The Forbidden City: Book Two of Rogue Elegance

by K A Dowling

  “We’re here,” Derek says. He approaches Emerala slowly, watching her through reserved eyes. He pulls her into a hug, letting his lips graze against her ear. “Be careful,” he whispers.

  “She knows,” Emerala whispers back. “She knows we’re pretending.”

  Derek pauses for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is tense. “It doesn’t matter. We’re too far now to turn back. There’s nothing to do but keep playing along.”

  He draws back from her, and the dark look in his eyes is frightening. “It’s the only way we’ll get out of here alive,” he says. His voice is nearly inaudible. Emerala swallows hard, feeling inexplicably cold.

  The reunited trio follows Melena through the thin copse of trees that stand between them and the shadowed structure. Emerala emerges from beneath a low hanging bush of fanning, green leaves, a gasp falling from her lips. Rising up before them is an immense wall of crumbling stone. Clearly manmade, the structure stretches out on either side of them, the ends—if there is any end—swallowed in the choking vegetation.

  “What is this?” Emerala studies the structure in awe, her attention catching on a clear-cut opening in the rock. A short ways beyond the opening is another wall of cobbled stone.

  “It’s a labyrinth!” Melena squeals, clapping her hands together. She hops up and down on the balls of her feet, her hair spiraling out from her like a web.

  “Or a prison.” The Lethal sheaths his cutlass, eyeing the stone with suspicion.

  “He constructed it himself, the architect,” Derek says. His gaze is thick with careful implication as he watches Emerala.

  “Why?” Emerala asks, raising her voice to be heard over the incoherent singing coming from Melena’s direction. The raven drops out of the sky with a flutter of feathers and begins to vocalize as well, its raspy cries pitting off of the stone.

  “He’s a hostage here,” Derek explains, his brows pulling together. “A rather famous hostage, at that. According to the stories, when he was first taken captive he asked the Cairans for one thing and one thing only—to be permitted to build his own prison. It was an odd request, but Domio obliged him. He’s a curious man, Domio, and he wanted to see what kind of prison a man would choose to build for himself. He was not disappointed. The labyrinth is a masterpiece.”

  “Right,” Emerala says, still studying to stone. “But why am I here? I’ve nothing to do with any of this.”

  Derek falls silent, a shadow passing over his features. Looking up, he studies the treetops. “You shouldn’t ask questions unless you’re certain that you want the answers.”

  “Of course I want answers,” Emerala snaps.

  Derek looks her in the eye, his black gaze penetrating. “Answers can be dangerous things, Katherine. Deadly things.” Something in his voice causes a shiver to creep down Emerala’s spine. Derek shoves his hands into his pockets and sighs, turning to survey the entrance to the great stone prison. “You’ll go into the labyrinth alone, I expect. You should be safe enough.”

  “Alone?” Emerala stammers. “But I don’t know the way.”

  She is startled by the sudden presence of fire very near to her face. The heat tickles her cheek as the orange flames cast a red glow across the bridge of her pointed nose. Beyond the throw of light she can just make out Melena’s grinning face—her ivory teeth gleaming next to the flickering torch that she holds in her claw-like grasp.

  “Follow Marvala,” she commands, thrusting the torch into Emerala’s hand. “She knows the way.” Melena gives her a push, shoving her towards the opening in the stone.

  Emerala stands unmoving in the opening, watching the great stone walls yawn over her head.

  “I don’t know who Marvala is,” she says dryly.

  As if in response, the raven on Melena’s shoulder takes flight, whisking off into the shaded opening and veering to the right. There is a moment of silence and then an impatient squawk echoes out from beyond the stone.

  “Of course,” Emerala intones. “The raven is Marvala.”

  “Go now,” Melena sings. “And go quickly. The sun is setting and the shadow spirits are getting ready to come out and play. I don’t think you’d enjoy the kind of games they like, Katherine Montclay from Toholay.”

  “The shadow spirits?” Emerala repeats, ogling the settling dusk. But Melena is already dancing away, a song in her throat and laughter in her eyes.

