by K Dowling
He had spent so much of his youth hating the island and all it was worth. He hated his mother for always smothering him—for keeping him from experiencing any remote bit of fun. He hated his people for being so different, so unwanted. More than anything, he hated the Chancians for casting them out—for making his mother lead a life of fear.
He hated jumping at shadows, hated living off of breadcrumbs, hated sleeping on the floor with the rats. Hate. Hate. Hate.
There was an entire world out there—out on the endless, glassy sea—and there was no need to sit around and live with such hate; to tolerate so much abuse.
And that was all it ever was, abuse.
He leans back against the brick building before which he stands and expels stinging smoke through his nostrils. His golden eyes follow the grey tendrils as they rise upon the afternoon and dissipate in the air. Across the way, a cluster of Cairans plays their instruments. An older man—plump, his nose too big for his face—is plucking at the strings of his guitar. Next to him perches a slender young woman. A tambourine is grasped within her bony fingers. She moves it fluidly, her gown pulling against the cobblestones underfoot. At her feet sits a boy and his drum. His bright blue eyes are wild as he palms the pulsating skin of the instrument. His fingers move quickly and fluidly. They appear translucent, lingering above the skin of the drum. It is well done, the performance. A small crowd of Chancians has gathered to listen.
Evander the Hawk lingers on the outskirts, invisible. He peers up at the sky. The day is overcast—the sun has been suffocated behind a screen of clouds for hours.
It is going to rain soon.
Maybe it will be enough to flood the island of Chancey—to wash everyone into the sea.
He scoffs, lifting his pipe to his chapped lips. One can only hope.
He squints at the clouds and thinks of the word suffocate.
Choke, he thinks.
Throttle.
He spent his youth upon Chancey being slowly strangled to death—like a criminal slipping against his noose, clawing at flesh. His only solace was the sea. He remembers the countless days spent with his toes immersed in the sticking mud beneath the waves— remembers holding his face beneath the surface and counting his heartbeats until he was forced to come up for air.
One, two, three…
Even now, he recalls the sound of his heart beating in time with the buffeting of the white-capped waves against his bare torso.
What had he been trying to do?
Grow gills and swim away? Drown?
Looking back, he thinks he would have accepted either fate.
It is no surprise that he had jumped at the chance to join Samuel Mathew’s crew of pirates the day the Rebellion first dropped anchor offshore. The captain’s scullery boy had died at sea, and the crew needed a new lackey to do their dirty work. Evander had agreed in a heartbeat. Anything would be better than wasting away on the island of Chancey.
He did not even bid his mother farewell.
He sighs. Smoke tickles at the back of his throat. He thinks of Seranai the Fair and of her request: make Emerala the Rogue disappear.
Strange, when he had come on to Seranai the day before in the blacksmith’s shop he had not anticipated that she would seek him out again. If she did, he assumed it would most certainly not be regarding Emerala the Rogue. He frowns down at his fingertips. It is not often that he finds himself so caught off-guard.
Of course, things could not have worked out better for him thus far. There is no way that Seranai the Fair could possibly know his ties to the island of Chancey. She cannot know that the very reason he came back to this forsaken island—the only reason he allowed himself to set foot on its wretched soil again—was for the same green-eyed Cairan Seranai wishes to disappear.
Evander needs Emerala the Rogue, and he needs her even more than Seranai wants her gone. Only now, he is going to be paid handsomely to carry out what has been his plan all along.
It will be easy to convince Emerala the Rogue to disappear. He recognizes the longing in her eyes—she hungers for adventure the same way he did all those years ago. It does not take a fool to see that she is starved for freedom. She is a captive to Chancey, and she resents it. She is not that different from him, it would seem.
He smiles into the street before him. Smoke seeps out between the gaps in his teeth. He has been dealt a wonderful hand and it is important that he does not give the game away.
Down the road a ways, he can hear the heavy clattering of turning wheels upon the uneven street—boots pounding in time against stone. A horse whinnies. Instinctively, Evander drops back into the shadows. He sees a gilded carriage turning the corner. The lively music from the Cairans sounds discordant paired with the numerous, steady footfalls of the guardians that surround the royal coach.
“Halt!”
The boots shuffle into immediate silence. The horses draw to a stop. Evander watches from the shadows. Even their reins are painted gold. Ridiculous gilded plumes rise from their halters. They paw restlessly at the earth, chewing at their bits.
The door to the carriage flies open. Two men clad in gold cloaks exit. Guardians of a higher rank, no doubt. The Chancians are backing away, returning to their shops. They do not look at the golden carriage in the street. The music settles into silence. The plump Cairan places a hand over the strings of his guitar.
“What are you doing?” The question comes from a guardian with slick, silver hair. He is smirking at the Cairans before him. Even from where he stands, Evander recognizes the intense disdain in his eyes.
“Performing,” the slender woman says. Her thick brows are lowered over her fearful blue eyes.
“There’s no law against it,” says the man. He offers the guardians a polite smile. The boy sits silenty at his drum.
“You’re quite right,” comes a voice from within the carriage. Evander cranes his neck to see into the dusky interior of the coach. A shadow is moving within. It does not come into view. It is the king, perhaps, or maybe one of his lords. Evander feels himself coiling like a spring.
