by K A Dowling
“Ani—” Roberts begins, using the name he called her as a child. He pauses, falling silent. One stray hand tugs at his mop of wild black curls.
“I’m not ready to marry.”
At that, Roberts seems to regain his footing. “Ready or not, most young women your age are already betrothed. A few of them have even wedded and bedded their husbands.”
She frowns at the term—wedding and bedding—and feels her stomach turn. She knows he’s right. She knows that, were her parents alive, they would have already found a match for her. It would have been their responsibility to arrange for her a husband, as was custom. With them deceased the responsibility invariably falls to Roberts. It’s tradition.
And yet it doesn’t feel right.
“I hardly know Topan,” she argues, her voice weak. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to call his face into her memory. Instead, the face that swims into focus is the one from her dreams—square jawed and clean-shaven, with deep brown eyes as guarded as stone. Her eyes open and she blinks several times, her cheeks flushing crimson.
“Your mother had only just met your father when she was promised to him,” Roberts reminds her. “And she was a full year younger than you are now.”
“I know that.”
If she’s to be honest, she has long noticed the Cairan king vying for her affections. In fact, until now she has done her level best to ignore the subtle advances he made. It’s not that she doesn’t think him an attractive man. On the contrary—Topan is quite handsome, with his dark, angular features and his tall build. His blue eyes—so dark that they are almost violet—are often a topic of conversation in the circles of women that congregate in the main cavern. And yet some shard of her subconscious holds her back from accepting his courtship. Some small piece tucked neatly away within her reminds he is not the one—will never be the one.
“And you do know Topan,” Roberts is arguing, “He’s made quite the effort to spend as much time within your company as he can. Why do you think you’ve been asked to accompany me to all of those meetings with the Listeners?”
She fixes him with a galvanizing glare. “I thought it was because you needed my expert opinion.”
Roberts laughs at that, his expression lightening. “Think about it, Nerani. If you’re to be married anyway, you might as well be married to royalty. He’s a good man and he’ll treat you well. I’d say he even loves you, given the way I’ve seen him jump to his feet every time you enter the room.”
The word love singes her like a brand. She sits up straighter upon the bed, her stomach twisting into a knot. Roberts notices her sudden shift in mood and leans forward, ready to defend his choice of words. Nerani is saved from whatever else he might say by the sound of Orianna’s voice drifting through the rounded opening.
“Planning to lop someone’s head off later today, are we, Rob?”
Embarrassment passes across Roberts’s face as he places the sword down onto the cot. “If you’re not careful with that tongue of yours, it could be you,” he shoots back at her, emerald eyes blazing.
“What’s the occasion for such a dramatic choice of weaponry?”
“Topan thinks he’s going to marry me,” Nerani says blandly.
Orianna’s eyes widen into perfect circles. “Well,” she says, “can’t say I didn’t see that coming.”
“You’re not surprised?”
“Absolutely not,” Orianna insists, flipping her raven locks over her shoulder. “The man drools over you like a dog lusting after a bone. It was only a matter of time before he made some sort of grand gesture.”
“That’s crass,” Nerani says, her voice meek. Her cheeks burn.
“Maybe,” Orianna agrees. “That doesn’t make it untrue.”
“Are you here to provide unhelpful commentary, or is there a reason for your visit?” Roberts asks.
“Don’t be so wretched, Rob,” Orianna retorts. “You’re entirely pleased to see me here.”
“Is that so?”
“It is. You need me.”
“How do you figure?” Roberts asks, pressing a palm into his knee.
“Nerani is set to be wed, and you’re still hopelessly alone. I’m the closest chance you have of ever finding a wife.”
Roberts flashes her a wicked grin. “I thought Mames aren’t permitted to marry.”
“They’re not,” Orianna says, her eyes widening as if she’s only just remembered. “I suppose that means you’re out of luck. Looks like it’s to be the life of a spinster for you.”
Their coquettish exchange does not go unnoticed by Nerani. Her frown deepens and she feels suddenly lonelier than she has in months.
