The Changing Tide: Book One of Rogue Elegance

by K Dowling

“General Byron?”

  He swallows. His throat is dry. “Yes?”

  “His Majesty will be along momentarily, if you will kindly wait a few moments more.”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  The door slams shut. It is as loud as exploding gunpowder. Its echo ricochets through the room and slamming into James’s golden chest. A sheen of sweat has formed across his upper lip.

  “You damned fool,” he whispers. His voice spills out into the emptiness, resonating back at him in a derisive echo. What was he thinking? Why had he told the Cairan woman where to find her cousin? Why had he left the carriage carelessly guarded by a lone private, newly initiated and unused to his duties? Private Abel had not been killed, but Byron is certain the boy will wish he were dead by the time Rowland Stoward is through with him.

  Unlike Abel, James Byron is not to be punished. In fact, Rowland sent him his royal regards earlier that morning. Byron is to be commended for joining the attack against the pirates and driving them back to the sea. He is not to be blamed for the Rogue’s disappearance. That, it would appear, is the fault of the Cairan witches who freed Emerala the Rogue with their black, forbidden magic.

  Byron bites back a groan.

  If only Rowland knew that Emerala’s escape had been entirely his fault.

  Thank you, James Byron.

  The sound of his name—his real name—on the Cairan woman’s tongue had nearly caused him to turn his stallion around. He does not understand how the blue-eyed gypsy has managed to undo him so entirely, that he would betray his king—his lord, liege and lifelong idol—so completely. He does not know what he was thinking, damned fool, as he pulled her to him beneath the moonlight and pressed his lips to hers. His cheek had stung for a near hour afterwards, the stubbled skin burning from the strength of her slap.

  She had asked him if blindly following orders absolved him of responsibility.

  Does he do that, he wonders? Does he blindly follow orders?

  He has always looked up to Rowland—has always admired the great king and his legion of golden soldiers since he was a young boy, still chasing after his mother in the royal kitchens. He remembers numerous arguments with the disillusioned Prince Frederick— remembers the disagreements growing more and more heated in the days leading up to that last, fateful goodbye.

  Rowland Stoward refers to the day as the death of his eldest son. He mourns the young man along with the deceased.

  Byron knows better. He was there the day the prince threw down his crown and left.

  Why do you worship him, James? Frederick had demanded of him once. His auburn hair glistened with slivers of gold beneath the sunlight as they walked in the great stone garden. Byron can recall bristling at the question.

  I don’t worship him.

  You do, Frederick protested. You treat my father as if he’s some sort of untouchable deity. He’s not a god, James. He’s barely even a man.

  Byron’s eyes had darted nervously around the garden; suddenly worried that someone would overhead. You shouldn’t say things like that, he snapped.

  You see? Frederick said, shoving him lightly. This is what I mean.

  Byron scowls up at the painted cherubs overhead. He thinks, suddenly, of his father. He thinks of a lesson the old man gave him as a boy as they huddled in a rocking rowboat and waited for the morning sun to burn the grey clouds off of the sea. The cliffs of Chancey drew a stark black line through the haze.

  The Great One put his fingerprint on all of us at birth, but so did the Evil. It is because of this that we are sometimes incapable of defining right from wrong. It is easy, as men, to let hate warp our opinions and render them ugly. You listen closely to your heart, James, because that’s where the Great One put his fingerprint.

  In me? James’s frozen fingers gripped at the net full of flopping silver fish.

  In everyone, his father said. But not everyone knows when or how to listen.

  How will I know?

  You’ll know, boy.

  At his sides, James Byron’s fingers clench into fists at his side. He can feel his heart pounding against his ribcage—fluttering in the split intervals with painful alacrity. He feels alive—more alive, perhaps, than he has felt his entire life.

  He thinks of Rowland, kneeling before an empty altar, choking on incense, and believes for the first time that the king’s prayers are unheard. He thinks of that great bearskin cloak, the bulging shadow of a beast, and imagines the dark fingerprint of the Evil scorched upon his crown.

