The Changing Tide

by K A Dowling

  “Safe, for now. It seems she partnered with a rather clever pirate to help her cut Harrane away from the post where he had been strung. I spoke with them both. He agreed to accompany her to a safe place.”

  A pirate.

  “Where is she?” Roberts’s pulse is beating rapidly beneath his skin, pounding against the walls of his veins.

  The man smiles, his expression compassionate. “Here, of course. I spoke with the lead Elder, and he’s offered Emerala sanctuary within the walls of the cathedral.”

  “Sanctuary? Why? She will be safe enough with me.”

  The man purses his lips, regarding Roberts through narrowed eyes. “I’m afraid not,” he disagrees quietly. “General Byron witnessed her in the act. She will be a wanted woman now, and I would be surprised if the usurper doesn’t post a warrant for her arrest. He hates to feel as though someone has gotten the better of him, and your sister most certainly has.”

  Roberts curses his sister silently. Why can’t she keep her nose in her own business? He already knows the answer to that question. She never can. He tries to imagine himself in her shoes—tries to imagine himself stumbling upon corpse of one of his people. He does not know if he would have been able to walk away.

  But a pirate? He has warned her a thousand times, if he has warned her once. She is not to speak with pirates. They are wild men—unpredictable men—and not to be trusted.

  The man is watching him carefully, his indigo gaze unreadable as his eyes flicker back and forth across Roberts’s face. His index finger runs thoughtfully across his lower lip. Roberts fights to get a hold on his nerves. He clears his throat, he runs his fingers through the tangle of black curls on his head.

  “That happened this morning,” Roberts points out, attempting to redirect the conversation. “You requested my presence yesterday.”

  “True,” the man assents, rising to his feet. He wanders across the room, drawing close to one of the curling maps that unfolds across a table in the corner. Running his fingers lightly over the brittle parchment, he glances at Roberts over his shoulder. “I told you, times are changing. The city of Chancey is becoming more and more dangerous for our people. I’m looking to draft more men to my cause.”

  “You want me to be one of your Listeners?” Roberts lips curl downward into a frown as he tries in vain to study the map over the man’s shoulder. A spy. He wants me to be a spy.

  The man does not answer Roberts immediately, instead turning his attention back to the parchment before him. “My men brought back a number of reports from the fire at Toyler’s. Most impressive were the stories of your fortitude in pulling victims from the tavern. You are a brave man, Roberts the Valiant.”

  Roberts thinks of Harrane, and of his poor, widowed mother. She will have no one left, not now that her son is gone. Roberts has grown into adulthood in trepidation, always tiptoeing through the shadows—always sidestepping unnecessary peril. Without their parents, it fell upon him to care for Emerala and Nerani. He cannot afford to put himself in danger. He cannot make himself vulnerable to the possibility of death. The girls need him—Emerala now more than ever, the foolish girl.

  “I have a family,” he says, his gaze darkening.

  “Most men do,” comes the reply. The man continues to study the map, his slender fingers pressing hard against the parchment.

  Robert shakes his head, his curls bouncing into his emerald eyes. “That’s just it. Only myself, my sister, and my cousin are left. Everyone else is dead.”

  “Except for you father, I believe.” The man’s words catch Roberts off guard. He swallows hard, feeling as though his heart has risen into his throat. Realizing he has hit upon a nerve, the man turns to face Roberts. He leans back against the low table, his palms gripping the splintering edge.

  “Except for Eliot Roberts, correct?” His gaze is heavy with implication.

  “How—” Roberts begins, and stops short. “What—How do you know that?”

  The man’s lip twitches. He raises his chin, the flickering light of the lanterns upon the wall casting his face in a somber gloom. “I took some liberties of looking into your life. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Roberts does mind. In his memory he sees Eliot Roberts perched uselessly in the doorway, his top hat spinning uncomfortably in his hands. The man stared down upon him through tormented, emerald eyes. He had not uttered so much as a word of goodbye—he had not attempted to console his wailing, infant daughter. He only pressed his hat upon his had and turned his back to his children.

