by K Dowling
Her chin rises in quiet defiance. “Are you truly so dense that you believe your actions have not caused me harm?”
He chews the inside of his lip, watching the color rise in her cheeks. “I can’t have you despise me. I can’t have you look upon me the way you look at me.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why does it matter to you whether I hate you or not?”
Byron is silent for a long moment, studying the curve of her lips—lingering upon the rise and fall of her chest. In the distance, the ringing of steel beckons him to battle. His blood sings beneath his skin. With his instincts calling out for him to stop, imploring him to behave with dignity, he pulls her roughly to him, drawing the warm curves of her into the frame of his body. His lips crush against hers, seeking her out desperately beneath the watery moonlight that trickles over them. He feels her gasp against his lips, feels her mouth parting at his touch. Their breathing, shallow and clipped, mingles upon his tongue.
She pulls away first, pressing hard against his chest with her balled up fists. For a long moment they stand nose to nose in silence, her eyes flickering wildly across his face. And comes the slap, stinging and sharp across the side of his face.
“Why would you do that?” she snaps, breathless. Her voice is hoarse. He swallows thickly, starkly aware of the taste of her still lingering on his tongue. His chest rises and falls erratically beneath his doublet. His brows furrow as a deeper wanting stirs within him.
“Your cousin in another carriage,” he admits quietly, not answering her question. He is not entirely certain he has an answer to her question. “If you go back the way I came, you’ll come upon her in minutes.”
The woman falters a step, her expression growing cautious. He can see the wheels in her head turning as she processes the meaning of his words. “You knew about the ambush?”
“No. The second carriage was a precaution, nothing more.”
He thinks, suddenly, of his parting words to Private Abel. Perhaps a woman will not frighten you nearly as much as a man.
The words are out of his mouth before he can call them back. “She’s being guarded, but only by one private. He’s a novice—easily spooked.”
The high color is leeching out of the woman’s cheeks. She does not take her eyes off of his face, not even to blink.
“Is this a trick?” she whispers. Her words disperse into the night like smoke.
“No.”
“Why are you helping me?”
He hesitates before replying, his eyes lingering too long on the curves of her face. The answer that pops unbidden into his mind is too treacherous to utter aloud. He feels his insides stirring at the sight of her chest rising and falling beneath the trickle of moonlight—feels the prickle of his skin beneath her cool, blue gaze—and he knows, instantly, that he will say whatever it is he needs to say.
“Justice,” he murmurs, echoing her own response.
She says nothing in reply. Her nose wrinkles slightly as she studies him in the growing dark. Overhead, the silver moon climbs higher in the sky, casting them both in a wash of insipid light.
“You should go,” he says. “If I come back with my men and you’re still there, I’ll have to arrest you as well.”
He turns away from her before she can say anything more, pulling himself with ease into his saddle. His stallion lets out a whiffle of air beneath his weight, tugging restlessly at the reins. Glancing down, he sees that the blue-eyed woman has not moved from where she stands, clutching at her cloak and studying him through eyes that have narrowed into curious slits. Her lips are parted slightly, her breathing unsteady still.
“Thank you, James Byron,” she whispers.
He grimaces back at her. “Get out of here,” he orders. “Hurry.”
He turns his horse to go, clicking his heels to urge the stallion into a trot. Over the sound of clattering hooves, he thinks he hears the woman call out, but he loses her words against the rising clash of steel.
CHAPTER 26
Emerala the Rogue
The carriage is still. Outside, the night has gone silent. Emerala sits motionless, her stony face gleaming beneath the circle of silver moonlight that trickles in from a narrow opening in the roof.
What is going on?
She draws herself off of the cold floor and onto her knees. As quietly as she can, she peers out of the barred window of her prisoner’s carriage. In the grey street she can see but one guardian, his golden back to her as he surveys the night. His sword is drawn. Even from here she can see it trembling in his hand.