“Why are you really here?” she asks Orianna, desperately hoping her friend has come equipped with an excuse—any excuse—to end this conversation. Orianna’s sapphire gaze glitters as she flashes Nerani an implicative glance.
She’s discovered something, Nerani realizes, her heart beginning to race.
“I’m here to steal you away,” Orianna lies. At Roberts’s questioning stare she adds, “We’re short-staffed in the kitchens today and I’ve been instructed to rustle up some extra hands.”
Nerani jumps instantly to her feet, snatching a crumpled cream cotton petticoat off of the edge of her cot. Shooting Orianna a look of gratitude, she slips into her gown.
“We’ll continue this conversation later,” Roberts insists in a tone that belies any opposition. He lays back upon his cot, placing his hands lazily behind his head. Nerani waves him off with an idle hand as she laces her corset.
“I’m going to give him my blessing, Nerani,” Roberts calls to her as she slides out the door and down the carved rungs in the stone wall. She ignores him, pressing all thoughts of Topan out of her mind as best as she can.
The kitchens are overcrowded when they arrive, the air already hot and sticking from the steam that rises off of bubbling cauldrons of stew. Orianna leads Nerani to a low, stone table, ushering her towards a rising glob of dough that sits atop a dusting of flour.
“Knead,” she orders.
“I thought you wanted to talk to me about the tunnels,” Nerani protests.
Orianna shushes her, casting a furtive glance around the room. No one is listening to them. No one pays them any attention at all. Orianna pulls on a pinafore, tossing a spare apron towards Nerani. The white square of fabric is already coated with a fair amount of flour, and Nerani finds herself enshrouded in a chalky cloud of powder. Suppressing the urge to sneeze, she ties the apron around her waist and follows Orianna to the table. They knead in a silence for a long time, their heads bowed over their work.
“I suppose you don’t want to talk about Topan,” Orianna says at last.
Nerani shoots her a sidelong glance. “I want to hear what you’ve found out about the tunnel exits. I know you’ve discovered something—it’s written all over your face.”
A furtive smile sweeps across Orianna’s lips. “Am I that easy to read?”
“Like a book,” Nerani says. “Now talk.”
“First, you should probably add more flour to your dough.”
“What?” Nerani looks down at the table before her. Wet, untreated flour adheres to her knuckles. “Oh.”
Grabbing some colorless powder from the deep stone basin to her left, she tosses it on the dough. Returning to kneading, she scours the room around them for any potential eavesdroppers. Everyone is wholly devoted to their individual tasks. No one shoots so much as a fleeting glance in their direction. Emboldened, Nerani redirects her attention to Orianna.
“So? Did you find out how they do it?”
Orianna’s pause is thick with reluctance. “I did.”
“Tell me.”
Orianna sighs, her deep blue eyes scanning the room.
“It’s some sort of incense. If my sources are correct, when you light a candle and hold the incense within the flame, the burning smoke will show you the correct path to take.”
Nerani stares at Orianna for a long
time without speaking, surveying her friend’s face for any sign of insincerity. She stares back at her, unblinking, her blue eyes earnest. A streak of flour is smeared across her right cheek—stark against her skin.
“You’re sure of this?” Nerani asks at last.
“I am,” Orianna says.
“It sounds like spell work.”
“It does,” Orianna admits. “I find that the unexplained often sounds mystical to those who don’t know any better.”
Nerani considers this, grabbing more flour from the basin. “If it isn’t mystical in nature, then how do you suppose it works?”
Orianna gives a small shrug, her shoulders rising and falling beneath her ruffled cotton blouse. “I’ve no idea, but I’m sure the Mames do.”
“Right.” The idea of trusting her life to a tool she doesn’t understand frightens Nerani. If she becomes lost within the endless, winding tunnels—if she can’t find her way forward or back—
She doesn’t even want to think about how long it will take her to die there, alone in the perpetual dark.
“How did you manage to figure it out?”
