‘Breathe,’ he whispers, so softly it’s possible I imagined it. And for a split second there is no pretence in him, no insincerity. We are simply two people about to endure a shared pain, and I offer him a small nod in solidarity.
Father is holding the red-hot chain now, and with precision he wraps it round our extended wrists, binding them together. The pain is immediate and searing as the metal melts through flesh, eating into skin to leave its imprint. Clenching every fibre of my body I force myself not to flinch. I will not show weakness. I will not let my father believe he’s won.
‘Let you all bear witness to the marking of their promise.’ My father’s voice carries loudly into the evening air, though the solemnity of the moment is somewhat tarnished by the drunken slur of his words. ‘Viper and royalty shall become one, their bodies carrying this brand as a symbol of the vow they have made.’ And with that he lifts the chain, pulling ribbons of skin away with it.
The pain is a thousand knives slashing viciously and I lower my hand, not wanting to see how bad the wound is, how much of my raw flesh is now exposed. I swallow back a wave of nausea and the sob that accompanies it. If Torin is thrown by the barbaric ritual, he doesn’t show it. He thanks my father for his blessing on our intended union and declares the future of the Eastern Isles safe in this momentous alliance of our peoples.
I am not required to speak, and though I usually resent my opinion being overlooked, for once I’m grateful. I have absolutely nothing good to say.
Rum is brought out, and the flagons are filled once more as everyone toasts our binding ceremony. Yet again I am not offered any, though it would help numb my pain. Instead I distract myself by focusing all my energy on avoiding Grace. I’ve felt her gaze fixed on me throughout this display, and I daren’t meet it, because I fear her pity will undo me entirely. Losing my composure would only strengthen my father’s hold on me, would only tighten the noose. He’d love nothing more than to have to castigate me for exposing my shortcomings.
My sight rests instead on Torin’s glowering bodyguard, the only other person not drinking, who makes no effort to hide his displeasure at this whole spectacle. I imagine watching his prince get scorched, even willingly, must go against all his instincts, and though he’s not offered me the merest hint of friendliness, I find myself respecting his devotion to duty.
Bronn, on the other hand, is drinking enough for all of us. He stands slightly apart from the crowd, and even from a distance I can see danger flashing in his eyes. No one will cross him tonight, not when he’s so clearly looking for a fight, and I can’t decide if I’m pleased he seems miserable, or resentful that he can sulk unquestioned while I daren’t move, daren’t speak, daren’t breathe lest someone perceives my slightest vulnerability.
Eventually the rum runs dry and Prince Torin comes to bid me farewell.
‘It seems it’s time for me to leave,’ he says, his face betraying no sign of the pain I’m certain he must be in. Nor is there any trace of the man I thought I glimpsed behind his royal façade during our shared torture. ‘But I do hope you will be able to visit me at my home some time soon, perhaps when our fathers agree a wedding date, so I can return your hospitality.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Until then,’ he says, giving me a little nod before turning to join his men.
Farewells are made and the royal party departs. Ren sets about weighing anchor and soon the Prince’s ship is just a speck on the horizon, its lanterns glowing in the darkness. There are no lanterns lit on our deck, the Maiden choosing to be an invisible predator. My father returns to his cabin without saying a word to me, no explanation, no thanks, no apology. Not that I expected any.
The moment my presence is no longer required I head to my quarters, my wrist burning as fiercely as my father’s betrayal. Only once I’m alone, away from scrutiny, do I start breathing too fast, the rush of panic taking over. But the waves of emotion that crash over me aren’t familiar and it’s then that I realise it’s not panic. I’m seething. So angry I could choke. All the years of suppressed fury bursting the dam and flooding me.
Desperate to be free of my stupid dress, I claw it off, the struggle to get out of it almost as hard as putting it on was. When I’m standing in only my undergarments I snatch up my knife and, with a howl of rage, send it flying into the wall. It hits the centre of a small scrap of cloth that’s been caught on a splinter of wood and, despite my mood, I smile. Years of target practice have paid off and there are few things I can’t hit with pinpoint accuracy. Something my father knows nothing about. I walk over and pull my knife free, then try again, this time with my eyes shut. Again, again, again, I send the dagger into the wall, and every time the blade hits its mark. Satisfaction outweighs my other worries – for a moment at least. It’s late by the time I finish, my anger still simmering but my body tired.
I need to speak with Father. I want to burst into his cabin, tell him exactly what I think of his plan to marry me off without warning, demand to be given the freedom to make my own choices. But I don’t. Because I remember the last time I openly spoke my mind and challenged my father’s schemes.
I was thirteen and sick of being trapped on the Maiden. Though I’d longed to go ashore my whole life, my father had made it clear that it wasn’t safe for me off the ship given how many enemies he had, and I had only ever been allowed on land twice, both times to the First Isle, and both times under heavy escort. We were approaching the Fourth Isle, on some errand for the King, and in a wave of petulant madness I had deluded myself into thinking my opinion mattered to my father. Driven by a craving for power – and, if I’m honest, attention – I had marched up to my father and questioned his decision. Why wasn’t I allowed to roam the islands freely? I was his heir after all. There should have been no illusion for me over what would happen – I had first-hand experience of the kind of man my father was, knew I was courting a thrashing – but for some reason I thought because I was his daughter I was beyond severe punishment. That he would never truly hurt his little girl.
I was right. Instead he ordered one of the younger deckhands to be tied to the foremast and had Cleeve flog him in my stead. Forty flesh-ripping lashes were given to that poor man on my account, each one serving to remind me to watch my mouth, know my place, respect my father. When it was over, the sailor was barely conscious, his lacerated back a pulpy mess. Though I was banished to my room I later sneaked below deck to the crew’s sleeping quarters to find him in his berth where he lay on his front moaning. When I tried to apologise he unleashed a tirade of abuse that left me in little doubt exactly what he thought of me. He died not long afterwards, thankfully not from those injuries but on a mission for the King, and though it shamed me, I was relieved not to have to endure his contempt any longer.
In the years since then I have become guarded, learning the importance of keeping my mouth shut and my opinions to myself. I know it would be futile to go to my father now and beg him to reconsider.
I roll over in my hammock to face the wall. Maybe I shouldn’t want him to anyway. Maybe marriage is my way out. But here at least I understand the game, know the rules to keep myself alive. Leaving the Maiden won’t end the game, just alter it, and then how can I keep myself safe?