by K A Dowling
Heavy silence settles between them. They stand facing one another, listening as the muffled sounds of the main cavern drift into the opening.
“This story is not about you and James Byron,” Orianna begins. “Not anymore. It’s about all of us. It’s about Rob. It’s about my brothers. It’s about everyone out there in the dining hall. You’re hiding the enemy in our midst, Nerani. He can’t be allowed to leave—not knowing what he knows.”
Nerani swallows, grief sticking in her throat. “What will you do? If I can’t convince you otherwise, will you go to Topan?”
“I already have,” Orianna says. Nerani freezes at that, her body going cold. Her lips open and close as she searches for something to say, but no words rise to her lips.
Before her, Orianna looks tired. “He wasn’t there. He’s left the city.”
Nerani pauses at that, feeling a small rush of relief wash over her. She has time then, for whatever it’s worth. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” Orianna frowns down at her feet, her gaze dark. “Rob was there, in Topan’s gallery. He told me that Topan had business to tend to in Chancey.”
Nerani feels a second surge of relief, larger this time. Orianna did not tell Roberts that James was hiding out in the tunnels. For that, at least, she is grateful. Where Topan would have handled the news with his usual amount of calm rationale, the impulsive Roberts would have only reacted.
She does not want to imagine what her reckless cousin might have done. The very thought makes her stomach sick.
“He wouldn’t tell you what the business was?” she asks Orianna.
“I don’t think he knew.”
There is the sudden, reverberating sound of a pistol being fired somewhere outside. The echo of the blast collides into Nerani’s chest as though she herself has been shot. With a wail of alarm, Eram awakes. He reaches for his sister, his eyes rounded with fright. Orianna collects him within her arms, shushing him. Her eyes meet Nerani’s over the top of his head.
There is a flurry of movement in the doorway and Nerani spins upon her heels to get a better look at the newcomer. Another of Orianna’s brothers—Petram—skids to a stop against the stone, his blue eyes fearful. At his back, Nerani can see a crowd of Cairans surging across the flickering cavern. They swell and break like a wave, their voices overlapping in climbing terror.
“What is it?” Orianna demands of her brother. “What’s happened?”
“A Guardian—” Petram gasps, fear cutting across his face. “There’s a Guardian in the city.”
Nerani does not dare to look at Orianna. She can feel her friend’s eyes boring a hole in her skin. Her stomach is weighted with dread. Her blood is ice within her veins. Petram surges into the room, taking refuge in the shadows. Outside, the shouting has risen to a roar. Feet stamp against the stone. The very foundation of the city seems to shake.
“Where is he?” Nerani demands.
“In the dining hall. He’s been shot.”
Nerani races from the room before Petram has finished speaking. Blood pounds in her ears, turning her vision red. She sees Orianna thrusting Eram into Petram’s arms, bidding him to watch his younger brother. And then her friend is at her side—silent, unreadable. Together, they shove through the throng of clustered Cairans, ducking beneath flailing arms and pushing past whispering kitchen maids.
They break through the crowd after several moments of struggling, emerging through a barrier of Listeners and stepping into a circular clearing. The torchlight that flickers upon the wall is ominous as it dances across the pressing faces of onlookers. Before them looms the impenetrable darkness of the tunnels. Nerani takes a step forward and finds herself stopped short by an arm flying across her chest.
“Stay back,” orders a Listener. Nerani scowls at the floor, drawing away from him.
“There,” Orianna says. Her fingers claw at Nerani’s wrist as she points with her free hand. Nerani follows her gesture, her eyes finding Roberts at the center of the circle. Head bowed and hands in his pockets, he stands watch over a figure that lies prostrate upon the cool stone. Nerani races forward, this time ignoring the shouts of protest from the Listeners that hold back the crowd. At her side, Orianna matches her step for step, her skirts billowing.
Roberts looks up at the sound of their approach, his surprise quickly giving way to annoyance.
