by K Dowling
“Emerala the Rogue.”
Those golden eyes widen into circles like coins. A laugh like a crow escapes from between his lips. Seranai bristles, turning to face him.
“Emerala the Rogue?” he repeats.
“Yes.”
The laughter grows louder. Seranai resists the sudden urge to slap him.
“What’s funny about that?”
The pirate shakes his head as his laugh dies upon the air. “Nothing at all, love,” he says, fighting to catch his breath. “Nothing at all. It’s Emerala the Rogue’s disappearance you desire?”
“It is.”
The Hawk bows low, sweeping his hat from his head. Tangled black hair falls down into glittering yellow eyes. “Your wish is my command.”
CHAPTER 16
General James Byron
The king is going to the cathedral to pray.
Byron watches the flurry of activity from his post at the grand golden door and tries to shake away the grey remnants of sleep. He was summoned from his quarters well before it was time for him to report for his morning shift. The private that retrieved him was apologetic as he reported the reason behind his visit.
He wants what? Byron asked, not comprehending. There was no trace of the sun upon the eastern horizon. The birds were silent—sleeping beneath their wings.
He wants to observe mass at the cathedral this morning.
I heard you, but why?
He hardly needed to ask. He knows exactly why. The night before, he himself had bowed low before the throne and reported that Emerala the Rogue had claimed sanctuary within the walls of the cathedral. He saw it himself, he said. Rowland laughed at that. He laughed and laughed until his face turned violet and he could no longer catch his breath.
Well, he said at last. At least now we know where she is.
Byron thought for sure that the king would have been enraged. He thought he would demand that the Golden Guard take immediate action.
Instead, Rowland merely dismissed him.
Go home, James. Get some sleep. You look tired.
Rowland has never visited the cathedral in the square for any reason. Not even in the days of his youth, when his father, the former king, passed in his sleep. That day, the men and woman of Chancey spilled out of the cathedral like ink. They lingered upon the great grey steps in the pouring rain in order to mourn his death. Byron remembers it clearly. His father had dragged him there by the wrists as he dug his heels in the dirt. He had not wanted to go, but it was their duty, his father swore. It was respectful. It was right.
Young Rowland remained holed within the court that day, demanding his immediate coronation.
Neither did Rowland Stoward visit the cathedral following the death of his wife. The bells tolled day and night after her passing, so beloved had she been by her people. Instead, the great king drank himself into oblivion—alone. He spent the day squatting in her garden, pulling up her prized flowers by the roots.
He is afraid, Byron muses, of the people beyond the palace walls—what they might think of him. What diseases they might carry. Who knows of what, he thinks, but he is afraid.
Byron wonders if bells will toll when Rowland Stoward dies. He wonders if the cathedral will be full. Or, if perhaps, the only men that will attend the memorial are his guardians—a fleet of gold surrounding his tomb. It is cold. It is fitting. He frowns.
“Is the carriage ready?” Byron asks Private Provence. The young guardian has materialized at his side. Swollen circles underline his eyes. The private has a new wife, he remembers. Married as the flowers unfolded upon the trees—a spring wedding.
He must not get a lot of rest.
“It is, sir. Several guardians flank it on either side. His Majesty will be safe.”
“I know.” Byron takes a cautious step deeper into the foyer. The king—his brave liege—is lurking in the shadows, well out of the way of the bustling activity. His dark eyes are watching the morning sun spill through a quatrefoil upon the wall. Speckles of dust swirl upon the air, dancing between the light and the dark. “Your Majesty?”
“Hmm. Yes?” Rowland appears as though he has been startled out of a dream. He seems unhappy. Worried. The splintering lines upon his forehead have doubled.
He can hold Mass here, Byron reasons. He has a chapel of his own—and an accomplished Elder. Mass is held whenever he deems it necessary.
“Your carriage is ready.” Byron bows respectfully, gesturing towards the door.
