Meraki: A Syren Story (Syren Stories Book 1) Read online

  “Your Majesty!” The guard bellows.

  I bolt.

  All around me, sailors on the deck abandon their tasks. Sails flack as sheets and ropes are dropped. Fletcher frees his hands of the large wooden wheel and uses them to nab me instead, but I rip away from his clawing grasp.

  Wind catches the sail and whips the boom across the deck. Two men duck to avoid the soaring pole of wood as it swings back and forth, but I do not take cover. Instead, I turn sideways and skirt the ledge, moving as quickly as I can towards the stern.

  I need to get back to the sea.

  My weary lungs, barely reacquainted with the notion of breathing, are now labouring hard. The inability to breathe through my mouth because of the damn octopus strapped to my face leaves my flared nostrils to do all the work.

  My legs burn and ache as I force them to carry me the last few feet. Even though my frame is painfully bony in parts, I feel entirely too heavy.

  Had gravity always weighed so much?

  I scramble to climb the waist-high edge of the stern, but with restrained wrists it proves too difficult to pull myself up. I’ll have to throw myself overboard from where I am.

  I would prefer to dive in, to break the water feetfirst, but I’ll take what I can get.

  “Wait!” King Kellan roars from behind me, but I do not turn around.

  Pacing back a few steps to give myself room to run and vault, I then-

  “Look at me,” he thunders, his voice louder than the sea and somehow more menacing, “Look. At. Me.”

  I pause. I hate that I do, but it’s instinctual. Obeying stern royalty is a hard habit to break.

  Looking over my shoulder to see six sailors stand in a row. The guard I hit in the shoulder and the man with the bleeding nose are on either side of the line-up.

  Fletcher is firmly back at the helm. The boom is under control once more. The sails no longer flap frantically. It seems I’m the only wild thing left onboard.

  The King is closest to me. He holds his arms out before him in a nonthreatening way, as if I were a spooked animal he was trying to catch.

  “Don’t you see the White Horses out there?”

  He jerks his chin towards the water. I reluctantly glance over the stern.

  Poseidon’s infamous steeds gallop across the sea. White-tipped waves rise and then break as they collide over the hidden rocks down below. Jagged boulders burst through the water in places and cast ominous shadows in the places where they remain unseen.

  For a brief second, I am glad to have the syrens bridle on. It makes my deafening silence less obvious.

  He was right.

  I was terribly wrong.

  This was not a way to earn freedom, it was a way to achieve suicide. My mother said I would not survive outside the clam gates of our world. Perhaps she was right too. Perhaps everyone except me is right in this damn world.

  His tensed arm wraps around me in an instant and violently tugs me off the ledge. He hauls me half away across the deck with my feet trailing behind me. He slams me against the mast pole and holds me by the neck.

  As if I didn’t have enough breathing issues.

  “Like I said earlier, do not resist or some of those pearly whites of yours might get misplaced,” he snaps.

  He stays still, staring at me as he waits for a reaction. He remains tight with tension for one too many breaths. Just staring at me, as if he were able to read my thoughts.

  I match his gaze and refuse to blink. It is the only control I have left. It seems misleading someone with honey-coloured eyes should be so astringent.

  The King drops hold of my throat and shakes my shoulder roughly instead, “I need you to survive, syren.”

  Releasing a staggered sigh, he looks over his shoulder, “Someone fetch me rope. A lot of it. And attend to Arthur’s nose. I can tell from here it’s broken.”

  Men quickly get to work, uttering “yes, sir,” and “of course, your Majesty,” as they go.

  Three reels of rope with varying thickness are placed at the Kings feet for his choosing.

  He does not choose. He opts to use them all.

  He wraps the ropes around me in both directions, twisting and turning as if I am a Maypole to be decorated with despair.

  He ties a complex naval knot I do not recognize and leans in close so only I hear him, “The next time you wish to see the waves up close, I would be more than happy to strap you to the front of the bow. I always thought this ship could use a figurehead.”

