by K A Dowling
“Help me, Mama,” he whispers. Tears prickle in his lower lids. He feels momentarily foolish, but he pushes the sentiment away. He is a boy unloved—a forgotten prince. A motherless child.
His hands continue to run across the cool, rippled surface of the gown, stopping in surprise on a rough patch that catches beneath his fingertips.
Something is engraved here, he thinks, his pulse quickening. He crawls forward through the pool, ignoring as the cool water licks at his sides. There is just enough moonlight that the words inscribed upon the gown are clear.
To my love, I have built you a sanctuary. I have preserved you in stone. We have killed you, he and I. For that, I am sorry.
Peterson runs his fingers over the delicately carved words, his mind racing. Whoever had carved these words had not intended them to be seen. They are small and insignificant, etched cleverly into the fold of the gown. Beneath the words sits a name.
Eliot Roberts.
Peterson sits back, alarmed. The name is not at all familiar to him. He racks his brain, trying in vain to recall such a person. He frowns, sure Frederick would have mentioned someone as important as Eliot Roberts to him during one of his many long-winded stories when they were boys together.
“What are you doing?” The voice that cuts through the silence of the evening is decidedly feminine. Startled, Peterson glances momentarily upwards at the lifeless face of his mother and feels immediately foolish for having done so.
“Hello?” he calls out, rising to his feet. The water shifts with a wet slapping sound, filling in the space where his legs had been. “Who’s there?”
He hears the sound of someone dropping from a considerable height. Bare feet slap against packed dirt. A face swarms into focus in the silvery light of the moon and he finds himself staring into two brilliant blue eyes. The girl before him grins pointedly at him, her tiny upturned nose scrunching as she squints at the statue besides them.
“Who are you?” he asks, feeling alarmed at the presence of an intruder in his mother’s sanctuary. He sniffs loudly, hoping she cannot tell he has been crying.
“Who are you?” the girl shoots back, pushing her dirty blonde braid behind her shoulder as she leans forward to inspect him.
He stammers slightly, caught off guard. The girl is clad in an ill-fitting gown of dusky rose, her bare shoulders exposed over the plunging neckline. Her feet are muddied and bare beneath the fraying hem. In spite of it all, an unexpected thought occurs to him.
She is the most beautiful girl he has ever seen.
“I’m the prince,” he says at last, finally regaining his sense of decorum. He draws himself upright in an effort to appear taller. “This is my father’s home, and you’re trespassing.”
“Oh.” The girl appears startled at that. She withdraws her hand from the statue. “I didn’t know that. I figured you were a serving boy.”
“A serving boy?”
She shrugs lightly, stepping into the reflecting pool and kicking up the water with her big toe. “I guess you don’t expect to see a lonely prince kneeling in a pool of water in the middle of the night.”
She giggles at that, and peers at him closely. Her nose is only inches away from his. He is surprised at how brazen the girl is—not at all like the nervous serving girls that replace the bedpans and tend to the fires in his nursery. He has spent much of his life trying to make conversation with them to no avail. They come and go like ghosts, keeping their chins down and their eyes averted, never talking above a demure whisper.
Yes, your highness.
Of course, your highness.
“Am I supposed to bow, then, if you’re the prince?” she asks, an amused lilt in her tone. “Is that proper?”
“You could tell me your name. That would be polite.”
She shakes her head playfully, disappearing for a moment behind the statue of his mother. “I can’t do that.” Those two blue eyes reappear at the other side of the great stone gown, twinkling playfully in the moonlight. “But they call me the Rose.”
“Who are they?”
“My people,” she replies, as though this is obvious. Something within Peterson’s stomach lurches. He stares into her deep blue eyes for a moment too long.
“Are you a Cairan?”
“If I say that I am, will you turn me in to your father?”
“No, I don’t suppose I will,” he says. “But you shouldn’t have come here, it’s too dangerous.”
She peers at him closely, as though gauging whether or not to trust him. After a moment, she laughs. The sounds peals away from her like bells in the night.
