by K A Dowling
Before him, Domio is waiting. He straightens his shoulders. “I’m here to see Tyde.”
Domio’s blue eyes narrow dangerously. “For what purpose?”
Again, Alexander hesitates. Do not lie, he hears Ha’Rai say. “I don’t know,” he admits, feeling foolish.
“Ah, but you must have a reason,” Domio smiles, the corners of his lips curling upward in a malevolent coil.
It is the Hawk that speaks next, startling everyone. “We’re here on orders from Ha’Rai, regent of the Eisle of Udire.” His voice is loud. Confident. Alexander flinches internally.
A lie. That was a lie.
He cannot call it back, not now.
Domio’s eyes are locked, still, upon Alexander. “Ha’Rai? Yes, I know her well. She sent you here, to me?”
Alexander swallows, determined to stick as close to the truth as possible in spite of the Hawk’s deviation. “We’ve just sailed here from her island, yes.”
Domio’s smile widens, but it no longer looks inviting. “How peculiar. She is not one to pass up game at this time of year. Tell me, she gave you no explanation for your visit to Tyde?”
“No, only that we were to come ashore and ask your permission to meet with him, which we’ve now done. He’s a man of riddles, perhaps she thinks he has information we’d like to hear.”
Domio nods slowly, considering this. “I wasn’t aware that pirate lords were in the business of hiring themselves out as mercenaries,” he says. “But I suppose this is a new world, and I’m just an old man. Very well—”
He is cut off by a resounding giggle that echoes out from beneath the shade of the trees. The laugh is punctuated by the dissonant screaming of ravens. Looking up, Alexander feels his blood run cold. Hundreds of the black birds, their glass eyes lifeless, have roosted in the trees. Silent, fluttering shadows of midnight blue, watching, waiting.
“Melena approaches,” whispers his captor at his back. The man sounds nervous. His vice-like grip loosens slightly around Alexander’s arms.
Sure enough, Alexander can just make out the slender figure of a woman emerging from beneath the trees. Her long, twisting braid of amber nearly drags along the ground at her feet. Her homespun cotton chemise falls from her shoulders, exposing the rounded bosoms that threaten to spill out over her tightly cinched corset, as black and as blue as the sleek feathers of the raven that perches on her shoulder.
“Domio,” she sings, and something in her voice causes Alexander to recoil inwardly. “You didn’t tell me we had new playthings. I had to hear the news from my darlings.”
“Guests, Melena, dear. These are guests.” Domio corrects, not turning to look at the newcomer to the beach. He sounds mildly irate at the intrusion.
“Is there a difference?” She titters, the sound rising up into the trees. The ravens echo the noise, clicking their beaks together in an eerie mimic of her laugh. “Anyway, I’ve come to see the girl. You can keep your nasty, old pirates.”
She saunters lazily down the stretch of beach that lies between them, all eyes on her. She draws to a stop just before Emerala, hands on her hips. Emerala continues to stare into the sand with a powerful exertion of will. Her black ringlets have almost completely dried in the pressing heat and the coils gleam as they bounce around her cheekbones.
“Hello, Melena,” Derek says, his words clipped and careful. Melena shoots him a playful smile in response, but otherwise says nothing. Directly before Alexander, Domio has resumed chewing at his hangnail.
Melena crouches down, taking Emerala’s chin between her fingers and forcing Emerala to look up at her face. Her lips break out in a full grin. She tilts back her head and cackles. Derek’s eyes catch Alexander’s across the beachfront as the sound of Melena’s laugh bounces away from her with maddening force. Derek shakes his head, a nearly imperceptible movement, and returns his gaze to the scene before him.
Melena whispers something to the bird in a language that Alexander does not recognize. With a shriek, the raven takes off upon the air. Alexander watches it soar over the treetops and out of sight.
“Melena,” Domio calls, spitting out his hangnail and turning with impatience to the girl. The subtle tone of inquiry in his voice does not go unnoticed by Alexander.
