by K A Dowling
“I’m here,” she announces.
Alexander does not reply, only holds up one finger of his free hand in an abrupt gesture; wait. She frowns at his back. He has removed his usual red coat, undressing down to his white, buttoned undershirt. The gathered sleeves have been pushed upward—the cuffs rest just above the crook of his elbows. The cotton is dark with sweat. She feels suddenly quite affronted at having been ordered to shove herself into such an elaborate costume and rush directly to the captain’s quarters, only to be ignored.
“The Hawk said you wanted to see me,” she says, a little louder.
“A moment, please, Emerala.” His response is colored with distraction. He resumes his muttering, stopping only to curse once under his breath. She rolls her eyes, wandering instead towards the ornate windowpanes that run the length of his quarters. The heavy layers of fuchsia silk drag noisily in her wake.
The water outside is a stunning cerulean blue. She stretches her gaze out across the glittering expanse, searching for the sea’s end and the sky’s beginning. The sun glints white gold off of the peaks of the waves in blinding streaks of rippling light. She leans her forehead against the cool glass and studies the rising and falling crests of sunlight until her eyes begin to water.
“What is sweeter than honey?” Alexander’s voice asks from just behind her. She jumps slightly. She had not heard him approach. “What is stronger than a lion?”
She turns her back to the window, surprised to see him standing only inches away from her. The reflection from the ocean dances across his face in fluctuating ripples of light. The hazel in his eyes catches in the dancing glow. He studies her quietly, his gaze thoughtful.
“I’m not sure what you’ve just asked,” she admits.
A small smile curls at one corner of his lips. “It was a riddle.”
“Oh, of course,” she says dryly. “I’m not very good at riddles.”
“No?” He is scarcely listening. His gaze has a faraway look as he drinks in the sight of her clad in her new gown. “You look beautiful.”
She scowls at him. “This gown is appalling. There are frills and lace and bows everywhere.” She gestures down toward the wide bustle that protrudes from her backside. “Not to mention it weighs several tons.”
His expression has twisted into a look of scarcely concealed humor. Something painful flashes across his face and is gone.
“What?”
“It was my mother’s gown.”
Emerala hesitates, choking on the word. “Mother?” she sputters at last, unable to keep the disbelief out of her voice. She glances down at the bunching layers of ornate fabric, studying the shaded grooves of cerise that cut across the magenta gown.
He nods, his brows furrowing beneath wayward strands of sun kissed brown hair. “Surprised I have a mother, are you, Rogue?” He laughs quietly. “I don’t suppose you assumed I just popped out of thin air one day and began pirating.”
She shrugs, feeling some of her tension abating. “The Lethal said you were borne upon the waves by merpeople and delivered to the previous Captain of this ship.”
Alexander laughs aloud at that, his eyes twinkling. “Merpeople?” he repeats as his laughter subsides. “Lachlan likes to tell a lot of stories, and I’ve yet to hear one that rings true.” He drifts off into momentary silence at the thought, reaching out an idle finger and running it down the length of Emerala’s lace sleeve. A trace of melancholy passes across his features like a cloud across the sun.
“As appalling as you may think the gown, it really does suit you. It’s quite in fashion in the local seaports.” He is smirking, but the sorrow lingers in his gaze.
“When did you get this?” she asks. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“No, you wouldn’t have. Derek brought it onboard this morning.”
She hesitates, confused. “Derek? But, how—”
He answers the question before she can finish asking. “We’ve just entered the Agran circle. The island of Senada borders Caira just to the East. They are separated only by a narrow channel.”
“Is Senada your birthplace?”
It depends which of the stories you chose to believe, mine or the Lethal’s.”
“So your mother, she’s—” Emerala falters. She fingers the smooth silk of the gown, uncertain how to finish her thought. Alexander catches her meaning, and a pained expression contorts his features.
“Dead? No. But she’s unwell. Her mind went years ago, when I was a no more than a boy. She resides in Derek’s care at his estate. He’s a loyal friend, Derek. And a good man. She’s in better hands with him than she ever was with me.” He pauses, his eyes glazing over with some distant memory.
“What do you mean by that?” Emerala asks, prompting him only once the silence has become uncomfortable. He looks down at her, startled, as though he has only just remembered she was there.
“When I was young, the only thing that kept us alive was begging.” He scoffs. “That, and pickpocketing. My father was a pirate. He came and left with the tide one month. I never knew him, but my mother continued to love him with her whole heart. She never blamed him for our troubles. She never once blamed him. My entire life, I thought him selfish. I didn’t understand how he could leave my mother alone and pregnant, without a single copper to call her own.”
“She didn’t have any family to care for her?”
The look of derision he shoots her is sharp and scathing. “She did, yes, but who would take care of an unmarried woman with a bastard child? No, they cast her out the moment they knew she was with babe. She was ruined to them.”
He moves away from her, lost in memory, pressing his forehead against the swirled glass of the window. Outside, several white seagulls snatch at fish with their extended talons. Emerala can hear their screams penetrating the wooden exterior of the ship.
