COMMAND THE TIDES - Wren Handman Page 0,1

thin man asked. His voice was still and direct, no hint of turmoil in his stance or what little could be seen of his face. His companion, by contrast, was agitated, his muscles twitching and jumping. He adjusted and readjusted his slick grip on Darren, who had lost consciousness when they hauled him up.

“We haven’t a safe house yet,” the baritone man hissed, mindful that others could still be concealed by the shadows.

“Aye. So where?” the thin man repeated.

“To his lady friend,” the baritone said, resigned. “And let us pray he has chosen his lover well.”

In Sephria, it was said that on a night when the sky seemed determined to meet the sea, Yariel was being mourned. Tonight his mother deeply grieved, and it was easy to see how the raindrops against a glass pane could be a mother’s tears for her dying son.

Tonight, the king felt like an old man. He leaned his forehead against the glass, feeling the cold weather on his skin. He could almost see shapes in the dark, and he wondered who was out at their business in this weather. The guardsmen, the porters, the maids making a dash from the scullery to the garden shed? One of the benefits of kingship, he mused, was never being required to travel in inclement weather. Weighed against the pain of a troubled conscience, he supposed the wet would be a greater hardship on his old bones.

The door behind him opened, and Clara burst through, wailing, a torn dress fluttering around her like a ship’s sail. “Papa!” she sobbed, and launched herself into the arms she knew would catch her.

He swung her around and scooped her up, though at ten she was getting too old to hold in his arms for long. He compromised by settling down on the settee by the window, cradling her in his lap. “What in Yariel’s name have you done to your dress?” he demanded sternly, even as he soothingly patted her back.

“It was Celia!” his youngest daughter wailed.

“We do not blame our sisters,” King Peter Octarion reminded the little princess. “If you have problems with your sisters, you work them out between yourselves. Family should always present a united front.”

She sniffed, turning soulful brown eyes on her father in a blatant attempt to turn him to her side. “I know,” she allowed, “but she locked me on the roof.”

“And what were you doing on the roof? In a storm?” he demanded.

She bit her lip. “Um…well…”

“And what would your mother say, if we told her about this little incident, hm?” he asked, gentle again.

Clara turned this over in her mind again. Of all his daughters, Peter thought, she was the quickest. “Perhaps we needn’t tell her,” Clara suggested. “I could fix up my dress just like new, and Celia could apologize for locking me out.”

“Ah, and how will you make her apologize?” he asked, setting her back on her feet. “Diplomacy is all about leverage.”

“I could say you said she must,” she suggested.

“Only resort to lying as a last move,” Peter cautioned. “It isn’t a ploy you can use twice. It ruins your credibility.”

“Hm.” Clara tapped her foot against the ground, and Peter saw it was bare.

“Clara?” he asked.

“Yes, Papa?”

He pointed to her bare foot and crossed his arms. She blushed and tried to hide her toes under the ripped hem of her dress.

“Go find your slippers, go find your nurse, and go think about how to convince your sister to apologize, and come ask if you need help,” he told her, and pushed her playfully away with his boot.

“I will, Father. Thank you!” she called over her shoulder, already running for the door. He considered telling her to slow down and be decorous, but he decided that was the nurse’s job, not his. He enjoyed spoiling the girls, though Eneika said he was a terrible influence.

His valet entered with a quick, brief knock. “Sire?”

“What is it?”

“Would you like me to send for some more wood for the fire? There’s a chill tonight,” he said, setting down a tray with a glass of port.

King Octarion shook his head, moving back to his place by the window. “Not tonight, Adam.”

Tonight, on his order, men were moving through the storm. Tonight, though he would never have to walk through inclement weather, others would do so on his word. And though, tonight, the blood would not be on his hands, it brought him back twenty-three years. To the night when he was the one with rain-damp