by K A Dowling
“All this time, you knew,” she says hatefully, glaring up him.
“Cap’n told me not to tell you. He wanted to get the key and get off the island.”
She tries again to wrench her wrists free from his grasp and he relents, watching as she stumbles several steps back from him in the gloom.
“And you listened to him?”
“Well, aye, he’s my cap’n,” Evander argues. “To disobey a direct order would be to mutiny.”
Emerala paws at one eye with the back of her hand, trying and failing to collect herself. “Why did he leave my father behind? We were right there—we were right in front of him in the maze. We could have brought him with us.”
“He said Eliot Roberts would do everything in his power to stop him from completing his mission. He couldn’t risk it—not after coming so far.”
“What mission?” Emerala demands hotly, pacing the floor. “Alex has no idea what the key opens.”
Evander shakes his head. “That’s another lie. He’s always known what it opens. And so do you.”
“I don’t,” Emerala insists darkly.
“Did you read the inscription on the parchment?” Evander asks.
Emerala hesitates, her face scrunching slightly in remembrance. “Yes.”
“That same inscription is engraved upon the locked door of Saynti’s Treasure.”
“Saynti’s—” Emerala begins and falters, falling into silence. “That’s only a legend.”
Evander clicks his tongue. “It’s not. It’s in the Forbidden City—immeasurable wealth, just buried away behind a locked door with no key.”
“I don’t believe it,” she says, her voice barely audible. “Why wouldn’t Alexander tell me?”
“Because he’s going to steal it.”
Emerala blinks. Then blinks again. For a moment, Evander wonders if she hasn’t quite heard him. Her pointed features, which he can usually read like a book, are curiously devoid of emotion.
“He’s going to steal Saynti’s Treasure?”
“Yes,” Evander says, wetting his lower lip as he studies Emerala through the gloom. “I’m sorry, Emerala. I didn’t know. I had no idea he was going to use you the way he has—the way he will. If I’d known, I would have left you in Chancey. I never would have stopped you that day in the square—never would have given you that dagger.”
Emerala gapes at him and says nothing. Behind her red-rimmed eyes, he can almost see her mind churning as she struggles to sift through all of the lies—all of the deception.
“He won’t be able to get inside the Forbidden City,” she says. “Even if he can find it, the Listeners will never grant him entry.”
“They will,” Evander disagrees. “With you as Alexander’s bargaining chip.”
Emerala shakes her head. “I’m not that valuable. The Cairan king would sooner let me die than allow pirates to pillage the city.”
Evander lets out a whistle, long and low. A smile teases at one corner of his lips.
“Saints,” he breathes. “You have no idea how important you are, do you?”
Emerala freezes beneath a trickle of moonlight. Her tear stained cheeks look as though they’ve been speckled with stardust. She looks inhuman—otherworldly—like some ancient, wild thing. He could love her for it if things were different—if he was a man with the luxury of romance.
“What are you talking about?” she asks him. She is desperate for information—starved for answers. True or not, she’ll eat whatever crumbs she’s given. It’s the benefit, he thinks, of having a captain as utterly clueless as Alexander Mathew.
He draws nearer to her, taking her hand within his. Easing open her palm, he runs an index finger over the pale, white scar that mars her olive skin.
“The Roberts line has Saynti blood running through their veins,” he explains. His forehead brushes hers in the dark. He can feel her tensing beneath him. He raises his eyes to meet her emerald gaze.
“You’re royalty, Emerala the Rogue.”
She pulls her hand out of his, balling her fingers protectively over her scar. “I’m no such thing,” she snaps.
“Aye, you are. I can explain everything to you—and I will. Just promise me that when we get within sight of Chancey, you’ll leave with me. Don’t stay and allow yourself to be a pawn in Alexander’s plan.”
She stares at him a long time in silence, her brows furrowed in contemplation as her eyes search his face for any sign of deceit.
“No,” she says at last,
He bristles ever so slightly, his patience waning. “No?”
