by K A Dowling
Don’t you understand, boy? His father shook him slightly as he spoke. That’s why I’m leaving. I’ve no other choice.
Roberts pries his fists from the cool stone in front of him, straightening his spine as he rests his backside against the heels of his feet. He sighs deeply, his eyes dry. He remembers taking Emerala from his mother—watching as they moved away from the children and into the doorway. By then, Emerala had grown weary with screaming. She smacked her lips contently and gave a stretching yawn.
Sleep, Rob, she had murmured in the saccharine voice of a tired child. She grabbed at his fingers, pulling him willfully. He brushed her away, listening in fear to the rising voices of his parents.
How could you, his mother was shouting. How could you do this to us?
I’m protecting you, Alarana.
At that, his mother had slapped his father across the face. He took the slap in silence, scarcely flinching.
How dare you, she cried. How dare you act as though any of this is for us? It’s all for her, isn’t it? It’s all for her and the boy. I’m not a fool, Eliot. I know the child is yours.
You’ll be safer once I’m gone, Alarana. You and the children.
At the mention of the children, Roberts’s parents suddenly noticed that Roberts and Emerala were still in listening distance. They fell silent, turning their gazes to the fearful boy and his drowsing sister.
Rob, darling, take your sister to bed, his mother had ordered. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her face looked drawn, as though she had tasted something sour.
Roberts obeyed, taking one last glance at the dark silhouette of his father as he left the room. Those deep green eyes watched him solemnly, never blinking.
There was no other goodbye.
He breathes deep, letting the air flow in and out—slowly—the measured rising and falling of his own chest the only thing that keeps him afloat against the onslaught of memories—memories that he has spent every waking moment since fighting to repress.
His eyes flutter closed as he relents, at last, to the ghosts of his past.
His mother was slaughtered not a fortnight later, her heart pierced by a gunshot as she struggled against the Golden Guard. Roberts had lain as still as stone beneath the divan in his aunt’s tiny foyer, holding his breath and fighting against the sobs that choked in his throat. He remembers her cries as she stood, shivering, beneath the barrel of a pistol.
Please, she said shrilly. Please, I don’t know where he’s gone.
You’re a liar, sneered the Guardian. They’re all liars. Shoot them.
Both of them, sir? asked a second guardian. He stood only a few feet away, his pistol leveled at the back of Anerani’s head. Nerani’s father, Gerwinge, lay dead on the floor only a few feet away, having been quickly put down after he refused to grant the Guardians permission to enter his home.
Roberts watched as a young, silver haired Guardian stepped gingerly over the corpse, readying his pistol. Why not? he asked, as though their lives were so trivial that another death mattered little to him.
Two gunshots rattled the house and they were dead. The Guardians receded, their footsteps staccato as they sidestepped the swelling pools of blood on the floor. The room reeked of gunpowder.
The door shut and Roberts was alone with the corpses of his family.
“I’ve failed,” he whispers into the darkness. “Time and time again, I’ve failed.”
He rocks on his knees, feeling grief wash over him in waves.
“I’ve let everyone die.”
He thinks of the day he received his name, waiting in line with the other Cairan children his age as the Mames made their slow progression across the room. Mame Galyria had peered into the lines of his hand and declared him Roberts the Valiant.
His father had been present that day, looking out of place and uncomfortable at his mother’s side, as if he was not quite sure how he had ended up at a Cairan ceremony. And yet, when the Mame announced Roberts’s title to the waiting crowd his father had leapt to his feet with pride.
That’s my boy, he had called to someone in the crowd, his green eyes gleaming like jewels. Brave as can be.
I am not worthy of my namesake, Roberts thinks bitterly. I’ve lost everyone, and I nearly lost Nerani, too.
He thinks of himself hiding behind the divan, crouching in blood—his mother’s blood. Useless. Cowardly.
What would he have done if Nerani had died? How could he have continued?
He punches the stone again.
