The Forbidden City: Book Two of Rogue Elegance

by K A Dowling

  “What was the first lesson, lass?”

  Emerala fumes. “Don’t drop the sword.”

  A shadow drops down from the hatch overhead, landing on the ground at the Lethal’s back with a quiet thud and startling the birds into another frenzy.

  “Murderer,” screeches the bird from his perch in the rafters. “Copper! Copper eyes!”

  The blade falls away from Emerala’s throat as the Lethal is wrenched back into shadow. Emerala hears a grunt, the sound of a body colliding into the groaning wood. She peers into the shadow, her eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness. There, in the light that falls down into the hold in broken, dusky shafts of grey, stands Evander the Hawk. His cutlass is at the Lethal’s throat. The old murderer peers up at him through a crinkled smile, his blind eye shut.

  “What are you doing down here?” the Hawk snarls. His dark hair hangs down into his eyes, dripping rivulets of rainwater down his cheeks. The sinews of his arms are tense, his posture coiled like a snake ready to spring.

  “What is wrong with you?” Emerala snaps. “He’s been teaching me to fight.”

  The Hawk ignores her, pressing his cutlass harder against the Lethal’s skin. The murderer makes no attempt to fight back—no attempt to defend himself. His good eye creases in amusement.

  “I told you to stay away from her.”

  “Worried for her pretty little neck, are ye?”

  The Hawk scoffs. “Not as worried as you should be about yours. I know what your life is worth, murderer. I know the reward for spilling your blood.”

  “Strange to hear ye calling it a reward. Most men would think it a curse.”

  The Hawk sneers. “I’m not most men.”

  “Nay, most men are smarter than ye, boy. I told ye what would happen if ye tried to kill me. Are ye here to call my bluff?”

  The Hawk’s expression darkens. His shoulders fall and he pulls back from the old man, sheathing his sword. His golden eyes are riddled with contempt. “Not yet,” he mutters darkly. “But I want you to leave.”

  At the far side of the room, Emerala’s temper finally snaps.

  “Hawk,” she calls. He ignores her. “Are you mad? You have no right—”

  The Hawk cuts her off, his eyes still on the murderer before him. “Get out,” he snarls. “Now.” His fingers dance across the weapons holstered at his waist.

  “Gladly,” the Lethal says. “Before you do something you regret.”

  He slips out from between the wall and the Hawk, heading lithely towards the forgotten barrel of rum. He tips it over with ease, laughing to himself all the while. The liquid within sloshes against its wooden container as the cask falls back to the ground with a thud.

  Evander the Hawk stands like a statue in the dwindling light, staring at the shadows where the Lethal had stood. Wetting his lower lip, he begins to whistle. The sound rolls off of the curved walls of the musty hold, reverberating in the grey silence of the expanse. The tune is familiar, and Emerala struggles to place it. At the foot of the ladder, the Lethal pauses. His face is split between the light and the dark.

  “Think you’ve got me pegged, do ye?” he asks. The Hawk continues to whistle, angling his jaw upwards as he stares through the grates overhead. The failing light of day fills his eyes as he begins to sing.

  “His fate it was set, his rights they were read, and Lethal was hung by his neck ‘til dead.”

  The Lethal sucks in his cheeks, his good eye gaging the lanky pirate. For a moment, all of the air seems to leave the room.

  And then he smiles.

  “Your arrogance will ruin ye, boy.”

  He turns to go, heading with ease up the ladder. Emerala listens to the sound of the barrel rumbling across the deck overhead. The rain is quieter—the sounds of the rollicking waves have faded away to near silence.

  Emerala rounds upon the Hawk, her skin already burning beneath the lace of her blouse.

  “You—”

  “Saved your life,” the Hawk finishes for her.

  “My life wasn’t in any danger.”

  “No? Seems there was a sword at your throat when I arrived.”

  “I’ve already told you, he was teaching me to fight.”

  The Hawk’s lips twitch downward. “You have no idea what he was doing.”

