The first time, applause had erupted. The second had seen a hearty cheer erupt, though the merriment had not lasted as long. By the time they pulled out of the sixth port, ship empty of all smuggled cargo, the pirates simply sat mutely as their share of the profits was doled out to them.

They were growing bored, which was a good thing. It made them more complacent.

The guards in his room had started standing outside the door instead, then leaving gaps in their shifts to avoid the most unpleasant hours of the night. Listening at the door made that much clear, although Luce had yet to chance cracking it open to make sure.

In some ways, it was hard to blame them. Where could he go?

Luce could stroll right up to the deck and it still wouldn’t do him any good. Nor would smashing the window, even if he could manage to somehow squeeze himself out of the six inch wide gap. The dinghies were under the Captain’s lock and key, a standard spec on Avalon warships to help abate desertions and mutiny. As a prince, Luce had been given a copy, of course, but the pirate captain had seized it the moment she had realized the nature of the mechanism.

None of them had been as accommodating as the dark-haired girl had been, but leaving him alone was progress enough. Given that she seemed to have been… removed from the ship in Malin, it was easy enough to see why the others would avoid taking the same path.

Lying to him the first time had been one thing, but it had been weeks and he’d still had yet to hear of any ransom, any chance at his freedom. With every stop, he grew more afraid that they planned to keep him as a prow ornament, forever bound to bless their smuggling.

No, whatever the risk, he needed a way out. Avalon needed him to find a way out.

On his desk sat the old windmill, a product of bleary-eyed tinkering in the wee hours of the night during his final year at the Cambrian College. It had to remain in plain sight, or its value could become clear. Luce didn’t even want to think about what the pirates would do if they saw him stuffing it into a desk drawer or pulled it up from under his bed.

And Harold thought it foolish of me to take it. Luce twirled the wheel idly with his finger, careful not to move it too quickly. If word reaches Cambria that I’ve been kidnapped by pirates of the Erstwhile Empire, not even Harold could stop the calls for war. It simply wasn’t acceptable.

Next to the mill was that copy of The Winter War, left open on an early page describing Olwen’s meeting with a merchant lord from Plagette, offering weapons and loans to support the High Kingdom in its wars to the south. An old man, with a gaunt face and long dark hair gone mostly to grey, he was one of the most obvious embellishments in a book full of them. His name, Laird Heirgroom, matched none of the members of the Plagetine Senate, nor did any contemporary records of arms sales between the nations make mention of so much as his surname.

And yet Olwen had wanted a scheming villain in her tale, playing the nations against each other so his homeland could expand. She’d needed a reason to paint the Republic as greedy warmongers, rather than mere opportunists who had approached the conflict more smartly than most, since their unpopularity with the High King was legendary. And so this twisted caricature arrived on the page, with his sneering face and thick accent helping any particularly dense readers grasp his purpose in the story.

The obviousness of Olwen’s fabulism still hadn’t stopped breathless fanatics from endless theorizing over pots of coffee in the corner table of Luce’s favorite salon, unfortunately. One would declare that Laird was a figment of Olwen’s imagination, an alternate personality that could take over her body to sabotage the High Kingdom. Then the next would claim he was a shadow doppelganger cut from Mathille Leclaire, or the first King Harold, or any number of other patently absurd suggestions. By that point it was usually only a matter of time before the entire cast of characters were secret doppelgangers of other hidden players, endlessly scheming for seemingly no reason other than fooling the audience, or perhaps an addition to complexity.

One particularly foolish person at that table had even suggested it was the spirit Glaciel wearing the guise of a man to pit Micheltaigne against her nation’s hated rival. But children were often foolish, and Luce, much as he might lament it, had not been an exception.

It’s still a great story, though.

That much did seem more true than it had a decade ago. The high melodrama and outrageous stakes had seen Luce’s thirteen-year-old self cast the novel as empty pablum, a conscious rejection of childhood so blunt only a slightly older child could manage it, but structurally the story itself was surprisingly sound. Even knowing how it ended, even knowing the context of its creation, a part of Luce found himself hoping Olwen and her love would prevail.

But they were all doomed, just like all of us if I can’t maintain this peace. Harold was probably bouncing off the walls just trying to hold back the Great Council by himself.

Father could have been there helping him, if he weren’t too busy playing bard in Guerron. For that matter, had Father stayed in Malin, Luce’s presence there never would have been necessary. He had made that trip to Guerron sound so important, but now it seemed to pale in comparison. Especially if the spirit temples had been on the brink of tearing their city apart already.

He leaned forward slightly, feeling the warmth of the desk near the base of the mill as his eyes crept back to the book.

What then will they say of Magnifico, when fifty years have passed. What legacy will the ashes of Guerron impress upon Avalon?

Would children gather around that same table, wondering what part Father had played? Admittedly, the bard guise didn’t sound too different from the sorts of theories Luce and his friends had once bandied about. No shadow doppelgangers though.

Although if anything that was a shame. With a shadow of his own, Father could have cast his presence twice as far, but the impossibly sharp artifact that made it possible was long lost, the spirit it bound even longer dead. All remaining histories indicated that the cost was too high to bear, in any case.

