by K Dowling
“Do you know what the crew told me when I arrived onboard the Rebellion?”
“Can’t say that I do, Cap’n.”
Alexander wets his lip, a humorless smile teasing in one corner. “They told me not to turn my back on you.”
Alexander recalls, even now, listening as his father’s men regaled him with stories over stale bread and flat ale. They illustrated for him a desperate, floundering boy, with eyes as gold as a hawk’s, stowing away on board the ship one spring. He had begged to be given some sort of work—had promised he would be useful. The crew had been good and ready to send him over the plank and let the sharks take care of what little meat he had upon his bones. Samuel took pity on the boy. He allowed him to stay on board, swabbing the deck and emptying the latrine to stay alive.
He were as hard a worker as we’d ever seen, the men told him, but ruthless. Ruthless. They told him dark stories of the things Evander did in order to rise in the ranks onboard. Stories of lies and of gambling—of daggers in the dark. It was not the way that Alexander had been raised back on dry land in the Agran Circle. But this was piracy, and there were no rules.
Across the table, the Hawk appears unfazed. His golden eyes lock onto Alexander’s face. “It’s wise advice.”
“Is it?”
“Only a fool turns his back on a pirate. The only bigger fool is a captain who turns his back on his crew.”
“So you’re telling me I shouldn’t trust you?”
The Hawk flashes him a furtive smile. “Is that what you’d like to hear?”
“I’d like to hear why my father wanted Emerala the Rogue.”
“Never said he wanted her, did I? I said she was important.”
“To my father?”
“To us.” The Hawk’s smile widens. He leans back in his chair so that the front two legs lift off of the ground. One lanky arm swings over the back of his chair. “Old Sam knew her father, you know? Eliot Roberts, I think was his name.”
Of course not, Alexander wants to snap. How could I have possibly known? He bites his tongue and waits for the Hawk to continue speaking. When the golden-eyed pirate remains silent, Alexander bristles and relents, desperate to push for more information.
“I asked my father to come back home with me,” he explains. “Back when I first came onboard.”
He has the Hawk’s attention. He can see a distant glimmer of intrigue in the golden gaze. He continues, the secondhand sting of tobacco swirling in his throat.
“I didn’t want this life—never had boyhood dreams of being a pirate. I wasn’t a runaway or a captive. But I lived on the streets all my life, begging for food for my mother. I spent every day and night looking for work, praying to the Great One for shelter. The island of Senada isn’t kind to the fatherless babes of pirates, and I was no exception.”
At the other side of the table, the Hawk is silent still. Alexander flicks at his cap, dragging a pinky against his scalp. His hair is matted with sweat where the band has rested against his head for the majority of the day. He tries not to think of his mother waist deep in the surf, screaming at him to get away—calling him Samuel. He tries not to remember the fear he felt each day at the blacksmith’s shop or the baker’s kitchen as he worried whether or not she had managed to drown herself in a riptide.
“When I came onboard the Rebellion, I meant to kill Samuel Mathew,” he says. The words sound cold, even to him. The Hawk does not flinch. He does not blink. He only sits frozen in his chair, shrouded in smoke and shadow.
“I’d sworn to myself I’d get revenge on the man who left my mother a broken woman—swore I’d kill him and take him home for her to mourn.”
“Why didn’t you?” The Hawk’s voice is detached.
Alexander lets out a humorless laugh. He does not tell the Hawk about that final, damning tip he had received from Senada’s newly arrived diplomat. He does not tell him about how he traded his childish need for revenge for his mother’s protection—how the wealthy newcomer wanted the map Samuel hunted, and how he had promised Alexander he would care for his ailing mother for the rest of her days if Alexander only saw his father’s mission through to the end.
He peers at the Hawk through the smoke. You’re not the only one with secrets, mate, he thinks. Instead of the truth, he answers the Hawk’s question with another question.
“What does the name Ha’Suri mean to you?”