“I hated him—my father. I despised him with every fiber of my being. When I met Derek I was only a few years younger than I am now. He’d been boarded by pirates on his journey—shipwrecked on Senada. I asked him if he knew the name of the ship. He did; it was the Rebellion.” He groans slightly, pressing his knuckles hard into the baseboard of the window. “I knew the name immediately. How could I forget? How does one forget the name of a ship when his childhood has been spent standing knee deep in the ocean, watching his mother call out for it to return?”
He pauses, heaving a sigh and allowing his eyes to flutter closed. Emerala takes a slow step towards him, gingerly placing her palm over his enclosed fist. His shoulders relax slightly at her touch, and he continues.
“I left my mother in Derek’s care. He is a man of considerable wealth, and he supplied more for her than I ever could. He gave her peace that I could not. The day I left, she no longer recognized me. She cried out at the sight of me, and called me Samuel.” His voice trembles. “Saints, I hated him. I came here to kill him. I hunted him down for months.”
“And did you?” Emerala asks, her voice a whisper. “Did you kill him?”
He looks at her at that, and she notices that his eyes are filled with tears. He shakes his head, blinking furiously.
“No. I couldn’t. Derek and I had made a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
Alexander hesitates, looking suddenly regretful, as if he’s said too much. “It’s not important. Anyway, he was already dying when I found him.” He shrugs. “Consumption.”
“And he gave you the ship?”
Alex nods. “Isn’t that the beauty of irony?” He gestures around at the captain’s quarters around him. “I spent my life hating him and the Rebellion for leaving behind my mother, and I’ve not gone back to her since I set foot onboard. She’s mine now—the ship—and his life’s mission my own. I couldn’t go back to her now, not if I wanted to. I cause her too much pain. It’s easier to forget him when she doesn’t see my face.”
“So why the dress, if it is such a painful memory?” Emerala asks. The lace itches at her skin, and yet she feels a s
trange solidarity with the constricting fabric as she stands sweating in the stifling heat. She grips his fist tighter, unfazed by her proximity to him.
Alexander clears his throat, shaking his head as though to shake away the cobwebs of the past. “Tomorrow at dawn we sail ashore to Caira,” he says. “You cannot be recognized as a Chancian gypsy. They’ll order your immediate arrest.”
“But I’m one of them, I’m Cairan myself,” she protests.
“No,” Alexander disagrees, turning fully from the window. “You’re not. To them, you’re a traitor. Your blood is tainted with the blood of the Chancians. They will burn you alive in an attempt to pacify their gods. It’s dangerous to have you as close to the island as we do now, but we don’t have many other options.”
“I can’t stay on the ship?” Emerala feels suddenly anxious. The excitement she had been feeling about their newest adventure quickly subsides.
“You heard Derek, it’s too dangerous. Their current leader, Domio, has spies all over the island. I’m taking my best men inland for the trip, and I’m not sure I can trust the rest of the crew to mind their rum long enough to keep you safe.”
“So you think this dress will convince them I’m not Cairan?”
“We hope so. You’re to masquerade as Derek’s fiancée. Domio is fond of Derek. They frequently do business together. He’ll be less likely to question a woman traveling in the company of a wealthy diplomat than the company of pirates. Your name is to be Katherine Montclay of Toholay.”
“Toholay?” Emerala asks.
“Yes,” Alexander quips, appearing suddenly distracted. “A port in the Westerlies. Don’t you know your geography? Derek will be by later to go over the finer points of acting like a gentlewoman.” He glances at her reproachfully. “And to do something about your hair.”
Emerala fingers her wild curls, frowning. “What’s wrong with my hair? And my manners?”
But Alexander has turned his back to her. He snaps his fingers in the air, his body suddenly tense with excitement.
“It’s not the question,” he says. “It’s the answer!”
“Excuse me?” Emerala can’t help but feel utterly left behind—dragged along without explanation behind the pirates and their endless, self-serving goals.
“What is sweeter than honey? What is stronger than a lion? It’s not the riddle. It’s the answer. I had it all wrong. Come here, look!” He calls her over, pushing his index finger against the curling parchment that lies upon his desk. She joins him, glancing down to see a sprawling map upon which several words have been penned in slanted red ink. What is sweeter than honey? What is stronger than a lion? The sight of the ink sets her hand to throbbing again. A wave of unease passes over her.
“I had it all wrong!” Alexander says, excitement filling his voice. “It’s here.” She follows his traveling finger until it comes to rest upon several small words scrawled across a scaled creature riding the waves off of the coast of Caira. Smoke billows out from two flared nostrils, penned in ink. The Hawk’s fabled leviathan, she supposes, if she had to guess.
She leans in closer, squinting to read the writing.
Only questions will grant you the answer you seek, but careful his answers are scarce for the meek.
Just below that, penned in the same slanted red ink, are several cramped words.
Travel to Caira with the turn of the Tydes, and there you will find the question resides.
She leans back, frowning. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither did I, at first, but it makes sense now. See this here, the author who penned this spelled tide incorrectly.”
Emerala looks again. Tydes, spelled with a “y”. She had not noticed at first.
“Tyde,” he says, excited. “It’s not referring to the ocean. It’s a man’s name. He’s a native of Caira. I’ve crossed paths with him before. He’s a master of riddles and puzzles. The question on the map is not a riddle, it’s the answer to one.”
