by K A Dowling
“Drop your swords, both of you,” she commands. The two pirates stare at her in silence, unmoving.
“Do it.” She jabs a finger at the sand. “Unless you want to fight through me, and I don’t think either of you plans on killing me today.”
Alexander is the first to follow her directions, reluctantly returning his cutlass to the scabbard at his waist. She continues to glare at Evander, waiting for him to do the same. At last, he obliges, the glimmer of sunlight on the blade extinguishing as it slides into the leather hold.
“You said you wouldn’t kill them,” she seethes. “You promised.”
He wipes one bloodied hand upon his trousers. “Did I?”
Emerala says nothing, only scowls at him across the gathering dark.
“He lied to you, Emerala,” Alexander says. “I don’t know what he’s told you, but I promise you it was a lie. All of it.”
Emerala turns to face Alexander, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. He regards her through plaintive eyes, his face crusted with blood.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” she says.
“Believe me,” Alexander insists, pressing four bloodied fingers firmly into his chest. “Believe me. I had no idea your father was involved in any of this. If I knew he was being held prisoner—if I knew—”
His voice trails off into silence and he swallows, hard, his gaze beseeching. Behind her, she hears Evander let loose a bitter laugh. Something dark and hostile twists within her.
“Why should I trust you?” she snaps, scowling up at Alexander. The wind whips at her back, nudging her forward several steps across the sand.
“You shouldn’t,” Evander says. Emerala rounds upon him, her eyes blazing with fury. The crooked grin saps out of his lips at the sight of her.
“Why should I trust either of you?”
“Emerala,” Alexander says slowly, and something within his voice makes her turn. His words are desolate—heavy. “Emerala, look. Look what he’s done.”
He gestures toward the cliff and she follows the line of his finger, her eyes dropping to a figure upon the sand a few feet away. Her heart seizes within her chest as she recognizes the dark silhouette to be none other than Lachlan the Lethal. The brutish wind tugs at the hem of his jacket, lifting up the bloodied flap of leather just over his heart.
“No,” she whispers. Tears prickle in her lower lids, obscuring her vision. The dark figure on the beach blurs in and out of focus.
“No.” Her voice is swallowed by the howling wind. The sound mimics a plaintive cry as it whistles across the beachfront. The entire form of the Lethal’s corpse seems to dance upon the breeze and she gasps, stifling a sob. The sun is swallowed by the coiling clouds overhead. The golden light extinguishes against Emerala’s skin and she is left shivering beneath the oncoming storm.
She spins on her heels, kicking up sand as she charges several steps toward Evander. Her blood courses through her veins, red and hot and sticking.
“You did this.”
His face is impassive. “Aye.”
“How? How could you do this?” Her voice rises to a shout, the sound muffled by a sudden rumble of thunder out at sea. Her fingers close instinctively around the dagger hidden within her corset.
Evander shrugs, smirking. “It had to be done.”
“You’re a monster.” The wind shrieks atop the waves, driving the whitecaps hard against the shore. Lightning snaps across the sky. The air hums with electricity. Her wild curls whip in and out of her eyes, cracking against her skin like a whip.
“It had to be done,” Evander repeats. His voice is devoid of emotion. “He was about to ruin everything.”
At her back, Emerala can hear Alexander beseeching her to stay calm—to back away. She ignores him, blood pounding within her ears. She draws the iridescent hilt from within her gown, rushing at Evander with the blade outstretched. He snatches her easily in his arms, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“Easy now, love,” he chides. “You wouldn’t kill me with my own weapon, would you?”
“I trusted you.” She tries and fails to rip free of his grasp.
“Didn’t your father ever tell you not to trust pirates?”
He draws her into him, his nose inches from hers. The proximity of him is familiar—too familiar, now—and she hates herself for it at once.
“Bad men, the lot of us,” he says, smiling. “Good men gone rotten inside, or so your father used to tell me. We’re not very trustworthy at all, it would seem.”
