by K A Dowling
“Thank you, dear,” the woman splutters. Her eyes never leave her daughter’s face as she drops into the seat, fanning herself with the palm of her hand.
“You’re fortunate, girl,” Mame Minera grumbles darkly, still scrubbing Darianna’s face. She ignores the plaintive protests that rise to the girl’s lips, working at the grime until the skin is red and raw and new. “Many a child has died in those endless tunnels. Frankly, I don’t see how you made it out. You must have had a guide.”
The girl’s flinch does not go unnoticed by Nerani. Darianna’s blue eyes meet hers across the expanse and she gives the scarcest of nods, her lips pressed in a tight line.
“Foolish, is what it was,” snaps her mother.
“Quite foolish,” agrees the Mame.
“Reckless,” her mother adds. “Mad.” Mame Minera is quiet as she paws at the girl’s face. Leaning toward her basin, she tosses aside another filthy rag. Her eyes scrutinize Darianna from head to toe.
“I’ve got to go and get more clean washcloths to tackle this mess,” she says. She glances over her shoulder, her gaze settling on Orianna. “Check the girl for any injuries.”
“I’m fine,” Darianna protests.
The look Mame Minera gives her is scathing. “All the same,” she barks, and bustles out from the room.
Nerani follows Orianna across the expanse, studying Darianna as the girl plops herself down on one of the cots.
“Are you alright?” Nerani whispers to her as soon as she draws near. She pulls a dirt caked washcloth out from the basin and wrings it out, listening to the water droplets plunging through the cool surface of the basin.
“Yes,” Darianna says, a grin splitting her face. “Never better.”
Orianna’s eyes meet Nerani’s over Darianna’s shoulder as she inspects the girl for any clear sign of injury. The familiarity between them has not gone unnoticed by her friend.
“Does anything hurt?” Orianna asks, bending her left arm at the elbow.
“Not a bit,” Darianna sings. She wrenches her arm from Orianna’s grasp, leaning forward towards Nerani. She grabs her wrist, stopping Nerani before she can begin sponging more of the dirt off of her face. The water droplets pool in the ruffled fabric of Nerani’s lap.
“He’s here,” Darianna whispers, her voice low. She mouths the next two words, no sound coming from her lips as she enunciates, “General Byron.”
Nerani feels her blood run cold. The washcloth falls from her hands, dropping to the floor with a wet squelch.
“What do you mean, here?” she hisses back.
“He’s in the tunnels, not far from where you and I first met.”
Nerani fights to keep from looking at Orianna. She can feel the heat of her friend’s stare scorching her skin. The diamond necklace at her throat threatens to choke off her air supply.
“Why?” she asks, barely able to breathe. “How?”
“He escorted me back,” Darianna explains. Her eyes are bright. “It’s quite a long story, and an exciting one. I’ve had a lot of adventures in your absence.”
Nerani takes a step backwards, barely registering Darianna’s voice over the sudden hammering of her heart in her ears. Her throat feels as dry as sandpaper. Her blood is sludge in her veins.
“Nerani—” Orianna’s voice is low, cautionary.
Nerani cuts her off, unable to meet her eyes. “I’ve got to go.”
She turns and flees the room, her mind racing faster than her feet.
She reaches the tunnels quickly, her chest burning with exertion. Glancing around to make sure no one is watching her, she grabs a lantern from the wall and slips into the shadows of the tunnels.
The firelight engulfs her in a pale halo of orange, keeping the clawing darkness at bay. Shadows encroach upon the edge of the light, leaching out from behind the jagged stones and dripping rock formations. She steps gingerly upon the damp stone, careful to mind her footing. A shiver of anticipation runs through her as she bunches up her pale peach petticoat within her free hand. Her brown brocade corset feels as though it has been laced too tight, so strangled is her breathing.
“Hello?” she calls, moving further into the darkness. The residual light from the cavern beyond is extinguished as she turns a corner. Last time, the darkness was foreboding. Now, it is freeing.