She sits back hard upon the cool surface of the carriage. The heavy fabric of her gown fans out about her waist like water. She fingers the shaded ripples, frowning into the olive swath of cloth. Everything had been going exactly as planned. What happened?
Just before dusk she was escorted out to the carriage, just as Alexander Mathew had promised she would be. The light of the setting sun ripped across the sky in varying shades of gold and orange. The sight of it scorched her retinas, so accustomed had she become to sitting in the utter blackness of her cell. Blinking away stinging tears, she allowed herself to be shoved unceremoniously into the carriage.
The door was slammed shut. She heard the snap of a whip and the whinny of a horse and off they went. The pace was slow, measured. The rutted journey across the uneven cobblestone street soon caused her to feel sick to her stomach.
Alexander will be here soon, she thought. She tried to quell her jitters. She sat back against the cool black wall of her cage and shut her eyes.
Before she knew it, the carriage had drawn to a stop.
HALT! The voice was unmistakably that of General Byron. The cadenced sound of boots against stone was immediately silenced.
They’re here, she remembers thinking at once. Her nerves were replaced by the heat of anticipation, dispersing like spreading flames just beneath her skin. She took a deep breath, fingering the concealed dagger beneath her bodice. It was only a matter of time, and she would be free.
The silence lasted for too long. She waited, listening. Nothing happened. Finally she heard General Byron shout in aggravation.
Anderson was right, he snapped. His voice came from immediately outside the carriage. Hooves pulled at the ground. Damn him, he was right.
And then: General Byron? A frantic voice—young. Alarmed.
What? General Byron snapped. Hooves clattered against stone.
We’re under attack. Our men are dropping like flies.
How? The general’s voice was low and dangerous. They’re civilians. Finishing them should be simple for soldiers of the king.
With all due respect, sir, it isn’t the Cairans.
Then who is it?
Pirates. They’re coming out of the ground and dropping from the skies. We can’t take them alone.
It wasn’t long before Emerala heard a whistle, sharp. The sound of boots upon the street began again, faster this time. The clatter of hooves picked up to a brisk trot—skidded to a stop.
Private, barked General Byron.
Yes, sir?
Stay back. Guard the gypsy. Perhaps a woman will not frighten you nearly as much as a man.
Emerala does not fully understand what has happened, but she understands this: the plan has failed. For whatever reason, Alexander and his men have attacked the wrong place. She groans quietly, the sick feeling creeping back into her gut. She cannot stay here, idle and waiting for her death. She must do something. If no one is going to come for her she will need to be her own savior. What does she have to lose?
She lowers herself onto her knees. Cautiously, desperate not to make a sound, she crawls across the floor of the carriage. Her olive gown drags against the smooth, black surface like a whisper. Reaching up for the door, she gives it a tug. It does not budge. She attempts to slide it open from several different angles, to no avail. The effort leaves her panting and annoyed. The door is barred shut from the outside.
Outside of the carriag
e, the guardian is still standing with his back to her, staring out into the darkness. She rises to her feet, her legs shaking. Her arm is just slender enough to squeeze between two of the bars. Carefully, very carefully, she reaches downward towards the barricade. Her fingers just barely brush the stained wood.
“Hello?”
The sound of the guardian’s voice causes her insides to go cold. She snatches her arm back through the bars, slamming her elbow against the steel in the process. He does not turn around at the sound of her muffled cry. He has not even noticed her. She nurses her throbbing joint, peering out into the darkness at his gleaming golden back.
“Who’s there? Reveal yourself!” His voice quakes as he speaks. Emerala fights the urge to roll her eyes. This is who they left behind to guard her? Coward.
An eerie noise emanates out from the shaded alleyway before him. The guardian is backing, slowly, drawing closer to the carriage. Another noise spills out of the dark, this time to his left. He jumps, startled, and holds his sword before him.
“Reveal yourself,” he orders again.
