Lightborn

by L J Andrews

Roark winced against the burn on his healing shoulders when Bradach clapped a thick hand over the wounds. “Welcome home, Ro. One day you’re going to tell me your real name.” Bradach withdrew his hand once he noticed Roark’s twisted face. “Ah, I’ve heard Lord Tama has a proclivity for beatings. Follow orders on this ship and those might have a chance to scar over. Are you glad to be home?”

  “For some reasons.” Roark readjusted the weapons holster given when he’d stepped on board the Blood Oath. Bradach’s ship was stained black and gray. The mottled stains kept the ship camouflaged against the dark shores more than solid black. The stealth of Baron Bradach was what made him Lord of the Sea—and dangerous.

  Bradach trained his dark eyes down his nose and stroked the crimson braid in his beard again. The baron had a scar over his eyebrow and the sun had weathered his skin, but Roark had been surprised at Bradach’s youth. Perhaps the baron was only ten or so years his senior. Roark could only guess because he wasn’t going to ask. “Reasons I suppose you keep private.”

  Roark nodded. “Yes, zaeim.”

  Bradach chuckled and breathed the brine in the air deeply. “Well, my new friend, as sea faring men we stop at many ports. It is the life you’ve chosen, Ro. I promise you shall see more than the ports of Jershon, but for now I have business in Sortis. I plan to remain in the city for three nights. As a member of this crew you have free reign of the city. Return to port by the red morning or you’ll be flogged, killed, or left as a prisoner of Kawal. Personally, I’d rather be gutted by my own hand than fall prisoner to that maniac.”

  Roark shook away the knot tightening at the base of his skull and nodded. Signs of the blood moon were coming, and the morning after seemed so far away. Nicknamed red for the gleam of crimson always left in the morning sky after a blood moon, but also for the usual destruction caused during the night of the moon.

  “You don’t tolerate tardiness,” Roark said.

  “I don’t tolerate many things,” Bradach said as he lit a brown pipe and dragged in a long breath of smoke. “On this ship, spoils claimed by a crewman belong to that crewman, with a royalty lining my pocket. If you try to cheat a shipmate, take what does not belong to you, I will string you by the ankles until the blood pools in your brain, then drop you in the darkest part of the sea.” Bradach scanned Roark’s face as he allowed the threat to sink in. Sucking on the pipe again he turned back to the approaching port. “On shore you’re free to slum wherever your desire leads, kill if you are attacked, but never be the first to take out your blade, use coin and supplies to barter for food or weapons.”

  Roark furrowed his brow. “I thought sea barons plundered and pillaged.”

  Bradach narrowed his gaze and smoked a longer breath than before. “There is a difference between a sea baron and a common pirate. Anyone can steal at knife point, Ro. Sailing among the barons takes finesse, agility, and strength of mind. If I killed every man that crossed my path, life would be a never-ending battle whenever we came ashore. I strike terror in my negotiations by other means. I get what I want and gain more power, but don’t always spill blood to do it. Though there have been a few special times where blood was necessary.” Roark stared at Bradach as he chortled at his own voice. “Surprised? I thought you might be.”

  “It’s just that I’ve heard many tales of your raids.”

  “Most are probably true with a bit of flare spun in for good measure. On land, I am a guest. In the water if a brazen ship enters my kingdom, well now, there is a reason I am the Lord of the Sea. I’m not afraid to slit a throat, Ro. But if you want to learn how to have true power over the enemies that obviously plague your soul, there is more I can teach you than cutting flesh.”

  “If I don’t displease you and get returned to the Cliffs.”

  “I suppose this port will be your first test if I can trust you. Remember, you must buy your way off the crew and price for land legs doesn’t come cheap. That, or you are part of this crew until your last breath. Do not think of running, I assure you, we’ll find you.”

  “I have no plans to stay in Jershon.”

  “Good.” Bradach clapped his tender shoulder again either because he’d forgotten the pain, or the baron simply didn’t care. “Then join the men to shore. Jershon is yours for the next three nights.”

