by K A Dowling
“Old bones, new bones, no bones,” Salty screams.
Alexander swallows the instincts that churn within him, batting away the misgiving in his gut. They’ll sail back east, gallows be damned. Alexander has slipped the noose before. He can do it again. His eyes meet Emerala’s storming gaze and he winks.
“To Chancey, then, Emerala the Rogue?”
Emerala laughs gaily, her face crinkling in delight. “Tell your crew to hoist the colors. We sail east when the storm breaks.”
CHAPTER 44
The Rebellion
The onslaught of rain has stopped. Only a faint spattering of silver trickles down from the sky. Evander the Hawk leans back in the fighting top of the foremast, letting his spine unfold against the rounded cabin. The roll of the waves below is much more pronounced at this height and he steadies himself as he feels the ship rise and fall upon the swell of the sea. He tilts his face up towards the sky, shutting his eyes and allowing rivulets of rainwater to roll across his cheeks. The stinging salt air is cool and refreshing after the blistering heat of Caira.
He pictures the black box in Captain Mathew’s possession and a small smile tugs at his lips. The sight of the box, after so many years, had been like discovering an old friend. It was a relief, a loosening of the constant pressure upon his shoulders. The weight he bore for years had grown heavy, and finding the key was, at last, a step in the right direction.
I’ve come so far, he thinks. And righted so many wrongs.
He must play his cards carefully, now, this close to the end of the game. All of his wagers are on the table. One wrong hand, and he could lose everything.
There is a shout from below, the sound snatched away by the buffeting wind. The temperature has dropped considerably since the storm’s end. He shifts his weight upon the floor and crosses his arms against the sudden chill. His chest glistens with rain in the naked light of the silver moon that peeks out from behind the dissipating storm clouds. He thinks, suddenly, of the stripped, white bones of Captain Jameson rotting in the gibbet upon Caira, and his smile widens.
I got you, you old bastard, he thinks. I finally got you.
His last conversation with the old drunkard had taken place on Chancey, just after the mercenary was arrested following his altercation with Captain Mathew. Evander had not seen the sailor in years—not since the disappearance of Eliot Roberts—and even then, justice was as sweet and as ripe as an apricot.
Evander came upon Jameson at dusk as he stood, nearly asleep, in the marketplace pillory.
Wake up, you old fool, Evander barked, snapping his fingers together in the old man’s ear. With a hiccough and a snort, Captain Jameson opened one swollen eye. The rotting innards of a tomato had dried to the side of his cheek. Clumps of seeds clung to his hair. Evander sniffed in disgust, garnering a faint whiff of excrement somewhere on his person. Captain Jameson hiccoughed again, a scowl of recognition passing across his features.
Hawk, he growled. I en’t seen you since you were a snot-nosed little brat, parading around at Sam’s heels.
Evander smiled at that. I’ve grown up a bit since then.
Aye, I should have known you were behind this. You wanted that map more than anyone I knew, you did.
Evander chewed at a hangnail as he studied the mercenary. Must be uncomfortable in those stocks—a man of your age, and all.
Jameson gave a hoarse laugh. Uncomfortable, aye, but just for a day or two. They don’t keep you long for the ale. Just long enough to take the piss out of you. As soon as I’m out, I’ll get that map back, boy. Mark my words.
I don’t think you will. It’s mine now.
The tone of Evander’s voice caused both of Jameson’s eyes to pop open. The lids were purpled and swollen, the whites of his eyes tangled with thick red veins. He had clearly taken quite a few hits before being left in the pillory. No surprise there—the Guardians were hardly likely to show favor to a drunkard.
That map’s worthless to you, boy, and you know it, Jameson hissed. Not a damn fool on this side of the ocean can make sense of the dead speech Argot coded on that parchment.
Evander scoffed. I take it from your tone that you’ve tried. You can always trust a mercenary to be only as loyal as his payout. Does your employer know you’re hoping to get the key for yourself? After all he paid you to bring it to him?
I didn’t know what it was, then, Jameson spat. I didn’t know how valuable it was.
I’m sure if you’d known, you would have asked for a larger sum, aye?
