‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ CHAPTER FOURTEEN ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
vathars

   THE BERSERKER WAS A GRAND galleon made out of oak and pine with three masts; the mainmast flew the flags of Skellige and Clan Tuirseach, a mixture of brilliant silver and white against teal. The ship was the pride of the clan because it did not only hold many crewmembers and treasures but it was a marvellous warship that had won many battles. It had been passed down from father to son, commanded by captains who knew the waters just as well as they knew their own skin.

   At that moment, it was commanded by a man named Vathars Craggson. He had been a part of the crew since Torgeir Tuirseach was a boy of sixteen winters. The captain's hair had gone from deep black to grey to a white that resembled the clouds, the wrinkles deep in his skin and forever imprinted by the salt of the waters, yet the man moved as if his age did not matter and his bones did not ache. Vathars Craggson was no mere captain, but a man that cared deeply for his crew and the people of the isle.

   His laugh echoed through the ship, pushing towards the waves with the wind. "Rennen!" He said her name loud and clear, a name that was full of memories of a child full of scars running through the deck. "How long has it been, leanabh?"

   Rennen allowed a smile to form on her lips as she grabbed the man's forearm in her hand as a sign of greeting and respect. "Too long," she said. "I thought you would have been buried at sea when I returned to An Skellig."

   He laughed, loud and clear and full of joy. "Years don't matter to this old man," he said as he ambled to stand by the side of the ship. He leaned his arms against the gunwale and glanced around, his eyes focusing on the doors that lead to the captain's cabin before he turned back to her. "Why did you come back, leanabh? You said you would never return to the isle." His voice became lower, serious.

   She leaned beside him, her eyes focused on the vast blue sea in front of them. "There are too many questions left unanswered," she responded. "I don't think I could die peacefully without answers, Vathars."

   "What questions?"

   She wrung her hands together and inhaled deeply, the salty air sinking deep into her chest. "My mother. . ."

   He wiped his head in her direction, his long hair hitting his cheek. "You-your mother?"

   "My father told me she died right after my birth. According to him, she didn't even have a chance to hold me before she succumbed to death." Rennen pushed a few strands of hair away from her face and knew she would need a bath as soon as they landed to get rid of the salt that adorned both her skin and hair. "Idra has always been a kind woman to me, but she is not my mother. . ."

   Vathars sighed and nodded. "Idra is a kind woman," he agreed. "She was angry when Torgeir brought your mother to the castle, but the anger was not directed at your mother." Another sigh left his mouth. "Idra Tuirseach is too kind of a woman for the savage life of a Skelliger, but perhaps that kindness is what makes her a good person."

   Rennen had to agree, even though she did not want to. She held no ill will to her stepmother, and the love she had for her was as minimal as anything because she too did nothing when the druid tortured her. To her, Idra Tuirseach was just the woman her father was married to when he had an affair with her mother. A caring woman, yes, but nothing more.

   "Your mother. . ." Vathars shook his head. "Your mother did not deserve what happened to her."

   Her brows furrowed and she clenched her jaw. "My mother is dead, then?"

   "Did you think otherwise?"

   She did not nod or shake her head but allowed herself to get lost in the way the waves hit the side of the boat and became white with foam for a small moment before disappearing into the endless blue. A part of her wanted to jump overboard and allow herself to sink into the cool depths of the water. "I want to know more about her," she said. "My father doesn't say anything other than she was taken too early; Idra never mentions her and changes the conversation whenever I bring her up. No one mentions her, no one remembers her. Was I born out of thin air?"

   Vathars stared at her, eyes squinted. "Your mother was a beauty," he revealed.

   Her head whipped in his direction, a crack at her back making her neck hurt for a moment. "You knew my mother?"

   "Who do you think brought her to the isles?" He straightened himself and slapped both hands against his chest. "I captain a warship, leanabh, but it's boring to do just that. I pillaged and went to war with your grandfather, I commanded the boat whenever I went with your father—sometimes, one grows tired of bloodshed and treasures. I took to trading for a while, that's how I met your mother."

   She did not speak, only stared into the almost-grey eyes of the old man and waited for him to continue his story.