“Domio, come—come and look at her eyes!” Melena squeals in delight, waving to him as though she has only just now noticed that she and Emerala are not the only people on the beach. Domio moves from his position before Alexander, planting himself directly in front of Derek and Emerala.
“Look at me,” he commands. Emerala does not move. Heavy silence hangs upon the air. After a moment Derek nudges Emerala with his elbow, his gaze unreadable. He murmurs something to her but Alexander cannot make out his words above the rush of the waves at his back. The tide is coming in, he thinks.
Slowly, defiantly, Emerala tilts her chin upwards. Her black curls fall away from her face as the thick sunlight drapes across the deep green of her irises.
Domio clicks his tongue reproachfully. “Derek, it saddens me to know that you have not been truthful with us.”
“I’m sorry,” Derek says, allowing a small trace of confusion to flicker across his face. “But how exactly have I misled you?”
“The girl—she is not from Toholay is she?”
“She is, I assure you. Katherine comes from the established line of Montclays in the Westerlies.” Derek proffers a courteous smile. His voice has not lost an ounce of its initial confidence.
“So you say,” Domio replies, his smile equally as courteous. Alexander feels suddenly and thoroughly discomfited by the whole affair. The rushing water of the incoming tide claws at his ankles, receding with the bubbling gurgle of the dying. The sky above his head is strangely empty.
“Domio.” Melena’s theatrical whisper is too loud as she tugs at Domio’s shirtsleeve. Her clear blue eyes glitter in the sunlight. “I must take her to see him. How lovely a surprise it will be!”
Domio considers this, nodding. After a moment, he pats her softly on the head. “Of course, my dear,” His gaze is still trained upon Derek. His eyes have hardened; their friendly gleam all but disappeared. “Melena will bring your betrothed to visit the Architect.” It is not a question. “It has been a long time since you’ve stopped by to see your old friend. I’m certain he will be pleased to meet the Lady Katherine.”
“Who?” Alexander asks.
Domio glances over his shoulder at Alexander, his lips curling into a strange smile. “There is a debtor who resides upon our island. He is somewhat of a pet to our dear Melena, and an old, old friend of Derek’s.”
Alexander shakes his head, trying to remain polite. “With all due respect, we don’t have time to waste. We’re here to see Tyde, and then we’ll be on our way.”
Domio holds up one hand to silence him. “Of course,” he agrees. “I would not cross the lady Ha’Rai. You and your men will be taken to see Tyde, and then you will be returned to your ship. Derek and his betrothed will visit the Debtor.”
A deep frown embeds itself upon Alexander’s face. Split up? The idea does not sit well with him. He glances over at Emerala and is surprised to see her gazing nervously back at him, her green eyes as wide and as round as coins. He quickly averts his gaze, hoping Domio did not notice their exchange.
“The girl stays with us,” comes a dangerous snarl from somewhere behind Alexander. The Hawk. Alexander cringes internally. Across the beach, a flicker of interest passes across Domio’s features.
“Fascinating,” he muses. “Surely Lady Katherine is of little use to you lot.” He lets his words hang in the air before them, his voice riddled with implication.
“All the same, we’d prefer stay together,” Alexander says, mirroring the Hawk’s sentiment. Before him, Domio lets out a low chuckle.
“It is of no importance to you, Captain. You and your men will get what you came here for. Melena will take the girl to see the Debtor.”
Next to Emerala, Derek nods. His gaze is earnest
as he again locks eyes with Alexander. He knows what his friend is trying to convey. They have no other option but to do what Domio says.
Alexander disagrees.
A life of piracy has taught him that there are always other options.
“Lachlan,” he barks.
“Aye,” comes the voice. The Lethal is quiet, calm, soaking in the scene before him in silence.
“Go with them.”
Melena lets out a giggle like a hiccup, her shrill voice raising an octave. Alexander squares his shoulders and holds Domio’s steel blue gaze.
“You care much for this girl, Captain.”
“I’ve only met Lady Katherine today,” Alexander insists, keeping his eyes void of expression.
That same, knowing smile tugs at the corners of Domio’s lips. “Indeed.”
