by K A Dowling
The prophecy will be fulfilled, she thinks. And I will be left behind.
“I will,” she says. “I would be honored to be your queen.”
CHAPTER 42
Chancey
Rowland Stoward lobs a half empty glass of claret at the gilded wall before him, watching as the corrugated crystal shatters to the floor with a sigh. The spilt wine slithers down the wall in rivulets of crimson. Overhead, the deep hazel eyes of his late wife regard him in wordless antipathy. She stares down from her canvas portrait, hands folded primly in the rich violet satin of her lap, and refuses to acknowledge his despair.
“Why?” he shouts, his voice hoarse. The saturated wool of his undershirt clings to his chest, itching at his skin. “Why have you forsaken me?”
He chokes back a sob, swallowing his grief in a throaty hiccup. He is not drunk—not yet—but he is well on his way to becoming so.
And he is well within his rights, if he dares to say so himself. All his life, he knew this day would come. He suspected. His father before him had borne the weight of the prophecy—the curse of the Stowards. So, too, had his father’s father. The cursed divination—that which foretold the fall of the Stoward line—had hounded his ancestors for a near century. And yet each king came and went from this world with nary a threat made toward their seat upon the Chancian throne.
He was only a young boy when he was told what was to come. Even then, he had known it would be him. The paranoia took root within his spirit, gripping his spine like a vise and twisting, hard—a little bit each year—until his mind was ground to mush and crawling with maggoty fear.
It would be him; he knew it would be him.
And yet he could not have fathomed that the betrayal would come at so great a cost.
Eliot Roberts.
The name flicks across his mind like a flame, licking at the back of his eyes and setting his vision to stinging.
Eliot Roberts had impressed him, initially. The young man showed great promise, even at his age. He was a mastermind—an artist. There was no question that he should be hired to design and build Rowland’s great, stone labyrinth.
And yet it would be Eliot Roberts that would bring his empire crashing down around him. Curse him to the Dark Below for being so blind. Rowland had thrown open the doors and invited the snake into his halls. He had welcomed him at his table, had entertained him beneath the glittering halls.
He glares up into the unblinking eyes of Queen Victoria and feels the putrefaction of his heart decay still more. His throat tightens with rage, his hands tightening into fists at his sides.
He had not seen it—not at first. How was he to suspect that his wife’s disloyalty was in fact only the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy? He was too blinded by heartbreak to see what her betrayal had set into motion.
It was not until the girl was delivered unto him—not until Emerala the Rogue had been dragged before him at her execution—that he realized the significance of the Queen’s infidelity. He had taken one look at her face—at those green eyes so like the eyes so like Eliot Roberts’s—and his heart had broken still further.
The line will be restored when the blood of Saynti is crossed with Cairan blood and royal blood.
He shudders at the recollection of the prophecy—of the words repeated to him by his father time and time again when he was a boy. The Stowards took every possible measure to maintain the purity of their line. The sons of kings married only the daughters of presiding lords within the court. Often marrying close cousins, the Stoward men had done their due diligence to guarantee that tainted blood—Saynti’s blood—did not infiltrate their inheritance.
And yet Emerala the Rogue had brought the confidence of the Stoward line shattering down around Rowland’s ears. His search for the missing Eliot Roberts had become something of an obsession following the death of his wife. The man had disappeared upon the wind, leaving no trace of his ever having existed. Rowland knew his face better than any—had etched the memory of him into his mind.
There could be no question that Emerala the Rogue was the man’s daughter. The resemblance was uncanny.
Rowland slides down upon the floor, his back resting against the wrought iron posts at the foot of his great bed. His right hand falls into a sticking pool of wine, but he makes no effort to remove it. He stares at the slippers on his feet, his breathing laborious.
The boy is the child of Eliot, too. Of that there can be no question. He knew the moment the boy began to walk and talk that the small, dark haired creature was not his. The resemblance to his father—his real father—was too great.
It came from the depth of the Dark Below, he thinks, picturing the eyes like emeralds peeking out from those wild, black curls. And here it remains to taunt me. To remind me of my failures.
And so it is brother and sister, he muses—not for the first time, and not husband and wife.
He should have killed the boy, should have arranged for a horrible accident to suddenly befall the babe when it was asleep in its crib. He should have, and yet he did not. He could not bring himself to destroy his last possible connection to her—to Victoria. His greatest love, even still.
“You have undone me,” he says, pointing a wine stained finger at the portrait upon the wall. Her gaze follows him wordlessly to his slouched position upon the floor. “I hope you’re happy.”
Heat curls suddenly beneath the collar of his undershirt. He feels the flesh of his skin grow thick with sweat as his cheeks redden. It’s not over, a voice deep within him snarls. Not yet. He can right his wrongs—he can hold the throne. The prophecy does not have to come true. What good are the words of a wretched old gypsy woman? They are nothing. They see nothing. Their powers are dark and evil, and the gods have never sided with those that elicit the old magics.
Only I am worthy of the throne, he thinks.
He will find the Forbidden City. If he controls the fabled wealth of the wretched Cairan queen, he will hold the city within his hands.
