by K A Dowling
Her mother would offer her no more explanation. She kissed her on the forehead and sent her off to bed. Seranai had not thought of the conversation again. Until now.
Before her, the man called Roberts has closed the distance between himself and the mysterious figure. Seranai presses clinging locks of hair out of her eyes and leans forward to listen over the pattering of the rain.
“You have my attention,” she hears Roberts say.
“Were you present at the burning of Manfred Toyler’s tavern this afternoon?”
A pause. “I was.”
“You will bear witness to everything that happened?”
Another pause, longer this time. Roberts clears his throat before continuing. His words are measured—careful. “I never said that I would.”
“But will you, if asked?” muses the towering shadow of a man.
“I suppose. It depends who asks it of me.”
The stranger laughs. “Nobody will.”
This time, Roberts returns the grin with a cautious smile of his own. “Then yes.”
“Noon tomorrow. At the cathedral,” the man explains. “Wait for a sign.” He melts back into the darkness. Somewhere beyond the crumbling brick, a door slams shut. For a long time, Roberts stands frozen in the street. He watches the spot where the man stood. The rain is picking up again, slathering the road in puddles. At long last, Roberts begins to whistle.
Seranai watches as he put his hands in his pockets and heads slowly down the street. She studies his figure in the gloom as he turns the corner and disappears. The echo of his whistle cuts through the rain. In her mind’s eye she sees the red sheen of the rubies upon the priceless golden band. The Carian king is an elusive man, nothing more than a shadow and a ghost—a whisper in the streets. Still, whispers are a wonderful thing. The Cairan king is a wealthy man. Everyone knows that he alone holds the location to the incalculable Carian fortune.
She is a woman in desperate need of fortune.
Her pink tongue flickers across her lower lip as she considers her options. Roberts the Valiant. Under normal circumstances, she would never lower herself so far as to seduce a gypsy. Such a feat is below her. The thought of it makes her stomach ill. And yet Roberts the Valiant is about to be granted access to the Cairan king himself. She has heard the Mames swear that the leader of the gypsies has more wealth than the Chancian king could ever hope to get his fingers on.
She smiles bitterly and thinks of James Byron—ashamed to be with her, ashamed to love her for what she is.
She thinks, then, of her father, gutted like a fish and breathing his last.
I won’t be worthless anymore, father.
She thinks again of his body as they lowered it into the dirt. Drank himself to death, the neighbors said. She knew better. She had watched his blood run across the floor of the shop. It had mingled with the stinking blood of pigs and cows—had warmed the pallid palms of her trembling hands.
Murderer, her mother accused upon her deathbed when Seranai finally garnered enough courage to confess her secret. She thought the woman would be grateful. Seranai had freed them both.
Roberts the Valiant, she muses, and she smiles. Her grey eyes glimmer hungrily in the darkness. She has always been the type of woman prepared to sacrifice anything if it means advancing her status. Immediately, she knows what it is she has to do.
Tomorrow at noon.
She will be at the cathedral when Roberts the Valiant arrives. It won’t take long to make a man like him fall in love with a woman like her.
CHAPTER 3
Captain Alexander Mathew
Rain is coming down in torrents upon the shallow seas, encompassing the darkened hulk of a wildly rocking ship in ferocious, howling winds. The sound of the half frozen droplets splintering against the wooden deck causes the men onboard to cringe beneath the frigid sea air. Squaring their shoulders against the downpour, the harried crew slides from starboard to port and back again in a frenzied attempt to douse the black sails that whip to and fro in the brutish tempest. With a jarring collision, the keel of the ship meets the full force of a hammering wave. A few men that have not taken steady grips upon the shrouds fly unexpectedly forward. Stinging, salty fingers of water clutch maliciously at the ship’s chains, threatening to capsize the entire vessel.
Amid the chaos, his feet planted firmly on the quarterdeck, stands Alexander Mathew. His fingers grip tightly at the wheel as he fights to keep the ship on track. His untamed hair, weighted down by the rain, falls into bright hazel eyes that study the horizon with steadfast resolve.