  “Oh, go to Hel!” I snap, although the muffled sound that erupts out the side of lips sounds like gibberish. I try my best to look away from him.

  Somehow understand my fiery retort, he grins saying, “My place in Hel is already secure, I’m simply maintaining my reputation.”

  Even though I’m securely held and have few notions of trying to escape again, tensions remain high onboard for the next hour or so. The men give their moody King a wide berth, opting to watch the seas or me instead.

  Fletcher, who I’ve gathered from overhearing the men, is “Master of the Sails.” The highest title a crew member can be given. The reasoning for his title and the tension makes more sense when I realise where we are.

  The Meteoroid Spit.

  A dense archipelago connecting the most northern tip of the Crescent Cove to the western coastline of the Star Spike in a series of hopscotch islands. I assumed few people inhabited the islands, but I could not have been more wrong.

  As we slowly sail our way through the chunks of land, I notice rope bridges spanning the distances between some of the islands in closer proximity.

  Sweat glistens across Fletcher’s forehead as he nimbly navigates the tightest part of the route. Two sea stacks act like guardsmen, standing tall at the mouth of the Lunar Lands bay.

  Children hop from one land mass to the next, sprinting across bridges and jumping over gaps. My heart pounds in my throat.

  They’re going to fall. I cannot bear to watch them plummet to their deaths.

  They continue to run, dashing across the rope bridge which attaches to the sea stacks. The rope shakes dramatically. It looks like it’s about the snap, yet more children pour out from nooks and join in the horrible fun. We’re so close to the stacks that their faces are visible now.

  A young boy scrambles to the top and yanks the awaiting chain. Bronze and gold coloured bunting embroidered with the royal emblem, unfurl and drapes from one sea stack to the other.

  Fletcher releases a sigh and rolls his shoulders as we pass through the pillars, “Welcome home, your Majesty.”

  The King claps his back firmly. He makes a ring shape with his index finger and thumb before placing in his mouth and releasing a loud whistle.

  “Good work, Ludwig!” The King shouts to the victorious child, who squeals in delight, “You’ll be fitter than this lot soon!”

  The sailors onboard laugh. Even Arthur with his bloodied nose, prods one of the other men in his belly, jeering about how he needs to stop eating pies.

  Although I am no safer than when I was captured, a weird sense of relief washes over me too. I remind myself that the Kingdom I see in the distance is not my home.

  Far from it.

  Kellan turns to his crew, “I could not have asked for better men. You served me well, obeying me no different than my father before me.” His voice falters for a note. The men offer quiet condolences, adjusting their momentary playful tone back to serious.

  “Let us not forget why we embarked on this mission. May you never forget the importance of family. Once we’ve docked the ship, you are free to spend the rest of the evening with your families. Fletcher, you and I shall reconvene our meetings in the morning to discuss the matter of our family. Until then, steady as she goes.”

  “Steady as she goes!” The sailors respond in harmony before returning to their finishing tasks.

  Sails are lowered, decks are swept.

  There is a distinctive buzz in the air that we’re almost there. That this orde
al is almost over. Although for me, this is just the beginning.

  About half an hour later, the sunk anchor bites into the bedrock below and we slowly drift into the harbour. The citizens of Crescent Cove line the pier.

  Without being prompted, some teenagers help secure the vessel whilst others line up the bridging plank to aid our dismount. Others standby and wave, hollering their hellos with beaming smiles.

  Jealously bubbles in my core sending an acidic taste into my mouth. I would never be welcomed home like this. I doubt I would even be welcome there at all. Physically unable to spit, I am forced to swallow my own foulness.

  The King grants permission for the men to disembark, and makes his way towards me, though he remained within grabbing distance for the remainder of the voyage. He moves his body close and towers his additional foot of height over me.

  He twists the knife into the tight knot that pins me to the mast and slices it in half. Ropes fall instantly and cover my feet, but I do not dare to kick them off.