There is a loud clamor in the direction of the forest. All at once, the ravens begin beating their wings—blue fire catching in their sleek black feathers. With several ear-piercing screeches, they take flight from the tangled branches of the trees. Alexander feels his heart weigh heavy with dread. He watches as they amass together—their beating wings choking out the circular sun—and head inland. Melena hops from one foot to another, fingering her long braid as she giggles in excitement.
“It’s time,” Domio says. “Tyde is ready to see you now.”
Harvest Cycle 1511
The ship is gaining ground behind us; her black sails now visible upon the distant horizon. She is quicker than the Rebellion—this strange ship. Larger and sleeker and built for speed. Just yesterday, Captain Samuel was able to make out the silhouettes of her inhabitants through the spyglass. It will not be long now before they reach us.
There is not much we can do but stay the course.
We are a fortnight’s sail from the easternmost coast of the Westerlies, heading windward into the bluffs. It is slow going, but we might make it yet. Samuel has confidence.
And I? I am losing faith.
The captain of the ship is a man called Jameson, Samuel tells me. He is known as a pirate for hire—a mercenary willing to do the dirty work of others for the right price. He flies beneath a black banner bearing a blood red cross. I have seen such a sign through the spyglass. There can be no mistaking it for anyone else.
The Hawk says this is proof that we have been sold out by Argot.
But to whom?
We paid the mapmaker a considerable sum for his silence. Who could outbid us? Who out there knows what cargo we carry? Who out there knows about the key and what it opens?
I must remain hopeful.
There is nothing to do but stay the course.
Stay the course or die.
Eliot
CHAPTER 34
Chancey
It is dark when James Byron returns to his apartment. The sun was swallowed beneath the stretching sea hours before, extinguishing with a balmy wink and casting the city of Chancey into blackness. The sky overhead is void of stars and the moon is a muddled circle of blue.
He fumbles with the key to his quarters, struggling to fit the slender brass object into the keyhole. He feels the key catch in the lock and thrusts the door open wide. A muffled grunt forces itself from his chest with the small effort. His body is wracked with pain. His clothes cling to the heavy gauze that encases his shoulders and back like a blanket.
He is met, upon entry, with the shrill whistle of the seaside wind. His heavy curtains slap wildly against the walls of his room, fluttering upwards in the stinging gusts as though they are living things. The room smells of lingering damp and he curses silently. He must have left the window open. He is slipping, he thinks—becoming careless.
He wonders how many days it has been since Nerani’s escape. How many days since the summons came and he was sentenced to the whipping post? He leans against the large wooden armoire to his left and allows his eyes to flutter closed. His memory is thick with sludge—the pain in his back splintering his ability to think. Fragments of his time in the palace sick room flash through his mind, offering him fleeting glimpses of the royal surgeon cleaning his wounds—of the loosely stitched fabric of his musty cot. He pictures the small, rectangular window that sat high above his head, and recalls how the light spilled in every morning at daybreak.
Sun up. Sun down. Sun up. He clenches his eyes shut, counting. Three days? Four? His head is spinning. He shoves the door shut behind him, not bothering to bolt the locks. Colors dance in frenzied patterns before his vision as he stumbles forward into the dark room. All he wants is to sleep. His cot feels as though it is miles away.
He groans, falling forward and catching himself on the heavy oak desk that sits just before him. With great difficulty, he straightens, lifting his heavy arms. He pries at the sticking fabric of his shirt, trying in vain to lift it over his head. Blistering pain shoots through his back with the effort of movement. He can feel his blood coursing through every vein of his body. He shuts his eyes and tries to breathe, ignoring the pain that etches across his skin in patchwork patterns of drying blood. The contents of his stomach, although little, threaten to rise in his throat.
Finally succeeding in removing his shirt, he drops uneasily into the wooden chair at his desk. It creaks beneath his weight. Feeling around blindly in the darkness, he gropes for the candle and flint that he keeps at the desk. After a clumsy moment of searching, his fingers enclose around the objects. There is a whispering flutter as a small flame leaps into life before his eyes. A tiny dot of blue quivers on the wick, shivering as it is encased in red and yellow heat. Byron stares into the flame as he presses the candle back into its brass holder. The flame catches in the warped looking glass on the wall, the dual light casting some manner of illumination across James’s features. He stares at himself and sees only a stranger in the mirror. His face is drawn and pale. His jaw is coated in thick, untended stubble. Dark shadows cup the lower lids of his eyes.
