The Changing Tide: Book One of Rogue Elegance

by K Dowling

  He lied to his men; she had heard that, too. She listened from the stairwell as he told them that he ran into a church Elder upon the steps. He made no mention of her at all.

  Why? What did he have to gain by protecting her?

  He is kneeling now, his eyes downcast as he lowers his head in prayer. He looks so serene among the flickering candles—so vulnerable. His pistol is not at his waist, nor is his sword in its golden scabbard. She wonders what saint he has chosen to pray to. She wonders, too, what it is he prays for—Emerala’s capture, perhaps. It is what his king asked his god when he knelt before a saint earlier that morning, Nerani is sure of it.

  She creeps closer, allowing herself to emerge from the shadows. His eyes are closed, he will not see her if she inches just a little bit closer. The statue of the saint is turned away from her. She wants to see its immortal stone face—to know what type of god the fearsome general of the Golden Guard chooses to worship.

  She is nearly upon him when her cumbersome gown catches upon one of the tall brass candlesticks. It nearly topples over, but she catches it within her hands. Her heart seizes up within her chest. She holds her breath, cursing herself silently. She is no better than Emerala, with her tireless curiosity.

  She has managed to only make the slightest of sounds, but it is enough. General Byron’s eyes have fallen open. He stares at her through the gloom, his dark eyes glittering.

  “Hello,” he says. He is still on his knees. His fingers are clasped together upon the low prayer rail before him. The hem of his navy blue jacket brushes against the floor. She remains frozen before him, still holding the long brass stem of the candle. The blackened wick trails grey smoke into the air. Her eyes are open so wide that her skin aches. Red heat flushes into her cheeks.

  “I—” she stammers uselessly before falling back into silence. What is there to say? She can see the statue of the saint clearly from where she stands. She does not recognize its lifeless face.

  Before her, General Byron is rising to his feet.

  “What are you doing here?” she demands

  “I came to pray. The religious tend to do that.”

  She glowers at him, silent.

  “You can put the candle down.”

  “What?”

  “The candle.” He gestures to the brass stem in her hands. She did not realize how tightly she was gripping it. She holds it between them as though it is a shield. She glares at him, uncertain. A ghost of a smile teases at his lips. There is no trace of malice in his eyes. She places the candle gingerly upon the floor, cringing at the sound it makes.

  “If you came to pray, then pray,” she says. An eyebrow rises upon his face and one corner of his lip twitches slightly.

  “With you standing over me like this? Hardly prayerful, I should think.”

  He watches her through the shadows, his dark eyes glimmering in the light as he studies her face. She fidgets uncomfortably beneath his gaze, painfully aware of the fusty silence of the dark cathedral that presses down upon them.

  “It’s rude to stare,” she snaps before she can stop herself. Her breathing catches in her throat and she bites down hard upon her tongue. General Byron exhales sharply, the sound caught between a laugh and a sigh.

  “Was I staring?”

  She presses her lips together and opts to say nothing. Foolish, she curses herself silently. Foolish, foolish, foolish. Her cheeks sting with color. Before her, General Byron closes the space between them, setting the candles to fluttering in his wake.

  “If I were to be honest, I’d have to admit that I came back here tonight hoping to speak with you.”

  His words shock her into blinking furiously. She says nothing. A thousand questions surge forward in her mind at once, each more unintelligible than the last.

  “Why?” she demands.

  “To finish our conversation.” He says it as though it should have been obvious to her.

  “It was hardly a conversation worth finishing,” she murmurs darkly. She wonders what it is that causes her to feel so brave now, when she had positively floundered before him in the street the day that they met. Perhaps it is the knowledge that he can do her no harm—not here, under the scrutinizing eyes of the saints. She thinks that maybe there is something to be said for religion after all.

  Before her, the smile has faded from his face. He purses his lips, turning away from her. For a long moment, he stares up into the face of the looming, marble statue before them. His hands clasp together within the small of his back.