  CHAPTER 37

  The Forbidden City

  Nerani climbs the rungs leading to her quarters slowly, her bare feet finding the smoothed stone inlets with precision. Her toes linger against the cool slabs as she idles just below the narrow opening leading to the tiny space she shares with Roberts. Her left hand throbs with a dull ache as she rests her wrist against the stone. The tiniest finger of her left hand is gone—removed with careful fastidiousness by Mame Minera’s skilled hands. The other two fingers have been set and bound. The dressing is clean and tight and the camphor lotion on her skin does much to numb the pain of healing bones. She stares at the shallow dip in the dressing where her pinky should be and blinks back tears. Swallowing the tickle at the back of her throat, she continues to climb.

  She has not seen Roberts in days. Since his shouting match in Topan’s quarters he has made himself scarce, staying away from the infirmary where he knew his cousin to be staying. Nerani did not mind the solitude. In fact, she reveled in it. She spent the hazy days of her recovery lost in thought—staring at the shadows of her decisions and contemplating their possible consequences.

  She had kissed him—James. Standing before him in the musty old storeroom the day of her escape, she had allowed herself to succumb at last to her emotions. It was a dangerous development—an impossible development. And yet she cannot bring herself to regret what she has done. She thinks of James Byron and of the look upon his face as she was led away from him that afternoon. Something unfamiliar twists within her stomach—a soft fluttering of wings brushing against her insides—and she scowls.

  Orianna knew before she knew—Orianna saw it that day in the kitchens as she took Nerani’s hand within her own.

  It will drown you both, she said, her words caught between a whisper and a chant. The warning had been ominous. Deadly. Nerani cannot bring herself to think about the meaning behind them. She cannot bring herself to think of the future, and what kind of punishment fate has in store for her betrayal.

  And it is a betrayal. It is a deep, dark treachery. She is twisted up beyond belief, wrought with despair and strung out to dry. She is jumping at shadows, choking on her guilt, sleeping on a bed of paranoia.

  But she loves him.

  She does.

  If there was any denying it before the stolen kiss in the boarded storeroom, there is no denying it now. The very thought makes her at once both buoyant with joy and weighted with dread. Her stomach roils within her.

  Two golden men drown in the red tide.

  It’s impossible, she thinks, berating herself silently. What you feel is impossible. The flesh beneath the bandage aches as she flexes her good fingers, gripping hard at the stone. Her foot snags in the hem of her gown and she nearly slips out of her foot wells. She catches herself ungracefully, a small gasp escaping from between her lips, and continues to climb.

  She slips into the dark of her quarters with relief, allowing herself to be enveloped in the cool darkness of the hovel they have come to call home. The tumultuous sounds of the bustling cavern below rise up into the mouth of the room—drifting in with the smell of freshly baked bread. Her stomach grumbles and she realizes with a start that she has not eaten yet today. She takes a step into the cramped expanse and stops short at the sound of a muffled giggle.

  “Hello?” she calls into the darkness, squinting at the shadows across the room. There is the sound of pulling fabric and someone whispers something unintelligible. A candle whisks into life. The dancing flame sends spirals of orange light careening across the jagged stone ceiling.

  “Nerani,” Roberts says, soun
ding surprised to see her. He is sitting upright in his bed, his tousled curls matted to one side. His green eyes are unusually bright. Next to him, her flaxen locks fanning out over the edge of the cot, lays the young woman that had appeared with him the day of Nerani’s rescue. She giggles again as Nerani meets her sharp, grey gaze. Deep scarlet pools in her cheeks and she draws the blanket up to her nose.

  “Good morning.” Her voice is muffled beneath the thick wool coverlet.

  “I didn’t expect you back so soon,” Roberts explains, looking only mildly sheepish. He eyes the bandage wound tightly about her remaining fingers. Her right hand has closed at her side. She remains silent before them. Unmoving. “Mame Minera said you were a few days away from being fully recovered. She said your finger—” he pauses, falling into silence as he catches a glimpse of the look upon her face.

  “Are you alright?”

