by K A Dowling
“Why?”
There’s no trace of apology upon the girl’s freckled face as she says, “I overheard you talking to your friend in the kitchens about leaving the Forbidden City and I wanted to come. My mother works there, too—in the kitchens. I was hiding from her when you asked for help in getting out of the city.”
“Why?” Nerani asks again, still astounded that anyone would willingly trek into the endless winding tunnels of the catacombs.
“My mother likes to put me to work. If I don’t hide from her, I have to pummel dough all day until my knuckles bruise. It’s absolutely dreadful.”
Nerani is struck by how much the young girl reminds her of Emerala. In spite of the steady trickle of blood drying against the side of her face—in spite of the terror of looming journey in the dark—she smiles.
“And this was a better option?”
The girl shrugs again. “It’s far more interesting than breathing in flour all day.”
Nerani chews her lower lip, considering their options. Like it or not, the only way to go is forward.
“What’s your name?”
“Darianna the Rose.”
“I’m Nerani.”
“I know.”
“Right.” Nerani dabs at her head, wiping away a fresh trickle of blood. “Darianna, I can’t very well send you back alone, so I’ll allow you to come with me, but you have to understand that this isn’t an adventure. It isn’t a game. There’s danger out there in Chancey—real danger.”
Darianna’s eyes flash with barely concealed excitement. “I understand,” she says.
“That was a warning, not a promise,” Nerani chastises. All too much like Emerala, she thinks. “If we’re not careful, if we make one wrong move, the Guardians will drag us before the king and we’ll be executed.”
“I understand,” Darianna says again. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, growing impatient. The reminder of Emerala again strikes Nerani. She feels something seize within her chest.
“We’d better continue,” she says, shaking off the dregs of worry that creep through her. “I’ve only brought enough food for one, and we’ve still got quite a ways to go, I’d imagine.”
Darianna nods, glowing with anticipation.
Naïve little girl, Nerani thinks, frowning down at her new companion as she takes the lantern and thrusts the incense into the flame within. They continue onward down the middle passageway, allowing the twisting trail of violet smoke to lead them along a glowing path of white.
Naïve as she may be, Nerani is secretly glad for the company in the endless dark. She glances over at Darianna the Rose as they walk, studying the girl from across the shadowed tunnel. She can’t have seen more than twelve harvest cycles, if that. She’s little more than a child.
Nerani will have to make absolute certain that no matter what the outcome of her journey; she brings Darianna the Rose safely back to the city.
She peers ahead into the darkness, watching in awe as more white stones begin to glow beneath the violet smoke. A path unfolds before them, lighting their way through the tunnels. In spite of her fall—in spite of her unexpected travel companion—she is filled with determination. Her heart brims with resolve.
I’m coming, Emerala.
Harvest Cycle 1511
Here, so close to the arctic north of the Eisle, the days and nights all blend together. In that darkness, I see her ghost. I see her pallid face, her folded hands—the stillness at her throat where a flutter of life used to be.
She haunts me.
I wonder if she haunts him too. I wonder if she leaves him sweating in his satin sheets, choking on his heartbeat. I wonder if he suffers the way I suffer.
I wonder. I hope for it.
Eliot
CHAPTER 16
Eisle of Udire
The gathering snow beneath Emerala’s feet is beginning to slow her down. She lunges forward, feeling the ridging on the bottom of her tightly laced boots crunch unevenly onto the downy white substance that coats the frozen dirt path.
She would have been better off without any shoes at all.
Her breath solidifies into icy grey vapor before her face, breaking over as she runs. She can hear the men behind her shouting out in their native language. Their coarse voices echo in her ears. They are gaining ground. She isn’t as used to the terrain as they are. She can’t run as fast.
Her heart pounds painfully beneath her chest. A cramp knots at her side. She peers forward through the snow and tries to gauge how much farther she has to go.
More shouts reach her, closer this time.
She clutches the tattered parcel she carries closer to her chest. She can see the turn off ahead in the darkness.
