The Lost Prince (9 page)

Rook tried to climb back onto the raft, but Ronan stepped on his fingers. “The only water that’s been wasted here are the drops you drank. But, if it’s water you’re after, you’ve got all you can stand down there. Take as much as you like. That’s where you’ll be spending the rest of this trip, however long or short it might be.”

Rook gave Dean a look that would have disarmed a swordfish. Then he tied a loose rope around his wrist, in case he ever lost his grip on the raft, and snarled at Dean and Ronan. “This ain’t over. Yer gonna wish you never met me, the both of ya!”

“I already wish that,” said Dean, meaning every word. This job had completely gone to wreck. He’d broken all the rules of spy craft—the same rules that had kept him alive all these years. Don’t get attached to people. Don’t get involved in matters that don’t concern you. Don’t linger long enough to make enemies. He felt Ronan’s hand on his shoulder.

“Thanks for that, Seaborne. I think I might have misjudged you.”

Dean shook his head. “Don’t thank me yet. We’re still a long way from home.”

Ronan laughed. “Where’s that? I don’t know about you, but my home’s lying in pieces on the ocean floor. There’s no home for the likes of us. At this point, our only hope lies in getting rescued by the right ship.”

“Thanks, Ronan. You always know just what to say.”

Time passed, food ran out, and the boys languished beneath the hot Caribbean sun. When the water ran dry, as sooner or later it had to do, the crew faded fast. Dean held out as long as he could, but eventually he succumbed to the heat just like everyone else.

CHAPTER
9

W
hen Dean opened his eyes, he found himself in a much better place than the one where he had last closed them. In fact, he had somehow ended up in a better place than he’d ever been before.

Saved? I don’t believe it. We’re saved!

His vision was fuzzy, and it took a moment for the room to come into focus. Moonlight shined through the stained-glass window behind him, and oil lamps lit the room with a soft amber glow. When his eyes finally made their peace with the light, Dean wasn’t entirely sure if he could trust them. He was in bed, resting comfortably. He was safe, warm, and above all, dry. His first thought was that he was either dreaming or dead.

Dean propped himself up in the bed, resting on his elbows. The bed was heavily laden with soft pillows and made up with clean sheets. As he pressed at the cushions beneath him, he realized someone had changed him into clean clothes as well. He felt the fine, smooth cuff of his sleeve. It was the kind of fabric One-Eyed Jack’s men took off trade ships during raids. He was on board a ship, and it looked as though he’d been given the captain’s cabin. Why? How long had he been there? Where were the others?

Dean’s throat felt dry and scratchy. His questions would have to wait. Right now, he needed one thing and one thing only.

“Water?” asked a voice.

Dean’s head snapped around. His hands shot out. He hadn’t noticed the man beside the bed before. He hardly noticed him now. Dean saw only that the man was holding a tall glass of water. Dean swallowed it all down in a single gulp, then spit up at least half, choking through a violent fit of coughs.

“Slowly,” the man said, patting Dean on the back. He refilled the glass from a pitcher on a table next to the bed, this time only to the halfway mark. He passed it back to Dean. “Just sip it to begin.”

Dean nodded, feeling foolish. He knew a person in his condition had to take it slow with his first sip of water, but he couldn’t stop himself. He was so thirsty. Acting with a clearer head the second time around, he finished the short glass, kept it down, and drank another full one.

“Thank you,” Dean said, clearing his throat. “I’m in your debt, sir.”

The man waved a finger back and forth. “No. It is my honor to help you in your hour of need. More than you could possibly imagine.”

Dean squinted at the man and turned the odd reply over in his brain. An honor? To help
him
? The man who had given him the water was old, but hale and hearty. His stark white hair and full beard made him look wise and worldly instead of withered. He had the tough leathery skin of a lifelong sailor but the build and bearing of a man whose life had not been long at all.

“You are no doubt wondering who I am,” the man said.

“I’m wondering why I’m in here all by myself. Where are the others? I can’t be the only survivor. Am I?”

