by K A Dowling
“Halt,” he cries. His voice sounds alien as it cuts through the muted symphony of the sunrise. He points his pistol up into the air and fires. The figure before him jumps in fright, slumping to his knees and pressing the palms of his hands against his matted hair.
“Thank you,” James mutters under his breath, closing the gap between he and the stranger at a brisk walk. He grabs the man by the collar of his tunic, drawing him upright and setting him on his feet. Circling around the reeking figure, he takes in his tattered countenance—studies the hollows beneath his wild, blues eyes.
It’s the eyes that stop him—those deep blue eyes, the telltale sign of pure, gypsy blood. Something in James’s stomach knots. He feels momentarily robbed of air, as though someone punched him in the gut. The whispering instinct that led him to follow the man screams at him to grab the man, to move him from the edge of the cliffs. Yet he finds himself suddenly unable to move.
“I know you,” the stranger slurs as soon as James has slowed to a stop. “I knew you,” he amends.
“I don’t recognize you,” James replies.
“No. You wouldn’t. I stayed well out of trouble in those days, I did.”
“You disappeared. All of you. Where did you go?”
The Cairan appears unfazed by the presence of one of the most formidable guardians before him. He looks away from James, singing to himself as he peers thoughtfully out over the sea.
“And sweet sirens that sing sick love songs to me…”
“Where have you come from, just now?” James demands of the man.
“…love, the lyrics of sirens are setting me free…”
“Did you hear me?” James asks, raising his voice. “I asked you a question.”
The Cairan is deaf to his commands. He stumbles forward, licking his lips. His watery eyes are transfixed upon the wild ocean.
James reaches out and grips the man by the shoulders. He shakes him, forcing the Cairan’s attention back to his face. A mildewed odor penetrates the clinging undershirt below his tunic. “The other Cairans, where are they?”
The man chuckles dryly, and his eyes regain some of their lucidity. “You think I’d tell you? Tell you, so you can go tattle to your prat of a king?” He wrenches himself forcefully out of James’s grip.
“Her voice, it falls down like the rain from the gods, dear the sacred queen Saynti is pushing me on.” The man pauses at the edge of the cliff, his bare toes hanging precariously over the jagged rock. The song on his lips trails off into silence as he peers over his shoulder at James.
“Which is better, do you suppose? To dive or to jump straight down?”
“Excuse me?”
The Cairan shrugs. “I guess it doesn’t matter, much. The end result is the same, either way.” He looks back out to sea. “The waves are wild today. Hungry.”
James swallows thickly, the wind tugging at his golden cloak.
“I’m going to need you to step back from the cliff,” he orders, already knowing his words will be futile. The Cairan teeters unsteadily, and for a moment James is sure that the wind will nudge this skeleton of a man over the edge. He remains with his feet planted upon the ground, laughing into the salty spray.
“It will feel like freedom,” he says, and he leaps.
James chokes back a shout. Heart pounding against his chest, he stares at the place where the Cairan just stood. He strains his ears to hear a splash that he knows will never reach him. The waves are far too loud against the eroding rock wall. He saw it coming—knew the man was half mad—and yet he did next to nothing to prevent him from jumping.
He remains where he stands, feeling the sharp exhale of the wind against the back of his neck.
Where did he come from? And where are the rest of them?
His mind is a battlefield of thoughts. He is not a man who likes puzzles, and yet he has just been handed another piece.
CHAPTER 3
The Forbidden City
“Who’s there?”
The shout resonates through the stale dusk of the cavern. Darianna the Rose freezes where she stands, cringing as she listens to the slowing clatter of the rock upon which she carelessly stumbled. Before her, positioned within the pale stream of light that spills onto the serrated and crumbling entrance of the Forbidden City, are two Listeners— members of the Cairan king’s elite crew of spies. They stare with detachment into the darkness.
Unseen from her position in the shadows, Darianna glares back at them.