  He thinks of his father, laid to rest in his rowboat, sent out to sea to make his journey to the Great Above. The sea was still and clear as glass, he was told. He had not been there to see.

  He thinks of the blue-eyed Cairan, and how perfectly her body had fit into his—thinks of the taste of her, still on his tongue even now. The sound of his name upon her lips had been so sweet. It dawns upon him that he would have given her anything—would have done anything—to stop her from looking at him with so much hate in her eyes.

  James’s heart fills with resolve, his mind with anger, and slowly, the ache in his gut begins to subside.

  CHAPTER 28

  Roberts the Valiant

  It’s over.

  Roberts sinks to his knees. It’s over. He presses the palm of his hand against his heart, breathing hard. He cannot feel his heart beating beneath his chest, not anymore.

  “No.” The word croaks out of him, already broken. His knees scrape against the stone. Death has hounded him like a dog all throughout his life. He has seen its face time and time again, always watching, always waiting. Lingering in the shadows, its bony grip closed about its sword—its eyes cold and hard.

  Not this time, he thinks. Not Emerala. Not my sister.

  He feels a hand upon his back. He shakes it off, his shoulders heaving in a silent, breathless sob. Somewhere nearby, he can hear the quiet wails of grief that fall from Orianna’s lips.

  They killed her, she said when they met back at the cathedral. She was drenched in rainwater, her black locks sticking to her ebony skin. She’s dead. Besides her, Nerani stood as silent and as still as stone, staring into the shadows through unblinking blue eyes.

  The words meant nothing to Roberts, not right away. He felt nothing. He understood nothing. Death was so common to him—an old friend. The sound of its name did not faze him anymore.

  Not my sister, he thinks again. How could you take her?

  He shouts hoarsely, the sound spilling away from him in a mournful echo. His fingers ball into a fist and he slams them hard against the floor.

  “Rob,” he hears Orianna cry, her voice thick with tears. He ignores her.

  Somewhere on the far side of the room, he hears Topan murmuring softly. He glances up, confused that someone, anyone, can find a voice. Before him sit Nerani and Orianna. Orianna’s jeweled eyes are muddled with tears as she continues to sob without abandon. One dark line divides her forehead in two, splitting down the bridge of her nose. Nerani, in stark contrast, looks as though she has seen a ghost. Her skin is drained of color—her eyes are wide. She clutches her fingers together in her lap and sits as if dead.

  “The order has been given.” Tophurn’s voice in the doorway startles him. Across the room, Roberts hears Orianna hiccough softly

  “Yes?” Topan sounds like a man awaking from a dream. His figure is shapeless beyond the dark shadows. “So it has begun.”

  It is not phrased as a question, but Tophurn gives an answer nonetheless. “It has.”

  “And?”

  A pause. “It is exactly as you feared.”

  “What?” Roberts demands. His fingers clench and unclench at his sides. Sweat pools in the lines upon his palm. There is a curious prickling beneath his skin. At the other side of the room, Nerani stares intently into her lap. “What?” he asks again, more urgently this time.

  “The usurper has decided to blame today’s spectacle upon the Cairans,” Topan explains quietly. “He’s pointed towards us as responsi
ble for the murder of guardians.”

  Roberts is numb to his words. His stomach churns uneasily within him. His fist is bloody against the stone, the knuckles ripped open. He thinks of how easily the guardian had fallen after he snapped his neck—thinks of the blood of the others that spilled across the cobblestones like ink, pooling within the grout. He does not regret it, not for a moment. He would kill a thousand more if it would bring his sister back.

  “The people of Chancey are sheep,” Tophurn snarls. “Easily led. They will believe that we are to blame because that is what is easiest to believe. To lay blame upon the pirates would be to acknowledge that our shores are not as safe from foreign attack as they are led to think.”

  “The usurper can’t have that kind of fear running rampant among his people.” Topan says. “He will begin to lose control.”

  Not my sister, Roberts thinks again. He thinks of the last conversation they had—of how they had shouted at one another across the cool shadows of the dusty cathedral. Everything he had ever done—everything—had been to protect her.

