The Spell of Rosette

by Kim Falconer

  ‘Bethsay let it go,’ he’d said, pacing the floor when she tried to discuss her future.

  ‘I’m not my mother.’

  Rosette had wanted to develop her powers, not hide them. She’d aspired to train at one of the teaching temples—Treeon, Bangeesh or maybe even Timbali—where she could learn the star-craft and more complex rituals, and train with the bow and the sword. Her mother had smiled when they discussed it, nodding as if she were a toddler begging to ride a green-broke stallion.

  Rosette hated that memory. She shook it out of her head.

  John’ra had stood dead against her training.

  She hated that too.

  In all other things, she’d found her father a fair man. He was born in the time of the Sea-goat and had a strong body, a pragmatic mind and, generally, a kind heart. Unfortunately, he’d had dreams beyond his money-lending business and horse markets—dreams that Rosette and her propensity for magic perturbed.

  His political ambitions meant he needed his family to be a neat and happy clan. He didn’t want a fey daughter, outspoken and vivacious, raising eyebrows everywhere she went, getting involved in temple politics. But now it didn’t matter what he’d wanted. The man was dead. How could such a horrid event descend on her home without forewarning? She had seen the sea eagle return. That meant good things would come. What had she missed?

  I should have paid closer attention.

  There is no should. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind.

  Still, if she had paid better attention, what would she have seen? Rosette pressed her forehead into her hands, sifting through the past. It had all gotten worse after John’ra discovered her and Jarrod behind the barn.

  Every Sunday, when her father had gone to the horse markets, the two of them had sparred in the makeshift arena, or shot arrows at straw figures lined up against the hay barn. John’ra had returned early one day, surprising them—surprising himself. Both she and Jarrod were stripped to the waist, slashing at each other with practice staffs. Rosette had struck a winning blow, knocking Jarrod’s staff to the ground. His hands were in the air.

  ‘Tío. Kalindi. Tío!’

  It was their code word for I give up.

  ‘What in the dark underworld are you two doing?’ John’ra had screamed so loudly Kalindi slapped her hands over her ears.

  ‘Training,’ she’d said, her breasts rising and falling as she’d gasped for air. ‘Don’t shout.’

  ‘Training for what?’

  ‘Master Matosh.’ Jarrod had retrieved his staff. ‘I assure you we are only…’

  ‘I don’t need your assurances, boy. I need my daughter to stop this nonsense and grow up. What if another council member saw her dressed—’ he’d stared at her breasts ‘—undressed, in this manner? I can’t imagine what you’ve been up to.’

  ‘We were only…’

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ he’d shouted louder, his face turning red. ‘I want you off my land!’ John’ra’s fists knotted, threatening him. ‘And stay away from my daughter, or I’ll run you out of town.’

  Jarrod’s jaw had tightened, his arm twitching. After a few moments, he’d given a curt nod to John’ra and kissed his sparring partner’s cheek. He’d slung his staff over his shoulder and swaggered away.

  Soon after, a string of wealthy merchants had begun calling, marriage on their minds. Kalindi and John’ra had argued about it until their battles turned into a seething undercurrent in the household. He’d called her headstrong and self-centred; she’d called him stubborn and insensitive. After some time, they didn’t call each other anything at all.

  Now that she knew about the bad debts, his behaviour made more sense. Lining her up with suitors, all of them established, middle-aged men, was his way out. She flared up at the thought. It insulted her—John’ra and his officious presumptions, and her mother had gone along with it all!

  ‘Sweetheart, Mr Arbrant is here to see you,’ she had said.

  ‘I don’t want to see him.’

  ‘Why? He’s a fine man.’

  ‘I’m sixteen, mamá. He’s forty-two. Do the sums.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Don’t you think he’s a tad my senior?’

  ‘I don’t, and hurry up. He’s not accustomed to waiting.’

  ‘He sounds a right prize.’

  ‘Kalindi!’

  ‘Mamá, listen to me. I don’t care if he owns all the land from here to Corsanon. I won’t waste my time on that pig of a man. You can tell him I said so.’

  ‘With the way your voice carries, I doubt I’ll have to.’

