by K A Dowling
“It’s not them,” Derek says.
“Sorry?”
“This has nothing to do with your crew. You know as well as I that the answer lies in Chancey—it would take a fool to think otherwise. It’s her. You don’t want to take Emerala the Rogue back to Rowland Stoward.”
Alexander bristles slightly, wincing at the pain in his leg. “This has nothing to do with the Rogue.”
“On the contrary, friend,” Derek disagrees. “It has everything to do with her. You may be tried and hung as a pirate, but the girl has a far worse fate in store for evading the clutches of the king, does she not?”
Alexander is silent. At the far side of the room, the door to the quarters swings open with a groan. The sound of the rain increases to a thundering volume as the figure in the doorway steps inside. The heady scent of rainwater tickles his nose. The air that wafts in through the opening quivers with electricity.
At the sight of the visitor, Alexander jumps to his feet. His leg immediately gives an angry throb in retaliation. He favors the injured limb, leaning instead upon his good leg as he flashes a smile at Emerala the Rogue. She stands framed in the door, her gown mottled with rainwater. Her dripping curls cling to her face. She pushes them away absently as she sashays further into the room. The door sweeps shut behind her with another low groan. Upon her shoulder perches a silver parrot.
“Cold,” he squawks in irritation. “Wet.”
“No one forced you to come,” Emerala grumbles angrily at the bird.
Amusement floods Alexander at the sight of the creature clinging to the saturated fabric of her gown. “What are you doing with my parrot?”
“I can’t get rid of him,” Emerala snaps.
“Emerala the Rogue,” sings the parrot. “Pretty, pretty girl.”
“Rogue,” Derek says politely, inclining his head in Emerala’s direction. She blinks at him through owl eyes, but otherwise remains silent. “I’m afraid that Captain Mathew and I were in the middle of a conversation when you walked in.”
Emerala gives a light shrug. The parrot shakes his feathers, his beak clattering audibly. “You can continue,” she says, drawing closer and dropping carelessly onto the edge of Alexander’s desk. He can smell the sharp sting of salt on her skin from this proximity and he studies the profile of her pointed face as her eyes fall upon the dark box on his desk. Her fingers tense visibly, her nails rustling one corner of the map.
Derek sniffs, visibly perturbed by the gypsy’s appearance. “You’ll understand, of course, that we were discussing matters that don’t concern you.”
At Derek’s words, Emerala meets his gaze head on, staring at him from the top of her upturned nose. “I think they do, actually. I heard my name mentioned more than once before I came through the door.”
Derek’s smile curdles slightly. “Eavesdropping, were we?”
Alexander cuts into the conversation before Emerala can speak again, knowing that her sharp tongue will only further incite the temper that broils beneath the gentleman’s collar.
“She’s welcome to stay, Derek. I sent for her, earlier.”
He cringes inwardly at the look of impertinence that Emerala flashes in Derek’s direction.
“Old bones, new bones, no bones,” the parrot sings. He watches Derek sideways through watery black eyes. Derek ignores the bird, running his long fingers through his golden hair. The skin of his nose, normally fair, has grown red and peeled from exposure to the sun.
“I’ll take my leave of you, then,” Derek relents at last, eyeing Alexander over the top of Emerala’s head. “I would prefer to continue our conversation at another time. Emerala.” He inclines his head in her direction by way of farewell. She watches him through eyes like jewels and says nothing.
“Alex.” He nods to Alexander, his gaze thick with implication. He turns to go, pulling open the groaning door and allowing the silver rain momentary reprieve from its thundering upon the wood. He pauses before exiting, turning back to face them. His grey coat is already stippled with rainwater.
“This storm will blow over, friend. When the sails are hoisted once again, you’ll need to choose a direction. I trust you will make the right decision when the time comes. It would be foolish to come this far only to allow emotion to cloud your judgment at the close.”
“Thank you, Derek,” Alexander says, punctuating his words with a tone of finality. Derek smiles at that, shooting a wink over his shoulder at Emerala. And then he is gone, the door groaning shut behind him as thunder tumbles across the sky.