Of course, that may have been more a reflection of his tutors’ frustration at being given the impossible task of finding it. In those days, no stone had seemed worth leaving unturned, no matter the cost. The follies of youth.

Still, a shadow in his likeness seemed pretty appealing at the moment. Then it wouldn’t be me stuck on this forsaken boat.

The next morning, Luce awoke to the all-too-familiar knock on his door. Once tense and fearful, repetition had dulled the sense of danger. In a way, he supposed he’d grown somewhat complacent as well. He knew that they wouldn’t hurt him, not unless he tried to escape or something went horribly wrong, but as news of his “tour” of the Territories spread, even fewer impediments greeted each visit at every port.

An attempt to tip some customs officers off was always an option, to hope that he could jump ship before a pirate impaled him. Even if I live, though, a Guardian realizing what happened guarantees further war.

No, long nights marinating in guilt and fear had given way to quiet contemplation, and with it, possibilities.

“Which is it this time?” he asked as he pulled on his coat, pockets empty.

“Charenton,” the Captain said, opening the door. “And don’t try another history lesson.”

“I’ve been remarkably compliant, considering what you’ve done.” Admittedly, his reflections on the Three Cubs wars in the wake of the Fox Queen’s death in order to help provide context for Lyrion’s founding had gone on for longer than necessary, but that had been after four days without speaking to a soul. “Who are you to complain?”

The captain’s eyes narrowed, creasing the heavy dark bags underneath them. “The woman with a knife at your throat.” In an instant, it was true, the feel of cold metal resting against his skin. “Don’t forget who holds your life in her hands.” She withdrew the knife, gesturing down the hall.

“I won’t.” But acting the part of an unassuming dullard, a foppish Prince incapable of even the mildest resistance, was crucial to any chance he had of getting out of this alive without embroiling Avalon in another senseless conflict.

As if that isn’t the truth, a voice whispered from the back of his head. A true prince would have stood and fought. A hero would have saved Cassia.

He shook the thoughts away, turning back to the pirate captain. Another reaction would be necessary in this case, anyway. “I’d think Charenton would interest you more though, seeing as you served under Robin Verrou. It’s unusual for a pirate to have a surname, don’t you think? Implies the privilege and esteem of the landed.”

“Of course. I’ve never heard the story in my entire life, not after years as quartermaster on the Seaward Folly. It completely eluded me. I also missed the fact that he used orange and black as his colors, and the gates to Charenton are the exact same color.” She folded her arms. “Obviously I’m a complete fucking idiot.”

“Obviously,” Luce agreed, biting down the feeling of his stomach dropping like a ball of lead.

The captain blinked. “Don’t think we can’t ransom you for nearly the same sum minus an ear. Or perhaps your tongue.”

The brattish act still felt forced, but it played into what they were inclined to believe. “You’d sooner fire me out of a cannon.” That had been the third time this week, so hopefully it hit the balance of planting the seed without feeling forced, but—

“Want to bet, you fuck?” She grabbed his wrist and yanked him down the hall. Within seconds, they passed right by the staircase to the deck he felt like he had already stepped up ten thousand times. Instead, she dragged him lower into the ship.

Luce dared to hope as they crossed into the lower battlements, and couldn’t help but smile slightly when he saw the polished shine of the cannons before him, the scent of gunpowder filling the air.

“Look at that.” She flung him down onto the ground, causing him to bang his head against the metal. Fuck, that hurt. “You think I’d sooner fire you out of the cannon? Fine. Piss me off one more time, Your Princeleyness. One more fucking time.” She turned back to the entrance as Luce groaned aloud, splayed out over the ground. “Now get your ass up onto the deck and look like a smiling idiot, before we see how far you can fly.”

Luce scrambled up, trying not to be too obvious as he clutched at his coat, feeling the added weight but hopefully not showing it.

It is always advisable to learn from one’s mistakes, he thought as he followed the captain to the deck, ears still ringing. More than merely advisable, iteration was absolutely key to the scientific process. Take the best of information from one experiment to the next, from a prototype to a result… It always galled him that people couldn’t apply the same lesson everywhere. In this case, the obvious takeaway is to avoid plans that result in head injury.

He couldn’t even press his hands to his temples, not with them keeping the bottom of his coat in place. Once they reached the deck, the bright light only made the feeling worse.

Still, Luce forced a smile and waved gaily on as the customs officers ignored blatant smuggling going on right before their eyes. Normally, the return belowdecks felt painful, dimly lit and confined. But after maintaining composure through all of that, keeping his head steady and his smile wide, spewing the lines they forced him to say without so much as a stutter, all the while keeping his hands perfectly steady…

By the time he reached his cell, it was relief that overwhelmed him.

Still, it was not yet time to rest.

Ever-so-carefully, he emptied his pockets onto the cloth sitting atop his desk. The smell of powder filled the air once more, but hopefully it would fade enough before the pirates checked in on him that he could sell it as remaining odor from his visit to the battlements still clinging to him.

In a strange way, it was nostalgic. Professor Thorburton’s very first class had been a demonstration that wasn’t too dissimilar.

