by K A Dowling
“You think that Emerala the Rogue used witchcraft to escape as well, then?”
“Think? I know it!” Rowland brings one balled up fist down hard on the downy surface of his mattress. “Think about it, James. You’re a man of war. Three members of my elite service of Guardians were holding down one, unarmed young woman. How could she have escaped them? Not on her own, I’ll concede as much. Not being held at the edge of three sharpened blades.”
He pauses a moment to let this sink in. General Byron nods slowly, waiting for him to continue. His lips are pressed together in a tight line.
“They were found dead, my men. Good men they were too, with families at home. I don’t think I need to remind you, James, how they were found—their throats slashed with their own swords, copper coins over their eyes. She’s playing with us, the witch. She takes delight in killing.”
A pause. “Of course, your Majesty.”
“I want her found. I want her to pay for her crimes.”
“And we’re searching for her daily, my liege,” General Byron reminds him.
“Have you combed the great forest?”
“We have.”
“And the Givalen farmstead, what about there?”
General Byron shifts his weight upon his feet, his gaze unblinking. “Everywhere you have asked us to, your Grace, we have searched and searched again.”
“She is concealing herself from you with dark magic, James. I can feel its presence in my skin. It itches at me. I only thank the gods that my Victoria went to the Great After before such evil times came upon us.”
“Gods rest her soul, your Grace.”
Grey light is beginning to creep in through the windows. Rowland blinks in the muted haze and feels his stomach grumble. An unusual prickle of discomfort has begun to itch within him at the mention of Victoria’s name.
Why do I spite myself with her memory?
“Have you ever heard the story of the Forbidden City, James?”
At this, General Byron falters. “Once,” he admits. “When I was a boy.”
Rowland chuckles. “It is, indeed, a children’s tale. It was told to me by my father, and his father before that. It’s a parable of great wealth and old magics. I doubt they believed any word of it. Do you remember the tale?”
“Vaguely, your Majesty. I’m afraid my capacity for fable is not great. I was never interested in fairy tales as a boy.”
“Ah, but this is no fairy tale. The story of the Forbidden City is quite true.”
General Bryon clears his throat and says nothing.
“They are there, James—the Cairans. They have hidden themselves away within the walls of the fabled Forbidden City. We cannot find them, because we don’t know where the city is hidden. But there they are, laughing at us—reveling in our confusion. And Emerala the Rogue is laughing with them.”
Silence again. The general either does not know what to say, or he is unwilling to speak his mind. Either way, his continued silence only serves to irritate Rowland.
“If you’ve heard the story as a boy, then you will know that the stolen treasures of the false queen Saynti are buried deep within the city. I cannot stomach the thought of that vile wench Emerala the Rogue rolling about in gold that belongs to me. I want it, James, I want it returned to its rightful place.”
“And the Cairans?” General Byron asks.
“It is no secret that I want them dead.”
“All of them? Or are we talking only about the Rogue?”
Rowland feels a sneer tugging at his lips. “Better to do away with the entire nest than to try and flush out one, I think.”
“What do you command?” asks General Byron. His face has compressed into a puzzle of stone.
“Find them. Flush them out like the rats they are and bring them here to die for their treason. The rewards will be great. The treasures of the Cairans are beyond measure.”
“It will be done,” General Byron says with a bow. He exits without being dismissed. Rowland watches him retreat. He feels a small shiver of pleasure run down his spine as he thinks of the vast fortunes hidden away just within his reach.
He thinks of Emerala the Rogue, adorned in jewels—his jewels—and imagines her head on a platter. The image of her haunting green eyes devoid of life gives him great satisfaction. He will kill the green-eyed ghost of his nightmares if it is the last thing he does.
He will cross this chasm. His smile deepens. He will finally finish the labyrinth.
Harvest Cycle 1511
Summer
I’m afraid I’ve lost track of the days. When the bottomless blue ocean stretches as far as the eye can see, it can become difficult to retain one’s bearings. Even now, my grip on certainty seems to be slipping away. There is something bewitching about being lost upon the rolling waves. The topsail took a tear a fortnight past and the captain has been rushing to get it repaired. We were heading to a place called Eisle of Udire, but for now, we are adrift. Captain Samuel is wary of me, I can tell. He knows that the cross I bear is enough to drown us all.
