.” There were some chimpanzees to outsmart, if his reports on the intelligence of the average pirate were to be believed. He disappears into his room. I peer inside, and see a sheet of parchment with a lengthy letter drying on it. The remnants of more parchment are in the empty fireplace. Curious. A drunken love letter, perhaps? One he was desperately revising, making it his best work yet. As if women didn’t fall into his lap already. Was he in love?
I shake myself from these thoughts. As fun as it is to fantasize about who could possibly have won Cameron’s heart, there are more important matters at hand. Cameron comes back, scowling as he notices me looking at his desk.
“I believe you have a war to get to, brother,” he says.
“You do too, idiot. Get down to the meeting rooms. First door on the left, in case you get lost. Go outsmart a chimpanzee. That is your specialty, after all.” These pirates are stupid enough for him to deal with alone, I think. That isn’t saying much, though. Before this pirate queen had united them, they were nothing but a thorn in our side, one that had long since shed its rose and with it anything that made them useful. Not even the most desperate of bumble bees would dare to go near it. My heart is beating to the rhythm of the bombs I can hear even within the confines of the palace. The pirates were far too close for comfort. They have managed to strike at the heart of my kingdom. Somehow.