by K A Dowling
One corner of Orianna’s lips twitches upward. “Emerala was like a dog with a bone when she had her mind set on something, too.”
Is, Nerani thinks again, although she refrains from saying anything out loud. Emerala is like a dog with a bone.
“Okay,” Orianna relents, rising from where she sits. The folds of her violet gown fall away from her like water as she paces a short length away from Nerani.
“Okay?” Nerani echoes, scarcely daring to hope.
Orianna groans, running her hands through her glossy, black hair. She turns and marches back toward Nerani, leaning across her to snatch at the basket of linens from Nerani’s lap. As she draws in close, she whispers, “They use a light.”
“A light?” Nerani repeats.
Orianna nods, shushing her.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a candle or a lantern of some sort,” Orianna explains, setting the basket down at her feet. “I’m not sure. I don’t know how it works, but it does.”
“Any sort of light would illuminate a dark tunnel,” Nerani says, doubt lacing her words. “That won’t help me to decide whether to go left or right when the time comes.”
“Yes, but this light only illuminates the correct path.”
“How?” Nerani asks. Orianna’s demeanor changes suddenly, a smile dancing on her lips. Nerani follows suit, her pulse racing, as a slender woman with curly brown hair stoops down to pick up the basket containing Orianna’s hastily folded linens.
“Thank you,” Orianna says. The woman nods and continues on her way, shooting them a fleeting backwards glance as she turns down a narrow, stone corridor and out of sight. Orianna waits for her to be fully out of earshot before turning her attention back to Nerani. “Look, I don’t know how it works, I only know that it’s some sort of light source.”
“Magic?” Nerani asks, feeling ridiculous even as the word leaves her lips.
Orianna suppresses a small laugh. “Don’t be mad. I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
“Can you find out?” Nerani probes. When Orianna hesitates she adds, “I know I’m asking a lot of you.”
“You are.” Orianna crosses to a low table, upon which several candles have nearly sputtered out. Molten beads of wax harden into the wooden grain, mottling the surface of the table with clumps of white. Orianna runs her fingers over the candles, sending the flames dancing upon their wicks.
“I’m not making any promises,” she says at last, addressing the shadowed wall before her. Nerani feels a bead of excitement building within her chest, but she swallows it down, forcing herself to remain steady—calm. She can feel Orianna’s reluctance from here, even if she can’t see the woman’s face.
“I know.”
One candle extinguishes beneath Orianna’s fingers. Only a shivering, blue nucleus is left on the blacked wick. A portion of the low, stone room is cast into darkness. Sighing, Orianna turns back to face Nerani. Her ebony features take on a golden hue against the light of the remaining flames. She looks lovely in the darkness. Lovely and sad.
“You really think that she’s alive?”
“I know she is,” Nerani replies, without missing a beat. “You have to believe me—she’s out there somewhere.”
For a long time, they stand in silence. Orianna chews her lower lip, her blue eyes glimmering like sapphires as she studies the empty space above Nerani’s head.
“Okay,” she says at last, exhaling deeply. Her chest deflates beneath her white, ruffled blouse. “I don’t know that I’ll be able to help you, but I’ll try.”
“I understand.”
“Listen, give me a few days to sniff around Mame Minera’s quarters and see what I can uncover. I’ll come find you once I know more.”
“Thank you,” Nerani says, rising from her chair. The stone is cold against the soles of her feet.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Orianna cautions. “The Mames guard their secrets very carefully. I may fail.”
“But it’s a start,” Nerani whispers. Her fingers dance nervously against the sky blue fabric of her cotton gown—a color she chose intentionally in her continuing strike against the traditional black worn by family members in mourning.
I will not mourn the dead, she thinks, when there are no dead to mourn.
Across the room, Orianna has extinguished all but one of the candles. Only a small oval of orange light washes across the jagged stone.
“We should probably go,” Orianna says. “We’ve finished the linens. If Mame Minera finds us spending time in here with no task, she’ll put us to work somewhere else, and I’m quite through with chores for the day.”
