Escape to the Sea (Tangled Hearts #1)

Chapter 3 An Afternoon at Court

Ephraim

Typically, I’m an early riser. When I turned fourteen, a year after my father died, my Uncle Tristan assigned a martial arts instructor to me. Arlen started each morning by dragging me out of bed before sunrise to practice forms and meditate. Though I loathed Arlen at first, the routine and moving my body was exactly what I needed. I’ve kept up with the instruction, learning and growing under the monk’s tutelage, which means that, typically, I’m up before sunrise.

The key word is, ah, typically.

I groan as the curtains are thrown back, the sunlight pouring into my bed chamber, my head pounding, and my mouth tasting foul in that unique way only a copious amount of drinking can produce. My hand frantically searches for the comforter, pulling it over my head in an attempt to stave off whoever is in my room.

“Prince Ephraim! You’re going to be late for afternoon sessions. It’s already eleven and a half bells!”

I shove the comforter off. “What?” I try to sit up, but the world swims.

Instantly, Bertrand is at my side. He steadies me and hands me a small tincture. I pinch my nose and knock it back, the hangover remedy starting to work instantly on settling my stomach. “There you go, Prince Ephraim. You spent the night drinking with Marius and Ed again, hm?” He hands me a thick green concoction next—the usual restorative after my forms. I down that next and pull myself together.

As Bertrand moves around me, moving towards my wardrobe, I start to become aware of my body. I sniff my underarm and grimace. “Gods, I feel foul. I need to clean up, even if I’ll be late.”

“The bath is already prepared. I have your clothes ready as well, and some toast for the walk to the Grand Hall.”

I turn to the older man, relieved. “You’re a godsend, truly, Bertrand.”

He smiles fondly, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling. “It’s no trouble at all. I would have let you sleep through court completely, but this afternoon Branch Duncan and the elven enclave of Faesar are attending to present their trade proposal. I thought you’d want to attend.”

My heart leaps into my throat. “Yes! Thank you!” Re-energized, I rush to the bathroom and quickly hop into the tub. The hot water is divine, but I don’t dally, quickly cleaning myself and getting dressed into a simple plum dress shirt with dark trousers and boots. Bertrand combs my hair back into a short low ponytail tied with a ribbon as I slip on my signet ring and a simple gold necklace.

“You should know, Prince Ephraim, I looked into this… Emeria you were talking about last night.”

I whirl around, excited. I don’t even remember leaving the ball last night so I’m surprised that I said anything to Bertrand at all. “Did you find her? She’s—”

“A cultural ambassador on behalf of Branch Duncan to the Faesar Enclave, yes. Apparently she’s been helping explain Aurelian customs and works as an intermediary where needed. It seems she’s an acquaintance of Marquess Stuart, a lesser noble of the Duncan family. But other than that, no one seems to know much about her. The Marquess is in residence in Yaventown, however, so it might be presumed that she is also living in Yaventown.”

I grab my satchel and head towards the door. “She’s a member of the Consortium as well. That much I do know.”

He nods, then hesitates. “I wasn’t able to confirm the presence of your mother, however.”

A rock sinks in my gut and I try not to let the disappointment show. Instead, I go over to Bertrand, giving him a hug. He returns the embrace, old, familiar and comforting. His voice, soft and soothing, says, “Chin up, Ephraim.”

“Chin up,” I whisper back, like always. I draw back from the embrace he claps me on the shoulder. Then I’m off, sprinting out down the cobblestones, away from the residences towards the governance halls.

The Crown District is the top part of Yaventown, where all the nobles stay and work in the business of governing the empire. When court is not in session, ambassadors for each of the branches also live here, acting as proxies.

Thankfully, my rowhouse isn’t that far from the governance halls. As I rush through the doors, I’m accompanied by a tall, lanky orc, also seemingly hungover and tired, from the droopy look in his eyes.

“You too, Mikolos?” I ask with a grin.

He bares his tusks back. “What can I say? Hey! You find that girl you were looking for?”

“Oh no… I didn’t ask the entirety of the ball, did I?” Gods, the horrific embarrassment of it. My uncle won’t be happy, that’s for sure.