  “Do you recognize this saint?” Nerani hears him ask.

  “No,” she mutters, glaring over the top of his head at the lifeless eyes of the stoic holy being.

  “No, I didn’t think you would. This is Saint Michael, the patron saint of Fortitude.” He pauses, glancing over his shoulder at Nerani. “My father used to pray to him when I was a child. He would kneel in this exact spot and ask for courage—for perseverance in the face of adversity.”

  Nerani’s eyes narrow as her brows dip low upon her face. He turns his back upon the saint, facing her in full. His gaze is clouded with disquiet.

  “Do you think me unjust?” he asks. A muscle in his jaw twitches visibly.

  “What?”

  “Earlier today, you said you believe in justice,” he remarks coolly, proffering a small shrug. “Your implication was not misunderstood. You think I am an unjust man, is that so?”

  “I won’t respond to that question,” Nerani says, frowning lightly. She takes a step back from him in the shadows, feeling her heartbeat quickening in her chest. She has the sudden, acute sense that she has walked into a trap.

  “Why not?” General Byron inquires. He unclasps his hands from his back as he mirrors her movements, drawing closer still across the echoing stone.

  “Because—” Nerani starts, keeping her blue gaze trained upon his face. “Because to speak out against Rowland Stoward and his men is treason.”

  General Byron dithers upon the floor, his foot frozen in mid-step as he studies her through narrowed eyes. He is close enough to her now that she can see her own reflection dancing in his eyes.

  “If you’ve returned to try and see Emerala again, you can look on your own,” Nerani remarks. She takes another step back and gasps as she collides into a towering column of stone. “I’m hardly her keeper. In fact, I haven’t the slightest idea where in the cathedral she is at the moment.”

  “No?” General Byron muses, disinterested. He takes another step closer, his eyes narrowing in contemplation as he studies her at this new proximity. He exhales softly, his breath sending stray wisps of hair dancing against her burning cheeks. She is backed against the cold stone, unable to turn away. Her breathing grows shallow as she shirks back from him, uncomfortable at his closeness. The tip of his nose brushes lightly against hers.

  “Tell me truly what you think of me,” he orders quietly.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think.” Her voice quavers in her throat and she curses herself silently.

  “It matters to me.”

  “Why?”

  His eyes flicker back and forth across her face. “Tell me,” he orders again.

  “No.”

  His brown eyes flash with impatience. “Why? Because you think it would be treason to do so? I can’t lay a hand on you in this place, and you know it. You can speak freely.” His brows knit together and he adds, “I wish you would.”

  His closeness is unnerving her—unraveling her. She thinks of the warmth of his hand in the street, and of the way he had looked at her upon the steps of the cathedral. Her heart is in her throat. Her stomach has plummeted to her feet. She can feel his eyes lingering upon her lips. His pulse flutters in the hollow of his throat. She turns her head to the side and says nothing of what she is thinking. Her thoughts are not to be shared—not with him, not with anyone. Not ever.

  Sensing her growing discomfort, he draws back from her only slightly.

  “You never told me your name.”


  “I know.” The grey stone of the column is cool against her back. She glowers up at him through guarded blue eyes.

  “We’re hardly strangers any longer,” he observes. “Isn’t that the gypsy custom—to keep your true name a secret from outsiders until you’ve become more familiar?”

  It is, but she has no desire to share such precious information with the General of the Golden Guard. He has never been a stranger to her—not since his public promotion to general three harvests previously. He has always been a palpable and fearsome blemish upon the horizon—someone to be feared. He is the reason to look over her shoulder—to second-guess her every move. He is a looming, golden presence too dangerous to ignore.

  It is important that she remembers that, rather than turning doe-eyed and incoherent beneath the weight of his shadow. Gathering herself to her full height, she looks him square in the eye.

  “A stolen conversation in a stairwell scarcely makes us acquaintances,” she says pithily. She hopes that he can detect the underlying aversion that laces her words.