“Agreed,” Nerani says. As the final candle extinguishes, she finds herself smiling into the dark. The bead of excitement grows in her chest—a sense of anticipation buzzes in her veins. She heads for the beckoning glow of light in the tunnel beyond, eager to head back to the quarters she shares with Roberts and begin preparations for her journey.
“Nerani, wait.” Orianna’s voice stops her cold. She pauses in the mouth of the corridor, glancing back over her shoulder at the shaded silhouette of her friend in the darkness.
“Promise me you won’t do anything dangerous until we figure out the light source.”
“I won’t.”
In the silence that follows, the stone room whispers back at her.
I won’t. I won’t. I won’t.
Finally, Orianna says, “You’re a lot more like Emerala than you think, you know.”
“Maybe,” Nerani whispers, and smiles. She turns to go without another word, feeling lighter than she has in a long time. Orianna may doubt her abilities to find out the answers they need, but Nerani knows she’ll turn over every leaf until she’s found the way through the tunnels. Orianna the Raven is nothing if not tenacious. Once her mind has been made up, she’ll stop at nothing to get her way.
Nerani is aware of how much she is asking of Orianna—she’s aware of the weight her actions will carry if Orianna should be caught. The payoff is worth the risk. Emerala needs them. She’s out there, alive and abandoned, and Nerani is the only one who believes it.
She’ll wait for Orianna to discover the means of traversing the tunnels, and then she’ll prove everyone wrong.
Harvest Cycle 1511
Sometimes, against the driving rains at sea, I begin to think myself a man unraveling.
Eliot
CHAPTER 11
The Rebellion
Evander the Hawk finds Emerala the Rogue skulking about below deck, her wild curls pulled back from her temples in an even wilder bun, her green eyes storming.
She stands in a puddle of colorless light that falls in through the gunport overhead, her face a mosaic of emotion. Her customary green gown has been traded in for a pair of black trousers and leather boots. Her white blouse remains cinched to her narrow waist by a whalebone corset, her collarbone left bare where the ruffled, white lace doesn’t quite reach. He shifts his focus away from her olive skin, looking instead at the large, silver cage that swings to and fro before her. Behind the rounded bars, seven silver parrots preen and flutter noisily, their black beady eyes following Emerala’s every move.
The seven parrots of the Rebellion—one for each pirate lord of the Western Seas.
The seven screaming demons that live in the belly of the ship.
Evander would snap all seven feathered necks if it wasn’t considered a high crime to do so. The damned birds hadn’t let a single human anywhere near them since the death of Captain Samuel. They’d been vicious and wild, like to bite down on anyone fool enough to stick their fingers close to the bars of the cage.
The moment Emerala the Rogue entered the hold of the ship the birds were smitten by her. Evander would have called it spell work, had he not been a wiser man—had he not known exactly why the creatures were drawn to her, why they hung onto every single word she said.
Had he not known the value of even a single drop of her blood.
“Prett
y, pretty girl,” the largest parrot squawks, nuzzling his face against the bars by her hand. “Pretty Emerala.”
Evander draws parallel to the Rogue in the pale oval of light, leaning against a creaking wooden beam. “You’ve taught the foul thing your name, I see,” he observes.
The Rogue jumps at the sound of his voice, startled by his presence in the hazy grey of the expanse.
“No,” she disagrees. “He started calling me that on his own.”
Evander flashes her a look of disbelief, flicking his cap up out of his eyes as he does so. Several black strands of hair fall across his forehead. The Rogue returns the stare, her green eyes unabashed.
“He did,” she insists. She shoves one finger through the cage to smooth down the feathers on its cocked head. The parrot squawks happily, ruffling its wings. “He’s smart.”
Evander clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s an animal, Rogue. The only thing it cares about is the next time it’s going to be fed.”