  “No idea? I’m not entirely certain how dense you think I am, but—”

  “He was taunting me.” The words fly out of the Hawk’s lips like a reflex— unguarded, reactive. His golden eyes burn with an unfamiliar intensity.

  Emerala gapes at him, incredulous. “Taunting—” she starts and stops, not comprehending. “Saynti, not everything is about you, Evander.”

  She moves to storm away from him, unable to stand the sight of him for one moment longer. He grabs hold of her as she passes him by, drawing her within inches of him. They are eye to eye in the grey light of the hold, each brimming with ire. His chest rises and falls beneath the loose homespun of his undershirt. The sleeves, slick with rainwater, adhere to the curvature of his arms.

  “Go ahead, storm away. Hate me. But I’m keeping you safe.”

  “Is that what you call it?” She wrenches her wrist free of his grasp. “You’re protecting me? Who from? From where I stand, everyone you’ve warned me about has turned out to be a better man than you.”

  He drops his fist, his expression contorting into something unfathomable. His golden eyes remain trained on her as she turns away from him, bristling with annoyance. Overhead, the parrot lets out a bloodcurdling shriek, dropping down from the rafters and landing with surprising grace upon Emerala’s shoulder.

  “Murderer!” he screams, flapping his wings against his sides.

  Emerala leaves the Hawk alone in the dwindling grey of the ship’s belly, her thoughts turning instead to old things—ancient things. Overhead, the stinging wind howls as it sidles against the edge of sloop. She thinks of the Lethal’s story—of the four wind women of the sea. She thinks of the look upon his face at the memory of Nolane. Whether legend or otherwise, the Lethal’s love for the woman had been real.

  She thinks of Ha’Suri, with her hands like ice, and of Evander the Hawk, always watching, his golden eyes hovering constantly at the edge of her dreams.

  I do hate him, she thinks, her mood turning petulant as the anger saps away. I hate every piece of him.

  Somewhere within her, some soft, unspoken thing urges her to turn around. She squashes it down, bunching up her skirts within her fists and slamming her boots against the ladder with purpose as she stalks up onto the deck and into the rain.

  CHAPTER 41

  The Forbidden City

  “Walk with me. I have something I want to show you.”

  Nerani places her hand into Topan’s outstretched palm, slow apprehension building within her as she takes in the gleam of excitement in his eyes. Behind her, she can feel Orianna drawing back.

  “I’ll need to head to the infirmary,” she lies. “Mame Minera will start to wonder where I am if I’m away for too long.”

  Topan nods once, distracted. He scarcely seems to have heard Orianna at all. Nerani listens to the receding footfalls against the stone, wishing it were appropriate to call her friend back—to implore her to stay. She does not wish to be left alone with him, not now. Not when she knows the question that dances behind those pale blue eyes.

  She flinches, finding herself unable to look anywhere but back at the Cairan king. He, on the other hand, watches her with an intensity that unnerves her. The light from the torches flickers across his face, casting him in soft illumination.

  In spite of the damp chill of the subterranean cavern, Nerani finds herself burning. She is on fire, ablaze with questions that have no answers. The conversation she heard between Topan and Blaine replays on a loop in her mind. Her stomach is ill.

  Topan turns away from her as he leads her across the narrow receiving hall. His hand tightens around her fingers, enclosing her good hand firmly within his own. His hand is strong—his palm war
m. Her fingers tremble all the same.

  At the far side of the room sits a dark alcove. Topan heads in that direction, drawing a torch from its sconce upon the wall. The flames drip down around them like rainwater—soft nips of orange heat extinguishing against the cool stone underfoot. Topan ducks his head beneath the low hanging doorway, ascending silently down a steep set of manmade steps.

  “Watch your footing,” he says over his shoulder. “The stairs are quite slick.”

  She can hear the slow, staccato sound of water dripping onto stone. She listens to the steady cadence, pressing her feet firmly against the damp steps under her gown. The deep navy hem drags audibly beneath her feet and she is forced to remove her good hand from Topan’s grasp in order to pry the material off of the ground.

