by K A Dowling
The Lethal exhales through gritted teeth, his breath seeping out in a slow rush of air. “What makes ye think I want anything?”
“Everyone wants something.”
The Lethal shrugs. “Perhaps I was just admiring your handiwork, one murderer to another. I like the use of the coins over the eyes. Religious, maybe? Or perhaps just a superstitious fear of the ghosts of the dead gazing upon ye.”
“What do you want?” Evander demands again, drawing closer.
“Strange, isn’t it?” the Lethal asks, one finger running down the spine of the journal. “To have the tables turned on ye. I can tell you’re a man that’s used to having the upper hand.”
Evander bites back the sudden snarl that rises in his throat, suppressing the urge to put a bullet between the murderer’s eyes. He takes a steadying breath, battling back his temper. A tepid smile creeps across his face, his golden eyes still shining with frustration.
“Just tell me what you want,” he says. “We’ll trade. A favor for a favor, aye? One murderer to another.”
“I want safe passage on this ship.” The Lethal tosses the journal back onto Evander’s cot. Evander watches it fall, his stomach twisting. He berates himself for not being more careful—for leaving it out in the open. He should have been smarter—should have been more guarded. He’s been off of his game lately, distracted as he is by the map—distracted as he is by that wretched Rogue, parading about the ship as if she’s untouchable—invincible.
“You already have safe passage,” he reminds the murderer. “You made damn sure of that back on Caros.”
“Do you take me for a fool?” the Lethal asks, crossing his arms over his chest. A wraithlike woman, her tattooed figure painstakingly inked into the flesh of his forearm, writhes upon his skin.
“I wouldn’t dare,” comes Evander’s derisive response.
“I heard your plans to hand me over once we dock in the Eisle of Udire. I know what season it is there this time of year. I know what game they hunt. I en’t about to be left behind.”
“You want me to convince the Cap’n to let you stay onboard,” Evander says. It isn’t a question—he already knows the answer.
“I do,” the Lethal affirms, grinning. “Otherwise, I’ll be the first to let him know that it was ye who were the last man to see Charles Argot alive.”
Harvest Cycle 1511
Charles Argot knows who I am, I’m certain of it. He knows where I’ve come from, and why I’ve left. He’s dangerous, the mapmaker. He has too much power.
Does he know what I carry with me? Does he know its value?
And the map he on which he works so diligently—does he know what Samuel and I intend to do with it? Does he understand the kind of secrets we intend to bury?
I am afraid my paranoia has grown into a creeping, shivering beast.
But I can take no chances. I am already responsible for too many mistakes—too much heartbreak. There can be no more accidents.
I don’t trust Argot. I am suspicious of his power.
If he wanted to, he could drown us all.
Eliot
CHAPTER 12
Chancey
Prince Peterson, the youngest son and only remaining heir to King Rowland Stoward, paces the checkered marble hall of his father’s court. His violet doublet swishes audibly as he walks, the whispering sound of fabric on fabric making his skin crawl.
Stopping in his tracks, he glowers at the two Guardians who remain frozen before the grand double doors that lead into the throne room. Thick as they are, the heavy wooden doors with their elaborate brass handles are far from soundproof. On the other side he can just make out the soft twangs of a harp—can hear his father’s boisterous laugh emanating out across the hollow expanse. He saw the jester being ushered through hours before, his face painted white and gold, his checkered outfit loose on his frame. The eerie echo of obedient courtiers mirrors the laughter of the king.
“Open the doors.”
By now, he has repeated the phrase so many times that the words have lost all meaning to him. Certainly, they’ve lost all meaning to the two fools that stand guard. The two men blink absently at the space over his head, feigning deafness.
“Perhaps you haven’t heard correctly,” Peterson snaps. “I’d like to see my father.”
“He’s busy,” the shorter of the two Guardians explains. He glances briefly at Peterson from over the bridge of his nose.
“Doing what?” demands Peterson, his words saturated with annoyance.