  ‘Please, Mamá. Just tell him to go. I’m not seeing anyone today.’

  ‘Anyone but Jarrod?’

  ‘At least he’s my age.’

  ‘He is that, Kalindi, but a foundling is no match for you.’

  ‘I’m not looking for that kind of match, mamá, and Jarrod’s an equal in every other way.’

  Bethsay had sighed and turned away. Her father had cursed. He said she had too much of her mother’s blood, and he’d made it sound like a foul thing. She had bristled then, but now she understood it differently.

  Why couldn’t you have been honest with me, John’ra? I would have been more mindful of danger.

  It would have been better, perhaps, if she’d left of her own accord. She could have organised the journey and at least said goodbye. She could have taken Assalo. Her throat tightened. That wouldn’t have stopped the murders, though. She wiped her eyes, poking the stick deeper into the bed of glowing embers.

  The surf pounded the reef and rows of white lines flashed as the waves broke, racing to the shore. Banking the fire, she dug a burrow, wrapped her coat tightly around her body and cocooned herself in the thick quilt. With the rhythm of the sea behind her, she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 2

  The yap and bark of dogs cut through the evening stillness as Jarrod slowed to a walk. They bounded up to him, two setters and a small terrier, their enthusiasm infectious. He roughed their necks and slapped their sides, pulling the ball from the terrier’s mouth and tossing it back towards the house. They all bolted after it, the little wiry one scooping it up as he skidded to a halt. They turned back towards Jarrod, but he waved them on to the barn. As they darted off, his smile faded. The moment’s reprieve from his thoughts of Rosette made them flood back tenfold. She’d been everything to him. Now she was gone. How was he going to live with that? More importantly, how was he going to lie about it?

  ‘I wasn’t programmed to lie.’ He shrugged. ‘I wasn’t programmed to fall in love either.’

  His heart was still pounding when he reached the barn, his hand cramped from gripping his bow. He’d run most of the way from South Sea Cove, longing to drive the growing pain from his chest. It burned, an ache he thought might never subside. The run had done nothing to ease his anxiety, but it did get him back in time for his evening chores. After seeing to the horses, he started in on the woodpile, swinging the axe as if each stroke would banish his feelings.

  He knew his brother was watching him, standing just out of the lamplight. Here it was. Time to pull off the ruse—tell everyone Rosette was dead and not merely exiled, and make it convincing. It wouldn’t be hard with all the emotion churning in his belly. He ignored his brother for as long as he could. Somehow, telling Liam that Kalindi was gone…he stopped himself…that Rosette was gone, would make it more real, and he didn’t want that, not yet.

  ‘No luck?’ Liam asked, moving into the light.

  He looked nothing like his brother, who was tall, fairhaired and lanky. Of course, he wasn’t a blood brother, though they’d grown up together, close as litter mates.

  Jarrod stopped, the blade deep in a split log. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘You hunt all day and come back with nothing. I’d call that no luck.’

  Jarrod lifted the axe, log and all, over his head and crashed it down onto the block, splitting the piece in two. ‘I got sidetracked.’

&nb
sp; Liam crossed his arms, his lip curling. ‘You mean Kalindi.’

  Jarrod avoided his eyes. ‘No-one here’s been to town?’

  ‘Why? Something happen?’

  Jarrod began to formulate an answer. The news would certainly upset Liam, perhaps as much as it had him. ‘There’s been…’

  The sound of hooves on the lane diverted his attention. The dogs took off, yapping a new welcome, all three tearing past them like racehorses from the gate.

  ‘Father’s home,’ Jarrod said, putting the axe down and collecting the scattered wood. He stacked it in the wheelbarrow and headed to the barn. ‘I’ll see to his horse.’

  Liam grabbed his shoulder, stopping him short. ‘Has something happened to Kalindi?’

  Jarrod pulled free. ‘Ask Father. He’ll know more than me.’

  Liam called after him, but he kept walking, hands deep in his pockets, eyes on the ground.

