by K Dowling
Anderson pats at his blonde hair with the palm of his hand, choking back a quiet scoff. “Adeline may have been your mother’s friend, but she cleans my mother’s bedpans. The woman will respect me, as is her place. Nothing more.”
Byron’s grimace deepens, darkening the shadows about his lips. He feels a burning annoyance flicker deep within his chest. Anderson never misses an opportunity to point out Byron’s impoverished upbringing—his unimpressive bloodlines. As the son of a lord and lady, he fancies himself superior to everyone save for the king himself. Shouldering his pride, Byron heads for the door without another word. He has no desire to engage Anderson in a pissing contest—not now, when Rowland waits for them in the throne room.
He hears Anderson’s boots fall into step with his own as they head out of the barracks and towards the main building of the palace. Scowling—trying in vain to push the memory of screaming, the knowledge of his inferior officer’s insolence, out of his head—he quickens his pace and looks to the day ahead.
CHAPTER 7
King Rowland Stoward
“Your Highness?”
Rowland Stoward startles. The folds of his chin double over his fist. His elbow slides off of the gilded armrest of his throne and he sputters, sitting up straighter in his chair. He has fallen asleep again. With a lazy wave of a heavily ringed hand, he gestures for the harpist on the far side of the room to cease his playing. There is a strum, strum, twang and the man’s fingers settle into stillness against the strings. The courtiers that line the walls stretch inconspicuously. They peer sleepily around the room, blinking, surprised—pulled back to the present from their respective daydreams.
“What?” His voice is heavy with sleep. His valet perches humbly before him. His arms are folded behind his back and his eyes are trained respectfully toward the ground. His perfect posture reflects back up at him from the polished marble floors.
“If his Majesty will excuse me interrupting his music, your son is here to see you.”
“Frederick?” Rowland’s eyes narrow into slits. The wrinkled folds encompassing his eyelids deepen across his face. “Frederick is dead.” He glares down at the valet in contempt.
The valet gulps. Discomfort creeps across his features.
“No, your Highness.” He clears his throat. “Prince Peterson, your youngest, has requested an audience.”
“Ah. Yes.” Rowland closes his eyes and his mouth tumbles open in a yawn. His tongue falls across his lower lip. The folds of skin beneath his jowl increase and then decrease as his mouth snaps closed. The valet waits. His eyes remain trained upon the floor beneath his feet. “What does it want?”
“I am not sure, your Grace, I only know that he wishes to gain an audience with your Majesty.”
“I have things to do.” The answer is absolute. Final. It echoes languidly across the room.
The valet nods, his chin bobbing frantically above his chest. “Of course. Of course, your Highness. Shall I pass the message along?”
An air of annoyance seizes the king’s portly features. He leans forward upon his throne. Locks of auburn hair fall across his forehead.
“Shall you pass the message along?” He is met with silence from the valet. “Did you think I was explaining myself to you for your own benefit?”
The valet shakes his head.
“I asked you a question.”
“No, your Highness.”
“No?”
“I will pass the message right along to your son.”
“Excellent.” Rowland sits back. He shifts his weight upon the cushion beneath him. He will need to call someone soon to plump it. It has grown lumpy and uncomfortable. He smiles down at the valet. His exposed teeth, yellowed and crooked within the deep lines around his lips cause him to appear wolfish. “I am a busy man. I have important matters with which to deal. Tell the boy he may seek me out later if he still wishes. If he has any immediate qualms, send him to his nurse. That’s why he has the woman in the first place.”
“Yes, your Majesty.” The valet bows low to the floor, extending his waist so far that it seems for an instant as if he will tip over. He remains frozen there in silence.
“You may go,” Rowland snaps, growing thoroughly agitated with the whole affair.
“Thank you, your Grace.”
“Get out.”
Rowland watches as the valet absconds eagerly from his sight. The door slams shut. He continues to stare at it for a few tacit moments. He is suddenly all too aware of the unnerving silence that has overtaken the room. He hates silence. It makes the room feel far too empty. He lifts his hand into the air and snaps his fingers together. With a start, the harpist resumes his playing.
