Tides of Torment (Immortal Realms Book 2)

Sweat glimmered along Sereia’s forehead, and lines of exhaustion as well as pain pinched her features. Travion wished to shield her from everything stemming from this blasted book, but he was quickly realizing that Sereia didn’t need sheltering. The years apart and on the sea had molded her into a fierce sailor, there was no doubt about it.

“Fine, I’ll fetch Boran for you, but next time—” Next time what? Next time let his foolish self leap into the waters with an arm he couldn’t use?

Sereia’s eyes flicked open, and she stared at him through dark lashes. “Did I wound your pride?”

Travion scoffed and turned away from the table. He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing his annoyance away, but it was futile, especially with Sereia. “Maybe a little. I’m not keen on being useless.”

“Of course.” Her features softened, and she sighed. “Being alive isn’t useless, Travion.”

He shifted his jaw. “Sometimes it can feel that way.” Travion said no more as he left the quarters.

In another setting, he would have laughed because they were the same, he and Sereia. Thick-headed and driven by the need to protect the ones in their care—the ones they loved. But out here, on the dangerous waters, he honestly didn’t know if they’d survive these ordeals.

But she was no wilting flower, shriveling from the harsh sea spray. No, she was the wind howling with rage across the waves and the tide rolling in to claim the shore.

The notion that she didn’t need him both soothed him and caused an ache to form within his chest. If she didn’t need him, there was no possibility of staying.

Travion made his way onto the deck, and he homed in on Boran, his face lit by the torches in the dark of the night. He was in the middle of making his way to another crew member when Travion interrupted him. “Boran, your captain wishes to see you.”

The other male nodded, then ducked his head and walked away.

“Why do you look as though you’re ready to take on the sea itself?” Finn, who had been lurking seas-knew-where, stepped into view. He folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “Please tell me that isn’t your next course of action.”

Travion chuckled darkly. “Maybe it is, who can say at this point.”

“Not in your condition, Your Grace,” Finn said firmly, then inclined his head. “I’ve watched you do this to yourself for years now. I cannot begin to understand what has happened in your lifetime.”

“Don’t, Finn.” Travion held up his good hand. “This is my responsibility, and to see others endure loss and pain they shouldn’t have to—”

“It’s not your fault. None of this is. And you cannot take this all on yourself. You cannot hope to face this alone. You need help, and it’s okay to accept that.” Finn’s gaze remained on Travion, and intensity swirled within their depths.

Damn it to the depths! Travion didn’t want him to be right, and certainly didn’t want his words to be sound reasoning, yet they were.

Cries rang out near the bow of the ship, then the distinct sound of a fist colliding with skin.

“Oi! Knock it off!” Adrik’s voice cut through the thunderous waves around them.

Travion spun to regard the crew member, but the words weren’t directed at them. One of Adrik’s hands was plastered against another male’s chest. With Sereia temporarily occupied, Travion rushed over and stepped between Adrik and the other human. “Enough.” The shorter male leaned forward as if tempted to strike Travion. As far as etiquette went out at sea, striking down a first mate wasn’t exactly polite. To strike a king, on any surface, was pure foolishness. “I really wouldn’t,” Travion warned.

Adrik hissed behind him. “They’re exhausted. We were on our shore leave when it was cut short because of you.”

Travion turned to face him, catching the quick shake of his head at the crew member. “Because of me?” Sereia had disrupted the entire crew’s rest only to ensure he was . . . alive? He frowned. It was a wonder the crew didn’t lash out at him directly. “I see.”

Movement from the corner of his eye snagged his attention. Sereia and Boran emerged from the cabin, and she studiously avoided his gaze. “We will make port in Saventi. There is no use in pushing ourselves in our current state.” The breeze caught small strands of her hair and plastered them against her profile. “Get a move on.”

With the captain’s final word, Travion set to helping the crew, ignoring the screaming muscle in his shoulder. He could rest at port when everyone else was at ease.

Finn ran his fingers along his short-cropped hair as he stared at the Squid’s Ink Tavern. The clever wooden sign with tentacles wrapped around the words hung by one hinge and shifted in the wind rolling off the harbor. The thunderous voices from within held a promise of flowing drinks and lively entertainment.

“Are you sure you wish to lodge here, Your Grace?” Finn murmured, curling his lip in distaste. Prior to joining the royal guard, he’d been a spoiled earl’s son. And while he had no qualms about bloodying his hands, Finn preferred high-quality establishments.