Remember, the powder is a baby bird, to be coddled and cradled. Treat it with respect and it will grant you the same. Carelessness will not be tolerated in my class. Now let’s all make sure to have fun!

The Professor had added dye to the compound, throwing up flares of colored smoke high into the air. It was certainly a nicer image than a cannon tearing through a wall, even if it belied the true danger.

All the more dangerous given these laboratory conditions. Every rock of the boat risked wholesale annihilation, but what else was there to do?

Tighter and tighter he packed it, wedging it into the base of the windmill. By the time he was finished, the pirates were beginning to stir, and the mill sat slightly askew at his desk, but the task was complete.

Now I just have to sleep next to it for Khali-knows how long, until we reach the next port. Every night passed nearly sleepless, almost as bad as his first days of captivity, but the risk was worth it. It had to be.

The next day he smashed his window open with a spoon, in the hopes that the inattentiveness of his guards would lead them to miss the sound. None stepped in, so it seemed to work.

More than a week after their stop in Charenton, Luce finally felt the knock on his door.

More quickly than he had moved in his life, he grabbed the windmill and darted across the room.

After his lack of response, the door sounded once more, as Luce crammed the mill into the jagged gap in the window. No time to align it.

He whipped back around to see the pirate captain glaring at him with narrowed eyes. “Well that’s no good.” She flicked her head to the smashed window. “We’ve been terrible hosts, keeping you locked up in this palatial chamber. Good thing for you, I know just the dark box in the cargo hold to remedy that!”

“I’m sorry,” he lied as convincingly as he could manage. “I’ve just been trapped in here for so long. I needed air.”

The pirate covered her brow with her hand. “Fucking brilliant timing, your princeliness.”

Luce blinked. “Why? What happened?”

She snorted. “What happened is you helped sell an entire fucking boatload. We even bought a resupply back from the Folly, and still managed to get rid of it all. Never had it this fast or this easy in my life.” The trace of a smile spread across her face, though it was gone so quickly it was hard to tell if it had even been there. “Everyone on this ship ought to be grateful that things ran so smoothly…” Arms folded, she waved her head back to the door. “Anyway, we’re headed back to resupply, so I figured it’d be pretty harmless having you on the deck for a bit.”

“Oh… good…” What is she really after?

The captain shrugged. “Yeah, and obviously smashing open a six inch window has only reinforced my belief in your passive, cooperative nature.”

“Please?” he tried. “I won’t say anything, or do anything wrong. I just…”

She rolled her eyes. “Just follow me to the deck.”

After a week in his chambers, the aroma of wind and salt was intoxicating. The waves of air crashed against Luce’s face, lifting his greasy, overgrown hair from his scalp. After a moment, his eyes adjusted enough to the light that he could make out the vast, endless stretch of blue water before him.

The deck was strangely empty of pirates, and the most of the remaining faces seemed different, though that could just be the isolation getting to him.

Wait, if she’s returning to the Erstwhile Empire to resupply, where is the island? Or Avalon? For a moment, it seemed as if he had brought about his demise.

The day was clear, without an inch of fog. If they were traveling southwest, then why—

“Behind you, genius.” The pirate grabbed his shoulder and spun him around to face land.

The coast was close, and the image it painted was clear…

“Refuge,” he breathed softly. Salvation of a sort, though so very far from ideal.

The pirate smiled. “Never said it would be Guerron we’re headed back to. The Arboreum’s practically untapped compared to the West coast, and with a ship like this we barely lose any time doing it. Shame it throws your country’s atrocities in your face though.”

Even so many decades later, the landscape was startling. Withered husks of bleached-white tree trunks clung to salted, barren earth. Thick clouds of dust obscured the furthest reaches of it, but even from here the scope was harrowing.

No port, no smuggling. Naught but a random stretch of wasteland… And it was too late to abort the plan.

“The fruit of Avalon’s ambition,” Luce muttered, stepping to the edge of the deck. The change in location had some benefit, at least. He’d never have been able to manage that with a dozen blades ready to run him through for twitching. Well, not without a distraction. “I’m glad you showed me this.”

The captain blinked. “You may be spending too much time with me.”

“I’m serious.” He placed his hands on the wooden railing. “If we hear of the Fall of Refuge at all, it’s a mere footnote in the Lyrion Conquest. The last, futile gasps of a defeated people too stubborn to surrender. At best, some try to justify it as necessary to end the war.”

“And it did a great job of that.” She stepped up next to him. “Avalon never fought anyone ever again, and the whole world lived happily ever after.”

“Exactly.” Luce sighed. What a miserable place to die. “Anyone truly informed of things would recognize the self-serving lies, but seeing the truth here before me is another thing entirely. It’s captivating, in a way.” And should I fail to return home on my own terms, this is all that awaits the rest of the world. That prospect looked more likely by the minute.

“I’ll be sure to let the people of Refuge know that their death and suffering was all worth it, since it helped a Prince of Avalon come to an epiphany.”

“Why do you care?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t.”

“But you—” Luce felt his head slam against the wood as a deafening sound filled his ears, that damnable ringing returning with strength renewed one thousandfold. He didn’t even realize he was falling until he felt his head crash against the water.

That much of his plan had worked. Now he had to survive.