Emerala pulls back from him, her eyes locking on his. “You knew him? You knew my father?”
Evander’s only response is laughter, the sound stolen away by the rising winds.
“Emerala, get away from him,” Alexander orders. His voice is calm, level. This time, when she tugs at Evander’s grasp, he lets her go. She backs away from him, her heart sinking, breaking.
“I never thought you were a good man,” she whispers. Her voice is lost beneath the storm. “But I let myself believe in you anyway.”
“That was your first mistake,” Evander says. His piercing eyes linger too long upon hers and—for an instant—Emerala thinks she sees a flicker of regret pass across his features. His fingers open and close and his side.
“That’s all you have to say to me?” Emerala asks. “That I made a mistake?”
His jaw locks and he swallows, saying nothing.
A laugh, high and clear, leaks out across the beach, drawing their attention toward the cliffs.
“Emerala the Rogue,” calls a disembodied voice, shouting to be heard over the wind. “Back from the dead, I see.”
Two cutlasses shiver beneath the wind as they are drawn, once more, from their scabbards. Emerala sees Evander lock eyes with Alexander, his expression grim. They draw back to back, searching the length of the beach for the owner of the voice. Emerala scowls up at them, frustration coursing through her.
Bloody pirates, she thinks bitterly.
“Noble,” says the voice. “But we mean her no harm.”
“Who are you?” demands Alexander.
“I am nobody you want to trifle with.”
“Show yourself,” Evander calls.
“Sheath your weapons first.”
Evander sneers, his golden eyes scanning the shadows. “Not a chance in the Dark Below.”
There is a moment of silence before the voice responds. “Then you will be regarded as enemies, and the Rogue your captive.”
“I’m not a captive,” Emerala calls out over their shoulders, ignoring the reproachful look she receives from both of them. She rises onto her toes in order to get a better look at the stone. She can see the shadow of a man lingering behind an outcropping up ahead. Raising her voice, she adds, “I’m here of my own free will.”
Slowly, cautiously, the shadow emerges from the rock wall. Surprise courses through her as she recognizes the newcomer at once.
Topan. He is the picture of serenity as he approaches the group, his indigo eyes bright. His dark tunic and breeches lend him a regal appearance. One gold earring hangs from his right earlobe and he fingers this as he smiles cordially at the pirates.
“Just one Cairan, aye?” Evander scoffs. “We can take him, easy.”
Emerala opens her mouth to protest, but Alexander beats her to it. “No, we can’t.” He studies the Cairan king, recognition flickering across his features. “I know who you are. You wouldn’t come alone. We’re surrounded, aren’t we?”
Topan’s smile widens. “A wise man, your captain. I won’t disclose how many men I’ve brought with me today, but trust that there is a Listener waiting in every direction you might turn.”
“How did you find us?” Alexander asks.
The wind tugs at Topan’s sleek, black hair, sending loose strands flying into his eyes as he draws closer to the trio. “The better question may be how we found you before the Golden Guard. Your arrival drew quite a bit of attention. This is a small island, Captain Mathew. Someone is
always listening. Someone is always watching. Now if you would please put away your weapons, I’d be hugely grateful.”
Alexander frowns, sheathing his weapon. Evander mutters crossly, but follows his lead. Reaching behind him, he takes hold of Emerala’s arm, repositioning her out of sight. The maneuver is impulsive—instinctive. She pries her arm out of his reach, recoiling from his touch.
“Keep your hands off of me,” she hisses up at him.
“That’s not what you said several nights ago.” The words leak out from the corner of his mouth, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the rising storm. Quick as a flash, Alexander rounds on him, his pistol leveled at the space between Evander’s eyes.
“Say that again,” Alexander challenges.
Emerala flinches, humiliation coursing through her. “Alex—”
He ignores her. The hammer clicks into place. “Go ahead. Say it. I’ll bury a bullet in your skull.”
