Illusionary

by Zoraida Cordova

  When she’s gone, I fight the weight against my eyelids that tells me to be calm. Leo hums his favorite opera. Leyre grabs a coin from the captain’s desk and brings it right up to her eye, laughing.

  “Snap out of it,” Castian growls.

  “Snap out of what?” I breathe deeply and take in his face. He’s upset, attempting to unknot his bindings and failing. Cas is so beautiful, even when he’s angry. I mean to tell him so, but then the haze around my vision begins to lift, and the realization dawns on me. Copper rings. That pirate is a Persuári! Her magics are tempering our will to fight.

  “Moria,” I whisper as an entourage of four enters.

  Two remain at the door, and two flank the desk. Daggers and swords are strapped to thighs, across chests and shoulders. But their metals are the most striking. Thick gold gauges stretch a woman’s earlobes. Silver studs pierce delicate nostrils, even the skin below their clavicles. One of the boys wears a copper choker that looks like a strip of chain mail around his throat. They’re Moria warriors, displaying their weapons and metals with pride.

  The captain enters.

  She’s a tall woman, perhaps in her late fifties, wearing a scarlet tunic with black leather pants and boots with steel tips. Her corkscrew curls are threaded with silver and hang loose on her shoulders. At the hollow of her throat is a thin silver chain with a single blue gem. The necklace is the only thing that makes her look delicate, like a remnant from another life. She glances at us but says nothing as she removes her embroidered coat and takes a seat. She takes her time pouring a cup of café. Her sleeveless tunic shows off toned arms and medium brown skin riddled with scars. The markings are everywhere—along her neck, her wrists, and even in the cleft of her breasts right over her heart. I realize her necklace and the rings on her thumbs are not silver but platinum. The rarest metal in the kingdom, platinum, enhances Robári magics. And that’s what her scars are—Robári marks. Hers are thinner than mine, like threads of pearl. Like Galatea’s in my memory. How is that possible?

  She leans back. Rich brown eyes framed by arched black eyebrows take us in as she drinks her café.

  “Captain—” I say, but she cuts me off with a wave of her hand.

  “You’ll have your turn to speak.” Her voice is pleasant, though it has an edge. “You have been boarded by the pirates San Piedras, and you are now aboard the Madre del Mar. First I’m going to tell you what’s going to happen. Everything that was in your possession, or on your ship, is now forfeit to me and my crew. You have two options: I remove all memory of these moments and drop you off at the next available port. Or, if you don’t want me riffling through your tender mind, I can remove your tongue, and you will still be dropped off at the next available port. Either way, you will never speak about the pirates San Piedras ever again.”

  “What about writing?” Leyre asks.

  The calming effects of the Persuári have completely vanished. All I’m left with is a sense of dread. Castian turns a bewildered stare as if he cannot believe she’s uttered the words. One of the younger Moria pirates chuckles. The captain grins, and a spark of hope ignites in my belly.

  “Then you shall lose your hands as well. I can make it your feet if you happen to have trained your toes in the skill of penmanship.”

  “Please,” I cut in, struggling with my ropes. “By the light of the Lady—”

  “We carry on,” the captain finishes. Her dark eyes scrutinize me. “You are one of the blessed.”

  A Robári captain. Moria crew. I think of how we traveled in a circle, arriving at the same sandbar. How the underwater animals impossibly vanished. Only they didn’t vanish. They simply went where the illusion couldn’t reach.

  “And you’re the reason we can’t find Isla Sombras,” I say, more awed than angry.

  The captain drinks from her cup. “We protect the island.”

  “Noble pirates?” Leo asks, laughing nervously. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “If you’re protecting the island, then that means we were never lost,” Castian says. He’s the tallest of us, and though his voice is calm, he looks menacing. “We’re here.”

  “Nearly there,” the captain corrects, holding up a sharp nail. “When we trailed your ship along the coast of Salinas, I wasn’t sure what a luxury vessel was doing so far from the mainland. But the longer we watched you, the more certain I was you were foolish enough to treasure seek. Now this has been found in your possession.”

