by K Dowling
Is my king a predator, then? Or are these men merely spineless guppies?
He knows what his father would say; drawing in his net filled with flopping, silvery prey. He tries not to think about it. Rowland is lowering himself back into his chair. The red drains slowly from his face.
“I apologize for the appalling interruption, James,” Rowland grumbles. He sighs, taking another sip of his wine as he rubs at his temple with his free hand. “I have, working within my walls, a horde of incompetent and ungrateful servants.”
“Indeed.”
“It goes to show you—a man is nothing who cannot command respect. What am I if I cannot control my people? And, like it or not, the Cairans are my people. They are under my control.” He pauses, wetting his lower lip as a laugh ekes out from between his teeth.
“They are my people,” he continues, “But they do not respect me. They do not follow my orders. Do you know, James, that they once declared themselves to have a king of their own?”
“I did, your Majesty.” Byron shifts his weight upon the chair and studies the dying glow of twilight that spills through the vaulted windows upon the wall. The dust motes that dance within the sleepy red beams remind him of simmering embers upon a hearth.
Rowland goes on as though he has not heard him. “Well, they did. Centuries ago, there was a Cairan queen on the throne. Saynti, they called her. Great After, it gives me the chills just to say her name aloud. The king that married her, he—well, he was under witchcraft of some sort, no doubt. There were old magics in the world back then. Dark magics. He could not have known what it was he was doing.”
Byron knows the story well. Only there is no witchcraft in the tale that he was told as a boy. The Cairan queen bore the Wolham king several sons—viable heirs. But the king was slain by Lord Stoward, the first king of Rowland’s line. The usurper, he was called, although that name has since been banished from within the palace walls. Lord Stoward took the throne and began his own line of kings—began a lineage that led to King Rowland. The Wolham family was slain. All of them were killed but for a young daughter, who was said to have been carried away by a servant just before the siege of the palace.
It is a well-known story, but it is old—nothing more than a myth. No record exists, in written history or otherwise, of a Wolham daughter’s birth. The Cairans and their precious royal bloodline are obsolete, and so is the bloodline of any past kings.
“There is a mock king, even today,” Rowland says, startling Byron out of his reverie. The king taps his fingers in agitation against the table, clicking the gold of his rings audibly against the hard surface. Byron is surprised by his claim. He wonders where Rowland received his information. For all of his time spent patrolling the streets, he has never heard such a rumor—not even a whisper of one.
Even so, it would do him no good to oppose his liege. He holds his tongue and waits for the man to continue speaking.
“There is,” Rowland says, waggling his finger at the doubt in Byron’s eyes. “I can sense him. He is the puppeteer—the orchestrator of this civil disobedience among my people. Even now, he is laughing at me in the dark. I will not have it. The Chancians need to see that I am respected by all. I will have no opposition. I cannot.”
Byron chews the inside of his lip as he studies the wild, black eyes of the Chancian king. “What would you have me do, your Majesty?”
“Find the Rogue,” Rowland orders. “Bring her to me. She will pay for her actions with her blood.”
Byron rises from his chair, scraping the spindled legs audibly against the polished marble floor. “And this Cairan king? What of him?”
A sneer dances in the corner of Rowland’s lips. “The girl did not act alone. She will lead me to him.”
It is dark when Byron finally arrives at his quarters. He shuts the door firmly behind him—listens for the brassy click of the latch in the strike plate. He stands in silence and stares into the swimming darkness until spots of color begin to blink in front of his eyes. Dragging his boots across the creaking floor, he wanders to the window at the far side of the room.
An obscure fragment of silver radiance pours in through the opening. It illuminates the uneven floor in a warped rectangle of cerulean light. Through the darkness outside of his window he can just make out the white, frothing waves as they crash onto the beach. He smiles, remembering the trouble he went through to obtain an apartment with a view of the ocean.