   "If my memory doesn't fail me, her name was Elleldre."

   It was the first time she had ever heard her mother's name. "Elleldre," she repeated, wanting to taste the name on her tongue just like she had done with others. There was no taste, just the spray of the seawater that had gotten inside her mouth.

   "She once told me she was from Verden," he continued to reveal, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "She told me of the little cottage she lived in with her mother in the barony of Hamm, how she had many siblings and they all enjoyed spending their times in the field."

   It was the first time Rennen heard much about her mother, and that included her name. All of that had always been kept hidden from her, never mentioned or written about in the hundreds of books and letters she searched through in her father's office. She would owe more than gold to Vathars for revealing so much.

   A soft laugh escaped his mouth. "We were in the middle of the sea, no land as far as the eye could see, when we were attacked by some pirates. Your mother grabbed a sword from one of my men and climbed onto the side of the ship, held on to the rope, and dared those damned cunts to come onto the ship. She told them they would leave with their cocks thrown to the sharks!" His laughter echoed through the ship, head thrown back.

   She clenched her jaw and looked away from the man, towards the empty and blue horizon. A blond woman with the same eyes as her grabbed a sword and stood at the edge to dare pirates to fight—she could imagine it. Yet, her face was still smudges of colour and no distinct features. She desired to know the way her mother had kept her hair, the way her brows moved with whatever she felt, the bow of her top lips and whether she had any beauty marks; she desired to know how her fingers flexed and whether she would have passed her fingers through her hair when she tried to sleep.

   It was futile to dream such things. 

   Her mother was dead.

   A dull and croaky laugh echoed through the boat, boots hitting against the boards harshly. "It would do you good to not talk about a dead woman who means nothing," they spat.

   Vathars's cheeks became red as if the sun decided to burn him. He turned to stare at the culprit. "I can talk about whoever I want on my ship."

   "I think you mean my father's ship." Rullul's lips widened into a shit-eating grin, his hand behind his back as he took closer steps to them.

   "My ship," Vathars repeated. "Your father pays for my services, boy, but don't forget that I am the captain. I'm the one who takes your ass across the sea and to the cities, the one that does the main trading for An Skellig. I don't care who you are, I will have you thrown to the sirens." He glanced at Rennen and gave her a small smile. "We'll continue our conversation when the children go to sleep." He eyed Rullul as he walked away, his eyes hardening into a glare the further he moved.

   "You look prettier with your mouth shut," Rennen told Rullul, eyeing him with a carefully arched brow. "Keep it that way."

   He wore something extravagant, his leather armour was brown and glistening beneath the sunshine. A white fur cloak over his shoulders, held together by silver medallions with heads of bears. Golden rings decorated his fingers, each with a different stone and style, plundered from their father's treasures. His hair was neatly combed, held back by braids with golden ornaments at the ends that glistened beneath the sunlight. 

   A scoff left her mouth as she rolled her eyes. "We're in the middle of the sea, Rullul. Who are you trying to impress, the crew?"

   Her brother's jaw clenched.

   Rennen pushed herself away from the rail and sauntered to her brother. She realised she was a few inches taller than him, his eyes staring at her nose. That almost made her smile. "They don't care how many riches you wear on your person." She glanced down at his shoes, boots lined with either wolf or bear fur. "Or, perhaps, we shall see how much they care when it disappears before we set anchor." She brushed her shoulders with his and walked away, following after Vathars. 

   He had gone up the stairs to the quarterdeck, standing by the helm with his first mate. They spoke for a moment before the first mate left, giving her a nod as he made his way past her. 

   She took a stance by Vathars. "Thank you," she said, the words feeling foreign on her tongue. "No one has even told me about my mother."

   "You deserve to know about her," he said. "It is your birthright to know about the woman who gave you life."

   Rennen pushed a hand inside the pocket of her pants and pulled out a crumpled, folded piece of yellowing paper. She had kept it hidden for so long, something that could only be used once. And she handed it to him. "Keep this hidden," she said. "If you ever need anything, just pray."

   "What?" He grabbed the paper and stared at it for a couple of moments before unfolding it. A red handprint stared back at him. "Rennen, this is—"

   "Yes," she cut him off. "It is."

