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Washed Under the Waves

By Gloria Clover

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Chapter One
"The prince is here! The prince is here!"
At the cry, Prince Geoffrey Athan D'Ambrose stood tall, when he'd rather duck and scurry to the protective carriage and begin his journey anew. Sweat broke out across his forehead and dried immediately in the ocean's cooling breeze.
He searched the seated crowd of children in front of him until he spotted the towheaded child crowing about his arrival.
How had the little yapper known? Having left the King's carriage at the edge of the village, Geoffrey had walked alone the last two-hundred yards. The overgrown road from the dock suggested little use. He'd thought it safe to leave the carriage to walk among his people this once before news of his arrival spread across the land.
He was the first sent out. The King had sent the prophecy, sure, but Geoffrey was the first heir to leave the Kingdom—the honor and the responsibility to succeed were his. If a child could see through his tutor's disguise, how would he convince the princess?
Except that particular child was giggling behind his hand and three other boys pushed at one another. None of them looked at him or the small stage of leaning wood and tattered curtains that had engaged their attention when Geoffrey had strode onto the scene ten minutes earlier.
A giraffe puppet appeared on the stage, jiggling its long neck, and exclaimed, "Shall I tell you the story of the 'Boy who Cried Wolf' since you are so good at it?"
The entire group of fifteen children shifted forward.
The towhead called, "Tell us, Geoffrey Giraffe!"
Geoffrey winced to hear his name connected to the gyrating creature of the children's amusement. So much for his disguise being blown. His name wasn't even honored among his people.
The monkey, the other hand puppet on stage that had been reciting a base form of limericks, jumped up and down. "You ruin everything, Mannix. The prince is not here. And even if he were, we wouldn't believe you, because you have cried wolf too many times. I have three more poems to recite."
"We'll do them next week," the giraffe promised, his voice losing its gruffness and sounding decidedly young and female. Then it deepened once more. "Mannix and all you fellow children of Black Cherry, lend an ear as I tell you the tale of 'The Boy who Cried Wolf.'"
The towhead puffed up and settled down. Geoffrey shifted to lean a shoulder against an ironwood tree offering minimal shade from the bright sun, and filed away the child's name. Mannix. Ringleader of the aged ten and under children of Black Cherry Village—Geoffrey searched his mental files—population ninety-three. The third largest village on Undae Island, his new home, his new kingdom.
The giraffe began a passionate tale of a shepherd boy who became so bored with his sheep that he would yell "wolf" to draw the villagers out of the town to aid him against the predator.
Though the teenager behind the giraffe told a compelling story, Geoffrey's gaze drifted over the children. He saw a young woman leave the confines of the stage to sit on the grass and pull the monkey puppet from her hand. He judged her to be fifteen or sixteen years old and quite agitated. She scowled and stared narrow-eyed at what Geoffrey assumed was the voice and energy behind the giraffe.
He wondered about the absence of adults, about the quietness and empty streets of the village. He'd given it little thought when he'd first arrived and the children's voices had drawn him to the center square. He had been observing for a quarter hour and no one had acknowledged or challenged his presence among the children. The grass-woven huts that lined the streets two, and in some places three, deep, for all intents and purposes stood empty. Where were the adults? The businesses?
What little his studies had revealed about Undae Island had suggested a peaceful, medieval society, except for the changes brought by its two touches with the outside world. But shouldn't there be a butcher, a baker, or at least a candlestick maker?
"Thus, my children," the giraffe concluded, "the moral of this story is to call for help only when you need it."
Geoffrey frowned and went so far as to open his mouth before he snapped it closed. It wasn't his place or position to correct the teachings given during puppet plays—yet. One day soon he would be able to explain the story to the village teachers with greater clarity, and they, in turn, to their students. His studies of the entire Archipelago of Solumnus had shown that each island was distinctive in the deception that ruled its culture. The King had told him that education would be key to his success.