“I’m not afraid of danger.”
“You should be,” he says. “Don’t you know what he’ll do to you if he finds you?”
“Who?”
“My father,” he responds, certain this was obvious. “He has a rather public history of executing any gypsies he finds.”
“I know.” She shrugs. “My uncle hung in the gallows two years back. He was accused of a crime he didn’t commit. But my mum says we can’t live in fear just because there might be death at the end of an adventure.”
“Oh,” Peterson whispers, robbed of any intelligent response.
The Rose does not seem to notice the weight of his silence. “This is my most thrilling adventure yet,” she announces gaily.
She saunters over toward the statue, dragging her feet through the pool of water so that the liquid runs in broken streams of white around her bare ankles. The hem of her saturated gown has turned a deep violet. She drops to her knees, running her fingers over the same part of the gown that Peterson had been tracing only moments before. He takes a step forward, feeling strangely as though his privacy is being in some way invaded, and draws to a stop.
“What is it you were doing down here?” she asks, musing aloud. “Is there some sort of secret hidden in the woman’s dress?”
“There’s an inscription, yes.” He paws behind one ear as he waits for her fingers to find the words. His pulse jumps beneath his skin as her fingers stop, locating them. She leans in, going cross-eyed with the effort of reading in the dark.
“To my love,” she begins. “I have built you a sanctuary. I have preserved you in stone. We have killed you, he and I. For that, I am sorry.”
The words resonate in Peterson’s ears with a foreboding echo. They pitch out aimlessly against the starry night, the secret confession going unanswered by the looming stone effigy of his mother.
“Eliot Roberts,” he hears the Rose say. The name weighs prominently upon the air. He wishes he knew who the man was. A strange sort of fervor overtakes him, and he clenches his fingers into fists at his side. The Rose leans back, clapping her hands together. “Oh, how romantic, a secret affair.” She turns to look at him. Her wide blue eyes are speckled with stars. “Who do you think the woman is?”
“It’s my mother,” he murmurs darkly, feeling his cheeks prickling with warmth. He can feel the stone eyes overhead watching the two of them as they linger in the reflecting pool. The moon dances across the agitated surface of the water in a rippling oval of white.
“Your mother,” the girl says with awe, blinking up at the statue in newfound reverence. “She was beautiful.”
“Thank you. I never knew her.”
“So am I right?” she asks, lurching upward so suddenly that he is splashed across the face with the cool, clear water.
“About what?”
“Eliot Roberts. Was he your mother’s lover?”
He is stunned by the brashness of the girl’s nature. He opens his mouth and closes it again, unsure of how to respond. After a long moment, he shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I think he must have been. No one creates such a beautiful memorial like this unless they were in love. It’s a magical garden, can’t you feel it?”
He nods, frowning slightly at the flora that curls inward against the still night. “I suppose I can. May I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” she ass
ents, her nose buried deep within the petals of a rose.
“How did you get in here?”
“I scaled the wall of the maze.” She says this as though it should have been entirely obvious to him.
“Right,” he says. “Why?”
At that, her blue gaze grows serious. The silver lights of the stars extinguish as her thick black eyelashes drop low. “I came to Chancey with a friend, but she was taken by the Guardians. I think she’s here, in the dungeons.”
Peterson thinks of the news that had thundered through the palace only a day ago. A Guardian shot beneath the palace gates—an escaped Cairan—a frantic chase through the empty city. He thinks of James on the whipping post, blood trickling from the lashes that intertwined across his back.
Before him, the Rose is perched on the tips of her toes, studying the statue.
“What did you expect to do when you found her?” he asks, annoyance clipping his words. “Charm my father into letting her go? Break her free? You’d just be thrown into the dungeon with her.”
“I hadn’t really thought it through,” she admits. He realizes, looking at her, just how young she is. She cannot have seen more than twelve harvest cycles pass her by.
“Clearly not,” he sniffs. “Anyway, she’s gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?” An air of nervousness seizes the girl.