“Are you planning to make a hole in the stone that way?” says a voice from behind him. He jerks to his feet, alarmed. There is the sound of flint against stone and a soft candle dances into light. He watches as the slender figure of a woman, her edges traced in pale flame, leans down and places the candle gingerly upon the ground. Silvery lockets of hair fall around her face, cupping the flickering light in the white curls.
She straightens and he suddenly finds himself looking into a pair of blue eyes so pale that they are almost grey. In the shadows of the corridor, she is as waiflike as a ghost. She appears translucent in the tiny, dancing flame, and for a moment he believes that if he were to stick his hand towards her, it would pass right through her skin and come out the other side.
“I know you,” he says, remembering. “You’re the woman who approached Blaine and I in the city.” He snaps his fingers, trying to recall her name.
“Seranai the Fair,” she reminds him, offering her hand in greeting.
“Ah, yes,” he assents, and gives her a shaky smile. “Er, how long have you been standing there?”
She proffers a shy smile. “Long enough to hear you talking to yourself.”
He gives an abashed laugh, rubbing the palm of his hand aggressively against the back of his neck as he tries to remember what it was he might have said.
“Are you alright?” she asks, inching closer. The light plays across the thin bridge of her upturned nose, alighting in her eyes and causing them to sparkle like silver. In spite of his sour mood, her beauty does not go unnoticed.
“I’m fine,” he lies, hoping she does not notice the wild fluttering of his pulse at the base of his throat. The yellow light of the dancing candle burns his retinas, and he wonders how long he idled alone out here in the dark, left at the mercy of his memories. “Why are you out here?” he asks Seranai, diverting the attention instead to her.
Now, it is her turn to look sheepish. “I followed you,” she admits. She twists her fingers together in embarrassment, averting her clear grey gaze from his.
“Oh,” he says, and feels a slight welling of amusement in his chest. His fury at Nerani almost entirely forgotten, he takes a slow step closer to the young woman before him. He recalls how she had raced toward him in the grey streets of Chancey, the pale red of her gown stark against the bleached afternoon. Then, her grey eyes had been wide with fear.
Roberts the Valiant? she asked. He had started, surprised at her knowledge of his name. You are one of the Cairan king’s Listener’s, yes?
I am, he admitted, exchanging a cautious glance with Blaine.
Come quickly, she breathed, her bosoms heaving with exertion beneath her tightly cinched lace corset. Nerani the Elegant—he has her.
Who? Roberts had demanded, his pulse racing at the sound of his cousin’s name.
General Byron.
He eyes the woman before him, trying to catch her gaze and bring it back up to meet his own. “You followed me,” he repeats, his tone inquisitive.
“I did,” she smiles primly at the stone underfoot, watching it flickering between light and dark.
“May I ask you something?” he probes, finally causing her to glance back up at him. She nods, the movement almost imperceptible. Her eyes are as still and as silent as the sea on a misty morning. Serene. Peaceful.
“How did you know my name?” He pauses, continues. “How did you know Nerani’s name?”
She smiles wider at that, her plump lower lip curling to cup
the smaller upper lip within its corners. Her eyes glimmer knowingly. “It’s quite a long story,” she says. “Do you know Mamere Lenora?”
“Mamere? Of course I do. The woman was like a mother to me.”
Seranai smiles. “She’s been like a mother to me these days. She took me in when I had nowhere left to turn.”
Roberts feels a genuine smile catching at his lips—the first in a long time. The memory of Lenora is comforting—the connection nostalgic. Seranai the Fair draws nearer to him across the dark.
“Why don’t you and I take a walk and I’ll tell you everything?”
CHAPTER 33
Caira
Alexander and his captor reach the shore in only a few moments, Alexander’s feet touching down on the sticking sand of the beach sooner than he thought. They walk oddly for a ways, a man with flippers leading a man with no vision. At last, he feels the whitecaps of the waves breaking against his ankles as they step out onto dry land. He hears the sound of his captor kicking off the fronds on his feet—heavy leaf brushing against sundried grains of sand.