The wind has picked up outside. It carries with it the pungent fragrance of the shoreline. He inhales deeply, letting the salty sea air fill his lungs. Shutting his eyes, he feels a wave of nostalgia rush over him. He recalls, not without melancholy, countless mornings spent running down the shore after his father. In his memories, he is shouting eagerly to the assiduous old man, his arms waving in earnest as he pleads with his father to wait for him—to take him fishing.
His father was a skilled fisherman—one of the best in Chancey. An honest and hardworking sailor, he always left for work well before sunrise, when the colorless sand was still packed down by the draining tide and the leaden clouds hung low over the murky horizon. Byron loved going along with him in those days, back before his mother died—back before Frederick Stoward, Rowland’s eldest son and Byron’s closest childhood friend, had talked him into joining the Golden Guard.
His chest feels heavy as he recalls the serene simplicity of his youth. Back then all that mattered to him was the sea. It was all he had been raised to understand. He opens his eyes. The distant rumble of the waves quiet his soul. He watches as the light from the moon dances upon the endless hoary crests of the sea.
Jarring sounds of laughter and merrymaking drift up to the balcony where he stands. He sighs, allowing the indistinct clatter of the inn below to drag him back to the present. That was one of the unfortunate downsides of purchasing an apartment by the sea. He keeps his quarters on the very outskirts of Chancey, wedged in with the riffraff and the commoners. For him, however, the incessant sound of drunkards and harlots is a small price to pay in order to be able to see the ocean night after night.
He turns away from the window and heads towards his cot. Untying his golden cloak, he tosses it carelessly onto the beaten rosewood armchair that perches in one corner of his quarters. He scarcely remembers unbuttoning his shirt and removing his trousers, so enveloped is he in memories. He crawls into bed, pulling the covers over his aching head. The fabric only manages to slightly muffle the cacophony of shouts that echo from below. He takes a deep breath—shuts his eyes.
He thinks of the Rogue, and how her gaze had shone with defiance as she glared back at him across the square. Rowland said he could not understand their culture—could not fathom why they subscribed titles to their people. Byron thinks of the meaning of the word rogue, and he understands.
Is she a criminal, Rogue? Is she a traitor? The man she cut down was one of her people. Her blood. Byron tries to remember how he felt when he received the news of his father’s death. The notice reached him in the barracks weeks after the old man had passed. His heart failed him, they said. He died alone. By then it had been over a year since they had spoken.
That’s betrayal, he reasons.
Byron thinks, for a moment, that the Rogue is a better man than he.
It is an odd thought. He shakes it away.
There is a rap at the door. He stiffens, wondering who could possibly be calling at such a late hour. He rolls out of bed, his bones aching. It only takes him a moment to cross to the door. Already, the late night visitor has knocked again. He pulls it open and peers out into the dimly lit hallway.
It is his landlord. The man’s sallow complexion is eerie in the candlelight. He smiles blandly.
“General Byron.” His words are stilted. He bends his head in respectful acknowledgement. “A woman came for you tonight. She informed me that this was to be delivered directly to you.”
He brandishes a wrinkled letter from his coat pocket. Byron takes the parchment in silence. Wit
h another nod, the emaciated man is off. His tailcoat flaps preposterously behind him as he marches down the carpeted vestibule.
Byron does not remain at the door to watch the man go. This time, when he hears the soft click of the latch, he makes sure to deadbolt the door. A strange feeling of trepidation has blossomed within him. He heads to his desk, feeling the crinkled paper between his fingers. Taking a seat, he lights the oil lamp that sits on his desk. He unfolds the note.
How careless, he thinks.
The woman, and he has a sneaking suspicion he knows exactly who it is, did not even bother to seal the letter. Anyone could have read it.
His eyes scan the delicate cursive writing. His breath catches in his throat.
Her name is Emerala the Rogue.
She is hiding out at the cathedral.