“Bleed the sails,” he cries aloud, his words coming in vain. “Quickly!” His hoarse shout is lost immediately; carried away in an icy gust of wind as soon as it leaves his chapped and stinging lips.
His gaze, burning with tenacity, is trained to the east. That afternoon, just before the cover of clouds had choked out the sun and brought with it the inevitable frustration of spirited spring squalls, he caught sight of the small island looming in the distance.
“Chancey,” he whispers again, tasting the salt on his lips.
He reminds his aching bones the importance of pressing onward. He cannot drop anchor now, not in this storm. Already, he has managed to maneuver through the nearly impossible miniature islands of stone that stretch out of the western waters offshore the cliff-like fortress of Chancey. His success was much to the amazement of his crew, who had only the night before told him the countless stories of ships that had been run aground attempting to traverse the maze of rocks in even the most favorable of conditions.
Alexander has no time to allow himself even a moment of satisfaction. They may be free of the ship-rending terrors below, but they still have a great deal against them, both from above and ahead. He gazes upward. The mizzen above him creaks dangerously in the wind. It teeters back and forth against a black sky that is being slowly suffocated by skeletal, purple clouds.
The ship is once again jostled upon the ocean as an unrelenting wave pounds fitfully against the hull. The pirate hardly looks away from the island, concealed now by a veil of vertical silver slits, even as he hears the maddened shouts of his crew sliding into the starboard side.
A voice close to his ear startles him.
“We be gettin’ righ’ close ter the cliffs, en’t ye think, Cap’n Mathew? Thinkin’ we ought to come about starboard a bit, mayhap.”
Alexander recognizes the booming voice of his first mate, Thom. He glances out of the corner of his eyes and sees the burly man staring back at him with quiet grit. His straggled red beard is tangled with droplets of ice as gestures forward into the rain. Alexander struggles to peer through the heavy onslaught of the storm. Sure enough, he can just make out the vague outline of the steep cliffs of Chancey looming in the distance.
“Hawk!” The hoarse bellow that flies from Alexander’s lips is barely audible over the discordant tumult of the storm. The shrieking wind carries a salty spray of ice water against his numbed cheeks. He leans forward over the wheel.
“Hawk!”
A figure materializes at his side and he hears a dry grumble in his ear. “I told you these wretched spring seasons are cursed even more on this edge of the world, aye?”
Alexander wrenches his eyes away from the storm before him, turning briefly to face the newcomer to the quarterdeck. Lanky and nearly invisible beneath his tattered black cloak, Evander the Hawk’s sharp golden eyes gleam wickedly at his captain through the downpour.
Alexander flashes the pirate a wry smirk. “We’re headed too far north-east,” he shouts over the hammering rain. “We need to maneuver back southward or we’ll end up past the ports and straight into the cliffs.”
“The wind will be against us if we turn to the south,” the Hawk retorts, squinting up into the tempest.
“The wind is against us whatever way we turn in this storm. We can’t bring the ship into port in this madness; the weather is too unpredictable to swap out the colors. I won’t risk Rowland’s Golden Guard seeing the black sails
.” He shakes his head, allowing stray, stinging droplets to fling from his hair and fly into his hazel eyes. “We’ll find a place to dock offshore.”
“And drop anchor in this storm?” The Hawk’s golden eyes are wide. “Are you mad?”
“It’ll die down soon. Storms like this always do. We’ll circle around until its quiet.”
The Hawk shrugs his shoulders against the rain. “Aye, what orders do you want me to give the crew, then?” His voice cracks over the fluttering snap of the black banner overhead. Alexander stares at the flapping flag, his eyes trained upon the blood red skull stitched into the coarse fabric. It was his father’s insignia, once. It stood for persistence—for fighting until the last, bloody breath. It his crest now, and he’ll go out the way his father did.
He briefly considers his options. None of them are ideal. Luckily for him, he’s a resilient man. He’s never shirked back from a little rain.
