Harbor (On the Wind #3)

48. Tybalt

K ing.

I hated the title. Hated how I’d gotten it. Hated the scent of my father’s lifeblood on the floor, the slippery feel of it between my fingers.

Hated how I hated him, how the father I remembered from all those hunting trips had disappeared behind affront and rage. I’d made him proud in violence and cruelty, and even now, I saw the golden glow of his approval had only ever fallen on me at my worst. He’d raised his hand to strike Penelope, and I’d never hated him more. He could call me whatever he liked, but that was—that was too far.

Maybe he really was ill, but I didn’t think so. He’d just let the bitterness and disappointment overtake him, until he was a ragged, brittle old man who deserved precisely what he’d gotten.

Worst of all, I hated how I loved him still, how I imagined that if I had just done or said the right things, I might’ve gotten a father like the one I imagined. He would’ve held me on his lap and told me how to be king and celebrated my joys instead of tearing them apart.

So now, I was King of Urial and the crown my father wore sat most often on the head of a little girl. Well, truth told, it was far too large for Olive, and so she pulled it down around her neck instead, and spent long hours fingering the jewels because they were shiny, not because they meant anything specific to her.

If she liked it, I’d just as soon she keep the damned thing forever.

The days that followed Father’s death had been chaotic. Despite the shock that’d taken the court, not everyone was pleased with my rise to power. We’d had to act quickly to gather evidence of Lord Eric’s crimes, but had found in my father’s study letters passed between them suggesting Lady Penelope as a suitable match for Father even before her husband was dead.

Among the missives, we’d found letters that Orestes had tried to send home. They’d been apprehended by Father, and when we’d found them—well, I hadn’t realized how afraid Orestes had been for me when I’d first taken ill.

It was a pleasure, instead, to watch Orestes write letters of a more hopeful feeling now that I was better, and the castellan assured us that the road to Nemeda would be clearer now without Father’s interference.

The court had listened to our case against Eric, not to Olive’s testimony, but to Penelope’s and Orestes’s and mine. No self-respecting lord of Urial would put a child through such a horror, but those who’d known the girl before her father’s death were convinced by how she’d gone quiet in the aftermath, how she’d seemed to shrink in the face of the nightmare her uncle had forced on her.

It was enough to see Lord Eric hanged, but not enough to make me feel truly safe on the throne.

My father was not alone in the suspicion that’d gripped his final thoughts. People speculated over if I’d had some hand in arranging his death. What saved me, I thought, was my red-rimmed eyes and obvious heartbreak—both so unwelcome in public that my feelings must’ve been genuine, if they were so hard to tamp down.

We moved quickly to consolidate my legitimacy—strangely enough, by disseminating the king’s power. It had been Orestes’s idea, and anyone else suggesting I might need help likely would’ve been insulting my ability. Him? Never.

He’d sat on his knees at my feet, his hands on my legs, and told me of Nemeda’s council and how it had worked to keep everyone safe through their long war with the southlands. He’d told me of the magic that bound the chiefs to one another in honesty—oaths they could not break.

If I asked the Nemedan council, he assured me, they would share this magic at the very least.

Penelope had been the first obvious pick for my council. She was formidable, unrelenting, and clever. She likely would’ve made a better king than I did, but when I asked, she was happy to help me rule.

Other families, I brought in slowly—ones I thought were trustworthy, who would tolerate improvement over preserving tradition. Lord Gregory had made the cut, of course, and his once-steady presence at my father’s side calmed some of my detractors.

I was still king, but I wouldn’t sit on a throne above my people. After a lifetime of being watched and critiqued, I had no interest in being such a focal point at court, no matter what others might presume.

The work kept me busy, kept me from sinking too far into fear and doubt.

And then the day came that Mercutio would venture south.

He’d been locked away—a formality, to be sure, but he’d killed a man before the entire court, and I didn’t think there were many in Urial who understood why he’d done it quite as clearly as I did.

Mercutio wasn’t a threat to anyone—not even anyone who acted outside of accordance with our sense of decency.

My father had sat at the head of a mechanism that denied Mercutio—denied me —authenticity, support, love, the lives we wanted. He had been unwilling to dismantle it, so Mercutio needed him gone to carve way for something better.

In a distant, dreamy way, I could understand it.

When I remembered my father’s horrified stare as he recoiled from me in his final moments, less so.

I hadn’t had the heart to see my old friend, but the morning of his departure, Orestes stayed close to my side as we made our way down to the stables. I had sugar cubes in my pocket for Biscuit, but not even I believed that was why I was really going.