  Bradach pointed to the skiff lowering down the port side of the vessel. Rowdy crewmen drank ale from glass bottles, spoke of the women they’d love cheaply with vulgar words, and counted coppers for trade. The baron clasped the brass buttons on his gray coat, covered his head with a black tricorn hat, and stomped to his quarters. Roark leaned over the banister as the ship maneuvered through fish and crabber skiffs. The air was different. Harsh brine was the same, but Jershon was missing the freshness of green hills and crystal water. All Roark saw now was dark clouds surrounding Kawal’s wall. His Jershon had died the night Roark died.

  “Come on bruiser, you don’t want to stay on board the entire time.”

  Roark glanced at the edge of the ship where the crewman who’d head locked him in the Cyprus Cliffs waved for Roark to take his place on the boat.

  Roark nodded and dropped down into the skiff. “Thanks for waiting, Kiln.”

  Kiln shrugged and belayed the rope until the skiff rocked on the gray water. “You’ve been whimpering thank yous and apologies since we brought you aboard. You behave like you’re going to get tossed overboard, bruiser. You’re a shipmate now. Start acting like one.”

  The men surrounding Roark in the small boat whooped and hollered, one slapping his back, so the welts erupted in an inferno of agony, but Roark didn’t cry out. He nodded at Kiln and took up an oar.

  “So much has changed,” Roark said under his breath as he scanned the streets of Sortis no more than an hour after docking.

  Kiln stretched as he and several other crewmen hopped out of the wagon they’d ridden from the port. “What are you muttering about?” Kiln tapped Roark’s arm and held out an expectant palm. Roark dug into his loose trousers and handed a copper for coach payment.

  “Nothing.”

  Kiln sniffed and wiped his sweaty brow. “You’re from here, aren’t you? That’s what Baron Bradach said in the cliffs.” Roark nodded but kept his eyes trained on the hovels that had replaced the grand clay homes and green gardens. “Whatever you’re holding on inside let it go. Maybe you’ll get to see a different side of Jershon that you hadn’t before. We’re heading to Madonna Skoka’s, she has the highest quality houses, and we don’t plan to leave for the entire three nights. Coming?”

  Roark swallowed and tried to smile. “I’ll meet you there. I have somewhere to go first.”

  Kiln just shrugged and took a bottle of pungent ale from another crewman as they stalked into the city center.

  Roark watched the crew disappear into the bustle of life. Sortis seemed desperate to cling to normalcy. But the haggard expressions and guards, with serpents on their armor, standing on every corner painted a different picture from any normal Roark remembered.

  He rolled down the sleeves of his tunic to cover the markings on his arm and turned away from the center to the outer rim of the city. Inside the wall of the city the air was heavy with oil, dirty water, and caged animals for trade. Roark turned off the cobblestone streets and trudged up one of the many hillsides. The long grass against his fingertips was yellowed where once it was lush and green. Soft hums of flying insects among flowers was replaced with shriveled buds and the hiss of roaches.

  A broken slab of stone caused him to stumble over a drooping stoop. The clay walls were painted black, but then they’d always been black, and the windows were still draped. Roark peered inside the cracked front door to the Shen house when he realized it was opened. As a boy he’d always yearned to train with the Shen, but only nobles had the opportunity. It seemed strange to weaponize the elite with specialized training and not the soldiers, but the nobles always had unique privilege.

  Roark covered his nose and groaned. The scent of old urine wafted
around the doorframe.

  “What are you doing?” A man rounded the corner near the entry. A Shen. The crimson cloak, and bald head made his position clear. Sagging skin beneath his weary eyes swelled and he seemed too thin to lift a blade. “Get out of here, only students allowed inside.”

  “You still train nobles?” Roark hadn’t meant to speak, but this Shen seemed ready to meet his maker. The idea he might be training nobles how to brandish a blade was absurd.

  “Nobles? Who are you? We train the emperor’s chosen. I doubt you are one of them. Be gone.”

  The Shen slammed the door with enough force a cloud of dust puffed against Roark’s face. Perhaps there were no more nobles in Jershon. There was a place Roark never wanted to see again, but it seemed the call of memories cared little how he felt and the road winding behind the Shen house beckoned him forward. He wet his lips several times before taking the first step on the dirt path.