“Saynti, it’s too dark,” one Listener grumbles. He falls back against the rock upon which he was leaning prior to the mysterious disruption. “It wouldn’t hurt Topan to put just a torch or two out here.”
The other man scoffs. “Right, and within the hour we’ll have the entire Chancian navy at our door.”
“The entrance isn’t even facing the mainland. One of the ships would have to be far offshore to even catch a glimpse of the flickering torchlight. It’s hardly probable that we would even be found.”
“Hardly probable isn’t impossible, is it, friend?”
Darianna rolls her eyes, tuning out the argument of the two Listeners in the entryway. She glances behind her. She stands at the very top of the steps that lead deeper into the cavern the Cairans have come to call home, staring down at the paltry flicker of a torch far below in the shadows of the cavern. From the top step, scarcely a light can be seen from within the Forbidden City. The entryway is cleverly designed so that any stray passerby will not be able to see the opening unless they know exactly where to look. It’s an optical illusion—the work of brilliant architects and years of purposeful labor. The set up works only as long as the entryway is kept in complete darkness. Any flicker of light might be seen from a passing ship.
And they can’t have that. Not with Rowland Stoward’s hateful heart on the Chancian throne. So they are kept in constant darkness, shrouded in shadow and left to waste away beneath the earth.
We’re living like rats.
Darianna frowns as the thought scurries through her mind. It’s not the first time she found herself making the comparison, but each time she does it becomes harder to stomach. She wonders how she looks, cowering in the dark corner; her back against the cool, jagged rock surface, her auburn hair spilling over angry blue eyes. She meant no harm by coming out as far as she did, and yet she knows she’ll be heavily reprimanded should she be discovered by the Listeners.
This isn’t the first time she tried to get as close as she could to the entrance—far from it. In fact, she was able to get closer before without being noticed. All she wants is to be able to creep just close enough to the entrance to see outside. Just a glimpse—that’s all she needs. For a few priceless moments, she wants to be able to gaze out upon the moonlit glass of the ocean. She wants to be able to swallow the fresh air—to feel her throat sting with salt.
The Cairan king, however, made it clear to the Cairans that no one was allowed up the main staircase. He didn’t want to risk anyone being seen or heard. The only ones permitted to be at the entrance were those precious few Listeners. As if that wasn’t bad enough, her mother had personally threatened to box her ears should she be caught within a mile of the opening.
The Listeners that perch in the moonlight ahead have forgotten all about disruption. Their amiable argument drifts off into bored silence. Darianna exhales, disappointed.
She’ll just have to try again tomorrow night.
Its not like she has anything better to do.
Careful not to trip over any more loose stones, she tip-toes around the dark corner of the cavern. Her hands travel lightly across the now familiar grooves of the wall, guiding her through the near pitch black of the clammy expanse. She knows when she reaches the very top of the steep steps that lead down into the main living areas of the Forbidden City. She can see the bright flicker of a torch before her. Warm light emanates from underneath a low hanging ceiling that slopes parallel with the stairs. It’s a clever illusion. Without the torch, a p
asserby would never know that he stands next to a man made staircase—the steps carved painstakingly into the ancient stone.
Darianna drops herself down onto the second step, relieved when her feet hit a flat surface. Pushing away the defeat that crowds her stomach, she hurries down the curving staircase. With each step she takes, the area around her grows lighter. Finally, she can make out the torch sitting in its black sconce. It throws deep orange light onto the rock walls around it. Behind the torch is a solid stone wall. A dead end.
Or, at least, it looks like a dead end.
Darianna knows better.
She steps forward, moving beyond the glow of the torchlight. Swallowed by darkness, she shuts her eyes and holds her hands out in front of her. Robbed of her eyesight, she is forced to rely on her sense of touch. She moves deeper into the dark, heading towards the stone wall with her arm outstretched, her palm flat. When she feels her hand touch stone, she opens her eyes. She stands in a gulley of staggered rock, her palm pressed up against the wall. To her left is a narrow, dark opening. From beyond this she can just hear the sounds of voices and music. She slides through the opening with ease, coming out into a grand and bustling room.
