by K Dowling
It was easy enough to get the donkey outside of the blacksmith’s shop once she had paid the apprentice. In fact, the animal had nearly bolted for the door as soon as she took the lead rope from the hands of the grinning boy. Once they had walked a safe distance away from the square, however, the stubborn beast refused to go either which way she pulled it. At first, this was not a bad thing. Seranai had hoped, in fact, that Roberts would witness all the trouble she was having and offer to help.
The only problem was that the donkey had perched itself contently before a barrel of vegetables just outside the grocer’s. It was clear after a few moments of tugging that the rotten animal had no intention of going any further. There was a sea of Chancians milling about between her and Roberts. She was certain he would be unable to see her from the steps of the cathedral.
Seranai was able to get the animal to take just a few steps in the right direction when it stopped again, having discovered an apple core lying in the street. Crying out in aggravation, she leaned all of her weight away from the donkey as she tugged at its lead. This made it difficult for the donkey to reach its target snack, which in turn aggravated the animal. Flattening its ears, the creature had charged at her. It was this unexpected release that sent Seranai flying backwards and into the mud.
She groans internally at the memory. If it were not for that pirate, perhaps Roberts would have seen her in time. Perhaps he would have pushed his way through the crowds in order to help her off of the ground.
It does not matter, now. Her chance is long gone. She will have to find another.
She ambles along through the narrow roadway. There is a chill beneath her skin. The afternoon is growing late. The sun is falling back behind the buildings. A day wasted, she thinks irately.
Seranai’s afternoon might have been salvaged, she thinks, if it were not for that girl in the square. How depraved of her—Seranai would never in her life put her hands on a dead body. She would never attract that kind of negative attention to herself. It is no wonder that she despises her people. Who can blame her? It is girls like that who bring shame upon the Cairan name.
She thinks of James Byron and the way he addressed the Cairan girl. Rogue, he called her. He knew her title. He addressed her with an odd sort of respect, as though they were old friends. Seranai had watched him from behind the donkey, feeling resentment build up within her heart like rust.
Are you involved in this? he asked when the rotten girl unfairly dragged her into it. As though their kinship bound them together. As though the brat expected Seranai to help her drag the reeking dead man away and risk arrest.
No, James, Seranai wanted to shout, Don’t you know me? Don’t you remember? I care nothing for these gypsies.
Instead, she was barely able to squeak out a coherent response, standing there before him in her mud-ridden garments.
Clear out of here, he snapped. She recoiled from his indifference. His voice, filled with underlying disgust, had drilled through her bones. Fighting back tears, she fled from the square.
Now, it dawns upon Seranai that James has never seen her like that before—dressed in the garments of a common vagabond. He has only seen her in her fineries—her costumes. She sniffs bitterly and thinks, stolen goods.
Of all the things that have gone wrong today, Seranai resents this the most.
She rounds a corner, feeling the afternoon warmth leaching out of her pallid skin. The cathedral looms before her. The crowds have dissipated with the onset of evening. Heavy orange sunlight is lost within the fragments of the thick stained glass windows. Beneath the long shadow of the church stand two familiar figures.
She frowns, freezing where she stands. She recognizes the man at once—it is Alexander, the handsome young pirate she had run into earlier that afternoon. He is perched before a young woman in an olive green gown. The Rogue. Her black curls cascade down her shoulders, twisting within the small of her back. Seranai watches as Alexander leans towards her. He whispers something in the gypsy’s ear, his lips grazing her cheek as he straightens his spine.
“I’ll be fine,” Seranai hears the Rogue retort.
“Of course you will.” A slanted smirk dances across Alexander’s lips “I’ll wait all the same.”
The Rogue shakes her head, her black curls bouncing wildly across her glittering emerald eyes. “My brother will be here any moment. It would be better for both of us if you disappeared by then. Trust me.”
“That man—your Cairan king—he made me promise I would accompany you.”