  She gestures to the sextant and the logbook on her desk. Her face goes stern, a scar on her clavicle lights up, just the one. How is she doing that?

  “Who sent you?”

  “No one sent us,” I say. “We are on our own.”

  The captain pours more inky café. She doesn’t believe me. “The four of you simply bought a ship with false documents? Though there isn’t one for the Luzouan girl.”

  Leyre smiles. “I don’t need one. I’m not pretending to be anyone but myself.”

  I kick her shin, and she shoves me. With their arms tied, Cas and Leo can’t do anything. The bald Persuári returns, urging a pleasant calm through my tense muscles.

  The captain rubs the fingers of her left hand together. “Forgive me, but I can no longer give you a choice. I must remove your memories of this encounter. Normally, we’d never force this on anyone, but these are extraordinary circumstances.”

  Castian leans forward, and this time his voice is anything but calm. “Robári magics do not work on me.”

  “It’s true,” I say. I remember us tumbling across the floor, my hands at his temples. “I’ve tried.”

  “Robári.” She says the word as if it’s a marvel. “This is the best catch yet. Then you will have to stay, as crew or as prisoners.”

  “We can’t stay at all,” I say. “You asked who sent us, but I’ve already told you the truth. We have no army, no allies. It is the four of us against the entire might of King Fernando, and there is one weapon that can help us stop the bloodshed between Puerto Leones and the Moria. You are the only thing in our way, and you are obviously Moria—why wouldn’t you help us?”

  “The kingdom of Memoria fell,” she says, anguish in her voice. “The Moria are scattered. Nearly extinct.”

  “The Whispers still fight,” I counter. “But they will all die if we don’t get that weapon. Right now the king is assembling an army. The rebels don’t stand a chance.”

  She barks a bitter laugh. “I used to be idealistic like you. You are a Whisper? I bet you revere Illan and listen to his empty promises of restoring the great kingdom of Memoria. Where is that kingdom now? Illan should have heeded my warning and left when he had the chance. What is he doing now but fighting a losing battle?”

  “He isn’t fighting anything,” I snap. “Illan is dead.”

  The corners of her eyes crinkle ever so slightly. Then the Moria captain sighs deeply, reaches for a drawer, and brings out a bottle of clear liquor. The sweet tang of aguadulce fills the air as she adds it to her café. She raises the drink, like an offering, then takes a long swig.

  “We know the dangers of the Knife of Memory,” Castian says passionately. I see the mask he puts on in front of this woman. “I know that my father has used it before. We won’t make the same mistakes. Test us, let us show you that we will do right by the kingdom.”

  The captain watches Castian and, as if seeing him for the first time, looks deeply ashamed. No, disgusted. “Spawn of the Lion.”

  He answers by bowing his head in acknowledgment of the insult. As her pirates start to chatter, she slams her fist to call for silence.

  “Last I remember, the Whispers, along with your mother, dealt you a terrible fate. And your father has no idea of the power you possess?”

  Castian flashes a crooked smile. “I’m still alive. What do you think?”

  “Destiny makes fools of men who try to force the world to change to their whims.” The Moria captain settles deep into thought. “I was there when we tried, and then when we failed.
Believe me, I am saving your life by keeping you here.”

  When she says the last part, she only looks at me. I think of Dez saying that the Knife wouldn’t work, that my skill would be wasted. Don’t they understand? I never expected to survive this war.

  “Do not let Illan’s martyrdom ruin your future,” she tells me.

  I lean forward, and then it happens. The light of my magics sets fire to my ropes. Back in the king’s dungeons, I once melted the chains off my wrists. I feel the heat lick at my skin, and I break free, stomping out the flames. I hold my hands out to her, but I do not expect the horror on her face.

  “Illan isn’t why I’m doing this.”

  “What happened to you?” She blinks, unbelieving. “Did he fashion you a pair of locked gloves to wear?”

  “The only one to keep me locked up was Justice Méndez. Illan trained me. He did what he could for me when others told him I was dangerous.”

  “My dear,” the captain laments, “where do you think the justice learned the design for your gloves?”

  She takes another drink, this time of just aguadulce.