“She escaped yesterday. No one has been able to find her since. They think she returned to your Forbidden City.”
“Oh.” Her gaze grows muddled with concern. “I can’t get back there without her.” She thinks about this for a moment. “I’ve got nowhere to go.”
“Where were you staying before?”
She scowls at that. “A whorehouse on the edge of town. It was rotten. I won’t go back. Anyway, it was swarming with Guardians when I left.” She thinks about this. “They must have been looking for Nerani,” she says quietly, glancing at her toes through the rippling water.
“Where will you go now?” Peterson feels a sudden loneliness tugging at him over the thought of saying goodbye to his new friend. I’ve never had a friend, he thinks.
“I don’t know.” She twirls absently with the plaited end of her braid. “I’ll have to find a place to sleep for the night. I can figure it out in the morning.”
Peterson thinks for a moment, his mind suddenly racing. “Would you stay here for the night?”
“Here?” she asks in some alarm, glancing up at the yawning night sky above them.
“Yes,” he says. “Just for tonight. I’ll come back for you tomorrow.”
When she looks back down at him, her eyes are once again filled with stars. She flashes him a toothy grin and he notices a small, dark gap between her two front teeth. “Do you have a plan?” she asks wickedly, as though to have a plan is a most daring undertaking. He thinks of what she said earlier—we can’t live in fear just because there might be death at the end of an adventure.
He finds himself smiling back at her. “I do,” he says. “It will be quite the adventure, if you’re brave enough.”
Without warning, she thrusts herself noisily across the watery expanse between them. In an instant, her arms are encircling his neck, cutting off his air supply. The front of his shirt is soaked through with water. When she pulls away, her face is glowing.
“You promise you’ll be back tomorrow?” she asks. He draws back from her, climbing reluctantly out from the fountain. Something unseen tugs at him as he moves away from the statue of his mother—and from the girl perched just beneath her arms.
“I’ll be back,” he promises.
She drops into a mock curtsy, still grinning. “Then I should be honored, my prince, to spend my night in the presence of Eliot Roberts and his queen.”
He laughs at that, turning away from her and heading off into the shadows of the trees. As the moon disappears behind the black veined leaves overhead, he can just make out the sound of a young girl’s quiet voice crooning a soft lullaby.
CHAPTER 31
Caira
There is a muted murmur—the unmistakable thump of something hollow hitting water—and Alexander Mathew finds himself suddenly splashed across the face with spatters of ocean water. He firmly places down his oar—which he had been, until this point, utilizing to keep the small boat from colliding with the ship’s hull—and glares upward. Several watchful faces peer unapologetically over the starboard side of his ship.
“Lower the yard tackle!” calls a voice from above. The echo is smudged by the wind, the sound swept off toward the looming shores of Caira. “Easy now!”
Alexander licks his lips, tasting salt, and spits off of the side of the small, four-man wherry in which he sits. The Lethal kneels at the helm, peering forward into the opaque fog that curls on the surface of the water. Just before him perches the Hawk, his knuckles white around the length of his oar. He watches the identical rowboat to their immediate left, his golden eyes narrowed into slits. The wherry’s rounded hull is jostled uneasily by the white-capped waves as it touches down lightly upon the water. Alexander follows the line of his gaze, his eyes settling on the terse figure of Emerala. Her deep violet gown is as bright as a beacon through the ghostly grey dawn. Derek sits directly across from her, leaning back as his oars dip downward, breaking the glassy surface of the ocean. She stares resolutely ahead, ignoring him, the curls that cascade down from beneath her hat all but obscuring her face.
She had scarcely spoken to Alexander that morning as they prepared for their trip ashore, and yet it was obvious to him that—in spite of her sour mood—she was eager to set foot on the lands of her ancestors. Her deep green eyes had gleamed with distraction as he attempted to give her last minute instructions. The crisp night air still clung to the deck of the ship as he grabbed her hand and pulled her back to him.