There is a boy onboard—a stowaway with startling golden eyes. He prefers to keep silent; save for a rather haunting tune he whistles when the winds are low. He has taken to following me. Even now, I feel him watching my every move. He is like a bird of prey, calculating, ruffling his feathers, those yellow eyes glued to the key I now wear around my neck.
I will continue to practice caution. Out here, on the merciless ocean, I am my own savior. I am my own demise.
Eliot
CHAPTER 6
Caros
Not for the first time that day, Emerala the Rogue nearly steps directly upon the heels of Evander the Hawk’s beaten leather boots. She draws back into the shade provided by a nearby copse of unfurling ferns, her heart pounding in her throat. Up ahead, in a narrow shaft of sunlight that spills down through the leafy canopy, the Hawk freezes, his golden eyes slitted against the glare. A dark groove appears at the top of his narrow nose, drawing his thick, black brows close together. The pirate studies the shadows, those piercing, golden eyes hovering for a moment too long on the thin veil of fingered ferns that separate him from Emerala. For the breadth of a heartbeat, Emerala is convinced she’s been discovered. She stiffens, bracing herself for the inevitable lecture. She had, after all, been thoroughly warned against leaving the relative safety of the ship that morning, as Captain Mathew and the Hawk prepared to venture ashore without her.
She almost scoffs aloud at the memory. As if they expected her to actually listen to them.
As if she’d ever listened before.
Their brief stint on the mainland had done nothing but whet her appetite. They should have known she would be the more enticed by the prospect of some action. Any excitement at all would be a small reprieve from night after night of choking on stale smoke below deck, watching the crew count cards and get drunk on flat ale. The drunk messenger in the Westerlies had delivered the first promise of adventure in months, and she wasn’t about to miss a moment of it.
Traitors are sent to Caros.
Caros’s reputation preceded it. Emerala had grown up hearing dark stories of the infamous port Caros—the pirate graveyard. It was where men with black hearts and bloody hands were sent to be forgotten and eventually, to die. It was the kind of place where loyalty meant nothing and any sense of men’s honor twisted into something tangled and dark, where outsiders were likely to be killed as quick as they could draw a breath. Of course, the very idea of it called to Emerala. The prospect of danger—the potential for an adventure—hummed in her bones.
This, she’d thought, staring angrily at the wherry as it carried the captain and the Hawk farther and farther away from the ship that morning. This is what piracy is supposed to be.
Now, by what little light falls through the veined undersides of the ferns, Emerala can just see a subtle twist of the Hawk’s lips. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets as he turns to survey the tangled jungle before him. Another moment passes a
nd then he continues on, his footsteps silenced by the thick undergrowth.
Emerala bites back the sigh of relief that rises to her lips, watching as the sunlight slips off of the pirate’s back, leaving him ensconced, once again, in formless shadow. She takes a second to slump against the thick trunk of an ancient tree, exhaling the breath that sits stale in her lungs.
That, she thinks, was too close.
A lifetime of slinking around the back alleys of Chancey, expertly dodging King Rowland’s Golden Guard, has made her a much better tail than that. Evander the Hawk might have been a thief by trade, but she was a thief by necessity. Orphaned and ostracized, she spent her childhood with her hands in the back pockets of merchants and ladies alike. She should not have come so close to being caught. Not once, and especially not twice.
The unfamiliar sounds and shapes of the jungle are throwing off her senses. All around her, the dank undergrowth breathes back at her as if it’s alive—as if it has a heartbeat of its own. Something living—something big—pants at her from up in the trees. The feathery flap of wings grazes the top of her head, stirring her unkempt black curls.
