by K A Dowling
“You always knew we would come back for the cipher one day.”
The figure of the woman wavers in the dark, her cloak rippling beneath the wind. She looks both impossibly frail and immeasurably powerful. The paradox is unsettling—alarming. “You say ‘we’,” she says, “but there is only you. That map was bound with the blood of the three, yet I do not see them with you.”
“Samuel Mathew and Charles Argot are dead.”
“A pity. And Eliot Roberts?”
Emerala bristles at the name of her father, the hairs on the back of her neck rising to stand on end. Her green eyes lock onto the figure of the cloaked woman. A thousand questions rise to the tip of her tongue like bile.
“Roberts is long gone,” the Hawk says. “I haven’t heard word of the man in near fifteen years.”
“Then the map is sealed. I cannot help you.”
With a grunt, the Hawk thrusts Emerala out before him. She stumbles, her boots struggling against the heavy snow that blankets the ground. The hooded figure is immediately before her, although Emerala did not see her move. Beneath the cloak the mysterious woman’s dark head tilts as she regards Emerala with interest. She hears a quiet intake of air.
“Ah, yes,” comes the breathless whisper.
“The son of Cap’n Samuel Mathew has taken the map to Ha’Rai,” the Hawk explains. “He’s a damned fool for trusting the likes of her, but his blood will be spilt and that’s as good as anything.”
“Ha’Rai will play her part,” the woman whispers. She is only inches away from Emerala. Her quiet breath is colder upon Emerala’s face than the wintery air that enshrouds them. Emerala can feel the woman’s eyes penetrating her from beneath the heavy fabric. She remains frozen to the ground, panic bubbling within her. She wonders if she ought to run.
You will stay here, daughter of Roberts. The voice in her head echoes against the clamor of her own thoughts, startling her into stillness.
The Hawk tosses something to the woman. Emerala watches as a hand as pallid as the snow itself protrudes from the trumpeted black sleeve and catches an airborne glass vial in its slender fingers. The woman’s curved nails are sleek and as silver as ice. They shimmer like mirrors in the moonlight as she raises the vial before her. Ruby red blood fills the prism shaped glass.
“The mapmaker.” The woman sighs, and the sound is heavier than the weight of a thousand years. “Pity, Evander, that you spilled it all for such a little taste. You were always so quick to act, to kill.”
“His death was necessary.”
“No,” the woman disagrees. “His blood was necessary.”
“Does it matter? You have it. Charles Argot, Samuel Mathew, Eliot Roberts. The blood of the three, or next of kin.” The Hawk’s voice at Emerala’s back is wrought with self-satisfaction. Emerala scowls, trying and failing to piece everything together. Her thoughts move like sludge. Slow. Useless.
The woman reaches out with her free hand and removes the circular glass stopper from the top of the vial. Emerala watches, entranced, as she tips the glass to its side and allows the blood to trickle onto the ice below. The pristine surface is mottled with specks of deepest red. Nothing happens. The wind screams all around them. The woman remains still, her breathing even.
“Give me your hand.” The quiet command is directed at her. Emerala hesitates.
Now. The abysmal voice in her head is dangerous. Emerala’s arm lifts towards the figure as though it moves of its own accord. Her hand hangs limply from her wrist. Those fingers, pale and cold as death, grasp her own. The woman’s colorless skin is as hard as rock and colder than ice. Emerala watches, numb, as the woman draws a dagger from within her cloak. The hilt, adorned with rubies, glitters red in the moonlight. The blade is translucent. Ice. It cuts down on her skin with the slightest pressure, drawing a thick line of blood from the palm of her hand.
Emerala does not cry out. She stares down upon the ground—watching the deep red of her blood plummet towards the ice—and feels as though she is miles away. The droplets merge with the blood from the vial, forming a line of fast freezing red. The color seeps into the ice, staining the fissures that splinter through the glassy surface.
The cloaked woman is whispering now, primeval words falling from her lips in her native tongue. Emerala does not hear her. It is the voice in her head, deep and warm and ancient, that woos her into unconsciousness.
