Lorellia (Everlasting Legends, Book 1)

Ch. 16 - Lost at Sea

Ardaik 8th - Central Ocean

Once Artus was behind the makeshift wall, it took a brief moment for his eyes to adjust enough for him to survey their little "washroom." Partitioned away from the woody-sweet smell of Flann's pipe tobacco, the air in the confined space was infused with the familiar aroma of olive oil, spicy, Cardenian ginger, and fresh, sharp mint. Scents that neither of his parents nor most nobility favored due to their popularity among commoners for being cleaner than tallow soaps and better at repelling pests—concerns that were made more important when one was living and working in poorer conditions.

Artus, however, rather romanticized the particular combination. The ingredients were staples in "sailor's slabs"—the bars of soap produced for and distributed to their navy. A moment after removing his boots, his drifting mind was snapped away from the pleasant smell of soap to a horrific realization. The weight of the relic, which should have been cradled just behind his left knee above the bottom band of his breeches, was absent.

He frantically patted the baggy material all the way around his leg in vain, his boney elbows knocking against the canvas wall. Nothing. The band must have loosened enough that the relic had slipped out. But where? When? His chest tightened painfully. "Stop," he whispered so low that all he heard of himself was the consonant in the word. "Stop and think. Stop and think." When was the last time he'd been distinctly aware of it? What all had he done since he'd last concealed it? Where had he been?

Surely, he'd checked on it after the attack by the dragon and probably again at noon, though he couldn't precisely recall either moment with clarity. There'd been so much going on and so much on his mind. No—no. For the sake of his sanity, he had to have only lost it just recently. Very recently. And if it had fallen out when he'd bent to unlace his boots, it would have produced a sound upon hitting the wooden floor. Right? He could have simply missed it in his absentmindedness. Artus shifted his stockinged feet as he looked but found nothing. Overturned both of his boots, and the action produced no relic. If it had fallen...it also would have immediately rolled. Possibly out of sight before Artus had the opportunity to notice.

Artus fumbled about behind the canvas for a moment longer before re-emerging from behind it, his face drained of what little color it usually had. Frantically, he searched the floor—or at least what he could see of it—in the dim light. "Shit. Shit!"

"What's wrong?" Rowan asked, his tone already mirroring Artus's concern.

Flann dragged his boot against the floor, bringing his slow rocking to a halt as he sat up to attention. "I don't think the rats will bite ya, Artie," the Serellian assured.

"Rats?!" Artus's voice broke as he immediately drew his arms close to himself and knocked his ankles together. "No! No, it's not that," he said before managing to tame his volume to a whisper. "It's gone—the relic. I can't find it."

"Oh! Eh...that's probably not good. Did ya drop it during all the—" before Flann could finish, Rowan injected.

"It's more likely that someone took it."

Artus shook his head. "That's not possible. I had it hidden on me, and only a few of us even knew I had it."

"Then that narrows down the suspects, doesn't it?" Rowan insisted, to which the Lorellian prince's eyes widened.

"Well, hold on a moment now...let's say if someone were to just find it, how bad would that actually be? It only works for the ceremony, right?" Flann reasoned as his fingers rubbed over the orange scuff on his chin.

"I...I'm not really sure. I don't know that it really even does anything." Artus pinched the fabric of his breeches tightly, his face tingling. "It looks fairly unassuming. Most might not even pay it any mind. But my father will surely be furious if I don't return it. It's a family heirloom."