by K A Dowling
“A lie.”
Emerala takes a step forward, her burning curiosity getting the best of her. She has questions of her own—thousands of them, each clamoring for a voice.
“Why are you kept here?”
She can feel the prisoner’s eyes alighting upon her in the darkness.
“Kept?” he repeats, speaking as if he doesn’t know the meaning of the word. “I am not kept. I simply can’t return home. Domio has provided me with a safe haven. He’s a good man, Domio—he operates on a system of service. I did him a favor, once, many years ago. Unintentionally, of course, but a favor is a favor, and Domio is a gracious host.”
“Melena said you’re a prisoner here. She calls you the debtor.”
The man’s voice is weighted with grief. “The debt is my own. This prison was fashioned by my hands alone.”
“But I don’t understand,” Emerala presses, feeling more and more confused with each passing moment. “Why would you imprison yourself?”
“You are far too inquisitive for a lady of Toholay,” comes the sharp response. “It isn’t proper.”
Emerala quails at his words. He’s right, of course. Lady Katherine Montclay would not be asking questions of a stranger. She would be demure, quiet—perhaps even a little bit frightened.
But then, the man before her does not believe her anyway.
“I have answered your questions honestly,” he says. “Perhaps you will pay me the same respect. I will ask you again—where are you from?”
Emerala chews her lip, unsure whether to stick to her lie or to be honest. She knows what Alexander would say, were he here with her. But Alexander is gone, far off on the other side of the island. Their hastily laid plan fell to pieces the moment their boats were capsized offshore. Emerala swallows hard and decides upon the truth.
“I sailed here from Chancey.”
The man heaves a great sigh. Beneath the shadows, she sees him slump forward in his seat.
“Of course,” he whispers. His voice sounds as though it is coming from miles away. “They suspect. They are no fools, they know Saynti’s prophecy as well as I.”
“Prophecy?” Emerala repeats, perplexed. The man looks up at her, straightening upon his chair. In his new position, she can just make out the black tangles that cascade over his shoulders. He looks wild—unpredictable. His frame is slender but strong. His gnarled hands clasp between his knees. His voice shakes when he speaks.
“Step into the light,” he commands. Emerala opens her mouth to protest, but he cuts her off before she can speak. “I beg you.”
Uncomfortable, Emerala obliges. She steps carefully into the flickering firelight that falls down upon the damp floor. She feels the blood-orange aura tickling her features. It spills into her eyes, blinding her to her surroundings. The shaded figure of the man blinks into obscurity.
In the dark, she hears him let out a gasp. A strange choking sound fills the cramped hut. It takes her a few moments to realize that the man before her is weeping. The sound spills away from him in great, heaving sobs. His shoulders rise and fall in the darkness.
“It can’t be,” he says. His voice cracks, laden with grief. “How is it you have come to be here?”
Emerala’s mouth works silently as she fumbles for an answer. She does not know how she can continue to lie to the sobbing figure before her.
“I sailed here onboard the pirate ship Rebellion.”
“Impossible,” he whispers. “It’s impossible. You sailed here with Samuel? Samuel Mathew?”
“No,” Emerala says. “He has a son—Alexander.”
Another muffled sob, choked into silence.
“I’m sorry,” Emerala admits. “But I’m not quite sure what is going on.”
“They’ll string you up.” The man’s voice is muted. She realizes his face is in his hands. “I struck a deal. I struck it to keep you safe. You were so young—so innocent. All of you.” His fist swings out and makes contact with the stone wall of the hut, causing Emerala to jump. Dust falls down into her eyes as bits of thatch dislodge from the roof.
“He swore that if I left, no harm would ever come to you. It was all for you. I had nothing left. He promised me your safety, and his promises mean nothing to me if you are here.”
He is babbling now, his words stringing together with a strange incoherence.
Emerala opens her mouth to speak and is cut off by the hoarse screaming of ravens. The flickering throw of the flames overhead extinguishes with a wink. She races to the door, glancing upwards to see hundreds of the glossy black birds wheeling and diving over the clearing. The fluttering of wings sets the flames to sputtering in their sconces. The entire clearing looks as though it is ablaze.