Evander scoffs. “You keep threatening to kill me and then you don’t deliver. It’s becoming disappointing.”
Before them, Topan interlocks his fingers, his expression stoic. He barks a command, but the sound of his voice is snatched away before Emerala can hear him. Several Listeners emerge from the shadows, closing in noiselessly across the beach. Emerala catches the dwindling light shivering on the blades of several dozen daggers.
“Put away the gun, Captain,” Topan orders. “Hands in the air, both of you.”
“You heard the man,” Evander says, his lopsided grin wicked. His hands raise obediently, palms outward, as he stares at Alexander down the barrel of the gun.
“This isn’t over,” Alexander snarls. He replaces the gun into his holster, raising his palms over his head. Before them, Topan is scrutinizing the trio in unreadable silence.
“Clearly I’ve interrupted something,” he says. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the time to work through whatever personal problems you’re having. We need to move quickly. A platoon of Guardians is heading toward the ports as we speak. Your—antics, if we will—have not gone unnoticed. You’ll understand if I’m not all too eager to let Emerala the Rogue fall into the usurper’s hands a second time.”
“What do you want from us?” Evander demands.
Topan appears startled by that. “From you? Nothing. We’re here to take the Rogue home.”
“And what about us?” Alexander asks. “Will you kill us?”
“Kill you? Saynti, no.” Topan glances towards the corpse of Lachlan, prostrate upon the sand. “We’re not in the habit of murder. I find it distasteful.”
“So you’ll let us go?”
“No.” Topan’s indigo gaze returns to Alexander, his brows dipping low over a troubled visage. “You’ll come with us.”
He nods to someone in the circle of men and there is a sudden flurry of movement. In an instant, both Evander and Alexander have been shoved to their knees in the sand. Blindfolds are placed over their eyes as their hands are bound at their backs. Evander unleashes a torrent of curses, thrashing as best as he can beneath the hold of several men. Next to him, Alexander is silent.
“What is this?” Emerala snaps, irate. “What are you doing?”
“The location of the Forbidden City is quite a valuable secret these days,” Topan explains. “I’m not willing to divulge that kind of information to our guests just yet.”
“Are they your guests?” she asks. “Or are they prisoners?”
Topan studies her shrewdly, peering at her through the sticking green ether of the storm. “Your time away hasn’t made you any less persistent, I see.”
Emerala ignores him. “Are they your prisoners?” she repeats.
“They’re pirates,” Topan says. “Outsiders. There are no outsiders permitted within the walls of the Forbidden City.”
Topan snaps his fingers and the pirates are dragged to their feet. Emerala watches as they are led off down the beach, Topan trailing in their wake. Emerala hurries to keep up with him, her movements slowed by the sheer force of the driving wind.
Falling into step beside Topan, she says, “You still haven’t answered my question.”
Topan purses his lips, staring up into the storm. “No,” he relents. “They’re not prisoners. Not yet.”
He stalks off in silence, ending the conversation. For a moment, Emerala hangs back, her attention turning to the lifeless shadow on the beach—to the body of Lachlan the Lethal. She feels a sudden stab of anxiety at leaving him there, but there is no other option. There is nothing she can do. The Guardians will be upon them soon, like vultures drawn to carrion. She cannot risk her life for the dead; she learned that lesson once already.
Up ahead, the Listeners and their captives are growing smaller as they head down the stretch of beach. Topan stands at attention, his indigo eyes guarded as he waits for Emerala to catch up to him. When at last she does, dragging her heels through the inundated sand, he sighs.
“There’s a war coming, Emerala the Rogue,” he says, leaning in to be heard over the wind. “Like it or not, you and your pirate friends have a part to play.”
CHAPTER 49
The Forbidden City
Nerani finds Orianna pacing restlessly in her quarters, her youngest brother resting on her hip. Drawing to a stop in the opening, Nerani watches as her oldest friend murmurs softly into the tousled hair of the toddler, her gaze troubled. The boy blinks up at her, his wet, blue eyes gleaming in the throw of the lantern that hangs upon the wall. His thumb moves in and out of his mouth, the finger pruned from suckling. His red cheeks are stained with tears.
