Beneath dark waters, p.4
Beneath Dark Waters, page 4
In the biggest painting, Lord Riften and his family were painted dressed in comfortable everyday robes rather than the multitude of layers of elaborate, ornate noble garb, the epitome of love and domestic bliss. Situated in the centre of the painting, Lord Riften was proudly standing partially behind his wife, holding her hand. Serena was sitting in front of him on a comfortable but unassuming chair. Their children were arranged around them, their personalities shining from the canvas.
Torin was surprised to see the softness captured in Hayate’s face, the gentle upward tilt at the corners of his mouth as he smiled contently, clasping the fair hand of his beloved wife, his coal black eyes sparkling with happiness and pride. It was hard to believe this relaxed family man was the same person as the steely, severe warlord Torin had dined with the night before.
In the painting, Lord Riften’s clothes were casual and loose, not the usual stiff layers of nobleman robes that Torin had seen him in so far. The edge of the vibrant tattoos on the lord’s pectoral muscles were visible beneath the deep V-neckline of his robe, the tattoos separated by a river of bare skin down his middle, no wider than his fist.
The painting was old, at least twenty-five years old judging by the age of those depicted. Lord and Lady Riften had hardly more than a handful of white hairs in the painting – now both their tresses were mostly white.
Standing mirrored to his father, Lord and Lady Riften’s eldest child, a son, was standing slightly behind Lady Riften, stoic and stern, his hand resting on his mother’s shoulder. He was maybe sixteen years old if Torin had to take a guess. Torin tilted his head, knitting his brow as he contemplated the boy’s expression. Was that the weight of being the eldest son weighing visibly on his shoulders? Or was this the expression of a son determined to be like his serious domain lord father?
There was a whisper of Takeru in the stoic teen’s face, but the severe young man did not really look like a youthful Takeru at all. Torin had thought that Takeru was Lord and Lady Riften’s oldest child, but there was a discrepancy between his current age and the age of the painting, if Torin had guessed correctly.
Lord Riften and Lady Serena’s eldest daughter looked to be only a couple of years younger than the oldest boy. Sweet and beaming, her silky black hair hung in a long glossy curtain over her shoulders, decorated with pretty flowers and combs.
Lord and Lady Riften’s second daughter was sitting on the floor at her parents’ feet, her skirts spread about her neatly. Both girls were wearing the soft pink robes of spring, identical wide, elaborately embroidered silk belts of complementing colours tied at their waists. She, too, had pretty ornaments in her hair. Unlike her older sister who had high, sharp cheekbones, the younger girl’s face possessed the plumpness and roundness of childhood, suggesting that she was only ten at most.
Torin smirked when he noticed that the youngest child, a boy of two, was holding a flower ornament in his chubby little fist, plonked on the floor next to his sister, his cheeks rosy as he grinned. She had one arm around him and was laughing, presumably at the comical victory splashed across the little boy’s face for stealing the hair decoration.
Finally, the second-youngest boy, six years old at most, was grinning (presenting a gap where his lower central incisors should be) in front of his eldest brother, leaning over the arm of his mother’s chair, kicking his legs in the air. Was this little boy’s mischief the cause of the eldest son’s sombre expression?
There was no doubt in Torin’s mind that this cheeky looking boy was Takeru. That meant that the youngest child was Yuta, who Torin had met but not yet spoken with for more than their introduction – and it also meant that Takeru wasn’t the eldest son. Torin gazed at the stern looking boy standing at Lady Riften’s side and briefly wondered where he was.
Torin’s bright blue gaze moved over each face in turn. They were a beautiful family. The proud parents, the reliable eldest son, the happy, pretty daughters, the mischievous youngest sons.
Jealousy tightened Torin’s chest. What he would give to have a painting like this of his own family! But what family? His mother’s face had blurred with time, the only memory still vivid was the day she died. As for his father, all Torin knew about him was that he wasn’t Hebiwan – Torin didn’t even know his name. Then there was Captain Tam Fraser, the man who had loved his mother for as long as Torin could remember. As a child, Torin had once seen Tam as a father, but that changed when his mother died. Now, Tam was nothing to him.