“They’re here,” comes the prisoner’s voice from behind her. He is staring up at the opening, listening as the ravens settle upon the roof of his hut. A few of them alight on the crumbling stones scattered here and there throughout the clearing. Their shivering wings gleam blood-red in the leaping firelight. They ogle Emerala through inky eyes. Emerala drops back into the shadow of the doorway. Not for the first time, she wishes someone had thought to provide her with a weapon. Behind her, the prisoner has fallen into useless silence.
A triumphant caw, and one raven drops down through the gap in the ceiling. Its fluttering wings kick up the dust that lines the ground, causing Emerala to choke on the air. The bird’s head wrenches in her direction. It gleams with an unnerving iridescence in the obstructed firelight. With another shriek, the bird flies towards her, its claws extended. Talons rip across her cheek, tearing at flesh. She waves her arms in a frantic attempt at defense as the raven flies at her again and again, black feet tearing through the skin of her arms and hands. She drops onto the floor, rolling away from the bird. Her eyes glance frantically around the room as she searches for something heavy.
“Here!” the debtor calls. He does not rise from his chair, but she can see him lob something in her direction. She catches it, realizing it to be nothing more than a broken leg from an old wooden chair. It will have to do. The bird claws at her head, loosing that throaty cry as its feet tangle in the mess of her hair. She wrenches her curls away and rolls onto her back. The bird circles around, a blood curdling screech emanating from its open beak, and drops towards her face. She swings the leg, elation surging through her as the wood connects with the creature’s body. It flies across the room, striking the stone before sliding limply to the floor.
Emerala stands and dusts herself off. She wonders if the Lethal is still watching for her outside the maze. She can make a run for it. She wonders how far she will get before the birds begin to pursue her.
Her thoughts are interrupted by a gunshot. A horrible, high-pitched shriek tears through the air and is silenced. The shot came from far off, beyond the bending stone corridors of the labyrinth. It takes Emerala a few seconds to realize the voice had been human, so bird-like had it sounded. More gunshots buffet the air in response to the scream. The sounds volley off of one another, the echoes rattling Emerala’s bones as she stands frozen in the dark hut. Her stomach pools with dread.
She hears uneven footsteps racing across the clearing, the sound growing ever louder. Someone is approaching the hut. Emerala grips the leg in her hands and positions it to be swung again.
“Rogue!”
The voice, hoarse from running, belongs to Alexander. A raven screeches, taking flight from the roof. It’s talons hyperextend before it as it surges forward with a flap of its wings. There is a gunshot and the bird crumples lifelessly to the ground. Another gunshot sounds—closer this time—and Emerala hears the agitated cries of many as a cluster of ravens take to the air. She races out of the doorway right as Alexander slows to a walk. He is limping—even in the darkness she can see as much. Blood has dried against his pants, adhering the tattered fabric to his skin.
“We have to get out of here,” he calls. Pain is etched across his face. He glances over Emerala’s shoulder at the man in the hut. Emerala
follows his gaze. In the shadow of the room she can just make out the form of the rising prisoner. He stands with difficulty, his figure weighted down by fatigue.
“Samuel?” he asks in some surprise. “Well sink me, if you don’t look a day older.”
Alexander’s arm moves around Emerala’s waist, drawing her closer to him. His gun remains trained upon the ravens that leer menacingly down from the rooftop.
“I’m not Samuel.”
The prisoner seems not to have heard. “You finally came for me, you old bastard. Took you long enough.” His laugh is loud. The sound catches in his throat and he wheezes.
“I’m not Samuel,” Alexander repeats. “That was my father.” He glances down at Emerala. “Melena is dead. We have to go.”
The prisoner takes a step forward, shaking his wild hair out of his eyes. The shadows dance upon the lines of his face. His eyes swim with moonlight. “You shouldn’t have brought her here, Sam. Not her. Not my girl. They’ll take her. You know that’s what they’ll do.”
Alexander’s eyes narrow as confusion flits across his features. He says nothing, only remains tight-lipped in the door, his grip on Emerala steady.