  “And who are you to claim these things of Illan?” I snap. “You didn’t even know he was dead.”

  Her smile is wistful, almost tragic. “I know—I knew a lot about Illan. He was, after all, my husband.”

  “YOU WERE MARRIED TO ILLAN?” I SHOUT.

  “If I may,” Leo interjects. “As we are presented with the very real possibility of having to live on this ship, may we know the name of our captor? And have our ropes removed?”

  The captain looks up at an Illusionári nearly my age. The girl’s hair is cropped short all around the sides, with a tangle of wheat-colored curls at the top. There’s something about her heart-shaped face I can’t quite place. She unsheathes a curved knife and cuts through everyone’s restraints.

  “As for introductions, I am Argiñe San Piedras.”

  Leo presses one hand on his abdomen, the other on his back, and bows. “Leonardo Almarada of Provincia Zaharina.”

  “Leyre Arang de Las Rosas formerly of the Royal Luzouan Navy.” She winks at the captain.

  “Renata Convida.” What else can I add? Of the Whispers? Of the king’s Hand of Moria? Of the burned forests north of Andalucía?

  Castian rubs at his wrist. One of his golden curls falls over his eyes in a rakish sort of way. “I suppose I am Castian, prince of Puerto Leones, Matahermano, Lion’s Fury, Príncipe Dorado, and heir to the Fajardo dynasty.”

  “That really is a mouthful,” Leyre says with a grimace.

  “You were married to Illan?” I repeat. He’d spoken of his wife, but I’d always assumed she’d died in a skirmish between the crown and the Whispers.

  Captain Argiñe stands, resting her knuckles on her desk. She bypasses my question and says, “Let me see your hands.”

  Instinctively, I ball them into fists. When I was a little girl, after I created my first Hollow and the scars began, I was afraid of them. Justice Méndez couldn’t explain what was happening to me, and I had no one else to talk to. My hands were in gloves most of the time, so even Castian never saw them. But when I was in the care of the Whispers, I learned that they were an abhorrent sight.

  When Captain Argiñe extends her hand to me, I don’t feel the same kind of shame. Only sadness. She runs her fingers along my scars. Tears well up in her eyes. “You poor child.”

  For a moment I wonder, is this the way my mother would have held me? Like I was something that needed to be protected.

  I take a steadying breath. “I don’t need your pity, Captain. I need your help.”

  She gives a weary sigh and lets go. “I will teach you how to control your powers. I will even allow Leonardo and Leyre to go free. But there is a reason I left the world and built a new one. Come and let me show you.”

  “What about Castian?” I ask.

  The captain’s dark stare lingers on the prince, as if she can’t decide what to make of him. “We don’t recognize Leonesse royals. But I extend the same offer to train with my Illusionári. If that is something you want.”

  We are outnumbered. We are outmatched. We are in the middle of the sea. Fight is not something we can do at the moment, but we will have to find a way off this ship. For now, the four of us follow the pirate captain back on deck.

  “This galleon is a relic,” Leyre says, running her hands along the polished wood. “From the Luzouan fleet thirty-five years ago!”

  “Forty,” the captain says. “This was one of the first constructed that year.”

  “How did you come by it?” Cas asks.

  Captain Argiñe winks. “I won it off a merchant.”

  “You’re joking,” Leyre scoffs.

  The captain stops, holding open a door that leads to the lower levels. “Do I strike you as the sort of woman who jokes?”

  Leyre turns to the three of us and says, “I rather think she does.”

  One deck below is a busy marketplace. I breathe in the familiar scent of manzanilla and dried herbs, the medicinal poultices that Sayida used to make, a fragrant perfume made of lilac oil.

  “You make your own cloth?” Leo wonders as we pass a couple of older men and women weaving together. “Marvelous.”

  “We make our own everything, when we can procure the supplies at a port. We might be on the brink of extinction, but I want to make sure we pass down our traditions.”