Torin swallowed the knot forming in his throat. His gaze travelled back to Lady Riften, her face transforming in Torin’s mind to that of Celia’s. Losing himself to fantasy, Torin imagined Lord Riften’s image transforming into his own reflection, the children taking on more of Celia and Torin’s features … The jaeger would never have a painting with his parents, but maybe one day he could have a picture like this with Celia and their future children.
“Nishiki was so stern that day.” A soft voice giggled.
Despite her gentle tone, Lady Riften’s voice startled Torin, tearing him from his musings, the fantasy of his and Celia’s imaginary family vanishing. Torin was surprised to realise that Lady Riften was speaking Sirinese with a perfect Albionic accent. He turned to find her curled up on a chair beside the window, just a few paces away from him. A book was resting open on her lap as Lady Riften gazed at her family portrait, memory alight and shining in her eyes.
“As he got older, he became more quiet – more serious. He had a wicked sense of humour, though.” Lady Riften mused. “Nishiki idolised Hayate … He heard the whispers and the gossip about Hayate’s parentage, and it affected him until he was just as grim and grumpy as his father.”
Lady Riften laughed softly. Torin’s lips curved into a polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes as he patiently listened to Lady Riften as she drifted through her memories.
“Nishiki was deeply conflicted by the people’s disloyalty – they sought his father’s aid in times of war but mocked him in times of peace. Hayate accepted this as the price of duty, but Nishiki saw it as a betrayal he would one day inherit.
“That wasn’t his only struggle. Nishiki wanted to be worthy of receiving his father’s title one day, to be strong and weather every storm like Hayate did. It didn’t matter how many times we assured him that he would be successful when the time came, Nishiki wrapped himself tighter in Hayate’s shadow. Nishiki was so busy trying to be like his father, he didn’t realise that he was already so loved and cherished as himself.”
A weight settled in Torin’s chest. Lady Riften’s voice was warm, but grief lined every word, twisting through the silence like smoke. Torin hadn’t met Nishiki Nakaya yet. And now he realised why.
“How old was he?” Torin asked gently.
“Thirty-six,” Lady Riften replied, quietly. “It’s been five years.”
“I’m sorry.” Torin returned his gaze to the portrait, his bright blue eyes locking onto Nishiki Nakaya’s light brown ones.
Yes, there was determination in those eyes, Torin could see it. The way Nishiki’s jaw was set, his brow furrowed, lips pursed tight – the boy was tightly-wound, ready to spring into battle and prove himself a man, a warrior. Torin remembered when he was that age, a stubborn pup eager to bite … That grit was highly favoured in the Middenheim Guard, they rewarded the trait, encouraged it in all the apprentices. They fanned the fire in all the boys, moulding them into tools – weapons.
“Nishiki died fighting … I always knew that would be his fate. Even as a baby, he struggled. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, yet nothing ever came easy for him. He never slept; didn’t speak more than a handful of words by the time he was four. But as he grew, he made up for it – so intelligent, so stubborn!” A laugh as gentle as a breeze fell from her lips. “While other boys kicked a ball through Riften’s streets, Nishiki had his nose buried in books. The only thing that could tear him away was chess or swordplay.”
“Did he have a family of his own?”
“A wife and a daughter,” Lady Riften nodded. “They live here, and I console myself every day that if the gods had to take my son, at least they left me with his wife and daughter.”
Torin watched Lady Riften rise from her chair, setting her book down on the seat. She crossed the room and pointed up to one of the portraits.
“There, Nishiki, Emi, and Chiyo.” Lady Riften smiled. “Nishiki gifted this to me for Parent’s Day. He had it painted when Chiyo celebrated her fifth birthday.”