There is movement in the shaded alleyway into which he stares. Thick, violet smoke twists out of the shadows, snaking around the private’s ankles. The vague outline of a woman is visible in the dark.
“Who are you?” the private asks.
“Do you believe in the old magics?” hisses a voice. Emerala starts, her eyes widening in recognition. The voice belongs to Orianna. The private bumps into the carriage—jumps.
“M-magic?”
“Dead magic. Gypsy magic.” That same, eerie noise is still seeping out from the shadows. Someone laughs in the darkness. “Curses—the kind that will make you beg for your god.”
Emerala is staring directly into the back of the private’s neck. He is close enough to see the beads of sweat that gather beneath the golden collar of his cloak. In an instant, she sees her chance. Her fingers are steady as she pulls the dagger out from her bodice. She glances down at the iridescent hilt in her fist, studying her wild, green-eyed reflection in the shimmering blade.
Without another moment of hesitation, she thrusts the dagger through the opening of the bars, driving the blade down hard between the soldier’s shoulder blade and neck. The guardian cries out, dropping to his knees. His sword clatters to the ground. Deep, crimson blood blossoms across the gold cloth of his uniform. He grips at the iridescent hilt with his fist. Red seeps through his fingers.
Across the clearing, Orianna emerges from the darkness. She pries the sword from the soldier’s fingers and brandishes it against his neck. Her twilight colored gown melts into the night. She looks eerie beneath the hoary light of the moon.
“Stay right where you are,” she commands. With her free hand, she gestures toward the shadows. A second figure appears in the moonlight, her blue eyes wide with worry, and Emerala recognizes Nerani at once. Her cousin’s lips are set in a grim line as she takes in the bloody private.
“I thought pirates were coming to save me, not you,” Emerala remarks as Nerani pulls loose the barricaded door. It swings open with a screech. She steps down, her bare feet scraping against the cobbled stones.
“So did we,” Orianna says with a shrug. “We were watching from the shadows when it all went wrong.” She flashes an implicative glance at Nerani. Nerani scowls and avoids her gaze, staring instead at the private.
“We need to leave,” Nerani says. “Now.”
“What do we do about him?” Orianna asks.
“Leave him,” Nerani says confidently. “He won’t pursue us.”
Emerala hangs back, uncertain. “What about Captain Mathew?”
The look Nerani gives her is as hard as steel. “The plan failed, Emerala. The pirates are being driven back to the sea. You need to come with us now.”
Emerala shakes her head. She thinks of the silver haired corporal and of his threats in the dark. “If I do, this will condemn everyone.”
“It might,” Nerani agrees. “But Topan has a plan. You must come.” Without waiting for her consent, Nerani takes her hand and tugs her roughly away from the still gasping guardian at their feet. In the distance, Emerala can hear the sound of hooves upon cobblestone. Horses, coming this way. The guardians are returning.
“Emerala, let’s move,” Orianna urges. Emerala digs in her heels, glancing back over her shoulder. Her dagger is still protruding from the neck of the wounded guardian. She glances at the iridescent hilt, gleaming in the moonlight. She thinks of the pirates, lifting anchor—sailing out into the wild sea without her. She thinks of death, and of dying at the stake before all of Chancey. It was to be a burning—she had seen the guardians stacking the bales of hay as she was led to the carriage earlier that afternoon. She would be sentenced to die as a witch.
For now, she is alive. The night air is tickling her lungs and her flesh. Her feet are hot against the stone underfoot. There is not a minute more to waste. She runs.
A cry from the shadows causes her blood to run cold.
“There,” a guardian bellows. “She’s getting away!”
Emerala does not dare to look over her shoulder as she races from the clearing. Her heart pounds against her chest. Her feet slap against the cobblestone.
“Faster,” she hears Orianna hiss from the darkness besides her.
She runs as fast as she can. She can hear the guardians on their heels, the drum-like cadence of their boots pervading the night air all around her. What will they do if they are caught? They cannot fight. They have no weapons.
They’ll be killed, all of them.
