The Changing Tide: Book One of Rogue Elegance

by K Dowling

  Rowland Stoward, his imperial Majesty, has emerged onto the highest, gilded dais that sits behind the executioner’s platform. Several guardians flank him—no doubt he is nearly completely concealed from view. But he is there all the same, taking a seat within his great gilded tent—holding up his heavily ringed fingers for attention.

  The audience before him is rapt.

  Rowland Stoward almost never attends the executions. Under normal circumstances, he is content to wait in his court, surrounded by pompous lords and powdered ladies. He later listens to the gruesome reports delivered by the dutiful Golden Guard. It is the secondhand memory of the event that satisfies him—the description of the crowds screaming and of the suffering criminal, dying for his sins.

  He does not like to be any closer to death than he needs to be. He is frightened by mortality. In fact, Byron muses, he is only present today because he is convinced Emerala the Rogue will appear.

  “Cairans,” Rowland barks. His honeyed voice sounds out of place among the commoners that fill the square—spill into the alleyways like ink. “Any last words?”

  Byron can hear the smile in Rowland’s voice. This is nothing but a game to him, as is almost everything. The lives of two Cairans mean nothing at all.

  “Please,” stammers the Cairan man, “we are innocent of any crime! You must believe me.”

  “That’s what they all say, isn’t it?” Rowland sings. The crowd laughs as though he has told a great joke. Byron imagines those black, beady eyes, riddled with increasing impatience, scanning the crowd for the green-eyed girl that has eluded him.

  How long will he wait?

  Not long.

  “Hang them,” he commands after scarcely a moment has passed. His voice cracks, letting off a discordant squeak that Bryon has come to associate with the snapping of his royal temper. The Cairan woman moans as the nooses are fastened about their necks. The crowd is silent.

  “Stop!” The woman’s voice that echoes through the expanse is shrill—desperate to be heard in time. A hundred heads turn every which way, trying to locate the speaker. Byron turns to look at Rowland. The great king has held up one finger to the executioner—wait. A wolfish grin is creeping across his face.

  “Who spoke?” he asks. “Let her come forward.”

  The woman’s voice is clearer now, casting out across the silenced crowd that gathers in the square. “Emerala the Rogue.”

  The crowd parts in confusion, glancing around at one another as though the explanation for this unusual display might be found written upon the faces of their neighbors. Only one woman, her green eyes gleaming with defiance, stares directly at the king. Byron watches as Emerala the Rogue makes her slow way towards the platform. Her black curls are wild. Her ill-fitting gown is askew—one bare shoulder exposed in the sunlight. There is no trace of fear upon her face.

  “How kind of you to accept my invitation,” Rowland says, nearly purring with delight. His voice emanates from a distance, and Byron realizes that Rowland has retreated even further into his tent. He is frightened of her, Byron marvels—scared of this wisp of a woman, barely out of childhood. What can she do to him here, surrounded as he is by the golden elite?

  “I must say,” Rowland continues, addressing her from behind the impenetrable safety of his Golden Guard. “I was beginning to be worried you would not make it in time.”

  Several people in the crowd have begun to murmur amongst themselves. They expected a hanging at noon. Overhead, the sun is beginning to fall away from the sky. It creeps across the swath of saturated blue, dropping slowly back towards the sea.

  The Rogue has yet to respond to Rowland’s goading. She continues through the crowd in silence. Her bare feet are soiled beneath the hem of her gown. They press against the uneven grey stone, her toes creasing. She does not speak until she reaches Byron.

  “Hello,” she says, her green eyes finding his. Her voice is even.

  Byron grimaces back at her. “I didn’t think you would come.”

  “And allow innocent people to die in my place?” she asks, incredulous. “I’m not you.”

  “General,” barks Rowland. “What are you waiting for? Arrest her. Bring her to me.”

  A clamor rises in the watching crowd—a unanimous question washes over them like a wave. Careless of the hundred unblinking eyes glued to his every move, Byron moves to grab hold of the Rogue. He pulls her close to him. One unruly curl tickles the end of his nose.