  The staircase is short, and it isn’t long before the pair emerges into a cavernous room. The air is colder, here. Tighter. The quivering echo of her breath slides down the clammy stone. She finds herself thinking of a tomb—cold and black—and shudders.

  There is a quiet whoosh of air as another torch catches ablaze. Topan stands a few feet away from her, lighting the sconces on the walls. As the fire spreads, the room around them begins to glow, the firelight bringing the contents of the space to life. Nerani lets out an involuntary gasp, sitting down hard on the bottom step.

  The stone walls, cramped with dripping rock formations, have been painted gold. The color catches in the flickering light, throwing gilded pools of brilliance upon the ground. Nerani sits, frozen amid the dazzling expanse, and blinks away the golden glare that blurs the edges of her vision. She cannot believe something so breathtaking could have been hidden away under the earth all this time.

  “Where are we?”

  Topan watches her from across the room, his silhouette cast in a dazzling gilded frame. He smiles at the sight of her bewilderment, following her gaze across the golden walls. The firelight quivers in the brass sconces. “This is the first room of the Forbidden City. It was erected during the reign of King Lionus.”

  Adorning the golden walls are the most masterfully woven tapestries Nerani has ever seen. Rising to her feet, she studies the intricate details of the artist’s handiwork. On the tapestry closest to her she can see the familiar outline of the island of Chancey. The city is pictured from a bird’s eye view. The buildings appear to glitter in the sunlight.

  The sheer amount of detail steals Nerani’s breath away. She moves closer to the tapestry, allowing her fingers to trace over the cresting waves upon the beach. The glossy green of the sun kissed water looks so realistic that she is surprised to feel the rough hew of woven fabric beneath her fingertips.

  “Who made these?” The question falls away from her in a reverent whisper. She has the lingering sense that she is in the presence of something immortal—not to be disturbed. When she receives no immediate response, she turns to find Topan. He stands behind her, his hands clasped in the small of his back. He does not marvel over the tapestries alongside her, but instead watches Nerani’s reaction. Her eyes meet his and he smiles, one cheek dimpling.

  “They were made by Queen Saynti,” he explains. “She wove these during her reign as queen.”

  “They’re marvelous. I never knew she had such a profound skill.”

  “She did. She was known for it, in fact.” He peers over her head at the woven representation of Chancey.

  They stand together in quiet contemplation, each studying the tapestries that hang upon the walls. Nerani is acutely aware of his proximity to her in the firelight. She stands frozen among the artifacts of royalty and tries not to think of James. Not here. Not now, in the presence of her ancestry. Beside her, Topan clears his throat. He extends his fingers, shaking out his palms. A nervous tic, Nerani knows—she has seen him do it many a time when he thinks no one is watching.

  “The tapestries are beautiful, yes,” he says, a nervous edge creeping into his voice. “But I brought you down here for a reason.”

  She glances up at him and is at once unnerved by the intensity of his gaze.

  “You and Orianna were eavesdropping, weren’t you?”

  Heat flushes her cheeks. “We were. I’m s—”

  He cuts her off, his nerves making him jumpy. “You must have questions after what you heard.”

  “I do,” she admits. “Although I don’t think I have any right to ask them. It was wrong of me to listen in on your conversation.”

  “No,” he disagrees. “I’ve keep you in the dark long enough. I’ve kept all of you in the dark.” He pauses, scanning the tapestries that line the walls. “This room is where you’ll find the answers you seek.”

  Nerani follows his gaze, her mind turning over what she had heard, idling in the darkened corridor outside Topan’s quarters.

  “You told Blaine you swore to protect my family,” she says and pauses. She remembers the naked anger that had twisted Blaine’s words. Nerani the Elegant was personal. “You swore to protect Rob and Emerala.”

  “I did.” Topan’s voice is tight. He gestures for her to follow him, heading off into the shadows of the room without a word. He pauses to lift a small, brass candelabrum from a rickety table at the center of the expanse. Holding it to a flaming sconce, he allows each candle to catch fire in turn. Firelight catches in the hollows of his cheeks, casting his features into shadow.