Torches line the walls every few feet, casting a cozy light about the expanse. The walls around her rise up towards the darkness and curve out of sight. The ceiling, far out of reach of the dancing flames, is cast in piercing black shadow. The floor of the room is lined with table after table, each one carved out of crude stone. Milling about the expanse are dozens of familiar faces. Darianna watches as a group of younger children dance merrily to the twang of a guitar. To her right a few women mingle quietly, their heads bent close together in conversation. Before her, at the nearest table, sits a group of men deeply involved in a game of cards.
Darianna ambles through the crowd, glad for her uncanny ability to go unnoticed. Scooping a half-full pitcher of ale off of a table, she takes a sip and continues on her way. She keeps an ear peeled as she meanders among the Cairans, listening for any news from Chancey—from the world they left behind. Hearing nothing, she stifles a yawn and takes another sip.
The carafe is wrenched out of her grasp before the foamy, amber liquid can so much as graze her lips.
“Should I start with the stealing, or do you want to talk about your secret trips to the city entrance?”
Darianna wipes a line of foam from her upper lip with the back of her hand.
“They’re not very secret if you know about them,” she gripes, glowering up at the towering figure of her father. He stands framed by the glow of the candlelight, his fingers twisted in his thick, auburn beard. His eyes narrow as he tries and fails to hide his amusement, throwing back the remnants of her stolen drink.
“If you’re going to skulk about the cavern, you might be more cautious. Your mother is out for your blood today. She heard about yesterday’s incident with Rayland the Bull’s boy.”
“He deserved it,” Darianna snaps, the words flying away from her before she can help herself.
Her father chuckles, his face crinkling. “He deserved the black eye, perhaps, but not the swift kick you delivered between the knees.”
“You told me not to let myself get pushed around,” Darianna accuses.
“I also told you never to kick a man when he’s down,” her father reminds her, setting the now empty mug onto a deserted table. “Look, why don’t you head back to the quarters for the afternoon? I think you’ve had enough excitement for the day, don’t you?”
Darianna’s gaze slips towards the sheer rock wall to her left. Deep grooves, almost like a ladder, are carved into the wall. Some rise higher on the face of the stone than others, but each set of steps stop just before a gaping, irregular hole. Beyond the openings, each hole is hollowed out into a deep pocket. She shares one of these holes with her mother and father. Holes. That’s all they are. Pockets of nothing, just empty space carved into silent stone.
“That fox den we’re staying in isn’t our quarters,” Darianna snaps, her mood souring. “Our home is above Ma’am Rosa’s Tea House, remember?”
She pictures the building of faded, red brick—pictures their apartment on the fourth floor, nestled atop several flights of creaking, carpeted stairs. The apartment was spacious enough for three, and at sunset the thickly paned windows allowed for deep orange light to sweep across the floorboards. There is none of that here. The hollow room they’ve been forced to call home is cluttered with creaking cots and a singular trunk to hold all of their belongings. The ceiling, if you can call it that, is far too low to allow for comfortable movement.
“This is the way things have to be, Dari,” her father reminds her. “At least for now.”
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” Darianna mutters darkly.
“And you see why, don’t you? It’s too dangerous out there. We’re safer in here, hidden away in our fox dens, as you so eloquently described them.”
“Until when?” Darianna demands. “Until we’re dead?”
Her father laughs, but the smile leaves his eyes untouched. “Not until we’re dead, Dari. Don’t be so dire. The theatrics are quite unbecoming in a girl your age.”
“Until the usurper is dead, then?”
Her father’s silence is answer enough. His eyes dart around the room as he swallows thickly, tugging his beard.
“You’ve asked enough questions for the day, Darianna,” he says. “I’d suggest you run along and keep out of sight of your mother.”
