第9章 The Port of Edmund

The western islands rose from the sea like jagged teeth, dark and imposing against the sky. Edward stood at the bow of the merchant vessel and watched them grow larger, his heart pounding with a mixture of hope and dread. This was it. This was the moment he had been working toward since he first learned of the crown, since he first felt the weight of his father's death and the emptiness of his own existence. The ship docked at the main port of the largest island, a place called Port Edmund, named after the king whose blood ran in Edward's veins. The port was a bustling place, full of merchants and sailors and soldiers, and Edward felt immediately out of place. He was a farmer, a laborer, a man who had never worn anything finer than wool and linen. Now he stood on the dock in his traveling clothes, looking like what he was—a nobody in a world of nobles and warriors. Lyra put a hand on his arm. Stay close, she whispered. And do not draw attention to yourself. They moved through the crowded streets toward the center of the port, where a road led inland toward the fortress of Blackstone. Edward watched the people around him, noting their faces, their clothes, their weapons. Most of them were merchants and laborers, but there were soldiers scattered throughout the crowd, their armor gleaming, their expressions watchful. The Order of the Black Rose was everywhere, embedded in the fabric of the city, and Edward felt the weight of their gaze like a physical pressure. They found lodging at an inn called The Broken Oar, a rough establishment that catered to sailors and smugglers rather than nobles and merchants. The innkeeper was a large man with a bald head and a beard that was more gray than brown, and he looked at Edward with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. You're not from around here, he said. No, Edward replied. I'm looking for work. The innkeeper nodded. Work's hard to find these days. The usurper's taxes have driven most of the small traders out. If you're looking for a job, the docks are the best place. But be careful who you talk to. There are ears everywhere. Thank you, Edward said. He and Lyra retired to their room, a small, sparsely furnished space with a single bed and a window that looked out over the harbor. Edward sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall, his mind racing. We need a plan, he said. We cannot just walk into Blackstone Keep and demand the throne. We need to gather information, find allies, understand the layout of the fortress and the strength of Aldric's forces. Lyra nodded. I know the fortress. I spent two years there, working as a courier for the Order. I can get you inside, but we'll need help from the inside. There are people in the fortress who are unhappy with Aldric, who remember King Edmund and what he stood for. They are afraid to speak out, but they might be willing to listen. Who can we trust? Lyra was silent for a moment. There is a woman named Lady Catherine. She was a lady-in-waiting to my mother before the Order took my mother away. She serves in the fortress now, and she hates Aldric as much as I do. She might help us. How do we reach her? We find her, Lyra said. But we need to be careful. The Order has eyes everywhere, and if they discover our plan, we will not survive. Edward stood and walked to the window, looking out at the harbor where the ships rocked gently in the water. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and for a moment he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to stand on a throne, to wear a crown, to be recognized as the legitimate heir to a kingdom. It was a dream he had never dared to entertain, and now that it was within his reach, it felt both terrifying and exhilarating. But he also knew that dreams were cheap. The world was made of iron and blood, and dreams did not stop swords. He would need more than hope. He would need strategy, and courage, and the willingness to do whatever was necessary to claim what was his. He turned to Lyra. We start tomorrow. The ship docked at the main port of the largest island, a place called Port Edmund, named after the king whose blood ran in Edward's veins. The port was a bustling place, full of merchants and sailors and soldiers, and Edward felt immediately out of place. He was a farmer, a laborer, a man who had never worn anything finer than wool and linen. Now he stood on the dock in his traveling clothes, looking like what he was—a nobody in a world of nobles and warriors. Lyra put a hand on his arm. Stay close, she whispered. And do not draw attention to yourself. They moved through the crowded streets toward the center of the port, where a road led inland toward the fortress of Blackstone. Edward watched the people around him, noting their faces, their clothes, their weapons. Most of them were merchants and laborers, but there were soldiers scattered throughout the crowd, their armor gleaming, their expressions watchful. The Order of the Black Rose was everywhere, embedded in the fabric of the city, and Edward felt the weight of their gaze like a physical pressure. Sleep did not come easily in The Broken Oar. Below the floorboards, sailors argued over dice until well past midnight, and the bed smelled of tar and other men's tobacco. Edward lay awake cataloguing what they had: eleven silver pieces, Sister Agnes's book wrapped in oilcloth at the bottom of his pack, and Lyra's two years of memory of corridors he had never walked. Against that, an usurper's fortress full of soldiers sworn to the Black Rose. Somewhere past the third bell he heard the tide turn beneath the harbor, a long sigh under the pilings, and he made himself count what he knew about Lady Catherine—her post as lady-in-waiting, her hatred of Aldric, the fact that Lyra had not seen her in years and could not swear the woman had not been turned. Trust was a coin he could no longer afford to spend loosely. When gray light finally crept through the shutters, he rose, buckled his knife where his coat would hide it, and woke Lyra with a hand on her shoulder only after she had opened her eyes on her own, reaching for the sound of his boots. The Port of Edmund - Continued