  “Don’t attempt any of your usual tricks,” he mutters into her ear. “Not here.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  As he leads her back towards the gilded tent his gaze catches on a pair of familiar blue eyes at the front of the crowd. His stomach lurches and he nearly falters a step. It is Emerala’s cousin, dressed in the gown of a common woman of Chancey. A black fascinator is pulled low over her face to try and hide her eyes. In her trembling hands she wrings a soiled white handkerchief.

  I’m sorry, he wants to say, but the words would be useless—unheard. His stomach churns uneasily, the contents growing again unsettled beneath the revulsion in her steely eyes. He forces himself to pry his gaze away from the young woman’s face as he leads Emerala the Rogue into the Rowland’s tent. Rowland beams up at the gypsy from his ornate, golden chair, his black eyes twinkling with mirth as he takes in her ragged countenance.

  “Emerala the Rogue,” Rowland muses. “We meet at last. This is the girl who has caused so much trouble? Look at her, scrawny little thing. She’s nothing.”

  The Rogue is silent and stony before him. Byron can feel her trembling beneath his grasp, but he is certain that it is a product of her rage and nothing else.

  “Bring her closer,” Rowland commands. He looks foolish, sitting upon his makeshift throne and surrounded by guardians. Their ceremonial swords are drawn. They shimmer in the sunlight that slips in sideways through the gauzy fabric. The golden men close in upon the king as she is dragged closer. Her bare feet scuff audibly against the ground.

  What can she do? Byron finds himself wondering again. She is but one girl, unarmed and alone.

  He draws to a standstill before the throne, his grip tightening upon the Rogue’s arm. In the heavy silence of the tent, he hears the king let out a sharp intake of breath. The sound is pained—troubled. It is not the sound of victory. It is, instead, redolent of heartbreak. Looking up, Byron is surprised to see the great grin fading fast from Rowland’s face. Those black beady eyes are studying the gypsy before him in growing trepidation.

  “I know you,” he remarks.

  The Rogue is silent before him. Her gaze is fierce.

  “I know your face,” Rowland murmurs.

  “You don’t,” the Rogue assures him icily. “I’ve never laid eyes on you before.”

  “Your eyes. Yes, yes—I’ve looked into your eyes.” Rowland’s words trail off into silence. He is left muttering to himself amid the stifling quiet of the tent. He looks to Byron like a man drowning—suffocating beneath the sea of gold shoulders that rise and fall in a calm collective.

  “Who would have thought that after all these years—” he trails off again, frowning up at Emerala the Rogue as though she is a ghost.

  Years? Byron is caught off-guard by the king’s odd choice of words. He recognizes the distant look upon the king’s face. It is the same, sleepless gaze that sometimes asks him for the late queen Victoria in the night.

  My wife, send her here. She has delayed too long.

  A sharp dagger of realization twists deep within Byron’s gut. He is elsewhere, the king, and Byron does not know what to say to bring him back.

  After several more silent moments, Rowland seems to realize he has stumbled. Those black eyes dart around the expanse—backtracking, calculating. He recoils beneath the sideways glances of his golden men. Three bulging fingers, red skin ballooning out from beneath jeweled bands, tap against the gilded armrest of his chair. His throat clears. He shakes his head, clearing away whatever cobwebs have fo
rmed there. The smile is back upon his face as though it never wavered. Like a shadow passing over the earth, whipped on by the wind, the moment is gone.

  “I suppose you think you’re clever, don’t you? Waiting until the last minute like that?” Rowland asks the Rogue. His voice has regained its normal sense of regency. Byron adjusts his feet beneath him, making a solid effort not to make eye contact with any of his men. He can feel their questioning gazes glued to his face, following his lead.

  Rowland’s mind is slipping, he thinks. And now they’ve seen.

  He will have to speak to them later on—tell them that they are not to mention his odd comments again. Not to one another and not to anyone in the courts.

  Before the throne, the Rogue has not provided the king with an answer, only spat upon the ground at his feet. She is a fearless woman. But brainless. Rash. Byron fights the sudden urge to shake her. In front of them, Rowland only laughs, holding his hands over his great big belly. The guardians act as though they have not seen. Their eyes are lifeless. Their shoulders are rigid.