“James?” Her voice is scarcely louder than a whisper in the dark.
There is the sound of rustling up ahead and she jumps, startled by the proximity of the noise. She can see a shape moving in the shadows. The silhouette of a man comes into view as he moves closer to the light. She holds the lantern higher, casting orange radiance into the face of James Byron.
Her heart rises to her throat and she nearly drops the lantern upon the ground. He is dressed in the clothes of a civilian, his white undershirt sullied from his journey through the tunnels. The buttons have fallen open to reveal the top of his chest, and in the dim throw of light she can just see the puckered, red lines of newly healed scars snaking across his shoulders and over his collarbone.
“James,” she says again, his name falling from her lips like a sigh.
He closes the space between them in several steps, pulling her into his embrace. His lips find hers in the darkness and he kisses her roughly, desperately. His movements are laced with a sense of urgency as his fingers trace the lines of her face, as his hands entangle within the hair at the nape of her neck. A deep longing takes root within her gut, aching in a place she never knew existed. A place, she imagines, that has always been meant for him. She leans into his chest, surprised by the sudden impossible desire to wrap herself up in him and disappear.
When at last they break apart, her breathing has grown shallow. She takes a reluctant step back from him, setting the lantern down upon a rock. Lit from below, his features are cupped in flickering firelight. He looks tired, she realizes. Tired and troubled.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispers. The space he occupied is cold in his absence and she draws nearer to him, shivering slightly in the chill. She feels the instinctive desire to touch him and gives in, allowing her fingers to trace the line of his jaw—to linger in the itching stubble that has grown in upon his face. It feels strange to be so familiar with him—strange and wonderful.
“I brought Darianna back,” he explains, as if such a reason is the most obvious in the world. Nerani is momentarily surprised by his use of her given name. It is personal, warm—the familiarity is unexpected.
“She told me. I don’t understand how the two of you found one another.”
“It’s a long story.”
“That’s just what she said.”
“It’s the truth,” he says. “And I don’t want to waste another minute talking about it. Not now, when you and I are on borrowed time.”
Again, Nerani’s eyes travel to the puckered scars that snake over his shoulders. James grimaces, fidgeting beneath her scrutiny, and adjusts his shirt so that the marks are covered. His attention falls to her injured hand, which she has been instinctively cradling within her good fingers. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, she lets her hand fall like a dead weight, swinging her wrist behind her back.
“Don’t,” he says.
He reaches down and pries her arm out from behind her, taking her dressing wrapped hand within his own. She stiffens, achingly conscious of her missing finger as a pang of grief surges through her. He studies her maimed hand through stony eyes. Pain flickers across his brow as he lifts her hand, inspecting the hollow bandage where her appendage once sat.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his lips grazing the empty space. His breath, cool and slow, passes through the bandage and curls in the hollows of her finger. His expression is one of anguish. “I’m sorry for the part I played in this.”
“You didn’t do this,” Nerani insists.
“I did,” he disagrees. His jaw locks and he swallows thickly. “I’ve done a lot of things. Things I’m not proud of. Hurting you was the worst of them.”
“You didn’t do this to me,” Nerani repeats. James is silent, his brows furrowed over eyes that have turned cold. Nerani sighs, placing her own hand over his—squeezing his fingers. Beneath his grasp, her mutilated hand aches.
“What are you really doing here, James?”
“I had to see you,” he admits. “I needed to make sure you were safe.”
She gives a wry laugh. “I’m perfectly safe. It’s you we need to worry about. It was a bad idea, coming here. You know what they’ll do to you if they find you.”
“I don’t care,” he says. “I’m not afraid.”
“You should be. Fear is healthy. Fear is what keeps you alive.”
He smiles at that, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose I’m a dead man, then.”
“Don’t joke.”
“I wasn’t.”
Her eyes fall back to his shoulders—to the twisting scars concealed by his shirt. She takes the collar between her fingers, holding her breath as she moves to peel back the cotton from his skin. He stops her, his hand encircling her wrist. His brown eyes are plaintive, his shoulders tense. She can see the wounded pride on his face, creeping in beneath his reserve.