A grin spreads across his face and he feels determination warming his saturated bones. “Tell the men to help me bring her south. We’ll circle around and tether her to one of the rocky outcroppings offshore. This is your homeland, Hawk, you know better than I how to bring us in in one piece.” Alexander’s voice is swallowed whole upon the air. He wonders for a moment if the lanky pirate has heard him. Finally, blinking his golden eyes clear of rain, the Hawk nods. He slips off into the dark without another word.
Setting his eyes ahead, Alexander grins in the unrelenting rain. Deep inside his gut he feels the excited twinge that comes with the approach of new and unknown territory. Before him, he can see the massive cliffs of Chancey rising out of the water like a stronghold against the storm.
He thinks of the tip he received in the Westerlies—of the rumor that the man he has hunted across the wide, endless sea has finally set up shop in the small, overlooked port of Chancey. It was only that—a rumor—and yet his heart swells with promise all the same.
I’m coming for you, Jameson, he thinks. And this time, there’s nowhere to run.
Wrenching the wheel heavily to the right, he lets out a bellow as the ship veers dangerously south and into the heart of the storm.
CHAPTER 4
Nerani the Elegant
Nerani the Elegant was presented her Cairan title at the annual naming ceremony during her tenth year of age. She had waited her turn in line, silvery sweat pooling within the lines of her palms, and watched as the revered Mames of the clan made their slow way towards where she stood. Her white cotton dress, which her mother had labored over for days, was stained with soot at the sleeve. Emerala’s cursed fingerprints. She had shouted at her younger cousin to leave her alone that morning—she was not dressed for playing—and yet the wearisome girl had continued to give chase.
She shuffled her feet upon the splintering wood floor beneath her and tried to ignore the cloudy black stain that clawed at her peripherals. She hoped that her mother, watching from the crowd of onlookers, could not see the marks. She would surely be scolded.
Nerani. The sound of her name being called made her jump. She glances up to see Mame Galyria standing just before her. Quivering, she stepped forward. She reached out her arm, allowing Mame Galyria to grab hold of her wrist. Her hand was flipped over unceremoniously. The Mame dragged her index finger along the clammy lines of her palm. She cringed at the texture of the woman’s tough skin against her hand.
Nerani was starkly aware of everyone’s gaze upon her. Her breathing grew shallow as the room around her faded out of focus. She held her breath and trained her deep blue eyes upon the face of the Mame before her. The woman’s skin was riddled with deep, shaded grooves. Her heavy lids were lined with a thick smudge of black, the creases smeared with violet paint. So many lines—so many stories.
She glanced down at her own palm, upturned for all to see. She was unlined—an empty canvas. She wondered what story the Mame would read upon her flesh.
The woman was muttering beneath her breath. Her heavy violet lids fluttered closed. A dreamy smile inched its way across her face, causing several deeper, darker grooves to stretch like clay upon her skin.
Nerani heard an audible whisper escape the Mame’s blood red lips. She leaned in to hear. She will grow into a beautiful young woman, Mame Galyria said. Gracious, kind.
Nerani leaned back. Relieved. It would be nothing horrible. Harrane before her had been granted the title of the Hostile. It was true enough, and yet his cheeks had flooded with red heat all the same. She held her breath and waited for the Mame to announce her title to the waiting crowd.
Nothing happened. Mame Galyria continued to grip tightly at her hand. Over the woman’s shoulder, Nerani saw the figure of her mother rise to get a better view.
Look at me. The Mame’s command seeped out through clenched teeth. Nerani let her gaze snap back to the woman’s heavily painted face. Her heart pounded against her chest. The Mame’s eyes were open. The blacks of her pupils had devoured the color of her irises.
Gold blood bleeds red. The woman’s ragged whisper trembled. You will do well to remember that, Nerani the Elegant.
Next to her, Nerani could feel Harrane the Hostile’s eyes planted upon her face. She swallowed. The Mame dropped her hand. The room around them was as still as death. Nerani wondered if anyone else had heard the cryptic words the Mame had uttered.
Mame Minera, one of the younger Mames, bustled forward.