“Ruling the kingdom,” says the second Guardian, the hint of a sneer inching across his pocked face. Peterson wrinkles his nose, disgusted by their continued insistence upon treating him like a second-class citizen.
“I was unaware that my father hired court fools to help him make government decisions.”
Again, the two Guardians at the door pretend they haven’t heard a word he’s said. He sighs, pressing his heels down hard against the marble floors. One shoe squeaks against the polish.
“Can you at least let him know I’m here?”
“He isn’t pleased with interruptions,” the shorter Guardian says, taking care to address the empty-eyed bust that sits on a pedestal just over Peterson’s shoulder.
“He’s not pleased with me whether I interrupt him or not,” Peterson says coolly. “I would like to see him all the same.” He flashes his sweetest smile—the crooked, un-princely grin that works wonders on all the household maids. Before him, the Guardians remain immune to his charm. The smile falls away, replaced by a grimace.
“As your prince, I order to you open the doors.”
Behind him, Peterson hears a familiar voice echo through the cavernous, marble corridor. “Anything you need, you can get from your nurse, your Highness. That’s why you have the woman in the first place.”
“General Byron,” the shorter Guardian says, straightening his posture and nodding his head in a curt acknowledgement of his superior. The other Guardian follows suit, his polished heels snapping together.
“I hardly need a nurse, James,” Peterson says, irritated. “I’m nearly fourteen.”
He turns to face the general, letting a sullen frown fall across his features. James Byron grins at him, his clean-shaven face unusually bronzed from the sun. His golden cloak, tossed casually over to one side, nearly drapes down to the floor in the spotless hallway
“Fourteen, huh?” James prods him lightly in the chest. “When Frederick and I were fourteen, we were far more interested in chasing after the handmaids than in attending to your father in court.”
“You know as well as I that it was never handmaids my brother was interested in,” Peterson says dryly.
James narrows his eyes, laughing off the implication of Peterson’s words. “You know what I mean, Peter,” he says.
“It sounds like you’re saying I should be a hopeless flirt like my brother.” Peterson observes. “That’s hardly proper advice for a soldier to give a prince.”
“I’m saying there’s better things for you to be doing with your time than standing around arguing with these two fools.”
Peterson ignores him. “You’ll also remember that by fourteen, Frederick was already sitting my father’s council.”
“Yes, I do remember. I also remember he hated every moment of it.”
“It’s my birthright to be in that room with him. I’m nearly an adult.”
James pauses, studying Peterson closely for a long moment. “Living through fourteen harvest cycles does not make one an adult. Your father is a busy man. He hired an entire arsenal of staff to attend to your every need.”
“An arsenal of staff cannot substitute for a father,” Peterson snaps.
For a moment, James’s eyes flash dangerously in the well-lit corridor. “Careful how you speak to me, Peter,” he warns, his brown eyes still regarding him with compassion. “We’re not children anymore. There’s certain protocol to be followed. I may be your friend, but I’m still a high-ranking officer i
n your father’s court. Show me the respect I’m due.”
“You show me the respect I’m due,” Peterson nearly snarls. “I don’t care how high my father raises you, James, I’m his son, not you. You’re still only a soldier, and I’m a prince. Your prince.”
James says nothing, his jaw locking—his gaze hardening to stone.
“Does that sound familiar to you?” Peterson asks, hitting him where it hurts. “I know you and my brother had the same fight before he—”
“Died?” James cuts in, flashing a fleeting glance towards the two listening Guardians at the door. The soldiers continue to study the empty space overhead.
“If that’s what you want to believe,” Peterson mutters.
The sudden sound of bellowing reaches them through the heavy wooden doors. Even muted by the barrier between them, the voice is unmistakably the king’s.
“Get him out of my sight,” he hollers in agitation. “Immediately!”