“You don’t need to see that,” he says.
He was whipped, she realizes, and feels the slow slink of horror in her stomach.
His hand reaches out, suddenly, to brush against her clavicle as he runs his finger across her diamond necklace. She starts at his touch, panic gripping her. She had almost forgotten the necklace was there.
“It’s lovely,” he observes, studying the glimmer of the diamond draped against her throat. “A gift?”
She draws back from him, pressing her palm protectively over her throat.
“It’s nothing.” Her voice is curt. Defensive. She flushes, embarrassed.
“It doesn’t look like nothing,” he says. “It looks important. Regal.”
Reality grips her, hard and cold and unremitting. She looks around at the dripping stalagmites, at the creeping shadows of the cavern.
He can’t be here, she thinks. We can’t be here.
“It’s a family heirloom,” she lies. “James, I—” she hesitates, the dread within her making it difficult to speak, difficult to think. “This is all wrong. You can’t be here.”
“Why not?” he challenges.
“Are you completely mad? You know why not. They’ll kill you. This is reckless, what you’re doing. Stupid.”
“Look at me.” He takes her face within his hands, his touch gentle as he guides her gaze to his. “There’s no way this ends well for either of us,” he says, his voice even. “I’ve known that from the beginning. I’ve made my peace with it. However much time I have until fate catches up with me, it’s better spent with you than without.”
Tears swim in Nerani’s eyes and her vision blurs, his features warping into shadow. She blinks rapidly, calling him back into focus.
“I love you,” she says, without thinking—without planning.
Saying the words aloud feels like opening a door. She can’t close it, not now, not anymore, even if she wanted to. The thought both elates and terrifies her.
It will drown you both.
Before her, James has frozen where he stands, his palms still pressed against her cheeks. Her tears gather between his fingers, running in rivulets across his knuckles. The look in his eyes is unreadable as he lets out a long, slow breath.
“Say that again,” he commands.
Swallowing hard, she forces her eyes to meet his. “I can’t.”
She can see his pulse fluttering in the hollow of his throat just above his collar. His gaze is earnest. “Did you mean that?” he asks. “What you said?”
“Yes.” Her voice trembles.
A small smile dances on his lips and she feels her heart leap at the sight of it.
“Yes?” His hands drop away from her face and he steps toward her, tilting his head so that his forehead meets hers in the dark. She can feel the heat radiating off of him. The firelight dances in the wake of his movement, pitting their shadows together on the wall.
“Then say it again,” he says.
She swallows, choking down the trepidation that builds within her.
“I’m in love with you,” she whispers.
He lets out a sigh like a laugh, his eyes growing bright. The firelight plays across his features, and for a moment it seems as though the years of burden, of turmoil, have fallen away. For a moment, he looks like a boy again. He places a finger beneath her chin, gently drawing her face towards his. This time, when he kisses her, it is soft and slow. His lips linger upon hers as though the moment might last forever—as though there is only them, only this endless dark. Her knees go weak and she feels as though she might melt into the floor.
Glass shatters against stone and they leap apart as though they’ve been scorched. In one fluid movement, James thrusts her behind him and snatches the lantern from the rock. Holding it aloft, he peers out into the darkness of the tunnel.
Standing in the shadows, her face partially shrouded in the grey smoke that twists upward from a broken lantern, is Orianna.
“I knew it.” Her dark blue eyes scrutinize James in contempt.
Nerani steps in front of him, her fingers trembling as she holds them out to her friend in an empty gesture of goodwill. “Raven,” she begins, and her voice shakes. “It’s not what you think.”
“It’s exactly what I think,” Orianna snaps. “Saynti, how could you?”
“You can’t say anything—not to anyone.”
“Are you mad?” Orianna demands. Her voice reverberates off of the oppressive stone, rolling down the dripping rock formations.
“Please,” Nerani whispers. “They’ll kill him.”