“Nerani. Orianna. You were ordered to stay away, I’m sure.”
Nerani ignores him, pushing past her cousin and falling to her knees besides the man at Roberts’s feet. Fingers of blood saturate the cotton of her pale petticoat. She looks down at the figure and gasps.
The man before her, clad in the golden regalia of King Rowland’s Golden Guard, is a stranger. He looks at her through bitter, brown eyes, his chest rising and falling erratically as he struggles to breathe. His face is stark and white in contrast to the blood that coagulates upon his lip, burbling in time with the stressed cadence of his last few breaths.
“He’s a traitor,” he whispers, his voice gurgling.
Nerani clutches at her chest as horror and relief fight for control of her heartbeat. She backs away from the Guardian, her skirts dragging through blood. Nails nearly puncture her skin as Orianna’s hands lock around her upper arm, prying her upright.
“It’s not him. It’s not him, come away.”
“Nerani,” barks Roberts. “Nerani, get up.”
She ignores him, her knees weak—her heart faltering. Out of the corner of her eye, Nerani can see the blurred flicker of approaching torches. Several Listeners trickle out from the dark pitch of the tunnels. The sound of Roberts’s shout causes her to jump, her hand flying to her throat. Her fingers leave streaks of blood upon her pallid skin.
“Did you find anyone?”
“No,” someone replies. “There’s no one there. We went as far out as we dared.”
Roberts curses. “And we’re certain the shot came from inside the tunnels?”
Nerani looks up at that, turning her attention toward the Listeners at the tunnel.
“He was shot inside—of that I have no doubt,” says a man, regarding Roberts through dark blue eyes. His curling brown hair is pulled back from his neck by a fraying, black ribbon. “Several witnesses saw him stumble out from the tunnels just after the shot was fired.”
“We found a trail of his blood inside one of the passages,” another Listener calls.
“Go back in there,” Roberts orders. “Look again. Someone had to fire the shot. They can’t get far—not without getting lost in the caverns.”
The Guardian before Nerani is whispering, repeating something over and over as if he’s reciting a prayer. Nerani leans toward him, tilting her ear closer in order to hear him over the chaos.
“James Byron,” he gurgles. “James—J—James Byron.”
Panic flares within Nerani and she draws away from him, grateful for the volume of the pressing crowd. She is stopped short as the Guardian’s hand closes about her arm, wrenching her towards him. She is surprised at the force of his grip.
“I follow—I followed him.” His dark eyes lock onto hers. His voice is accusatory as he gasps for breath. “I saw you together. I saw you.”
Nerani is starkly aware of Orianna and Roberts waiting just a few feet away. Her cousin has fallen into silence—his gaze bores into Nerani’s back.
“You’re nothing but a filthy, gypsy witch,” the Guardian wheezes. “You—you bewitched him.”
Nerani scowls down at the Guardian, wrenching her wrist from his grasp. His fist drops to the ground, his knuckles rapping audibly against the stone. She rises to her feet, allowing the blood soaked hem of her gown to sweep against the floor like a whisper. His dark gaze follows her. His eyes are riddled with hate.
“You’ll burn in the Dark Below for this, witch,” the Guardian calls as Nerani turns away from him. Her eyes meet Roberts’s across the clearing. “You’ll both burn.”
There is a final, choking wheeze and the Guardian falls
silent. The sharp smell of death is redolent upon the smoky air. Nerani returns her cousin’s stare, her head held high.
“What have you done?” Roberts asks.
Nerani is saved from having to answer by the shrill sound of shouting from the far side of the cavern.
“Get your damned hands off of me!”
Before Nerani, Roberts’s entire countenance changes. The hard lines of worry melt away from his face. The tension leaks out of his shoulders. His golden eyes, sharp and clear, widen into perfect circles.
“Emerala,” he mouths.
“Make way,” barks a voice, struggling to be heard over the turmoil. “Clear a path!”
