Youngest Son of the Water King. A bride for the water prince. Natalie Yacobson
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castle collapsing or is it magic?
“You’re just in time. The armada from the Black Shores is closing on us.” Who doesn’t know that the Black Shores is home to tribes that practice evil magic? “We can’t handle it on our own. We need a ruler who can negotiate with the elements.”
“Is it with the elements or with those who dwell within them?” The king’s piercing gaze pinned Ramiro in place.
“Well, how can I put it more precisely?” The First Minister felt as if he were growing to the floor and the floor itself was turning to ice. “You have a whole family in the sea.”
It’s a touchy subject. Is it possible to speak directly to the young king? And how young is he? He looks like a young man, but it’s been over a century since the last heiress of Aquilania disappeared into the waves.
“I am the only one allowed to come,” Moran ventured a revelation. His long, frosty stare made Ramiro uncomfortable.
“But the others in your sea dynasty… They can be called in to help.”
“Forget the others!” Moran rose from his throne without letting go of his wine goblet. He looked magnificent in his royal robe. He was yery statuesque, tall, well-built, and strong. And they said he was a monster, the offspring of a union between a princess and a water monster. He didn’t look like a monster at all. He didn’t look like a water monster either. Except for the golden plaque like fish scales on his ears, and the coral crown that seemed to grow out of his head. Otherwise Moran was perfect, except for one minor point.
“You are the youngest son,” Ramiro reminded him gently. “The Almanac of Kings records that you have six older brothers. Their names are even listed. It is customary for the first born to inherit the throne. It is as long as he’s alive.”
“The elder brothers are still in their domains,” the heir did not deny it.
“Would they come to your aid if you called them from the abyss?”
“They don’t walk at all. But if you need them to come…” he arched his beautiful eyebrows meaningfully. Moran had expressive violet eyes beneath a rim of gold lashes, but his gaze gave Ramiro a chill.
“Shall we officially record them as cripples, to explain why you are the ones who inherit the inheritance?”
“Officially they don’t exist!” Moran objected emphatically. He glanced at the archivist’s nimble hand, which hovered in the air above the paper like a frozen thing.
“I think it’s broken,” whispered the young man, who could not move his own arm. But he dared not call for a physician. Under the heavy gaze of the new king, both health and willpower were drained from everyone.
“You have only me! Rely only on me! There’s no one else to protect you, and the sea is right under your windows,” Moran grinned wryly and moved toward the Viceroy. There was no sound of footsteps. Does he have no legs? Or is he floating above the floor?
Who knows what kind of body he has under his robe. Moran steadfastly refused to try on the doublets and caftans that had become fashionable at the court of Aquilania. He doesn’t follow fashions. But his face is divinely beautiful. Not surprising, considering that his mother, the officially deceased Princess Lilophea, was famous for her beauty.
Ramiro thought that if he didn’t prefer women, he would be wildly in love with the young king, despite the fear he felt in Moran’s presence. His proximity felt as freezing as a desert of ice. So did he really come from the sea? Probably he is some powerful wizard pretending to be the son of a princess who disappeared into the waves. But then where did he get Lilophea’s signet ring? That ring was supposed to be for the heir to the throne.
“The father won’t protect you,” Moran relented before explaining in detail. “It’s because of a long-standing conflict over a bride.”
“I remember! It was an unpleasant affair,” agreed Ramiro. He had not seen it himself, of course. The story was old. But all the details were recorded in the archives and chronicles of the kingdom. It was a pity that the paper in the local repositories got wet in some places, and some lines could not be restored later. What can you do, the humidity here is too saturated. But Ramiro was aware of the events, though not in detail. So he appreciated Moran’s remark:
“If you don’t concede a small thing to someone, it’s hard to count on their generosity.”
Ramiro had to account to him for the mistakes of those who had died long before Ramiro was born.
“The thing is,” Ramiro shifted from foot to foot. Is it just his imagination that there are slippery tentacles beneath the king’s robe and wet footprints on the floor? No, probably not, considering whose son he is.
“I don’t know what it’s like on the seas, but here in Aquilania, you don’t hand over your only princess to just anyone at the drop of a hat.”
“To you, a powerful king is just anyone?” Moran took a sip of wine. If only the purple liquid in his glass could be called wine? If it was a type of wine, it was definitely a sorcerer’s wine.
“Besides, the Lord of the Seas had complained that there had been over a hundred demands before he had to use force.”
Ramiro’s heart sank. He had called his father by his official title. Apparently their family relationship wasn’t so friendly that Moran could call on his relatives for help.
“I’m afraid the state is in a sorry state right now. We’re down to ten ships at most. And the enemy’s armada is almost at the fortress walls.”
Moran gave him an expressive look. It is clear under whose supervision we are so impoverished, said his eyes from under half-lidded eyelids.
“Come!” He beckoned instead of judging, and fish scales glistened on his hand. “I’ll show you how to deal with your enemies without a fleet.”
A shattered fleet
Desdemona watched from below the crowded square. It was dangerous here. The enemy’s armada was approaching the coast. Now the foreign ships would start firing their cannons. We must run away from here, headlong. But the beautiful silhouette of the young king, as if stuck to the side of the tower arch, fascinated her.
“So this is our new king?” She exhaled in amazement.
Too young! But how majestic is he. He is standing tall, without fear of falling. And there is no barrier under his feet. You’d think he was winged. No fear of crashing at all.
Everyone, like her, came to see him, but the others had already fled the square. The first cannon volleys came from the harbor.
“The young king didn’t even tell us to assemble the fleet,” complained one of the panicked men running through the square. “We’re all going to die!”
“We will die not from our enemies, but from the monster who came to rule us,” shouted an old woman. The first volley hit her as if for a lie. The bloody body fell at Desdemona’s feet.
She herself was too shocked to run away. And where would she go? They’re firing all around. The ships of the enemy are already under the fortress wall. At the side of the harbor is burning and smoking real hell, and the newly proclaimed king of Aquilania stands in the opening of a high tower arch and silently watches. His kingdom is about to be crushed, and there is no emotion on his beautiful face.
Could it be a statue up there, dressed in a royal robe for distraction? No, it doesn’t look like it, because he’s moving. He stretched his hand out toward the sea, whispered something, and the square immediately became dark. It’s the storm coming. And a moment ago the sky was clear except for the smoke from the cannons.
The king’s ominous whisper travels over the land like a spell. It sounds like the mutterings of the sea priests, only it’s frosty.
Desdemona