Our steps crunched through the snow, but Orestes didn’t mention returning inside even once. Instead, he held my hand tight.

It likely helped that he was finally starting to dress in appropriate layers. His clothes, so easy to slide out of, made a lot more sense when transforming, but we could do that from my balcony, safe outside of the gaze of our people.

Out here, the man needed a damned coat. Maybe two.

The stable yard itself had been raked mostly clean of ice and muck, and we’d just stepped inside it when the large doors opened to let out a rider.

Mercutio stared at us, his eyes wide with surprise.

Nervously, my lips twitched toward a smile. Orestes’s hand tightened on mine.

“What?” I asked, when Mercutio sat there too long, silent and blinking.

He shrugged, his expression melting toward something affectionate and indulgent before he dismounted. “I didn’t think you’d come to see me off.”

“I—” I had no idea what to say. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but Mercutio had been my lover for years and my friend even longer. I shook my head, swallowing nervously. I looked, instead, toward his horse. “Are you well provisioned?”

The coat Mercutio wore was very thick. Fur lined the collar, and his mount looked steady and formidable. The packs hanging behind his saddle were stuffed thick.

Still, it was not a carriage laden down with trunks, and I worried.

“I am,” Mercutio said. “My parents would hardly send me out into the world without any comforts.”

That was one thing between us that had always been different; Mercutio realized he deserved more, when I denied it for us both. His parents had taught him that he deserved happiness, while mine had taught me I deserved nothing but disdain.

“You’ll be safe?” If my voice cracked, I hid it behind a smile.

“You should make your way to the Hawk Clan first,” Orestes offered at once, like he could be the one to offer Mercutio safety and soothe my every worry. “They’re central, the people are kind and patient.”

“And Paris is there,” I butted in. “He’ll help see you settled.”

Mercutio’s smile softened. “Good advice.”

“If it’s oranges you’re after,” Orestes said, “the Duck Clan will be able to trade.”

And he could come back faster. No matter the stir that would cause at court, I’d said he could, and I’d keep my word.

Like he could already tell I was planning to drag him back into the castle and forget this whole business, Mercutio only shook his head. “I think I’m after more than oranges. It’ll be a while before?—”

With a shaky inhale, I crashed forward and fell into him, Mercutio staggered before he regained his balance.

Then, he hugged me back.

“Write,” I hissed. “Often.”

“I will,” he swore. “And you’ll—” He leaned back to catch my eye, and there were too many words for what he wanted me to do—beat back the cold, make Urial better, carve out a place he might’ve been safe and happy and not saddled with broken expectations and rage—but I still caught his meaning.

I nodded, wiping my damp cheeks. I’d do it if I could, maybe not for me, but because... maybe Urial would be better if I tried. Even if I failed, it could hardly get worse.

When I stepped back, Orestes clapped Mercutio on the shoulder. “The Montagues, just before you get to Vulture lands, know a lot about working with Nemedans. Pay them a visit, hm?”

Mercutio rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. You know, just because you’re large does not mean you’re in charge.”

I huffed. “He is. He’s in charge of a great many things.”

Orestes blanched at the very idea. “I hope not.”

“Take care of him,” Mercutio said, pulling Orestes down into a hug. “Don’t listen too closely to court gossips. You’re good for them.”

He gave us another tight nod before putting his boot in the stirrup and swinging onto his mount’s back. When he left, Orestes and I stood there watching his figure disappear. It began to snow, but with Orestes’s arm wrapped around my shoulders, I was warm enough.

“I think I’m supposed to hate him,” I whispered thickly, staring straight ahead.

Orestes’s thick fingers brushed through my hair, more gently than anyone else might have thought possible. “Did Mercutio ever mistreat you?”

I shook my head. “If anything, I let him down.”

“But your father did. You’re allowed to hate Mercutio some days, if the feeling comes over you, but if you never do? That’s not wrong. I don’t hate Minerva for killing my father. She protected herself and people I love. Maybe it’s just complicated.”

“Yeah . . . ”

Orestes’s shoulders gave a shimmy, and he pulled me in closer. “Want to go inside?”

I snorted. How long had we been standing here? Too long for my poor Eagle.

I grabbed his hand and drew it to my lips. “Indeed,” I said, glancing at him through my lashes. They might be clumped together and wet, but I was done with tears for today. “Let’s get you in front of a fire.”

Truth told, since I’d gotten Avianitis, I didn’t hold up quite so well to the cold either.

Perhaps, if everything went well and I managed to keep my head, when the next winter came, I’d take my eagle and fly south to see his people.

I’d like to see the land that’d given me the man I loved so dear.