He is in a rotten mood. His temper is short. He can feel it boiling just under the surface of his skin, waiting to erupt. He frowns. Victoria was in his dreams again the previous night. Victoria, his wife—stone cold Victoria with her bitter, dead eyes. Victoria the effigy, hidden away in his dying labyrinth.
Victoria the corpse.
He hates dreaming of her. She is never with a heartbeat—thump, thump—in his dreams. She is always cold. Cold and dead. Like a fish.
He shudders involuntarily—hopes his courtiers do not see. He glares at them sideways from where he slumps in his throne. They are all making a rather extravagant show of examining the floor. Fools. He should have them all thrown out.
There is a sour plunk of the harp. It is immediately followed by silence.
“Your Majesty?” It is his valet again, peeking his deplorable face around the grand golden double doors at the opposite end of the room.
“What?” His reply is terse. His thick fingers drum against his armrest.
“General Byron is here, sir. As you requested. Corporal Anderson as well.”
“What took them so long?”
The valet stammers—he does not know. The heat beneath his skin grows hotter. It singes his flesh.
“Send them in and go away.” Rowland steeples his fingers in an attempt to center himself. Calm. He has been waiting for the guardians to come. Now he can have a bit of fun.
“Of course, your Highness,” the valet is saying. As though he would say anything else. His head disappears behind the door. An instant later, both doors are thrust open.
General Byron sweeps formally into the court. His regalia gleams in the golden sunlight that streams in through the yawning, narrow windows. His golden cloak is draped over his right shoulder. He bows low, his brown eyes trained upon the king’s polished hunting boots. Rowland is pleased, as always, to see the young soldier before him. James Byron has been like a son to him—has been loyal and unswerving in his devotion all his life. He stood by Frederick until the day he died, as faithful and as reliable as a dog. There are precious few he trusts as much as the young man. Too many have betrayed him. Too many will betray him, still.
Just behind James is the corporal. He, too, drops into a bow. His brows are raised upon his forehead as though he has stumbled upon something amusing. Rowland notes this with annoyance.
He is laughing at me, he thinks. He thinks it comical that I dream of Victoria, dead. He knows.
The notion is unreasonable, he knows, but it clings to him all the same—unflappable and tinged with the cold prick of unease. All around the room, the courtiers are waiting for him to speak. The guardians remain in a position of subservience. Rowland tries to remind himself why he called them to his throne room. It will do him good, he imagines, to focus on something else for just a while.
“Rise,” he barks. They comply, straightening. They study him respectfully, but they do not make eye contact. It makes him uncomfortable. Will no one look at me? He fidgets upon his cushion. It is lumpy beneath his rear. Why has no one come to plump it for him?
“I received word that Toyler’s tavern is nothing more than a charred ruin in the square. Is this true?”
“Yes, your Majesty,” General Byron says.
A giggle rises in his throat like bile. He coughs.
“Excellent. And did they squeal?”
A pause. “Your Majesty?”
“The Cairans inside, James. Did they squeal like the pigs they are while they burned?”
Before him, General Byron is silent. His brown eyes are like stone.
Corporal Anderson steps forward, falling in line with General Byron. “They were rescued, your Majesty. We tried to contain them, but a small uprising in the square impeded us. It was chaotic.”
Rowland’s lower lip protrudes from his face. He considers this. He heard as much from his valet when he awoke this morning. The grey dawn leaked in through his windowpane as he lay sweating beneath his golden sheets, trying in vain to shake the dregs of his dreams.
“I heard such rumors. I wanted it to be verified by my top men.”
It is treason to encumber a guardian in his line of duty. He has already made the necessary arrangements. Retribution will be swift. His lips curl into a crooked smile. This is what he has been waiting for all day. This will right what was made wrong in the night.