Then the King had presented Geoffrey with the disguise of brown velte britches and a tan shirt and said his mission was to teach the princess her place in the Kingdom.
Geoffrey had thought his mission was to marry the princess and lead his people to the King. Apparently not. So, he'd arrived disguised.
A black zebra with skinny white stripes joined the giraffe on stage. "Children," the zebra crooned in a false soprano, "what did we learn today?"
Without a word, Mannix and the three older boys rolled to their feet and strolled out of the village center toward a copse of willows surrounding a pond some fifty yards away.
"Did we learn the proper count for a limerick?"
Four older girls brushed off their burlap squorts and giggled their way through the rest of the children.
"Who can tell me how many syllables make the first line?" the zebra continued.
Children scattered.
A five-year-old with dewy ringlets called plaintively, "Teacher, everybody's leaving again."
Geoffrey the Giraffe sighed. Geoffrey the Prince heard it clear back behind the departing children.
"Thank you, Shayla." The teacher lost her deep giraffe voice and her high zebra voice. "I'll see you next week." The puppets dropped from the stage.
The teen who had been the monkey puppet jumped to her feet and disappeared behind the puppet stage. "I don't know why you insist on trying to turn everything into a lesson. They don't care. We always lose them. Why couldn't I finish my poems? Then, for once, we could have had a successful day."
"The prince is coming, Cameo," her friend returned with more spirit than Geoffrey had thought she possessed from that sigh. "Do you want him to find us uneducated and uninteresting?"
"We have time. You push them too hard. The prince may not be here for months, years. The prophecy was vague."
Geoffrey grinned. The King did like being mysterious.
"Vague, but true. You do believe, don't you? He's coming, and when he does, I want to be ready."
Geoffrey straightened. He wanted to meet this young lady, discover her name, her family. Obviously she was the village teacher, but had she had any education of her own? She—
"Sir," a voice said in his ear—his footman, Jon. "A villager discovered the carriage. We must make haste if you want to get to the castle before word of your arrival does."
With a nod, Geoffrey pulled his flat cap low onto his brow and made haste.
***
Lady Tayte Bashan switched the burlap sack containing the puppets and scripts to her left shoulder as she hiked Mount Bashan toward home. Absently, she rubbed at the redness on her right shoulder and glanced up at Castle Bashan. The three-story stone building with surrounding fifteen cubit walls had been her grandfather's shining achievement. Built into the apex of the center and shortest of the four mountains of Undae Island, Castle Bashan had withstood eighty years of rainy seasons, two hurricanes, and one tsunami. The once pearl white stone of the frontage had greened with algae and age, but it promised a sanctuary to Tayte.
"I can carry that for a while," her fourteen-year-old cousin, Crystal, offered from a step behind her. Crystal's sister, Cameo, lagged a good twenty paces, obviously not wanting to converse at all after not being permitted to finish her poems.
"I've got it. I'm sure the slates are heavier." Tayte's eyes narrowed and she raised her hand to shield them from the descending sun. "Is something going on at the castle?"
"Since we never use them, I only brought one slate—" Crystal cut herself off and shielded her own eyes. "I haven't the foggiest."
"I thought I heard Micah yelling ... but...." The cry hadn't sounded fearful or urgent. Still, she imagined problems.
As a child, Tayte had thought Castle Bashan the only place in the world worthy of calling home. She couldn't picture a more beautiful location to live than Undae Island. Peaceful and lush and protected.
Then she had learned the price of living on Undae.
On days like this, the responsibility of ruling encircled her neck with ever tightening dismay. She was a lousy teacher. A lousy ruler. Even a lousy cousin.
Tayte glanced over her shoulder at Cameo, who remained behind, still insulted about the limericks. Crazy child. If Tayte could help her cousins grasp her vision for the island, she would have some support, some hope, that the villagers would want what she wanted for them as well.