“I’m not trekking across an island to find more adequate lodgings. This will do for the night. Unless a certain highbrow lordling disagrees?” The question earned a chuckle from his guard.

“Fair enough.” Finn shook his head, eyeing the inn as if it would collapse at any moment. Travion had to admit, he wondered if a swift wind would send it crumbling to the docks. “This will do.”

Sereia walked up beside him, still nursing her side, although she tried to hide the discomfort. “I’ve seen worse.” She narrowed her eyes, truly assessing the building. “Been in much worse than this.”

A shingle fell off the side, as if to prove how dilapidated it was. “Worse?” He considered the tavern again. The wooden siding had rotted in some places, there was a shattered window none had bothered to patch, and a well-fed rat nosed around a barrel of discarded food. “I am not comforted by that in the least.” Somehow, the image of Sereia squatting on a floor-level chair surrounded by pots holding rainwater didn’t soothe his doubts about this establishment.

Travion stepped forward and pushed the door open. He cleared his throat, peering over his shoulder. “After you, Captain.”

She lifted a brow in response but went inside.

When he moved in behind her, a wall of heat rushed against his face. It was several degrees warmer and verged on stifling. But the fragrance of freshly baked bread and ale permeated the air, enticing him.

His stomach growled, needing sustenance, and his mind longed for the numbing influence of ale. So did his aching body. But this wasn’t the time to fall into a tankard; his senses needed to remain sharp because there was no telling what danger lurked around the corner.

“There is bound to be talk about the recent attack. I’ll have Finn and the Speedwell’s crew spread out to see what they can gather.” He glanced around, taking in the cramped space of the tavern. Instead of smaller tables, there were half a dozen long, wooden tables lined with bench seats that were mostly occupied. There was a bar against the back with a row of empty stools in front.

“It’s a sad day when we have to rely on the recountings of drunken sailors,” Sereia offered with a sigh, then strode toward the bar.

Travion took up one of the empty stools, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Sereia shift and grimace as pain no doubt radiated up her ribs.

He frowned. “I’ll see if I can find someone—”

“I just need a drink.”

Travion rolled his eyes. “As much as I need one as well, I think you need a little more than alcohol.”

“Trask, darling, I didn’t take you for a nanny.” She huffed, motioning for the barkeeper.

The barkeeper shuffled forward, lifting his bushy gray brows. He shrugged a shoulder after giving them a once over. “We only have two things here as far as drinks go. Hard or piss-like. We have fresh bread and chowder.”

“Hard,” Travion said at the same time as Sereia.

Her lips twitched into a hint of a smile. “Just bring the bottle.”

Although it’d been a few moments, the notion Sereia thought him to be a nanny didn’t settle well with Travion. He wasn’t annoyed, but by the sea . . . a nanny?

Travion held up a finger. “Just to be clear. I’m not a nanny, but I know broken ribs well, and they can shift enough to pierce your lungs, which is a whole other world of hurt.” He shook his head and glanced to the side, shifting to try to find a comfortable position. The sling chafed at his neck, and he growled, readying to rip it off.

Sereia poured herself a shot and downed it, wincing. “I don’t think fighting with it is going to help,” she said dryly.

“Thank you for pointing that out.” He shot her a glare, then glanced up as a lanky male passed by. He had dark eyes, which contrasted with his porcelain skin, and pointed ears poked through raven hair. He was fae—all the way out here.

A fae this far out wasn’t unheard of, but it was a rarity. The neighboring kingdoms weren’t fond of any beings that weren’t human. Magic was something mortals feared, always assuming fae would incite a war they couldn’t help fight in. Not that they were wrong, especially considering the current predicament.

Nevertheless, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey for himself and turned to the fae, who’d sat next to him.

“The seas have been unkind as of late, have they not?” Travion asked by way of greeting and took a moment to assess him more closely. He wore a loose linen shirt and a tight pair of breeches. Every angle on him was sharp, but there was a beautiful quality to him, and his full lips only enhanced it.

The other fae squinted at him, and suspicion crept into his gaze. “So I hear.” He turned away from Travion and took up his drink, savoring it.

Sereia laughed, more than likely at the less-than-chatty fellow beside him. He shot her a rueful glance, but it softened as she drew in a sharp breath.

Casually dancing around a topic had never been one of Travion’s strong suits. “Have you heard any word of healers in the area? Those who have an affinity for it, not mortal medicine. I’m in dire need of aid, as is my companion.”