Jameson ignored him. He twisted his fists within the circular wooden openings. Even in the settling darkness, Evander could see that his wrists were raw and bloody from hours of rubbing against the splintering grain.
You’ll never decipher the damn thing, boy, it’s impossible. The men that bound it are gone, all of them. Dead, or scattered to the winds. Argot is halfway on the other side of the world by now.
Ah, Evander breathed, patting Jameson upon the head. He drew his palm away quickly, wiping the sticking remnants of rotting vegetables upon his trousers. That’s where you’re wrong, old friend. Argot is exactly where I left him. I’ll collect him when I’m ready.
And Captain Samuel Mathew? I heard tell the man is feeding the fish at the bottom of the sea. En’t much use to you dead.
Evander chuckled. I’ve got better than the old fool. I’ve got his son. The pirate that stole the map from you this morning? That was Alexander Mathew, newest captain of the Rebellion. His blood is bound to be the same as his father’s, I’d reckon.
For the first time, Evander saw a flicker of fear pass through Jameson’s bloodshot eyes. Evander straightened, arching his back and stretching his arms wide as though waking from a deep slumber. He gave a deep sigh and smiled, holding the mercenary in his piercing golden gaze.
Looks uncomfortable in there, mate, Evander said again. Wish I could help, but I’ve got work to do. You understand.
He turned his back to the old mercenary, relishing in the total darkness left behind by the extinguished sun. The night was cool and deep. Silver pinpricks danced in the sky above his head.
Wait, Jameson called. Evander hesitated upon the cobblestone, smiling.
What about Eliot Roberts? Panic was beginning to bubble beneath Jameson’s words. What about him? En’t a chance in the Dark Below you’d ever get within a mile of the man. Not where my employer’s got him.
Evander turned slightly, letting the starlight encapsulate his features in the dark. He could just see the outline of the old man hunched in the wooden stocks, breathless, waiting.
I’m glad you asked, Evander said. Your little trip to Chancey led us right to Eliot Robert’s birthplace. He’s got a daughter on the island. Lovely girl. Beautiful, really. She’s got eyes just like her father’s. I’m thinking about taking her with me when I go.
Evander was met with silence. The rusted locks of the pillory rattled as the old mercenary began to shake.
Give up, Jameson, Evander sneered. You’ve failed.
Evander is snapped out of his reverie by the sound of Emerala’s laugh. It rings out across the night like a bell, the echo of it subduing the whispering waves below. He shifts his weight, drawing up to his knees to peer over the side of the fighting top. The night is late, and the deck below is void of any crew members.
He finds Emerala quickly enough. The light of the moon spills across the deck like water, bathing the ship in muted grey light. She hovers in the doorway of the captain’s quarters; peering up into Captain Mathew’s face. He leans into her, his lips grazing her ear as he speaks. She laughs again, quieter this time, and presses her curls back from her face with her fingers.
Something within Evander jolts at the sight, and he frowns down upon the figures. His fingers tighten against the wooden edge of the lookout. There is the jarring screech of a bird and he sees Emerala and the captain break apart as the insufferable silver parrot comes into view. The parrot lands with a triumphant harrumph on Emerala’s shoulder,
his black talons curling into her skin. Evander feels a small flicker of satisfaction in his gut at the bird’s untimely interruption. Below, Emerala makes a quiet comment, proffering a small shrug as her words are carried off by the wind.
“No matter,” Evander hears Captain Mathew say. He hesitates for a fraction of a second before leaning down and kissing her lightly upon the cheek. Even from his seat high above the deck, Evander can see the deep crimson hue of Emerala’s cheeks. Captain Mathew absconds from sight, disappearing back into his quarters. For a moment, Emerala lingers before the closed door, one hand pressed against her cheek.
“Emerala the Rogue,” calls the parrot’s voice. “Pretty, pretty girl.”
Emerala jumps, turning redder still at the parrot’s screams. She rushes away from the door, prying up her gown in her fists. The deep violet fabric billows out behind her, caught upon the wind that rushes across the deck.