  Rosette quickened her pace, looking down each side street as she passed it. Flureon seemed less familiar than she remembered, and less friendly than when she’d come here on shopping expeditions with her mother. Her eyes welled up at the thought and she bit her lip, willing the emotions back down. The way to the docks must be near and she needed to find them quickly. Gripping her backpack, she hurried along, turning her shoulders sideways to avoid bumping into the crowd of oncoming traffic.

  She had been travelling all day and felt grimy, tired and hungry. She’d eaten the last of Jarrod’s bread by noon and she didn’t want to stop at a bakery for more. There was no time to find the markets if she wanted to get to the docks before sunset. The clippers would sail with the evening tide, and that was already rising. Besides, it wouldn’t be smart to wander the streets after dark. A chill gripped her. There was also no telling where the Corsanon assassins had fled to, or who they knew.

  Rosette caught the eye of a middle-aged woman with two children in tow and stopped in front of her. ‘Can you point the way to the harbour?’

  The woman dodged around her, gathering the children together and hurrying away.

  Rosette made a sour face before moving on. ‘What? I have leprosy?’ she called back.

  She asked another woman who was walking past, but she pressed on as if she hadn’t heard. Such a friendly town…

  The last person she approached was an older man with steel-grey hair and a sea-weathered face. He carried a sack of flour over his shoulder and was coming straight for her as if she were invisible.

  ‘Sir,’ she held out her hand to stop him from knocking her over, ‘can you tell me where the docks are?’

  ‘Docks?’ He stopped for a moment, taking a drag of his cigar.

  ‘You know. Where the boats are kept?’

  ‘Aye, dooks, missy.’ He extended his arm, pointing the cigar as if taking aim. ‘Down two blocks there’s a lane to your right. Go that way and you can’t miss ’em. Follow y’ nose.’

  She thanked him, taking the directions and trying not to look over her shoulder. It felt as if she were being watched and she was too tired and too distressed to sense if it was her intuition warning her of danger, or exhaustion setting in. She glimpsed a robed figure carrying a staff, but when she looked again the stalker was gone replaced by an elderly woman sweeping the walkway.

  Exhaustion, then. I’m imagining things.

  With a deep breath, she turned down the lane to the right and jogged along the cobbled path until the scent of salt air, fish and tar nearly knocked her down.

  Follow my nose indeed!

  The harbour was amazing. She’d never seen so many vessels in her life. They were every size and shape, from little dinghies bobbing up and down like toy boats in bathtub-sized berths to sleek yachts with bare masts reaching endlessly skywards. Fishing boats were heading out to sea, their decks dotted with men coiling ropes and working the nets. Some had multiple cranes hoisting lobster traps, their newly patched wires shining brightly in the slanting light. Seagulls filled the air, their ruckus deafening. Some were hovering over the trawlers, but most jostled for position at the end of the cleaning racks, fighting over the last scraps of the day.

  Watching a pair of pelicans land awkwardly at the far side of the harbour, she spotted the clippers. They were the ships that ferried passengers and goods up and down the coast from south of Lividica to northern Dumarka, fast and sure. With luck, there would be one heading north tonight. As the sun set, a renewed fear gripped her. She wanted to slip away, quickly and without fuss, the sooner the better. When she landed in Dumarka, it would only be a matter of hours before she found Nell, if the woman was about. She had no idea what to do if the witch was gone. She didn’t want to think about that possibility.

  Nell lived a full day’s walk from Dumarka Bay, in a cottage by the woods. Rosette hadn’t visited for years, not since she was nine, though she was sure she would remember the way. If she had a sanctuary anywhere in the world, it would be with Nell. She remembered the warm embraces, walks in the woods, fireside stories and cinnamon oatcakes. She also remembered the star charts and mobiles of planets hanging from the rafters of the cottage, and the book of spells and rituals. There was much she could learn from Nellion Paree.

  If she’ll have me.

  As the sun dropped to the horizon and bathed the harbour in blood-red light, she spotted a hard-looking man in a captain’s hat. She approached him with her ‘buyer’s walk’, the body language her father had taught her. She automatically adopted it whenever she was about to bargain—smart, confident and aloof.

  ‘Passage to Dumarka, Captain…?’ She paused to give him a chance to supply his name.