  I do not dare move. Mostly because I’m afraid my body will not respond to my request. My muscles are stiff. I think my joint have been replaced with chunks of coral.

  Another much smaller part of me does not wish to move as the King presses the pointy tip of his blade against my chest.

  “I thought about leaving you bound here for the night but knowing my luck you’d probably manipulate a shoal of coy from this bay to chew through your bindings,” he says.

  Coy don’t have teeth, I think viciously.

  Idiot.

  “I offered you refreshment and an audience. I am a man of my word, but if you try anything, you will be going back out with the tide.”

  He does not speak it, but he makes it obvious he doesn’t mean alive. The tension eases from the knife and he tucks it into the hem of his trousers.

  He grabs my bound wrists tightly and walks in front of me as we step off the ship.

  Three

  To evade most of the crowds, Kellen opts to haul me through the narrow winding streets. By avoiding the main town centre and market stalls, we only come across a handful of working locals. Each bow to their King and offer a smile, which some even extend to me.

  As we approach the immense iron gates leading to the main castle, I slow my stride to take in the view, but he continues marching at the same pace. He merely shouts from a wide berth to the guard at the gate, requesting refreshments be brought after us.

  He waits for no response; he simply trudges ahead with me in tow. We reach a steep stone staircase, to which he conquers two steps at a time. I barely keep myself upright as I stumble along. When I reach the top, heat flushes to my ears and I risk fainting my way down each and every step.

  Noticing my struggle, he slightly smiles and nods towards a small cottage at the brow of the hill, “You’re almost there.”

  A young woman jogs up the stairs and falls into step beside us. She carries a heaving tray, laden with cheeses, fishcakes and slices of bread, although she carries it as if it were a feather. She juggles the tray into one hand and opens the cottage door. Her perfect complexion and regular breath has me stumped.

  Are the people of these islands mere mortals or are they mountain goats?

  “Your Majesty,” she says softly with a bowed head, “I have the refreshments you requested. Do you require anything else?”

  Her fair eyelashes are so long it’s a wonder she can open her eyes without effort.

  “Thank you, Nessa. Just set the tray on the floor and you may leave us then,” the King says simply.

  She looks mildly stung by the lack of attention she was obviously craving. She lays the tray just inside the doorway, and quietly leaves.

  Kellan throws me yet another threatening look before he releases his hold of my wrists and picks up the tray, “Follow me.”

  I wander after him at my own pace. The inside of the cottage is beautiful. Dense emerald carpet with golden swirls cover patches of cobblestoned floors, and large windows offer views of the harbour and distance sea stacks down below.

  Kellan begins to arrange food and drink, before pulling out a chair for me to sit in. He unravels the rope confining my wrists, and flicks a finger at the syren bridle, “What are the chances of you bellowing like a banshee when I take this off?”

  I concentrate on rolling my wrists and stretching my fingers, pretending I did not hear him.

  He puts a firm hand on either shoulder to turn me around to thumb the clasps at the back of my skull.

  We both stiffen as he slowly untangles the tentacles from my face. He leans close from behind as he reaches over me to place the clunky harness on the table. His warm breath catches on my neck as he remains behind me.

  Still and steady, as if he’s waiting for me to wreak havoc. So that’s exactly what I do.

  I draw a quick breath and release a long, slow note building in pitch. The narrow-stemmed glasses beside me vibrate and threaten to crack. The window rattles in its frame.

  I wait to hear the King drop behind me, but instead a vice-like grip constricts around my neck.

  “I think we both knew that was going to happen,” he says sternly, sounding almost bored, “Knock it off.”

  Perhaps a single note wasn’t enough to bring him under my control. I am out of practice.

  Instead, I opt for a song I had learnt as a child. A simple but effective trancing lullaby ought to put him down.

  With my rusty voice and tightening airway the song is horribly out of key, and to give the King his credit, I do sound incredibly like a bellowing banshee.