You’re not listening to me, he had complained, trying to catch the sweeping emerald stare that had fixated itself on the interminable darkness that lingered just beyond the reach of the ship. He had ordered the men to douse the lanterns just as the sun dipped beneath the ocean that evening—no point in attracting any more attention than was necessary. If not for the silvery stars that danced overhead, Alexander would not have been able to see her at all.
I am, she retorted in distraction.
You’re not. This is important.
She cut him off before he could continue, her gaze at last finding his. Don’t you think I know how important this is? I’m about to step foot on the shores of my ancestors. This is my heritage—my blood.
He shook his head at that, aware that he was still clutching her fingers within his own. They’re not going to welcome you, Emerala. They’re going to kill you. You have to be careful.
Even beneath the cover of darkness, he could sense that she was rolling her eyes at him. He bristled unnecessarily, his fingers tightening. Her knuckles twisted together beneath his grip. I know, she admitted reluctantly. Her voice, only a whisper, was nearly swallowed whole by the distant murmuring of the black waves below.
Then tell me your name. Practice it. It can’t sound like a question. You have to be confident.
There was a rustle of fabric as she drew herself upright. The silvery light played upon her curls. I am Lady Katherine Montclay, daughter of Lord Remus Montclay of Toholay. She paused at that, and he could see a flash of ivory as she gave him a tiny smile. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.
He hooks his oar onto the oarlock of the neighboring wherry and pulls the boat astride theirs. Emerala glances up—startled at the sudden movement.
“Sit up straight,” he whispers to her.
“I am,” she mutters back, her brows dipping in annoyance.
“Sit up straighter, you’re a lady.”
“Or at least pretending to be one,” the Hawk comments, a droll smile appearing on his face. Emerala scowls back at him. From his perch at the front of the rowboat, the Lethal lets out a dry laugh.
“Don’t pay any attention to ‘em, love. You’re not to
be blamed, I’d reason these two fools here have spent a great deal of time ruffling the feathers of the noble ladies, but I don’t reckon they’ve had much success with them.” He glances over his shoulder and winks, his gaze full of implication. Emerala laughs at that, and sits up just a bit straighter.
Her laugh is punctuated by the shrieking of a bird somewhere nearby. There is the sound of wings slapping against water and a shadow takes off in the mist, sending swirls of fog dancing across their laps.
“They’re watching,” Derek says, his eyes on Emerala.
“Behave,” Alexander whispers to her, and shoves his oar back into the water.
They row in silence for a while; the only sound the cadence of their oars breaking the glassy surface of the whispering ocean. Overhead, the dawn is spilling across the sky like champagne. Heat tickles the skin of Alexander’s arms. All around them the mist is rising, dissipating off of the surface of the water in curling slivers of silver. Sunlight seeps into the water, illuminating the colorful reefs beneath the surface and casting the depths into shadows of crisp, crystalline blue.
He thinks of the mission before him and his stomach ties itself into knots. He thinks of Tyde, the elusive trickster who was always so fond of puzzles and games. The Cairan used to visit the ports of Senada when Alexander was a boy, traveling across the narrow channel to confound the marketplace with his grandiose stories and his unsolvable riddles. It is no accident that the man’s name was written in the riddle upon the map.
Whatever it is that his father so badly wants him to find, it will be hidden with Tyde. He is certain of it. He glances across the still surface of the water, his gaze lingering on Derek. He is leaning forward, his oars momentarily still, as he whispers something to Emerala. She laughs, blushing slightly, and Alexander feels himself cringe internally. His oar plunges into the water with a jarring splash. He stares forward, training his eyes instead upon the ever-nearing beach up ahead.
They are so close, now. He wonders if his old friend will continue to care for his mother after the deal is done. And that was the deal, was it not? He recalls the day he met the wealthy traveler and the conversation that they had. He had heard the newcomer complaining loudly about being shipwrecked by the infamous Captain Samuel Mathew. At the sound of his father’s name, Alexander’s heart had nearly stopped beating. He had instantly used what little money he had procured that day to buy the man a drink.