  Holding the candelabrum before him, he heads wordlessly across the room. Nerani follows. As they reach the furthest corner of the expanse Nerani can just make out the shaded corners of another tapestry resting in the darkness. Hanging from ceiling to floor, the weaving is by far the largest of them all. As they draw nearer, their movements stir the corners of the great weaving. A musty stench—the stink of age, the reek of decay—tickles Nerani’s nose.

  Topan draws to a stop directly before the darkened rug, placing the candelabrum upon the ground. The tapestry is cast, suddenly, in flickering gold. The weaving that stands before Nerani is devoid of the same intricate images that made up the others. And yet, in its simplicity, it seems all the more stunning.

  The colors, gold and black, are richer than any weaving she has ever seen. She stands staring at it for a long time, her gaze locked upon the rimmed yellow eyes that stare back at her without blinking. There is something noble about the stillness of the great, black face before her. Her hair rises upon her arms as she peers at the width of the jaw and the curve of the yellowed fangs.

  “What is it?” Her words are whispered into the dark, as though any sort of noise might disturb the creature before her.

  “That is a panther,” Topan replies. His voice feels too loud in the reverent silence of the dimly lit space.

  A panther. When Nerani was a child, she had heard Mame Noveli regaling the Chancians with countless stories of wildebeests that stalked the wild jungles of faraway lands. There are no panthers on the island of Chancey. The only truly wild animal she has ever seen is the occasional hunched, red fox that creeps past the city walls at dusk. Even the wild boars of the tangled forest stick to the shadows, ever eluding the sharp edge of a hunter’s knife. All her life she has only ever been able to imagine what a jungle cat from Mame Noveli’s stories would look like. Staring into the tapestry, she realizes that her imagination has not done the animal justice. The majestic creature woven into the tapestry before her is regal beyond words.

  “He’s beautiful,” she whispers, running a finger down the bridge of his nose.

  “He is,” Topan agrees. “Wild cats are abundant upon the island of Caira. No doubt Queen Saynti would have missed the sight of them during her life in Chancey.”

  Nerani feels a sudden, unwanted pang in the middle of her chest. She thinks of Emerala, and how excited her cousin would have been to stumble upon this room of woven art. Her eyes flutter closed and she imagines the way Emerala’s face would spill over with wonder at the sight of the panther, as black and as formidable as deepest night.

  She opens her eyes, aware of the tears prickling at her lower lids. She
can feel Topan’s attention upon her as he studies her closely across the light of the candelabrum.

  “Why are you crying?” he asks, drawing closer to her in the quiet. His hand sweeps tentatively across her face, catching a tear like dew upon his finger.

  “I was thinking of Emerala,” she admits. “She would have loved this room.”

  “Ah.” Topan sighs, his gaze falling. “You asked me what I meant when I told Blaine I was sworn to protect your family.”

  “Yes.”

  He draws his hand away from her face, staring at the shivering bead of moisture that lingers upon the tip of his finger. “You are familiar, I assume, with the legend of Saynti’s treasure.”

  “Of course. The gypsy fortune—everyone has heard the stories.”

  “A refresher, then,” Topan says. “When King Lionus Wolham discovered the malcontent brewing among the lords at the sight of a Cairan queen upon the throne, he ordered this city built. It was to be used as a safe haven in case the tides turned against the Cairans and they were cast out from Chancey.”

  Nerani glances upward at the dripping ceiling of stone overhead. Somewhere in the darkness, she can hear the soft plunk of droplets hitting a surface of water. “And here we are,” she whispers. “He wasn’t wrong.”

  “No he was not,” Topan assents, following her gaze. “When he built the city, he ordered a secret room built within the royal chambers—Saynti’s chambers. In it he buried away the immeasurable treasure brought overseas by the Cairans when they first arrived to the Chancian shores.”

  Nerani nods—she knows the story. “There was a prophecy, wasn’t there? A seer told King Lionus that a usurper would come along and take the throne from his lineage.”