The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 2: Strangers: Section II: Vivaen

Vivaen: The Helit Sea

The Helit was the most tranquil sea in the world, Vivaen's sailor friends had said. She shouldn't be afraid to ride its subtle waves, or trust its gentle eddies, they'd assured her.

What a lot of horseshit that had turned out to be.

Storm after storm all the way since Atlin. She felt like a mouse trapped in a barrel that was about to smash against the rocks.

The cramped quarters belowdecks had been built by the Loralanders to transport exotic animals for their arenas. Loralander graffiti was still scratched into the hull, and in every berth the names of former occupants were etched alongside crude drawings of the animals—fierce bears, nimble deer, even lions. When Vivaen's people had captured the ship, they'd not been arsed about fitting it for human passengers.

Probably they hadn't known how—Feislander ships were much different than this great hulk.

Another wave jostled the ship, and Vivaen dug her nails into the wood of her bunk. She preferred it abovedeck, where she could at least see what was happening, but when the sickness had spread amongst the noble passengers, the crewmen had started refusing the women entry to the upper levels of the ship. Last time Vivaen had tried, she'd been all but thrown down the stairs, never mind that she was handmaiden to a princess.

Sailors were all cunts really, even the ones she called friends. As soon as the weather turned bad, or a catch didn't fetch as fine a price as a crew had hoped, it was the women who were blamed. Women on a ship were ill luck.

And Vivaen was the illest luck of all.

She'd told her man as much months ago. Her man, as if she ever held fast to anyone long enough to lose them. Well, now she was trapped on the ship, packed up like so much luggage. She'd lost him, or he'd lost her, all so she could tip-toe after Princess Bree like a bear ready to be baited.

Across the hold, Bree retched into her bucket. Queen Eaflied was fussing at her daughter's side and stooped beside the bunk to dab at Bree's dirtied face with a cloth several days past clean.

Vivaen wrinkled her nose. She'd never liked Bree much. The fourteen-year-old princess was meek and boring, barely interested in anything besides whether or not her mysterious Massenqa husband would be handsome, or what kinds of fashions everyone would be wearing when they arrived. Would her blue wool dress with the silver shoulder clasps still turn heads, or would her intended think it plain? What if Prince Ashtaroth was warty all over? What if he was fat and hairy?

A stupid girl. If she had any sense, she'd be more worried over his temper, over whether he'd make an adequate lover, over whether she could both whelp his heir and survive the process.

Bree sobbed as her mother stroked her hair, and Vivaen's cold heart tightened. This was no way to spend the voyage to meet your betrothed.

It was no way to die.

And after all, compared with Vivaen's twenty-one years, Bree was only a child. Of course she was shit conversation. Vivaen fiddled with the hem of her skirt—she herself wouldn't have minded a blue wool dress with silver clasps, nor a handsome face to keep her company as the sea tossed them about.

Not just any face. Her man had been as fine a catch as she'd ever made—the fire to her frost. Not that she'd told him so, for he'd been a scoundrel through and through, her fire. He'd taken his tithe in compliments from every woman in town, and Vivaen had been loathe to add to the heap at his feet. Lying and teasing were what made it fun. They were what made it safe. If you pretended not to care, you could convince yourself you didn't, so it hurt less when it ended.