“Yes, to the cathedral,” the Rogue reminds him, glancing restlessly over her shoulder. “And here we are.”
The look in the gypsy’s eyes is resolute. Alexander hesitates, staring back at her. His jaw is locked in consideration. “Fine,” he relents. He turns to walk away from her, spinning back upon his heels as he closes the space between them.
“Will I see you again?” he asks. His face is split into a ridiculous grin. Gleaming ivory teeth shine out from a dark, sun kissed face.
From her hiding place, Seranai rolls her eyes.
Before Alexander, the Rogue shrugs. Her shoulders are bare above the sheer, low-cut sleeves of her gown. “You know where to find me.”
Tramp, Seranai thinks darkly.
Alexander’s eyes narrow as he chews his lips, his unshaven cheeks dimpling. He takes a step backward, nearly tripping over a loose stone upon the street. The Rogue holds up her hand in goodbye, her cheeks tinged with red pinpricks of color.
Seranai watches the pirate turn and disappear down a narrow side street. The young woman is alone. Seranai can feel the heat of her annoyance bristling beneath her skin. Feeling unusually bold, she marches out from the shadows of the alleyway.
“You,” she hisses, once she is within the Rogue’s line of sight.
The Rogue glances towards her in surprise. “Hello.”
Her green eyes study the mud caked to Seranai’s gown. Seranai glares down at her face, radiant in the light of the setting sun. Her small, pointed nose offsets her narrow lips, giving her an almost feral appearance. The untamed black curls that tickle her face frame her high cheekbones and tapered jaw. The deviant loveliness of the young woman sparks an even deeper dislike in Seranai.
“I’m Emerala.” The young woman sticks out her hand for Seranai to shake. “Sorry about earlier today, I always manage to get myself into the worst situations.”
Seranai slaps her hand away. Emerala’s green eyes widen considerably. She stares down at her palm, still outstretched, and frowns.
“You had no business doing that—cutting down that body in the square,” Seranai snaps.
Confusion cloud’s Emerala’s pointed face. “He was one of our people. A Cairan.”
“So what? He probably deserved what he got. You should have left me out of it. You had no right to drag me into your mess like that.”
Emerala’s green eyes have narrowed into dangerous slits. She retracts her hand. “No harm was done, I’m sure.”
“No harm?” Seranai’s voice is shrill. She shoves Emerala hard, pressing her palms into her shoulders. There is a stab of triumph in her gut as the young woman stumbles backwards. “No harm?” she shouts again, shoving the girl a second time.
Emerala’s eyes flash with rage and she slaps Seranai hard across the face. “Here’s a suggestion for you,” she seethes darkly. “Don’t touch me again.”
Seranai recoils upon the cobblestone, pressing the palm of her hand to her stinging cheek. “You ignorant wench. You have no idea what you did to me today.”
The door to the cathedral is thrown open. Horrified, Seranai shrinks back into the shadows. There, standing in the open doorway, is Roberts the Valiant. He is staring down at Emerala the Rogue with apprehension etched across his handsome features. The green eyes that peer out from beneath his messy black curls are so stark that Seranai curses herself, wondering how she did not see the resemblance before. She turns and flees around the corner, tears pricking at her eyelids.
Oh no, she thinks. No.
Only when she is safely out of sight does she pause, glancing back around the building behind which she hides. Roberts has descended the staircase and taken Emerala into his embrace. Her arms are pinned down by her sides—her fingers folded into fists. Her stupid, pointed face has disappeared within his undershirt.
“You’re hurting me.” Her voice is muffled against his chest.
“Good.” Roberts releases her and glances around at the empty street. “Whom were you talking to just now?”
Emerala looks about as well, her face scrunched up in consternation. “I don’t know, a woman. She was just here.” She shrugs, looking agitated as she rubs her shoulders.
