by K A Dowling
She turns away from Orianna, continuing to press through the throng of Cairans that mill about the cavern. She moves through a cluster of middle-aged women repairing garments with needle and thread, Orianna hot on her heels. The women fall silent, each of them starkly aware of the listening ears and the waiting tongues eager for a bit of gossip to while away the hours. Only once they have moved away from the crowds and beyond the light of the torches does Orianna venture again to speak.
“Why are you so hesitant to move forward with his proposal?”
“You know why,” Nerani murmurs. She gathers her skirt within her fist and picks up her pace, unsure where it is she’s heading—unsure why she feels the need to get there so quickly.
“Because of General Byron?” Orianna asks, keeping easy stride beside her. “You can’t be with him, Nerani. Whatever it is you’re feeling, surely you know that. You need to be reasonable.”
Nerani stops at that, falling still so suddenly that Orianna continues onward for several steps before she has even realized Nerani is no longer with her. She does a quick about face, her hands pulling her skirts off of the stone.
“There’s nothing reasonable about any of this.” Nerani’s voice is dark. She feels inexplicably cold.
“You would be the queen of the gypsies,” Orianna says.
“I don’t love him.”
Orianna scoffs. “No one said anything about love, Nerani. A seat of power is being handed to you. Real power. All you have to do is reach out and take it.”
“Maybe I don’t want that kind of power.”
“Everyone wants power,” Orianna counters.
“Maybe I’m not ready to marry,” Nerani snaps, narrowly avoiding a woman cradling a bulging basket of freshly laundered linens.
“Not ready? Most women in our year have already paired off.”
Nerani rounds on her, her temper finally snapping. “If you’re so keen on the idea, why don’t you stop pining after Roberts and marry Topan instead?”
Orianna’s mouth snaps shut. She recoils from Nerani, hurt spreading across her face.
Nerani sighs, pushing her hair back behind her ears. The headache behind her eyes is engulfing her entire head, setting her skull to throbbing. A white aura pulses at one corner of her vision.
“I’m sorry, Orianna. I didn’t mean that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”
Orianna proffers a sad smile, taking Nerani’s good hand within her own. “I meant what I said. I don’t want to fight. I’m just trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
Orianna hesitates, reluctance twitching her lips.
“Protect me from what?” Nerani repeats.
“From him,” Orianna relents. She lowers her voice to a murmur and adds, “I won’t let you throw your life away for James Byron.”
Nerani opens her mouth to speak but is cut short by the sight of a familiar man crossing through the shadows near Topan’s quarters. She stares at the figure; her hand still entwined in Orianna’s, and tries to recall the man’s name.
“Who is that?” Orianna whispers, following Nerani’s gaze.
The man heads silently towards the entrance to Topan’s public chambers—the cavernous side room where he often holds meetings during the day.
“Blaine,” Nerani says, suddenly remembering. “He’s a Listener. He was with Roberts the day of my escape.” She recalls how the man held James at gunpoint—recalls the unfamiliar terror that had pierced her heart at the thought of losing him.
She watches as the man disappears into the narrow opening in the stone.
“Come on.” She pulls Orianna along with her as she heads after Blaine. They veer off as they reach the yawning tunnel of the main entrance, heading instead to the dark side tunnel that branches off to both Topan’s personal quarters and his receiving room.
The women pause just outside the open doorway, hovering in the arched stone entrance as they listen for the sound of voices. The din of the cavern outside softens to a murmur as they idle in the shadows. After a moment, they can hear the muffled speech of conversation. Nerani holds a finger up to her lips, bidding Orianna to follow her as she creeps closer.
“They’ve executed my grandfather,” says a man’s voice, terse with barely suppressed grief. “He was innocent. He had no idea what I was, or what I was trying to do.”
“I cannot express to you how sorry I am, friend,” comes the quiet response of Topan. His words resound through the narrow gap of the opening with a profound sense of melancholy.