  Roberts feels something old and angry brewing within him. “My father left the island of Chancey years ago,” he says, his voice growing choked in his throat. “He is nothing to me, and he is a stranger to Emerala. The man is as good as dead.”

  “Perhaps,” the man says, and flashes Roberts an apologetic smile. “Tell me, how did your mother come to pass?”

  Roberts recoils, feeling his skin prickle with annoyance beneath his collar. Ghosts from the past—ghost he has spent years fighting to repress—come surging to the forefront of his mind. He glances down towards the stony floor at his feet, inhaling deeply.

  “She was gunned to death by a guardian.” He cringes as his voice cracks beneath the weight of his words.

  “Why?”

  Roberts’s gaze snaps up towards the man’s face as latent anger undulates through his veins. The bluntness of the man’s question threatens to bowl him over. He exhales sharply, his nostrils expanding as he fights to get ahold of his simmering temper.

  “When Eliot Roberts left my mother, she took my sister and I to live with our aunt and uncle, Anerani and Gerwinge. She told me that she didn’t feel safe on her own.” He pauses, wincing slightly in remembrance as he scratches at the back of his neck.

  “I don’t know why she felt safe there, either,” he continues quietly. “Gerwinge was a large advocator of the old magics. He had been publically scourged in the past. At first, when the guardians came to the apartment, I thought that that’s why they were there.”

  “And it was not?”

  Roberts glowers at the man in silence for a long moment before continuing. “No. It wasn’t. They demanded that my mother tell them where my father had gone.”

  “I take it she didn’t?”

  “Even if she had wanted to, she couldn’t,” Roberts says, rubbing his palm furiously across the nape of his neck. His insides feel cold—weighted down by memories. “He left her without so much as an explanation. The guardians shot them all.”

  “And you were there? You witnessed this?” A deep groove appears between the man’s eyes.

  “I was hiding behind the couch,” Roberts mutters, staring at the shadows over the man’s shoulder. He is not proud of this fact—is quite ashamed, in fact—but what else could he have done? He was only a boy. He remembers how he had knelt in the blood that seeped towards him from beneath the dilapidated bit of furniture. He could not cry out—could not move until the men had left. The memory is painful. He can feel it sticking in his heart like a needle.

  “I know it’s painful, Roberts, but it’s ammunition.”

  The man’s words startle him into blinking furiously. He returns his gaze to the hard lines of the man’s face. A pair of deep, indigo eyes survey him silently across the dancing shadows. “What?” His voice is hoarse.

  “The usurper sent his men to rob you of your family,” the man explains, straightening his shoulders as he draws to his full height. His head nearly scrapes against the low hanging ceiling overhead. “As a result of his hate, you grew up alone. And now, he is going to send men to rob you of your sister. I can keep her safe.”

  “I can keep her safe,” Roberts retorts darkly. I have always kept her safe.

  “No,” the man disagrees. “Not by being invisible—not anymore. Your life has more significance than you know, Roberts the Valiant. Your fate bears more weight in this world than you can possibly begin to understand. The time for idling in the shadows is done. You need to fight back
. You need to outsmart the enemy in a game of wits.”

  “You want me to spy for you.” It is not a question.

  “Yes,” the man confirms simply, holding up his palms in a shrug of invitation. “We do not have the strength to bear arms against the Golden Guard—nor do I want to engage my people in a war. We need to stay one step ahead of the usurper. That is the only way we will survive.”

  Roberts swallows—contemplates the offer that sits before him. Only one coherent thought rises above the jumble of warring memories within his head. “Why does he despise us?”

  A crooked smile dances upon the man’s lips. “I have some theories,” he says lightly. He does not expand upon what those theories are. “The fact of the matter is this—the Stoward reign has poisoned Chancey against us. We need to reclaim the island from under the usurper’s feet.”

  Roberts is silent before the Cairan king—this whispered name in the streets, embodied now by a lithe, towering figure with stormy, violet eyes.

  “I’ll do it,” Roberts says finally, sucking air in lightly through his teeth.

