by K A Dowling
“Why?” Whinny demands. “What did that rat have to say about me?”
“She’s planning on outing you—saying you’re a half-blood.”
Whinny sputters indignantly, searching for coherence. “I’m nothing of the sort,” she snaps. “I’m pure blood as they come. Me mum was a homemaker, and my father’s old Chancey blood. We don’t have a lick of Cairan in the family. Not a lick.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Seranai assures her, reaching out to brush the woman’s arm. Whinny crumples into her touch, already coming unraveled at the lie. So gullible. So stupid.
“You know how it is out there,” Seranai reminds her. “It’s a witch hunt. Rowland Stoward doesn’t want proof, he just wants bodies to burn.”
“But why me?”
“I don’t know,” Seranai says, the lie slipping out as easy as air. “She told Mamere she’s looking for her cousin.”
“Emerala the Rogue,” Whinny whispers. Loose strands of hair fan out from behind her ears, caught up in the static of the sun-spoilt hallway.
“Nerani thinks that the Guardians know what happened to her.”
“Of course they know what happened to her,” Whinny snaps. “They killed her, and rightly so, if you ask me. All that girl did was get herself caught up in one mishap after another. She was trouble—trouble for Roberts and trouble for everyone unlucky enough to know her.”
Seranai fights to keep her gaze level—to keep a smile from spilling out across the lower half of her face. Easy. Easy. Too easy. The harlot is eating out of her hand, like a pig out of a trowel.
“Nerani doesn’t seem to think she’s dead.”
“Is that what she said?” Whinny says, her voice high. “She’s not very bright, if you ask me.”
“She’s bright enough to know that if she has someone to trade for information, she might be able to negotiate with the Guardians.”
“I’m not Cairan.”
“Do you think anyone will believe you? You—a lady of the night?”
Whinny swallows and says nothing. Seranai tightens her grip on her arm, her nails digging into the harlot’s skin.
“You’d burn at the stake, Whinny, no questions asked. You know you would.”
The high color leeches out of Whinny’s face at that. She flies back from Seranai, the hollow at the base of her throat fluttering as she grasps for words that will not come.
“That brat,” she cries. Her voice is shrill, and getting shriller. “That horrible, dreadful brat. I’ve been nothing but good to her all her life. I was her only friend in this hovel. Emerala the Rogue is dead. Dead. What could the Guardians possibly tell her that’s worth my life?”
She sniffles loudly, an ugly sound, and wipes her nose on the lace of her fraying sleeve.
“Traitor,” she mutters into the unraveling fabric. “Back stabbing gypsy.”
“I can help you,” Seranai says. Whinny shoots her a dark look, her eyes full of misgiving.
“Why? What do you care?”
“As it were, I don’t particularly like Nerani the Elegant myself.”
“No? Why not?”
Seranai pauses, wetting her lower lip. “I have my reasons. They’re not important. We could work together, you and I.”
“What would we do?”
“In war, kings often send their armies out into battle to meet the enemy head on, rather than sit and wait for death to arrive at their gates.”
Whinny gapes at her, mouth ajar. Seranai notices she is missing a tooth. “I don’t understand,” the harlot admits, sniffling.
Of course you don’t, Seranai thinks ruefully. She flashes Whinny her warmest smile.
“Nerani is a full-blooded Cairan. General Byron would just itch to have someone like her to interrogate. Rowland Stoward will string her up like cattle—make an example of her. We can sell her out before she has so much as a chance to talk.”
Whinny’s face scrunches, her features twisting as if someone has taken her nose and twisted it clockwise upon her face. The effect screws her plain face into something hideous. Seranai holds her breath, impatient, and waits for Whinny to mull through her options. It takes every ounce of her effort not to slap the harlot into speaking.
“It’s a good plan,” Whinny relents at last. Reaching up, she snatches at a stray curl and twists it round and round upon her finger. “Which one of us do you think should say something?”
Seranai bites back a groan.
“You, you silly dolt.” Her tone has grown terse. Tired. She has never been one to suffer fools, and this fool in particular is grating on her nerves. “I can hardly tell them, being a Cairan myself.”