Inside the carriage, the voice is speaking again. “There is no law against music.” The words slip into the air like smoke.
“General Byron,” the voice barks. The second guardian wrenches his eyes away from the Cairans before him.
“Yes, your Majesty?”
So it is the king. Evander relaxes slightly, but only just.
“Arrest them.”
Words of protest arise from the group of Cairans. They do not move from where they stand. There are too many guardians about them—they will not make it far if they run. The general is frozen upon the stone. His dark eyes are cold. His muscles are still. He stares into the darkness of the carriage.
“Your Grace?” he asks, as though he has not heard.
“Arrest them, James. If Emerala the Rogue will not hand herself over willingly, so be it. There are other ways to draw a rat out of its hiding place.”
Evander feels himself start at the mention of Emerala’s name. He frowns. Strange, that the king wants her as well. It is a small world—he has always known that. But this small? It seems like too large of a coincidence.
He wonders what Rowland Stoward knows—how much of the truth he has managed to uncover.
He must fear the prophecy, Evander muses, studying the scene before him. Only a fool would question the fates.
General Byron is silent before the shadow of his king.
The voice that leaks from within the carriage is fueled by anger. “I will execute every single Cairan in Chancey if I must. Is she so important of a woman that her mock king will allow his people to die in her place?”
Again, no one speaks.
“No one is that important! Arrest them!”
“Right away, your Grace.” General Byron snaps his fingers. Several guardians march forward as the carriage door is slammed shut. A whip snaps. The horses whinny. With a squeal and the clatter of hooves against stone, the carriage takes off down t
he street.
“Run, Benten,” the Cairan woman orders. The boy drops the cylinder instrument to the ground. It hits the stones with a resounding crash as he takes off down the street. His bare feet kick up the fallen petals of spring blossoms as he runs. The sound of the drum reverberates through the street—bounces between the walls of the surrounding buildings. One of the guardians moves to chase after the boy. General Byron holds him back.
“Let the boy go.”
“Yes, sir.” The guardian falls back. Trained to obedience, Evander notes.
“Bind them. Take them to the palace.” General Byron’s voice is devoid of emotion. His commands are immediately followed. It takes only a handful of guardians to shackle the remaining two Cairans.
“This isn’t right,” the man calls out to the officers. “You know this isn’t right!” He fights uselessly against his restraint. The woman is sobbing openly; a shrill shudder wracks her tiny frame. Tears trace lines through her makeup and pool beneath her chin. Evander watches, invisible, as they are led away behind the clattering carriage.
The sound of the carriage settles into silence upon the crisp, spring air. Only General Byron and the silver-haired guardian are left. They stand in the street, staring one another down. Even from where he stands, Evander can taste the tension in the air.
“Word will have to be delivered to the cathedral.” General Byron’s voice is impassive. “We can’t rely upon the boy to get the message to Emerala the Rogue. He may not even know who she is.”
“And you want me to go?” The challenge in the silver-haired guardian’s voice is succinct. His dark eyes are narrowed. General Byron frowns at him.
“Will that be a problem?”
The guardian flashes his superior officer a barely suppressed smirk. “Without overstepping my bounds, sir, I think it should be you.”
“Do you?”
“I do.”
“And why is that, corporal?”
“Because you lied to me, sir. You spoke with one of the Rogue’s people in the cathedral—a Cairan woman. I saw her leaving the foyer. I saw you follow her up the stairs.”
General Byron’s eyes narrow dangerously “That doesn’t mean I spoke with her.”
“I’m sure his Majesty will think that you did, should I bring this information to him. He went into the cathedral looking for Cairans and came up empty. How would he feel if his most beloved soldier came across one on his own and kept it to himself?”
General Byron’s dark eyes are like stone. Evander notes how he clasps his hands behind his back. His knuckles constrict—stretch his flesh to white. The corporal is cold—calculating. He knows that he has the upper hand.
General Byron says nothing. Instead, he walks away, turning his back to the guardian in the street.
“Where are you going?”
General Byron hesitates mid-step. He glances over his shoulder and smiles cordially. “Home. I believe my shift is over.”
“And the king’s message?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Without another word, General Byron heads down the street and out of sight. The corporal watches the space where he disappeared, fuming into the empty expanse. After a moment, he, too, turns and walks off.
Evander the Hawk is alone in the street. He emerges from the shadows, beaming ear to ear. Cool slivers of water prick his flesh and roll off of his skin.
It has begun to rain.
So Rowland Stoward wants Emerala the Rogue. Evander does not know what for—not yet, not really—but it is clear that the Chancian king wants her terribly. Executing innocents? She must have done something quite naughty.
He nearly laughs aloud. He hates Chancey, yes, but thus far the island has been doing a wonderful job of playing along in his game.
Another good hand, he thinks. Just a few more, and I take home all the winnings.
A plan is formulating in his mind. The wheels in his head are turning.
Emerala the Rogue is a wanted woman. A life as a pirate has taught him what that is like. It has also taught him the best remedy for a price upon your head.
Disappearance.