   "Are you. . ."

   She nodded as a response. "I am." She pointed down at the handprint with two of her fingers. "If you ever need anything, Vathars, you pray to the Dread Mother and I will come."

   Rennen walked away without another word.

   She was the only woman on the ship and Vathars had given her the only quarters with the utmost privacy in all the ship. The captain's cabin. It was a room with large windows that faced the sea, water spraying against the glass with the movements of the ship. The centre of the room was lined with colourful rugs against the deep colour of the wood, metallic sconces on the wall with their flames flickering. To the side of the room, the bed was carved into the wall and covered with thick blankets and countless pillows. To the other side of the room were four swords, one below the other in an orderly line. Each was different, in style and metal. 

   There were paintings by the swords, each a different blue with different scenes of the sea: a stormy day, a bright and brilliant day, a dark sea in the middle of the night. 

   Rennen locked the door of the captain's cabin behind her and took off her boots, deciding to lay down on the soft bed and close the curtains to leave it dark. She repeated her mother's name—Elleldre, Elleldre, Elleldre—and tried to figure out the taste of it as sleep soon overcame her.

────── ⚔ ──────

   In three and a half weeks of the voyage, The Berserker laid its anchor in the harbour of the city of Cintra in the kingdom of Cintra. People stopped to admire the ship and its crew, to see whisper about each other questions about whether the Skelligers were there as formal guests of the queen or to pillage their city like they had done hundreds of years before. Yet, the city and its inhabitants did not stop what they were doing in order to protect themselves from the very men they had once been frightened of. 

   The city continued to move as it always did: fishermen arrived with baskets full of their catch to sell in the market, carts full of meats and fruits moved along the streets, women and children moved along with their shopping or to play. It was like any other city the assassin had visited. It did not matter whether their ruler planned to have an extravagant party while they lived day to day without the promise of a tomorrow.

   Queen Calanthe did not greet them when they arrived at the palace as she was leading a raiding party and would not return until the day of her daughter's party. 

   Rennen took it upon herself to explore the city, to learn its secrets not from the castle but from its own people. She spent the days disguised as a simple merchant of wares she had stolen, listened to the women gossip and the men boast, laughed along with the children who ran around her and tried to steal. They were not successful. She stopped them before their fingers could grab the item, gave them a smile, and then taught them the correct and most perfect way to steal. It was just like how she was taught. 

   When they steal something successfully, they ran to her to show their wares: loaves of fresh-baked bread, purses of gold cut from belts, jewellery nicked from unexpected wrists, dried meats and slices of cheese. They no longer had to be hungry. 

   On the day of Princess Pavetta's party, Rennen was bathed and dressed by too many people. They scrubbed her body until her skin was red and applied saccharine perfume on the back of her ears as they brushed her hair. They dressed her like a doll, although her dress reminded her more of iron shackles instead of the soft silk that covered her skin. It was long, covering her feet with a small train around her, coloured in a soft blue that resembled the colour of the Clan Tuirseach flag. The entire dress reminded her of knots and ropes: the bodice braided to cover her beats and fell into the swooping skirt around her. Her back was exposed, only a single strand of either cloth or rope down the centre of her back. The sleeves of her dress pooled down her shoulders and arms like the cool waves of the sea, trailing behind her alongside the small train as she walked. 

   If there was another thing that Rennen enjoyed besides expensive wines and hot baths, it was the feeling of soft clothes on her skin. It was rare for her to wear such fine and expensive clothes, so she would use that opportunity to do so. 

    She knew her body was loitered with countless scars and tattoos, things that could be concealed forever with magic. That was the one thing she would not hide. Her tattoos and scars would visible to those that looked at her; her marred skin would be something she would show with pride as if it were the blood of her enemies on her armour. They were there, they had done that to her, but in the end, it was she who survived. 

   Even though it was a formal invitation to Cintra, she still did not dare to go without a weapon. She strapped a dagger to her thigh and left the room that was given to her by Queen Calanthe's sorcerer. 