Almost there. Just a little further.
Swallowing the piercing winter’s air, she wills herself to keep running.
She slows down as she reaches the turn, making sure to allow the men to see where she is going. She doesn’t want them to lose sight of her in the snowstorm.
That, of course, would ruin the plan.
Curse the plan, she thinks. And curse me for agreeing to it.
She rounds the corner and is immediately shrouded in darkness. The snowfall has slowed considerably. The white downy substance is caught in the branches of the evergreen trees that sway over her head.
Before her, positioned between two trees and cutting off her path, is a tall pile of neatly stacked firewood. She runs towards it, her lungs burning.
How fast can you run?
She curses the Hawk for his subtlety.
At her back, her pursuers slow to a stop. They call out to her in their native language. She may not be able to understand their words, but she’s quite capable of recognizing the triumph in their voices. They think they have her cornered. They think there’s nowhere left to run. They approach her cautiously, their footfalls accompanied by the soft whisper of crinkling snow.
Steeling herself, she turns to face them.
“Ueu no hai’fe e’puel cutal, thief?” the man closest to her demands. His heavy fur coat causes him to appear frighteningly large in the darkness. Emerala takes a slow step backwards, doing her best to look fearful—hopeless.
Wait, she wills the men silently. She glances around at the trees, fighting to control her breathing. Where is Alexander? He should have been there by now—this should all be over.
One of the men draws a cutlass from his belt, bringing the curved blade to rest upon his free hand. As he saws the cutlass back and forth upon the air, he gazes towards Emerala with implication in his dark eyes. A wide grin splits his bearded face in half. Emerala stares back at him. In a moment of cruel realization, she understands that he is pantomiming sawing off her hands at the wrists. She swallows, hard, her impatience with Alexander replaced by the very real sensation of panic.
The stolen parcel in her arms suddenly feels too heavy within her grasp. Clutching it to her chest, she takes a small step backwards. The uneven surface of the stack of firewood pokes into her back. There is nowhere else to run. She glances left and right, trying to ignore the raucous laughter that now pervades the suffocating winter air. She can, she supposes, duck between the trees. The wood is so thick here—the branches of the trees dip down into the snow.
Maybe she’ll lose them there.
More likely than not, she’ll become caught in the forest, lost and unused to the cold as she is.
She won’t get far—not with these men on her trail.
The men are nearly on top of her. The unarmed of the two takes hold of her with an iron grasp, dragging her away from the pile of wood. He towers over her, wrenching her upwards so that only the tips of her toes remain planted on the ground. The parcel drops out of her arms. Its glittering crimson contents spill across the earth. Emerala keeps her gaze pointed down, trying her best to ignore the man’s rancid breath upon her face. The rubies at her feet are stark against the white snow.
Like blood, she thinks.
The man jerks
her forward, pulling her arms to him. He flips her hands over and pushes back the sleeves of her grey jacket. She glances at the exposed flesh of her wrists, knowing what awaits her.
Any time now, Alexander, she urges silently. She fights to control the crippling panic that blossoms within her. Her wrists are pale in the ghostly moonlight that trickles down between the frost-laden needles of the trees. The rubies glitter red in the snow beneath her. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the cutlass turn silver, the curved blade filling with moonlight as it rises to strike.
A strangled cry rises to her throat and she shuts her eyes, bracing herself for the impact.
It never comes.
Against the muted snowfall, she hears two sets of boots drop to the ground. Opening one eye, she sees the Hawk and the Lethal—weapons drawn—appearing like wraiths at the sides of the natives.
“Get your hands off of her,” snarls the Hawk, his gaze murderous. He raises his dagger over the head of the man with the cutlass, bringing the hilt down hard across his skull. There is an audible crack and the man stumbles, his boots dragging through the snow. Leaning forward, the Hawk snatches the cutlass and flips the blade with practiced dexterity, holding the curve of it before the man’s quivering throat.