“I spoke to your men early this morning. Every insurrection has a leader. Once we did some sniffing about the slums, we were able to discover your man.” He claps his hands together, feeling excitement ripple through him. “Bring him in!”
To his left, a smaller golden door slams open. Two guardians drag in a protesting figure. A bag has been pulled down over his head and tied about his neck. Rowland watches the men before him to gauge their reactions. Corporal Anderson is fighting a smile that tugs at his lips. His fingers itch at the hilt of his gun. General Byron remains silent, still. His gaze is unreadable. He stares back at the king.
“Who is this man?”
Rowland snaps his fingers. One of the guardians removes his hood. The captive blinks in the light, staring around the room. His feet struggle aimlessly against the polished floor. At the other side of the room, the courtiers have clumped together like a drooling pack of dogs to watch.
“State your name, Cairan,” Rowland barks, delighted.
The Cairan shakes his head. His voice quakes. “No.”
Rowland clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “It could save your life.”
“You’ll kill me anyway.” The captive is breathless from struggling. His chest rises and falls heavily beneath the cotton of his undershirt.
“I most likely will,” Rowland avows cheerily. “Tell me, Cairan, did you lead your people in a surge against the good general and his men yesterday afternoon in the square?”
The captive swallows hard. His larynx bounces beneath his skin. “I did not.”
“Hmm,” Rowland breathes. Adrenaline is coursing through his veins. He is hungry for death. “I am afraid that I do not believe you. Several of my men have placed you at the scene.”
“I was there, yes, but I did not lead the attack against the guardians. I give you my word.”
“Your word?” A laugh tickles the back of Rowland’s throat. It spills forth from his lips—distends upwards towards the painted cherubs that float in frozen bliss amid the garlanded clouds upon the ceiling.
The room around him is frozen—watching. They cannot look away. He collects himself. His mouth settles back into its usual frown.
“What good is your word to me, Cairan? You are nothing but a liar.”
“I swear to you,” the captive Cairan pleads. “I did not instigate the uprising.”
“Tell me who did,” Rowland hisses, sneering down at him. “Give me a name and perhaps I will let you go free.”
The Cairan is silent before him. The color has drained from his skin. Defeat floods his watery eyes.
“Who staged the revolt in the square?” Rowland demands again. Spittle gathers at the corner of his lips.
The Cairan scoffs. “Nobody did,” he says. His voice is quiet. His eyes flutter closed.
Rowland feels the temper creeping back into his skin. He can feel himself turning as red as his doublet. “James,” he seethes. He can sense General Byron’s stony brown eyes upon him. He thinks again of Victoria—dead, sapped of her life, and he realizes he wants this Cairan before him dead, too. Kill them all, he thinks. Every last one. Kill until it is made right.
“Shoot him,” he commands.
The general draws his pistol from his holster.
“Please,” the Cairan whispers. There is a sharp bang—the pungent smell of gunpowder—and the man is dead. Rowland stares down at the corpse, watching the pink life seep from his cheeks. A crimson puddle is gathering beneath the Cairan’s body. It pools between the tiles upon the floor. Useless. The gypsy was utterly useless.
The puddle of blood is pressing outward. How can any one body have so much of that inside them? He can smell the blood from here, or does he just imagine that? There had been no red when his Victoria died. Only her skin, cold and white. She had gone like the wind, extinguished as though she were a candle.
He leans back upon his throne—rubs at his temples with two heavily ringed fingers. What to do? He should have questioned the Cairan further. Perhaps the man would have buckled with more pressure.
The death, without any new information to spare, has not quite lifted his spirits as he hoped it would.
“Clean this up,” he barks to no one in particular. He feels suddenly exhausted. “When you are done, take the body and hang it in the square. Let the Cairans see what happens to those who rebel against the crown.”
“Yes, your Majesty.” General Byron’s voice sounds as though it reaches him from miles away. He lets his eyes drift closed. He will go back to bed. It is better—in dreams—to see his dead wife, than to roam the corridors awake and remember that she will never again be among the living.