“But—”
He cuts her off. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to spend the afternoon kneading dough in the kitchens.”
“I’m gone,” she retorts, turning and ducking into the crowd before her father can say another word. His laugh trails her through the cavern as she is swallowed once again in stinging smoke and idle gossip. She glances once more at the rows and rows of inverted stone ladders, her gaze lingering on the unlit opening where she lives with her mother and father. Her mother strung ivory lace curtains in the opening, the strands of lace strung with glittering beads. It was an attempt to make the place seem more homey—to give them more privacy.
It failed on both accounts.
“We’re living just like rats,” Darianna mutters beneath her breath. She concludes that she can’t possibly spend the day in her hole—not here where she can’t see the sun or feel the breeze or even stretch out her legs. Reaching the outer wall at the outskirts of the crowd, she drops unceremoniously to the hard stone. She crosses her legs beneath her pale, peach gown and prepares to devote the remainder of her afternoon to sulking.
A sharp cry causes her to lurch back to her feet. She glances left and right for the source of the sound, pushing her mop of auburn hair out of her eyes. Before her, the occupants of the cavern go about their business, either not having heard the cry, or doing their best to ignore it. Darianna glowers at all of them in turn, her attention at last settling on two men heading quickly towards one of the twisting corridors that outline the outer labyrinth of the stone city. Between the men, her arms gripped tightly by either escort, is a woman. Her dark brown hair is pulled back from her face in a careless bun. Her face is pale and unpainted, her blue eyes glossy behind discolored lids.
Her interest piqued, Darianna follows the trio across the cavern, taking care to remain unseen. She is good at that—being invisible—her mother’s simmering temper is always at risk of boiling over and singeing Darianna’s skin. She tiptoes on the stone, her pale gown dragging across the ground without so much as a whisper.
Stopping just short of the corridor, Darianna leans against the cool stone wall and sets to absently twirling a strand of hair around a finger. Her blue eyes flutter to the ground as she strains to hear the snippets of conversation that drift towards her out of the darkness.
“I can’t,” she hears the woman snap. “I won’t.”
A second voice, male and weighted with exhaustion, chimes in. “You have to try and keep calm, Nerani. Throwing these tantr
ums won’t help anything.”
“Tantrums?” the woman called Nerani repeats. The pitch of her voice escalates dangerously. “Tantrums?”
“Poor choice of words, I should think,” the second male reproves. His voice is familiar to Darianna. She recognizes with a start that it belongs to none other than the elusive Cairan king.
“How can you be so indifferent?” Nerani demands.
Someone—the first man, perhaps—sputters wordlessly for a moment before finding his voice. “Indifferent?” he echoes. “Indifferent? You think I don’t care? You think this doesn’t affect me as much as it affects you?”
“You—” Nerani begins, but the man cuts her off.
“She was my sister, Nerani.” His voice is hoarse. “My sister. How dare you—”
“Roberts.” The Cairan King, again, his tone a clear warning.
“How can you stand it, Rob?” asks Nerani.
“Stand what?”
“This. Being here, being safe, when she’s out there and needs our help.”
Darianna leans forward, taking her chances in order to catch a glimpse of the trio. It is dark in the corridor beyond. She can see the shadowed outline of a woman’s gown—can see the woman standing behind the protective stance of the Cairan king. She can’t see the third figure—the man called Roberts—and she doesn’t dare to move any closer to the opening in order to try.
When Roberts speaks, his voice is heavy with defeat. “We’ve had this conversation, Nerani.”
“Well, let’s have it again,” she snaps.
“How can I say it in a way that makes it easier to hear? She’s dead.” Roberts’s voice cracks. “You saw her die. You can’t keep convincing yourself she isn’t.”
“I didn’t see anything,” Nerani insists. “I ran away.”
“She’s gone, Nerani.”
“If she was dead, why would the Golden Guard still be searching for her? I heard the Listeners telling you that they’re still conducting city wide sweeps, even after all this time.”