   Eist and Rullul waited for her outside the door of her room, both of them with their hands behind their backs. Her uncle was dressed in simple yet formal clothes, while her bother continued with the countless riches on himself. The same fur cloak over his shoulders, the new tailored clothes beneath the blue colour of Clan Tuirseach, rings on each of his fingers and the gold ornaments that hung from his hair. He truly wanted to show the rest of those that were invited that he was just as rich as them, perhaps more. 

   Rennen pushed her hair away from her shoulder and glanced from her brother to her uncle. "Well?" she asked, raising a brow. "We have a party to attend."

   Rullul eyed her. "Is that how you're going to dress for this?" he asked, making a face of disgust.

   "Is something wrong with this dress?" She glanced down at it, ran her hand down the soft skirt and let out a chuckle. "No, there's nothing wrong with it. Perhaps, you should focus on not making a fool of yourself in front of the Queen of Cintra and other lordlings. You're the only one here without a title." A ghost of a smirk formed on her lips, words left unsaid but they all understood. 

   He was a second son, a boy with no title to his name except what could be given to him by a marriage to someone with power. If he did not marry Princess Pavetta, he would continue to be a mere second son to the Jarl of Skellige. And the assassin would do anything for him to continue being only that. 

   Eist cleared his throat and sighed through his nose. "That's enough from the two of you," he said, glancing from nephew to niece. "I need you two to be on your best behaviour in front of not only Queen Calanthe, but everyone else that is present. This is not only about Skellige."

   Rullul rolled his eyes. "I am already engaged to Pavetta, what point is there to continue to entertain everyone else?"

   "Engaged?" Rennen raised a brow. "Princess Pavetta has yet to agree."

   "It doesn't matter whether she agrees or not," Rullul said with a wave of his hand. "Queen Calanthe promised me—"

   She raised her hand to stop him from continuing to speak. "The queen promised nothing," she said with a careful smile beginning to grow around her lips. "Nothing is set, Rullul. Perhaps, by the end of this party, Princess Pavetta will be engaged to someone else. Preferably, someone who is not you." She glanced at her uncle and tilted her head slightly to the side. 

   Eist cleared his throat again. "We should. . . We should get going. We're already late."

   The room was full of people, the sound of music echoing through every crevice alongside laughter from the people. Food was served in silver plates, full to the brim with fruits and vegetables and meats from all over the Continent. The party had just begun, but the majority of the people were already full of mead and ale and whatever wine they were serving. 

   The throne of Queen Calanthe remained empty.

   To each side of the throne, people sat. On the left, sat a young girl with solemness in her very presence. Her blonde hair fell over her rigid shoulder in a braid while her eyes never left the table. She was in a trance, post deep in whatever thoughts were much better than the party her mother threw for her future. 

   Eist directed them to a table at the other side of the room, full of Skelligers already deep in their mead. 

   A tall red-headed man stood in the centre of the table, his head was thrown back as he swallowed mouthfuls of whatever was in his cup. He laughed when he finished, swiped the back of his hand over his mouth and grinned madly. "Uncle Eist!" he called, walking closer. "I thought you would have taken longer." His eyes trailed from Rullul and ended on Rennen, trailing from her face to her breasts. 

   She stopped herself from plucking out his eyes like grapes from a vine. 

   Eist let out a soft chuckle and patted him on the shoulder. "You should stop drinking, Crach," he said, yet the smile continued. "I think you've had a bit too much."

   "I can handle my mead."

   "Clearly," Rullul said with disgust. "I don't think I've ever seen you soberer than you are now, cousin."

   Crach an Craite, the son of her Aunt Amdja and the Jarl of Clan an Craite. His father ruled the upper half of Ard Skellig, the lower half belonging to Clan Drummond—a strange thing considering the clans were enemies and detested being so close.

   Eist stepped forward, hands behind his back and a smile that could not be read on his face. "Crach, do you remember Rennen?"

   Crach turned to face her, eyes widening. "Little Rennen?" he asked, and then laughed loudly as he encircled her in a tight hug. "I thought you were dead!"

   "We were hoping it were true," Rullul said. 

   "I'm hard to kill," Rennen said as she pulled away from her cousin. "The last time I saw you, you were a mere boy who pissed his pants at the sound of a hound barking." She gave him a saccharine smile. 