“You heard me.”
“You won’t leave the Rebellion?”
She turns from him, prying her skirts from the ground as she begins to ascend the ladder. “I’ll leave,” she says over her shoulder, “just not with you.”
Evander bites back a curse, the muscles in his jaw working. “And why not?” he demands. She pauses on the second rung and glances down at him, disdain twitching her pointed nose.
“Because I hate you,” she says curtly.
He is at the ladder before she can ascend to the next step, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her down toward him. She protests loudly, kicking her feet as she falls into him, nearly knocking her forehead against his chin. All thoughts of the throne—the prophecy, the treasure—fall away. He is left seeing red, his breathing hitching in his chest.
“You hate me?” he repeats, his voice gruff.
“I do.”
“You’re lying.”
“I can assure you I’m—”
He silences her with a kiss, his lips finding hers beneath the moonlight. The embrace is short lived. She pulls away from him, her eyes blazing as her palm finds his cheek. His skin stings with the echo of her slap and he presses his hand against his jaw, a laugh escaping him like a cough. For several seconds, they face off in silence, each of them hovering in the shadows just outside a thin trickle of moonlight. Even beneath the darkness, Evander can see Emerala’s crimson cheeks—the erratic rise and fall of her chest beneath her corset.
“You’re not a good man,” she says.
“No,” he agrees. “I’m not.”
“I don’t trust you. You’re untrustworthy.”
“I am.”
“You’ve killed people. You’re a murderer. You’re a thief, a liar, a—”
“Pirate,” he finishes. He flashes her a broad grin, his cheeks dimpling. She is through the moonlight before he can say another word, crossing into the shadow of the hold and colliding hard into his chest. He braces her against him, his hands twisting in her wild curls, his fingers dancing at the small of her back. Her mouth finds his—her lips part beneath his kiss and he tastes the briny sweetness of her on his tongue. There is a hunger to his movements—an ache, a need.
And under it, a single thought.
In his arms he holds a future queen.
CHAPTER 45
The Forbidden City
Nerani finds Orianna in the infirmary, tending to an older man sporting a rather gruesome looking black eye.
“Oh,” she remarks, drawing up short at the sight of them. “That looks painful.”
Orianna throws a glance over her shoulder but otherwise says nothing, resuming her delicate task of cleaning the man’s wounds with a damp cloth. Her patient gives a throaty laugh, and the sharp sting of ale tickles the inside of Nerani’s nose.
“It’s nothing, it’s nothing.” The man shrugs, brushing away Nerani’s concern with an air of feigned nonchalance. He shoots her a smile, and she notices that he seems to have split his lip directly down the middle.
“It’s hardly nothing,” Orianna snaps, continuing to tend to the man. “Fighting in the dining hall, Mieran? Is that really going to solve anything?”
Mieran shrugs at that, wincing at the movement. “It made me feel better,” he says, the words muffled as Orianna presses a foul smelling poultice against the cut in his lip.
“Looks as though,” gripes another voice.
Nerani turns to see Mame Minera bustling through the doorway. The scowl on her face is enough to confirm exactly how she feels about Mieran’s antics in the great hall.
“Hello, dear,” she says, nodding curtly to Nerani as she joins Orianna at the cot. She shoves a steaming mug of something particularly ripe beneath Mieran’s nose. He sniffles at it, his face turning a light shade of green.
“Drink,” she commands.
“What is it?” he asks suspiciously, eyeing the liquid within.
Mame Minera appears thoroughly unenthused by his question. “A mixture of huckleberries. Easy on the stomach.”
“Is that so?” He sniffs the contents, looking unconvinced. “What are the huckleberries mixed with, then?”
There is a fearsome pause as Mame Minera glares down at him. “You’ll do well to drink and stop asking so many questions. You’ve taken several hits to the head. If you think you’re in pain now, just wait until later on this evening. Drink.” She presses the mug into his hands and rushes off the way she came, muttering darkly beneath her breath.