He laughs, though it’s tired and panting as we make it to the Grand Hall. “With Marius running around shouting, ‘Oi! Looking for a purple elf? You seen one about.” He claps my shoulder as I grimace. “Don’t sweat it. There’s always one memorable moment from these events.” He waves as he heads to the Branch Montaze box, marked by marble benches, columns, and mosaic tile floors, and calls, “Let’s hang out some time!”

I wave back and slide into our branch’s box as the bells begin to chime, on the left side of my uncle.

“So good of you to finally join us, Ephraim,” he drawls, looking down at me through his nose, brown eyes displeased. The only resemblance I share with my uncle—and my father—are our defined jaws and high cheekbones. His salt-and-pepper hair is cut tight and neat, opposite from what I remember of my father’s more tousled hairstyle.

From his other side, Kassandra looks around him, fanning herself lightly, amused. “Did you find this so-called Emeria?”

I’m already exhausted. “No.”

Uncle Tristan mutters crossly under his breath, “An embarrassing affair, chasing ardently after a low-born woman.”

Anger curls in me, but I bite it back. It’s not worth arguing with him and dignifying him with a response.

On the floor, the Imperial Caller, Dallon Linklater, moves into position, getting ready to call the session to order.

The Grand Hall is the seat of governance of the Aurelian Empire. Each of the branches are nation-states that all have their own cultures, economies, and peoples that make up the whole of the continent of Ilcanos. In the hall, each of the branches has their own box, arranged in a horseshoe shape encircling the great tree. Above us all, nestled thirty feet above the rest of the branches within the boughs of the great tree, is the Imperial seats, where the Empress of Aurelia sits.

Denalia, the Empress of Aurelia, Queen of Last Shade, Primary of the Branch Linklater, Copse of New Growth, is fighting to keep her eyes open. So, perhaps I am not so terrible for being exhausted.

Anyone sitting in the imperial box can stare directly into the Echtarch box. As Branch Linklater is the Copse of New Growth, Branch Echtarch is the Sheath of Falling Leaves. We received that onerous title when the Linklaters overthrew my ancestors as the imperial line of the empire after a misguided war we started that cost the empire thousands of lives. It bothers some more than others, but we should be grateful we weren’t all killed off all centuries ago.

The Caller bangs his gavel and brings the session to order. There are a few items for discussion. It’s a conversation about the creation of a new abjuration spell that has some concerns for the Empress’s Sword, another two or three about new tariffs from the imports from the Dented Isles. I suppose I should be taking notes and paying attention, but it seems far too late in the season for any real business to be handled.

Eventually, my eyes are drawn to a small commotion in Branch Duncan’s box. My heart leaps up—of course! The elves! They look ethereal, timeless, as they seem to glide to their seats, Princess Georgina greeting them.

Ducking my head I whisper to him, “Can we meet with them? Schedule an audience?”

“To what end, Ephraim?”

To what end? He knows perfectly well what end. I know it’s unlikely that my mother is with them, but perhaps they brought word of her. “I only want to talk to them.”

His voice goes cold. “No, I forbid it. We will have nothing to do with them anymore.”

“But I need to—”

He turns to look at me fully, eyes furious. “I will not indulge you chasing after this Emeria you couldn’t shut up about last night. It was embarrassing having to drag you and Marius out of the ball completely falling over yourselves!”

“Oh, loosen up, nephew,” my great-aunt Anais chides behind us. “They’re young! They’re allowed to make fools of themselves.”

“Maybe you ought to spend time running around finding a girl. It’s been long enough, boy,” my other great-aunt Portia adds, pointing at Tristan.

I shoot the old women a grateful look, but my uncle’s expression goes still.

“You couldn’t wait an hour into session to start your catty comments?” Jacques grunts to my great-aunts, sparing my uncle a pitying look. “Knock it off.”

My uncle turns back around, straight-backed but agitated, I can’t help myself, voice raising. “What about my—”

“Regent Prince Tristan! Do you have something to add?”

Princess Georgina’s sharp tone cuts through the court. My uncle exhales, then stands, pressing his hand to the brown maple leaf on the pedestal in front of him. It glows softly and he steps onto the amplification rune.

The Caller nods to Tristan. “The throne recognizes Tristan, of the Bronze Order, Duke of Castiglione, Regent Primary of the Branch Echtarch, Sheath of Falling Leaves.”