Orianna smiles. “You forget I’ve spent the majority of my life stealing trinkets in the marketplace. Emerala isn’t the only pickpocket with a good sleight of hand.”
Nerani raises one eyebrow, leaning back from her beaten lump of dough.
“You stole the incense.”
“I did.”
“Orianna, if you’re caught—”
She trails off, unable to finish her thought. If Orianna is caught having stolen from the Mames, she’ll be stripped of her standing and forbidden from continuing her studies. As high as an honor as it is to become a Mame, to be disbarred from the title is the ultimate disgrace. Nerani realizes the weight of Orianna’s actions—realizes the part she has played in arriving to this point. Her cheeks flush and she feels suddenly weak in the knees. Still, she cannot bring herself to apologize.
She did what needed to be done.
Next to her, Orianna has stopped kneading her dough. She turns to face Nerani, her dark blue eyes brimming with an intensity Nerani has seldom seen in her childhood friend.
“Do you really believe that Emerala is still alive?”
“Yes,” Nerani says, not missing a beat. “I do.”
Orianna scrutinizes her carefully, her lips twisting into a reluctant smile.
“Then it’s worth it. Whatever happens next—it’ll be worth it to have her back with us where she belongs.”
Nerani smiles at that, reaching out to place one powdered palm over Orianna’s. At her touch, Orianna freezes, her muscles going suddenly rigid. Her eyes roll back into her head, her lids drooping closed. Gasping, Nerani moves to pull her hand away, but Orianna’s free hand slaps across her knuckles, holding her in place.
“What do you believe in?” she whispers. Her voice sounds ageless—distant—as if it has echoed from a thousand miles, a thousand years, away.
“Orianna?” Nerani leans forward, her voice nearly inaudible. She scans the room around them, desperately hoping no one is watching—no one is paying attention.
“Two golden men stand in a red sea,” Orianna says, her voice melodic. “Two golden men drown in the tide. A traitor. A lover. A woman. Two hearts on the sand. One is shattered. The other is still.”
“Orianna,” Nerani urges. “What are you—”
Orianna’s eyes pop open, fixing Nerani with a blind stare. A shudder runs down Nerani’s spine. She tries to remove her hand, but Orianna’s grip is like that of stone.
“Run, Nerani. Run as fast as you can. Before the red tide rises.”
“Orianna, you’re frightening me.”
This time, when Orianna speaks, her voice is barely audible. Nerani has to lean in to hear it. She says it like a chant—her voice rising and falling in the cadence of a man marching to war.
“Gold blood bleeds red.”
She drops Nerani’s hand, blinking furiously. Wringing her palms together in her lap, she takes a shaking breath. Nerani says nothing. There is nothing to say. She sits frozen before her friend, thrust suddenly back in time to her naming ceremony, when the same four words had been uttered to her by Mame Galyria.
Gold blood bleeds red.
After all this time—after all these years—
Nerani had spent the better part of a decade convincing herself that the words were the ravings of an old, batty woman. She had all but dismissed the mantra as utter nonsense.
And now?
Now?
“What was that?” she demands of Orianna.
Orianna holds her shaking hands out in front of her face, staring at them as though she’s never seen them before in her life.
“Your future,” she says at last.
“My—” Nerani stammers, trailing off into bewildered silence. “I didn’t know that you were training in the art of Seeing.”
Orianna ignores her, prying her attention away from her hands and fixing Nerani with an accusatory look.
“I saw the general,” Orianna says. “And you, wrapped in his golden cloak.”
“I—” Nerani starts and stops, unsure of what to say. “Oh.”
“He’s a dangerous man, Nerani.”
“I know that.”
“I’m not certain that you do.”
There is a long moment of silence between them. The clinking of cutlery against stone makes Nerani wince. The palms of her hands are slick with sweat and she rubs them compulsively against the powdered apron on her waist. It is Orianna who breaks the silence, reaching out and grabbing hold of Nerani’s wrist. She jumps at her touch, but nothing happens. Orianna’s vision remains clear and focused, her attention as sharp as a knife.