“Your mates are all safe on board this ship.”

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. It was odd, but he felt real concern for Gentleman Jim and his crew.
Why?
He wasn’t one of them. The fact was he hardly even knew them, but the feelings were there just the same.

“I believe introductions are in order.” The old man stood up and took a formal bow. “My name is Verrick. You are a guest on board my ship, the
Tideturner.
Please, if you would be so kind as to tell me whom I have the honor of addressing?”

Dean furrowed his brow. Twice, Verrick had said it was an honor to have him on board. That was strange enough all by
itself, but it was stranger still now that the man had made it clear he didn’t know who Dean was. “They call me Seaborne. Dean Seaborne.”

Verrick raised an eyebrow. “Seaborne, you say? But that’s the name reserved for …”—Verrick motioned with his hands, searching for the right words—“for
fatherless
children.”

Dean nodded. “I take it you thought I was someone else?” His lips formed an apologetic smile. “Sorry to disappoint you. I was wondering why you were so honored to play host to a sea-born orphan.” He motioned to the bed and his fine sleepwear. “In such style too.”

“It’s true, then? You have no family to speak of?”

Dean shook his head. “None but my shipmates.”

“Where are you from?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. This Verrick certainly asked a lot of questions. “I don’t claim to be from anywhere. I know where I live and where I’ve been, but no more than that. My only home is the ocean blue.”

Verrick stared at Dean, deep in thought. “I don’t believe it.”

Sensing his time in the lap of luxury was nearing an end, Dean threw back the covers. He started to climb out of bed, but Verrick motioned for him to stay put.

“The wreck of your ship. Your mates tell me pirates had a hand in that.”

Dean nodded. “That’s true enough.” And so it was.

“Pirates,” Verrick said with gravel in his voice. “Scum of the sea. Their wretched lot has played an even greater part in your life than you realize, I’ll wager.”

Dean tilted his head to one side.
Another odd comment.
Something was off about Verrick. He could feel it. “Sir, you still haven’t told me why I’m in here all alone. At first I just assumed I’d taken the longest to recover, but I can’t help but think there’s something else going on.”

Verrick pointed at Dean. “You’re a clever one. It’s no wonder you’ve survived this long.”

Dean studied Verrick. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not talking about surviving out on the waves with the rest of the crew?”

Verrick smiled. “Because I’m not.” He sat down across from Dean and leaned in toward him. “Tell me, Dean, what do you know about Zenhala?”

“Zenhala?” Dean smirked. “Are you serious? “What has that got to do with why I’m here?”

“Everything. I take it you’ve heard of the island?”

“Every sailor worth his salt has heard of Zenhala.”

“Good, that will save us time. Less to explain.”

Dean shook his head. “There’s nothing to explain. The Golden Isle’s a myth.”

“Many sailors would disagree with you.”

“Desperate men and fools.”

Verrick shrugged. “Some perhaps. But please, indulge me.
What about the traders of Zenhala? Surely, you must know of them too.…”

Dean nodded, playing along. He knew everything there was to know about Zenhalan folklore. He wouldn’t have used it in the grift he ran on Gentleman Jim otherwise. “The traders are like the leprechauns of the Caribbean. They go out into the world once every year to exchange the golden harvest for goods and supplies. If you’re lucky enough to come across one of their ships, you keep it in your sights and follow it back to the Golden Isle. If you can keep up, that is.”

“Easier said than done, is it?”

“They say the traders of Zenhala move through market towns like ghosts and sail across the ocean with skills that shame Lord Neptune himself.”

“Really?” Verrick smiled. “They say all that?”

“That and more.”

Verrick tugged at his beard with a modest grin. “Well, that’s the real trouble with legends, isn’t it? They get all blown out of proportion. One has to be careful not to let that kind of talk go to his head. Pride is a sin, you know.”

Dean looked at Verrick. “That’s what this is, then? You want me to believe you’re a trader of Zenhala?”

“You don’t believe in the Golden Isle? Not even a little?”