As if the bird knows he’s talking about it, the vile thing cocks its silver head in Evander’s direction and surveys him through black, marble eyes. It lets out a hoarse scream, beating its wings against its sides.
“He doesn’t like you,” the Rogue admonishes. “You should be a little nicer.”
“Ah, did he tell you that?”
“Yes,” she mutters darkly, frowning into the cage.
The parrot screams again, craning its neck towards the bars of the cage. “Ha’Suri! Ha’Suri knows the way!”
Evander’s blood runs cold.
“Did you teach it that, too?”
“No. I’ve never heard him say that until now.”
She reaches through the bars, shushing the flustered bird with one waggling finger. With her free hand, she presses an unruly curl back behind her ear.
“Why are you here?” she asks, still staring into the cage.
“I was looking for you. Here you are.”
Those green eyes slide his way, flecks of gold cupping her pupil like a halo. She studies him in silence for a long time.
“Well, I’m furious with you. So you can go away.”
“Me?” he asks, affronted.
“Yes, you.”
“What have I done?”
“You, Captain Mathew—all of you rotten pirates. Time after time you leave me stranded on the ship, acting like I’m some fragile doll of porcelain, and then the one time I finally come ashore—”
She trails off, huffing angrily. “He almost let me die. I saw it on his face—he thought about calling the murderer’s bluff.”
“He didn’t let you die,” Evander counters, though he had seen it too. Alexander was planning to play on Evander’s desperation in order to finally squeeze some answers out of him—some honesty. It was a stupid plan. Stupid and dangerous. Evander is grateful that Alexander thought better of his harebrained scheme to call a notorious murderer’s bluff.
Grateful, because he knows he would have told the captain anything he wanted to hear in order to keep Emerala the Rogue alive.
Before him, the Rogue is sulking into the cage, her lips tight.
“But he thought about it,” she says.
“Aye, well, that’s what piracy is about.”
“Betraying your crewmates? Letting renowned serial killers onboard your ship?”
Evander flashes her a grin. “Just a day in the life, love.”
The Rogue turns away from him, her attention returning to the cage of fluttering parrots.
Evander wets his lower lip, sighing. “I wouldn’t have let him touch you.”
No response. The Rogue’s unblinking gaze remains trained upon the caged birds. Even so, Evander notices a slight stiffening of her joints—a knit forming between her brows. Above the drooping fabric of her ruffled blouse, her shoulder tense.
He clears his throat.
“Anyhow, I didn’t come here to talk about that. I came here with orders.”
“Orders?” The Rogue bites back a scoff, still refusing to look his way. “From Captain Mathew?”
“No,” he says. “From me.”
This gets her attention.
“I want you to stay away from Lachlan the Lethal, do you hear?”
She chews the inside of her cheek, her gaze flitting across his face as if she can read upon his features every unspoken word—as if she can see straight through his constant façade. She shifts her weight to one leg, her right hip jutting to the side in a telltale posture of defiance.
“Why would I go near someone who tried to kill me?” The question is innocent enough, but he knows better. She is cut from the same cloth as him—is driven by the same passions. Some deep-seated predisposition towards insolence is rooted within her. The parrot screams again, this time more agitated than before.
“Murderer!” it screams. Evander shoots a dark glance in the bird’s direction, fighting the urge to reach within the cage and snap its neck.
“You have a tendency to put yourself in exactly the wrong place at precisely the wrong time,” he explains. “I don’t expect a run-in with the Lethal to be any different. He’s a dangerous man.”
“So are you,” the Rogue retorts.
Evander bites back a less than savory retort. “Maybe so, but my goal is to keep you alive. He would snap your neck for the fun of it and enjoy himself while watching you die.”
Again, the Rogue’s fleeting attention wanders back to the cage. She leans toward the bars, her wild curls obscuring her face from view as she murmurs softly to the largest parrot. Elated, the feathered beast leans into her caress, its pupils pinning in and out with each stroke.