“You’d better drink that,” Orianna warns. She wraps up the remaining gauze and replaces it on a narrow table by the cot. “She’ll come back soon and check to see if you’ve followed her directions. I wouldn’t want to be the fool that doesn’t finish every drop of that tea.”
She wipes her hands on her apron, frowning down at Mieran as he takes a hesitant sip from the mug. He grimaces, recoiling from the contents within the cup. His eyes lock onto Orianna’s stoic glare and he gulps, feigning a smile. His lip splits further and he groans, huckleberry stained blood trickling down his chin.
“It’s delicious,” he lies.
Orianna smiles. “That’s what I like to hear. Now finish it. It’s even worse when it’s cold.”
Mieran groans a second time, steeling himself before taking another sip of the tea. Orianna watches him for a moment more before joining Nerani at the far side of the room.
“What happened to him?” Nerani asks, getting the question out before Orianna can ask her why she came. She’s not certain she can put into words what she is feeling—what has transpired. She’s not even certain she understands the full extent of her experiences in the room of tapestries. Her chest feels tight, her stomach ill. She clutches her fingers in her lap and waits for Orianna to finish folding a pile of freshly laundered linens. Orianna gives her a sideways glance, thrusting half of the fabric into Nerani’s hands.
“Fold,” she instructs. Nerani obliges, her injured hand leaving the linens lumpy and askew—a stark contrast to the neatly creased squares in Orianna’s pile. Next to her, Orianna studies Mieran as he struggles to finish his tea.
“He got in a fight out in the dining hall,” she explains.
“Over what?” Nerani asks, studying the man as she attempts to refold a linen for the fourth consecutive time. Mieran is making faces into his tea, his lip continually getting larger as the blood rushes to the injury.
“Over nothing,” Orianna says. “That’s just the issue.” She snatches the linen out of Nerani’s hands, making quick work of the cotton fabric and plopping it deftly onto her growing pile. Nerani doesn’t protest.
“It’s been happening more and more,” Orianna says. “People are getting restless—anxious. We’re running low on supplies.”
“What do you mean?” Nerani asks. “How is that possible?”
“Rob hasn’t told you?”
Nerani looks sheepish at that. “I—I haven’t really spoken to Roberts,” she admits. “Not since our falling out.”
Orianna’s gaze falls. “I’m not surprised. He hasn’t had much to do with anyone since that little blonde harlot showed up.”
Her dark blue eyes flare with barely concealed contempt and she scowls, snapping one of the linens too hard against her lap. She clears her throat, brushing her raven hair out of her eyes.
“Anyway, Rowland Stoward has ordered his Guardians to increase their sweeps of the city. They’ve extended their search to the farmland and the forests beyond the city walls. They’re looking for the Forbidden City, and they’ve been relentless on their quest. It’s getting harder and harder for the Listeners to procure large amounts of supplies without attracting attention.”
Nerani thinks of the mounted Guardians that had nearly stumbled upon her and Darianna in the tangled forests just outside the entrance. It had been a close call. Too close. What would they have done if the Guardians had found them at the mouth of the caverns? How would they have explained the caves?
Nerani thinks of Darianna, still hiding out at Mamere Lenora’s, stowing away among the women of the night. She thinks of the young girl’s mother, and how she had cried to Topan about her missing daughter. Nerani had left Darianna with concise instructions just before she was arrested, but who’s to know if the impetuous young girl bothered to listen.
Wait for a Listener patrol, she’d told the girl. They come through often enough. Mamere will let them know you’ve taken shelter with her. They’ll get you home safely.
If what Orianna is saying is true, then the Listeners are pulling back from their excursions. They’re playing it safe, staying closer to home. How long will it be until someone makes contact with Mamere? How long will it be before the girl is delivered?
At some point, Nerani will have to come forward with the truth.
It’s because of me she’s out there, alone.
Before her, Orianna is studying her through speculative eyes.
“That’s a stunning bit of jewelry you’re wearing,” she observes. Nerani starts, her fingers flying instinctively to the teardrop diamond that rests against her clavicle.