And then—then…
His thoughts trail off into silence. He thinks of his son—of Frederick Stoward, his rightful heir. His thoughts jumble into one another as he scrambles to call the memory of his eldest—his only—son into his mind.
Cold and hard and dead, he thinks. Dead at the bottom of the sea, my son is. A face of flaking marble passes through his vision in fleeting shades of white. He feels suddenly nauseous. He squashes the protestations that rise from a small, buried voice in the recesses of his mind.
Dead. Frederick is dead.
He does not like to think of such things. Crossing himself, he thinks, instead, of the path that lies ahead. He will waste no more time looking back, mulling over the ghosts of his greatest mistakes.
Forward, he commands himself. Ever forward.
Months have gone by, and not a single result has come from his endless hunt for the Forbidden City. Something will need to change.
It’s there, he thinks. It has to be there. He rubs vigorously at his temple, pushing at the skin by his brow with his thumbs. He massages in a slow, circular motion, his mind spinning.
There is a knock at the door, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Who is it?” His thumbs drop away from his temples as he pushes himself back onto his feet. His slippers whisper against the marble floor underfoot. He watches as one of the double doors falls away from the strike plate with a subdued click. The faces of two nameless Guardians—each the same golden hue as the other—come into view.
“Your Majesty,” says one, inclining his head.
“Speak,” Rowland snaps, irritated at the intrusion.
“You have visitors, your Grace.”
“Visitors?”
The Guardian nods, keeping his eyes averted towards the floor below. “General Byron is here, your Majesty. He brings with him your youngest son, Peterson.”
Rowland feels himself bristle with annoyance at the mention of the boy’s name. He glowers darkly at the Guardians for a mome
nt before responding.
“Send General Byron in,” he barks.
The Guardians hesitate, eyeing one another across the shadow of the entryway. “And the prince?” asks the second Guardian, returning his gaze to somewhere just above Rowland’s naval.
Rowland harrumphs loudly, waving his hand in a show of dismissal. “The boy can wait in the hallway.”
The two Guardians disappear without a further word, dipping into low bows as they back out of the opening. An identical flicker of gold replaces them as General James Byron sweeps into the room through the opening. He, too, drops into a bow, straightening quicker than the inferior soldiers that came before him.
“Your Majesty.” General Byron’s expression is serene. Respectful. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
“Not at all, not at all.”
“I’ve come to speak with you about your son.”
Rowland feels that familiar heat prickling at the nape of his neck. He scowls.
“My son is dead.”
General Byron pauses, his mouth hanging slightly open. Something indiscernible passes across his gaze. At his back, the door to the hallway remains ajar. The creeping shadows that spill in through the opening make Rowland’s skin crawl.
“I meant to speak with you about your youngest son, your Majesty,” General Byron reminds him. His voice is patient. Rowland feels his scowl deepening, stretching the flesh around his mouth.
“What trouble has the cretin gotten into now?”
“Your son—” General Byron begins again, and the words rip into Rowland’s chest like a knife. He holds up a hand for silence. He can feel the anger coursing through his veins, setting his nerves to trembling.
“Dear James,” he says, his voice seeping out through clenched teeth. “The boy outside those doors is not, and will never be my son. I appreciate if you refrain from referring to him as such.”
The shadows leech out of the floor as the heavy door falls shut. From behind the great gilded frame comes the muffled patter of footfalls receding quickly upon the marble floor of the hallway.
Before him, General Byron’s face is dark. His brows draw low over stony eyes.
“You were saying?”
“Nothing, your Grace,” General Byron says. He clasps his hands at the small of his back, the golden fabric of his uniform creasing at the elbows.
“You mentioned you had news of the boy,” Rowland reminds him, feeling agitated.
“I must have misspoken,” he smiles. “I simply came by to tell you that I will be conducting a mounted sweep of the farms during my shift tomorrow evening. Perhaps one of the field workers has some clue as to the whereabouts of the Forbidden City. Since my task will take me outside of the city walls for a considerable amount of time, I’ll be leaving the city patrol in Corporal Anderson’s capable hands.”
“Ah.” A smile breaks out across his face for the first time all night. “I admire your initiative, James. I fear the rest of my men are slipping. They have failed to be properly motivated to find the Cairans.”
General Byron nods, his face unreadable. “I am certainly motivated, your Majesty.”
Rowland thinks of the whipping General Byron had received upon the polished floor of the great hall. He had remained stoic and silent beneath the cracking whip—a shining, gold paradigm of strength.
His silence was—to Rowland—treacherous.
“Excellent, excellent. Perhaps you can rouse the rest of your men into a similar frenzy. We must be like dogs on the hunt, dear James. All we need is a whiff and we’ve got them. One whiff, and we can flush them out of their fox holes like the creeping beasts they are.”
“Of course, your Grace.”
A heavy silence fills the room. If it were any thicker, Rowland would choke upon it. General Byron’s shoulders are stiff. Discomfort flickers through his eyes, leaving as quickly as it came. The sight is unsettling to Rowland. Disquieting. The soldier—his loyal protégé—clears his throat.
“If I may take my leave of you, now, I’d prefer to head to the stables and make my arrangements sooner rather than later.”