This time, he sees a flicker of ripple across the Hawk’s face, disturbing the glassy silence of his expression.
“Where did you hear that?”
“From my father,” Alexander explains. “He whispered it to me on his deathbed.”
“What exactly did he say?” There is a discernible tremor in the Hawk’s voice. The name has frightened him—or, perhaps, he is frightened that Alexander has heard it. It is one of his precious keys—one of the aces hidden in his sleeves.
“I’ll tell you,” Alexander says, biting back a smile. “When you tell me why I need Emerala the Rogue.”
Anger passes through the Hawk’s eyes and is gone. “I’ve told you everything I know.”
“I don’t believe that for a second, mate.”
A long, bitter silence unfolds between them. It is broken only by the whispering rush of the sea beyond the bowels of the ship. It is the Hawk who speaks first, rapping his knuckles loudly against the table.
“This hand has gone on long enough, aye? Let’s let the cards speak for themselves.”
He tosses his hand down upon the splintering wood. A straight flush—a winning hand. One eyebrow disappears into his unkempt black hair as he gestures for Alexander to do the same. Scowling, Alexander lays his four of a kind gingerly upon the surface.
One step behind.
He is always just one step behind those scheming golden eyes.
He watches, annoyed, as the Hawk eagerly scoops the pile of coppers into his lap. The clatter of coins is loud against the darkened expanse.
Alexander does not trust Evander the Hawk, that much is true, but they both want the same thing, and they will, each of them, do whatever it takes to get there. If the Hawk says he needs Emerala the Rogue, then Alexander will be damned if he leaves the island without her.
Outside the ship, it is a windless day. The creaking groan of the rig is as quiet as a whisper against the cool darkness of his quarters. Over the reeking smoke, he can smell the sea—crisp and clear and green. It always smells that way after the rain, he notes—like a color.
He thinks about his conversation with Emerala the Rogue the previous day, and of the blue-eyed Cairan woman who had burst into tears at the thought of saying goodbye.
Emerala, she whispered, her voice breaking. Don’t you understand what he’s suggesting? You’ll be leaving here for good. You won’t see us again.
But Emerala had been unfazed at the prospect of saying goodbye.
Alexander wonders what Emerala is doing now—wonders if she has already left the cathedral to make her way back to the square. The execution of the Cairans will be taking place at high noon. Alexander saw the two empty nooses hanging in the square that morning, the golden knots carefully secured.
Ignoring the smug look on the Hawk’s face, he turns his attention back to the lanky pirate.
“You’ll stay away from the execution today.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
He can hear the curling sneer in the pirate’s voice. Swallowing his annoyance, he rises from his chair. “We can’t afford to be associated with the girl. If any of the guardians are on the lookout for us the day of her execution, our plan will be ruined.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” the Hawk repeats. “You know me, I’m not about to ruin my chance to spill golden blood.”
And what about my blood? Alexander wonders. Will you spill that, the moment you’re given the chance?
Shrill, screeching screams reach them from deep below deck. The sound sends a chill down Alexander’s spine. Prized pets—the necessity of every pirate lord of the Westerlies. That
was what his father had called the shrieking parrots the first time he brought Alexander below deck to see them fluttering about their cage.
“Feathered demons,” Alexander grumbles.
“Rats with wings, aye?” the Hawk agrees. He gives his coin pouch a shake, his eyes glimmering at sound of bulging coppers. Since Samuel Mathew’s death, the birds have been silent—despondent—mourning the loss of their master. Alexander made sure that they were kept fed and their cages were clean, but otherwise he forgot about them entirely.
Until this morning.
He and the crew had awoken to seven screeching birds at dawn. Nothing anyone said or did would calm them down. Samuel Mathew had fondly called the largest of the parrots Old Salt. It was he who instigated the angry ruckus that morning, loudly proclaiming one shrill phrase over and over.
Gold blood bleeds red!
Alexander bites back a smile. “Gold blood bleeds red,” he murmurs aloud. His fingers tease at the pistol in his belt—dance against the sword in his scabbard. Across the table, the Hawk grins.