He will feel better once he is rested. He thinks of the corpse, and how it will hang like a lifeless flag in full view for the remainder of the day. Crows will come—black scavengers from the forest. They will take his eyes and peck at his flesh. The Cairan’s body will be desecrated before his people. He can take comfort, at least, in knowing that his message will be clear.
The Cairans will see that he is not a man to be trifled with. He will not tolerate insolence. He will not be made a fool.
CHAPTER 8
Emerala the Rogue
Roberts did not return home until the early hours of the morning.
Emerala is sure of this because she woke with the dawn, her backside aching against the hard surface of the window ledge and her limbs frozen stiff. She glanced around the room, illuminated in sleepy gray hues, and tried to shake away the icy remnants of sleep that clung to her insides like frost. It was then that her eyes fell upon the bulge beneath the sheets of Roberts’s cot. Relief flooded through her veins, warming her as thoroughly as a piping hot cup of tea. It was immediately followed by annoyance.
What had he been doing at Mamere Lenora’s? He had no business going there, she was sure of it. Nothing from the fire at Toyler’s could have led him to the brothel so late at night. She fell asleep the night before wracking her brain for possibilities, and found that she was able to come up with exactly none. This, of course, led her to the only possible conclusion she could fathom.
Roberts was keeping secrets.
If there is one thing Emerala hates more than secrets, it is being left on the outside of a particularly juicy one.
“Are you going to purchase that?”
The merchant’s voice is rough in Emerala’s ear. One askew plume of his feathered hat brushes against her cheek. She startles—places down the dagger she has been admiring. The sunlight that trickles down through the latticed tent overhead catches upon the iridescent hilt. She has lost herself in a daydream, replaying the quiet grey morning over in her mind.
“Right.” She takes a step back. “No.”
The merchant crosses his arms over his violet clad chest. He stares contemptuously down at her over the bridge of his hooked nose. “That’s what I thought. Now clear out—other customers are waiting. Customers with money.”
Emerala feel
s a scowl deepening upon her face. She turns away from the merchant without another word. Staring around the tent, she sulks as she fusses with the olive cotton of her gown. Her wild black hair is a tousled mess of uncombed curls upon her head. One golden earring hangs in a hoop from her left earlobe. Her right earlobe is bare, the remaining earring left forgotten upon her cot at home. She glares at the idling parasol wielding ladies milling about her—studies their fitted jackets and their tight, lace collars—and sighs.
Today has been terrible. From the moment she awoke, it seems, those around her have been nothing but infuriating. First Roberts with his secret keeping, and now the merchant, feathered like a hen ready for plucking.
The tent is crowded. It was set up only the day before to house the newest arrival of goods. These are no ordinary goods, however. Unlike the rest of the shops that line the marketplace, this one has not been brought to Chancey from the Westerlies. The merchant has had his men prowling the street all morning spreading the word—these goods have been delivered from the island of Caira.
Caira. There is something enchanting about it. Emerala thinks of the stories that she heard as a child—stories of the Cairans of Chancey and the island from whence they hailed. The legends are resplendent in nature—magical in a way that Chancey will never be. Yet the stories are old, passed down from generation to generation. There is not a Cairan alive who can claim to have been there. Her people are so far removed from their homeland—their blood so tainted with the blood of Chancian commoners—that they might as well have severed all historical ties to the mysterious island of Caira.
It is a world that, now, only exists in the kind of stories children whisper to one another in the dark.
She is so deep in thought that she hardly notices the dark stranger watching her from one shaded corner of the tent. It is not until she hesitates before the opening to stare around at the chattering customers in contempt that she feels his eyes upon her face. Her gaze snaps towards the shaded figure. He is leaning against a splintering post, his brown moth bitten coat draping his lanky silhouette. From beneath a tilted black tricorn hat, two stark golden eyes stare pointedly at her. He realizes that she has seen him and he winks, one eye disappearing and reappearing like the flip of a coin.