The Rise of Deragon (The Deragon Duology #2)

15

Geneva

W hile some people put down others to get their way—which I typically don’t agree with—I was fully prepared to make it out of Honeycomb Harbor unseen and unreported to my sister and Jericho, even if the plan I came up with felt despicable.

Luckily, the Saints had mercy on me. Rather than presenting me with countless guards I’d have to blackmail in order to buy their silence, they offered me a vacant harbor and a calming sunset. In fact, the only person down by the docks was hull-cleaning Crystal Wrath and didn’t recognize me as the queen’s sister. Poor bloke will likely be fired when the boat gets back to Broadcove, but at least the coins I smuggled from the treasury as his bribe should keep him afloat for the next several months.

The one downside to this spontaneous voyage: not having a sailing crew at hand. The man I talked into taking me across the Damocles essentially steered the ship for a straight twenty-four hours. I felt so bad for the guy that I volunteered to let him sleep an hour or so while I steered through what I believed to be a straightaway.

When we reached the Mosacian shoreline, however, I could tell that the man didn’t recognize our location. Still, that didn’t stop him from escorting me off Crystal Wrath and pointing me towards what appeared to be a small coastal village. “One of ‘em locals ought to help you find your way,” he blabbed disinterestedly. “I best be going, though. Thank you for the coins, milady.”

And just like that, he vanished into the boat.

Since then, I’ve trekked what feels like twenty miles but has only been five, and the only comfort amidst my aching feet comes from a soothing summer wind, which whisks me towards the town my chauffeur indicated earlier on. The residents here abide in bright painted cottages, with colored flags hanging on thin clothes lines strung from house to house. A foreign sort of happiness abides in the atmosphere here—the kind that makes people want to live their entire lives with the windows open, as if the warm sun shines even in the dark hours of the night. Children I’d imagine would be in primary school were it not the weekend litter the street, kicking a ball around with their neighbors. I veer towards the edge of the pavement in order to give them their space, but I notice a few of them pause to glance my way. I expect a few pursed lips or sour expressions, and yet, every last face lingers with curiosity at worst and quiet excitement at best. Even the adults that observe the children’s recreational games from their sitting rooms seem to eye me with faint fascination and are perhaps even . . . welcoming.

While I’m not sure what part of Mosacia I sailed my way into, this place feels nothing like the beastly land that Venus and Jericho had described.

In fact, I’m almost inclined to believe that I’m on a completely separate landmass—but then I catch the Deragon crest in the embossing along a clocktower in the center of town square. It’s the one, for lack of better verbiage, sore spot amidst an otherwise idyllic scene. Kids fly their kites in the distant open field, families eat sandwiches together along scattered park benches, and the kids playing in the street heckle and laugh at each other until suddenly, the ball shoots through the air and into my unsuspecting shins.

I will myself not to double over, thankful that my tall boots take the brunt of the impact. One of the children in particular looks far more empathetic than the other, and despite speaking a different language, his tone clues me in on the fervent apology he wishes to extend to me. I offer him a warm smile and gently kick the ball back towards him, waving before I depart down a new alleyway.

Here, the cobblestone paths are lined with vendor carts that smell like pastries and an array of breaded wonders I’d love to sink my teeth into. My stomach gurgles in response, and despite feeling guilty knowing my family’s face rests on the coins I slip between my fingers, I’m secretly thankful, at this moment, that Urovian currency became universally recognized. At least I’m not stranded and broke.

There’s a man reading the paper not far from one of the baker’s carts, and I dare to approach the stand. Remembering that the young boy didn’t speak Urovian dialect, I ask the vendor slowly, pointing to the second tiered tray, “How much for the loaf?”

The worker’s eyes brighten as he drinks me in, then traces my finger towards my item of choice. He nods twice, recounting his preferred pricing internally before inquiring, “Whole or . . . half? Slice?”

The gentleman lingering nearby cuts a passing glance in my direction, right as I look back at the vendor, who is clearly trying his best to bridge our language barrier. My cheeks pinken with the understanding that he is trying to speak my dialect when I’m in his homeland. “Whole, please.”

“Jericoin?”

I wince at the question, always having found the name of our currency rather narcissistic, but nod in response.

“Three for you,” the vendor pronounces congenially.

Truthfully, I think the man is giving me a deal, and the surprised look on the observer’s face, who no longer seems to be reading the paper, only proves my theory.

Still, I set the gleaming coins in his extended palm just as he exchanges them for the loaf. The cinnamon scent of it reaches my nose in a loving caress, and with my hunger roiling within me so fiercely, tears of joy nearly well up in my eyes.