  He is the boy hiding beneath the couch.

  He is the boy vomiting in the powder room.

  He is the boy with the dead sister.

  He is not a man.

  “Roberts, are you listening?”

  Everyone in the room has turned their eyes upon him. He raises his emerald gaze towards Topan and says nothing.

  “Gather yourself,” says the Cairan king. “Take a moment to grieve, but take care not to wait too long. There is no time, my friend. I need you to go, now, with Tophurn. Knock on all the doors. Tell our people to hide. Instruct them to lock their windows and doors—to stay put within their homes. They are not to move until you come again to retrieve them.”

  Retrieve them?

  “Retrieve them for what?” he asks, his voice hoarse. “Where are they going?”

  But he already knows. He suspected the moment he first set foot in Topan’s quarters—the moment he saw the unfurled maps, the trails marked with red ink. His suspicions were confirmed the day they visited Mame Noveli and heard her archaic tale. He thinks of the way the smoke had choked off the breath in his throat, had plunged him deep into memory. He heard, once, that amber was the stone of reincarnation—that to burn it was to invoke the ghosts of memories, dead and buried.

  He had landed in a dream to find himself thrashing upon the steps of the palace, his bloody hands on his throat as he gazed up into the face of the traitor Lord Stoward, the first king of the usurper’s line.

  Look at me while you kill me, coward, he had snarled in the voice of Lionus Wolham. It’s the least you can do.

  Now, Roberts looks to Nerani—his only remaining family. She is staring back at him, her hands entwined in her lap. Like a summer storm blowing over the island, the tears have dried up and gone. Her face is as pinched and as white as the day had gathered her within his arms and told her that her mother and father had died.

  He wonders if Emerala’s killer looked her in the eye as he cut her throat, or if he simply gutted her from behind.

  His stomach churns and he is nearly sick.

  At the front of the room, Topan watches him through careful indigo eyes.

  “We leave for the Forbidden City within the fortnight,” he says. His voice sounds as though it is coming from a thousand miles away. “The time has come to disappear.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Captain Alexander Mathew

  The sea is as deep and as black as the sky, its surface laced with slivers of blue. Only a faint twinge of violet lingers upon the eastern horizon. Alexander stands at the helm, staring at the fading strip of black upon the water, its jagged borders encompassed by the golden rays of the sleepy sun that hides behind it. His fingers grip the splintering wood railing before him.

  Overhead, the black sails swell with the eastern wind. It is a good day to be at sea. The Rebellion will be carried far by the currents.

  The farther, the better, he thinks and scowls. Before the sun sets in the west he will no longer have to look behind him and see the forsaken island of Chancey, and for that he is glad.

  It should have been easy. Slit a few throats, snatch Emerala, and lift anchor. He did not anticipate that the guardians would be one step ahead of him. He hates being made to look like a fool, and that was exactly what they did.

  He could have stayed and fought—the guardians may have increased their numbers but they did not increase their skill. Even outnumbered Alexander was certain that he and his men could have taken the lot.

  But what for?

  He did not know where Emerala was being detained. Even if he and his crew drove back the onslaught of soldiers, they would still need to find Emerala and make for the sea. It was not worth the risk—not when he had no idea why he needed her.

  BACK, he had shouted, brandishing his cutlass over his head. Back to the sea!

  His men listened easily enough. They had their fun. The space between the cobbled stones was pooling with the deep crimson of spilled blood. Only the Hawk lingered in the alleyway, his golden eyes surveying the carnage around him with euphoria.

  Got her? he shouted to Alexander. He shook his head—No.

  She’s not in there?

  He shrugged. Several guardians were racing at them, swords drawn. He waited long enough to see the Hawk remove his pistol from its holster before he turned and ran. The sounds of gunshots were stark against the humid night.

  The Valiant was nowhere to be found.

  The rising sun is scalding his eyes. Alexander looks away from the smoldering golden circle of light, staring down instead into the cool blue surface of the ocean.

  He does not have time for regrets. The plan did not work. How many times did his father try and fail? Too many times to count. He has the map—that in itself is a success. He will find a way to interpret the strange runes upon the parchment, of that he is certain.