“Aye, we’ll see, won’t we?”
CHAPTER 21
General James Byron
The march to the square is long and cumbersome, slowed considerably by the eager crowd of onlookers that gather beneath the storefront awnings to catch sight of the prisoners. James Byron rides at the head of the black, barred prisoner’s carriage, listening to the rhythmic patter of hooves against stone underfoot.
“Keep them back,” he calls to a foot soldier, gesturing with one gloved hand to a particularly rowdy group of bystanders that surge forward to get a better view. The guardian moves to obey, shouting orders as he brandished his gun in a show of force. The bystanders fall back at once, their eyes glazing over with disappointment as the heavily barred carriage clatters past.
Byron adjusts his weight upon his saddle, tightening the reins. Beneath him, his decorated mount lets out an unhappy whinny, tossing its head. The whites of the horse’s eyes flash beneath its golden blinders as the great, black stallion catches sight of the pressing crowd. Leaning down, Byron pats the creature lightly on the neck. The earthen musk of the horse tickles his nose, drowning out the smell of urine and rot that exudes from the tight, claustrophobic alleyways to his left and right.
Sitting upright, he expels a small, tired groan. His bones are stiff with exhaustion. His eyes burn in their sockets. Last night had been another restless night, fraught with dreams that led him to wake sweating in a wild fervor, hopelessly tangled in his sticking sheets. The contents of his breakfast, taken hurriedly in his quarters before the dawn, are unsettled in his stomach. Each step taken by his mount jostles his innards, threatening to upend his diet all over the street.
Last night, he dreamt of the blue-eyed woman. He dreamt of her burning—dreamt of the sound of her screams rending the night in two. Each time, he found himself trying to reach her, to help her, and each time he was met with unbridled hate.
You’ve done this, she told him, the fire peeling away her skin. You, and you alone.
He dreamt, too, of his father, old and grey and smiling at him from a dinghy out at sea.
The Great One blessed us with a bountiful harvest this morning, James. Run and tell your mother that we will eat well tonight.
He is unfocused today—rattled. This morning as he reported to Rowland to inform him that Emerala the Rogue had not yet shown her face, he found himself missing the presence of Prince Frederick more profoundly than ever before. What would his old friend say, he wondered, if he were still with them? The eldest prince had always been a hopeless flirt and an unreasonable risk-taker. It was Byron who talked him out of trouble—Byron whose good sense edged the prince back from every ledge.
Should’ve kissed her when you had the chance, James, Frederick would have laughed. Don’t be a total prat, that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?
She wouldn’t have me, Byron finds himself reasoning silently. I’ve sentenced her cousin to death.
Is that what he wanted? Is that why he allowed himself to get so close—to let down his guard against his better judgment? Her crucifixion of his character has stuck with him—plagued him—in the days since he first pulled her to him on the crooked steps and demanded to know her thoughts. He does not understand where this driving need for her approval was born. He has never been the type of man to care what anyone else thinks of him, certainly not a Cairan born woman.
No—that can’t be what he wanted. It isn’t.
And yet last night, he had also dreamed of his lips finding hers amid the dancing candlelight—dreamt of the warmth of her melting away beneath him. That time, when he woke, it was to find himself sighing his release into the darkness, wishing for sleep to return more fervently than before.
His thoughts are a jumble of incoherencies, strung together with exhaustion. A permanent groove has burrowed its way between his brows. He is talking to ghosts, dreaming of ghosts, thinking of ghosts.
It is a waste of his time.
Hoof beats upon the cobblestone rip him back into the present. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees Corporal Anderson riding up to the front of the column. Byron’s stallion whinnies at the approach, startled by the arrival of another rider.
“Well?” Anderson draws his mare in close. His eyes stare straight ahead as he glances out across the idling crowd of watchful Chancians. Byron knows what it is he’s asking—knows what he wants to hear. He feels a flicker of annoyance pass through him.