  The man smiles wider, exposing a gleaming line of ivory teeth. “A wise choice, Roberts the Valiant. Now, I have kept you long enough. Your sister should be arriving at the cathedral any moment. I’m sure you’ll want to speak with her. You and I can speak more later on this evening.”

  Roberts nods, feeling suddenly eager to go. He is tired of being below the earth—tired of being packed within the dark catacombs, left alone in the company of this mysterious king. Without another word, he heads towards the main entrance. Reaching out for the door, he pauses, pressing the toes of his boots into the ground underfoot.

  “Wait,” he mutters, more to himself than to the man behind him. He tilts his chin to the side, glancing at the Cairan king out of the corners of his eyes. “Mame Galyria told me to seek out Mame Noveli. She hinted that you might know where she is.”

  “I do,” confirms the man. “She’s here—In the catacombs.”

  Roberts dithers upon the stone, wondering what to do. The man appears to pick up on his hesitancy.

  “Go and see your sister,” he suggests. “Make sure she’s made it here safely. I will send for you both tomorrow evening. Mame Noveli will be eager to meet with our newest Listener, I’m sure.”

  “Oh,” Roberts mumbles. He had not expected it to be so easy. “Thank you.”

  Without another word, he turns towards the stairs and heads back upwards into the reach of the light. As he ascends the narrow steps, he replays in his mind the strange conversation with the king.

  A Listener. He feels a flicker of regret wash over him and he wishes he had thought to ask more questions. He has no idea what will be expected of him as a spy for the Cairan king. It is exciting, in the very least, and Saynti knows he can use a little bit of excitement in his life. Every moment until now, it seems, has been dedicated to trying to keep Emerala out of her own way.

  He thinks of his sister locked away within the impenetrable stone walls of the cathedral and he nearly laughs out loud. She will go mad beneath the shadows of the saints—unable to visit her usual haunts and stir up the proper amount of trouble. At least, then, he won’t have to constantly agonize over whether or not she has managed to get herself arrested by the golden elite. At least, then, he can worry about himself.

  He reflects upon the events of the past two days, his mood souring as he thinks back to the cryptic message the Cairan king had delivered to him only moments ago beneath the pressing stone.

  Your life has more significance than you know, Roberts the Valiant, he had said, his eyes glittering violet in the darkness. Your fate bears more weight in this world than you can possibly begin to understand.

  He mulls over the enigmatic words, wondering what the man could possibly have meant by that. It is not until he reaches the confessional that he realizes that the elusive king never offered him a name.

  CHAPTER 11

  Seranai the Fair

  “Here’s your animal.”

  Seranai the Fair holds out the fraying lead rope with an agitated snap of her wrist.

  The blacksmith’s apprentice, a young boy not much older than fifteen, stares back at her chest with a dirty face and an impish grin. His hammer, which he had been using to bang out an unwanted bend in a wrought iron pole, has ceased its racket. It hangs suspended in the air between them.

  “Hope you got your money’s worth, miss.” The boy pats his coat pocket with three grimy fingers. Seranai grimaces as though the boy has delivered her a sharp slap to the face. She thinks of the gold coins she gave him in exchange for borrowing his donkey—of the cold, diminishing weight of them as they trickled through her fingers and into his outstretched palm. She has not come close to getting her money’s worth, in fact.

  She stomps towards the door without another word to the rotten boy.

  “Don’t be too sorely put out, love,” leaks a voice from the shadows. Seranai pauses. Her grey eyes travel curiously towards the far side of the room. Beyond the reach of the light, she can just make out the profile of a lanky man perching lazily against a dust-ridden table. His fingers tap idly against his thigh in a fervid rat-tat-tat.

  “Excuse me?” she asks, taking a cautious step in his direction. The muddied hem of her gown disturbs the sawdust that litters the floor and she is suddenly haloed in a ruddy cloud of dust. The man lets out a throaty laugh. From beneath the shadow cast by his tricorn cap she can see the glistening sheen of a golden tooth.