Before I can express my gratitude however, the stranger barks an irritated laugh. “A pretty dame bats her eyelashes and gets half the price shaved off her food? Aurelio, you pushover.”

Despite the fact that the man uses my native tongue, the word pushover seems to ruffle Aurelio’s feathers. He grunts back at the man, and I piece together that, at the bare minimum, the two are leisurely acquaintances. What stands out more so amidst their brief exchange, however, are the kind features on the man my attention now rests upon—honeyed hair, soft brown eyes, and the beginnings of a strawberry blond-tinted beard. His wide, curved-lip smile frames his face so well, it’s almost laughable.

Yes, he’s a bit ordinary looking, but in the way that matters much more than true, or even rugged, handsomeness. The man looks safe to be around. Inviting.

“That’s awfully kind of you to imply that I’m pretty,” I find enough of a voice to say, the blush that stains my cheeks real and unfabricated.

“I didn’t imply,” he says simply.

His body appears poised to turn back to his pages, and a voice inside my head begins to protest. This is your window, Genny. Take it now.

“I suppose there aren’t too many nice men that speak my language around here?” I ask.

His head perks up, looking over me again, as if to assess if my question is targeted towards something specific or merely a means of casual conversation. He settles upon the former, stepping closer to test the invisible boundary between us. “Not here, I’m afraid. Perhaps further inland, or south—”

“That reminds me. Could you tell me . . . where exactly it is I am? My ship’s captain was meant to steer me towards Sevensberg, but considering the lack of a castle and the warm welcome,” I add, eyeing sweet Aurelio, “I assume I’ve lost my way.”

That sparks his interest. “ Sevensberg ? Why would you ever want to visit that ghost town?”

I don’t bother stringing together a lie, so I lay all my cards on the table unashamedly.

“My daughter faces a tribunal the first of August,” I pant. “One where her guilty verdict has likely been decided upon already. But she’s not . . . she doesn’t deserve the fate they’re prepared to deal her.”

“First of all, the courts don’t convene in Sevensberg anymore,” he says. “They used to, you’re right about that, but ever since the Seagraves left power”— that’s certainly one way to put it —“these kinds of hearings take place near the sacred migration sight . . . in the center of Mosacia.”

Saints, I’ve got a lot more walking in my future.

“Secondly, Tribunals are not petty threats, Miss,” the man argues, albeit politely. “The continent’s most notorious criminals face judgment there. If your daughter is to stand trial, it’s highly unlikely that her conviction is unmerited.”

“Please,” I say, not afraid to grovel to the point of laying my face at his sandaled feet. “I’ll do anything you ask. Pay any price for you to take me there. If not to stop the sentence, then at least . . . at least to see her face, to reassure her that I’m there .”

The man weighs on my offer. He could easily turn away without another word, abandoning me here. But he knows I’m alone—and unlike most men, he takes pity on me rather than taking advantage of the situation.

“Alright, then,” he concedes.

I nearly sag from the relief my body expels. “Oh, thank you so much —”

“But who exactly is your daughter? Maybe I’ve heard of her offense.”

Saints spare me.

Still, I grant him the truth. “Pandora Deragon,” I whisper, as if prepared to have my daughter’s name be my final words. As if anticipating him to reveal a hidden sword and slice it through my neck.

But the man stands stoically still, examining me intently. No doubt, there are plenty of Mosacians that would snarl at the Deragon name—but this stranger, mercifully, doesn’t appear to belong to that demographic. Each breath feels labored the longer he looks my way.

“I can see I’ve startled you,” I say softly, starting to walk onward. I don’t wish to let my defeat take over my face, not while he’s still studying it. “Forgive me. I’ll just be going—”

“You said it’s your daughter on trial, yet you gave me the name of the Urovian Princess.”

“That’s correct.”

He blinks once. Twice.

Then, after a long while, the gentleman finally sticks out his hand.

“You’re too kindhearted to be the queen I’ve heard about, so I take it you’ve done her quite the favor in carrying an heir for her. I’m Renatus.” Quickly, he shakes his head, correcting himself. “Ren, actually.”

He doesn’t have all the details, and while his guess is impeccable, that’s all it is to him—a guess. For all I know, Ren’s assumption may not be for the sake of accuracy, but for self-preservation. The somber notion draws me two steps closer to him, softening the sheepish smile now plastered across my face.

“Your kindness means more to me than you may ever know, Ren. I’m Geneva,” I respond, clutching his hand like he’s my only remaining lifeline. “But you may call me Genny.”