“It’s taken care of.”
“You made sure the message got back to the cathedral?”
“I did.”
“Good.” He can hear the sneer in Anderson’s voice. The sound of it causes Byron to bristle angrily, his already coiled temper threatening to snap.
“And Corporal?” He reaches out and takes hold of Anderson’s golden reins. Pulling hard at the bit, he wrenches the mare in close. The beast’s ears flatten against her head in agitation as she draws alongside Byron’s stallion. Byron lowers his voice to a dangerous hiss. “Question my authority like that again, and I will destroy you, do you understand”
He does not wait for Anderson to respond. Instead, he raises one gloved hand and slaps the mare hard upon the rump. She takes off with an angry snort, trotting off through the columns of marching guardians. Byron is certain that Anderson will not stay silent about his treatment.
Good, he thinks. Let him go and cry to his lord father.
Rowland Stoward likes to surround himself with people, but only because he enjoys the sound of his own voice. He must imagine that other people do as well. The men of his court are pompous, well dressed puppets. Silent placeholders. Disposable. Anderson’s father will have no pull in the court.
Byron pulls his stallion up short as they round the corner, arriving at the square. Already, the crowd is growing. The occupants are restless as the sun climbs higher into the sky. Dismounting, Byron hands his horse to a waiting private and gestures for a nearby squadron of guardians to lead the carriage around to the back of the executioner’s platform.
“Ready the prisoners,” he orders. His words sound as though they are coming from someone other than him. He turns his back on the carriage, shutting out the creaking groan of the wheels as the two innocent Cairans are carted away. Scanning the faces of the crowd before him, Byron searches for a pair of vibrant green eyes—a head of wild, dark hair.
It is a pointless search. He does not think that Emerala the Rogue will come.
He recalls the cold hatred in the blue-eyed Cairan’s gaze as he spoke to her in the silent cathedral. Her anger had been answer enough. The Cairan people would not hand over the Rogue to the crown—at least not yet. The Cairan king, if there truly is one, will call Rowland Stoward’s bluff.
Upon the dais, a guardian is reading off a list of the captive’s crimes before they are led out upon the platform. They are lies, all of them, falsified for the benefit of the listening Chancians. The crowd below bellows obscenities towards the wait
ing captives, clamoring incoherently above one another as they surge forward upon the cobblestones.
Byron itches beneath the heavy golden fabric of his uniform. The sun is hot against his shoulders. He fights the urge to fidget. If only the Chancians knew the truth—if only they knew how innocent the prisoners truly were of any crime—perhaps they would not be so bloodthirsty then.
How is this justice?
He can hear the Cairan woman’s voice in his head as clearly as though she is standing right next to him.
This is not justice, he thinks. This is murder.
He knows what his father would say were he still alive. Byron imagines him standing in the crowd, that familiar, disapproving frown etched upon his face. For a second, he thinks he truly does see him lingering upon the outskirts of the mass. His breathing catches in his throat. The moment passes and he sees that it is just a white-haired old man, stomping his feet in anticipation.
Behind him, the prisoners are being led onto the platform. The shouting rises in volume as they are drawn to a standstill before their respective nooses. From where he stands, Byron can hear the woman sobbing.
The executioner’s voice extends through the square like thunder. “These Cairans, for their crimes against the crown, are hereby sentenced upon this day to be hung by the neck until dead.” Byron stands as still as stone and listens to the proclamation, staring forward at nothing.
The steady drumbeat falls into reverberating silence. Three, brassy blasts emanate from a trumpet at Byron’s back. The crowd quiets as if on cue. A hundred necks crane forward to get a better view. Children, their caps tied tight upon their heads to keep out the sun, rise upon their toes. It is sport, for them. It is relief from the monotony of the island.
Byron does not need to turn around in order to see what they are seeing. He can hear the whispered ripples of awe panning out across the throng of people as though someone has dropped a pebble into the sleeping sea.