Now, a voice within Evander snaps. Do it now.
He kicks into motion, swinging his legs over the side of the lookout and grabbing hold of the shrouds. He climbs down nimbly; his hands moving one over the other as he sidles down the net of knotted rope. Emerala is just below him when he at last allows himself to plunge silently from the cords.
She gasps as he drops to the deck before her, startled at the sudden appearance of a shadow in the darkness. With an agitated squawk, the parrot takes off from her shoulder. He alights upon a barrel a few feet away, glaring in annoyance at Evander.
“Hello,” Evander says, grinning.
“You scared me half to death,” Emerala snaps, pushing her wild, black curls from her eyes.
“Sorry.” He is starkly aware of Emerala’s gaze lingering on the moonlit gleam of his chest, and his lips split into a bawdy grin. His eyes catch hers and and her scowl deepens. Gathering her gown once more within her fists, she pushes past him.
“Where are you going?” he asks, following her.
“Into the hold.” Her voice trails behind her as she walks. She whistles and the parrot glides over toward her, alighting once more upon her shoulder. “I want to put this bird back where it belongs.”
The parrot tugs at a lock of her hair, grumbling a wordless protest. Ignoring him, Emerala pries open the grated door of the hold, grunting with the weight of it.
“Here, let me,” Evander says, leaning over her and taking the hatch from her grasp. He lifts it with ease, gesturing for her to climb down the ladder. The look she gives him over her shoulder is scathing, but she obliges, dropping down into the shadowed opening. Evander follows her, repressing a smile.
The hold is encapsulated in darkness. The only light that cuts through the shadows falls through the slits of the hatch overhead. Evander idles on the ladder, watching Emerala as she coaxes the parrot back into the cage with quiet, soothing murmurs.
“Pretty, pretty girl,” the parrot says sadly, nuzzling her chin.
“I’ll take you out tomorrow,” Emerala promises, placing him back upon his roost. She locks the door gingerly, careful not to rouse any of the six other parrots that doze within. When she is done, she turns to face Evander. She is silent in the darkness, breathing deeply in the narrow moonlight that falls in slats of silver across her figure.
“If you have something to say to me, say it,” she says at last.
Evander frowns. “Are you still sore at me?”
“Do you really have to ask?” She makes to move past him but he stops her, thrusting his palm hard against the wall beside her face. She pulls back from his outstretched arm, huffing loudly, her arms crossing over her chest.
“Why him?” he asks.
One eyebrow arches upward upon her forehead. “Who?”
“Why Alexander?”
Emerala sniffs. “I’m certain that I don’t know what you mean.”
“Aye, you do,” Evander contests. “How can it be him? All he’s done is tell you lie after lie. All I’ve done is protect you.”
Emerala’s eyes narrow dangerously. Even so, he does not miss the flicker of confusion that passes across her features like a whisper.
“Ever since the day I met you in the marketplace, I’ve done nothing but keep you safe,” Evander continues. “Alex has used you again and again for his own purposes, and you can’t see it. You’re blinded by his affections.”
“His affections?” Emerala repeats, her face crinkling in the gloom. Her loveliness is not lost upon him. It never has been—not since the beginning. Beneath the moonlight, she looks almost ethereal.
He chides himself internally, feeling annoyance bristling under his skin.
Stick to the plan, the voice within him says. Don’t be weak.
“Evander,” Emerala says, and, as always, he feels something unwanted move within him at the sound of his given name upon her tongue. Fourteen harvests at sea, and he still cannot shake the intimacy of his culture’s tradition. Before him, Emerala is scowling as she takes another step back from him in the dark. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You must,” he implores, willing his features to twist into something resembling frustration. He closes the space between them, matching her step for step.
“I don’t.” She stops, inhaling too sharply as her back collides against the wall. Her wild curls press into the musty wood of the curved hull.
“How?” he asks, his voice growing gruff. “How can you not see him for what he is?”
He is so close to her that he can taste her breath upon his tongue. The lace of her bodice rests against his chest, and he feels the steady rise and fall of her breathing. His own breath hitches in his throat. He’d be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t thought of this moment a thousand times before—lying if he hadn’t lain awake at night with her name swimming on his tongue, the thought of her taunting him into remaining awake.