“I think any effort connecting half of our empire is worthwhile. Branch Echtarch also has our own farming exports that are difficult to transport to the cities of Onson—” he gestures to Lysander the Ancient and then to Matriarch Helena “—or other western territories. We can go by ship, of course, but it’s expensive and costly to go all the way around the continent. Additionally, the western seas are rougher to traverse all the way up to Talmetia and Onson. This project brings much needed infrastructure to the empire and with it, perhaps a closer examination of our infrastructure overall.”

He sits, Princess Georgina giving him a tight nod. It seems he was able to salvage the interruption, though I know I will hear of this later.

Matriarch Helena rises, touching her hand to a parchment scroll in front of her. The Caller turns to her, “The throne recognizes Helena, of the Bronze Order, Matriarch of Frigya, Primary of the Branch Montaze, Blooms of Distant Shores.”

Helena, like most of the orcs from Frigya, is tall and broad, with dark green skin the color of fresh aloe. She cuts an austere and powerful figure, even in her simple black chiton belted with an ornate golden sash. Her hair is pulled back in a series of intricate braid-work and beading.

“Thank you.” She gives a slight nod to the throne and steps onto her amplification rune at her pedestal, her resonant timbre carrying through the Hall. “While I agree that this has benefits in connecting the Faesari elves of the Great Thatch into the Aurelian economy, I question many parts of this proposal. Regent Prince Tristan claims that shipment by sea is too costly, but Vinitore only produces fishing boats to be used along the eastern coast of the Dhanian Sea.” She gives him a level, cold look. “Not once has he ever reached out to me to even consider the use of the mighty Frigyan fleet, or our impressive merchant trade vessels which go all over the oceans—even around the continent to the northeast to deliver goods to the Dented Isles.”

The stares of the court penetrate me like daggers as all eyes turn to our box. I do my best to look impassive. My uncle is regent, after all. I hardly know what business he conducts with the other primaries, but it’s clear he’s been outmaneuvered.

She continues, looking around the room. “As proposed, this reinforces Branch Duncan’s position as the arbiter of all trade coming in from the eastern part of the empire to the west. Any great general will tell you how risky such a position is considering the city of Lumin is already the central farming source for all the empire. We need to diversify where trade flows throughout the continent.”

“Objection!” Archmage Ezra is on his feet, hand on the faux crystal ball, a slimy smirk on his face. “Matriarch, you live on an island. Lumin is the center of the west. Why would trade start anywhere else?”

Helena rolls her eyes. “Archmage, you’ve spent too long in the tower in your insular city, or perhaps you wouldn’t need a Font of Divination to understand basic economics and national security. But I’m happy to have one of my admirals explain it to you when we’re docked in your harbor.”

The Archmage turns red. “And maybe I’ll simply block your ships!”

She laughs, full and hearty, the orcs behind her snickering. “Do it, and we shall see how long it takes for your mage circles to revolt when they cannot access the rare reagents they need for their ludicrous experiments.”

“Order, order!” The Caller yells, banging the gavel. “I remind both Matriarch Helena and Archmage Ezra that we are to be civil and to keep the personal jabs for outside the Hall. I am executing my right as Imperial Caller to pause this discussion. I would have the last few remarks stricken from the record. We will recess for a half bell and resume discussing the trade proposal brought forth by Branch Duncan.”

He bangs the gavel and everyone starts stirring around the room. As Tristan rises, Aunt Portia laughs from behind us. “Hah! Well, it looks like Ezra did you a favor, the fool that he is.”

“He wouldn’t need to,” Tristan snarls, glaring up at her, “if everyone remembered their place here.” He points up, jabbing a finger at her. “And the only reason you two birds are here is because I cannot replace you as voting members of the branch!”

Anais throws her head back and laughs, brightly, as if he’s said the funniest joke in the world.

Portia leans forward with a sharp, mean look in her eye. “A voting member indeed, nephew, until my dying breath.”

Tristan’s jaw works, his hands curling into fists before he storms out of the box. Kassandra stares after him for a moment before following.

Jacques sighs heavily, turning to the older women. “Did you have to bring up Leanna?”

Marius groans, listing to the side, falling against Jacques.