  “I’m only saying, you aren’t the cap’n’s type anyhow. You shouldn’t waste time being bitter at him.” His fingers fall still against his leg and she notices that the beds of his nails are yellowed from tobacco.

  Her reply is terse. “I’m not bitter.”

  An affected sigh draws her gaze back to his face. A crooked grin teases at one corner of his lips. “Now me, I would have paid good mind to you if you walked my way.”

  He hops off of the table, flicking his hat upwards upon his head with one dirty finger. The dusty afternoon light that pours in through the soiled windowpanes falls across his features. A full-blown grin cuts across his jaw, shaded with unkempt scruff. A pair of shockingly golden eyes stare her shamelessly up and down from beneath wild, black hair. She fidgets uncomfortably beneath his gaze, becoming suddenly aware of the silence that grips the room. With mild agitation, she realizes that the young apprentice is hanging on to their every word.

  Nosy brat.

  She raises her chin, glancing down at the gangling man from the tip of her upturned nose. “I don’t consort with pirates.”

  “I’d reckon you don’t.” He takes a step closer to her, those golden eyes studying her with far too much familiarity for her liking. “I don’t know what your game is, love, but I think I’d like to find out.”

  “I’m not playing a game,” she retorts, drawing back a step—determined to keep a safe distance between them.

  The crooked grin on his face widens. “We’ll see, won’t we?” His hand encloses about her elbow, his slender fingers becoming lost in the fragile white lace that borders the hem of her sleeve. His grip is too tight as he draws her in close. Leaning down, he places his lips by her ear. She can smell the pungent reek of ale on his breath as he whispers, “I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. Remember that, if you ever need something done right.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she snaps with insincerity, wrenching her arm from his grasp. Before her, his lingering gaze is making her skin crawl.

  “Who are you, anyway?”

  He sweeps his tricorn hat from his head in a grand gesture, bowing low. His tangled black hair falls into his face, momentarily obscuring those strange, golden eyes.

  “Evander the Hawk. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  She sniffles audibly. “Evander the Hawk? That’s a Cairan name.”

  He straightens, his eyes glimmering with delight. “Insightful, aren’t you? I was born and bred upon the good island of Chancey.�
�

  “There’s nothing good about this place,” Seranai retorts in spite of herself.

  One eyebrow rises upon his head as laugh lines splinter outward around his eyes.

  “Bright girl,” he sings. “I left as soon as I was old enough to know better. You would too, if you knew what was good for you, love.”

  The apprentice drops his hammer, then, and it falls against the wrought iron bar with a bone-shuddering crash. Seranai is suddenly and painfully aware of the pirate’s proximity to her in empty expanse of the blacksmith’s shop. She pulls away from him with a grimace, pushing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes.

  “Good day to you,” she says coldly, and adds, “pirate.”

  He says nothing, only replaces his tricorn hat firmly upon his head with a jovial wink. Her mood soured impossibly further, she heads quickly away from the foul blacksmith’s and its lowly occupants. She does not continue onward through the busy main streets of Chancey. She has no desire to run into any of the pedestrians that mill about, bartering with the merchants and running errands. Her dress, a dusky rose-colored gown that she has not worn in years, is covered entirely in mud. She cannot bear for anyone to see her in such low-class attire, let alone garments that look as though she slept with swine the previous evening. She fumes as she stalks along, turning as quickly as possibly down an empty side street.

  Her luck as of late has been utterly rotten. She sniffles, trying in vain to pick some of the dried mud out from the folds in the cream colored fabric of her petticoat. She did not intend for that pirate—what had been his name? Alexander?—to stop and offer to help her out from the mud. In fact, she had been counting on being left quite alone.

  She set out earlier that morning with a very particular goal—to arrange a chance meeting between her and Roberts the Valiant. She knew that he would be at the cathedral when the clock struck noon. All that she needed to do was be present and vulnerable, and she was sure that he would swoop in to offer her aid. No one else would even give her a second glance. She had made sure to pick clothing that would identify her as a Cairan. There was not a single Chancian upon the street who would look twice at a gypsy girl struggling in the street.