Sleep, daughter of Roberts, it breathes. And when you wake, remember nothing.
The firelight that dances upon the bronze sconces is caught up in a bracket of chilling, source less wind. Here and there, a few of the flames gutter out. Alexander shivers in the chill, his eyes remaining trained upon the map that lies flattened out upon the low table between himself and Ha’Rai.
“It is time. Give me your hand,” Ha’Rai says. Her husky voice wavers upon her lips. Her honeyed irises have disappeared behind black pupils. Alexander watches her carefully as he proffers his upturned palm. Ha’Rai draws a curving silver dagger from her sleeve. It catches in the golden light as it hovers over the palm of his hand. Before he can protest, she draws the dagger across his flesh, trailing a thick red line of blood in its wake.
“Ha’Suri, fi’in eae utal,” Ha’Rai cries. Her lips move quickly, the dead speech that has been inscribed upon the map tumbles out into the viscous air between them. She flips Alexander’s hand over, allowing four plump droplets of blood to fall upon the map. Alexander watches in awe as his blood splinters outward in thinning lines, spreading like ink across the aged map.
“It is done,” Ha’Rai says.
She lets his hand drop. His knuckles rap against the surface of the table.
He stares down at the map, marveling at the prominent, blood red words that scrawl out at the bottom of the parchment in the common tongue.
What is sweeter than honey? What is stronger than a lion?
Harvest Cycle 1511
Eisle of Udire
It is done. We have sealed the map—Samuel, Charles and I.
The magic was dark and ancient. My bones still chatter at the very thought of it. My skin crawls.
Surely, I will be condemned to the Dark Below for what I’ve done.
As I write, the parchment lies unfolded before me, the deep black scrawl of Argot’s hand all but faded away from the indecipherable topography. The first leg of the journey is complete. The second begins now.
We sail for the Westerlies.
Eliot
CHAPTER 22
Chancey
Nerani the Elegant darts out from between the shade of an aged grey building, shirking back only slightly as the pale yellow sun washes over her face. She draws her faded brown traveling cloak tighter about her shoulders, ignoring the sticking heat of summer that presses against her skin. There is comfort in the closeness of the itching fabric. She feels shielded from the bustling world all about her as she heads down the cobblestone road, keeping her blue eyes cast downward.
The fabric of her ivory damask gown sweeps dramatically against the street, flaring out like crystalline water bubbling over stone. The dress is handsome—finely made and likely quite expensive. Mamere Lenora lent it to her without question when she informed the matron what it was she planned to do.
They patrol those areas, darling, Mamere warned her, one heavily penciled eyebrow rising upon her head as she took a slow sip of her tea. The cracked rim of the delicate floral china was stained with rouge. They do. It’s likely that you’ll be questioned if you go poking your nose around there.
I’m not worried, she replied. She tried to smile reassuringly, but her lips only twisted into a slow grimace. Her own teacup chattered quietly against the thin, porcelain plate in her palm. I’m good at being invisible.
That much was true—so long has she worked to escape notice of those around her that staying unseen has become something of a second nature to her. Keep her head down, keep her face blank, keep moving—it’s all she has to do in order to keep those around her from giving her
so much as a cursory glance.
She’ll need to be invisible to get into the quarters she had shared with Roberts and Emerala. The moment Mamere Lenora had informed her that the properties had not been rented to other potential residents but were sitting abandoned at the outskirts of Chancey she knew she needed to pay the decrepit old home a visit.
It’s eerie there—haunted, like. Gives me the shivers just to pass it by. I wouldn’t go in there, not if you paid me.
Nerani frowned at the look upon Mamere’s face. Why haven’t they been let? Surely the landlords have been losing money on rent since our… disappearance.
Oh, to be sure, Mamere agreed, setting down her teacup. The sound of china clattering against the dull, secondhand buffet between them set the inside of Nerani’s palms to sweating. She mimicked Mamere Lenora’s movements, setting down her own tea with practiced delicacy.