“I’ve chanced my mind,” Emerala says when he is gone. “I don’t think I like him.”
Alexander lowers himself back into his chair with a muffled grunt. “He’s a good friend, Emerala.” Leaning down, he massages his leg. He is aware of Emerala’s eyes upon him, but she makes no comment.
“Well, he doesn’t like me.”
“He just doesn’t know what to make of you,” Alexander says, and immediately wishes he had not. The look Emerala shoots him is chilling.
“What does that mean?”
Alexander chews his lip, choosing his next words carefully. “You’re not like many of the women a man of Derek’s stature has come to know in his lifetime.”
“You mean I’m not Katherine Montclay?” she asks wryly. On her shoulder, the parrot tugs at a dripping ringlet of hair. She does her best to ignore him.
Alexander laughs. “You most certainly are not. Although if you were, I’m certain you’d be a good deal more pleasurable to be around, and not as much work for me. I’ve had to save you from the clutches of death three times now.”
Emerala glares at him, but there is the hint of a smile in her emerald eyes. “Have you?” She leans forward over his desk and he is suddenly granted an alarming view of the slope of her bosoms peeking out from her laced corset. He clears his throat, averting his eyes. “I believe two of those times I was only put in such dangerous situations because you and the Hawk were playing roulette with my life. Anyway, you’ve needed me more than once. So, really, I’m an invaluable asset.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.” She grins wickedly, her eyes glittering. “I’d like to see Katherine Montclay outrun those thugs at the Frost Forts.”
“Old bones, new bones, no bones,” the parrot screams into her ear. Alexander stifles a laugh as she winces, swatting at the bird with both hands.
“Go away for a moment,” she snaps, looking surprised when the bird obeys. The silver parrot flaps across the room, setting the papers on Alexander’s desk to fluttering in his wake. He settles awkwardly on the brass knob atop a dusty, old globe in the corner.
“He’s taken a liking to you, I see.”
“Unfortunately,” Emerala huffs, staring darkly at the silver parrot.
“Avast, Salty!” The parrot’s scream is piercing. He flaps his wings, watching them with alarming intensity.
“It’s strange,” Alexander says, considering. “We all thought he would die after my father passed on. The damned bird used to follow my father everywhere he went. When the old man died, the parrot lay still for days at the bottom of the cage. He refused to eat. He never warmed up to me, like he was meant to. He’s supposed to be a familiar of some sort, I’ve been told.”
Emerala’s face screws into confusion. “A familiar?”
He nods. “In the old magics, those who possessed abilities were also often gifted a spirited animal of some sort to attend to them. You saw a familiar on Caira, in fact.”
Emerala’s eyes brighten in realization. “Marvala, the raven,” she says, and frowns. Her brows draw together in recollection. “It attacked me in the maze.”
“At Melena’s orders, no doubt.”
Doubt crosses Emerala’s face. “I never took you for the kind of man to believe in the old magics.”
Alexander shrugs. “When you’ve been at sea as long as I have, it becomes impossible not to accept that there are things in this world we will never fully understand. There ar
e darker powers at work than you and I can possibly comprehend.”
Emerala shoots a dubious look at the silver parrot. “And that thing is part of those darker, ancient powers?”
“So I’ve been told,” Alexander muses, following her gaze. “Although it was me he was meant to form a connection with, not you. The largest of the flock on each ship is supposed to bond with each new captain.”
“But he doesn’t like you,” Emerala notes, watching as the parrot glares at Alexander from his perch.
“He most certainly does not. He’s done quite a bit of damage with that beak. I gave up trying to make friends with him a long time ago.”
“Avast, Salty!” the bird screams again, puffing out his chest.
“He keeps repeating that,” Emerala says, disgusted. Alexander is surprised by the sudden, sharp memory of his father that comes swarming to the forefront of his mind. He inhales deeply, pushing his chair back from the desk. The wooden legs scrape against the ground.