She can hear Nerani gasping for breath besides her as they turn another corner. Where will they run? Where will they find sanctuary now? Her throat burns.
“HALT,” a voice bellows.
She does.
“What are you doing?” Nerani shouts, her voice hoarse. “We have to run, Emerala!”
Emerala ignores her, turning to face the guardians. The three golden men draw to a standstill before her, drawing their swords. Their chests rise and fall with exertion beneath their uniforms. One of them has blood—not his—spattered across his face.
“You can have me,” Emerala says. “Just let them go.”
“Emerala, are you mad?” hisses Nerani. Two of the guardians rush forward, grabbing her roughly by the arms. They thrust her hard upon the stones. She bites her lip to keep from crying out—to keep from giving them the satisfaction.
Her green eyes meet her cousin’s across the shadows. Orianna has disappeared into the darkness.
“Nerani, get out of here,” she snaps. “Don’t be a fool.”
Nerani shakes her head, a sob rising to her throat.
“Run, Nerani, GO,” she screams, feeling spittle fly from her lips. She hears the sound of bare feet fading into silence upon stone and relief rushes into her chest.
Behind her, she can hear the singing of the third guardian’s blade.
“I’m sure the king will want you to take me alive,” she says, her voice quavering.
“You’re in no position to negotiate, scum.”
It has begun to rain. Rivulets of water run down her face. Thunder rumbles sleepily in the distance.
“Do it, then,” she whispers.
There is a sharp pain at the side of her head and the world goes silent.
CHAPTER 27
General James Byron
James Bryon stands erect before the throne. He is alone. The room is silent. Empty. He can hear his breathing sweeping against the polished floor at his feet. The great, gilded chair looks even larger without its usual inhabitant. It glitters with a gaudy iridescence, the embossed golden pattern pocketed by black shadows where the light does not quite reach. Overhead, fat cherubs pluck at harp strings and prune their full, white feathers. They stare down from their puffed, pink clouds with menacing, black eyes—poking out from behind bloated red cheeks.
The room is eerie in silence, he thinks, with portraits of music spanning the breadth of the vaulted ceiling—t
he whole of the Great After frozen in time. He, himself, is probably going to the Dark Below, if there is such a place. He does not know if he minds so much, not if the Great After is truly full of round, impish angels like the ones above his head. He stares into his boots and frowns.
Rowland Stoward is attending mass, although it is not the time of day for the religious ritual. He called for the Elder shortly after hearing the news that pirates were pillaging his shores—after hearing that Emerala the Rogue had escaped. He gathered his courtiers and stormed off to his quarters.
Rowland is afraid, as he always is. He believes in the power of incense and prayer. He believes that his god, wherever he may be, will offer him holy protection from the darkness of Cairans. Surely, Byron muses, the king must believe it is the Evil that allowed her to escape his grasp.
If that is so—if it is the fault of the Evil that the Rogue is free—well, then James Byron is certainly well on his way below. He clears his throat. The sound echoes like a snarl through the empty expanse.
It was not that James did not expect some sort of uprising. He did—but he thought it would come from the Cairans. He was not blind. He understood how suspicious it was that the Rogue should hand herself to the crown so easily. He knew, too, how enraged the Cairans would be by the murder of two innocent Cairans.
He knew, and he was not concerned. His men could handle a clumsy rescue attempt from her people. They would be driven by rage—the Cairans—and if there is one thing he has learned in his line of duty it is that angry men make easy prey. They are disorganized and sloppy—like fish on the hook, flopping aimlessly in an attempt to get free. Fighting off Cairans would have been easy. Quiet. Fast. The guardians and their prisoner would have only been held up by moments. The execution would go on.
It would have, of course, had Emerala the Rogue not escaped from her carriage.
It would have, had James Byron not faltered in his duty and betrayed his crown.
One golden door at the far side of the king’s court is squealing open. A narrow, nervous face peeks in through the crack.