His temper flaring, Evander reaches out and grabs her wrist, jerking her attention away from the cage. They are suddenly nose-to-nose in the belly of the ship, dusky light running across their features like water.
“I need to know that you hear me,” he growls.
Anger flashes in the Rogue’s eyes as she wrenches her arm free of his grasp.
“I heard you.”
“And you’ll listen to me?”
The Rogue purses her lips, her own temper bubbling at the surface. “Last I checked, you’re not the one in charge,” she says at last, her words laced with defiance.
He takes her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her gaze to meet his.
“He will kill you,” he says, his voice gruffer than he’d meant it to be. “Don’t be stupid, Rogue. You know he will. He’s already tried once. I can’t lose you. You’re too important.”
He sees confusion cut through her anger—sees a thousand questions rise to her parted lips. Her breath tickles his skin. Her eyes search his golden gaze for answers. Finding none, she draws away from him, retreating into the feeble protection of the shadows.
“You keep your dirty hands off of me,” she snarls. She does a brisk about-face, storming away from him as fast as her feet will carry her.
Evander watches her go, cursing into the emptiness as soon as she’s out of earshot.
“Keep your dirty hands off!” screams the parrot.
“Oh, shut it,” snaps Evander, whipping his cap off of his head and batting it in the bird’s direction. The bird remains at the bars of the cage, its pupils narrowed to pinpricks of black. It hisses at Evander, sidestepping across its perch.
“Daughter of Roberts,” the bird says. “Pretty, pretty girl.”
The name Roberts sends a chill down Evander’s spine. He stands frozen in the trickle of pale light, studying the bird. The parrot glowers back, its tongue protruding from its gaping, black beak.
It doesn’t matter whether or not Emerala the Rogue chooses to respect his wishes or to ignore them. She’s much too important of an asset for him to risk any harm to come her way. He’ll have to watch her closely—at least until they arrive in the Eisle.
Feeling irritable, he shoots one last murderous look at the parrot before heading back to his bunk. He enters through the low hangi
ng door of the sailors’ quarters, grateful that the rest of the crew will be in the gallery preparing for dinner.
He is caught off guard, therefore, when he sees a lone figure idling silently besides his cot. He draws to a standstill, his hand moving to his scabbard. Lachlan the Lethal waits in the shadows, brandishing a worn leather journal bound by a bit of twine. He shoots a toothy grin at Evander as he draws to a stop before him.
“Interesting choice of literature, boy.”
“That’s my property,” Evander seethes.
“Is it?” the Lethal muses. “Your name is Eliot Roberts?”
Evander is silent in the shadows, his already bad mood souring still further.
“That’s the name inside this journal,” the Lethal continues. “It’s really quite an interesting name, isn’t it? Been cropping up a lot, lately. I’ve heard it before, ye know? From our good friend Charles Argot, shortly before ye slit his throat.”
Evander freezes where he stands, his feet turning leaden in his boots. His golden eyes narrow dangerously, his pulse racing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The Lethal clucks his tongue. “I thought you’d be a better liar than that, boy.”
When Evander doesn’t reply, he continues, the ghost of a smile swimming on his lips. “Ye don’t think I knew? Ye don’t think I was watching your every move? It’s very scarce that a ship of the Rebellion’s fortitude docks within a mile of our shores. I wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to hitch a ride.”
Evander remains silent, waiting—his eyes glued to the journal that Lachlan the Lethal clutches within his grasp. His pulse pounds in his ears, drowning out the creak of the ship—the rush of the sea. He feels suddenly dizzy.
“What I can’t seem to figure out,” the murderer continues, “is why ye killed him. He could have been a help to ye, as I’m sure ye know. He was a great scholar. A skilled mapmaker.”
Evander bites down on his tongue, pressing his lips into a tight line. At his sides, his fingers ball into fists. From the galley below comes the faint ring of a dinner bell—two erratic clangs that set his heart to pumping faster.
“What do you want from me?” he asks.
