Survivors of Arcadia

by Annathesa Nikola Darksbane

  “You don’t always win by bein’ strong.” A lazy summer day returned to her unbidden, her grandmother deftly bandaging the rough scrape on her knee, the one that had scarred. “Sometimes you gotta think, too. But most people won’t never bother.”

  Not what would Jone do. Adie stared up at the blade. What would Gran do?

  “You’re right!” The Arcadian ducked her head as the sword started to drop, but the blow never fell. “I ain’t Jonelise of Arcadia. I ain’t no Iron Knight or anything like that. But I do know somethin’ you don’t.”

  The captain scowled at her, opened his mouth to speak, and she cut him off.

  “Jonelise ain’t dead.” She glared up in defiance, despite the green-blue threads that dragged at her heavy limbs. “Oh, fer sure, they’re gonna tell ya that. They’re gonna say she fell to the Center of the World and burned away, that she’s back in th’ Gravekeeper’s vengeful embrace right now.”

  Adrienne scoffed and spat at his feet. “But that Queen of yours don’t know shit. I’m one of Jone’s followers, one of her friends, and I know she ain’t gone. Just like last time, how you people tricked her, betrayed her, and murdered her, an’ she still came back t’ kick your butts.”

  The captain’s eyes darkened. Around her, the circle of crew rumbled, a rumble of questions rising in volume. Adie glanced to her sides.

  All she saw was black and silver.

  Not a drop of red-and-gold.

  This wasn’t an Elizabethian man-of-war at all. This was a Gallian ship of the line, likely pressed into service in the armada.

  Adrienne smiled.

  “So no, I ain’t her. I’m just a girl trying to save some lives.” She continued. “But she’s coming back. An’ when she does, you’re gonna regret bein’ on th’ wrong side of history. So you’d better hope she ain’t coming back, better hope that this war don’t end an’ you don’t have to go home an’ look your families, your friends in the eye.”

  And as she locked eyes with the man, as she watched his rage brew and his sword arm rise for the third and final time, Adie knew she wasn’t just saying the words.

  She truly believed them.

  She’d made her decision, and her fear was gone.

  She had faith.

  “Because when she comes back from th’ dead this time,” Adie finished, “she’s gonna turn your little world upside down.”

  “I hope that thought comforts you,” the Elizabethian scoffed, “since you’re the one who’s all alone, and about to die.”

  This time, the blow fell. Adrienne watched it drop.

  The sharp retort of a steamlock cut across the deck as someone shot him in the chest.

  His blade brushed Adrienne’s cheek as she tumbled to the side, and the captain staggered back in shock as the shot punched through his gilded breastplate. The current of magic that ran through her core thickened slightly as the Gallian crew swapped allegiances.

  The deck rang with her cry of defiance as Adrienne finally found her faith.

  A current of golden, feathery threads burst from her back, from right between her shoulder blades, and brushed aside the enemy’s sapping tendrils like they were nothing.

  Adrienne surged to her feet and tackled him, ramming her shoulder into his breastplate. The steel dented. His blade whipped up defensively and dug deep into her face from jaw to scalp, almost catching her eye.

  His legs hit the edge of the deck and he toppled over, his scream fading swiftly away as he fell into the endless Abyss.

  Adie stepped to the edge, holding her injured face, and looked down. But he was already long gone.

  “If you see Jonelise down there,” she whispered, “tell her not t’ keep me waitin.’”

  Then she turned back to the crew, nervous but believing. To the man still holding a smoking steamlock, the same one she’d saved from plummeting to his doom.

  “Alright,” the former barmaid commanded, gleaming wings still streaming from her spine. “Now turn this ship around an’ bring her as close as you can to that broken dock. We got some people that need savin’.”

  2

  Superlative

  The Lady Bellamy danced.

  Under the critical eyes of allies and enemies alike, she spun and twirled, moving from one partner to the next like a flutterdove, never alighting in any one place for long.

  It felt like every eye was upon her; it had been that way since her dramatic entrance, and every individual still scrutinized her for weakness, for flaws.