“The usurper had him publicly executed so that he would have a solution to his problem. He needed closure to keep his so-called peace, and he found it by killing an harmless old man in my place.”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself, Blaine.”
There is a scoff—jarring against the tomblike silence of the impenetrable stone.
“I don’t,” says Blaine. “I blame Nerani the Elegant.”
Topan is silent. Nerani feels her heart seize within her chest and she desperately wishes she were close enough to see his face—to know what he is thinking. Next to her, Orianna squeezes her hand. The expression on her face is grim.
“She had no business being out in the city,” snaps Blaine. His voice is laced with contempt.
“You’re right,” Topan agrees. “She did not.”
Nerani can hear the sound of boots against stone as Blaine paces the floor. After a moment, he skids to a stop. There is the soft echo of a rock skipping against the smooth surface of the ground, and then there is silence.
“I did my job, I brought her back safe,” he says.
“You did, and I am grateful for—” Topan is cut off by Blaine, his collected cadence suffocated by the spitfire rate of the man’s anger.
“I did my job at great cost. I paid the price of my grandfather’s life in exchange for correcting a young woman’s foolishness. Was his death worth that?”
Topan’s voice is low, dangerous. “I made a promise.”
“You made a promise to bring down the usurper, not to risk constant exposure rescuing damsels in distress.”
“Protecting her family was part of that promise, I would not be doing my job if I let her die at the hands of Rowland Stoward.”
“Don’t be so transparent. Emerala the Rogue and her brother were the ones that needed protection. The Rogue is gone, and you’ve got Roberts the Valiant wrapped around your finger. Nerani the Elegant’s rescue was personal, nothing more.” Blaine pauses, the sound of his breathing loud against the ringing quiet. “You can only ask so much of us, Topan.”
A treacherous silence fills the flickering expanse. Nerani holds her breath, waiting.
When at last Topan speaks, his voice is cool and composed. Nerani can picture him perfectly—his shoulders erect against the multitude of burning candles at his back, his jaw locked—his shining black hair pushed back from his piercing blue gaze as he watches the Listener before him in stony calm.
“What exactly are you suggesting, Blaine?”
“You are losing control.”
“Am I?” Topan’s even voice is so quiet that Nerani can barely hear it.
“Do you not hear the whispers among your people? Their dissention is rising. They can only live like this for so long—hiding under the earth, waiting for deliverance.”
“That day will come,” comes Topan’s response. “With patience.”
“And who will deliver them?” Blaine snaps. “You?”
“Not I. Roberts the Valiant, as it was foretold.”
Nerani hears Orianna stifle a gasp besides her. There is an audible shuffling of a gown as someone new enters the room from the main entrance. The newcomer gives a watery hiccup as she attempts to hold back a sob.
“Help her to a seat,” orders Topan.
A chair is scraped against stone as Blaine obeys the command.
“What’s happened?” Topan speaks again, his words soothing.
“I-it’s my daughter, your hi
ghness,” chokes the woman. “She’s m-m-missing.”
“Your daughter? What is her name?”
“D-d-darianna the Rose,” stammers the woman between great heaves of breath.
Nerani feels her blood run cold within her. She steels herself against the cool stone of the wall, listening intently.
“Are you quite sure she’s missing?” Topan asks. His words are reassuring. “The Forbidden City is a large place, and still unfamiliar to many of us. Perhaps she’s only with a friend.”
“N-no,” the woman wails, the tears coming easier now. “It’s b-b-been days. She would have come back by now.” There is a tentative pause as the woman blows her nose into a handkerchief. “I t-think… I think she may have gone into the tunnels.”
There is a period of quiet as Topan murmurs discreetly to the frantic woman. His voice reaches Nerani and Orianna in a muffled hum, but his words are unintelligible. After a moment, the chair scrapes again as the woman rises to her feet.
“Take her to see Mame Minera in the infirmary,” Topan commands. “Perhaps she can rustle up something to ease the woman’s nerves.”
“And my d-daughter?” The woman asks, calmer now.