Anais clicks her tongue. “It’s been over two decades. He needs to move on. It’s unhealthy. He should have done it while Kassandra was still a child, the poor girl. Never had a mother.”

They bicker on but I turn to Branch Duncan’s box, taking the opportunity to slip out and head over.

My father passed when I was thirteen. Some may stay I’m still grieving, but that’s not the right word for it. He lingers in the halls of my castle, Vetro di Mare, his portraits still hanging as though he remains the Prince of Vinitore. He lingers in my library, the one that used to be his. He would pull me into his lap to read the stories of old, of sweeping adventure and romance. He lingers in my heart on stormy nights where the waves crash against the cliffs, where I used to curl up against him in bed to soothe my fear.

My mother, on the other hand, is still alive. If they have news of her, even a scrap, that will be more than I have had for the past seven years.

As I approach the box, I wave and one of the courtiers recognizes me and lets me in. I thank him, being mindful of the wildflowers dotting the grassy slope within their court. Unlike my branch’s box, Branch Duncan is furnished with more traditional wooden chairs with gorgeous woven patterns on the cushions. The chairs circle around two or three large tables stacked with paperwork and fresh ale.

I offer a bow at the waist to Princess Georgina as I enter. “A pleasure as always, Your Highness.”

She chuckles, beckoning me closer.

She’s a few inches taller than me, with sun-kissed skin that makes her appear more youthful than her age. “Prince Ephraim, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I saw you in conference with the Faesari enclave and was curious whether I could, perhaps, request an audience with them.”

She gives me a motherly, chiding look. “No need to make excuses, Prince Ephraim. The emissary from the Consortium is not present at session, as it would not be appropriate to give an outsider access to our governance halls.”

My cheeks heat and I make an effort to keep my composure. “I heard Emeria was an acquaintance of Marquess Stuart. Perhaps I’ll speak with him at a later date, then.”

“Perhaps. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

Quickly I add, “Actually, I was hoping to speak to the Faesari delegates themselves, if you please. About more… personal matters.”

The kindly expression in her eyes shifts to the pity I’m accustomed to when it comes to my parents. “I am sorry, Prince Ephraim, but your mother is not here.”

I swallow hard. “Oh, yes, of course,” I say, waving that line of thinking aside as if I wasn’t about to ask.

Of course she’s not here. That would be silly, right? Bertrand already had reported as such. Besides, if she hadn’t bothered to show up for my coming-of-age debut, then why would she come on a whim after a decade of being gone?

Regardless, I breeze through it and to the next topic. “It was more about Faesar in general. They come to court so infrequently, I wanted to perhaps ask them a few questions.”

Princess Georgina gives me a level gaze. I swallow hard and try not to look too suspicious.

I don’t know what it is about the women of this court that ties me up in circles, but my stomach turns as she puts the pieces together.

Her gaze flits up past me in the direction of the Echtarch box, then back to me. “I’m surprised Tristan allowed this.”

I give her the warmest smile possible. “I’m sure he’ll be in talks with them later, but he had his own business to attend to with another member of my branch.” I’ve never been good at outright lying, but talking around the truth is an art form necessary for court.

By some miracle, she believes me. “Come along, let me introduce you.”

The princess walks me over to the other side of their area and introduces me to a tall, willowy elf who seems to glide instead of walking.

Elves. Honestly.

“Prince Ephraim, this is Merryn. He speaks on behalf of the dignitaries.”

I bow to him. “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance.”

His skin is a darker color than my golden complexion, and his eyes are a light amber that glints in the afternoon sun. He proffers a bow as deep as mine. “Prince Ephraim. It is clear we have many commonalities.”

I nod. “Ah, yes. I was actually wondering about that. My mother is Braelynn—I believe her surname was Dewlent before she joined with my father. I don’t know if there are any of your number that may know her?”

Merryn thinks for a few moments and then turns to another elf sitting nearby. “Annalyse may be someone you can talk to. She’s crossed paths with Braelynn in the Sea.”

I quickly thank him and walk over to her. “Hello Annalyse, I’m Ephraim. I believe you know my mother?”

She doesn’t register my presence, studying a glass of water as if it were about to come to life.

I clear my throat. “Excuse me?”

Finally, she turns up to look at me. “Oh, hello.”