“But of course,” Rowland says. “You are dismissed.”
He peers at Guardian as he dips into a bow, scrutinizing the golden figure for cracks—fissures in that stony countenance he wears like armor.
He is hiding something, Rowland thinks. He waits, brooding silently, until he hears the sound of General Byron’s footsteps fade away upon the echoing marble.
“Guard!” he shouts, his voice hoarse. The door opens and a blinking, indiscernible face appears in the shadowed space.
“Yes, your Majesty?”
“What is your name?”
“My name?”
“Yes, soldier—your name. You do know your name, do you not?”
“It’s—it’s Private Masters, your Grace. Joseph Masters.”
“Private Masters, it would appear that General Byron is embarking on a journey tomorrow evening.” Rowland plucks idly at a hangnail on his left thumb. He feels the lifeless eyes of his wife studying him from her permanent place upon the wall. He ignores her, his skin itching.
“Oh,” Private Masters says, stumbling slightly as he fishes for something to say in response. “Where is he going?”
Rowland sneers. “An excellent question, that.”
He thinks of the Forbidden City, and of the treasures just outside his reach. He thinks of his wife, and the vow she made him before his court—he recoils from her ghost as he remembers how quickly that vow was broken.
The infidelity of his wife—the illegitimacy of his false heir—it is enough to bring him to his knees.
He thinks, at last, of the intensity that had blazed in General Byron’s eyes as he succumbed to the lashes upon his back.
It is possible, Rowland thinks, for loyalties to change.
“I want you to follow him,” he says.
CHAPTER 43
The Rebellion
“Where?”
Alexander sputters, choking on his drink as the word flies unbidden from his lips. The rum scorches his throat as it slides down his windpipe and he coughs loudly, pounding his chest with his fist. Before him, Derek studies him beneath drooping brows. His gaze, normally carefree, is serious.
“You heard me.” He clasps his hands behind his back and waits as the coughing subsides to a whistling wheeze.
Alexander clears his throat, the taste of rum still stinging the back of his tongue.
“Yes, I heard you quite well, in fact. You want the Rebellion to point her sails east.”
Derek juts out his lower lip and nods amicably, clearing feeling as though such a request is perfectly reasonable. Alexander takes another sip of rum as he considers the diplomat’s suggestion. He takes care to swallow slowly, wiping the lingering alcohol from his upper lip with the back of his sleeve. At the far side of his desk, Derek remains silent and watchful.
Outside his quarters, the rain patters relentlessly at the deck of the ship. Beyond the soiled panes of the windows the brute wind drives the watery torrents sideways against the resolute wooden hull. The effect of the sound, coupled with the churning of the white, frothy waves below, makes Alexander feel as though he is trapped within a drum. Hollow—that’s how he feels. The numbness of his chest reverberates against the echoes of the rolling thunder, and he feels his leg pulsate with the dull ache of his injury.
“There is nothing to the east but Chancey,” he says, staring past Derek and out into the endless, grey ocean.
“Chancey is exactly where we need to set sail.”
At that, Alexander lets out a laugh. The sound is snatched too quickly into silence as his hand curls into a fist on the desk between them. “I don’t intend to return to Chancey.”
“Why not?”
“There’s nothing there for me.” He leans back against the knobbed wood of his polished oak chair, listening to the creaking of joints beneath his weight. His leg protests as he stretches it out across the floor.
/>
His eyes follow Derek as he glances down at the dark, wooden container upon the desk between them. The box is closed, but Alexander can feel the looming presence of the object beneath the lid. He thinks of the words inscribed on the folded parchment within, and a chill creeps down his spine.
“You know as well as I do that the answer to this newest riddle lies in Chancey, Alex,” Derek says. His voice is quiet. Alexander drains the dregs of his mug, relishing in the slow burn of alcohol that takes root in his chest. His skin prickles with the curling warmth of drink. He sets the mug down hard upon the desk, letting the spherical bottom obscure the small outline of Chancey upon the map below.
“Perhaps I didn’t make it clear to you what happened the last time I visited Chancey,” he says. He thinks, unexpectedly, of the lifeless head that the mounted Guardian—the notorious Corporal Anderson, if he remembers correctly—had held aloft the night of the ambush.
There is no leniency for piracy in Chancey, he thinks.
Across the desk, a knowing smile teases at one corner of Derek’s mouth. “You’ve regaled me with the story of your escapades, true enough.”
Alexander clicks his tongue, rapping his knuckles across the splintering grain of his desk. “Then you’ll remember that there’s bound to be a price on my head. There’s nothing there for me but a trip to the gallows.”
“If you’re lucky,” Derek says, his face splitting into a grin. Alexander scowls back at him. “I’ve never known you to shy away from danger.”
“Maybe not,” Alexander relents. “But I’ll be damned if I lead my crew to the gallows with me. They’re getting tired of following me to the ends of the earth without anything to show for it. If I keep this up, they’ll mutiny.” He lifts up his arms to interlock his fingers behind his head. His leg aches in protest at the movement and he frowns down at his trousers. He can feel Derek scrutinizing him through narrowed eyes, and he does his level best to ignore him.