The castle staff buzzed louder. Another responsibility she'd have to deal with. Cook's and Teresa's voices joined Micah's, and Tayte and Crystal exchanged puzzled looks.
"Perhaps they're practicing the musical we aren't supposed to know about."
Tayte grinned, then picked up her pace. "You aren't supposed to know about it, Crystal. It's a surprise for your Coming of Age day."
"Then they shouldn't have chosen Micah for the lead. He can't keep a secret any more than the ocean can be still."
Silently, Tayte agreed. Fifteen-year-old Micah, in charge of castle landscaping, spent more time gossiping and singing than trimming and weeding. He was also one of the more talented members of her illustrious seven-person staff.
The dirt path widened as they entered the castle gates—gates always left open since Tayte had become ruler of Undae Island—and they stepped onto the crushed-shell sidewalk that led to the front door.
An enclosed carriage was parked to the right of the castle steps. Two dappled white horses stood nearby. Tayte gawked. She'd only seen such beings in books. Who would have arrived in such finery? Was it possible—
"The prince is here! Tayte, the prince is here!" Micah called as he loped toward them from the carriage.
Tayte's hand flew to her mouth. Really? The prince had arrived? Today? They weren't ready. She had wanted everyone to be prepared for him. Had she even prepared herself?
Her hand flew from her mouth to her bonnet. Which one had she put on this morning? Had she braided her hair or merely tied it back? Juniper branches, she was wearing burlap in deference to the village children of Black Cherry! This was not how she'd intended to meet her intended.
"Are you certain it's he?" She grabbed Micah's arm.
"Aye, it's him. I saw him myself. Hair as dark as a mud rat. He ain't no member of Undae lest he's royalty." Micah yanked his arm free and brushed at his sleeve.
Tayte ignored both the unflattering simile to her betrothed's hair and Micah's disrespectful response. The prince had come. After five years of waiting and believing.
"Where is he?" Tayte motioned toward the carriage, lavish by Undae standards. "Is he still in the carriage? Why hasn't the staff lined to greet him? Micah, we had a plan. You all knew what I expected of you!"
"Looks like the carriage that took Cinderella to the ball," Crystal gushed.
"Aye. I thought so, too," Micah agreed. "With a mousy footman and everything."
The footman, leaning against the back wheel of the carriage, did have a pointed chin and nose, and a shock of grayish brown hair sticking out beneath his cap. So the prince's servants were not from Undae, either.
For some reason she had expected him to come alone, though that was silly. Of course a prince would have a carriage and driver, footmen to guard, and a valet, too. She doubted he would ever have to wonder if his hair was uncombed when he set out for the day.
Oh, they weren't ready. Neither she nor her people. Would he stay, or would he demand a new island, a different bride? The vagueness of the prophesy plagued her. Was everything destined, or would they have a choice?
What if he were cruel?
Not for the first time, Tayte had to swallow the fear that rose to choke her. Though an insensitive husband would not be her first choice, Tayte had experienced worse and survived. For the people of Undae, she would do her duty and accept the prince of the prophecy. Mud rat hair and all.
"Micah, where is the prince?" Tayte asked through gritted teeth.
Finally, he caught her tone and left off discussing with her cousin the benefits of turning mice into footmen. "Decus greeted him and took him into the castle. You wouldn't think I'd leave him sitting in the carriage, would you? After his long journey. I even showed his men where they could unload a pint if their bladders were full."
Cameo joined them as he made this last outrageous remark and gasped. Crystal giggled behind her hand.
Tayte used her best schoolmarm look and offered dryly, "Thank you, Micah. I can always count on you."
She shifted the school bag to her other shoulder and started up the castle steps. Perhaps, if Decus, her self-appointed guardian and island manager, entertained the prince, she could have a few moments to change and prepare herself mentally for this all important first impression.
As she reached for the front door, it swung outward. If she hadn't been quick to swerve away, it would have caught her on the chin. Her momentum and the weight of the book bag swirled her around twice before the world righted and she found herself looking up into a pair of soft brown eyes.