It’s just, Mamere continued, twisting a gleaming, gaudy ring upon her finger, folk are frightened of the place. None so much wants to go inside, let alone rent. No, they’ve been left quite alone.
She puttered her lips quietly, muttering below her breath as she mopped up a bit of spilled tea with her spoilt handkerchief. It’s only so long before the Guardians take them over, anyhow. General Byron has had his men combing the buildings endlessly.
Nerani feels something sour twist within her at the memory of the conversation. General Byron’s name brings Orianna’s ominous divination to the front of her mind. She pushes the unbidden thought away, fighting the sudden urge to peer into the faces of those she passes.
Keep your eyes down, she reminds herself. Keep walking.
She left Darianna at Mamere’s. The girl would be safe enough there, out of sight in one of the unused boudoirs on the second floor. She had protested well enough, but Nerani would hear none of it. She needed to be alone.
If there were any clues to be found about Emerala’s whereabouts, she supposed she might start in their old apartment. They had abandoned the place so quickly—so absolutely—in their migration to the Forbidden City that she had barely had time to gather her belongings.
Take only the most important possessions, Roberts had barked at her, his emerald eyes unusually void of emotion. And even then, only what you can carry.
Emerala’s things had been left behind. If she had somehow managed to escape the grasp of the Golden Guard, surely she would have made her way back to the apartment. Nerani knows how unlikely it is that she will discover anything among the abandoned artifacts of their old life, and yet she has to check. She needs to check. The thought of Emerala alone and forsaken, unable to find her way to the Forbidden City on her own, has plagued Nerani through too many sleepless nights.
Nerani draws up short, nearly racing directly into a young mother and her swinging toddler. The small boy stops cold, feeling the strange presence looming at his back, and turns to face her. Messy blonde hair sweeps across his forehead as he blinks up into Nerani’s eyes. His brown owl’s gaze holds her blue stare for a moment too long. Her heart stops. She forces herself to flash him a tiny smile, hoping she looks warmer than she feels. The boy laughs in response, flashing three, white teeth. He waves enthusiastically at her, pulling against his mother’s hand. She waves back, keeping the movements of her fingers small and insignificant.
Not noticing Nerani standing so close, the mother leans down and scolds the toddler for pulling at her arm. She continues onward, dragging the boy in her wake as she maneuvers through the busy street. Nerani watches them go, exhaling a small breath of relief. Lost in her thoughts as she was, she had momentarily forgotten to stay unseen.
Her feet are cramped and sweating in the tightly laced leather boots upon her feet. She fans herself gently, lifting her twisted brown locks off of the back of her neck. The obstinate afternoon sun sizzles against the cobblestone underfoot. Something uneasy stirs within her and she feels, suddenly, as though she is being watched. Up ahead, the boy and his mother are long gone. She glances cautiously at her surroundings, feeling naked as she exposes her face to the passing crowd. The mass of Chancians that swells and ebbs around her moves with the practiced ease of habit. No one is looking at her. No one can be bothered to look at her.
And yet she cannot shake the sensation that someone has seen her.
You’re being paranoid, she scolds herself silently.
She continues maneuvering through the crowd, now only a few buildings away from the low, stone residence she and her cousins called home. The crowd thins, the conversation growing noticeably quieter as she approaches the row of crumbling grey buildings. Shafts of white light, speckled with silvery dust motes, pour languidly down through the gaps between the buildings. The heat of it tickles Nerani’s skin as she moves between sunbeams, keeping her eyes peeled. Gooseflesh prickles across her arms beneath the traveling cloak. She thinks again of Mamere’s warning.
Its eerie there—haunted, like. Gives me the shivers just to pass it by.
She stops at the third building on the street, unencumbered by throngs of bustling Chancians. Glancing around, she wishes for the cover of a crowd. It is easiest to go unnoticed, she finds, when she is just another face among many. Here, among the silent, empty buildings, she is out of place. A shiver runs down her spine and she fights the sudden urge to glance over her shoulder.
Was that a footfall she heard upon the stone, or is she imagining things?