  She smiled as she danced, for they would find none.

  The Lady danced to awe, to impress. She danced as if she hadn’t a concern in the world though it was a lie.

  And, somewhere inside, a part of her danced to forget.

  She had once told a now-dead friend of the importance of illusions, of deceptions, of the everyday masks all people don to hide their true motives. Never was that more important than now, with Arcadia in ruins and the alliance against her cousin Elizabeth an inch from the precipice.

  So now was the time to project confidence, assurance. To court reluctant allies and intimidate enemies—before everything they had built together fell apart. And this night was an important part of that. To simply walk into a lavish ballroom full of dignified guests and representatives though the price on her head had never been larger. To walk in, talk and dance the night away, then walk out again as if nothing could touch her—preferably, with alliances secured.

  And if anyone could accomplish this, it was her.

  Brought up with the absolute pinnacle of education and training, there was nothing she knew of that she could not do, and do well. Perhaps even better than anyone else, for she had learned those lessons adequately indeed.

  Though it wasn’t enough to save Jonelise, now was it?

  The Lady Bellamy smiled as she danced, and that thought never reached her face. The only emotions she let others see where those she chose whether to manipulate them...or because she cared for them. She was in control here as always.

  Not that it protected my friends.

  The long dance spun to a close in a dizzying flare of sound, motion, and light. She dipped into a low bow before the crowd, deeper and more graceful than anyone else. They had made space for her in the center of the Grand Ballroom, crowds and couples alike moving aside for her performance, lesser wills yielding to her own.

  “Announcing the Lady, Samantha Segare Bellamy!” Her title boomed out across the room, echoing through a loudhorn. The sound drew a murmur from the dancing, scheming continental nobility gathered all around, even though most already knew who she was. The rush of noise mixed with the clear rhythm of the orchestra assembled at the back of the vast room. It bounced from the arched recesses of the vaulted ceiling high above as a spinning orrery cast dazzling rays of glittering light down from on high.

  Lady Bellamy smiled and drank it all in.

  “My lady,” a respectful voice begged her attention as Bellamy retreated from the Ballroom’s main floor, relinquishing it once more to its typical denizens, leaving them whispering in her wake. “The Grand Duke would like to see you, if you please.”

  Lady Bellamy inclined her head to the large eyed, petite serving girl clad in black and silver livery, then took the lead as she made her own way toward where the Duke held court in one far, elevated corner of the massive room.

  The crowd parted for her once more as she cut her way through it like an arrow, like the prow of a steam-ship in flight. She’d expected to spend many more hours dancing, mixed with mingling, maneuvering, and manipulating, before the old Duke deigned to see her.

  Her smile broadened, just a little. His haste spoke well of tonight’s intentions.

  Grand Duke Matthias of Gallia—formerly the Ard Ri of Gallia, before Elizabeth conquered his lands and forcefully “demoted” him—was a large man, like his father Maximilian before him. Exquisitely cut, if slightly out of style, silver and ebony robes and layers of bejeweled finery concealed much of his portly figure. The
thick streaks of gray that sliced through his short hair and manicured beard perhaps spoke more of the stress of his position and recent decades than his actual age, but his bearing held firm and regal as ever, his dagger-sharp eyes keen, calculating, and dangerous.

  Not that his manner intimidated Bellamy, of course. She’d known the man since he was an infant, after all, just like his father before him.

  At the same time, he couldn’t be seen directly requesting the attendance of a wanted criminal, especially a pirate of Black Sam Bellamy’s infamy. Instead, he gave her the briefest of nods as she began the slow process of working her way into the powerful man’s direct orbit.

  But that too was well worth her time, and part of the night’s designs. In the darkened, raised corner of the Grand Ballroom, she spoke with many of the Duke’s many children and grandchildren, as well as many of the most powerful nobles of Gallia and notable emissaries of nearby nations. It wasn’t terribly long before the polite chit-chat and facade of inconsequential conversation fell away. Questions of the fate of Arcadia were on everyone’s tongue, accompanied by worries over renewed Elizabethian aggression.