Rowland Stoward is not going to the cathedral to pray. It is a guise, and a poorly disguised one at that. He wishes to catch a glimpse of Emerala the Rogue.
What will you do, my king, when you find her? His royal hands are tied beneath the watchful eyes of the ageless saints. It is tempting fate, Byron thinks, to get so close to her.
The ride to the cathedral is uneventful. Quiet. Rowland insists that Byron ride with him. He is frightened, he thinks. Outside, the citizens of Chancey have gathered in the streets. Everyone desires to catch a glimpse of the elusive king outside of his impenetrable fortress. Byron keeps the violet curtains drawn. The heavy fabric mutes the sunlight. The air inside the carriage is thick and stuffy. He can hear the rhythmic sound of boots upon the cobblestone—the familiar cadence of a handful of men marching in time.
“Keep back,” a voice calls. He cannot tell from what side of the carriage the voice emanated. Rowland shuffles his weight upon the cushioned bench where he sits. It is strange, Byron realizes, to be so close to the king. He has known the man all his life, and still he has never been as near to him as he is now. From this proximity Byron can make out the sheen of sweat upon Rowland’s brow. His pores are pinpricks of black upon his pale flesh. He is less of a presence without the ornate backing of his gilded throne encapsulating his figure—without the choir of painted cherubs genuflecting at him from the heavens.
This is not a god who sits before him—it is a man. Byron forgets that sometimes, he thinks.
The carriage draws to a stop.
“W-what?” Rowland’s fingers curl into fists. His black eyes dart around the musty interior of the carriage. “What’s happened, James?”
There is silence beyond the violet curtains. The rhythmic beating of boots against pavement has ceased.
“We have arrived, your Majesty.”
A trumpet sounds, expunging three energetic blasts. Byron tries to picture Emerala the Rogue waiting in the shadows, watchful and alert. The face that swarms into focus in his mind is not hers. Instead, it is the blue-eyed Cairan he met on the street. His stomach does an unfamiliar flip at the thought of her with her hand in his—her steely gaze riddled with disdain. He shakes his head. The image of her blurs against his eyelids—blocks of color drifting apart, fading back into black.
The door to the carriage is pulled open. A guardian bows low, gesturing for Rowland to exit into the street.
“Is it safe?” Rowland’s eyes rove from the guardian to Byron. He has never seemed more like a child. Byron tries to picture him as a young king, demanding his coronation even as his father was lowered into the earth.
It is easy, he thinks, to be brave behind stone walls.
“It is perfectly safe, your Grace. The Archdeacon has ordered the church be emptied of everyone but its humble, holy residents.”
He follows Rowland out onto the great, grey steps of the cathedral. His men have done a good job of clearing the streets of stragglers. It is silent. Empty. Even the sun has drawn back behind the thin wall of white clouds that coat the sky. He glances up at the hazy circle of yellow, blinking his eyes in the glare. It is going to rain soon, he surmises.
Rowland nearly jumps out of his skin as the heavy double doors of the cathedral fall closed at his back. Only a handful of guardians have entered the cathedral with them. The rest have placed themselves at each entryway. They have been ordered not to let anyone enter, but each of them knows their true instructions.
If she tries to leave, arrest her.
Byron do
es not think the Rogue would be so foolish. He follows Rowland as he ambles cautiously across the floor. Even the Archdeacon and the Elders have absconded into the shadows. He watches as the king scrutinizes the dark corners of the main room. What does he expect to see? All of Chancey knew about his visit to the cathedral. Byron is certain Emerala the Rogue has made sure that she is well concealed.
“I want to pray.”
Rowland’s voice is loud in the silence. A cluster of tall candles dance before the breath upon his lips. He has drawn to a standstill before a looming grey statue. Saint Alistair—the patron saint of good fortune. His stone face smiles blindly upon floor.