She flexes her fingers, chiding herself for being so nervous, and stares up at the building—at her home.
The melancholy quiet makes her uneasy. It feels like she is visiting a tomb.
It’s not home anymore, she thinks. It’s a graveyard.
The door has been left open—no doubt by ransacking guardians. Cool air, dark and undisturbed, spills out from the shadows within. She feels mild annoyance bristling under her skin as she enters, her eyes taking in the negligence of the Golden Guard. The faint smell of wood rot reaches her nose as her damask gown sighs across the crumbling threshold.
It takes her eyes several moments to adjust to the gloom. The staircase, coated with threadbare carpeting, rise up just before her. She starts up the steps, her fingers leaving a trail in the dust that has settled upon the wooden railing. The stairs are old and weathered. They groan beneath her weight as she climbs to the second floor.
She comes to an abrupt stop at the first landing. Behind her, the stairs curve away into obscurity. There was something there—a sound—a slow creaking noise that echoed the cadence of her boots upon the faded velvet rug. She cranes her ears to listen but hears only the distant clip-clop-clip of a horse plodding by somewhere beyond the walls. Another shiver crawls down her spine, lingering in her stomach and putting down roots.
Mamere had told her that the Guardians patrol this area, and yet the building is empty. She is sure of it. No sounds come from above or below—no voices echo out from behind the closed doors of the apartments. She is completely alone. She continues walking, listening for any revealing noises over the sounds of her own footfalls. There are none.
She stops at the third door on the left, breathing a slow sigh of relief at the familiar feel the cool, sticking doorknob beneath the palm of her hand. Ever unlocked, the old wooden door creaks open with a happy groan. She slips inside, letting the door slide closed behind her. For a moment, she stands frozen in the wash of muted light that falls in through the soiled windowpanes. The contents of the apartment are swathed in shadow beyond the reach of the sun. Moving forward into the open expanse, she heads for the old armoire that sits askew at one end of the room.
Prying it open takes some work. In their absence, a leak has formed in the cracked ceiling overhead. The white plaster—browned and bulging with a belly full of rainwater—allows the occasional droplet to plop, plop, plop down onto the unfortunate wooden piece below. The door to the old thing is warped and rotting. She tugs at it for a few strenuous moments, gasping victoriously as the door finally relents with a sigh.
A sickly sweet fragrance
wafts out of the opening and she finds herself staring at a stranger. The blue eyes, bright and fierce, are lined with a hostility foreign to Nerani. The pale white face is drawn and thin—the full lips are pressed together in a wary line. So different is this face to the face of the demure young woman that left here only months ago that it takes Nerani a moment to realize she is staring into her own reflection in the dirty, full-length mirror adhered to the inside of the door. She exhales deeply, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her face, and leans down to rustle through the armoire.
Her irritation comes back with a boiling vengeance as she realizes she is not the first person to go through the closet. The shelves have been properly overturned, with the contents strewn carelessly about the bottom. She huffs in annoyance, gathering things within her arms and placing them frantically back where they belong. There is a sharp prick of heat in her finger and she drops the things she is holding with a quiet yelp. Drawing her hand to her lips, she sucks several droplets of blood out of a small cut on the tip of her finger. She glares down into the shadowy interior, anger flaring through her. Several perfume bottles lie shattered across the floor, disgorging that sickly sweet odor into the air. Only one glass vial lies unbroken in the mess, the curves of the rounded flute catching in the sparse sunlight that trickles in between the rusted bronze hinges.
My mother’s, she thinks, feeling a wave of sadness wash over her. She bends down, scooping the unbroken bottle delicately into her hand. The glass is cool and familiar within her palm. She pulls out the tiny cork, allowing her eyes to drift closed as she brings the vial beneath her nose. She is met with the soft scent of lavender. A wave of memories come rushing over her, followed closely behind by the salty threat of tears. Nerani swallows and replaces the cork with trembling fingers.
Now is not the time for ghosts, she reminds herself.
She rises slowly, sliding the vial into her cloak. When she straightens, the reflection in the mirror is golden.