Peterson fights the urge to roll his eyes. It’s only ever a matter of time before his father loses his temper at those unfortunate enough to be in his company. The doors are wrenched open by the two Guardians that stand guard inside the throne room. The jester falls out into the hall in horror, his checkered paint running down his face in rivulets of golden sweat. The two Guardians who had previously been engaged in unwitting conversation with Peterson jump eagerly at the chance to escort the painted man out of the vicinity.
Peterson seizes his sudden opportunity. In a flash, he races inside the throne room as the heavy wooden doors fall shut behind him. The expanse before him collapses into hushed silence. Even the harp is still, the slender harpist placing his trembling palms on the taut string to steady their vibrating. The herald that stands erect by the door ogles Peterson in astonishment.
Across the room, Rowland Stoward clears his throat. He is gazing intently at his nail beds, his chest still heaving as he attempts to collect himself.
The herald lifts his golden trumpet and allows for four short, brassy blasts.
“Your royal Majesty, your son has arrived.”
Silence presses upon the room. Peterson can feel all eyes of the court upon him. All eyes, that is, except for the eyes of his father.
“My son?” Rowland muses, peering now into an oversized ruby that sits in a twisted gold setting upon his middle finger. “Prince Frederick is dead.”
The herald oscillates nervously, his gaze twitching back and forth between the young prince and the king. “Y-your other son, your Majesty. The young Prince Peterson.”
Silence again. Rowland’s eyes slowly rise to meet Peterson’s. The throne room seems to stretch on for miles. Peterson has never been closer to his father than he is now. He has never been farther.
“Get the boy out,” Rowland says. His voice is unnaturally quiet. “Get him out of my sight.”
The wooden doors are again pulled open, slower this time. Peterson listens to the squeal of hinges, blood prickling in his cheeks. His vision blurs. He backs slowly out of the room, dropping into an awkward semblance of a bow as he does so.
The doors are slammed in his face and he stands frozen, his nose pressed against the lines of grain in the wood. At his back he hears James exude a low sigh.
“Peter—”
“Your Highness,” Peterson corrects, wincing as his voice cracks.
James clears his throat. “Apologies. Shall we return to your wing, Your Highness?”
Peterson glances over his shoulder and sees that James is observing him with sympathy in his eyes—as though he’s little more than a kicked puppy. As though he isn’t the sole heir to the Chancian throne. The thought only serves to anger him. He swallows his rising temper, trying desperately to hold on to what little dignity he has left.
“No, thank you. I’d prefer to be alone, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” James drops into a low bow before walking away, his cloak sweeping across the floor in ripples of golden fabric.
Peterson fights the urge to flee from the checkered hall, averting his gaze from the relics of war that line the walls—artifacts of courage, testimonies of honor. He’s done nothing courageous. He’s never been honorable. He’s never even been given a chance to be princely—to be royalty. To live.
He doesn’t belong here. He isn’t wanted. He was always an observant child, and this sentiment had never been concealed from him. Rowland Stoward, his only remaining family member, spent the majority of his youth making certain that the young prince knew exactly where he stood.
Why? he wonders, feeling tears prickling behind his eyelids. Why does he despise me?
He kicks at an invisible speck upon the perfectly polished floor, cursing his elder brother for leaving him here alone. Everyone would be happier if Frederick hadn’t turned down the possibility of inheriting the throne. His father would be elated to coronate his eldest son and Peterson would have been all too content to receive a lordship—to live out his days in a beachfront estate on the eastern shores of Chancey.
Prince Frederick is dead.
His father’s words echo in his mind, taunting him, vexing him.
It is a lie, and everyone knows it. Everyone knows, but no one dares to acknowledge the falsehood. They allow Rowland to live within his delusions—to mourn the son he wanted rather than search for the son he had—the son he still has, somewhere out on the Western seas.
Liar, he wants to scream. Frederick isn’t dead. He left us. He left you. And I was fool enough to stay behind.