It took a moment for the male to glance at Travion again. “Do you have something against mortal medicine? It has benefited several travelers these past few days.” He twisted around on his stool, readying to hop down and get away from Travion.

Unwilling to let the fae go, Travion grabbed him by the bicep, wincing as the skin pulled taut on his back. “But you are not mortal, and I asked a question.”

He lowered his eyes to Travion’s hand. “I do, but I don’t believe it’s wise to accost the only healer on this island.”

Sereia slid off the stool and cut between them, pushing Travion’s arm down so he was forced to loosen his grip. “Don’t mind Trask, he can be moody.”

“Trask, is it?” The male’s brow furrowed as he smoothed out his linen shirt. “Lefyr, at your service.” He tipped forward as much as he could considering he was on a stool, bending in half as he swept into an awkward bow. Lefyr’s eyes drifted to Sereia and lingered longer than Travion cared for. “Let me eat and I’ll address your ribs.”

Sereia cocked her head. “What?” Her tone sharpened. “How did you know?”

“Your breath keeps hitching.” Lefyr leaned against the bar, his eyes flicking to the barkeeper. “A bowl of chowder, if you don’t mind. And then”—he cast Travion a brief look of annoyance—“I’ll heal you as well. Your shoulder is oozing.”

Travion rubbed at his shoulder, and sure enough, his fingers came away damp with a hint of blood. He grumbled and motioned for the barkeeper. “May as well grab some of that bread and chowder for us as well.”

“I’m assuming the sea wasn’t kind to your lot,” Lefyr murmured. “Was it?”

“No, it wasn’t.” Sereia poured herself another shot, then drank it down. “We took down a serpent the size of three ships.”

“An entire scouting fleet from Midniva was taken out. And we fished someone from a wreck,” Travion added. “If you’re inclined to help, I’d prefer you to see the others first.”

Lefyr’s lips pressed into a grim line, and he nodded, focusing on his chowder. Steam billowed from the bowl, wafting toward Travion, teasing his stomach.

When the barkeeper placed his food down, Travion hastily plucked up a spoon. Lefyr chose that moment to find his voice. “Midniva,” he drawled. “I was born there.”

That answered the question as to where he was from.

Travion’s mouth thinned. If he was born there, surely he knew he was the king? Depending on how old the male was, his guise could’ve easily been blown. “Truly? Small world. Whereabouts?” He shoved a spoonful of chowder into his mouth and felt Sereia’s gaze on him.

“Caithaird.” The capital city of Midniva. There was a slim chance that Lefyr didn’t know who Travion was. Still, the male didn’t grin knowingly at him.

“So then you know more about the troubles on the sea than most,” Sereia cut in. “Have the locals seen anything else?”

“According to them, some have seen crabs the size of a cow. I’ve heard mention that either a woman or a man wearing a cloak, and they were seen carrying something bulky in their arms that seemed to hum with power just before the crabs appeared.”

“That isn’t…quite a description,” Travion muttered.

“No. But some said they saw a man’s pale face in the moonlight, and others, they saw a woman so beautiful it stunned them. But all of them did mention each one was holding something—either that bulky item or a piece of paper.” Lefyr shrugged. “I wish I could offer more, but that is only what I have heard. You may have better luck asking around.”

Travion tore a piece of bread in half and dipped it into the chowder. Something bulky that hummed with power. Did that translate into the book? “That clears everything up.” He scoffed. What this meant was that there would be no retreating to a room, cleaning up, or sinking into the mattress. There was more to learn from this Lefyr.

“Did they say where they saw these mysterious figures heading?” Sereia chimed in.

“Just that they remained close to the water.” Lefyr dunked a piece of bread into his own chowder. “It’s strange, though. The locals have a nightwatch, and when they went to inspect the beach, they didn’t find a thing.”

Travion sighed. Nothing could be so simple.

After eating, Lefyr rolled his sleeves up and moved to stand behind Sereia’s stool. His hands hovered over her ribs, and his fingers flexed as if he were plucking on invisible strings. Sereia gasped, leaning forward, and dug her nails into the counter.

“I thought we agreed I’d be after the passengers,” she rasped, glaring at him from beneath her long lashes.

“Yes, well, I have to walk by you first,” Lefyr said all too cheerfully.

Sereia pulled coins from her pocket and left them on the counter. She slid from her perch with her typical grace and jerked her thumb in his direction. “Since you’re feeling chipper, he took a small forest to his shoulder.”

“So, that’s why you’re bleeding.” Lefyr cocked his head. “I didn’t take you for a lumberman.”