  His brown eyes bore into her as he surveys her across the flickering, golden candlelight. “What does it make us?”

  The heavy manner in which he asks the question is unnerving. Nothing at all, she thinks darkly. Not for the first time, she wishes she remained safely tucked away in the shadows. She would have lost nothing by leaving him quite alone. He would have been finished with his prayer by now, and would be gone.

  “It makes us enemies. As we always have been.”

  The air of a smile fades upon his lips. For a fleeting instant, she thinks she sees hurt in his gaze. “Perhaps.” His shoulders rise as he inhales deeply. The candles around them convulse—snap in terse, jerking movements. Beneath her flesh, her nerves do the same.

  “Two Cairans have been taken into custody of the king,” he says, his fists returning to the small of his back. She freezes, caught off guard by the sudden bluntness of his delivery.

  “Who?” Her heartbeat quickens. Her fingers clench into fists at her sides.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know. They won’t give their names.”

  Good, she thinks. “What have they done wrong?”

  General Byron swallows. She can see his pulse fluttering in the hollow of his throat. For once, his dark eyes do not meet hers. He blinks slowly, his gaze studying the clipped flutter of a candle about to burn out.

  “Nothing,” he confesses at last. “His Majesty wishes to propose a deal.”

  “With me?” Nerani asks, confused.

  “No. With Emerala the Rogue.” His gaze latches onto hers. She watches as his mouth drops into a frown. His skin crinkles in the space between his eyes. “He plans to execute them for your gypsy king’s failure to turn over a fugitive.”

  “Execute them?” she repeats, aghast. She ignores his mention of Topan. “They’re innocent people.”

  “They’re leverage. Their lives will be spared if Emerala turns herself in.”

  “And if she doesn’t?” Nerani demands. And she won’t.

  He hesitates before responding. “Then they will hang. And when they are gone, his Majesty will find more to arrest. He doesn’t enjoy being crossed, and your cousin has done just that. He’ll rest at nothing until he has her in his charge.”

  Nerani can feel white-hot rage boiling beneath her skin. She thinks back to their conversation this morning. He is a man of the law, he swore, a keeper of the peace.

  Killer of innocents.

  “How is this justice, general?” she seethes, her temper flaring within her in spite of her restraint. This is why he sought her out—this is why he returned to the cathedral. He planned to negotiate with her for Emerala’s life.

  He is a fool, she thinks, to believe that he had a chance.

  The mask of composure has settled back upon his features. His face is as stony and as lifeless as the statues that watch them from the echoing darkness.

  “It isn’t,” he admits quietly. His voice is void of emotion. His admission surprises her. For a moment, she is stunned into silence. Somewhere high above their heads, the resonant bells chime the late hour. She can hear the rain pounding relentlessly against the stone turrets. Her heart pounds just as quickly.

  Before, General Byron is backing away. “I need to be on my way,” he says, speaking as mildly as though she is an old friend that he stopped to greet upon the streets. “Pass the news along to your cousin.”

  “I’m not your messenger,” she snaps.

  “Indeed. Nor are you my friend—you’ve made that clear enough.”

  He is mocking her, she is sure of it. She resists the urge to spit at his feet. “Get out,” she whispers. He turns away from her, obliging. She watches his back as his figure recedes into the darkness of the empty cathedral.

  How can he profess to be so honorable, she wonders, when he leads his life without any honor at all?

  She had doubted his iniquity earlier that morning—just for a moment—as they stood upon the steps in the colorless morning light. He had seemed so earnest—so eager. She had spent the greater part of her day wondering if perhaps his name preceded him—if maybe he truly believed he was keeping the peace, adhering to the law of his intangible lord and god.

  Now she knows better. He was baiting her—trying to gain her trust, her confidence. Her name. She bristles at the thought—quails at the memory of his lingering eyes upon her lips.

  She thinks of the innocent Cairans that await their execution. She is sure that he did not so much as bat an eye as he threw them into a cold, dark cell—as he condemned them to an unjust death. He knows nothing of justice, or what it means. He is as twisted inside as the king.