  “Did you think it was smart, girl? Hiding out in the cathedral?” He sneers up at her. “You see, that is my god who resides within those stone walls, and it is me to whom the Great One gives aid.”

  “Your god did not deliver me to you. I came here myself.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You have me in your custody. Let my people go free.”

  Byron is surprised at the Rogue’s boldness in addressing the king. One does not simply command Rowland Stoward. It is disrespect—it is treason. He supposes that perhaps she feels she has nothing to lose. She will be executed no matter what she says.

  Upon his gold-plated seat, Rowland strokes his chin, making a great show of considering the Rogue’s demands. After a moment, he leans forward upon his chair. Byron can hear the gilded wood creaking beneath his weight. “You are hardly in a position to make demands, gypsy, don’t you agree?”

  “That was the deal,” she snaps back at him.

  Rowland chuckles softly. “Yes, well, you see, I am afraid I cannot keep to it.”

  His words leave Byron staggered. Beneath his grasp, he feels Emerala stiffen.

  “My good Chancians have come to see a hanging, and they believe that the two Cairans before them are terrible criminals. It would be in poor taste to simply allow them to go free.”

  “You promised,” the Rogue whispers, robbed of her bravado. Rowland laughs at that. The sound leaks out from between his lips as though he is being tickled.

  “My promises are gold,” he assures her. “To everyone but a treacherous Cairan brat.”

  Snapping his fingers, he draws the attention of the waiting executioner on the platform below.

  “Hang them.” His voice rings out through the square. It is followed by the frenzied shouts of the impatient crowd, rising to culmination. Boots stamp upon the cobblestone. The executioner pulls the gilded lever that operates the trapdoor beneath the feet of the doomed Cairans. Byron hears the Rogue cry out in horror as the captives drop through the floor. The prisoners struggle uselessly against the golden nooses, their bodies flapping like fish upon a hook.

  Byron does not see any of this. His eyes are turned, instead, towards the crowd—searching, he realizes, for the blue-eyed Cairan at the front of the throng. She is gone—lost amid the rioting and shrieking mass. He does not know what he expected to see once he found her. She could not hold any more hate in those steel blue eyes.

  “General,” snaps Rowland.

  “Yes, your Majesty?”

  “Take her to the dungeons before her people can try any of their tricks.”

  Byron nods obediently. He gestures for another guardian to grab hold of her other arm. As they lead her away he catches sight of the two pairs of bare feet hanging limp below the platform. It is a windless day. They are still.

  Byron has seen many dead bodies in his lifetime and never flinched. But these—he cannot force himself to look at them a moment longer. Between her captors, Emerala the Rogue has found her voice. Over the tumultuous sound of the shouting crowd she screams obscenities at the king. Her voice is swallowed in the noise. Byron does not attempt to silence her. Why should he? He can hear his father’s words upon her tongue. He can feel the scathing eyes of the blue-eyed Cairan scorching his skin.

  Deep within his spirit, something snaps.

  CHAPTER 22

  Roberts the Valiant

  Roberts the Valiant stands in the diminishing afternoon and thinks about Death. In his youth, he often heard the Mames describe Death as a woman. She was bent and aged, with a twinkle in her eye. When a man was old and near to passing she appeared at his bedside. She was compassionate—Death—kindly and warm. She held the hands of the deceased in her withered fingers and whispered words of comfort into their ears. When it was time to leave this earth, she led them back to the sea.

  He blinks into the setting sun and thinks that if the stories are true, she must not come for those who are ripped so abruptly from the world. She comes bearing peace and comfort. She cocoons the dying in serenity. That’s what the stories say.

  Roberts has seen a great many deaths—too many deaths. They have been violent and bloody. They have come too early and been too abrupt. The victims never leave in peace. They are not still. They struggle and they cry, their fingers clawing at the remnants of the living. He has seen Death, and it is not a woman. It is not some kindly, old caretaker come to ferry the children home. Death is cold and hard. He bears a sword and he uses it with ruthless malice. He is cruel and impatient.