“That would be my father’s doing,” he explains. “My father used to call him Old Salt. Salty—to be exact. So he has a name, if you were wondering.”
“Captain Salty,” shouts the bird, shooting an admonishing gaze in their direction.
Alexander smirks at the animal and raises a finger to the brim of his cap. “Apologies.”
“Old bones, new bones, no bones,” sings the parrot again.
Alexander frowns. The words evoke a strange sense of worry within his gut. He thinks of the bones of Captain Jameson rotting in the gibbet back on the island of Caira and gives an involuntary shudder.
Before him, Emerala is openly ogling the box upon his desk. He can see the intensity of the unasked questions that lie just behind her eyes. Her hair is drying quickly in the sticking heat of his quarters. Moisture rises in visible tendrils of grey from her glistening shoulders as her black curls bounce back to their usual weightless ringlets. Outside, the rain still patters tirelessly against the deck but the thunder has grown distant. It is nothing but a rumbling whisper, now—the silvery flashes of lightening only a dull speck of white upon the grey horizon.
“You’re wondering what’s inside the box,” he says, studying the slope of her pointed nose.
“Yes,” she admits. She does not look at him. The index finger of her right hand gives an instinctive twitch.
“Open it.”
Her gaze flickers towards him at that, her green eyes wide. “Are you sure?”
He flashes her a smile, thinking of Derek. We must set sail to Chancey, Alexander. There are no other options. Surely, you can see that.
“Of course,” he says. “I need your help. There’s a riddle inside, it seems. I’m not enough of a historian to be certain of its meaning.”
Her lips twist with doubt at that, her brows drawing together as she studies him closely. “If you don’t know what it means, then I don’t know how you expect me to know. You might not be a historian, but you’re far more well-traveled than I.”
“Maybe so.” He twists his fingers together in his lap, ignoring the nagging ache of his leg. “Open it and see.”
She does so, removing the heavy lid of the box with careful fingers. The musty smell of damp velvet spills out across the desk. She moves cautiously, reaching inside and pulling out the small, rolled bit of parchment that rests near the top of the container. Fingering it within her hands, she looks at him quizzically.
“Go ahead,” he prompts her, his nerves buzzing with anticipation. He is no historian—that much is true. Neither is Derek. But Emerala—if Chancey is the answer to the riddle, she will certainly know.
When the sails are hoisted once again, you will need to choose a direction, that’s what Derek told him. His companion is certain the direction is east—certain that they must return to Chancey. If he is correct, the welcome that will await the Rebellion upon the Chancian shores will certainly be fatal. The Hawk left several elite officers of the Golden Guard dead following the ambush—General Byron and his soldiers will not have forgotten.
Emerala unrolls the parchment gingerly and grasps the crumbling edges between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. He watches as her eyes slide back and forth across the neat, curling words upon the page. Her breathing fades into silence. Her bosoms cease to rise and fall beneath her bodice.
“Read it aloud,” he instructs, watching her.
She does so, the words like molasses at her lips. “The footsteps of the ancients lead to find the blood wealth of the blessed Saynti’s kind. Yet if ye seek what lies beyond the blood red stone, a treasure beyond measure that is not your own you’ll find those ancient footsteps are erased,” she pauses, glancing up from the page. Her face has drained of color. Her eyes find his across the desk and she holds his gaze. “…for dead men’s footsteps in the sand cannot be traced.”
He allows the silence to settle between them as Emerala returns to staring at the parchment. Her lips move silently as she rereads the carefully inscribed words upon the page.
“Is that it?” she asks at last, the volume of her voice startling him slightly. Salty flutters his wings in agitation.
“No bones on a dead man,” he screams.
Emerala ignores the bird and jabs a finger at the parchment. “What is this?” she asks hotly. “What does it mean?” Her green eyes blaze in his direction.
“I was hoping you could tell me that,” Alexander says.
“I’ve never seen it before, obviously.”
“Is it Chancian?” he asks her, leaning forward and bringing his elbows to rest upon the desk. His leg groans in time with the creaking chair beneath him. “Derek mentioned that the name Saynti is Chancian.”
