Page 77 of Hijack the Seas: Seismic

“I didn’t,” Pritkin shot me a look.

“Does that mean you don’t know, or—”

“His father was a fey nobleman named Leiknir, a giant of a man even by fey standards, which is where Rhosier gets his height. He had many human mistresses before his death in battle against the Svarestri.”

“And his mother?”

“Was born here. She did not have her son’s longevity and passed some time ago.”

“His grandmother, then?” I persisted. “Or great-grandmother?” Because Pritkin knew an awful lot about some random cook’s background.

“His great-grandmother was brought here as a pregnant slave, and yes, the timeline fits. But that doesn’t mean—”

“The timeline fits? Meaning that she was brought here in the sixth century?” I said. Because Pritkin’s dad and Rhosier’s possible namesake had been prowling around Wales right about then, looking for part-fey, part-human women who might be able to bear him an heir.

He hadn’t had any luck with demons, whose infertility eclipsed even that of the fey, and had switched his attention to humans. But none had proven able to survive the birth of a half-demon child, who had sucked the life out of them from the womb, killing both mother and fetus. Until Rosier met Morgaine, whose mixed heritage allowed her to carry Pritkin to term.

But what if there had been another? One who had been carrying a child whose magic had also come in late, thus allowing the mother to survive? If she’d stayed on Earth, Rosier would have found her again, as he had carefully tracked the births of his children. But what if she hadn’t?

What if she’d been grabbed by the fey, who were snatching up witches left and right since their magic made their offspring stronger? Nimue’s people wanted the most potent blood they could find to produce their battle fodder, and they needed guaranteed fertility. A pregnant witch would, therefore, be a prize, one that might have found herself kidnapped to Faerie before the demon lord she’d had an affair with could return and take the child.

Pritkin looked like he was following my train of thought and didn’t like it. “We’re not related,” he said flatly.

“You sure about that?”

“And it wouldn’t matter even if we were. You heard what Rhosier said to Enid. Bodil is his patron; he won’t risk angering her and jeopardizing their arrangement.”

“Not even for you?” I tried to cock an eyebrow, but as usual, both went up. “The servants in the kitchens seemed pretty darned fond of you, almost like they look on you as a savior.”

Pritkin gave his short bark of a laugh. “Hardly.”

“Could have fooled me!”

He leaned his head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. “Everyone is worried about what happens when a new ruler takes the throne. That’s as true of the servants as it is of the loftiest courtier. There hasn’t been a change of power here for time out of mind. The only force to be reckoned with that most people remember is Nimue. And while she was as changeable as the sea, there were certain rules she didn’t violate.”

“Such as?”

“Such as those that govern the servants. They don’t have many protections, but she wasn’t going to risk her precious breeding stock to a noble’s whim, and she came down hard on anyone who attacked them.”

“But Enid—”

“Was disfigured, yes, but not killed, not blinded, not maimed.”

“That’s a damned low bar!” I said, outraged. “Beat them all you like, scar them for life, terrorize the hell out of them, just so long as they can still work and have babies for the war machine!”

“Essentially, yes.” Pritkin’s voice was quiet but steady. He seemed more his old self, as if the conversation was calming him despite its subject. “It’s a brutal system, and its protections may seem barbaric to you. But they are protections. And to people who have no others, they are important ones.”

“Yes, but—”

“And the servants are afraid to lose those protections if the wrong heir wins. As I told you, most have no way out if conditions here worsen. Rhosier and Bodil send through a few at a time, the ones in greatest need, because laws can be disregarded, and a slave can be killed quietly. But thousands? Much less tens of thousands, as the laws also govern those on the frontier?”

“Tens of thousands?”

“This has been going on for centuries, Cassie, and the fey have been actively trying to breed more soldiers. I don’t know the true number, but it must be at least that. In any case, the servants hope I will win and protect their limited rights, hence the reception you saw. They don’t see me as a savior so much as a maintainer of the status quo. They don’t dare to hope for anything else.”

“Then they should! This isn’t the Middle Ages!”

“In Faerie, it may as well be. When people live for thousands of years, social change comes at a crawl when it comes at all.”

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