It takes two guardians to help lower the king to his knees. It is a strange sight—the crown king of Chancey kneeling upon the floor. His heavy fur cloak—bear, Byron thinks—trails behind him. He looks more animal than man in the gloom. The flame from the candles catches in the corners of his golden crown. His eyes drift close. His lips are moving, but no words reach Byron’s ears.
Byron is distracted, then, by a sudden movement to his right. He does not glance over his shoulder. Instead, he takes a few idle steps backward. His boots squeak against the polished floor. The golden candlelight seeps from his cloak as darkness pulls at his uniform. He sees another movement—farther in the shadows this time. From the corner of his eye he can make out the hem of a gown sweeping against the floor as its wearer—decidedly feminine—disappears through a narrow doorway.
He follows. Rowland will persist at his prayer for a while. Byron’s absence will hardly be noted.
The doorway leads to a narrow spiral stairwell, dimly lit. He frowns up into the gloom. He can just make out light footfalls upon the steps. The sound is coming from a short way ahead. Byron starts up the steps, careful to keep his boots from making too much noise. The air is thick with dust. The shadows play tricks upon his eyes.
He catches up to his mark at the second landing. She is waiting for him, her familiar blue eyes furious in the shade as she glares down at him across the bridge of her narrow nose. Her dark brown hair is drawn back from her face in a pastel ribbon. Stray ringlets curl down around her cheeks, framing her face. Pale white light falls into the stairwell from a narrow slit in the stone high above their heads. It drapes across the grey steps, trickling down like water.
“Why are you following me?” The young Cairan woman is donned in the same gown she was wearing when he apprehended her upon the street the previous day and he finds himself wondering whether or not she has left the cathedral. It is not she who has a price upon her head, after all.
She does not wait for him to provide an answer. “If you think by following me I am going to lead you to my cousin, then you’re mistaken.”
Byron swallows. Cousin? His hand grips the splintering railing as he stares up at her from his lower position upon the curving steps. “Emerala the Rogue is your cousin?”
“She is.”
“Is that why you lied to me the other day? To protect her?”
The woman hesitates. He can see the wheels in her head turning—can visualize the words upon her lips as she grapples with whether or not to respond to his question.
“No.” Her voice is curt. “I had no idea she would be there when we arrived.”
“Then why did you try to mislead me?”
“To protect myself.” She states the answer as though it should have been obvious to him. One slender eyebrow arches upward upon her forehead. Outside, the sun is inching across the sky. The pale pitch of light has draped across her face in the gloom.
“You were never in any danger,” he assures her. “You had done nothing wrong.”
“These days it is a crime to be a Cairan.”
“You were afraid of me.” It is not a question. She glares back at him. The sunlight catches in her eyes. Her pupils constrict—light dances in the silver slivers that splinter through her dark blue irises. She does not respond. She does not need to. It is written all over her face.
“I am a man of the law, but there is nothing evil about me.” Byron does not know where the urge to defend himself has come from. It builds up in his chest—pushes against the wall of his heart. He thinks of his father, how he had turned away his gaze when Byron told him that he was leaving him to pursue the life of a soldier. He thought the old man would be proud.
It’s not evil, father. It’s not something to be feared. I will be working for the greater good.
His words, then, had fallen on deaf ears. Before him, those blue eyes are still studying him, waiting for him to continue. Does she hear him now? A wrinkle has creased the top of her nose. He wishes she would speak.
“It is my job to maintain the peace,” he says.
This spurs her to respond, eyes narrowing. “Was it an act of peace, then, what was done to that Cairan man in the square?”
He bristles at the question, recalling the way the man’s body had slumped upon the polished palace floors—remembers the pungent scent of gunpowder singing his nose.
“That was different. He attacked my men. The law of the Great One states that violence may be answered with violence.”
A smile curls in one corner of her lip. “I don’t believe in your god.”
A funny thing to say, he thinks, hidden in His house.
“What do you believe in?”