CHAPTER 18
Nerani the Elegant
Nerani holds her breath and studies the stained glass window over her head. It is dark, drained of its color. The sun ceased to shine earlier that afternoon as the weather gave way to rain. The thick black lines that separate each individual shard of colored glass dance before her vision, so long has she been staring without blinking. Her eyes are watering. Her head aches. She cannot remember the last time she slept peacefully through the night.
The dim cathedral about her is brimming with silence. She sits back against the polished wood railing against which she has taken her seat and allows her eyes to drift closed. She is grateful for some time alone. Roberts and Emerala spent the entire morning bickering. All they do lately is fight. She is sick of it—is sick of listening to the yelling, sick of trying to mediate between the two. She loves both of them dearly. They are all that she has. She wishes, more than anything, that they would stop tearing one another down.
What will it help? Fighting will not make Rowland Stoward change his mind. It will not render Emerala safe in Chancey, if there is such a thing as safety for a Cairan in these treacherous times.
She thinks of the previous summer—thinks of following an exuberant Emerala down to the beachfront. Her cousin had been determined to visit the pirate ships anchored just offshore—had sworn to Nerani that she would get on a ship and never look back.
Nerani remembers the terrible heat that summer. She recalls the sand beneath her feet, the sun-cooked granules hot between her toes. She had, for a while, feared that Emerala’s threats to leave for good were very real. She pursued the wild girl all through Chancey, begging her to see reason.
She thinks of Emerala’s persistence that morning. In her mind’s eye she can see that coiled black hair bouncing in the sunlight, taking on a life of its own. The pirate ship bobbed upon the ocean. Golden rays of light bathed the glassy surface, radiating off of the murky green water in a dazzling display of blinding light that ebbed and flowed with the waves.
They did not make it out to the ship that day, nor did they speak with a pirate. Emerala had merely stood motionless before the ship, staring at the unfurled sails as they billowed and snapped in the wind.
Later on, Roberts had been furious with them.
What were you thinking? he shouted at them—both of them, as though Nerani had been involved all along.
It was harmless, Rob. We were just having a bit of fun.
Nothing involving pirates is harmless! You could have been taken captive. I’ve told you not to go that close!
That day, she had wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball and disappear. Now, she wishes a pirate ship were the worst of their troubles. Pirates are dishonorable, yes, but they are also drunkards and flirts. They have no authority upon the island of Chancey. They cannot hold a candle to the Golden Guard, nor to the tyrant king.
Nerani thinks of the indignant look that had been etched upon Emerala’s face that day as she fought tirelessly with her brother. She can still see the stout lower lip, the narrowed green eyes. She wonders if General Byron saw the same stubborn resentment in Emerala’s gaze the day she cut down Harrane’s body in the square.
It is no wonder they have called for her arrest.
Somewhere in the distance, she hears the sound of a heavy door scraping against the floor. It slams shut against its frame with a rattle. The candles at Nerani’s back dance in the wake of its movement, setting the shadows on the wall into a swirling frenzy. She can hear footfalls against the polished floor of the foyer. Carefully, she rolls over onto her knees. Her pearl gown pulls against the ground. It pools around her body, the bustle gathering up in folds beneath her arms.
As silently as she can, she peers over the top of the low railing behind which she sits. She feels quiet curiosity nudging within her. No one has paid the ca
thedral a visit all day—not since it was cleared for the king earlier that morning.
She is surprised by what she sees. General Byron, dressed in the plainclothes of a Chancian commoner, is making his deliberate way through the foyer. He is alone. His dark eyes study the looming statues of the saints. His hands are clasped at his back. It is strange to see him like this, out of the standard gold uniform of the Golden Guard. She almost does not recognize him.
He is far enough away that she is certain he cannot see her. She is clothed in shadow, hidden beyond the glare of the whispering candles. She rises slowly from the ground. The fabric of her gown falls away from her with a murmur. Obscured by the gloom, she walks along with him as he makes his way down the long line of pews. His brow, creased beneath his short-cropped hair, gives him the appearance of being deep in thought. The square line of his cleanly-shaven jaw is locked. She wonders what has brought him back to the cathedral.
She reflects back on their conversation earlier that morning. She should not have allowed herself to get so close to the king and his men. She should have been hidden away in the bell tower with Roberts and Emerala. They had been alerted to the king’s approach—had stayed well away. Yet she had lingered in the foyer in spite of her nerves. She could not help it, so curious had she been. She wanted to gaze upon his face—to lay eyes upon the king that hated her so.
The conversation with General Byron had been a mistake. She has no idea where she found her defiance. She was frightened when he followed her up the steps—had trembled beneath the unforgiving white glare that fell upon her from the window overhead. Beyond the light, the general dissolved into mere shadow—became a golden wraith upon the steps. She could not walk away from him, could not lead him to Emerala and Roberts.
What do you believe in? he asked her. She felt revulsion clench within her stomach like a fist at the question. How dare he think himself superior to her?
Justice.
The look on his face surprised her. For a moment, the mask of composure had fallen away. It was replaced by something stark, something indecipherable. His gaze met hers, then, and she could tell that she had caught him off guard.