  “I’m quite fine, thank you.” The voice that falls out from between Nerani’s lips is strangled. “You’re clearly occupied. I’ll come back later.”

  At that, the woman sits upright, clutching the blanket to her with hands like white-porcelain.

  “I can leave.” Her hair falls around her face in waves of silver, framing her plump, cherry lips. Nerani scowls at her.

  “No, that’s fine,” she says, just as Roberts blurts, “No, don’t go.” His hand closes about the woman’s arm, pulling her back into his chest. His lips graze the top of her head and he surveys Nerani in implicative silence.

  She shoots him a mangled smile. “I’ll go visit Topan,” she says, backing towards the door.

  “Good. That’s good. He’s been worried sick about you.”

  “I know. He’s visited me in the infirmary often.” She allows the words she did not say to hang in the air between them.

  Unlike you.

  Roberts does not reply, nor does she wait for him to come up with a response. She is already backing out of the room—lowering herself as quickly as she can down the stone steps. She is scarcely out of the opening when there is another giggle and the candle is extinguished with a sigh.

  Her cheeks blaze with heat as she climbs back down towards the main cavern. A smattering of anger ripples through her, though at what—or at whom—she can’t be certain. Roberts has done nothing wrong. It is Nerani who has allowed her heart to lead her astray—Nerani who has behaved traitorously.

  And yet she doesn’t like the silver haired woman. She doesn’t trust her cool grey eyes—doesn’t trust the whisper of a smile on her painted lips.

  The sounds of the cavern below envelop Nerani like a blanket, and she revels in the warm flicker of the firelight against her skin. Her run in with Roberts and his lady friend left her feeling cold. Uneasy. Her bare feet hit the cool floor and she sweeps the deep navy hem of her muslin gown away from the steps.

  She heads through the crowds of milling Cairans, their heads bowed low together in conversation or thrown back in contempt as they lose at another hand of cards. Several dark gazes shoot in her direction as she passes and she balks at the stares, confused by the malice she finds there. Keeping her head down, she picks up her pace, heading with purpose towards Topan’s quarters at the far side of the cavern.

  “Nerani!”

  She is pulled back by the sound of Orianna calling her name. She draws to a standstill at the edge of the crowd, reluctant to step back into the throng. Glancing over her shoulder, she spots her friend rushing towards her. Her violet corset is cinched tightly at her waist and her jet-black hair frames the stark blue of her eyes. She frowns as she draws close, scrutinizing Nerani through narrowed eyes.

  “The look on your face is enough to curdle milk.”

  Nerani’s scowl deepens. “Thank you.”

  “I suppose you’ve met Seranai.” Orianna twists the fabric of her tiered gown within her fist, a bad habit she developed when they were young. Blues and blacks and violets cascade out from between her fingers in crumpled ruffles.

  “Who?”

  Orianna shrugs lightly, the smooth skin of her shoulders rising and falling beneath the sagging white sleeves of her blouse. “You know, that blonde wench that has been hanging on Rob these days. I saw you climbing down from your quarters just now and supposed you had finally met her.” She glances over her shoulder, her black hair gleaming violet in the firelight. “They are up there, aren’t they?”

  “Unfortunately,” Nerani says, following her friend’s gaze. “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know,” Orianna admits, turning back to face her. Her gaze is sullen—her lips tight with scarcely concealed bitterness. “Isn’t she awful? Rob claims she helped rescue you. Apparently she saw General Byron dragging you inside an abandoned storeroom.”

  Orianna lets her words wane into silence as she studies Nerani for any sort of reaction. Nerani remains taciturn before her, avoiding her friend’s probing gaze. Looking down, she picks at a loose thread in her bandage.

  “I’m not an accomplished seer, Nerani,” Orianna says at last, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Not yet, anyway. But I know what I saw that day in the kitchens. It was as clear as if it were happening right in front of me.”

  Nerani continues to inspect the unraveling thread. She twists it round and round on the index finger of her good hand, watching as the tip turns first red, then purple. She tries not to think of James. She tries not to think of the feel of his lips against hers—of the smell of his skin, slick with rainwater.

  She tries and she fails.