Emerala feels something twist within her.
My girl?
She frowns at the shaded man before them, wishing he would step into the light.
My girl.
“Wait,” she says. The screaming of ravens swallows her voice whole. The night sky is alive with the fluttering of wings. The air around them reeks of gunpowder. She can feel Alexander’s sense of urgency pressing against her through his fingertips.
“Rogue,” Alexander says. His voice is low. Urgent. “We have to go.”
“Just a minute,” she snaps, turning toward the debtor. “Who are you?”
“A dead man,” says the shadowed figure. The shrieking of birds grows louder. “A memory. You should run, little Emerala. Run now. Run fast.”
“What’s your name?” Emerala asks, but the man is turning away—returning to his hut.
“Domio is heading this way,” he says over his shoulder. “I can buy you some time, Sam, but only a little. Get her back to the ship. Take her home. She doesn’t belong here. Promise me, Sam, will you?”
“What’s your name?” Emerala repeats, shouting now to be heard over the shrieking birds. The man disappears through the doorway of his hut, fading back into shadow and dust. Alexander’s hand encloses about Emerala’s fingers, wrenching her several steps in the opposite direction. She rails against his grasp, trying and failing to pull away—to head back to the hut.
My girl, the debtor said.
My girl.
“Damn it, Rogue!” Alexander pulls her again, firing his pistol into the air as talons descend upon them. Emerala ducks as a curved beak comes inches away from her eye. Turning on her heels, she races after Alexander as he sprints out of the clearing and back into the crumbling stone of the labyrinth. She keeps easy pace with Alexander as she runs, her heart in her throat and her head burning with unasked questions. Beside her, Alexander runs with a considerable limp, his face contorted in pain. His skin, slick with sweat, has taken on a ghostly pallor.
“What happened to you?” Emerala pants as they round yet another corner. The pressing corridor is narrow and she rams hard into his shoulder. The motion nearly sends him toppling face first into the dirt. He groans, stumbling several steps before regaining his footing.
“Ask me that later.”
“You might be dead later,” Emerala points out.
He shoots her a murderous look across the darkness.
“What? I’d hate to miss out on a good story.”
He laughs, the smile cutting across his lips in a grimace. “You won’t get rid of me that easy, Rogue. Now keep quiet and run.”
Up ahead, Emerala can just make out the decaying entrance of the labyrinth. The moss that carpets the crumbling stone has been painted red with fast drying blood. Emerala tries not to look—tries not to search the undergrowth for the corpse of Melena, left out, she is sure, as carrion for her birds.
She and Alexander emerge into the dark jungle to silence. She slows to a stop, a cramp rooting in her side like a dagger. Gasping for breath, she places her hands upon her head and turns her face up toward the clear night sky. Overhead, the shivering starlight casts a silvery blanket of light over the leaves.
“Where is everyone?”
The voice that answers her belongs not to Alexander, but to the Hawk.
“They went back to the ship,” he says. His slender figure slips out of the shadows of the trees. Moonlight spills into his sharp golden eyes. “The Lethal can’t afford to stick around after taking Melena’s head clean off, can he?”
The image makes Emerala’s stomach churn. She swallows, her throat and lungs burning. Next to her, Alexander’s posture has grown tense as he glowers at the Hawk.
“You should be at the ship with them,” he snaps. “Those were your orders.”
“That was an order? I thought it was more of a suggestion.”
Another grimace passes across Alexander’s lips. “Don’t be glib.”
“I’m not. I’ve already saved your life once today. The way I see it, you should be grateful I’m here. That thing is still lurking in the jungle, and you’re not in any shape to fend it off.”
Alexander gives a derisive snort. “You’re insulting my intelligence, Hawk. Let’s not pretend it’s me you’re here for.”
Emerala blanches at the insinuation in his voice, suddenly unable to meet the pair of golden eyes that watch her from the trees.
“We should keep moving,” she suggests.
“I agree,” the Hawk says. He studies Alexander. “Can you run?”
“I’ll be fine,” Alexander snaps.
“Aye? You look like you’re about to keel over.”