“Right.” Whinny scratches at her chin. “Right, of course. You know, Private Olmsted usually comes by in the afternoons when he’s finished his shift. I might tell him.”
“You might,” Seranai agrees. She forces a smile, reaching out and squeezing the harlot’s hand in her own. “Best to do it soon, don’t you think? Before Nerani the Elegant can sell you up the river.”
“I’ll tell him tonight,” Whinny says. “And then that backstabbing witch can burn.”
Harvest Cycle 1511
Eisle of Udire
King U’Rel is a both gracious and affable host. We have been welcomed ashore with open arms; have been given the proper respect due a pirate lord like Captain Samuel.
Even so, we have chosen to keep our quarters onboard the ship.
We have seen the farms they keep—what cattle they have here. We have seen King U’Rel’s terrible tremors. De’rea haba, Sam calls it. Dead Man’s Hand.
They are cannibals. Eaters of men.
We are living among monsters, not men.
It is the spring, now, so the herds are returning across the mountain pass. Game is plenty, and the hunters go out into the tundra daily in order to bring back wildebeests for the game warden.
Does that make us safe?
King U’Rel is gracious, yes. Pleasant, yes.
We are not safe.
Captain Samuel is stowing a refugee away in the bowels of the ship. Thom, he calls himself. He is young and plump; prime pickings for the winter months. He knows not how to read or write properly—he is truly more animal than boy.
I have taken it upon myself to educate him. I am hoping a bit of activity will keep her ghost at bay. At least, then, I will be clearheaded enough to focus on what I need to do.
At least, then, I will have a bit of peace.
Eliot
CHAPTER 21
Eisle of Udire
The frigid air outside the walls of the fortress is crisp and clean. The snow ceased to fall while Emerala and the crew dined within the thick walls of the Frost Fort. Now, a bleak silver moon sits high in the night sky.
Emerala follows closely in Thom’s wake, her foots punching easily through the thick powder that coats the earth. All around her, the crew picks through the aftermath of the storm like wraiths; their shoulders hunched against the chill, their faces obscured by shadow. She studies the creeping forms of the men, searching for a pair of golden eyes in the moonlight, a lanky frame slinking beneath the trees. The Hawk is nowhere to be found.
She wonders if he made it out of the fortress unharmed.
She wonders if he made it out at all.
Glancing up at the wide frame of Thom’s shoulders, dark against a sky pocketed with brilliant white stars, she rebukes herself for caring. She shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t even think of him. All that matters is that she gets back to the ship alive.
She pauses, peering over her shoulder at the empty shadows behind them. The wind barrels into her, howling like a woman in mourning. Just like a woman in mourning, in fact. The cry is high and shrill—almost bestial. A few feet to her left, a member of the crew pauses in the snow, his hand flying to his sword.
The wind dies. The whistling falls silent.
That shrill, bestial cry continues.
“Keep pushing to shore!” cries out a voice from the darkness. �
�Don’t stop! Don’t look back!”
Several cutlasses are drawn from their sheaths. The starlight shivers upon the curved blades.
“It’s a hunting cry,” Emerala hears Thom say, his voice nearly too quiet to be heard.
“What game are they after?” Emerala asks, although she already knows. Her blood turns to ice in her veins. There is a sharp whistle—loud against the static night air. It is followed by a quiet grunt. In the dark, a man drops to his knees, an arrow protruding from his chest. Blood saturates the white powder, seeping out from his corpse in fingers of red.
Emerala turns toward Thom, hovering only inches away from her. His eyes are hard, his face as undisturbed as stone. Still, she can nearly smell the fear rolling off of him. She is reminded, suddenly, of what the Lethal said about the island making beasts out of men.
“Run t’the ship,” Thom instructs. “Keep beneath the trees.”
The rest of the crew has already heeded similar advice. They scatter beneath the dizzying stars, relegated to little more than passing shadow against the snow. Unused to the terrain, several of them stumble in the snowdrifts.
For a fraction of a moment, Emerala stands frozen—watching.