“On your knees,” he orders. He levels a kick at the back of the native’s legs, bringing him down hard on the icy tundra. Next to them, the Lethal has already captured and bound his victim with rope, whistling a merry tune all the while. With his opponent secured, the Hawk turns his attention to Emerala.
“You’re shaking,” he observes. His golden eyes shine like coins in the moonlight. He pulls a pistol from the holster at his waist, pressing the barrel of the gun against his captive’s temple.
“It’s freezing,” Emerala retorts.
“Don’t let her fool ye, she’s frightened as a hare,” Lachlan the Lethal says, flashing her a wicked grin. His rusted dagger rests against the throat of his quarry. Emerala studies the shivering blade, remembering all too well the sensation of cold steel against her skin. Her scowl deepens and she averts her attention away from the murderer.
“Where’s Alexander?”
“Here.” The captain’s voice emanates from out of the darkness behind them. Alexander appears beneath the shade of the trees, flanked on one side by the burly silhouette of Thom, his first mate.
“I see you decided to take your time,” Emerala gripes.
Alexander’s attention slides briefly toward the Hawk. “I was conducting an experiment.”
Out of the corner of her eyes, Emerala sees the Hawk grow visibly tense, his golden eyes flashing against the dark. He says nothing, his brow furrowing as he stares daggers into the snow at his boots.
“What kind of experiment?” Emerala demands of Alexander. “Let’s see how loudly the gypsy girl will scream while they saw off her hands?”
“They’d only have taken one,” Alexander argues, spreading his arms in a sweeping shrug.
Emerala scoffs. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Tell me, Rogue, have you been injured in any way?” Alexander’s eyes study her from head to toe and back again, as if he’ll find the answer there. A small smile dances in the corners of his lips.
“Well, no,” she admits. “But you could have warned me that they’d be armed.”
“I could have. Would you still have agreed to the plan?”
“Are you mad? Of course not. They could have killed me!”
“How fortunate, then, that we arrived in the nick of time.”
“I’m glad to see you find this so amusing,” snaps Emerala, her irritation growing by the minute. Alexander studies her, picking beneath his nails with the blade of his dagger and ignoring the muffled protests of the men in the snow.
“You wanted to be a part of the forays ashore,” he reminds her. “Didn’t you?”
“I did, but—”
“This is what that looks like. Nobody said piracy would be glamorous.”
“I’m not looking for glamour,” Emerala argues. “I’m just looking to keep my limbs.”
“Can’t guarantee that, can we?” the Hawk asks, speaking for the first time in minutes. There is an acidity to his tone that suggests his words are not entirely meant for her. All the same, Emerala fixes him with her darkest glare.
“I don’t recall asking you.”
“Behave, children,” the Lethal chides, kneeing his captive hard in the back in an effort to silence the foreign, angry mutterings that have begun spilling out from his lips like a prayer—or, perhaps more likely, a curse. Alexander crosses the gathering snow with ease, brushing the flakes off of his blood-red sleeve as he draws to a standstill beside Emerala. Thom trails closely in his wake, his round shoulders hunched, his eyes downcast.
“Gentlemen,” Alexander calls, opening his arms to the two men kneeling before him. “Lovely of you to be so willing to meet with us.”
“Si’fi,” the Hawk’s captive hisses. His thick brows are furrowed so deeply over his eyes that they almost disappear into his face.
“I think you know what it is I want.”
He is met with silence.
“Not very conversational, are we?” Alexander drops into a squat, bringing himself eye level with the two men in the snow. “That’s fine. You can listen. Allow me to make my demands perfectly clear. I want an audience with your king. An audience, mind you, not a feast.”
“No pirates,” the man growls. His accent is so heavy that it takes Emerala several seconds to process what he said.
“No pirates?” Alexander repeats. “I didn’t think you could afford to be so selective this time of year. Although I suppose there’s not much meat on our bones for your liking. You keep them nice and plump down by the farms, don’t you?”