“You’ll be alright, Eram,” Orianna reassures the boy. “It was just a little spill.”
Orianna catches sight of Nerani, still lingering in the open doorway of the cramped quarters. The frown upon her face deepens. Eram mutters sleepily, his words thick and unintelligible as they catch upon his thumb. Orianna turns her back to Nerani, placing the small boy down upon the cot and drawing a coarse blanket over his shoulders. Eram makes a quiet sound of protestation but otherwise allows for his sister to tuck the covers around his curling figure. He is asleep within seconds, the soft rising and falling of his breathing visible beneath the pilled cotton.
When Orianna at last turns back to face her, she is brimming with barely controlled rage.
“Orianna—” Nerani begins. Orianna holds out one shaking palm to quiet her.
“I don’t know who you are anymore.”
Nerani recoils, drawing back upon the stone.
“How can you say that?”
Orianna shakes her head, running her fingers through her sleek, black hair. “I never thought you would be the kind of person to run towards danger. That was always Emerala—she was the impulsive one. She made the poor decisions. But you—you’ve never been one to misstep.”
Nerani feels shame coursing through her like wildfire. She recalls the look upon Topan’s face as he asked for her hand in marriage—recalls the way he had gripped her hand to his chest when she at last obliged. She made him a promise. She promised him her heart, but it was never hers to give. How costly her mistakes will be, she cannot presume to know. And still, something stronger than guilt—something deeper than shame—prickles within her.
“I love him,” she says, defiance lacing her words.
The look in Orianna’s eyes is sad. “I know that. Saynti, I know that. But it’s an impossible love, Nerani, and James Byron serves a far stronger master.”
Nerani feels the first sting of unwanted tears gathering in her lower lids. She blinks them away furiously. Before her, Orianna continues to study her sadly, regretfully.
“You can’t expect to have a life with him. I’ve already told you how it ends—I told you what I saw. If you continue to carry on as you are it will end in death. For both of you.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Nerani asks, her voice snapping like a whip. Her fingers tremble. “What do you want from me? Do you want me to never see him again? I will—I’ll do it. Only�
�” she pauses, inhaling shakily. “Please help me to get him out of here.”
“Nerani—”
“Please,” Nerani repeats, her voice a shadow of a whisper. “Do this for me.”
Orianna heaves a great sigh, her features desolate. Her glossy, black hair is cobalt beneath the firelight. She twists it round and round upon her index finger, tugging at her scalp as her eyes flicker back and forth across Nerani’s face.
“He can’t be allowed to leave the city,” Orianna says. Her words are careful—cautious. “He can’t be trusted, not now that he knows where we are. Rowland Stoward has more than enough incentive to make him talk.”
Nerani can feel the desperation rising within her, choking her. She resents the sympathy in Orianna’s eyes—hates the even keel of Orianna’s temper.
“He won’t say anything,” she insists. She thinks of the angry, red lash marks that disfigured his skin, of the Guardian lying dead at her feet in the palace courtyard.
Orianna studies her for a long moment before replying, “You can’t know that for certain.”
“He would never sell me out to the usurper.”
“Maybe not you,” Orianna agrees, “But what about your people? He’s a man, Nerani, and men are weak. He would sell the rest of us out in an instant. His love for you means nothing to me.” She looks over her shoulder at Eram, sleeping soundly in the cot.
“I have to protect my family.”
“He won’t give us away,” Nerani repeats, but the mettle has leaked out of her words. Her hand passes absently over the space where her fingers once were and she feels suddenly hollow—helpless.
Orianna reaches out and takes Nerani’s hand within her own. “The hate in the usurper’s heart is far stronger than General Byron’s love for you, and you know that. Don’t be naïve.”