Haven (War of the Princes) (16 page)

           
It was another two days before I was able to see the outside of the keep again. Dylan had been called away for his duties as Common-Lord and that left me under lock and key once again.

The first day of my solitude was a blessing. I spent it in my “guest” room trying to dissolve the information I had learned the night before and come up with some semblance of an escape plan. Every possibility led back to talking to Rune. I’d gone stir crazy by the second day, and any ideas that didn’t involve him evaporated. Finding some way to reach him was my only immediate goal.

           
For those two days of solitude, the only people I saw were the servants, but they kept delivering gifts: perfumes, an elegant silk dress, an extravagant sapphire necklace. It was obvious that Dylan had arranged all of this, but one item in particular caught me off guard. It was an overly long knit scarf, in almost the exact shade of orange I had worn on my first day about the Keep. Instead of a wrapped box with a bow, it came in a plain brown package with a note that read, “No one is sorrier than me.”

           
The message made no sense. The sender was clearly not Dylan. Could it have been Rune? Was he awake and sorry that I was stranded here? My hopes soared. This token meant he wasn’t how Dylan said he would be.

           
That night was colder than the others and even my shuttered windows couldn’t keep out the chill. I wore the scarf all night.

           
The following morning was surprisingly warm. I’d never experienced weather that fluctuated between such extremes. I pulled on a lightweight grey shirt, a charcoal pair of shorts and strapped on my sturdy boots. The scarf stayed on.

           
Shortly after my breakfast tray was taken away, Dylan appeared at my door. He looked impeccably overdressed as usual.

           
“A little warm for a scarf isn’t it?” he said, confirming my assumption that he hadn’t gotten it for me.

           
“Nope,” I replied.

           
“You’re right,” he admitted with a smile. “If you’re planning for a ride on the inland dunes. Keeps the sand out of your mouth. The beach is much more pleasant. Care to join me?”

           
“I’m not in the mood for swimming,” I said, collecting the fine items he had sent me.

           
“Not swimming,
riding
,” he clarified, distracted as he watched me. “What are you doing with those?”

           
“I’m giving them back,” I said, noting his disappointed expression. “In exchange for something else.”

           
“And that would be?”

           
“A pair of goggles like the ones you wore the night you found me,” I said. “They let you see at night right? I’d like to see what the ocean looks like in the dark.”

           
“Done. They’re yours. But so are those,” he said, giving me one of his painfully perfect smiles. “My lady only needs to ask.”

           
I put his gifts away again, feeling awkward. “Thank you.”

           
No one had ever spoiled me or given me so much personal attention. I didn’t want to wear the clothes that he gave me, but what other choice did I have? My things had never been returned to me. The gown and necklace were over the top, though, even for Dylan. I would never wear them.

           
“How is he?” I asked as we left my room and wandered down the corridor.

           
“Who?” he asked innocently.

           
“Dylan, don’t pretend,” I said, challenging his feigned ignorance. “You know exactly who I’m talking about, and from what you’ve told me, I’m betting that as the acting Common-Lord, you have to know how a wounded Dragoon is doing.”

           
“For someone who’s not from around here, you’re catching on quickly,” he said, far more interested in me than my question.

           
“For someone who wants me to trust them, you don’t give me many reasons to,” I said coolly.

           
“Katelyn, you wound me,” he said, affronted, and I wondered if I’d gone too far. He had certainly helped me, and I realized in that instant that I didn’t want to take it for granted. If it weren’t for Dylan Axton, I’d be in a cold cell eating gruel. Before I could apologize, he answered me, “The Dragoon has healed very well, but is still recovering. Some of our Doctors have healing Abilities, and the wound in his arm has been cleaned and mended. They say he should be on his feet soon.”

           
“I want to see him.”

           
“Haven’t I humored you enough with this? He won’t speak with you,” Dylan said as we descended the stairs to the first floor.

           
“We’ll see,” I said and stalked purposefully toward the medical quarters.

           
When he realized I wasn’t following him anymore, Dylan called after me. “Katelyn, wait!”

           
Ignoring him, I hurried on, pushing open the door to the central waiting room just to walk directly into a Doctor. I yelped in surprise.

“Sorry!” I squeaked, and looking up, I recognized the person who I had slammed into. It was Rune’s mother.

           
What could I say to her? Dumbstruck, I opened my mouth and nothing came out.

           
She looked at me long and hard. “It’s not a good time,” was all she said, and we both knew what she was talking about.

           
Intimidated, I backed away one step and noticed an orange thread peeking out of the satchel over her shoulder.

           
“It was you!” I whispered, shocked, touching the orange scarf around my neck. Her eyes were sad, just for a moment. She turned away from me to walk back to her desks, just as Dylan caught my arm and pulled me around.

           
“If I’m not mistaken,” he said as steered us away, “they’re having a meeting on
Lurcher
wounds right now. The doctors tend to get cranky when they’re interrupted.”

           
Preoccupied with thinking about Rune’s mother, I didn’t respond. When we first met, she had talked about her son so coldly, almost like he was dead to her. But she knit me a scarf with a note that said, “No one is sorrier than me.” I thought her cruel at first. She never showed me any kindness in person, save for this gift and note, sent to me in secret.