Emerala glances up at Alexander at that. He is leaning against a nearby tree, his face glistening with beads of sweat beneath the moonlight. His chest rises and falls erratically. His sallow skin is caked with streaks of drying blood. His lips are tinged with blue. Looking down at his leg, she realizes that she can see torn bits of flesh through the gaping tears in his breeches.
“I’m fine,” he repeats. He moves to stand and stumbles, nearly collapsing into a heap. Emerala rushes to him, grabbing hold of his left arm and throwing it over her shoulder. He leans into her without protest, his skin aflame.
“I’m fine.”
“Hawk,” Emerala calls, glowering at the lanky pirate that hovers still in the trees, his gaze watchful. “Help him.”
“He says he’s fine.”
“Don’t be such a child,” Emerala snaps. When the Hawk continues to idle in the shadows, Emerala glowers at him, meeting his gaze head on for the first time in minutes.
“Evander,” she barks. “Help him.”
The muscles in his jaw work as he turns a scathing comeback over on his tongue. Finally, he emerges from the dark overhang of trees and moves beside the pair. Leaning down, he grabs Alexander’s free arm and thrusts it over his shoulder.
“Do you still have it?” Alexander asks him, his face pinched in pain.
“Aye, right here.” The Hawk pats a bulge in his jacket pocket and grins. He and Emerala pull Alexander slowly through the jungle, picking through tangled roots and thorned bramble.
“Is that it?” Emerala asks, eyeing the Hawk’s jacket. “Is that what we came here for?”
“Aye, it is.”
Alexander chews at his cheek, biting back a cry of pain as he limps between them. Glancing toward Emerala out of the corner of his eye, he catches her attention.
“Reach into the holster at my waist,” he says. “Take my pistol.”
“I—” Emerala begins, a protest already at her lips.
“Do it,” he orders. “Now.”
Emerala obeys, marveling at the cold weight of the gun in her hands.
“Listen to me,” Alexander barks, his voice laced with agony. “If you see anything c
oming towards us, I want you to shoot at it. It doesn’t matter who—or what—it is. Do you understand?”
She hesitates for a moment, dumbfounded. From somewhere beyond the greenery comes a low, guttural growl. She startles, nearly dropping the pistol. Alexander’s weight against her feels suddenly suffocating.
“What is that?” she asks. She struggles to keep up as the Hawk picks up the pace, nearly dragging Alexander across the jungle floor.
“Run now,” Alexander grunts. “Questions later.”
Another growl, closer this time. Emerala points the gun toward the shadows. The jungle breathes at her. A twig snaps and her heart flies to her throat. Somewhere far overhead, she can hear the distant shrieking of thousands of birds in flight. The oppressive evening heat clings to her body like a blanket, but she shivers all the same.
“Keep moving, Rogue,” barks the Hawk. “One false move, and none of us make it out of this jungle alive.”
Harvest Cycle 1511
There are drums in the dark.
Jameson is here. They have come for me.
But who hired Jameson? Who bought Argot?
By the time I know the answers to my questions, I fear it will be too late.
I am a dead man.
A memory.
This will be my last entry.
Eliot
CHAPTER 39
The Rebellion
Lachlan the Lethal is waiting for Evander the Hawk when he returns to his cot.
Evander draws to a stop before the sloping hammock, watching the old pirate evenly through his piercing golden eyes. The floor beneath him lurches uneasily as the ship is buffeted by a wave. Somewhere beyond the groaning belly of the sloop comes the menacing rumble of distant thunder.
“Didn’t think you lot’d make it back alive,” the murderer says. “That was quite a mess we left back there on Caira.”
“We’re a resilient crew.” Evander leans back against a splintering post, keeping the Lethal always within eyeshot. He crosses his arms protectively over his chest. “What do you want?”
The Lethal purses his lips, withdrawing Eliot Roberts’s weathered old journal from within his jacket pocket. He flips over the cover and stares at an entry. The white of his scar pinches as he begins to read in the thickening darkness. He licks his thumb, flipping forward several pages. Evander watches in silence as the murderer’s eyes flicker back and forth across the hastily scribed words.