  As for the fate of Arcadia, she told the truth. There was little need to embellish the brutality, and it echoed the storied events of two centuries before. The fears, she stoked. A few seeds of truth and the memories of the all-to-recent past made it simple to fan the flames of fright.

  And as for Jone’s death, she lied.

  “Defeated? Yes. Dead? I think not. Since when has our Eternal Queen told us the truth as we would see it, instead of as she sees it?” Bellamy smiled and sipped wine, wishing silently that the Gallian nobility had better taste. “One simple victory—no matter how resounding, I’ll admit—does not the end of a revolution make.”

  “Nor does she need to lie if the truth is crushing enough,” a deeper voice cut across all others with authority and lesser nobility scattered, giving the approaching Duke space and quiet to speak with Bellamy. “More than Elizabethian mouths carry the same news: that your heroine is dead, fallen to the Abyss in The Drake’s trap.” The Duke peered down at her, sharp eyes considering. His closest advisors and most influential vassals clustered close, a wall of supporters eager to witness her news and their discourse for themselves.

  “And the tales of a wheat-haired girl commandeering one of your own warships for her escape? Has that news not made the rounds as well?” Bellamy took another sip of wine. She would have preferred hard brandy instead, but the idle action served to dismiss the Duke’s concerns as surely as her words. While they’d known each other for years, friendship and trust were far from assured in the circles of nobility.

  Part of why Bellamy preferred her pirates. They were far more honest.

  “Somehow, from what I heard of your farmgirl, I doubt she would hide idly by while the Queen hunts down her followers,” the Grand Duke’s words rebuffed her, but she could see the consideration in his eyes.

  “Jonelise knows well to serve the greater good,” Bellamy turned to face him directly, discarding the game of idle chatter, and met those eyes firmly. “But the matter of her survival, or lack thereof, is beside the point. Right now, everyone thinks they’re choosing who to believe, my cousin Elizabeth or the rumors of the rebellion’s survivors. But they’re not. Even if Jonelise were dead, the death of any one woman will not smother the spreading flames of insurrection.”

  The Lady Bellamy set aside the wineglass, the illusion of pretending. “I know you hear the murmurs of your own people. Their desire for freedom.” She smiled, cold as ice, a promise. “So the real choice you’re making is which side of history you want to be on, and how you want to be remembered. Strong enough to fight for their freedom, or simply as another of the old Queen’s slaves?”

  Grand Duke Matthias held her eyes. The gathered nobles and advisors went still. Some even stepped away from her.

  Matthias chuckled.

  “You still haven’t changed, have you?” Amused, he draped an arm casually around her shoulders and guided her away from the public edge of his raised platform. “Nothing but sharp edges under all that lace. You don’t have to threaten me in my own palace to get my attention, Samantha. Or question my loyalty to my own people in front of my staunchest supporters.”

  Moving them both back towards his private seats and small table laden with fine refreshments, the Duke himself offered her a tall glass of strong, dark, honey-colored brandy. “Besides, I think the real question is: can I trust you any more than your cousin?” His face wrinkled with faint lines of distaste. “Especially considering how vast the consequences could be to my royal person. So who is to say whether you and this firebrand of yours are really any better for me and mine than our dear Eternal Majesty?”

  “Well,” Bellamy downed a third of her skycrystal tallglass in a single gulp, relishing the burn as it slid down her throat. “At least we’re not trying to take your stuff.”

  The big Duke muffled an honest laugh. “Says the pirate commodore?”

  “Well, we’re not trying to take stuff you actually care about.”

  His amusement lingered as he tilted back his head and matched her shot for shot. “That’s fair.” The Grand Duke took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “What is it you need, Sam? I could bankroll another Abyssal castle with the price hanging over your head right now, and yet you simply stroll in here as if nothing’s amiss?”

  “I hardly need open support.” Bellamy lowered her voice as well, speaking quickly and quietly. “The time for open support will come, but for now my survivors need a place to hide. People to look the other way. Some supply shipments conveniently misplaced.” She took another swift swallow of liquid fire. “You know, something deniable, but to where you can still point it out afterward and say how much you tried to help all along.”