“We’ll find her, Moria, I promise you that.”
Nerani listens as Blaine leads the woman out of the room. Their departure is followed by complete quiet. Nerani and Orianna exchange glances in the darkness, their eyes wide and uncomprehending. They are jolted out of their silent exchange by the sound of Topan’s voice very close to their ears.
“You can come out of there,” he says. “I imagine you have a number of questions for me.”
Harvest Cycle 1511
Sometimes in the dark of night, I lie awake and sweat out my regrets.
I am a man with many regrets.
If Jameson should catch up to us—if I should be taken and killed—I wonder what sort of legacy I will have left behind on Chancey.
I wonder if Roberts will grow to be a good man. I wonder if he’ll be a stronger man, a braver man, than I could ever have hoped to be.
And Emerala, too, that little sprite of a child—that wild, frightful thing—I wonder if she’ll be like her mother. Her mother always reminded me of water. She was impossible to hold onto, but Saints when she wanted to be, she was as terrible and as strong as any storm at sea.
And the boy. My boy. He has my eyes, that’s what I’ve heard. My eyes and my will. Saints preserve him, a boy who wears my face will never survive Rowland’s uncompromising paranoia.
Tonight I will sleep with my regrets. Tonight I will spend another midnight choking on my cowardice. Perhaps tomorrow will be the day the fates finally catch up to me. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll finally be able to rest, even if that rest should be at the bottom of the storming sea.
Eliot
CHAPTER 38
Caira
Shadow spirits or not, the labyrinth is an eerie place. Emerala shivers as she idles in the great, stone corridor, her torch flickering dangerously beneath a quiet breeze. Overhead, the settling night has extinguished the sun, leaving behind the sticking humidity of day. Emerala’s black curls adhere to her neck and she pries them away with her free hand. Up ahead, she can see the raven waiting for her on a bit of crumbled stone. The bird waits until Emerala reaches her, her feathered head askew.
“Well, Marvala, looks like it’s me and you,” Emerala says, and feels immediately foolish. The bird clicks its beak together and takes off with a solitary flap, gliding silently between the oppressive stone walls. Emerala follows, feeling her heartbeat quickening.
The maze is small, the corridors narrow. It isn’t long before she begins to feel claustrophobic amidst the endless grey shadows. She startles often, wary of the creatures that may be lurking in the darkness. Overhead, the night sky is an endless pit of black. The dancing firelight of her torch swallows whatever stars may be illuminating the creeping jungle.
She follows the raven in silence, feeling her agitation growing with every turn.
Why am I here? she wonders. Who am I to these people?
They can’t possibly think her to be Cairan. Like Alexander said, they would have killed her immediately. And yet, Melena made it clear that she knows Emerala is lying about hailing from the Westerlies. It was her green eyes that made the woman take notice. It was her green eyes that caught Derek’s attention upon the deck of the Rebellion. It was her green eyes, as well, that caused the Hawk to approach her in the marketplace.
Her green eyes were a singularity in Chancey, to be sure, but they were nothing to marvel over. Her eyes are all she has left of her father—her green eyes and Roberts’s lasting resentment. She remembers nothing of the man. She has not even a ghost of a memory.
And she is all the better for it, she imagines.
There is a raucous cry from the bird and she stumbles to a stop. The firelight dances precariously upon its sconce, threatening to extinguish and leave her to fend off the dark alone. She lifts the torch above her head, casting light upon her surroundings. She is in a small clearing, no longer entombed within the corridors of crumbling stone. She cannot see Marvala, but a flutter of wings in the dark tells her that the raven is near.
The air feels hotter here—heavier. She peers into the clearing, blinking slowly, her heart in her throat. It takes a few moments for her to realize that she is no longer standing in the dark. The clearing around her is well lit by a series of torches set in sconces. Next to her, mounted on the circular stone, is an empty sconce. She rises to her toes, gingerly planting her torch within the rounded iron bracket. She shakes her hand out, relieved. Her fingers were beginning to burn. She takes a few steps forward into the clearing, keeping her eyes pealed for any sign of movement.