A gust of wind catches the bare skin of his arms and he shudders involuntarily, suddenly thrust back into a memory.
He was sleeping fitfully upon the cot in the sickroom when a slamming door jolted him awake. For a moment, he wondered if it was the surgeon, come back to change his bandages. The heavy footfalls on the floor, however, were too loud to belong to the contrite old man that tended to the wounded. He made an effort to roll over onto his side, but felt as though a great weight was pressing him deep into the bed. He could not feel the cuts on his back. In fact, he could not feel his back at all—a by-product of the surgeon’s salve, no doubt. The overpowering smell of lavender was scarcely enough to cover the stink of camphor that clung to his skin. He gripped the pillow beneath his head, propping himself up as best he could with his elbows. The tight skin on his shoulders stretched, pulling at tender scars.
There was the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor and the visitor dropped into a seat before him. He glanced up, peering into the dim light of the room as the dual figure of Corporal Anderson danced before his eyes. He blinked rapidly, seeing double, and wished his vision would clear.
It’s a long fall from your pedestal, is it not, James? The smile on Anderson’s face was unmistakable. James cleared his throat. His mouth felt as though it were filled with sand.
Have I fallen? he asked, his voice hoarse. I don’t think I have.
In fact, Rowland himself had visited him only yesterday—an unprecedented event for a king who was so frightened by the prospect of death. He had sat in the same exact chair and apologized to James, explaining in somber tones that such a public punishment was necessary to maintain a sense of order among his Guardians. It felt like watching his own child be punished, he’d said. But it had to be done.
In front of him, Anderson was grinning from ear to ear.
Maybe not yet, but you’re dangerously close to the edge.
He leaned back in his chair, propping his boots onto James’s cot. He could see the polished leather in his peripherals as the shoes came close to his face.
Ju
st one more push, Anderson said, and nudged James lightly in the side with the toe of his shoe. In spite of the camphor rubbed into his skin, he felt his back catch fire at the push. He fought to keep his face from showing any trace of pain. His insides contorted viciously.
Anderson dropped his feet to the ground with an audible plop. He scraped the chair once more across the floor, bringing his face close to James’s.
When you fall, he sneered, and you will fall, you can rest assured that I’ll be the one who gives you that final shove.
Is that a threat? James asked, his voice finally lucid against the diminishing light of the room.
Anderson’s eyes narrowed. It’s a promise.
There is a sharp knock at the door—three loud raps in quick succession. James lurches to his feet and immediately wishes he had not done so. The blood courses to his head, causing dizzying spirals of light to dance across his field of vision. For a moment, his reflection in the mirror swarms into obscurity before his eyes. He grips the edge of the desk until his knuckles ache, willing himself to muster through the pain.
Three more knocks, louder this time. Faster.
He maneuvers stiffly toward the door, his fingers wrapped prudently about the pistol at his waist. He draws to a stop at the door, putting his ear to the thick wood. He can hear the rustle of fabric pulling against carpeting—can hear the quiet whisper of a male voice, young.
“It’s alright, he’ll be here,” says the voice. James starts, recognizing the speaker almost immediately. His hand drops from the pistol and he wrenches open the door. In the narrow hallway outside, the young prince of Chancey flinches in alarm.
“H-hello,” Peterson says, all traces of formality gone at the brusqueness of James’s force. James stares at him pointedly, saying nothing. Peterson is wearing the unadorned traveling clothes of a high class Chancian, his head and shoulders shrouded in a dark brown cloak. At his side is a young girl similarly clad in a pale pink muslin traveling dress, her amber braid tucked inside a matching cloak. The lanterns on the wall throw hazy orange light across their nervous faces, catching in the deep blue eyes of the girl.