  He hears footsteps behind him. He does not need to turn around to know who it is.

  “She’s asleep,” the Hawk grumbles, lighting a pipe. Grey smoke rises and dissipates on the air, snatched to sea by the stinging wind.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Alexander says. “You shouldn’t have killed those soldiers. Did you leave your mark?” He thinks of the two copper coins upon the eyes—the Hawk’s eerie trademark. His signature, he called it, once.

  “Aye, I did.”

  “They’ll know it was you that killed them.”

  “Nay,” the Hawk disagrees, “I’m not that notorious.” He moves to stand besides Alexander at the helm. Alexander glances at him at of the corner of his eyes and sees that a lopsided grin stretches across his lips. He pulls the pipe out from between his teeth and sighs, expelling smoke.

  “Even so,” Alexander says, and frowns. The Hawk turns to face him, replacing the pipe between his teeth with a grimace. One eye falls shut against the radiant sun.

  “Look,” the golden-eyed pirate proffers. “I’m not scared of a clean cut soldier. Those boys would sooner have browned themselves than taken a sword to my neck.” he considers this and laughs. “They did, I bet.”

  Alexander wets his lip, staring out to sea. His tricorn hat dips low over his eyes, shading the unrelenting brilliance that hangs above the horizon. “Why do we need her?” he asks the whispering waves. “Why do we need Emerala the Rogue?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t have a clue,” the Hawk replies. He gives an indiscernible shrug. His golden eyes squint closed in the growing morning glare and crow’s feet splinter across his face.

  “I think you do,” Alexander disagrees immediately.

  “Aye?”

  “Yes, I think you’re lying.”

  There is a long pause. Alexander can taste the pungent sting of the smoke upon his tongue. Besides him, the Hawk is studying the dirty beds of his nails.

  “Well if I knew, I’d tell you wouldn’t I?”

  “I don’t think you would,” Alexander remarks
, glancing up from the sea.

  The Hawk looks back at him at that, one eye still squeezed shut. His pipe dangles uselessly out of one corner of his mouth, trailing smoke. He surveys Alexander in silence for a moment before letting a low laugh eke out from his chest. “Well we’ve got her,” he says. “One way or another.”

  Alexander purses his lips—considering the Hawk’s words as a frown settles in across his face.

  “So, what now?” he asks.

  The Hawk grabs hold of his pipe and pries it from between his lips. “Not a clue. You’re cap’n, Cap’n.” It is not said without a trace of derision.

  Alexander presses his cap down farther upon his head, holding it steady against the buffeting breeze. “We need to find out what my father would have done once he had the map in his possession.”

  The Hawk is silent. His fingers trace lines upon the railing as he squints up into the blue sky overhead. After a moment, he walks away without another word. Alexander watches him go, feeling resentment rise within him. He knows without a doubt that the golden-eyed pirate is withholding information—important information. He sighs and tugs at the rim of his cap. The sun is scorching his skin beneath his jacket. Summer has arrived.

  He will turn the ship towards the Westerlies. Maybe a stint upon the mainland will do his crew some good—do him some good. He needs space to clear his head and figure out his next move.

  He glances back out toward the eastern horizon. The island of Chancey is already nothing more than a blot upon the sea. A grim smile settles across his jaw. He thinks of the Cairan girl sleeping in his quarters—thinks of her tangle of black hair and eyes like the sea. He thinks of how his men had crossed themselves when she came on board.

  An omen, they said, spitting. Bad things are coming.

  Omen or not, he thinks, the Rogue is here to stay. They will sail onward.

  CHAPTER 30

  Emerala the Rogue

  Emerala’s eyes flutter open and she finds herself staring up into a low ceiling of exposed wooden beams. Her body feels light—weightless. It rises and falls in time with the sluggish beat of her heart beneath her chest. She exhales lightly, blinking as a prickle of sunlight sweeps across her face and disappears. Her head throbs and she hears an unremitting rush of murmuring waves deep within her skull.