Captain Mathew and the Hawk had split up the moment they reached the main village at the jungle’s edge. A wooden post, the words Exile’s Alley smeared across a bit of driftwood in what could only be blood, stood askew at the outskirts of the crowded huts. It was there that the two pirates said their goodbyes, their attention flitting across the shadowed corners—their hands at their swords. Emerala watched from her hiding place behind the skeletal remains of a beached shipwreck, her green eyes slitted against the glare of the morning sun off the sea. She watched as Captain Mathew disappeared down a narrow dirt road, heading into the heart of Exile’s Alley. The Hawk made for the jungle, the towering trees still untouched by the morning sun. For the space of several heartbeats, Emerala stood cradled in the rotting curve of the ship’s belly and weighed her options. If she were to follow Captain Mathew, she’d have a much harder time avoiding the unsavory occupants of the village.
The jungle was a far safer option. There, the shadows would be her ally. The unknown was far less dangerous than the men that lurked within the bounds of the township.
She sets off after the Hawk, sticking as close to him as she dares. Her gown, knotted at the hem to avoid tangling in the trees, whispers against her skin. Already, the sticking morning has left a thin sheen of sweat upon her brow. Her curls tighten impossibly, growing wild and wayward in the humidity. Up ahead, the Hawk pauses upon a rock, the grey surface carpeted with moss. She draws to a standstill, her eyes trained upon the slope of his shoulders, the shadow of a frown upon his face.
For a moment, she wonders if he’s lost.
And then, it dawns upon her. He draws his pistol, his fingers dancing restlessly on the trigger. His golden eyes study the tangled web of flora before him, watching. Waiting.
He’s expecting someone.
But who?
And why?
Her pulse quickens as she scans her surroundings, desperately hoping that whomever the Hawk is expecting doesn’t stumble upon her first. Somewhere deep in the jungle comes the crunching of undergrowth—the sound of a twig snapping beneath a boot. Someone is approaching. Still perched atop the mossy rock, the Hawk tenses. Even from where she stands, Emerala can see the tremor of his fingers.
He’s afraid, she realizes. Whoever is coming—whoever he is expecting—terrifies him. Emerala’s toes curl in the rich soil underfoot as a new kind of energy takes hold of her. Anticipation, perhaps, or excitement. In all her time onboard the Rebellion, not once has she seen the arrogant pirate show so much as an ounce of fear.
“Finally,” she whispers. Maybe now she’ll get to take part in a bit of fun.
She thought she was setting sail onboard the Rebellion for a new life of adventure. She hadn’t expected to leave the oppressive protection of her older brother only to stumble into the care of two domineering pirates. Sorry excuses for brigands, the both of them. They treated her as if she were made of glass, forbidding her from leaving their sight onboard the ship, and leaving her behind whenever they docked.
But not today, she thinks, her lips curling into a smile.
Across the expanse, the Hawk begins to whistle. The shrill melody reverberates through the tangled jungle. A low laugh echoes out in reply. And then, from within the jungle, comes a voice:
“I haven’t heard that old shanty in years.”
The whistling cuts short. Off in the trees, a mockingbird trills a phantom echo of the song. “Aye, I wouldn’t think you had.” The Hawk’s voice is cold. “Only traitors go to Caros, and Captain Samuel didn’t hire traitors.”
“Didn’t he? He hired you.” The shape of a man, bowed and bent with age, materializes among the narrow trees. The newcomer’s features are obscured by the mist that rises up off of the earth in clinging clouds of grey.
“I’m no traitor,” the Hawk disagrees.
“You’re about to be, from the looks of it.”
The Hawk’s grip tightens upon his pistol, but he angles the gun down towards the ground. Emerala stands as still as stone, hardly daring to breathe, and watches the tremor of the Hawk’s fingers against his trousers.
“I’m no traitor,” the Hawk repeats.
“Not to Old Sam, maybe,” the man agrees. “But you serve a new captain now, don’t you?”
“I serve myself.”
A laugh, then, high and cold. “You always did. Why are you here, boy? I take it you didn’t come all this way to say hello to an old friend.”
“You know why I’m here,” the Hawk says.
A pause. “I suppose I do. You’ll do it quickly?”