  There’s a carpenter station. An older woman with cropped gray hair and brown skin is hunched over a table carving grooves into a slat of wood. The pattern reminds me of the intricate lines and symbols in the old fortress I once called home. With the captain as our guide, people shake our hands. They want to shake my hand. A middle-aged man greets me by making the symbol of the Lady over my forehead and telling me that I am blessed.

  Castian marvels at the way these pirates trade anything and everything—from buttons and thimbles to bottles of homemade aguadulce and jars of preserves. A group of kids is playing a furious game of cards. Captain Argiñe walks up behind one of the boys and yanks his ear hard.

  “No illusions, Hernán. Lose honestly or lose a finger.”

  The others jeer at him, and the tops of the boy’s cheeks grow red. Next we pass through the kitchens, where I recognize the supplies we were given by the Queen of Little Luzou, even the potatoes Leo and I spent hours peeling and the pot to make the fish stew. We share a look of irritation, but then a girl in rolled-up hose and a dirty tunic runs up to us.

  “Captain Argi,” she says, “Elva says the bounty is enough to last us for the next month—”

  “Enough, Jess,” the captain clips. “See to it that everything is properly stored and that the apothecuras gets first pick of any herbs and medicine. We don’t want another fever outbreak.”

  “Yes, Captain Argi.” The girl gives a salute, then sticks her tongue out at me.

  Perhaps she’s younger than I thought. My chest feels tight, and my mind is heavy with memories of when I was her age. Fingers snake through mine, and Castian squeezes my hand. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing.

  The entire ship is teeming with life. Families cluster in the crew cabins, and children swing from hammocks. We pass a small library, where two girls my age tenderly hold hands and read from the same tome. A line of women nurse screaming babies. We see rooms full of powder kegs and other weapons. I can taste the iron in the air. There’s a brig, but it’s empty.

  How do they serve justice aboard a ship? Then I think about the options we were given—lose a memory or lose our tongues. With the Whispers, punishment was never dealt easily. There was a trial by the elders. I remember standing before the council themselves—what would have happened if they’d only listened to me?

  I try to catch Castian’s eye, but he’s been pulled into conversation by a woman weaving a tapestry, adding row after row of thread. The image she’s making has only begun, but it’s a bright blue sky and the beginnings of a crown.

  “It’s beautiful,” he c
ompliments her.

  She kisses both his cheeks. “May the Lady bless you, my boy.”

  I feel Castian tense, but he pulls on one of those smiles that hide everything. I don’t think he’s ever smiled at me that way, and I don’t know whether I should be thankful or not.

  Captain Argiñe leads us back above deck, exiting in the front of the ship, overlooking the bow as it cleaves the ocean apart. This isn’t just a pirate ship. It’s preservation in a way the Whispers never had.

  “How did you end up helming a ship full of Moria, Captain Argiñe?” I ask.

  “Now that we’re good friends, it’s Captain Argi. There are some Olvidados and refugees from other countries here as well,” she says. “But this ship, the Madre del Mar, was meant to save the Moria. I warned Illan that King Fernando had become something wretched, that we had to leave. But Illan chose to rebel. He believed that the kingdom of Memoria could be revived. I believed the way to do that was to save the people, not the place. And so I left, and Illan did not come after me.”

  “It can’t be easy,” Leyre says. “You have what, three generations now?”

  “Soon it’ll be four. Our biggest advantage is our group of Illusionári, who hide us in plain sight. We get by.”

  “Through stealing and scavenging,” Castian argues.

  “Through strength and resourcefulness,” Captain Argi corrects.

  Cas raises his brows. I see the beginning of a spark in his turquoise eyes. “You can’t do that forever.”

  “How do you think Puerto Leones has flourished? How do you think your father and his father and his before that got by? They believe they earned the lands beyond their borders, but didn’t they simply steal and scavenge? At the very least we give our victims options. Puerto Leones won’t rule forever. When the kingdom burns, we will be here, waiting.”

  “That’s not a strategy,” I say, raising my voice. “King Fernando has spent years experimenting on Moria to harness our powers. He’s succeeded once, and he will do it again.”

  She licks her canine and watches the gray mist that skims the ocean surface. She grips the railing of the ship and says with certainty, “No, he won’t.”