Command the Tides

By Wren Handman

Enter Midvalen, a world of kings and kingdoms, princes and pretenders.

In the Kingdom of Miranov, Taya seems to have it all: she owns her own store, she’s engaged to be married to a handsome man, and she’s a success. But the truth is more complicated than anyone could guess. Her engagement is a sham, an agreement of convenience that she made with Darren so she can own land and he can get his mother off his back. She thinks things have become complicated when she realizes that she's fallen in love with him, something she never planned to do. But what's worse is discovering that her simple sailor boy is actually the crown prince of neighboring Sephria, and his usurping Uncle is trying to kill him.

When Darren shows up at her door, bleeding and fleeing assassins, Taya is drawn into a complicated mess of politics, fighting, and broken hearts. Her allegiances will be questioned, her love will find a new course, and she’ll do it all while trying to stay alive, save the day, and guard her heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Omnific Publishing
• Release date: Mar 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781623421816

Wren Handman

Wren Handman is a novelist and screenwriter from Vancouver, Canada. She writes a wide range of stories, from science fiction (Wire Wings) to YA contemporary paranormal (In Restless Dreams). All of her stories are connected by one thing: the magical blended with the everyday.

Book preview

Chapter One

IN MIRANOV, IT WAS SAID that on a night when the sky seemed determined to meet the sea, Ashua was weeping. Taya had always thought it was a stupid expression. It was only weather, and saying it was more than that seemed like a desperate attempt to humanize the uncaring elements. When a sailor drowned, Ashua wasn’t bringing him back to her bosom. He had fallen off a boat.

She moved to the window and flicked aside the curtain, peering out into the dark street. She had stayed up later than she meant to tonight, but it was impossible to tell the hour—rain was pouring down, and thick clouds were completely obscuring the moon. It could have been one hand above the skyline or fully in the middle of the sky, and she would have no way of knowing. Still, the shops beside hers had all put out their lanterns; hers were the only ones on the whole block still lit. It had to be late—even the baker’s across the way was dark, and they were wont to keep their lights on well into the night hours.

Lightning flashed, and the bluish light made the cobblestone street look like a rushing river. Thunder crashed, and she thoroughly embarrassed herself with a shriek of surprise. Dropping the curtain, she marched back to the chair where she had been working and picked up the project that had kept her up so late. The order was due the day after tomorrow, and she had burned through almost an entire candle finishing the delicate hem. It was a waste of good wax, and work she could easily have done in the morning, but she had been too on edge to sleep. Something about the storm was getting to her.

She shook her head, frustrated by her own foolishness, and blew out her lone candle. The action lost its edge of defiance as she scrambled out of the pitch-dark room, taking the stairs from her home down into her shop at double-time. Each stair protested loudly in its wooden voice, and the familiar noise was soothing. At the bottom of the stairs she stepped into lamplight in a room so familiar she could have closed her eyes and told a person where anything was located, or walked around it blindfolded. The wooden walls gleamed with a gentle red hue, shining slightly from the care she put into them every week. The floor was equally spotless, any dirt from customer’s shoes meticulously cleaned before it could soak in and stain the wood. The counter running along one wall had once belonged to a butcher, and despite relentless cleanings, had never lost the sickening-sweet smell of blood. Along the far wall, cloth dummies had been set up with examples of her work, and a curtain in the back hid both fitting rooms and workrooms from view. Behind the counter were boxes and drawers, carefully labeled, with her collection of trims and buttons inside. She moved over to the counter and carefully folded the finished skirt, laying it beside the matching bodice. Tomorrow she would fasten them together, and the blue ribbon that had come in that morning would be a good finisher.

A flash of lighting lit the room, and she realized she had forgotten to draw the blinds, never mind dousing the lanterns. She cursed herself for the waste, wondering how she had gotten so wrapped up in this project. Lamp oil was none too cheap these days, what with the unrest in Sephria, and it was doing no one any good lighting the stormy street.