She scowls, turning away from him without responding. Annoyance splays through him at the sight of her insubordination. He is not accustomed to being ignored. He charges up the steps two at a time, grabbing her arm between his grasp and wrenching her about to face him. They are nose to nose upon the spiraling, narrow stairs—the sound of their breathing whispering back at them in ghostly echoes. He glares down into her face and finds her staring back up at him with contempt.
“I asked you a question,” he snaps.
“I heard you.”
“I expect it to be answered.”
She is silent before him, her chest rising and falling beneath her bodice. Her cheeks are aflame and he wonders if her skin would burn his palm were he to take her face within his hands. His breathing catches in his throat.
“What do you believe in?” he repeats.
“Justice.”
This time, her answer comes immediately, like the snap of a whip. It catches him off-guard. His breathing catches in his throat. There is no time to think of a response. He can hear footfalls upon the stairs at his back. Someone is ascending rapidly.
“General Byron!” The voice is familiar—another guardian. The gypsy before him scowls up at him, the high color leeching out of her cheeks. She wrenches her arm from his grasp, turning upon her heel and disappearing around the corner. He watches her go, feeling his temper beginning to abate.
“Sir!” It is Provence. The young private draws to a stop a few steps below.
“What do you want?”
Provence’s gaze flickers around the narrow, grey expanse. “To whom were you speaking just now?”
“What?”
“I heard a voice.”
“I wasn’t speaking to anyone, private.”
“But—”
He cuts the private off before he can finish his thought. “I was looking for Emerala the Rogue, as you’re supposed to be doing.”
“Oh.” The private’s brow is wrinkled in consternation. He stares uselessly at the slant of white light that has fallen back against the steps.
“Has his Majesty finished his prayer?” Byron asks.
“He has. He is ready to go. He, uh—he says he’s grown weary of staring at shadows.”
As have I, Byron thinks wryly. He follows the private back down the steps, listening to the sound of his footfalls upon the stone. Corporal Anderson is waiting for them at the bottom. He stands amid a cluster of dripping wax candles. The light pulls across his face, causing pools of darkness to contort his features. He is eerie in the gloom—demonic, even. He studies Byron as he approaches, a furtive smile creeping across the lower half of his face.
“Wh
ere did you disappear off to, sir?”
“Nowhere.”
“Indeed?” Anderson’s smile widens. He remains planted to the floor, his golden cloak pooling upon the colorless stone underfoot. Byron pauses in front of him, holding his inferior officer within his unreadable gaze.
“Is there a problem, corporal?”
“Not at all, sir,” Anderson insists, still smiling. “It’s only that I saw you following a figure out of the room.”
Why did you ask, Byron wonders, if you already knew the answer?
“I wanted to make sure there were no stragglers attempting to get near to His Grace,” Byron explains
“And were there?”
Byron allows himself to smile back at the corporal, his lips twisting into a practiced grin. “No. It was only one of the Elders, trying to stay out of sight as he made his way to his personal quarters.”
Anderson tilts his chin upwards, surveying Byron over the bridge of his nose. He says nothing. As he should, Byron muses. I am his superior. It is not his place to question me.
“Where is Rowland?” Byron turns his attention away from Anderson’s watchful stare.
“He’s already been escorted to his carriage. He’s asking for you.”
“Then let’s not keep him waiting.” Byron heads out of the cathedral, gesturing for the two guardians to follow suit. As he walks, he replays the odd conversation with the gypsy again in his mind.
What is justice? He frowns down at his boots. It is fair. It is impartial. It is the assignment of merited punishments in response to negative action. She does not understand justice. She cannot.
He is a man of the law, and justice is his duty. He thinks of the body that hung limp in the square. He thinks of his father wringing his cap in his hands, turning away. He thinks of the bear king—of the man-who-would-be-god—kneeling on the floor and praying for luck. Pulling up his dead wife’s flowers by the roots.
What is justice?
CHAPTER 17
Evander the Hawk
If a violent storm blossomed from the depths of the sea and drowned the godforsaken island of Chancey, Evander the Hawk could not say that he would be sad.