Travion started to stand, but Lefyr carefully planted both hands on his shoulders, securing him in his seat.

“What did you do?” Lefyr locked eyes with him, and a surge of warm relief passed into Travion as the throbbing, dull pain eased little by little. When Lefyr was done, small circles formed beneath his eyes.

“Just tending to those in need,” Travion added before fetching the remainder of the bottle of whiskey and polishing it off.

Lefyr smirked. “Lead the way to the ship, and I’ll do my best.”

Travion stood and crossed the room, noticing the Speedwell’s captain sitting by the door. The male glanced up at him as he walked by. “Drink up, Darragh,” Travion murmured, unfastening a coin pouch at his hip and handing to him.

Sereia brushed past them, but before Travion left the tavern, he stopped Lefyr by barring his path. “I don’t suppose I can bribe you into joining us on our travels,” Travion drawled, but when the other male made no move to reply, he continued outside. The cool air rolled off the sea, whispering across his face and teasing strands of his hair.

“Depends on what the bribe entails,” Lefyr eventually said, smiling like a cat about to pounce on a canary.

Travion shot Sereia a look. Annoyance rippled through him, but what were they to do when they were in need of a healer?

“More coin than you could ever dream of,” Travion supplied.

Lefyr lifted his brows in interest. “I’ll think on it.”

Back on The Saorsa, Lefyr made his way to the unconscious naval officer. Chailai had done as much as she could, but she didn’t have magic, and this man desperately needed that. Lefyr placed his hands over the man’s chest, shaking his head. “He has so much water in him still,” he said, more to himself than to Travion, Sereia, or even Chailai.

Soft blue lights danced along the man’s chest, and a moment later, he coughed up water, spewing it onto the floor. He didn’t rouse any more than that and laid back down.

“He will recover, but he does need to rest.” His dark gaze swept from Sereia to Travion. “As should you. I’ll continue tending to those who need it.”

Travion nodded, then left the confines of Chailai’s quarters. Sereia followed close on his heels. “You should get some rest.” He crossed the ship’s deck and climbed onto the dock. The moon’s glow illuminated the port, and he spotted a small beach in the distance.

Sereia’s hair whipped across her face, and she brushed the sea-tangled tresses away from her eyes. “You managed to find us a healer, well done.”

His lips twitched into a small smile as he bent low and grabbed another stone. “Between the both of us, I figured it was necessary.”

Sereia only nodded, then she, too, bent to pick up a stone. “Will you answer me a question?”

Travion paused mid-throw and twisted to look at her. She was watching him closely—too closely for his liking. “That depends on what the question is.” He lobbed the stone into the water but didn’t bother to watch it skate across the waves. His eyes were trained on Sereia’s features. The smile tightened, and tension crept in.

“Why have you not married yet?”

A laugh unwillingly bubbled out of him. Perhaps from surprise or the notion that Sereia was the one inquiring about marriage. Still, the question was much like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t married at all in three millennia. His reasons were fair enough: too damaged, too busy, too unwilling to compromise. There were a thousand things he could have said, but in the end, he stuck with the truth.

“It was never expected of me, and with a named heir to Midniva already, I didn’t see a point in it.” He shrugged and chanced a look in her direction. A pensive expression knit her brow. Of course she’d wonder why the hell he proposed to her then. “There are other ways to achieve political balance than marrying someone you cannot stomach. I never wanted to force you into marriage.”

And he meant it. By the sea, didn’t she know that by now?

“Then why did you agree?” she asked softly, her gaze never wavering from his.

“I had my terms,” he said as he walked down the dock and smiled at the memory. “If in three months, you still refused me, the arrangement was off. I was so certain of myself by the end of month three, but ah . . .”

They wound their way down to the beach, and when Travion’s boots touched the sand, he crouched to pick up a rock and lobbed it.

“Have you bothered to look for anyone, or have you become complacent in your bachelorhood?”

Perhaps if the question had come from anyone else, he would have been annoyed at the probing. But given that it was coming from Sereia, who fully possessed his heart, it amused him. In one hundred years, he’d learned the steps to the seductive but heartbreaking dance between them. He’d learned how to guard himself, prepare for the inevitable departure, but he knew what to expect—that one day she’d leave and never return with his heart.

“Complacent,” he echoed with a chuckle. “Hardly. I stopped looking one hundred years ago.” There was little point concealing the truth of how he felt about her. At this point, Travion had nothing to lose.