Her footsteps echoed eerily as she crossed to the door, and she found herself unaccountably on edge. She had lived on her own for two years now—a storm shouldn’t send her skittering like a child. Yet she found herself glancing nervously over her shoulder into the depths of the stairwell, looking for hints of movement in the gloom. Lightning flashed again, revealing the empty stairs, and her own foolishness. The storm must have been right overhead and thunder rolled as she reached out to untie the curtains. She fumbled over the knots, managing at last to get them untied and closed. She swore at herself, hating to feel ridiculous, but unable to stop the tide of unease. She swallowed a lump in her throat and wrenched the outside door open, sending it crashing against the wall in her haste.

The rain was coming down so hard that the floor in front of the door was soaked in seconds, and she awkwardly stretched one arm out in an effort to reach the small outside lantern without exposing herself unduly to the elements. She managed to pull the lantern’s latch and swing the door open without wetting anything more than her arm and the hem of her pants, and the wind and rain put out the small flame without any intervention on her part. As she repeated the process with the other light, something in the darkness caught her attention.

There were spots in her vision from staring at the flame after so long in the dark, but she could have sworn she saw a huge shape, lumbering toward her down the street. Her breath caught in the back of her throat, and she squinted to see past the blur of white light in her vision. There was definitely something there, but she firmly told herself it was probably a tinker, lumbering home in the rain. She shouldn’t be scared—she should feel sorry for the poor sap, with blocks to go before he made it to his bed. And if it wasn’t a tinker, well, even in weather like this the Gray Men would be out, taking care of any problems. Though the shape had been odd, as wide as three men…

She straightened up and stepped back, closing the door as slowly and deliberately as she could, not rushing. Still, she felt better as she slid the bar into place across the sturdy oak barrier.

Honestly, woman, she murmured to herself, scuffing water off the floor with one stockinged foot. She almost left it, knowing she had to be up early the next morning—Annelle would be over, and she always made such a fuss if she thought Taya wasn’t sleeping well, forcing sleeping draughts at her and loading her down with RestWell charms.

Thinking of her friend made her smile, and helped ground her more firmly in the real world. She grabbed a cast-off piece of cotton from the counter and mopped up the water, then blew out the lamps around the room. When she reached the last one she took it off its hook so she could carry it upstairs, taking the security of its light with her.

She had only reached the second step when a loud pounding rocked the door behind her. She spun in place, holding out the trembling lantern. She half-expected the door to have caved in, from the sound the pounding had made, but of course it was fine. She took a quick breath, staring at it in complete stillness, praying she had misheard—another crash of thunder, surely!

The pounding started again, more urgently, and this time there was no mistaking it. Knocking, and surely a man to judge by the strength behind the blows. She scrambled for a pair of scissors from behind the counter before moving cautiously toward the door. Getting the bar off the door was awkward with the scissors in one hand and the lantern in the other, but she managed it. Holding the scissors loosely at her side she opened the door, letting it swing freely to the side, the light falling past her to illuminate the figure outside. At first, she thought it was some hideous monster—surely it was the strange shape from outside, grotesque and misshapen!

She was thankful she didn’t say anything, because she quickly realized it seemed as large as three men because it was three men—their greased cloaks were all the same color, which was what made them blend into a single form. In fact, on second glance they made an amusing picture. The man on the left towered over the other two, and he had one arm around the middle man, whose chin was touching his chest. The man on the right, on the contrary, was almost a head shorter than his burden, and though he must surely have been overwhelmed, he bore it well, no sign of strain on his face. The outside men were strangers, but as she stared at their unconscious burden, she realized in disgust that she knew exactly who he was.

Darren? she asked, completely exasperated, and stepped aside to let the three men inside. A sailor by trade, Darren often came to see her with little to no warning that he was back in town—still, he usually made at least a semblance of romance. Once, he had gone as far as to scale her back wall and climb in her window, strewing rose petals all around her bedroom and then waiting for her with crossed legs and a smug look on his face, sure of the reception he would get. He may not have been in love with her, and she expected no commitment from him, but he knew how to be a good lover. It wasn’t like him not to write for a full month and then be dragged dead drunk to her door by a couple of friends at an hour so late she would normally have long been in bed. Asses on horses, how much has he had?

The taller man frowned, shaking his head. He’s not been drinking, ma’am; he has been shot. The arrow is still in his shoulder, and we need to remove it. Quickly.