He rises to his feet, his hands clasped at his back. His dagger catches the moonlight, gleaming silver against the dark. For a moment, he surveys the men before him, his features twisted in contemplation.
“Thom,” he barks, gesturing over his shoulder for the burly first mate to approach. Thom jumps as if he’s been branded, scooting across the snow with a wild look in his eyes. His footprints leave shallow grooves in the powder. In front of him, Alexander gestures again, impatiently this time. “You speak the native tongue, correct?”
“Aye.” Thom’s voice is low against the pressing cold. Cautious.
“Will you apologize to our friends for our gypsy’s sticky fingers?” An automatic protest rises to Emerala’s throat, but she is quickly silenced by a deadly stare from the Hawk. Alexander continues. “And make it absolutely clear what will be expected of them if they hope to have their precious gems returned.”
Thom turns to the men and begins to speak, but the dialect that spills forth from his mouth sounds more to Emerala like gargling than words. The men do not take their eyes off of Alexander as they listen to Thom.
When Thom at last falls silent, Alexander adds, “Explain to them in no uncertain terms that they’re to bring me directly to their king, and only to their king. No one else is to know we’re here.”
Thom speaks again, his fingers twitching at his sides.
“Tell them that they’d be wise not to try any of their tricks.”
Again, Thom translates. The man in the Lethal’s grasp grins widely at Thom’s final words.
“Hur ven?” he asks, and there is a trace of unmistakable defiance in his voice.
With frightening speed, the Lethal thrusts his wrist forward. The man at his feet lets out a guttural gasp. With a thud, his hulking mass drops down onto the ground. Emerala watches, mouth agape, as a deep scarlet stain leaches across the snow near his head. His empty eyes stare into the starry night sky.
“Was that necessary?” Alexander hisses through clenched teeth. The surviving man stares wordlessly at his dead companion, his breathing hitching in his throat.
“He was challenging us,” the Lethal remarks.
“You speak their language now, do you?” Alexander asks, fighting
to keep his reserve.
“Nay, but body language is universal.” The Lethal nudges the corpse with his toe. “Ye should be thanking me. He en’t going to try any tricks now.”
“That’s because he’s dead,” Emerala observes.
The Lethal flashes her a smile as he wipes his bloodied dagger upon his coat. “One will get us where we need to be just as well as two, aye?”
Alexander presses his lips together in a thin line but says nothing. He shifts his gaze back to the remaining man.
“Get him up on his feet,” he orders the Hawk. “We’re done wasting our time here. He will lead us to the fort.”
With a silent nod of assent, the Hawk jerks the man up to his feet and pushes the pistol so hard into the back of his skull that he lets out a small grunt of pain. They head off into the snow, flanked closely by Thom. As the swirling snow engulfs their figures, Emerala sees the Hawk shoot one last look over his shoulder. His golden eyes catch hers, holding fast for a moment too long before he is swallowed by the dark, his silhouette turning first to black, then to grey, and then disappearing altogether.
Emerala idles in the crisp silence of the snow-covered landscape, her gaze trained upon the scattered jewels at her feet. She can feel Alexander’s eyes upon her. After a moment she looks up, meeting his gaze.
“Why the theatrics?” she asks. “What are we doing here?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Alexander says, and shrugs. “Let’s go, it’s not a good idea to fall far behind on a night like this.”
He reaches out to take Emerala’s arm, but she draws back from him, her temper flaring.
“No,” she snaps. “I was almost killed back there. Those men weren’t just greedy drunkards—they were trained. They knew what they were doing. If you had waited a moment longer—”
“You survived, hands and fingers and all,” Alexander interrupts. “There’s no point in being angry.”
“No point?” Emerala echoes, her voice growing shrill.
“Rogue.” Alexander’s tone is a wordless admonition. He reaches for her a second time. Again, she dances out of his grasp. His expression darkens beneath the shadow of his cap. “This isn’t the time to be yourself. We need to move quickly.”