And then she runs.
Her breathing comes in short, uneven spurts. Grey bursts of air explode on the bitter air before her. She spots a copse of trees and races toward them. The snow is lighter beneath the bent boughs of the towering branches. It is easier for her to run. Ducking beneath a curving branch, she picks up her pace, chest burning. Her boots catch on the slick ice where the snow melted and refroze beneath the feeble daylight. She teeters uneasily, her arms flailing as she fights to maintain her balance.
Another cry echoes out from the battlements. There is a rush of whistling, the sound of weapons finding their mark. A volley of arrows cuts through the night sky, disturbing the starry quiet that yawns above the trees. Emerala cringes, muffling a cry, and yet the arrows do not reach her beneath the thick evergreens.
Turning her attention back toward the tundra, she continues to run, doing her best to keep to the trees. The moon does not reach her. Swallowed by darkness as she is, she has lost all sense of direction. It dawns upon her that she doesn’t know which way to go in order to get to the ship. Her already unfamiliar surroundings have become alien to her beneath the heavy snowdrifts.
A strange and horrible sound peals out in the night. Instinctively, she claps her hands to her ears. Someone, somewhere, is blowing into a horn. Deep and resonant, the instrument makes a sound like nothing she has ever heard in her life. She races on, trying to ignore the sudden, feral sound of bellowing that shatters the silver serenity of the evening. She knows well enough to know that the shouts are not the voices of the crew. They are guttural and foreign and far too close.
She hears the shivering sound of swords meeting swords, and she knows that the hunters have reached some of the crew. She wonders why no one thought it necessary to provide her with a weapon.
If she is caught, she will surely be killed.
A gunshot rings out from somewhere behind her, eliciting a muffled cry. The pungent smell of gunpowder stings her nose. Her heart leaps to her throat and she struggles to run faster. She nearly loses her balance entirely as her boots slip upon a patch of ice. Hooves beat against the ground, the cadence muffled by several feet of snow. She curses silently, drawing to a standstill. There is no way she will be able to outrun a horse.
A sharp whinny, just above her head, and she feels a strong hand grasp her waist and pull. Before she can utter a cry of protest, she is wrenched ungracefully from her feet. Her captor ignores her less than savory rejoinder as she lands hard upon the pommel of the leather saddle.
“Keep quiet, Rogue.”
The Hawk. The relief that courses through her is instantaneous.
“Oh,” she says, trying to ignore the waver in her voice. “It’s you.”
“You can thank me later,” he assures her. He coaxes the horse into an easy gallop, riding out from the cover of the trees and into the snow. Out in the open, a snow squall has picked up with frightening fury. Thin white flurries blow in sideways, clinging to Emerala’s eyelashes and obscuring her vision.
“I thought you might have died back there,” she says. Her words slur together as they slip past her lips. She feels strangely intoxicated. Behind her, the Hawk doesn’t reply. Instead, he coaxes the horse faster.
For a long time, they ride on in silence. Weary from running, Emerala allows herself to lean into his chest. As much as she hates to admit it, she is grateful for the warmth of him. The chill is like needles against her skin, sharp and unrelenting.
She is surprised by how fast his heart beats against her back—surprised by the ragged breath that catches in his throat. His arm snakes around her waist, pulling her into him, squeezing her just a little bit too tight.
They ride onward, the sounds of battle dying off in the distance. Soon, the screaming of the wind and the heavy breathing of the Hawk’s stolen horse are the only sounds that reach the pair in the frozen tundra. They have been traveling for too long, Emerala thinks. They should have already reached the ship. She blinks up into the snowy sky, ignoring the pinpricks of ice that sting her cheeks. Through a break in the clouds, she can just make out the muddled outline of the moon. Everything around her is flat and dark—all dark, like an abyss. The wind howls across the piling hills of white, whipping snow as fine as soft powder in its wake. There is no sea before them. There is no sea behind them. They are adrift in darkness, far away from shore—far away from anything at all.
And then, through the dark, she sees it. Several shadowed mountains rise out of the snow, peaking in the sky far above her head.