But this is bigger than Emerala the Rogue.
This—this is the endgame.
This is his bid for the Chancian throne.
That’s been the goal all along. With the Cairan fortune—with Emerala the Rogue—he could have it all. He could take what always should have been his, from the very beginning.
Play your hand, fool, he tells himself. Keep your head in the game.
“He’s lied to you, Rogue,” he says. “From the start, Alexander has done nothing but lie. He came to Chancey to find you. You didn’t meet him by accident.”
Emerala draws away from him to get a better look at his face, her green eyes wild in the pressing dark.
“How would you know that?” she asks, her voice hoarse.
“Because I found you at the marketplace at his orders.” He looks down at his boots, hoping he looks properly ashamed. “I didn’t know what I was doing,” he lies. “I had no idea why he needed you.”
When he looks up, Emerala is studying the white flesh of the scar upon her palm. She balls her hand once more into a fist when she notices him staring. Tears gather in her eyes, collecting in her lower lids like jewels.
“Why did he need me?” she whispers. “Do you know now?”
“He needed your blood.” At the look of bewilderment that blossoms across her face, he adds, “He needed to spill your blood to interpret his map.”
Emerala laughs. The sound is dry and humorless. “Do you hear yourself? You sound like a madman.”
“Maybe I do,” Evander says. “But it’s the truth.”
Emerala shakes her head, turning her back to him. Her silhouette disappears and reappears within the strips of pale moonlight as she crosses the hold. Drawing to a standstill at the bottom rung of the ladder, she turns back toward him. The light of the moon swathes her figure in a silver aura. Her black ringlets spill over her shoulders like ink.
“It makes no sense.”
“Which part?” Evander asks.
“All of it.”
“Rogue—” he starts and stops, taking note of the fury that simmers beneath her gaze. Sighing, he says, “The map was spelled with your blood, and it can only b
e undone by your blood. Alexander needed you in order to unlock the location of that key. Think about it—why else would he have agreed to waste his time and his resources rescuing you from the Guardians?”
Emerala considers this, fidgeting beneath the moonlight. Defiance etches itself upon her face. “My blood was never used to spell a map,” she insists. “I think I’d know.”
In the cage, the parrot is awake.
“Blood red ice for emeralds!” he screams.
Evander closes the space between them, drawing tentatively nearer to her in the gloom. “Aye,” he says softly. “It was bound by your family’s blood. The blood of Eliot Roberts, to be exact.”
He is silent as he allows that to sink in. He studies the lines of her, waiting—watching as cold realization creeps into her face like the first frost of winter, hardening her features and turning her eyes to ice.
“Rogue,” he begins, reaching for her. She cuts him off, sidestepping his outstretched arm. Her eyes, silvered with tears, lock onto his.
“The man on the island—the prisoner in the maze. Who was he?”
“Emerala—”
He reaches for her a second time, but she slaps his hand away.
“Who was he?” She spits each word out like poison.
He swallows, hesitating just long enough to appear reluctant. “Eliot Roberts.”
Before him, Emerala’s eyes widen into perfect circles. The color drains from her skin, leaving her unusually pale against the deep violet of her gown. When at last she speaks, her voice scarcely rises above a whisper.
“That was my father?”
“Aye, it was.”
Anger flares in her eyes like a flame, burning hot and fast.
“That was my father, and we left him there to rot!” she cries, her voice shrill. Raising her arm, she brings her fist down hard against Evander’s chest. He takes the blow in stride, steeling himself as she hits him again. And again. A sob chokes out from her throat in a strangled cry.
“You knew—Saynti, you knew.” She raises her fist to strike him a fourth time, but he catches her wrist in his grasp, steadying her. She tries and fails to wrench her arm out of his clutch, gasping as his grip tightens. Lifting her free arm, she balls her hand into a fist and prepares to strike. Evander grabs her wrist in mid-swing, drawing her into him with ease. She is surprisingly light, her slender frame like a wraith beneath his shadow.