"My apologies," the stranger murmured, his grip on her upper arms firm yet comforting when she realized he had been the one to set her world straight. "I didn't know anyone was at the door."
She dipped her chin in acknowledgment of his apology. At least she meant to. Perhaps she merely stared into his eyes and lost herself.
She had never met anyone with dark eyes ... and dark hair. Not as a mud rat, but as the tree bark in the deepest parts of Forest Superior. Short, it was too, barely grazing his shoulders, and untied, it curled forward around his ears but left his wide forehead untouched.
His eyebrows were a shade darker than his hair and he had a spot of dark whiskers beneath his thin nose and across his pointed chin. Sparse. As if they were only awakening to the idea of gracing the thin, angled face with manliness.
But his eyes were the very opposite of cruel. In truth, she had never seen such clear, enticing, peaceful eyes.
By all that could be, her prince was perfect.
When he released her upper arms, Tayte stepped into his embrace and wrapped her arms around his waist. She could grasp her own elbows—he was so slim. Yet, his chest was solid, and when her forehead found its place against his neck, his skin was warm. "Welcome to Undae Island and the Castle Bashan. I am so pleased you have come."
"You!" he exclaimed, his body stiffening and withdrawing. "From the puppet show!"
Pushed away and dazed, Tayte attempted to focus on his words instead of the wonderful lilt to his voice. The puppet show? Did he know of her work with the children? Did he have a seer's gift for discerning?
"And the monkey, too. Do you live here and not in the village?"
Tayte shifted to follow his gaze and saw that a flushed Cameo had reached the top of the steps.
Crystal was the one who managed a light response. "Of course we live here, sir. We're Tayte's—Lady Bashan's cousins. Did you intend to live with her alone? After you're married, of course. I'm sure we can find other accomma—"
"Indeed, no!" Now the prince seemed as flushed and out of sorts as he had put them. "I'm the tutor," he said bluntly. "Apologies, again."
"The tutor?" Cameo echoed.
"The tutor?" Crystal questioned. "What's a tutor? How can you not be the prince?"
The tutor raised his chin. "I was sent ahead of the prince to prepare the kingdom."
They knew. The only thing that kept her from melting into a heated puddle of embarrassment was the river of ice flooding from her heart. They all knew. The outside world. The other island leaders. The prophesied prince. His staff. Obviously his staff whom he had sent ahead to do her job. She was a failure.
"He sounds like you," Cameo grumbled to Tayte. "I'm sure you will get along grandly. Preparing a kingdom. Whatever that amounts to." With a quick curtsey in the burlap clothes Tayte knew she despised, Cameo skirted the tutor and entered the castle. "Enjoy your stay. It will most likely be longer than you planned."
The tutor's dark brow arched in silent query.
Crystal's eyes widened in delight. "Oh, teach me to do that first thing, if you please. How wild." She proceeded to attempt to arch her eyebrow and managed to twist her nose and one corner of her lips.
His brows crashed toward the bridge of his nose.
"Don't mind Cameo," Crystal continued, quite oblivious to the tutor's darkening mood. "It must be her monthly or something. She's been snippy all day."
Tayte groaned. Could they get any more uncouth? He would send a message back to the prince tonight recommending he not come ever.
"Indeed." The tutor nodded quite seriously. "But the reason I stepped outside." He took a deep breath, and Tayte imagined he was wishing away the past five minutes of mayhem. "Decus said that Lady Bashan would be returning from her walk. I hoped to introduce myself."
"But—" Crystal held out one hand toward Tayte.
Tayte grasped it and pulled her forward. "But if you haven't met her yet," Tayte snapped, "consider yourself lucky. She doesn't do well with surprises."
With tears clogging her vision, Tayte pushed past him and pulled Crystal in her wake. The last thing she needed was her young cousin blurting out the truth.

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