  ‘Raman.’

  ‘Captain Raman,’ she nodded. ‘I would like to book passage tonight, if that’s convenient.’

  She was careful to keep any trace of urgency from her voice. It wasn’t easy. Again she felt as if she was being watched. She softened her peripheral vision and glimpsed the hooded figure lurking in the shadows by the storage shed.

  ‘I’ve got a berth if you can leave now.’ He eyed her empty hands. ‘Where’re your bags, missy?’

  ‘This is it.’ She turned her shoulder to display Jarrod’s small backpack with her quilt tied in a neat roll on top. ‘How much?’

  ‘Twenty pieces of gold.’

  She whistled, brief but piercing. ‘Are we sailing on a golden barge?’ She scrutinised the clipper and laughed. ‘I’ll give you ten.’

  Captain Raman lifted his eyebrows. ‘Where’re you from, girl?’ ‘Lividica.’

  ‘Daddy’s a merchant?’

  She didn’t hesitate. ‘He’s a physician.’

  ‘Running away, are we?’

  ‘That’s not your concern.’

  ‘It is if you’re underage.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘So you say.’ He took off his cap and ran his hand through his hair before replacing it. ‘Give me fifteen pieces of gold and I won’t tell anyone where you’re going.’

  Rosette looked for the hooded figure while pretending to consider the offer. She couldn’t spot it. ‘Done.’

  She counted the money into the captain’s weathered hand and made her way up the ramp. The foghorn bellowed as they cast off. She tightened her coat and shoved her fingers deep into the pockets, choking with tears as she felt her gloves. Mama had made them last winter from the softest black lamb’s wool. She pulled them on and wiped her eyes.

  Where are you now, Mamá?

  The ship glided through the harbour, the surface of the water shimmering with the last glimpse of daylight. Whispering a silent plea to the sea goddess Sednara for smooth sailing, she headed below deck as they rounded the jetty and set sail. Rosette found an empty bunk and climbed up, spreading her quilt over the straw-filled mattress. The journey would take five days and six nights if they caught a good wind and the best currents. Plenty of time to think.

  She lay back, staring at the ceiling, lulled by the rhythmic rise and fall of the hull. She could hear the crew above, charging about as orders were ba
rked. Soon the clipper picked up speed, the sound of the prow cutting through the swell like a waterwheel churning full bore. She thought of the wheelhouse back home, alongside the river, and the day she and Jarrod…

  She stopped. Focusing on the past just makes more of the past.

  She called her wandering mind in and tuned in to her body. Her legs ached from the long walk and so did her heart. Her stomach felt empty, though she didn’t know if she could eat. Her appetite had vanished. There would be plenty of fish soup and sourdough bread in the galley, she guessed, though she didn’t get up to find out. Instead she drew her quilt around her tight and closed her eyes, the undulation of the boat rocking her to sleep.

  The streets of Corsanon were empty—like an old eggshell that had dried up in the sun. The tattered flag snapping above the roof of the central tavern and bits of rubbish that tumbled aimlessly down the road were the only things in motion. This city had been defeated almost two decades ago and there’d been no effort to repair the damage. It was a scar on the face of Gaela, one that most ignored, unless they needed something they couldn’t get anywhere else.

  Those who lived here were nocturnal and hard-edged—contract killers, thieves and drug dealers, making a living without custom or principle. The authorities were paid well for their silence, blind to the trading of human slaves for gold, children for the poppy’s embrace, and any kind of sex for a warm meal. But the gold and the drugs and the food were transient—what remained constant was the despair.

  The land had lost its soul, and no-one remembered exactly why, or how to get it back. No-one cared. What mattered in Corsanon did not require soul. It thrived on guile, treachery and corruption, though it was not always so.

  Corsanon had once been a rich, affluent district, hosting the celebration of the Five Rivers—an annual spring festival that honoured the mystery rites and the ancient deities known collectively as the Watchers, written of in the Draconian Tablets and other texts from the now destroyed Dumarkian Temple. People from all over Gaela had flocked to the revelry, many remaining to add their own uniqueness and craft to the city.