  “Conveniently deniable...until one of Her Majesty’s Inquisitors gets ahold of the right person.”

  “People—my friends and followers—are dying out there, Matthias. I have to help them.” Dying because I failed...for the second time. Simply unacceptable. “And so do you, if you want to get your real throne back, if you want this rebellion to survive the blow Elizabeth and her Drake dealt it.”

  His regal face hardened a little. “I don’t have to do anything, Samantha. This is still my country, regardless of the shift in title I bear.” Then he took a deep breath and his harshness eroded. “But at the same time, you have a point. It might do me well to hedge my bets on either side...and for old times’ sake as well, I suppose.”

  They downed the last of their tall glasses together and he nodded after a wordless glance toward a couple of his advisors. “I tell you what. I know of a place or two where—”

  “By the Abyss! Mother, what are you doing here?”

  For an instant, Bellamy froze. For an instant, her control slipped, and her eyes went wide. Several inches of tallglass slid through her fingers, and she grasped it again an instant before it could fall and shatter.

  She felt the eyes on her taking note: noble, guest, and Duke alike. The moment of weakness they'd been searching for.

  Slowly, she turned to regard the Lady Jane Bellamy, the Eternal Queen’s Ambassador, and her pair of well-dressed, well-armed Royal Elizabethian Guardsmen.

  Her own daughter. Dead gods, it’s been so long...

  “We killed your little revolutionary. So shouldn’t you be hiding under a rock somewhere, hoping my dear Auntie doesn't stumble over you?” With a careless toss of raven black hair, the Elizabethian Ambassador strode past them both and poured herself a glass of brandy. “And shame on you, Matthias. Consorting with a known criminal. On Her Majesty’s property, no less. At least hide your backstabbing somewhere out of sight.”

  The Grand Duke’s eye narrowed sharply—but without the full fire and fury Bellamy would have expected. “That’s Duke Matthias, and this is still my palace, Lady Grey.”

  The younger Bellamy took a sip of brandy and rolled her steel-colored eyes. “At the Etern
al Queen’s pleasure, yes. Something you should probably keep in mind.” A murmur ran through the nearest nobles, a whisper of worry.

  Almost hidden away within black and silver sleeves, she saw the Duke’s fists tighten.

  But he didn’t do anything. Or even object.

  Steeling herself against the events spiraling quickly out of her control, Bellamy shook her head. “And...why is it Lady Grey? It should be Lady Bellamy.” She tried to lock eyes with the younger woman. “You’re still my daughter, Jane, no matter how long you’ve been my cousin’s ward—”

  “Surely you remember the House of Grey? Long, distinguished lineage, very respected?” The younger Bellamy made a disgusted face, twisting her pale, refined features. “The one you nearly destroyed by trying to steal the throne for yourself? Yeah, that’s the one.”

  Bellamy shook her head more emphatically, but her daughter didn’t even slow down.

  “She let me reclaim it. Save our house from the ruin you brought down on us all.” The Lady Grey glared at her, setting aside her brandy after draining half the glass. She didn’t even wince. “So now it’s Grey, thank you. I left the other name behind—like you.”

  The words hit her harder than a slap in the face. She struggled not to reel from the impact. “Jane… That’s not… I didn’t...”

  “You’ll have to pardon me, Lady Grey,” the Duke recovered much quicker than Bellamy could, though storms still brewed deep within his eyes. “But when a wanted criminal appeared in my palace without warning, I simply had to know how and why. It’s not exactly a common occurrence, and thus quite intriguing.” He smiled, smooth and false through his trimmed beard. “Would you prefer I have my guards arrest her, or…?”

  “No need. She’s leaving. No point in getting blood all over your fancy ballroom.” Lady Grey smiled a garm’s sharp-toothed smile and stared Bellamy down. “Is there? It’s not like you’re really that important, or anything.”

  Oh, how quickly the sands can shift underneath one’s feet. The Lady Bellamy shook her head. “Do you truly expect me to leave that simply, when we haven’t seen each other in—”