   Crach let out a boisterous laugh. "That was back then!" He waved his hand. "Now, I piss my pants in battle." He finished the rest of whatever was in his cup, then waved his hand to grab a passing man with a tray full of cups. He laid his empty one on the plate and grabbed three full ones, handing one to her and her brother. "Let's celebrate! It's been a long, long time since the three of us were together!"

   Rennen knew little of her cousin. Other than him being the eldest son of her aunt, he was a mystery to her. She grabbed the cup from his hand and took a sip, tasting the watered-down mead on her tongue only to make a face full of disgust. "You're drinking this?"

   "It tastes like piss, but it's better than the wine," Crack said with a smile. 

   "I prefer the wine." She pushed the cup into his hand and grabbed a silver chalice full of red. It was a rich and dry wine, the red staining her lips the moment she finished the entire cup in a few mouthfuls.

   "You have changed, Rennen." The tone in Crach's voice was full of admiration. 

   She grabbed another cup, the liquid a fizzy and cold beer. "Of course, I've changed," she said after one mouthful. "Did you expect me to stay a child forever?" She arched a brow at him. "Or did you expect me to be quiet and obedient like the women you and Rullul expect to marry?"

   Crach's laughter was already giving her a headache.

   She swallowed the rest of her beer and grabbed another, wanting the loud noise of the party to quiet down. Although she enjoyed the luxury of the clothes she wore and the alcohol she drink, she detested being surrounded by nobles whose only problem was the amount of gold they had in their bank and who their children would marry. They did not now know that on the streets below their castles children roamed the streets to steal a bite of food.

   Rennen had taught them well. Yet, she knew that she would hear their prayers to the Dread Mother when their time came. 

   No one could refuse the temptation of bloody revenge. 

   Eist cleared his throat as he took a noble stance by her side, hands behind his back. "You're worse than Crach," he said. "Too much drink and your mind will be muddled."

   "This is nothing," she said. "I've drank more than this and I was able to fight. This is a party, Uncle Eist, shouldn't I be enjoying it?"

   "Not if you make a fool out of yourself before Queen Calanthe arrives."

   She lowered her cup and swiped her tongue across her teeth, turning her head to face him. "You forget that I have been drinking this stuff since I was a child," she said, low and careful for his ears alone. "It numbed the pain. I am immune to getting drunk, unlike Crach and Rullul. You might want to keep a closer eye on them if you don't want these mainland nobles to talk about how the Skelligers are all drunken pillagers who cannot keep their hands to themselves."

   Before Eist could answer, horns played from the centre of the room.

   "All rise for Her Majesty," a herald announced. "The Lioness, Queen Calanthe of Cintra!"

   A thick silence settled over the room as the queen entered, dressed in golden armour that glimmered with the candles that were lit in the room. In the centre of her cuirass was a lion in an eternal roar, its maw wide with cuspids that reminded her of Riordaine's for a quick moment. The queen ambled across the room in small movements, her shoulders tired as her eyes cast around the room with each small movement. 

   Every part of her was speckled with blood. 

   She lifted a silver cup in the air and shouted, "Beer!"

   The crowd raised theirs in her direction and cheered for her as if she had slaughtered their enemy. Or perhaps, they wanted her to think they adored her. Anything for the Queen of Cintra to think those on her land wanted and needed her approval, and perhaps they did. 

   After all, it was a party for the hand of the princess.

   Calanthe made her way up the raised dais, stopping on the middle step. "Apologies, noble sirs," she said, her voice hoarse and careful. The way the words left her mouth made the assassin realise that she did not care for the people around her. The party was a ruse. "A few upstart townships in the south needed reminding who was queen."

   The crowd laughed.

   Rennen kept her mouth set in a straight line, the edge of the cup dancing between her lips. The liquid sloshed against her lips, wanting to finally reach her tongue and fall down her throat to lull away everything until the buzz of it was the only thing left. 

   "I find it's good for one's blood and humours," Calanthe jeered. She turned to face the crowd, the cup close to her lips. "Ready your suitor's tales of glory, good lords. My daughter is eager to have this over with." Her words moved with words that were not meant for the rest of the room. "Bard, music!"