“Walk,” his captor commands. He listens. Somewhere nearby, he can hear the muffled protests of Emerala. He hopes that whatever it is she is saying to her captor, she has managed to remember to act like a frightened lady of considerable wealth and not like her usual, brazen self.
“Unhand my fiancée immediately, if you please,” Derek’s voice cuts through the cacophony of muffled protests. Several birds scream somewhere overhead, and for a moment the stippled gold light that pierces the stitching of his bag is extinguished by shadow. He hears a voice respond and there is a grunt as someone—likely Derek—is shoved to his knees in the sand. He strains his ears, listening, and realizes that he does not hear the Hawk or the Lethal. He hopes against all hope that their silence indicates that they managed to escape their captors in the water.
From deep within the forest comes the sound of drums. The roll is slow, even, matching in cadence with the steps of someone approaching. Alexander fights the urge to roll his eyes, recalling the Cairan penchant for the dramatic. At last, the drums slow to a stop. The reverberation rolls down the sandy beach and is sopped into silence by the slapping waves.
“Ahh, visitors,” breathes a resounding voice—deep and welcoming in spite of the precarious situation in which they have suddenly found themselves. “Pirates, no doubt. I’m sure, friends, we don’t have to remind you how we feel about pirates here on Caira.”
The speaker claps his hands together and the bag is suddenly wrenched from Alexander’s head. He is left blinking madly in the unforgiving white light of the glaring sun. The shadow of the speaker contorts and pulls in front of him, at last settling into the familiar figure of the notorious Cairan ringleader. Domio. He leans casually against a splintering wood sign, chewing a hangnail on his pinky finger. Alexander studies the hand painted words of the sign, the color long-since faded by the merciless sun.
Ye who linger here, beware
Pirates will your burdens bear
Alexander’s eyes follow the steep incline of the tree at Domio’s back, starkly conscious of the four swinging shadows that hang just above his head. His gaze stops at the first, thickset branch, upon which hang four iron gibbets. From somewhere to his left, he hears Emerala let out a gasp. Three corpses—each in varying stages of decomposition—lie upright within the first three suspended cages. Two of them have been nearly picked clean by the birds; their bones bleached white in the glare of the sun. The third, although lacking his eyes, remains distinguishable as the man he once was. His cloak, unmistakably pirate, bears a familiar insignia—a blood red cross against the faded black of his coat.
Captain Jameson, Alexander thinks, and feels a fluttering of nerves rush through him as he recalls the day he stole his father’s map from the mercenary on Chancey.
How did he know to come back here? Alexander thinks, his thoughts churning faster than he can process. If he was a mercenary, he must have been paid off by someone to take the map. It was only a job. He could not have known where it led.
He does not have time to puzzle through the mercenary’s strange presence just now. Before him, Domio is speaking again, addressing the sodden group of trespassers.
“We’ll have to empty out the gibbets,” he says, “but it looks like we’ll have just enough to accommodate all of you gentlemen. I’m sure their current occupants won’t mind.” He snickers, and Alexander glances behind him to see the Hawk and the Lethal, similarly restrained. So much for a daring rescue, he thinks wryly. The man gripping the Hawk sports a rather bloody nose, his face purpling in color. He glares darkly at Alexander and the captain feels a welling of satisfaction in his chest. At least he managed to do some damage to their captors.
“Domio,” calls Derek, still on his knees in the sand. “Is this really necessary?” Emerala, too, has been shoved to her knees besides him. The cream lace of her petticoat spills across the sand like water. She stares at the ground, eyes wide. Even from here, Alexander can tell she is trying and failing to force tears to well in her eyes. She is bursting at the seams with curiosity. He wishes she would play at being a noblewoman just a little bit better. So far, they are not off to a very bright start, and he doesn’t need any more complications to arise.
Domio has wandered over to where Derek kneels in the sand, his dark eyebrows raised almost to the top of his gleaming bald head. His deep eyes are as blue as the sea at their backs. He smiles warmly at the sight of Derek, slapping him on the back with one hand and wrenching him to his feet with the other.