“I—” she starts, and stops. The words catch in her throat.
“A gift from Topan?” Orianna asks.
“Yes.” Nerani’s voice is tight.
“I’m surprised you accepted,” Orianna notes, leaning down to inspect the jewels at a closer proximity. “After how fervently you claimed to have no love for the man, I’d have thought you would toss the diamonds directly back in his face.”
Nerani is aghast. “I would never,” she stammers. “I’m not Emerala, I—”
Orianna silences her, laying a hand on her wrist. “I was teasing,” she says, and frowns. “Saynti, you’re white as a ghost. Are you alright?”
“He did it.” To say the words aloud makes her tremble. “He asked for my hand in marriage.”
Orianna’s eyes widen, her fingers clasping tighter about Nerani’s wrist, cutting off her circulation. “He did? What did you say?”
“What else could I say but yes?”
“I’d have thought you would say no,” Orianna says, and shrugs. “You made it fairly clear that your feelings lay elsewhere.” Her dark gaze is thick with implication, and Nerani does not need to ask for clarification to know what she means.
“You were right, Orianna,” she admits. “I can’t expect to have a future with—” she pauses, unable to bring his name to her lips, unable to give a voice to the grief that grips her.
“Him,” she finishes, her voice cracking. Something heavy presses against her chest and she feels, suddenly, as though the diamond at her throat weighs a thousand pounds.
Orianna reaches out and takes her hand within her own, her fingers warm, her grasp reassuring.
“I know this is difficult, Nerani. I know your heart is breaking, but this is for the best.” Her words only cause Nerani’s mood to sour further. She opens her mouth to reply, but is cut off by the sound of shouting from the doorway.
“I’m fine!” shouts a girl, her tone distressed. “Let off me, I’m fine!”
Nerani starts in recognition, rushing past Orianna and back into the main foyer of the infirmary. Mieran is unconscious on his cot, one leg still hanging off the edge and onto the floor—the product of whatever smelled so strongly in his tea, no doubt.
In the doorway, Mame Minera and a familiar looking woman struggle to get ahold of a dirty young girl. The girl pulls away fr
om them, wiping her forearm across her face in an attempt to clear away some of the grime. Her blue eyes gleam with agitation as she stares at them from beneath a tangle of dirty blonde hair.
“I already told you,” she snaps. “I’m fine.”
“Darianna,” Nerani says under her breath. Cool relief floods her at the sight of the girl. She hangs back in the shadow of the doorway, not wanting to involve herself in the unfolding scene at the front of the room. It isn’t her place—isn’t her business. As far as anyone knows, she and Darianna the Rose have never met.
At Nerani’s side, Orianna watches the bedlam through guarded blue eyes. “Is that the girl that went missing?”
“I think so,” Nerani says.
“We’ve got to get you bathed, girl,” barks the woman—Darianna’s mother, no doubt. “You look a sight awful covered in all that dirt.” She struggles to get ahold of her daughter for a moment more, surrendering as the girl twists just out of reach.
“Thank goodness you’re back, dear,” she pants, beginning to look faintly battle worn. “Where in Saynti’s name have you been?”
Darianna pauses at that, doing her best to look apologetic. Her blue eyes are crisp, cool pools of water upon her dirt stained face. “I went wandering in the tunnels,” she lies. “I couldn’t find my way back, not for days.”
Darianna chews her lip, relenting at last to the warm washcloth brandished by the tenacious Mame Minera. Her face scrunches as the Mame scrubs at her cheeks; pink and raw skin emerging from beneath the grime.
“It was frightening,” Darianna adds, sounding thoroughly unconvincing.
“Oh,” gasps her mother, swallowing a sob. She clasps her hands tightly over her chest, looking as though she might faint.
“Here,” Orianna says, finally jumping into motion. She drags a chair forward for the girl’s mother, gesturing for her to sit. “Rest a while, you must be exhausted.”