“As quickly as I can.”
Another pause, followed by a sigh. “Don’t leave your damn coppers on my eyes, boy. It’s tawdry.”
Emerala leans forward to get a better view, desperate to see more of the man in the jungle. Her mind is brimming with questions, each piling atop of the other faster than she can possibly process. Who is the man in the shadows? Certainly not Charles Argot. They came here for his help, not to kill him. How did this man know to meet the Hawk here, far beyond the prying eyes of Exile’s Alley? Does Captain Mathew know they’re here? Did he send the Hawk this way, or is he acting alone?
She inches slowly forward, her green eyes pinned to the stranger in the shadows. Between them, the Hawk steps down from his vantage point upon the rock and begins to make his way through the grasping ferns. His unshaven face, usually rosy with drink, has adopted a sickly pallor beneath the trickling sun. His golden gaze looks everywhere but at the stranger in the trees.
So focused is Emerala on the scene unfolding before her that she fails to hear the footfalls upon the earth at her back. A fist grasps at her curls and she is wrenched backwards. Her scalp screams in pain as she bites back a shriek, slamming into the chest of her captor.
“Did ye know,” hisses a man’s voice in her ear. “That beasts of prey grow eyes on the sides of their heads in order to see predators coming up from behind?”
“Good thing I’m not prey,” Emerala snaps, and swings her leg backwards in a well-aimed kick. Her captor groans, stumbling back a step and relinquishing his hold upon her curls. Emerala twists out of his reach, nearly losing her footing on the uneven earth. Up ahead, the Hawk is nowhere to be seen. She has lost him within the trees, lost him behind the veil of mist that curls around her waist like a wraith. Behind her, her assailant lets out a string of curses before barking out a hoarse laugh.
“Plucky little thing, en’t ye?”
Emerala twists around on her heels, drawing her dagger out of her corset and shoving the sleek blade into the sunbaked face of a middle-aged man, his right eye gone white with blindness. A raised, red scar runs across the length of his gleaming, bald scalp and down across his cheek. He grins, flashing several golden teeth.
“I’ll kill you,” she spits. Her heart flutters wildly within her chest.
“If that we
re true, ye would have done it already, little fawn.” His one good eye flickers away from her face, glancing toward the rock where the Hawk had perched only moments ago. “Was that your lover over there? Strange, then, that ye wouldn’t call for him to help ye.”
Emerala scowls and says nothing, still holding her dagger between them. The sunlight catches on the edge of the blade, dancing precariously along the knife’s edge.
“Or,” the man says, and chuckles. “Perhaps he wouldn’t have come. An unrequited love, is it? Ye were making quite the show of lurking after him.”
“What do you want with me?” Emerala snaps.
“With ye?” the man asks, his eyes widening in a show of surprise. “Nothing at all, little fawn. You’re a lovely lass, but I’m afraid I’m a ruined man. Ye could open up my chest and you’d find no beating heart left in its cage.”
He presses the tip of his tongue against an incisor and surveys her through his one good eye. “Your captain on the other hand—now he’s got something of which I am in desperate need.”
Emerala fights to keep the dread out of her voice. “And what’s that?”
The man’s smile widens impossibly, the folds of his skin nearly swallowing his eyes. “A ship.”
“A ship?” Emerala echoes.
“Aye. His ship. The infamous Rebellion. Saw it drop anchor in the harbor just before sunrise.”
Emerala’s mind races as she desperately grasps for a plan—any plan—any bargaining chip she can possibly use. “He’ll never let you board the ship alive if you kill me,” she says, the words tumbling from her lips far too quickly to sound confident.
“Kill ye?” A laugh. “Great After, no. I’m not going to kill ye.”
“Then what do you want with me?” Emerala repeats.
The man leans in close, his good eye twinkling in the sun. From his waist, he draws a long, thin cutlass, the curved blade still crusted with blood. He smiles at Emerala. “I want ye to run. There’s nothing that draws a pirate in quite like a damsel in distress. Like a shark to blood, his kind.”