  Instead of falling on his knees, he lifts me off the ground with one arm. He takes two steps and slams me against the nearest wall he can reach. My face is pressed firmly into the stone wall with such force my jaw clatters.

  I choke into silence.

  “Do you remember what I said about the tide?” he threatens quietly. Though a mere whisper in my ear, it’s more unnerving than any roar I’d ever heard, “I brought you here so the townspeople would avoid the blunt of your abilities, but I don’t need you giving them a blinding headache every time you open your damn mouth. If you’re going to act like a bloody animal, then I will treat you like one. I could have you shackled at all times. Is that what you want?”

  I’m aware he is waiting for an actual answer this time, but adrenaline is muffling my hearing. Panic is clouding my brain. I know I’m out of practice, but it should have worked. That level of singing that close?

  He should be incapacitated and crying on the ground. Or clutching at his throbbing temples whilst fighting bouts of nausea; not pinning me against a wall.

  “We can sit down like civilised humans and eat once I have your word you will behave yourself.”

  He shakes my collar slightly when I keep my lips sealed, “And don’t think it’s slipped my attention that you’re avoiding my questions. We have studied your kind. I know you cannot lie, syren.”

  He keeps me against the wall, but I feel completely floored. How is it he knows more about my world than I do his? He knows I cannot lie yet I do not understand why he can withstand my abilities.

  The familiar sense of urgency to run away builds in my core. Whether it’s land or sea that incessant itch in my legs to flee never fully fades.

  As much as I hate it, maybe I should have never swum away from home. My mother was right. I’ll never survive on my own. For the second time today, I chastise myself for not feeling fear soon enough; it’s always too late.

  “Answer me, syren. Do you agree to behave?”

  In my trapped position, my squished face is locked facing the tray of food.

  Real food, not just some raw, scaly fish I sang to death. I’m famished for food and rest and have little energy to fight a battle I know I cannot win right now.

  I try my best to clear my half-strangled throat and fully-fogged mind, “You have my word that I’ll behave…whilst we eat.”

  Kellan hesitates, but releases his hold on me, “I don’t appreciate
you adding a time-span, but I guess it’s a start.”

  When he moves his body away from me, my legs wobble unable to hold my weight.

  I do not know the recovery time for kidnapping, but my normal rest time post-transition would be three days. I doubt I will get a mere full day here.

  Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing me faint, I quietly perch myself into the seat before me and hope I can eat my way back to full health.

  The King pushes aside the carafe of wine with a look of disgust and instead pours himself a half glass of rum. He takes a slow sip, firmly crosses his arms and asks, “What’s your name, syren?”

  “Syren this, syren that,” I mimic his voice, although my voice crackles and creaks as it struggles to find its normal pitch. Weeks of not talking must have tightened my vocal cords…or maybe on some subconscious level I’m sick of talking back.

  He shrugs as if the acid of my words has no effect on him, “It’s what I’ll call you until you tell me otherwise.”

  “My name is Wren.”

  “Just Wren?”

  I shrug, too busy scanning the spread before me. I don’t recognise most of the foods, and the ones I do seem too crunchy for my tender throat to deal with. I opt for the soft bread upon which I smear softer cheese.

  Either he doesn’t notice that I don’t fully answer his question, or he just doesn’t care enough to force it. Thank the gods for that.

  “What age are you?”

  “Seventeen.” He looks a mere year or two older. Yet he is a King and I am a meagre hostage.

  “Well, how long have you been seventeen then?”

  “Nine months, one week and three days. I’m not immortal if that’s really what you’re asking,” I spit.

  “And where’s your home?” He continues unphased.

  “I do not have a home,” I say sharply.

  He raises an eyebrow but does not press the issue. Instead, he takes another sip of his drink, muttering, “stowaway syren,” into his tumbler.

  I pour myself a tall glass of pale pink wine and guzzle every drop. When I go to refill my glass, he judgingly swaps the wine jug for water.