  Death is golden. Death is all around him.

  Roberts sighs, running his fingers through his unruly black curls. The day is coming to an end with a vapid lull. The heavy red sun lingers tremulously upon the horizon, reluctant to extinguish its balmy rays beneath the ocean. At his back, the city of Chancey sits quietly in the dwindling light. The lifeless grey walls are bathed in an unearthly glow. The uneven rooftops throw scattered shadows into the golden midst. From a distance, it appears as though the whole city is aflame.

  He takes an idle step upon the muddy path on which he walks. He does not remember leaving the city—heading out into the open fields and farmland of the countryside. His thoughts have been all consuming. His mind fights to be blank.

  He thinks of the two pairs of bare feet hanging beneath the platform. He will never forget the way they looked, hanging lifeless and still. The struggle had gone out of them—the sinews fell lax—and they were quiet. It was a windless day. They did not move again.

  He wishes he could remember their names. Topan told him, he is sure of it, but he had hardly been listening. He has been far too distracted—far too troubled. His sister’s decision to turn herself over had struck in him a chord that he could not shake. Anything Topan might have told him went in one ear and out the other.

  Anyway, he had been certain he would come to know their names well enough once they were set free. They should have been set free. That was the deal.

  Hello, he would say, I’m Roberts the Valiant. You’re here because my sister exchanged her life for yours. Now I have to watch her die.

  It was the most selfless thing she had ever done.

  Unwise. But selfless.

  The Cairans are dead. The plan—Emerala’s great, foolproof plan—has failed. The Cairans are dead and Emerala will be executed.

  Roberts attended the hanging that day against the wishes of his king. Topan had forced both him and Nerani to swear that they would stay far away.

  You’ll want to intervene, he said. But you cannot. You have to let her go. Do you understand me?

  Yes. I’ll stay away.

  Roberts waited until he had seen Nerani safely back to their quarters at the outskirts of Chancey and then he headed to the square. He did not go anywhere near Emerala. In fact, he did not even see her until she stepped onto the platform before the crowd. He made sure to stay far in the back, well out of sight. He watched, dread weighting his hear
t like an anchor, as General Byron took hold of his sister and dragged her before the tyrant king.

  By the time the bodies dropped there was nothing Roberts could do. He was too far away—he would never make it in time. He would never be able to snatch her back, not surrounded by guardians as she was.

  He stands in silence upon the pathway, his hands shoved deep inside his pockets. The clouds overhead drag crimson slants of light across the grass. The air seems so much clearer here—out beyond the walls of the city. Up ahead he can see the blackening outline of the tangled forest. He fills his chest with air. Exhales. Far across the great, green expanse the unfurling leaves flutter on the wind.

  He recalls the bitter words he shouted at Topan later that afternoon.

  What have you solved? he demanded, fighting back angry tears. Two of our people are dead and now that monster has my sister!

  Calmly, always too calmly, Topan reminded him of the preposterous plan.

  Damn the plan! Roberts cursed, his fist coming into contact with the cool surface of the stone wall. And damn the pirate that suggested it! Do you think that captain cares a lick about our people?

  No. Topan’s indigo gaze was steady. But he cares about Emerala.

  Roberts had nearly exploded with rage at that.

  Rowland won’t stop. When the pirates don’t follow through and my sister is killed he still won’t stop. He’ll continue killing our people.

  At that, Topan simply nodded. Maybe so.

  It was very shortly afterwards that Tophurn entered to not so subtly hint that perhaps Roberts take a walk.

  So here he stands, staring into the shaded wood and waiting idly by for his sister to be killed. He wonders how much time will pass before the announcement is made. He imagines Rowland Stoward will not wait very long. The large crowd of Chancians present at the hanging witnessed Emerala’s arrest. They will want answers. Once they have them, they will want another execution. They are hungry for another show, and Rowland will be all too eager to provide them with one.

  Roberts’s father gave him one request—one simple, final request. When I am gone, you must be the man of the family.