The figure who answered Wintrow’s summons was no boy or youth but a man, dark-haired, with an aquiline nose and a finely sculpted mouth. His eyes were a shockingly intense blue. His clothing was as handsome as he was, and the emerald earrings he wore were large, diamonds glittering around the green jewels. I judged him to be older than Boy-O, but not by much. And he was softer. Physical work pounds a boy into a different sort of manhood. Boy-O had that physique. But the prince was a house cat in comparison. Kennit’s son smiled with even white teeth. ‘I present myself,’ he said to Wintrow with a mocking bow, and then leaned past him to peer into the cabin. ‘Trellvestrit? You are here, too? It seems you’ve convened a party and not invited me. Well, that’s cold of you, my young friend!’
Boy-O spoke softly. ‘It’s not like that, Kennitsson. Not like that at all.’
‘You’ve come to know one another?’ Althea asked softly but received no response.
Wintrow spoke in a low, controlled voice. ‘I want you off this ship. We both know that your mother does not approve of your coming here.’
Kennitsson cocked his head and grinned. ‘I also know that my mother is not here.’
Wintrow did not return his smile. ‘A queen does not have to be present to expect that her commands will be obeyed. Especially by her son.’
‘Ah, but this is not the will of a queen but the will of my mother who fears for me. And it is time for me to live beyond her fears.’
‘In this case, her fears are well-founded,’ Wintrow countered.
‘You are not welcome aboard this vessel,’ Brashen added in a flat voice. There was no anger in his tone but there was danger. For an instant, Kennitsson’s face went blank with astonishment. Then we all heard a roar of disagreement from Paragon the ship.
‘Send him forward! Send him forward to me!’
Kennitsson recovered himself, and his features shifted from shock to royal arrogance. I had not been so vividly reminded of Regal in many a year. His words were clipped, his anger palpable. ‘I believe this was my father’s ship before it was yours. And I believe that even if I did not have an inherent right to be here, my authority as Prince of the Pirate Isles supersedes your captain’s powers. I go wherever I wish to go.’
‘On this deck, nothing overshadows the say of the captain,’ Brashen informed him.
Paragon’s roar blasted us. ‘Except the will of the ship!’
Kennitsson canted his head at Brashen and smiled. ‘I believe I am summoned,’ he said, and offered an elegant bow, complete with a sweep of his feathered hat, before turning and sauntering away. Brashen made a noise, but Wintrow stepped between Brashen and the door and blocked the captain from exiting.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Let me talk with him. He has been consumed with curiosity about Paragon since he was eight years old.’ He turned his gaze to Althea. ‘Any boy raised with no glimpse of Kennit, surrounded by dozens of men telling him hero tales of his father, would be enamoured of this ship. He cannot resist.’
‘Coming aboard!’ someone roared, and in the next breath, ‘Kennitsson! Prince you may be, but you do not defy me or your mother without a reckoning!’
‘Sorcor,’ Wintrow said with a sigh. ‘Oh, lovely. Just perfect.’
‘Sometimes Kennitsson listens to him.’ Boy-O sounded hopeful.
Beside me, Amber breathed, ‘Kennit’s first mate, in the old days.’
‘Sometimes,’ Wintrow agreed and then turned and went to meet Sorcor. I heard the hasty mutter of their conversation, Sorcor’s voice accusing and Wintrow’s defensive and reasonable. But my ears strained to hear a different set of voices. I heard the ship hail ‘young Paragon’ with joy and the young man’s more measured response.
‘How can he?’ Boy-O spoke into the quiet. ‘After what Kennit did to you, after all you and Brashen have done for him, how can he be so joyous to receive Kennit’s son?’ I wondered if I heard a twinge of jealousy beneath his outrage. His jaw was set and he suddenly looked a great deal more like his father.
‘He’s Paragon. He’s always been capable of things we can’t even imagine.’ Althea stood slowly. She moved as if she had suddenly aged, as if every joint in her body were stiff.
‘I’m not my father,’ Brashen said suddenly. ‘Neither is he.’
‘He looks like him,’ Althea said uncertainly.
‘Much as Boy-O looks like you. And me. But he isn’t either of us. And he’s not responsible for anything we’ve done in our lives.’ Brashen’s voice was low and calm. Rational.
‘Boy-O,’ the young man said softly. ‘Haven’t heard that name in a while. I’m almost used to being called Trellvestrit now.’