“The name Saynti is Cairan,” Emerala snaps. She rolls the parchment quickly and thrusts it in Alexander’s direction. “She was the only Cairan to ever sit on the Chancian throne. That was nearly a hundred years ago.”
“I’ve never heard of her,” Alexander says honestly, taking the parchment and laying it aside. “At least, not until I opened this box.”
Emerala shrugs, her gaze dark. “I’m not surprised. Her existence was kept quiet by the false king that took her throne. The usurper thought it an embarrassment that tainted blood had been in the palace.”
She spits out the last sentence like poison, clearly offended.
After a moment, she continues. “Is that all that’s in the box? Another riddle?” She folds her arms across her chest, disappointment blazing across her features.
“No, it’s not,” Alexander says, leaning still forward to peer into the box. “Lift up the velvet flap and see for yourself.”
She does so, moving with alacrity. Her fingers are hungry for answers. She pries open the black velvet interior and gasps. Nestled into the rich fabric is a golden key. The bow of the key, intricately woven with thin webs of gold, is adorned with tiny, glittering emeralds.
As green as Emerala’s eyes, Alexander thinks, just as he had the first time he opened the box. Emerala stares at the key in silence, her fingers gripping tightly at the wooden edge. He reaches within and removes the key from its position, careful not to drop it. The cool gold is heavy within the palm of his hand, the shank smooth against his fingers. Emerala follows the glittering emeralds as they move closer to his chest. She leans forward, almost instinctively, her drying curls tickling his cheek as she attempts to get a closer look.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathes. He can feel her breath against his nose.
“It is,” he agrees.
“What does it open?”
He sighs. “Therein lies the next riddle, doesn’t it?” he asks, not expecting her to give an answer. She does anyway, her gaze meeting his.
“You want to go to Chancey to find out.”
He shakes his head, aware of how close her face is to his. The tip of her nose brushes against his as she sits back upon the desk. He glances quickly back at the key, his pulse quickening. He can feel her frowning down upon him. His gut aches unexpectedly.
&n
bsp; “I don’t want to take you back there,” he says. “It’s not safe.”
“Since when do you care for my safety?” she asks, her voice flippant. “You’ve nearly let me die loads of times.”
“I care,” Alexander counters. The response is clumsy, ineloquent.
Emerala purses her lips, studying the key in Alexander’s hand. “Derek thinks we should go,” she points out. “Doesn’t he?”
He looks at her sharply at that. “Derek has his agenda. I have mine. You’re one of us now, and we take care of our own. I’m not about to deliver you into the clutches of the Golden Guard.”
And neither is the Hawk, he thinks, feeling something sharp and bitter flare up within him at the quiet realization. Evander the Hawk would put the ship at the bottom of the sea before he let Emerala go, Alexander is certain of it. The thought doesn’t bring him comfort.
Emerala eyes the parchment, two of her fingers dancing over the surface of the unfurled map. “Why did you have me read that, if you don’t plan to sail to Chancey? It’s clear that’s what it means.”
Alexander shrugs, feeling as though he is being pulled in several different directions. He considers his crew, hungry and tired and waiting for their next payday. He thinks of his mother, surrounded by strangers in a world of oblivious finery and perpetual solitude.
He thinks of Emerala. Their eyes lock across the desk and he recalls the day he met her in the square—recalls the way the sun had filled her eyes, how it made him think of the sea before a storm.
“I suppose I just wanted to be certain that we were headed in the right direction.”
“Did I convince you?” she asks.
Alexander grimaces. “If Saynti was queen upon the island of Chancey, there can be no other choice. The sails must be hoisted one way or another. I’ll tell the crew we sail eastward in the morning. If there are more answers to these endless riddles, I expect we will find them in your homeland.”
A visible shiver of excitement runs through Emerala and she smiles a feral, catlike grin.
“That doesn’t frighten you?” he asks. “Returning home?”
“A pirate isn’t afraid of a little danger, Alexander,” she sings, her eyes twinkling.