Page 5 of The Princes of Stone and Steel

The ship looked unlike any she’d ever seen in the harbor, and the crew kept silent all the while loading up provisions—eerily silent. Never in all her spying days had she witnessed such tranquility before departing.

“Weigh anchor!” The captain stood atop the wheel platform calling out to his men.

If Millicent planned to go through with her call to independence, the time to take action was now. She unrolled from the mass tangle of netting and crept to the rear of the ship. From there it was as simple as stepping onto the anchor’s fluke and gripping the hauling chain as it hoisted up.

One leg over the stern railing and then the other; there was no turning back—onward toward destiny. Without as much as a scraping from lifting the gangway, hidden from view—hers or theirs—Millie had to rely on the rolling tide to even suspect the vessel was, in fact, moving.

While she sat crouched in the blackness, drenched by water spray causing a cruel numbing in her fingers and toes, skepticism began to erode her confidence in such a spontaneous decision. How long had they been traveling? Hours maybe, or did it just feel like hours thanks to the continuous rising and falling of the ship as it rode the wild sea?

Quite unexpectedly, commotion broke out through the ranks, the men the loudest they’d been since she’d stumbled upon them at the dock. She could hear them taking up posts on all sides of her, but Millie remained hidden—scared, and hidden.

As abruptly as the yelling started, the rising and falling intensified, violently rocking back and forth, sending the girl careening into the timbered capstan. The impact took her breath away, but she stayed out of sight, fearing what might come about if discovered.

Millicent made her way back to the railing using every bit of energy to keep on her feet; each step forward slid her back two. With one great surge ahead, Millicent had her arms wrapped securely around the balustrade, staring over a precipice into a massive, swirling vortex of water that shone through the moonlight.

The pull became too strong for the tiny ship to break free. All around her, crew secured themselves, tying down to any and everything within reach. A bowline attached to the mizzenmast flapped viciously from the hurricane winds created by the inverted rotating sea funnel. This was her chance, her only chance. At the count of one, two, three… Millicent released her grip, falling backward, barely connecting with the tip of the rope. Her fingernails caught a snag, enabling her to hold on.

Millicent launched herself frontward, onward, catching the mizzenmast with her feet. No time for second guessing, she contracted her leg muscles, moving closer to the secured area, wrapping her entire body firmly around the pole. Still, no one paid heed to the solitary stranger stowed away.

Four

Millicent Merchant, 1820s…

THE SHIP SPUN FRANTICALLY, CENTRIPETALLY SUCKED down to the center of the swirling water. Millicent held on tightly to the mast, priming for the worst as all aboard had resigned to their fates, not even the captain of the vessel attempting a breakaway.

She held her breath as the last vestiges of sky gave way to the crushing blackness. A thick wall of water, foam, and bubbles crumbled down around her.I’m so sorry, Mum—Millicent sent her silent apology onto the wind to be carried to the woman who would spend the rest of her days grieving the loss of a daughter, yet never knowing this was how she met her end.

But… how could this be?There was no end. Quite the contrary. The crushing blackness, the wall of water, dissipated. As fast as it had sucked them down, it spat them out again. A beautiful tangerine sky greeted the mariners.

“All hands on deck!” the captain shouted to his men, ringing the bell once again.

The crew set to work, hoisting the sails and taking all other manner of positions sailors must take up to make a ship mobile.

Millicent stayed hidden throughout the duration of the voyage, despite her extreme thirst and hunger. These were men of the sea after all, and persons of good standing knew what fate would befall a young lady at the hands of seafaring men—especially if you weren’t unfortunate to behold—and although not Margaret, Millicent was far from unfortunate to behold.

As they traveled, tangerine faded to violet, which in turn darkened navy to charcoal with not a star in the sky to light the way, and although the wind blew the sail forward at a steady clip, there wasn’t a ripple of wave to be seen, as if they were slicing through glass or ice, but without the slightest chill to the air.

Far off in the distance, a beacon of hope called them home, shining brightly, although appearing as nothing more than a pinprick of illumination. Tiny and insignificant, yet stable enough to lead the weary travelers to shore.

After what felt like an anguished eternity, the captain eased the vessel into the harbor, pulling dockside, a deckhand tied off to the ancient, disintegrating lumber.

Strange to behold, there were no families or friends awaiting the ship’s return, bar only the lonely lantern keeper guiding them in. Certainly, it was the middle of the night, but back home the harbor always bustled with family and friends waiting with eagerness for the arrival of their treasured loved ones.

Silence. Silence abounded, not a clank or clang from the gangway securing against the dock, nor thunder clapping boots to wood. The ship emptied incognito, camouflaged sight and sound, as impossible as it seemed to Millicent. Each crewman’s haul was twice his own bodyweight. They carried the loads single-file into the forest just beyond the beach where the ship anchored.

Waiting in the shadow of the dinghy until every man had disembarked, Millicent followed closely behind the caravan, trying earnestly to remain just as silent. They did not know of her presence, and she greatly desired the situation not to change.

As exhaustion threatened to overtake her, she fell farther and farther behind the trailing convoy until finally losing them completely. Falling to her knees, there was no way to catch up to, or even see in which direction they’d headed. Whether from fatigue or desperation, warm tears rolled down, overtaking her cheeks, nose, and chin—only sporadic at first, but steadily, they moved from a trickle to an open flow as the reality of her situation truly struck home. Millicent kept crying and crying, eventually crying herself to sleep right there on the desolate, cold, dirt path, rolled into a tight ball with her head resting on the ground.

She awoke, complexly stirring to the sensation of a soft bed, repeated scraping across her forehead as if someone was using a brick to brush her hair from her face, and the beauty of a woman’s voice cooing a whispered song.

“Good morning.” The singing woman stopped to greet her.

“Uh, good morning. Where am I?”

“You are in my home. I am Pétra. My son, Mármaro, literally stumbled over you when he was out tracking the activities of the Papyrus.”

“Please excuse me, the what?”

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