For a moment she could only stare at him, shocked into silence. As soon as he said it she could smell it—the blood in the air. She looked down to see a pool of crimson growing on the floor beneath their feet. The two men exchanged a look, and she felt her back go stiff. She had seen the look before, had no doubt given it herself, to those helpless and useless women who could do nothing but shriek and faint. She had never been in their number. So she hadn’t jumped to action at the first sign of danger—she dared challenge any man to say he would have done differently. She was surprised, and rightly so. Darren was no soldier—it was a merchant vessel that he worked on, plying port cities up and down the coast. The worst injury he had ever had was a sprained shoulder—and they came to her door proclaiming he had an arrow in his shoulder and expected no shock? Well, I’ll show them, she thought savagely, and snapped quickly to action, her voice ringing with command.

There’s a spare bedroom up the stairs. It’s the first door on your right. There should be wood beside the fireplace, and flint and tinder will be on the mantel in my bedroom, right across the hall. Build up the fire; I’ll fetch the doctor.

No, the little man said, too sharply, and the larger man silenced him with a look.

No time, the large man clarified.

Taya nodded. Do you know what you’re about? she asked, voice quiet and dangerous, and the men both nodded. She eyed them both, but there was no time to deliberate about a decision—Darren was still bleeding. She nodded. I’ll bring water and a knife, then. Go. They went.

As they disappeared up the steps, she hurried into the kitchen, desperately trying to remember all the things that they would need to tend a wound. An arrow wound, for Ashua’s sake! She had no idea how to treat an arrow wound. Think, woman! He’ll die if you don’t. That thought sobered her quickly, and she formed a list in her mind. Cloth, of course, as well as the knife. A kettle full of water, and some asper leaf to stop the bleeding; she had a paste she smeared on her fingers for needle marks. She gathered them quickly and ran from the room, taking the stairs two at a time. They protested loudly at the pounding they received, a security measure she’d always felt protected her from prowlers. Darren said she was just too cheap to have them fixed. Darren, Darren, what have you done?

The two men had laid Darren on the bed, and while one carefully removed his bloody shirt and cloak, the other stoked the fire, bringing it to roaring life. She handed the kettle to the stocky man by the fire, who nodded a silent thanks, and then moved over to hand the knife to Darren’s other companion. He barely acknowledged her, taking the knife with hardly a backward glance and cutting away the last of the shirt. The arrow was sunk into Darren’s shoulder past the head, blood running thick and fast from the gaping wound. The arrowhead itself was not in view, and she prayed silently that it was not barbed. It could still be slid out, if it wasn’t. If it was, she had a sickening feeling it would take half his shoulder with it when it was forced out.

Still silent, the small man handed the knife back to her and motioned toward the fire. She took it and handed it to the large man, who put it in the kettle that was already hanging over the fire, adding the herbs to the water. No one spoke, the atmosphere heavy with concentration, and the two men acted with a grimness and purpose that implied they had been in this situation before. The thought scared her—she had no idea who these men were, and no way to protect herself if they were not friends. They were seeing to Darren, it was true, but that did not mean they would feel the same courtesy toward her. If Darren trusted them, she would too, but she had no way of knowing if they were friends of his, or merely shipmates.

Darren moaned and she spun back to look at him, thoughts of her own safety flying away in tatters as fear for him took the place of other concerns. The large man took the knife out, still dripping, and handed it to his smaller companion, who once again took it with hardly a glance. He clutched the handle between his teeth, picking up some of the cloth Taya had brought and placing it between Darren’s teeth. The larger man, gentle for all his great bulk, placed his hands against Darren’s shoulders, preparing to hold him down. He looked up at Taya, who stood in the middle of the room with a stricken look on her face, agonizing over what was soon to be and knowing it was the only way.

It must come out, my lady, and swiftly. Do not worry—we know what we are about. A doctor will not be necessary. The wound will need a compress, however, and he would do well with a fusion against fever if you have the knowledge to make it.