“Let’s get you inside before someone else comes along,” Roberts suggests. He takes her shoulders in his hands and steers her roughly up the looming grey steps. The deep red of the late afternoon sun has draped itself across the street. To the east, a faint twinge of violet dusk pulls at the very edges of the sky.
“Am I in trouble?” Emerala asks. Her voice grows muted as she wanders farther away from where Seranai lingers in the alleyway.
Roberts laughs derisively. “You have no idea.”
They are disappearing through the open doorway. There is the squeal of old hinges and a heavy slam and they are obscured from sight.
Seranai stands frozen in the darkness. She curses aloud, her skin stinging with heat. She should have guessed it right away. She should have seen the resemblance.
This will not do.
There is no way she can win Roberts the Valiant over now—not with a sister such as that meddling in their affairs. Whatever it was the Cairan king wanted with him, Seranai will never have the chance to know. She will never manage to squirm her way into a place of comfortable wealth. Not with her—not with Emerala the Rogue in her way.
Unless…
She thinks of Alexander, and the way his lips had grazed Emerala’s cheek as he said his goodbye. Pirates never stay in port for long. He will be raising anchor soon, and Emerala will never see him again. Never, unless Seranai has anything to say about it. The golden-eyed pirate from the blacksmith’s shop called Alexander his captain. He will know what to do.
I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty, he told her. She thought nothing of it at the time, so eager had she been to get away from him. She glances down at her own hands, still covered in mud, and nearly laughs aloud at the irony.
A furtive smile creeps across her blood red lips. Perhaps Roberts the Valiant is not as far out of her reach as she thinks.
CHAPTER 12
General James Byron
The rectangular table before which James Byron sits is covered in various colorful dishes of food. He sits tall against the straight back of the chair, resting his elbows upon the narrow armrests. His intertwined fingers are suspended above his lap. His stomach growls and he ignores it. He will eat later—a humble meal, taken alone in his quarters and away from the eyes of the useless courtiers that line the walls.
“Tell me again.”
At the far side of the table, Rowland is chewing noisily at a fat leg of ham. The sound is accompanied by the moist smacking of his lips. He gestures at Byron with greasy, ringed fingers.
“Tell you what, your Majesty?” asks Byron dryly, not quite understanding the order. It has been a long time since Rowland last spoke. They have been sitting together in silence for a long time—an unbearable amount of time, it seems—as Rowland consumed his dinner and contemplated the information Byron brought him only several hours previously.
Rowland swallows thickly, setting down the ham. “Tell me again about the gypsy wench who cut down my body.”
Byron clears his throat. Rowland is grasping at the long neck of a gilded goblet. Lifting it to his face, he draws a sip of wine. The crimson liquid dribbles out of the corners of his lips. Byron is reminded, somewhat oddly, of the way the Cairan traitor’s blood leaked across the floor of the great hall earlier that morning. He squeezes his fingers tight against one another and wills himself to refocus.
“She was aided by a pirate in the escape,” he comments quietly. After a brief pause, he adds, “Although we expect she had more Cairans waiting out of sight.”
Rowland swallows with a gulp and hems his throat loudly. “Why is that?”
“When Private Provence and I returned to the square we found that the body had been removed.” Byron keeps his voice even as he studies Rowland’s face. He knows from experience that the great king does not take well to being opposed in any way. At the far side of the room, he can feel the king’s waiting courtiers pressing against the wall in an endeavor to avoid what must surely be his rising rage.
Rowland nods, coughing as a bit of meat becomes lodged in his throat. He pounds his fist against his chest, glancing towards Byron through narrow black eyes. “And what is it you call her?” His words are barely intelligible through his mouthful of food. Projectiles of half chewed meat spit out between his teeth and land back upon his plate.
“The Rogue, your Majesty,” Byron reminds him.