-Seranai
Byron tosses the paper aside, remaining motionless in his chair as he stares at the empty desk before him. He thinks of Seranai, and the way she had fled from the square earlier that afternoon. He wonders what it is she hopes to gain through this letter? His favor? His affection? He wishes she would let him go. It was a long time ago, and he had never loved her.
They met upon the beach, but that had not been the first time Byron saw her. Far from it, in fact. She constantly seemed to be present in his memories—always in the background, but always there nonetheless. He wonders, now, after so much time has passed, if perhaps she knew that he would be at the beach the day they met. Perhaps she had followed him there, understanding that he would be the most vulnerable then—the day he received the news of his estranged father’s death.
Seranai was always manipulative, even then.
Byron was not a general in those days, but his superiors told him he showed a lot of potential for someone so young. He was in the king’s favor, as the closest friend of Rowland’s prized heir and eldest son. The officers above him promised him he was going places—that he had a solid future in the palace if he kept working as hard as he did. He never would have let himself disobey protocol so carelessly had he been general. If anyone had suspected his relationship with Seranai, he would have been severely punished.
Byron laughs at the memory of their goodbyes. He had been happy to quit himself of her, so turbulent had their short-lived romance been. These days, he is far more careful with whom he associates. Seranai is as good as dead to him now, and he wishes she would realize that.
Across the city, Byron can hear the bells strike the midnight hour. He rises from his chair as though he has been branded. His eyes scan the letter once more, reading and rereading the name that is written there.
Emerala the Rogue.
So the Rogue has claimed sanctuary at the cathedral. Rowland will not be pleased. It is the one place he does not have jurisdiction. The cathedral rests upon holy ground, and the sacred Great One of the Westerlies binds even his Majesty.
Byron grimaces, crumpling the letter and tossing it upon the ground. He will not think about it tonight. The hour is late, and he is tired. For now, he will sleep, and when he wakes he will decide what he is to do.
He climbs back into bed and shuts his eyes. This time, he is asleep before his head hits the pillow.
CHAPTER 13
Nerani the Elegant
The light from the rising sun breaks in refracted rays over the clustered buildings that line the street. The swollen bottoms of the clouds are tinted like watercolors, dying the ephemeral strips of coiling white with hazy shades of pink and orange.
Below, in the crisp charcoal shade cast by the remnants of night, walks Nerani the Elegant. Her traveling cloak is clutched tightly about her shoulders. She steps lightly as she hurries along the cobblestone street. The bottom of her whispering lace petticoat disturbs the fallen petals that have blown into the road. They swirl up restlessly about her pale, pearl gown before settling down in her wake.
She glances around cautiously as she walks, aware that at any moment someone may step out from the shaded alleyways and catch sight of her. It is early still, and no one is out and about in the streets. She revels in the solitude of the dawn, glad that she is able to head undetected towards the cathedral.
Glancing upward, she draws to a sudden stop. The wind that has been shoving at her slender figure keeps forward with a vengeance. It bites into her neck and lifts up her cloak and gown. She is momentarily cocooned in the heavy layers of fabric.
A short way away, towering above the crooked buildings, stands the cathedral. Primordial and resplendent among the lesser edifices that surround it, it beckons softly with the deep resonating of bells. She swallows as she lingers in the street. To her, it no longer looks like an architectural wonder at the heart of Chancey. Instead, it is a prison.
Emerala must already be going mad.
Roberts came by the quarters that morning to inform Nerani that it was her duty to make sure her cousin did not leave the safety of the cathedral that day. When she asked what he would be doing in the meantime he did not reply.
It’s important, Nerani, Roberts repeated, his face lined with exhaustion. She cannot step off of the property.
I know that. I’ll watch her.
Nerani feels inexplicably anxious. There is nothing to tie her to Emerala as she stands there in the street. She took special care today—she looks every bit like an unassuming Chancian woman—and yet she cannot help but feel exposed beneath the expanding reach of sunlight. She stares at the exquisite detail of the stained glass windows on the cathedral and tries in vain to quell her nerves.