  Empty. Scribe square was nothing more than the scorched memory of families passing on the tradition of tongues and language to each generation. The furrows on his forehead deepened until the small muscles in his face ached when he saw the ruins of the last house on the left. Roark leaned against a blackened beam that once held up the tile roof. The gray brick oven still stood and a heavy, iron kettle was still on top where his mother left it. The ground was untouched since the soldiers had burned the square to hide away the brutal murders of Abram’s scribes.

  Roark’s stomach twisted like the cyclones near the volcanic ring off the coast. The harsh scent of burned wood assaulted his nose and bile stabbed his throat. Buried in the rubble were bits of parchment, all portions with burned edges and destroyed bindings. Roark despised the onslaught of tears welling in his eyes as he brushed cinders and ash off a piece of workbook that has been stored in an iron box; his mother had named it the box of memories.. Even after two years away, the pain was still raw.

  He recognized his own childish writing on the front of the parchment and chuckled. His mother taught him the forgotten languages first, and for at least two years she would battle against him to complete one page in the book each day.

  Just one, bachcha. By the Mount, just one page, then you shall play, she’d say and roll her eyes that were more gold than brown. He smiled and traced a few symbols of the ancient alphabet.

  Once he’d learned to speak in forgotten tongues, Roark and his parents enjoyed muttering in code amongst the city center simply to confuse others. The night Kawal and the stewards of Emperor Abram had come into their home to view the discovery of the scroll his mother had passed him a note in forgotten tongues. Roark’s jaw pulsed and his neck tensed. How he wished now she hadn’t been right. The note told Roark something was strange about the general’s interest in the scroll; to be leery. Ironic that the day the scrolls were supposed to be transcribed and delivered to Abram was the same day the soldiers of Mulek and Kawal had returned and silenced House Varonis. He tossed the workbook back into the ash. The boy who’d played and laughed with loving parents didn’t exist.

  “Terrible what happened to the scribes.”

  Roark startled and swiftly wiped the sting from his eyes. A young woman with brown hair that seemed kissed with gold sunbeams stared at him. Her skin matched his own, though powder darkened the tint. She wore a sheer veil over her mouth to mark an available noblewoman, but it was her eyes that rendered Roark speechless for too long. The blue cut deeper than the summer skies, or the cleanest ocean and reminded him of a calmer time.

  He cleared his throat and kicked a fallen beam back into the pile of rubble. “You knew them?”

  The woman shook her head. “Knew of them. In another life, it seems. You are from Jershon?”

  Roark nodded and lied. “I left before the siege and find myself conflicted on whether the change has been good, or perhaps made the city worse. Forgive me, Lady, I don’t wish to offend your land.”

  She scoffed and it sounded like she might have muttered ‘my land’ under her breath but he couldn’t be certain. “I have not been to Jershon in years. Your secret conflict is safe with me, sir. I would worry if you found the act of a traitor against his own people appealing.”

  “You speak of General Kawal?”

  The woman nodded and peered over her shoulder. “We should not speak so loudly.” She in turn lowered her voice. “I find his treason appalling.”

  Roark smiled—perhaps for the first time in two years—and took a step closer. “I couldn’t agree more. Forgive me for asking, but a noblewoman such as yourself might know where the general frequents?” He swallowed a dry scratch in the back of his throat when the woman peered over her veil with suspicion. “Despite my feelings on his methods, I’m here to deliver a trade agreement for my baron.”

  Roark knew he was walking a dangerous line. Even with time as a bruiser, he wasn’t prepared to face Kawal. The man had two imperial armies at his command, and years of training as a soldier. Without the amulets Roark’s vengeance could be cut short if he acted too soon, but since stepping foot on Jershon soil, the idea of spilling Kawal’s blood festered like a parasite in his heart.

  “You’re a sailor?” Roark nodded and bowed his head, so his hair spilled over his brow. She paused, and Roark could almost see the cogs in her mind deciding whether to trust him or not. “I don’t know where to find the general. In fact, I’ve said too much about myself and my thoughts. I shouldn’t be here.”