Silence settled over the pair as they gazed at the wall of paintings, so many faces gazing back at them. There wasn’t a single speck of dust on any of the frames. A pang struck Torin when he realised that the family picture of Nishiki, Emi, and Chiyo was the last picture of Chiyo with her father.
“It’s lovely that you have all these memories captured on canvas.” Torin said, delicately.
Lady Riften studied him for a moment, her gaze warm but searching. Then she smiled, settling back into her chair.
“And what of your own family? You carry Hebiwan features – your eyes, your jawline. Was one of your parents from here?”
Torin’s brows shot up, surprised by the Lady’s bluntness, but he understood her interest and why she would ask – like her own children, he was half-Hebiwan. He possessed some common Hebiwan traits, epicanthal eyes, a slim, straight nose and broad nostrils, strong square jawline, and ebony hair. Another trait he inherited from his mother was his typical Albionic accent, though it had a Boodjar twang when he got angry – Tam’s addition to Torin’s upbringing.
“My mother was Hebiwan, but she was born and raised in Albion.”
Lady Riften’s eyes sparkled.
“That was my home, too, before Hayate and I were married. You must get your beautiful blue eyes from your father, then? Was he from Albion, too?”
“I guess I must’ve.” Torin shrugged. “My mum’s eyes were so dark, they were almost black. Honestly, I really don’t know where my father was from.”
“Ah,” Lady Riften nodded. Steering the conversation away from awkwardness, she asked, “What brought your mother’s family to Albion?”
Lady Riften’s question summoned a memory of Torin’s mother to his mind. Curled up together beneath the tent on Tempest Rover, wrapped in blankets, the sea sloughing gently beyond the canvas walls, Torin’s mother had shared the tale with him by the orange glow of lantern light to lull eight-year-old Torin off to sleep as they travelled to Albion for the first time.
“Hebiwa was three years into the Seven-Year Famine when my maternal grandparents conceived my mother. Her father was determined that their baby would not be born into the famine and managed to get a job aboard a merchant ship. He stowed his pregnant wife aboard the ship and smuggled her all the way to Albion to get her to safety. After five months at sea, they disembarked in Albion. Within a month of arriving, they found a shack to live in and had my mother.”
“That sounds like a story from the pages of a novel!” Lady Riften marvelled, touching the book splayed on her lap. “Did your grandparents ever return to Hebiwa?”
Torin shrugged again.
“My grandfather didn’t return, I know that much. He died from a sickness just over a year after they arrived in Albion. They gave my mother an Albionic name instead of a Hebiwan one, too, so I’m not sure they ever intended to return.”
Torin had never met his mother’s parents. He realised in that moment, speaking with Lady Riften, that he hadn’t asked enough questions, hadn’t taken enough of an interest in his family history outside of the tales his mother chose to share with him at bedtime. He was sure his maternal grandmother never returned to Hebiwa. His mother hadn’t stepped foot in Hebiwa until she, Tam and Torin stayed there for six months when Torin was eight years old. They had lived in a charming rural village called Camelia Hill, located on the opposite side of the country to Riften.
“Sometimes home isn’t the country you’re born in.” Serena said, tenderly. “I lived in Albion until I was one-and-twenty, but it wasn’t until I came to Hebiwa that I felt at home. I hope your grandmother found her home in Albion – and I hope your mother did, too.”
A noncommittal noise rolled in Torin’s throat. From what he had heard from his mother and Tam while he was growing up, his mother’s family were poverty-stricken and struggled incessantly, even after his grandmother was remarried.
His mother had told him that her life brightened the day she, Torin and Tam began their life together – as a family. Torin cringed at the knowledge he’d ever referred to Tam as family. They had never planted any roots. Throughout Torin’s childhood, they moved constantly, never settling for too long in any singular location, but his mother said that it was far better than living in the slums of a city, struggling to make ends meet and depending on the pity of a rich man to put food in their rumbling bellies.
“My mother used to say that home can be a place, but it can also be a person. She said that it didn’t matter where she lived, she was home as long as she, Tam and I were together–” Torin stopped abruptly, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment at his intimate confession.