“The mountain pass,” she tries to say, but the words are garbled—tied up in a knot. Her lips are numb from cold. Her vision spins and, for a moment, she is uncertain how many peaks actually paint the horizon before her. Beneath them, the horse slows to a stop—responding to the flick of the reins with a tired whinny. It unleashes a damp, sputtering sound. Wisps of tangled grey breath disperse from its flared nostrils. The Hawk slides effortlessly from the saddle, dragging Emerala to the ground with him.
“Where are we?” Emerala asks, her boots hitting the ground hard. It takes her several seconds to realize that they are standing on ice, not snow. Blue-black fissures snake out from beneath her feet.
She repeats her question. “Where are we?”
“Hold your tongue,” the Hawk commands. His grip on Emerala is too tight. It dawns upon her that he expects her to run.
But from what?
Or whom?
Craning her neck, she tries and fails to peer up at him through the swirling squall. All she can see is the shadowed bottom of his chin—the strong line of his jaw locked up tight like a trap.
And then, as suddenly as the snow began, it stops again. The wind dies down with a sigh. Fat white flakes flutter down around them, catching in Emerala’s heavy black curls. She tries and fails to wrench herself out of the Hawk’s grasp. His fingers only tighten on her arm, drawing her closer still. She collides hard into his chest, the top of her head slamming against his chin.
“Ow,” she snaps. “Are you out—”
The Hawk cuts her off, giving her a brusque shake. “Quiet.”
“Don’t tell me to—”
“Rogue,” he hisses, and something in his voice makes her words choke and die in her throat. “Quiet.”
Up ahead, a sharp keening echoes out from the darkness. The sound is piercing—as cold and bitter as the storm. Emerala peers into the formless shadows, her eyes narrowed, ice crystals clinging to her lashes. From the howling emptiness emerges a slender figure cloaked all in black. A heavy hood is drawn over the newcomer’s face.
To Emerala’s surprise, the Hawk drops to a knee on the ice, his head dipping into a bow. His black hair drapes across his face, obscuring his eyes from view as he drags Emerala down to the ground with him.
“Ha’Suri.”
His voice drips with cautious respect. Emerala starts as she recognizes the name. Ha’Suri, the wind woman of the north. Ha’Suri, the folk’s tale.
She was nothing more than an old story—that was what Ha’Rai had told them back in the Frost Forts.
And yet here she stands, resplendent beneath the silvery moon.
“Years, it has been, darling Evander.” The voice that trickles out from beneath the midnight cloak is ancient, weighted down by time. “The last time you came to me, you were only a boy, hiding behind your captain. How you’ve grown.”
“Things have changed, Ha’Suri.”
“Things are always changing, boy. The tides, the moon, and the earth with them. The world has never stayed still. Even boys with hearts of ice find themselves melting down into something new.”
The Hawk stares into the ice, the knees of his breeches darkening. Emerala kneels beside him, the cold seeping into her bones, and glowers at the lanky pirate out of the corner of her eye. Her vision spirals and she sways slightly, his grip the only thing keeping her upright.
“Rise, Evander. Let me look at you.”
He obeys, wrenching Emerala onto her feet. She stumbles several steps before regaining her footing, cursing her feet for betraying her. How much did she have to drink back at the forts? She can’t remember.
“So handsome,” Ha’Suri muses, her voice emanating from everywhere and nowhere all at once. “So changed from what you once were. Is this her? The woman that pierced your frigid soul?”
The Hawk looks up from the ice at that, his sharp gazing finding the woman across the shadows. He unleashes Emerala’s arm as though she has suddenly become too hot to touch—as though she has scorched his flesh to the marrow. A sound like a quiet laugh escapes from beneath the woman’s hood.
“Love is always a surprising inconvenience, isn’t it, Evander?”
The Hawk clears his throat. “You know why I’m here.”
“You wish to undo the deed that was done.” The woman’s voice is an ageless whisper.
“Aye. I do.”
“Hmm,” the woman breathes. “You’ve grown into a true man, Evander. Men always want, want, and want. Need, need, need.”