I try to keep my composure. “Hello.” When I sit, I make sure to place myself directly in her field of view. It will be the best way to keep and hold her attention. My mother would get like this sometimes; often, she and I would sit in the same room for hours before she recognized that I even existed. She would smile and nod and then drift off to whatever else would catch her fancy. It could definitely be challenging.

“How may I help you?” Annalyse asks.

“Hi, hello, yes. Merryn says you may have some knowledge of my mother.”

“Ahh, I see,” she says softly. Centuries seem to pass in silence, and my patience thins.

“I was hoping to talk to someone about her,” I press.

“Well, you can talk to whomever you please,” she says.

Hopeless.

I try another angle. “Merryn implied that you know my mother, Braelynn Dewlent?”

Annalyse nods slowly, smiling in recognition. “Oh. yes. I have not spoken to her in quite some time. But she has always been adrift. I am sure that our paths will meet again at some point. Ships passing like a dream within the Sea of Possibility.”

“Yes, but, if you could perhaps answer some questions about her, now? Or, rather, perhaps pass along some correspondence in this plane, not the Sea, in Faesar? Or ask if she’s received my letters? I sent them to her noted residence, and I am curious if—”

“Ephraim!”

My uncle’s voice carries across the floor of the Great Hall, his eyes bright with anger even from here. From the corner of my eye Princess Georgina shoots a disapproving look at me. There won’t be any fooling her again.

“Are you leaving?” Annalyse asks. “Fare thee well, Dewlent child.” She resumes looking at the glass.

“Yes, thank you,” I reply, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

“Ephraim!” My uncle calls sharply, as though reprimanding a child. It stings, but I hold my head high as I take my time in thanking Merryn before joining my uncle on the floor.

He turns, his posture stiff as he moves across the hall and out the doors. Neither of us say anything as he leads me to the private rooms behind the Echtarch box and shuts the door. I brace myself for the lecture, setting my hands on top of the wooden frame of a chair.

“I told you not to speak to them,” he says, low and warningly.

“I have every right to ask after my own mother, who is still alive and—”

“And not worth our time. Certainly wasn’t worth your father’s time, nor yours. I won’t have our family ruined by that woman any more than it already has been!”

“You have no right!” I shoot back.

“I have every right!” he hisses. “My brother died and she left!”

I swallow, my hand shaking on the chair. “I know that. He was my father. And I needed her, and she wasn’t there. I know.”

There’s a tense pause between us before he sighs heavily, his shoulders sagging. “Ephraim…” Did he always have bags under his eyes? It’s a contrast to the crisp, tailored version of himself I’ve always known. “Our family has been through so much pain and grief. We need to heal. We need to… move on.”

Portia’s rattled him more than she knows. Perhaps she does. My uncle and great-aunt Portia were relatively close until a few years ago.

He comes over and sets a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I want to move forward, together.”

I swallow and nod. “Me too.”

He looks relieved and gently clasps my shoulder, shaking it. “We won’t let her ghost take hold of us. I will honor your father, I promise.” He turns to leave and glances behind him. “I’m arranging for the rest of her things to be given back. Her jewels, books, all of it. Not a trace of her will be left.”

I stare at him, reeling. “All of her things? But…that would include her magical artifacts. The Evergrowing Brooch, the grimoire of Six Seasons, and her necklace that takes the wearer to the Sea of Possibility. That necklace is the most valuable—”

He whirls around, the fury in his eyes again. “That necklace is poison, and I would be rid of it, once and for all.”

It feels like I’ve been struck, like a part of me is being ripped away. But my uncle doesn’t see that—or doesn’t care—as he leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

My mother has haunted me as much as my father does, in different ways. I still remember her using these fantastical artifacts. In the white gardens, she would use her brooch that could make flowers bloom early, healthy, and full. In the water gardens, she would play with a music box that controlled the water, making it dance and bubble. Most of those artifacts were pretty baubles, with a single magical effect. But her necklace… it can take you to the plane of the fey, the Sea of Possibility.

I saw her do it on more than one occasion. I always liked to say goodbye to her, to wish her, and my father, a nice, safe trip.

My mother isn’t dead, and I’m not about to let my uncle determine when I get to say goodbye.