  Roark didn’t know why the woman intrigued him. Something about her aura almost called to him, like a whisper. He reached out and touched her arm. “No, please. Don’t leave, you’ve said nothing about yourself. Though I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

  Ice. Pure, blue ice over the fresh ponds in the Northern Gap. That was the color of her eyes and he was struck again when she studied his face as though she were reading his soul. Like a forgotten memory of those eyes yearned to break free.

  “I’m late for a previous engagement, sir. And besides, it isn’t proper for a woman to be alone with a strange man as the sun sets. The blood moon is soon coming and I’m sure you know, nothing good comes with a blood moon.” She turned to leave but stopped and met his eye once more. “If I were you, I’d reconsider negotiating with General Kawal during these nights. This city still isn’t safe, I’d hate to see a decent man such as you be harmed because of a fiend like Kawal.”

  “Your concern honors me, but I know how to survive.”

  She chuckled and tucked a wave of loose hair beneath her veil again. “I suppose most people in the Bloodlands do.”

  “What’s your name, Lady?”

  She grinned. “Perhaps if we meet again, I shall tell you.”

  Roark watched her sway into the shadows. His decimated home burdened his shoulders in sadness, but something about the noblewoman, the genuine gleam in her eye, led him to believe there might still be good in the lost Jershon.

  Chapter 15

  The Red House

  Isa missed the silk against her skin as she adjusted the plain, gray smock with uneven stitches. The magnetic bracelet was heavy around her wrist, but also offered comfort knowing she wasn’t alone beyond the iron walls. Her hair was loose over her shoulders and the noble gown, veil, and gold jewelry tucked safely in the hostel room.

  Changing her disguise in the burned memory of the scribe home had almost been irreverent, but she’d taken a moment to honor the fallen before she’d emerged from the blackened square as a simple peasant traveler from Zahara. Stripping the powder with only canteen of water had been difficult, but she couldn’t use the old well, not with the sailor wandering around the square. Isa was a fool for stopping and speaking to the man, but something about the way he’d stared at the Varonis house so forlorn, the words had tumbled out. Seeing him took her back to the last true act of kindness she’d experienced after her exile. But Baz had seen to it that sort of kindness was destroyed when he’d destroyed the scribe square.

  How amateurish it was to admit her time away from Jershon when she
was meant to be a noblewoman from the land. Never again. Her mind would stay focused and so she’d remained in the shattered rubble of the house until after dark to ensure the man was gone.

  The moon was an orange brown tonight, and tomorrow would be the first shade of red, but the true blood moon would come in two nights. Then she would rendezvous with Joshua. As she rounded into one of the back alleys next to the rickety house Isa shuddered at the thought of failing. This run was different. Hadeon had, to her understanding, never asked a thief to steal something for him. The request could mean countless things, but Isa had hope it meant she’d found favor in her master’s eyes and could rise as the second in command at winter’s solstice when positions in the guild were demoted or added upon.

  There were sores on the inside of Isa’s cheeks from her incessant gnawing as she slunk through the shadows of the city. Tucking her head Isa dipped between two barrels filled with rank rice wine that smelled as if the drink were cured with urine.

  The house was alight with a touch of red from silks covering the shades of the lanterns and Isa tried to ignore the hushed whispers, the squeals of forced delight, and the scent of bodies entangled in ruin. Tucking a dark shawl around her head she slid silently along the back wall until she found an open window near the back corner. The ledge wasn’t high, but rotting wood offered an unusual challenge of sneaking in without being heard. Isa flung against the splintery wall when a back door creaked on rusted hinges and a couple spilled into the back alley.

  A man with greasy black hair laughed wildly as he spun one time on his heel. Ale slopped from his wooden goblet and splashed against his partner’s neck. Despite the spill the woman chortled and crowed with heaving breaths, causing her bust to spill over a bodice fitted too tight for her voluptuous figure. In the same time it took for the couple to exit the house, the man to slam the woman’s shoulders against the back wall and devour her neck and mouth, Isa drifted like a shadow and slipped in through the opened door without a sound.