Orianna blinks at Nerani in disbelief, her brows furrowed, her mouth agape. Groaning, she paces several steps into the darkness before rounding on Nerani.
“I told you how this would end, Nerani. I told you what I saw.”
“It doesn’t have to end that way,” Nerani insists. The proclamation sounds weak—timid—in the face of Orianna’s rage.
“It does,” Orianna disagrees. “It will.”
She is drawing back into the shadows, her face lined with fury.
“Raven, wait!” Nerani calls, but the only reply is the mocking echo of the endless stone.
Orianna is gone.
CHAPTER 46
The Rebellion
Emerala tosses and turns within her hanging cot, her mind churning. All around her, the dimly lit quarters are filled with the sleepy rumblings of the crew. She stares without seeing at the bottom of the cot above her, watching as dusty grey light spills in through the cracks in the ceiling.
It is easy, in the obscurity of the dawn, to settle into impassivity. It is easy to be numb—to become a blank slate, floating—peaceful—upon the cerulean waves of the sea. That’s what she needs. It’s what she craves above all—serenity.
It won’t be granted to her, here, in the stifling gloom of the ship’s belly. Not today.
Too much has happened. Her stomach does an uneasy flip as she tries again to swallow all that she has learned Time and time again the captain had insisted that he was just as in the dark as she—that he was blindly following the dying orders of his father, nothing more.
Emerala should have been more suspicious of him from the very start.
A memory creeps into the forefront of her mind, and she is suddenly back in the musty gloom of the cathedral, staring up at Alexander’s crooked grin.
Why are you trying to help me? she had asked him, drawn by the promise of adventure in his hazel eyes.
The look he gave her, then, was wicked. Do I need a reason?
Yes.
Boredom. The response was so immediate—so believable—at least to someone as prone to boredom as she. Then, she was happy merely to be given the opportunity to escape Chancey. She ignored Rob when he insisted the captain was bound to have some darker, ulterior
motive. She brushed away his worries with a flick of her palm. She didn’t care. She had no cares.
Heat seeps into her cheeks as she recalls how easy it had been to fool her. She is nothing more than a naïve child, she thinks, to have fallen for empty words and a smile. Everything the Hawk told her made perfect sense. His confession answered every question she had—quelled every whispering doubt at the back of her mind.
According to the Hawk, her father had left the island of Chancey to keep the Cairan treasure safe. He left with the key in tow, desperate to protect his legacy—to keep the young Prince Peterson from being discovered as his illegitimate son.
He left because, in short, he was blackmailed into doing so by the Cairan king.
The thoughts that swim to and fro in Emerala’s head are too large for her to comprehend. That she is part of a prophecy is inconceivable to her—that she could be a queen is beyond her wildest imagination. Something deep within her urges her to be more suspicious—to give credence to her nagging doubts.
He could be lying, a voice within her says. Evander the Hawk is an excellent liar.
Whatever she might feel for him, whatever has transpired between them, she knows better than to trust him completely. And yet, for the time being, he is the only one giving her answers that make sense.
Her thoughts trail off into silence as she sees a shadow slip out from the cot nearest her. The long-limbed silhouette of Evander the Hawk moves like a wraith through the rows of sleeping crew, heading lithely towards the stairs that lead up onto the deck. She shuts her eyes, her heart skipping a beat as he passes by her cot, his boots scraping against the wood underfoot.
Where is he going? Tonight isn’t his night for the watch, she’s certain of it. She lies still, her chest rising and falling as she listens for his footfalls to recede upon on the creaking steps. Opening one eye, she glances towards the door. It swings open on the breeze, letting the rising dawn flood the staircase.
Emerala remains in her cot for the space of several heartbeats, trying and failing to will herself to fall back asleep. Curiosity needles her into remaining awake. Holding her breath, she swings her feet over the edge of her cot and slips out onto the splintering wood. The ship rises and falls beneath her and she steadies herself, taking care not to make any noise. In the cot to her left, a hulking shadow snorts loudly, rolling over with an incoherent grumble.