She nodded curtly, letting none of her relief show on her face. Had they ordered her from the room her pride would have bid her stay, and perhaps the man had seen something of that determination in the way she held herself, because his words gave her the a way to flee the room without shame. She feared if she stayed she would lose her dinner to the sickly-sweet smell of pain and blood, and the agony of watching without being able to help. She went swiftly, leaving emblazoned on the back of her lids the image of her love, sweat sparkling on his chest in the dim firelight, a knife glinting as it moved toward the vicious hole in his shoulder.

Back down the steps she moved, the ancient wood’s protestations sounding too much like a crying soul, and then into the kitchen, clattering knives and pots as loudly as she could as she worked, in a futile attempt to disguise the shrieks of pain that filtered through the floorboards above her. She was no healer, but she knew a few simple recipes against fever and pain, and she made one as slowly as she could—and still the men above her worked. Unable to sit still, driving herself mad with anxiety, she began to slice cheese and bread, wondering at how long the task seemed to be taking. Finally silence descended, but the quiet, broken only by the sounds of the storm outside, wore on her nerves worse than the noises had. She listened anxiously for sounds on the stairs as she moved on to chopping vegetables, but the stillness was unbroken. Would they come to fetch her? Should she go up?

A shadow moved off to her side and she spun, startled. Somehow, the two men had descended the ancient stairs without a single creak to betray their presence. They were standing in the doorway, keeping a respectful distance between themselves and her. Something in how they looked reinforced in her mind the notion that this was not the first time they had met such circumstances. If pressed, she could not have said what it was that she saw—perhaps it was the way they stood, clearly exhausted but still very much on guard, wary and watching. Perhaps it was something in the smile the burly man gave her, tired to be sure, and wary, yes, but somehow casual. Perhaps it was the way the thin man bowed to her so civilly, with long hair a mess around his face and shirt soaked in blood; had she not been so terrified, she might have found the image ironic enough to be amusing. Instead, it took every vestige of will she had in order to keep her voice steady as she asked, How does he fare?

He has lost much blood, but the floor has gratefully accepted it all. Still the only one to have spoken, the bear of a man spoke genially, and then, as if in deference to the serious situation, he added, So long as a fever does not take, he will recover well. The infusion? he asked, trailing off slightly.

Taya nodded and indicated the kettle, which was just beginning to boil, but she stepped forward just as he did, cutting him off as he moved to take it from the fireplace. She kept the knife in her hand, but down at her side, unthreatening.

Now that the danger has passed, you will do me the courtesy of explaining the situation, she told him firmly, her chin raised defiantly. Though there was no sign of it in her posture, a kernel of fear took root in her heart. If her fears were justified, and these men were not to be trusted, it would be now that she found it out. The two men hesitated and exchanged looks, and yet again it was the large man who spoke for the pair.

I believe—perhaps that is something that you should ask…Darren, he said, faltering slightly at the name. It is his story, ma’am. He would not be pleased with us if we did the telling for him.

An uncomfortable silence descended as she watched him, her eyes narrowed visibly as she debated whether or not that was satisfactory. After a pause slightly longer than was polite, she gave a curt nod.

So you wish to give him the chance to decide whether he shall lie to me or tell the truth; fair enough. Do you need his permission to tell me your names, as well? she asked in a tone that implied it had been highly rude of them not to have found the time for proper introductions in the midst of the turmoil of moments ago. And somehow, despite how ludicrous the idea was, the hardened looking man had the good grace to look ashamed.

Please, ma’am, forgive us our rudeness. My name is David, and my companion is Ryan. We are shipmates of Darren’s.

She touched palms with each of them, steeling her features against the rush of fear that threatened to overbalance her. It was a blatant lie, and she knew it, but she wondered if they knew how obvious it was. She had spent a good deal of her time around Darren, and she knew he had a quick wit and a sharp intelligence. Even he, however, spoke like the basest trash to be found on the docks—these men spoke as if they had just walked out the giant bronze doors of Kraza University. Or, more truly, this one man, since his companion had yet to speak. She could see no gain, however, in calling them on their bluff, and gave a quick prayer to Ashua that it would be the least of their sins tonight.

Have you rooms reserved at one of the local inns?

No, ma’am. We were on our way to do so when—the incident occurred. Again, it was David who spoke, couching his words so