“When you’re out there, if you see him, you need to stay as far away from him as you can.”
The intensity of her gaze is unnerving. “What did you see?” Nerani asks, unable to help herself.
“Death,” Orianna replies. “I saw only death and pain. Promise me you’ll stay away from him, no matter what might happen.”
Nerani clears her throat, prying her hand away from Orianna’s grasp. “I promise,” she says. She means it, although her voice has suddenly gone as cold as her insides. “Are you alright?”
Orianna nods, her breath rattling slightly as she inhales.
“It’s unsettling, the visions. This is only the second one I’ve ever had. You can’t call on them, they come and go on their own.”
“I’m sorry,” Nerani says, for lack of anything else.
“Don’t be. It’s a great honor to study under the Mames. I’m learning so much through their guidance.”
Again, Nerani is reminded of how much Orianna has at stake—of how big of a risk her friend has taken in order to help her.
“Thank you, Orianna. You’ve done so much for me—for Emerala. I know what a gamble you’ve taken today. Words cannot express how indebted I am to you.”
“Just find Emerala,” Orianna says. “Bring her home.”
“I plan on it. I’ll come by to gather the incense from you later on this evening.”
She excuses herself from the table, brushing her flour stained hands together. Her mind spins like a top. The room around her feels suddenly small—impossibly small. She wants to be anywhere but here, baking in the stifling kitchens and confronted with ghosts of her past—omens from her future. In front of her, Orianna is watching her intently. A thin sheen of sweat beads her brow.
“You love him,” Orianna says. “General Byron. The accusation is jarring. Strange. Nerani swallows back a bitter tasting laugh.
“I can assure you that I don’t.”
Orianna turns back to her half-kneaded dough, her eyes glazed with sadness. “But you will,” she says quietly. “And it will drown you both.”
CHAPTER 14
The Rebellion
Somewhere far and away across the endless churning sea, Emerala the Rogue is pretending to be asleep. She lies as still as stone, the back
of her arm thrust emphatically across her face, slowing her breathing so that her chest rises and falls convincingly beneath her bodice. A book that she cannot understand sits both open and upside down upon her stomach.
They are drifting, the lookout told her that afternoon, only half a day’s sail from the shores of the Eisle of Udire.
Across the room, Captain Mathew and the Hawk are bent close together over a low table, speaking in hushed tones to none other than Lachlan the Lethal. She fights the irritable outcry that rises within her throat, her annoyance spurred on by the conflicting feelings of morbid curiosity and resentment that the two men should already be so intimate with a stranger that had essentially tried to kill her not three days past.
She smacks her lips together and shifts her position, angling her ear closer towards the conversation.
“No, no, no,” groans an exasperated voice. Captain Mathew. Or Alexander, as he has repeatedly insisted she call him. “This is all wrong, we have nothing to leverage them with. They’ll kill us as soon as they see us if we amble empty handed up to the frost forts.”
“Nothing to leverage them with, aye?” Lachlan the Lethal repeats, his voice thick with implication. Emerala shifts again and the book nearly falls from her lap to the floor. She twitches, fighting the impulse to snatch it from slipping any farther. She can feel someone’s eyes upon her, and she forces a sleepy sigh.
“He’s made that clear, mate,” comes the Hawk’s pointed voice. A tendril of smoke has wound its way over to where Emerala lies, and she wrinkles her nose to keep from sneezing.
“If ye got nothing, take something, that’s how I see it.”
“Steal from U’Rel and his men?” Alexander asks. “A pirate would hardly go unnoticed within their midst, and none of us are any good at pickpocketing.”
“We prefer to take what we want by bold show of force,” the Hawk adds, and Emerala can hear the wicked grin in his voice.
“Likely that’s true,” the Lethal’s voice leaks out with another heave of stinging smoke. “But ye do have a gypsy lass what hails from the island of Chancey, aye? Surely she’d be of some use to ye in that effect.”