“Alex,” Emerala asks, hesitating. “What exactly are we looking for?”
He laughs at that, his voice ringing out through the quarters. “I haven’t a clue,” he admits. “But I expect we’ll find it with Tyde.”
CHAPTER 30
Chancey
Prince Peterson rushes through his father’s stone garden, the sheer walls of the great marble maze climbing above his head in dizzying shades of grey. Overhead, the night sky is an endless tapestry of dazzling white stars. The moon hangs low on the horizon, barely visible over the high walls of the labyrinth. The path before him is shrouded in a pale wash of white light.
He keeps his head down as he walks, listening to the patter of his shoes upon the shadowed marble underfoot. His stomach is sick. He recalls the sight he came upon only hours earlier, creeping down toward the King’s royal chambers in order to once again try to gain audience with his elusive father.
What he had found, upon his arrival before the grand golden doors, had troubled him. There was no armed guard positioned at the opening. In fact, the two doors had been left slightly ajar. He hovered outside the door only a moment, considering his next course of action, when he heard the sound of a whip connecting with flesh. The noise was so stark against the cavernous silence of the hallway that it made him jump with fright. There was a low groan, restrained, but the victim was otherwise silent.
Again, came his father’s voice, curling around the doorjamb like tendrils of smoke.
Again the whip snapped against skin. Again there came that same muffled moan. Taking a chance, Peterson had inched forward and placed his eye directly against the narrowing opening between the two doors.
What he saw inside nearly caused him to cry out in alarm. A man, stripped down to his boots and breeches, knelt before a crudely constructed whipping post. His hands were bound tightly around the splintering wood. Across his back were half a dozen angry red lashes. The wounds were bleeding freely; deep red trails traced lines down the curvature of the man’s back.
He did not need to see the man’s face to know that it was James Byron.
Again, called out his father. He could hear the sneer of pleasure on the king’s lips. He did not dare to raise his eyes to see. James kept his chin raised and his eyes forward as the cloaked Guardian behind him brought the lash across his skin.
This time, the groan was louder as the tip of the lash connected with already open wounds. Some of the ladies of the court cried out in alarm. Peterson felt his blood boil with rage. He heard the sound of his father’s dry laugh coiling in his ears, but he was already leaving, backing away from the door in horror. He could not stay and watch for a moment longer.
He ran.
He takes a sharp left around one corner of the labyrinth, his breath coming in fast pulls. His skin flushes with anger. He cannot fathom what his father’s most trusted guardian could have done to deserve such a punishment. James had been as close as family to the Stowards for many years. He had never done wrong by any of them. To see him punished like that, with his father’s smiling face watching from his golden throne…
Peterson shouts suddenly, kicking hard at a shattered bit of marble that lies on the ground by his feet. The fragmented bit of stone clatters down the walkway and skitters to a stop. He breathes deeply, pulling in the crisp night air through widened nostrils. As he looks around at the narrow corridor, it suddenly occurs to him that he is in a part of the labyrinth he has never been in before. Up ahead, he can see the shadows of several overgrown bushes.
There are no trees in my father’s stone garden, he thinks darkly.
Yet here they are.
His anger abates slightly, giving way to curiosity as he inches forward down the passageway. As he approaches the greenery, his echoing footfalls are swallowed in the foliage. The air smells sweet here—alive.
I am in the center, he thinks, and his heartbeat begins to race. He picks up his pace, jogging slightly as he turns the next corner. Several trees, overgrown and tangled, dot the passageway. He brea
ks into a run.
The moonlight catches in the branches of the trees overhead, blocking the light from reaching him. For a moment, he is obscured in total darkness as he races beneath the drooping boughs. Several branches whip across his face, slicing at his cheeks.
He continues to run.
He skids to a stop only once he breaks free of the trees. Glancing around, he lets out an audible gasp. Before him is a flourishing garden. Even in the dark of night he can see the silvery light of the moon tracing the lines of brilliant crimsons, yellows, and jades. He takes a step forward, his breathing uneven. His eyes catch upon an elegant stone figure positioned at the center of the maze. It is the immaculate outline of a woman, her arms outstretched. She stands atop a shallow reflecting pool. The moonlight dances upon the glass surface of the water at the hem of her stone gown, throwing ripples of silver light across her eternal smile.
Mother, he thinks, his lips moving in silent awe. He takes several steps closer to the great stone woman, the brilliant colors of the queen’s garden fading into shadow around him. He steps into the reflecting pool, shattering the stillness of the water. The silvery light upon the statue dances spiritedly across her features. She watches the space above his head with emptiness in her eyes. Brown eyes, Frederick had told him once. Why, then, had he been born with eyes of vivid green? So often as a child had he wondered as much, staring into the looking glass in his nursery and making faces at his reflection.
He drops to his knees, a choked sob catching in his throat.
“Mother,” he says aloud. His voice sounds hollow as it skips across the shimmering pool. He wants suddenly to touch the folds of her gown, if only to be close to her in a way he had never been able to be as a boy. He runs his hands down the cold, unmoving stone.