Nerani the Elegant, she announced to the crowd. The smile plastered across her face did not quite manage to eradicate the worry from her eyes. The room was filled with applause. Nerani the Elegant allowed herself to smile. Her eyes searched the room for her mother and father. They were applauding with the rest of the group, their expressions ecstatic.
And so she was named.
Nerani sits shivering upon her cot, reminiscing. The rain patters ruthlessly against the soiled glass of the windowpanes. It has been many years since she recounted that day. It is not like her to summon the memories of ghosts. She prefers happier things. She prefers the present. The past and those that reside there are beyond her control.
The coarse blanket that she has drawn about her shoulders scratches at her skin. It does little to keep her warm. Across the room, Emerala is staring at her through pointed green eyes. Her long, narrow nose twitches in consternation. Nerani sighs.
“Yes?”
“Rob hasn’t come home yet,” Emerala states. Her tone is accusatory. Her gaze is dark. They have been sitting vigil in the quarters for hours. They watched in silence as the rain broke through the spirals of smoke and the hazy colors of day melted back into night, and still he did not arrive. It is growing dark outside. It is not like Roberts to be out so late.
“He’ll come.” Nerani does not know what else to say. There is not much that they can do besides wait. It is dark, and the streets will be prowling with guardians.
There is a knock at the door. They both jump, their eyes meeting across the darkness. Their expressions mirror one another as they fade first from hope to disappointment and then to alarm. Roberts would not knock.
“Come in,” Nerani calls, her voice tinged with diffidence. The door is not locked. She thinks that perhaps it should be, given the events of the past few months. Tensions have been rising—guardians have been violently accosting Cairans in the street with no justification for their actions. One can never be too safe these days. Still, the latch upon the door has been broken for years. Nerani is certain that they will never get around to fixing it.
The hinges squeal as the door is pushed open. The figure in the entryway is drenched with rainwater. Her long black tresses are slicked to the side of her ebony face. Her dark blue eyes survey them from shaded lids as her lips pull back against a line of straight white teeth. A lantern has been lit in the hallway outside. The orange flame burns Nerani’s field of vision. She had not realized how long she had been sitting in the dark. The door slams shut and the light is extinguished. Traces of blue residue creep across Nerani’s retinas.
; “Orianna.” Emerala sounds as surprised to see her as Nerani feels. “We weren’t expecting any visitors tonight.”
“Obviously not,” the young woman called Orianna remarks. She sashays through the doorway, her dark gown swaying with her hips as she walks. The staccato black and violet hem sweeps ceremoniously against the rotting wooden floor.
Orianna the Raven, Nerani thinks, watching her friend make her way across the small expanse. She has never appeared more like her title than now, with her glossy black hair as slick as feathers and her gown rippling as though the wind sits beneath her wings. Her mother once told her that ravens were the bearers of bad news. She blinks. Another ghost. Her fingers dance idly upon her lap as she struggles to refocus.
“Why have you come all this way in the rain?” It has been a while since Orianna paid them a visit. She has recently been called upon to complete the rigorous training of the Mames. They believe her to have the natural born skills of a healer. Nerani is proud of her—very few women are ever given the honor and the preparation is no easy task. Even so, Nerani notes that her generally carefree friend looks tired—older, perhaps.
Orianna draws to a stop at the center of the room. “I saw Rob.” The implication in her tone does not go unnoticed by either cousin. Orianna’s eyes flicker back and forth between them as she adds, “He was at the burning of Toyler’s.”
Emerala leans away from the window. Her green eyes glitter like emeralds in the dark. “You were there?”
A bead of rain makes its way down Orianna’s forehead as she nods. She reaches up and flicks it away with a finger. “Mame Minera had me go with her to tend to the wounds of those who were locked inside.”
“Was anyone killed?” The question sounds hollow in Nerani’s ears. She realizes that she is petrified to know the answer. Instant relief floods through her as she sees Orianna shake her head.
“No. We were lucky. A few of our people charged the guardians that stood outside the inferno after they first realized what had happened. One of the guardians fired his gun, but only into the air.” Orianna sighs and adds, “It could have been much worse.”