  Nerani needs to find her cousins—needs tell them what has transpired. Roberts will know what to do. He will go and speak with Topan. They will find a way to fix this mess.

  CHAPTER 19

  Emerala the Rogue

  Emerala stands as still as stone in the shadows of the catacombs. The air is dense with moisture. It sticks to her skin like a cloak. Outside, it is raining. She can hear the distant pattering of falling water against granite—a streaming assault from the heavens. She imagines silver soldiers—faceless, cold—plummeting down towards the saturated earth; pirouetting in the whistling westward wind.

  It is far off—the rain—somewhere high above her head, beyond the grey granite parapets. She is buried much too deep in the earth. She is in a grave of stone—of whispering candles and watchful saints. Of reeking smoke and unanswered prayers.

  She is dead already. Rowland Stoward has declared his sentence; has buried her alive.

  One idle fingertip traces a line along her neck. She can hear the whistle of the guillotine—can feel the burn of a noose pulling at her flesh. Which is the fate that awaits the Cairans who go to their death in her place?

  There is no way of knowing. Rowland Stoward chooses his methods of execution as he chooses his doublets. His mind whirls and spins like the silver raindrops that dance in the wind. It matters not what form he chooses—the Cairans will die. It will be unjust. It will be public. Crowds will gather to stomp and scream and faint. It will not matter to them whether or not the convicted are guilty of their crime—if there was ever any crime at all.

  The room about Emerala is as silent as she. The conversation died out long ago, the occupants of the room exhausted from shouting. It is senseless fighting, really. They all want the same thing. She stares at Nerani. The skin about her cousin’s bright blue eyes is red and swollen. Her gaze is fixated at the floor. She has not uttered a word once, not since she came bursting forth into the bell tower hours ago, her mouth agape and her chest heaving.

  Besides her sits Topan. His hands are folded within his lap. His eyes are closed. The light from the torch upon the wall sweeps back and forth across his silent figure. The flames dance in Rob’s wake as he paces restlessly through the king’s quarters. His unruly curls stand on end. His dark green gaze is wild.

  “I’ll go,�
� Emerala says. She has said it already. She knows that it will be met with as much resistance, even now. But something must be done. They are getting nothing accomplished by sitting in silence below the earth. The hours are slipping away from them far too quickly.

  Topan’s eyes snap open. He does not look at her, but instead at Rob. Her brother has ceased his pacing. He stares into the dancing flame of the torch as though her voice emanated from deep within the flickering blue nucleus of the fire.

  “No.” Rob’s voice is hoarse from shouting. He turns to face her. “Absolutely not.”

  “Rob, I can’t allow innocent people to die in my place.”

  “So you would prefer to die instead.”

  She falters. “That’s not what I said.”

  “If you turn yourself in, you will be killed.” His words are cold. Matter-of-fact—as though he thinks she does not quite understand the weight of the situation.

  She blinks slowly and pictures flames licking at her flesh. Sometimes, when Rowland is truly feeling the full weight of justice, he chooses the pyre. It is a slow death—a painful one, reserved for the most terrible of criminals. Traitors. Gypsies who cut down the corpses of wanted men. She understands the situation more than he can imagine.

  “Topan says that his Listeners will try to get me out once I’m in custody,” she reminds him. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Topan shift his weight upon his seat. Nerani is still staring pointedly at the floor.

  “Try,” Rob echoes. He shakes his head. “That’s not good enough.”

  “Those captives have done nothing wrong.” She can feel herself becoming incensed. How can he be so stubborn? Her temper is rising beneath her skin. The hair on her arms stands upon end as she bristles hotly beneath his glare.

  “Neither have you,” he points out.

  “Rob—”

  He cuts her off. “This discussion is over.”

  “It isn’t over until we’ve found a solution.”

  “Well, find one that doesn’t involve your subsequent execution.”