A soft thud lands upon the ground—a sound almost like a footfall. Emerala freezes. A warm gust of wind continues on in her wake, colliding against her damp back. The thin lace of her chemise ripples forward. Her legs appear as though they have been swathed in mottled flesh.
She holds her breath and listens. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears. Is she hearing things? Was it Marvala? Now, there is nothing but silence. Silence, and the soft sound of insects singing somewhere beyond the stone. She inhales softly—slowly. The air tastes stale upon her tongue. Dense and stagnant, it quivers against the pressing dark. She can feel the relentless humidity saturating her skin.
The silence begins to unnerve her. Surely she heard something—she knows someone is here. The architect. The debtor. The prisoner. He has many names, and yet he is still a stranger. And strangers can be dangerous.
She strains her ears. The hair on the back of her neck prickles warily. She feels eyes upon her. Trying her best to appear braver than she feels, she glances idly at her surroundings. The derelict stone rises ominously about her. Shadows encroach the crumbling corners, obscuring…what? The prisoner may be watching from any direction.
There. Another footfall, closer than before. Emerala whirls about, eyes blazing. The expanse before her is empty. Her thin lips snap together. She exhales heavily through her nose. Damp locks of her hair suction against her cheekbones. She pushes them away with an flick of her fingers.
Over the sound of her own breathing she hears boots dragging against the sand. The sound is barely audible, but it is there. Panic begins to bubble in her chest. She gives an involuntary shudder. The dull sound of the boots has stopped, but the echo of heavy breathing clings faintly to the lagging wind. She feels suddenly panicked. Frantic images of a hunched and wild man begin to play through her mind.
Emerala takes an uneasy step forward. Her heart leaps against her ribcage as she prepares to run. From within a small, teetering building at the end of the clearing there comes the sudden sound of laughter. She startles, staring. She had not noticed the dilapidated hut, so obscured had it been by the dancing shadows.
The voice that emanates from the hut is brittle. The sound trails out from the blackened doorway as though it is a wisp of smoke, dissipating upon the sultry evening air.
It sends chills down her spine. She glances back over her shoulder. Behind her is only oppressive stone, but the clear night that stretches overhead is a silent void.
The Lethal will hear her if she screams.
“Come in,” a voice spills out from the open door. “Please.”
Emerala moves slowly, forcing herself to place one foot in front of the other as she steps within the lopsided frame. The one-roomed hut before her is immersed in darkness. Across the small expanse she can see the vague outline of a man seated upon a chair. She cannot make out his features. One shaft of dancing orange light falls in through a hole in the thatched ceiling. The only other source of illumination comes from the oblong flicker of red that trickles in behind her.
“Step inside.” The voice that emanates from the shaded figure is hoarse from lack of use. “You have nothing to fear from the shadow spirits that play among the stones. They will not harm you.”
“What are shadow spirits?” Emerala asks.
“They’re wild things,” says the man. “Lovely, deadly creatures that only come out to play beneath the silver moon.”
“And you believe in them?”
“Oh yes,” the man says. “Spend a night in the jungle, and so will you.”
Emerala hears the shuffling of garments as he shifts his weight upon his chair. The rotting wood creaks beneath him. “They have sent you to me, the Cairans. Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“No? Let’s puzzle it out, then, you and I. What is your name?”
She swallows, thinking, and decides to stick to her lie. She has not been instructed otherwise. In this case, she has not been instructed at all.
“I am Katherine Montclay, sir,” she says unconvincingly, her voice shaking. She clears her throat. Continues, “I am engaged to be wed to Derek.”
“Montclay? Where were you raised?”
“Toholay,” Emerala replies.
“That is a lie,” the prisoner says, scarcely missing a beat. “You don’t say it correctly. Your accent is wrong—the word is too stiff on your tongue. Tell me again, where are you from?”
Emerala inhales a small gulp of air. “Toholay.”