His father’s sanity is waning. He’s falling into deep denial, and the men and women of his court are too scared to do anything about it. And James—fearless James, his brother’s oldest and greatest childhood friend—is the worst of them all.
Peterson pauses in the rounded opening that leads to his private wing of the palace. For several moments, he lingers in the shadows, allowing bitter tears to engulf him. A shard of dusty golden radiance falls into the hall through a quatrefoil that sits halfway up the wall. He moves into the light, turning to face his reflection in an elongated mirror that sits along the length of the wall. He stares at his face—at his mother’s face—and curses his father for not being able to look at him—for hating him so.
He doesn’t hate you Peter, Frederick used to say, ruffling his wild black curls, so different from the starched auburn hair of the rest of his family. You just remind him of mother, and it’s difficult to be reminded of her. If only you knew how much he’d loved her, you would understand.
Peterson doesn’t understand. He will never understand. He is sick and tired of being the outcast in his own home—of being ignored by the people that are one day going to be his.
His temper flares hot within him and before he knows it, he is balling his fingers into a fist at his side—is thrusting his knuckles into the reflecting glass before his face. Pain, sharp and relentless, shoots through his arm as bright, red blood courses down his knuckles and stains the sleeve of his doublet. Beneath his fist, the mirror has shattered into fragments, the cracks fissuring outward with the audible sound of splintering glass. In every shard, an echo of his his stark green eyes, as vivid as emeralds, stares back at him in resentment.
CHAPTER 13
The Forbidden City
Nerani wakes to find Roberts staring at her from the other side of their stone hovel. He perches upon his cot, his hands running absently over a magnificent looking broadsword. The flawless blade catches in the light as his palm moves deftly from the central ridge to the point and back again. The crossguard has been handmade into a complex golden basket, with a glittering emerald sitting in the middle of the oval pommel. It is a handsome weapon—like nothing Roberts has ever owned.
“Good morning,” he says mildly when he notices her looking back at him.
“Is it?”
“It is. The sun just rose out over the ocean a few moments ago.”
“Oh.” Her eyes drift closed. She struggles to hold onto the remnants of her dream, but they h
ave already begun to slip away. Her heart is pounding just a little faster than normal. She had been lost among the pressing stone of a darkened alleyway, cocooned in a thick, golden cloak—a stranger’s lips upon her own. The dream had ended in fire—as her dreams always did. She tries to call back greater detail, but the harder she focuses, the more the memory slips into obscurity.
At last she relents, letting the final, fleeting memory dissipate into some forgotten area of her subconscious. She is aware of Roberts’s eyes upon her as he tries and fails to be patient. He has something to tell her—something big. She can practically feel the energy rolling off of him. She’s always been able to read her cousin like a book—always been able to know exactly what he was thinking and feeling. His presence before her is louder than words as he waits for her to initiate conversation.
She sighs. “Where did you get the sword?”
“It was a gift.” His voice is thick with implication. Nerani opens her eyes and rolls to her side, propping up her head with one hand and allowing her disheveled brown hair to pool around her elbow.
“Quite a generous gift,” she observes. “It’s beautiful. Who gave it to you?”
“Topan.”
“That’s very kind of him. What’s the occasion?”
Roberts clears his throat. “It’s tradition for a Cairan man to bestow a gift upon a Cairan woman’s father before asking for her hand in marriage.”
Nerani sits up straight upon her cot, all traces of sleep falling away from her. She stares at Roberts, her mouth a perfect “o” of horror—unable to bring any coherent words to the tip of her tongue.
Looking sheepish, Roberts continues. “Or,” he says, not fully meeting her gaze, “if there’s no father present, he would bestow the gift upon the woman’s guardian.”
“You’re not my guardian,” Nerani says.
“I’m the only remaining male in your family,” he contests, and she hears what it is he really wanted to say. I’m your only remaining family.
Anger, warm and familiar, floods her veins. She stares hotly at her older cousin, a challenge written in her pinched lips, her wrinkled brow.