  “Nerani,” Orianna snaps, dragging her attention back to the present. “People are starting to talk. No one has escaped captivity. No one. How did you get out?”

  Nerani swallows. Her throat feels like sandpaper.

  “He helped you, didn’t he?” Orianna asks.

  “Yes.” The answer that ekes out from between her lips is nearly inaudible.

  Orianna’s face twists as if wound by an unseen hand. She reaches out and takes Nerani’s wrist within her grasp, forcing her to let go of the thread. Blood rushes back into the tip of her finger with a prickle, and the color of her skin fades slowly back to ivory.

  “Nerani, look at me.”

  Nerani obliges, blinking rapidly in a futile effort to blink away the turmoil that rages just behind her eyes.

  “James Byron is the enemy. He’s our enemy, Rob’s enemy, Emerala’s enemy. He has sentenced so many of our people to death in the name of the usurper. He’s not a good man.”

  “You don’t know that,” Nerani whispers. “You don’t know what kind of man he is.”

  “Yes I do. And so do you. Don’t be a fool, Nerani. You’re playing with fire, and you’re going to get burned.”

  Nerani wrenches her wrist from Orianna’s grasp, her mood souring. A headache is blossoming behind her left eye.

  “I’m playing with fire, I’m going to drown in a red tide,” Nerani intones; her brows drawing low over angry eyes. “You’re talking in riddles and metaphor. That’s the kind of thing Roberts used to laugh at when we were children, don’t you remember? He always told us to believe in fact.”

  “Do you want facts?” Orianna asks. “Fine. I don’t need the Sight in order to understand the look on your face.”

  “And what look is that?” Nerani’s reply comes as quick as a whip.

  “Infatuation.”

  “I’m not infatuated,” Nerani argues, turning away from her friend. Her nerves flutter within her. A hard lump builds in her throat. She feels, suddenly, as if she might cry.

  Traitor, a small voice within her says. You’re a traitor.

  Orianna grabs her hard by the arm, stopping her short. Her painted fingernails press indentations into Nerani’s flesh.

  “Wait. Please, Nerani, I don’t want to argue. Not with you.”

  Nerani steels herself, blinking back unwanted tears as she turns back towards her friend. The look in Orianna’s eyes is plaintive, apologetic. Her teeth graze her lower lip—another habit from childhood, a nervous one.

&nb
sp; “I didn’t come looking for you in order to pick a fight.”

  “Why did you come looking for me, then?” Nerani asks hotly, still feeling bitter.

  “I spoke with Topan,” Orianna says. She pauses and adds, “You’ve been avoiding him since your return.”

  “I haven’t been able to avoid him,” Nerani counters. “He visited me in the infirmary every day.”

  “And according to him, you were asleep every time.” A smile teases at one corner of Orianna’s lips. “Strange, you were never asleep when I stopped in to check up on you, or when Mame Minera came to change your bandages.”

  Nerani lets out a strangled harrumph, embarrassment flickering through her. She crosses her arms over her chest and glowers at the look of quiet amusement that stretches across Orianna’s ebony features.

  “You can’t tell me you haven’t at least considered the possibility of his offer.”

  Nerani shrugs. “I have considered it.”

  Her slow recovery in the infirmary left her with nothing but time to think. And think. Obsess would be the more fitting word to describe what she did, tossing and turning in her cot and replaying the events of the past few days over and over in her head.

  When she did sleep, she dreamt of James.

  She dreamt of his father’s storeroom, wrought with ghosts. She dreamt of the gunshot in the bailey, and of racing through the cobbled streets, slick with rain. She dreamt, too, of the feel of him against her—of the taste of his lips and the touch of his fingers against her skin.

  When she awoke, she would find Topan asleep in a chair by her cot. Immediately, the guilt that stalked her during her waking hours would creep back through her. It choked off her air supply and left her clutching at her sheets in a panic.

  Traitor, the small voice within her would hiss.

  In front of her, Orianna is scrutinizing her warily.

  “He’ll make wonderful husband,” she says.

  Nerani winces. “I have no doubt that he will. For anyone but me.”