           
I couldn’t help but look at her differently. She didn’t want to disown her son. She was forced to. What kind of resolve must a mother have to treat her child with such indifference? I remembered Rune telling me he had a little sister. Now I knew the consequences of disobeying the Margrave. If Doctor Thayer hadn’t given up her son willingly, all of the children would have been taken, including her daughter. The thought was heartbreaking.

           
“Dylan,” I said pensively. “How old was Rune when he was taken away?”

           
“Older than most. Thirteen,” he replied dutifully, but without any concern.

           
“And how old is he now?” I wondered.

           
Dylan flicked the blonde hair away from his eyes as we walked, nodding at the Keep workers that we passed. “Nineteen.”

           
So he had been living the life of a Dragoon for six years. I had absolutely no idea what that might be like. There were no soldiers where I was from, no unnatural abilities and no Overlords. There was no way for me to understand what he might have endured.

           
“Now, Miss Kestrel, I’d like to introduce you to our modest town, Breakwater,” Dylan said in grand spirits.

           
It was a beautiful day on the bay, and my first time leaving the Keep since I was brought there by force. We left the front entrance of the impressive building and walked out into the daylight. Cirrus clouds collected high above like lacework in the sky, sea birds cried out flying low overhead, and the salty ocean breeze pushed me gently toward Breakwater and my Haven Mountains far beyond.

           
From the ground level I couldn’t really see the mountains. The clustered olive stone buildings stood between me and the view of the lands beyond, but I knew they were there.

           
Now that I had time to admire the little city before me, I noticed that many of the roofs had dull green, brown or foggy blue tiles adorning them. Plants spilled out of pots that hung from brick windows and balconies, and various bits of gadgetry were fitted to boats and carriages.

           
Another of the many things I was unaccustomed to seeing were automobiles. They were boxy, metal contraptions, some fitted with leather collapsible tops. Bulbous lights protruded like bug eyes from their forward end and twisted brassy horns were attached conveniently beside the driver. There were far fewer of these than the horse drawn coaches and wagons, so they captured my attention all the more. I didn’t understand the allure… their engines grumbled, with steam stacks and mufflers hissing and wheezing, making all sorts of noise. And that wasn’t even considering those obnoxious horns.

           
Breakwater was much older and shabbier looking when compared to my home of
Rivermarch
, and the technology seemed shoddy but functional. I saw a handful of small steam-powered gondolas with rusty waterwheels out on the ocean, and a few rickety mechanized carriages and goat carts that rattled and creaked with such wear, I thought they might fall apart at any moment.

           
Dylan introduced me to a free trolley that would take us deeper into town. He said he would have paid for us to ride a better one, but the free trolley was the only trolley. I boarded, assuming at first that between the chipped red paint and the rough grain of the old wooden benches that the ride would be a horrible experience. On the contrary, standing up for the duration with my arms wrapped around a pole and taking in the sea air was, well, fun. The driver greeted passengers by name and rang a little bell whenever we left each stop.

Breakwater may not have been as clean or polished as
Rivermarch
, but there was something charming about its rugged, weatherworn avenues.

Dylan must have known I was enjoying myself. He looked very self-satisfied.

           
“This is Market Street,” he told me as we stepped off of the trolley and onto the broadest and busiest road I’d seen yet. “Original, I know. I could swear that every city I’ve ever visited has had a Market Street.”

           
I smiled because he was right, but I didn’t tell him so. Both
Rivermarch
and the capital of
Pinebrook
had Market Streets.

           
The road was coursing with people riding fine, tall horses and driving wagons with rusty gears and axels. An occasional automobile puffed and pattered its way by. The style of clothing worn in Breakwater was a little different than I was used to, but I didn’t see too many people wearing rips or tears. In fact, most of them looked as nice as the mannequins in shop windows. Why then, was everything else so scuffed?

           
“I don’t want to sound rude, but is Breakwater poor?” I asked Dylan, not figuring out any more tactful way to bring it up.

           
He gave me a sidelong glance and a smirk.

“We get by. The Prince’s taxes are high. Too high to be fair,” he said quietly. “We have a few key exports that save us: seafood, textiles and fine bred horses.”

A dying automobile went noisily by and I had to wait for the sound to sputter out. “But why does everything look so, worn down?” I persisted, watching the driver get out and kick his tire.

“Are you trying to offend me, Miss Kestrel? This is my city,” he said, not actually looking offended in the least. “It looks the way it does because Breakwater is
old
. The storms always leave their marks and the salt and humidity from the ocean damages the metal works. Besides that, the Prince drafts all the good mechanics. The army can never have too many. So everyone here does their part and learns what they have to. You’d be shocked and disgusted if I told you how much I’ve had to learn about indoor plumbing. I know I am.”

We walked beside a shop with little mechanical dragonflies hovering a foot off the ground beside the front door. A pair of children begged their mother to purchase one. Along the olive brick wall of a storefront selling finches and budgies, a third child crouched with a piece of orange chalk, drawing something on the ground. When her mother called her to leave, I strolled over to see what she’d drawn. My shadow blanketed the art on the stone. It was just a simple shape: a broken circle with a lopsided arrow pointing to its center.

The budgies chirped and fluttered. I looked up to watch them rock their cage. When I glanced back down at the drawing near my feet, a small amphibian, much like a salamander, stared back up at me.

It was a solid lusterless black, with milky white eyes. Anyone or anything with eyes that white should have been blind. The way it looked at me assured the contrary. It
stared
up, leaning back onto its little haunches, and hiccupped at me.