“Sir, I may be a child in your eyes, but that doesn’t mean I believe in fairy tales. There is no Zenhala. It’s a legend, nothing more.”

“Believe it or not, I love to hear people say that. That brand of skepticism has kept my island safe for hundreds of years.”

“And yet, here you are, telling me your secret. A boy you dragged out of the ocean and hardly know. I appreciate your help, Captain Verrick, but I don’t know what you hope to gain spinning this tale for me.”

“More than you can possibly imagine.” Verrick slid his chair close to Dean’s bedside and lowered his voice. “You see, I’m not a trader of Zenhala. Not anymore. For the last thirteen years, I have been a seeker. A seeker for the lost prince.”

“The lost prince?” Dean had to laugh. A few days earlier, he had been selling Gentleman Jim practically the same story. “Save your breath, Captain. I’ve heard this one as well.”

“You haven’t heard it from me.” Verrick took Dean by the hand. “Thirteen years ago, a pirate captain fought his way across the Triangle’s treacherous waters and made it all the way to Zenhala. He stole every coin of the island’s golden harvest and more—much more. The loathsome knave killed my queen and took her infant son hostage. He set sail with Zenhala’s greatest treasure, swearing to throw the boy overboard if we pursued him. My king’s hands were tied. It killed him to do it, but he couldn’t risk the life of his only son. He let the man go.”

“And the prince is still out there,” Dean interrupted. “I told you, I know this story. I know all the stories.” He tried to pull his hand back, but Verrick wouldn’t let go.

“The story isn’t finished. I and others like me have been looking for that boy ever since, but now the search is over. At long last, the prince has been found. This mark you bear is proof.” Verrick turned Dean’s wrist over and exposed the small tattoo on his inner arm. “Three wave crests rising in a circle. It’s the mark of the Royal House of Aquos, Lord of Zenhala.”

Dean was struck dumb by Verrick’s claim. It took him a moment to formulate a reply. “I don’t understand. You think I’m the—”

“You’re my prince. And it is my great honor to be the one who brings you home.”

Dean squinted hard at Verrick. He’d heard twenty versions of this story if he’d heard a single one. The tale of the lost prince was popular among bandits who traded in Zenhala’s legend. Many a crooked man had posed as the guardian of a child he’d claimed to be the lost prince, and begged shipowners to take them home. The gullible fools who were taken in by this scheme were led into ambushes and robbed of their cargo, their ships, and in some cases, their very lives. Verrick’s take was different. A grifter trying to convince a penniless boy that
he
was the prince? Where was the profit in that? Dean was certain that Verrick was engineering some kind of scheme, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out the angle.

Dean felt at the small tattoo One-Eyed Jack’s men had branded him with years ago. “You’re mistaken, sir. I got this mark
when I was purchased at a young age by a wealthy shipowner.” That was Dean’s standard cover story to explain the mark on his arm.

“And where is that wealthy shipowner now?”

Dean looked away. “Killed by pirates.” As far as Dean knew, that was the truth. He had never been given any reason to doubt it. His earliest memories were all on board the
Maelstrom
, being yelled at by One-Eyed Jack. He had been taken in a raid at an early age and shanghaied into his service. Dean had grown up spying for One-Eyed Jack; that was all he’d ever known. He’d die spying for him too, one way or the other.

“You’ve been plagued by pirates since birth, haven’t you, Your Grace?”

“Don’t call me that. I’m no prince.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“There, you see? You’re the correct age, and you’ve already admitted that you’re an orphan with no real knowledge of his origins. You misspoke before when you assumed I was expecting someone else. If anything, you’ve proven yourself to be exactly whom I’ve been looking for.”

Verrick pressed a coin into Dean’s hand. Dean held it up to the lantern and saw that it had been minted with the same sigil that was tattooed on his arm. He was shaken by the sight of the coin’s imprint. Its presentation was a powerful move on Verrick’s
part. He had played his hand well, but Dean knew a con when he saw one. It would take more than a single piece of gold to buy his trust.