Rowland sighs. He places down his knife and fork as he leans back upon his looming, gilded chair. Raising one arm above his shoulder, he snaps his fingers. A nervous looking courtier rushes forward to offer him a clean handkerchief. He takes it, wiping his greasy fingers before dabbing at his lips. He has not managed to wipe away the wine that stains the corners of his mouth. Byron averts his gaze.
“The Rogue,” Rowland repeats, his nose wrinkling as though he has tasted something sour. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and glances upwards towards the vaulted heavens painted upon the ceiling overhead. “Funny things, those gypsy titles, don’t you think, James? I never understood it.”
The evenness of his tone is alarming. Byron had expected him to be enraged by the Rogue’s disappearing act earlier that afternoon—he had expected him to yell, to shout, to storm about the room making unrealistic demands. This quiet reserve the portly king is exhibiting—this contemplative silence that emanates from his end of the table as he scours the smiling faces of the painted cherubs overhead—is more disconcerting than a voluble show of rage.
At least, then, Byron has something tangible to which he can respond. At least, then, he is given an order and sent away. His shift should have been over hours ago. His skin itches beneath the pressing collar of his golden uniform and he fights to keep his gaze blank.
“Neither have I, my liege,” he remarks.
Rowland smacks his lips together audibly, his black eyes narrowing as he studies Byron across the lengthy table. “Tell me, James, what actions have you taken?”
Byron leans forward upon his chair, grateful to have received a question to which he can provide a productive response. “We have issued a warrant for her arrest. All of my men have been given her description. It should not be long before we have her in custody.”
Rowland nods, appearing suddenly distracted. He picks idly at a bunch of grapes on a golden plate before him. “It will not be enough,” he mutters.
Byron leans forward, tilting his ear towards a bowl of hasty pudding. “Your Majesty?”
“The death of one Cairan wench will not be enough to stop this madness,” Rowland affirms, popping a grape into his mouth. He bites down hard, the juice escaping from between his teeth and splattering upon the tablecloth. “These gypsies are about as useful to my kingdom as untrained pups.”
“It will send a message.”
“It will not be enough,” shouts Rowland, slamming his fist upon the table. Byron falls silent. “They will continue to defy my orders.”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
Rowland exhales deeply, his nostrils expanding as he pops another grape between his teeth. “What do you do when you simply cannot train a pup; when it is incapable of following commands and wreaks havoc upon your household fineries?”
Byron can sense where this is leading. “What do you do?”
“You slaughter the beast,�
�� Rowland shouts again, louder this time. He slams his fist down upon the overcrowded table with such force that a few plates slide off of the edge and shatter loudly upon the floor. Two courtiers rush forward hastily. They stoop down to clean up the mess.
Rowland croaks loudly. His greatly decorated shoulders heave up and down. For a brief instant, Byron wonders if the king is choking on a grape. He stares, not knowing what to do. It takes him several moments to realize that the portly king is laughing. Rowland’s black eyes pop open. His gaze fixes upon the two men that crouch upon the floor, still attempting to clean the plates. A thin frown spreads across his face.
“What are you doing?”
The courtiers drop the contents in their hands, plunging immediately into humble bows.
“If it pleases his Majesty, we are simply trying to tidy the mess,” one of the courtiers mutters.
Rowland leans forward in order to peer down at the floor. The folds of his great stomach crease over the edge of the table.
“Who made this mess?” he demands. No one says a word. He glares around angrily, his cheeks reddening with heat. “No one dares come forth with a confession?”
Silence, again. Byron remains planted stiffly upon his chair. He watches the scene before him with practiced detachment. The courtiers stand frozen against the wall, pained expressions stamped upon their fearful features. Rowland rises awkwardly from his chair. He points one plump finger towards the door.
“Out,” he bellows. His face is now a deep shade of violet. “All of you. Get out of my sight. I will not tolerate dishonesty in these walls!”
The courtiers make sudden haste. They bow only slightly before absconding from the great dining hall. They remind Byron of a school of golden fish banding together and turning in unison as they desperately try to out swim a larger predator.