Lady Riften beamed, her gaze softening.
“Your mother is an intelligent woman.”
“Yes, she was.”
“And Tam Fraser is a good man. I thought he was your father from how desperately he searched for you. He spent every waking moment combing the beaches for you, sleeping only when he collapsed from exhaustion. I was relieved for his sake as well as yours when you washed up on shore. I thought he would die of worry if he didn’t see you again. It was wonderful to see him happy during the feast last night.”
Torin cocked a brow at Lady Riften.
“Tam is … something.”
Torin found Lady Riften’s words hard to believe. The Tam he knew would never be so frantically concerned for him. Why would he be? Torin and Tam had been estranged for more than twenty years until they were inadvertently reunited in Vastrune’s capital, Freystad, just six months ago. What had changed? Torin went missing at sea for two days, so Tam decided it was the ideal time to play concerned stepfather?
“How often do you see your daughters?” Torin wanted to steer the conversation away from himself.
Lady Riften chattered away about her daughters (both were married to sons of lords in neighbouring provinces) and her grandchildren, to Torin’s relief. Admittedly, Torin only half-listened to her, hung up on her farfetched revelation that Tam had been searching desperately for him.
Torin would’ve happily spent the rest of his life estranged from the Boodjaran ship captain, and he had thought that Tam felt the same way about him, after all, Tam had abandoned him at the Middenheim Guard fort when Torin was ten. No letters. No visits. Not a single damn word in over twenty years! Now Torin was expected to believe that Tam had spent days combing the beaches for him, that he’d nearly collapsed from exhaustion searching? Ha! Torin doubted that Tam had lost a single night of sleep over Torin in his life.
Assumedly, Lady Riften was making things up to make Torin feel good after the depressing nature of their conversation. However, she did not seem like someone who would lie, let alone lie stupidly about something so easy for Torin to verify or refute. Tam, too, was not the type to lie nor make a show over nothing. If he didn’t care whether Torin lived or died, he would not pretend otherwise. Tam was brusque and bluntly honest. He hated liars almost as much as he hated the Sirinean Empire. But that only made Torin more confused and infuriated. Why was Tam worried about Torin after all these years?
4
TORIN’S BOOTS SLID over the slick pebbles and shale, the stones clacking against each other beneath his every step. The stinging of his wounds had subsided with the help of the salves and tinctures the healers had slathered him with, but a dull ache still murmured through his muscles. Torin stumbled along slowly, breathing in the salty air, acutely aware that just days ago, his lungs had been filled with seawater.
Torin added another slippery plank to his growing pile and carried it to the wreckage stacked along the cliff base. The villagers, crewmen, and Lord Riften’s warriors had made a good start clearing the shoreline. Salvageable bits of ships, timber, rope, empty barrels, weapons, tools, and sacks of nails removed from planks that were too damaged to be of use were all organised into piles ready to haul up to the top via the pully systems. Crates of waterlogged fabrics and personal belongings of the fleet had also been recovered, some sodden but still useable while other items were completely ruined.
Further away from the foot of the cliff were piles of spoiled rations and items that were only good for burning, shattered planks and the smashed remnants of ship timber and crates.
The salvage heaps were noticeably smaller than the day before. With fair weather, the tide only grazed the piles, it couldn’t have washed anything away. Torin wondered if people from the fishing village had come and taken some of the recovered items and timber during the night, not that Torin cared either way. In his opinion, for all the work the villagers put in rescuing Torin and the others, they deserved to take what they wanted.
As he dropped the planks on the timber pile, Torin’s thoughts drifted to Lady Riften. Friendly and kindly, motherly affection radiated from her gentle gaze and warm smile. He was almost embarrassed to admit that this maternal temperament had coaxed Torin to open up to Lady Riften far more than he intended. Despite the immediate feeling of ease in her presence, Torin hadn’t thought it prudent to ask further about Nishiki Nakaya’s death, and nor did Lady Riften offer more details.