“Derek, my boy!” he cries, his eyes twinkling with another kind of mirth. “What are you doing in the company of pirates?” He doesn’t wait for Derek to answer. His attention draws to a stop, instead, upon the declined head of Emerala. “And who is this lovely lady?”
Derek reaches down and pulls Emerala gently to her feet. She does her best to appear demure. Alexander prays to whatever gods may be that Domio is convinced by her charade.
“This, old friend, is my fiancée, the Lady Katherine Montclay.”
“Montclay,” Domio repeats, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Montclay. That’s a name I haven’t heard in these parts in ages. A Westerly bride for you, is it, Derek?”
“Yes,” Derek says. “Her father is Lord Remus Montclay of the Toholay estates. He escorted her and her dowry to Senada only recently. She’s been dying to come and see the beautiful island of Caira, and I must say her experience here has been rather appalling so far.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “Was it really necessary to have your men nearly drown us to get us ashore? She’s had a terrible fright, thrashing about in the ocean like that.”
Alexander is impressed by the quick-witted ease with which Derek lies. He studies Emerala carefully, watching her for any mistakes. She curtsies lightly, offering Domio a trembling hand as she continues to stare at the sand. Good, Alexander thinks. There is a flapping of wings as a raven drops down from the sky and lands on Domio’s shoulder with a silent plop. It flutters its blue-black wings, eyeballing Emerala with eyes like glass.
Domio smiles kindly at her, a look of apology passing over his features. He ignores the presence of the bird. “I am deeply sorry, milady, for your treatment here today.” He leans forward, his lips grazing the back of her hand. “Of course, we would not have responded so immediately had we known it was your fiancé leading the company of pirates.”
Alexander feels a small wave of relief wash over him. Domio straightens, letting Emerala’s arm drop from his grip. The raven hops idly from one claw to the other, its talons curling deep impressions in Domio’s maroon doublet. After a moment, the raven takes off with a guttural shriek. Alexander watches him go, feeling a small shiver run down the length of his spine. He lowers his gaze and finds two blue eyes locked directly upon his. Domio studies the pirates carefully, the curvature of his face pitted with deep shadows, before turning his attention back to Derek.
“Pirates, Derek,” he frowns, shaking
his head. “What do you possibly mean by bringing pirates to my island?”
At that, Derek smiles. “This is no ordinary pirate, old friend,” he says, and gestures toward Alexander with an open palm. “This is Captain Alexander Mathew, son of the late Captain Samuel Mathew.”
“Ah,” Domio breathes, exhaling loudly through his nose. He turns back to Alexander. “Is that so? I knew your father, I did. Feeding the fishes, is he?”
Alexander bristles. “He is.”
“His death was a pity. He did me a grand service, once.”
“Is that so?” Alexander tries to keep his voice devoid of emotion—unthreatening—and yet he can feel the distaste for this man curling around his throat like a noose.
Domio takes a few steps closer, studying Alexander with probing eyes. “I am quite eager, in fact, to return such a monumental favor. Friend of Derek—son of Samuel—tell me, what brings you to my shores?”
Alexander swallows, hesitating. He is suddenly thrust back to the Eisle of Udire, to Ha’Rai’s throne room, filled with choking smoke and the constant, pressing cold. The map lay translated before them, the island of Caira circled in deep red.
So you will go to Caira, Ha’Rai had said, the ivory teeth of her necklace—spoils of war—gleaming against her exposed clavicle. You will speak with Domio and you will tell him only truths. Do not lie.
I won’t, he said, his gaze burning as he stared at the cryptic words before him.
What is sweeter than honey? What is stronger than a lion?
But—Ha’Rai said, laying a trembling hand over his own clenched fist. She drew his chin upwards to meet her gaze. You must not tell him about the map. Do not lie, but do not reveal the map. She leaned forward, the heat of her breath tickling his ear. Her voice had lowered to a hoarse whisper. He will take the map, and your life with it.
Why? He asked. What is the map to him?
Everything. It was his past. It is his present. It plagues his future. You must not let him know you possess it. Or you will die.
She had refused to tell him any more.