It is a beautiful prison, if anything.
A dog barks in the distance. The sound sets her heart pumping. She is suddenly and dreadfully aware of the presence of someone else in the lonely grey street. It is the quiet whisper of boots against stone that gives the newcomer away. She wrenches her gaze from the cathedral, tilting her head only slightly in the direction from whence the sound has come.
There is a flash of gold, all too familiar, and she feels her heart seize up in fright within her chest. No longer pretending to be still oblivious to the figure in the street, she turns on her heel to face him. Her pearl gown fans out from her waist as she lifts her chin in a display of quiet defiance.
Standing just a few feet away from her is none other than General Byron. The gold insignia of his uniform gleams beneath the radiance of the rising sun. His handsome face is expressionless as he studies her through aloof brown eyes.
Nerani exhales. Her unsteady breath is loud in the silence. Stale and grey, it hangs visibly between them as she waits for him to speak. The corner of the guardian’s lip twitches upward into an unfamiliar smile.
“I have to ask myself,” he begins. He takes a step towards her, his boots disturbing the fallen petals around his feet. “What could a lovely woman like yourself be doing in the streets all alone at such an early hour?”
Nerani feels the heat of revulsion curling up her spine at the sound of his voice. It tears at her eyes and burns her throat. She does not respond to his address, but rather, remains with her feet firmly planted upon the ground as she glares back at him through steel blue eyes. She does not know what would have led him to seek her out in the street. She has done nothing wrong.
“No response?” General Byron’s brows climb higher upon his forehead. He closes the gap between them, extending his hand. “You’re right, I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m James Byron, General of His Majesty’s Golden Guard.”
Nerani feels the revulsion ebbing away within her as stark confusion takes its place. Certainly he does not recognize her as a Cairan. She has broken none of the decrees. Still, she cannot understand what would lead an officer of the Golden Guard to treat her with such civility. Her hand trembling, she places her slender fingers within his grasp. She watches, her heart pounding within her chest, as he leans down and grazes his lips against her knuckles. His dark gaze remains locked upon her face as he does so.
“D-delighted,” Nerani stammers, throwing out the phrase she often overhear
s Chancian women chirping at the young men who stop to greet them on the street. General Bryon straightens and drops her hand with a light smile.
“Am I not to receive a name in exchange for giving you my own? It’s polite, you know.”
Nerani forces a timid smile back at him. “I’m afraid not.” A frantic lie is formulating in her mind. “My father has instructed me to keep to myself and not converse with strangers.”
“Your father?”
“Yes.” Confidence is knitting her bones back together. She straightens her posture, attempting to look like a young lady of considerable wealth. “My father is one of the merchants that sailed to your island with the spring tides.”
General Byron cocks an eyebrow in interest. “Curious,” he muses.
Nerani frowns. “How so?”
The general proffers a light shrug, his golden cloak dancing upon the tugging wind. “You don’t often encounter the fine daughters of the foreign merchants wandering about the city without an escort of some sort accompanying them.”
“Of course. I left without permission,” Nerani says quickly, realizing that he is correct. “The accommodations of our inn are rather poor compared to what I am used to.” She wrinkles her nose in mock distaste as she speaks.
“Ah.” General Byron studies her through narrowed eyes. His teeth graze his lower lip as a charming smile cuts across his face. “Well, then you must permit me to accompany you on your walk.”
“There’s no need,” Nerani disagrees, biting back a scowl. “I’m headed to visit your cathedral, just there. I wanted to see how the morning light looked when it fell through the stained glass, and you are holding me up.”
Nerani does not know when she got so adept at lying. Her whole life she floundered and giggled and eventually confessed the truth. It is Emerala who is able to bluff and manipulate her way through any situation.
General Byron is watching her through unreadable eyes. The smile lingers above the square line of his jaw as he chews lightly upon the inside of his lip. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”