The crowd parts like a wave, pressed aside by Listeners. Nerani spots Topan among them instantly. His black hair, heavy with rainwater, clings to his face. He locks eyes with Nerani, his expression triumphant as he slips lithely through the crowd of onlookers, trailed closely by two Listeners.
Suspended between the Listeners, her face bronzed by the sun, is Emerala. She writhes uselessly beneath her captors, her bare feet lifting off of the stone. There is another shrill scream and Nerani turns her gaze toward the stalagmites that hang from the ceiling. Circling the jutting stone structures is a bird. He shouts obscenities at the men, lunging with his talons extended and swiping at the tops of their heads.
Nerani gathers her bloodstained skirts to her and surges through the crowd ahead of Roberts, anger flushing her cheeks.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demands, drawing to a stop just before Topan. Orianna is only steps behind her, her eyes glittering with tears as she chokes back a sob of relief.
“Why is she being treated as a captive?” Nerani notices a purpling bruise darkening the cheek of a nearby Listener. The man scowls back at her, looking morose.
Topan turns up his palms in a gesture of goodwill, unperturbed by Nerani’s anger. “I’m sure my men would be happy to put her down when she’s calm.”
Emerala swings upward with surprising strength, angling a well-aimed kick at the man to her right. He narrowly dodges her heel as it flies toward the air between them and she curses, dropping back to the stone.
“I’ll calm down when you tell me where you’ve taken them,” she snaps.
“You needn’t be so hostile. I’ve already assured you that no harm will come to your friends. Please have a little bit more faith in me, Emerala.”
Emerala snorts—a wholly unladylike sound. “Trust works both ways.”
“Not in this case, it doesn’t,” Topan contests.
“What’s going on?” Nerani asks. “What friends are you talking about?”
“My crewmates,” Emerala grunts, tugging her arm to no avail. Her captor’s grip is unrelenting. Her wild hair dances about her cheeks. The silver parrot drops down to her shoulder with a contented squawk.
“Awk, bloody pirates!”
Whispers surge across the crowd like a wave. The word pirate is repeated from tongue to tongue, passing through the cavern with a rippling echo.
“Where are they?” Emerala demands again.
“Nowhere as offensive as you seem to think. They’ve been brought to the infirmary in order to have their injuries tended to.” Topan’s voice is tinged with derision. “I imagine they might need some attention after their skirmish on the beach.”
There is a moment of silence as Topan stares into the faces of the whispering crowd, his features speculative. His eyes at last fall upon the body—now a corpse, the gurgling breath having finally stilled—at Roberts’s feet. His mouth dips into a frown, his skin turning ashen.
Behind Topan, Emerala also takes note of the body. She lets out a low whistle and falls still, her green eyes opening impossibly wide.
“I’m calm,” she says. “May I have my arms back?”
Distracted, Topan gestures for his Listeners to loosen their hold. Emerala wrenches her wrists free and steps forward upon the stone, surveying the cavern around her.
“Quite the welcome home,” she murmurs, peering at the throng of watchful Cairans. Her gaze at last comes to rest upon Nerani. Her lips twist into a thoughtful frown as she examines her cousin from head to toe.
“Do you know,” she begins, “that you’re covered in blood?”
Nerani cannot wait a moment longer. She surges forward, colliding into Emerala and throwing her arms around her neck. The silver parrot takes to the air with an agitated squawk. Another figure slams into Nerani and she gasps as Orianna joins the tangle of arms, hiccupping from the effort of stifling her cries.
“Roberts,” Nerani hears Topan say. “I’m curious to know what has transpired in my absence that led to a dead Guardian on the floor of our city?”
He is met with silence. Nerani glances over her shoulder, surprised to see that Roberts has moved several steps closer toward the trio. His tousled curls are a mess upon his head. His emerald eyes are wide and wet with disbelief.
“Emerala.”
Emerala pries herself out of the arms of her cousin and her friend, turning to face her brother.
“I thought you were dead.” His voice is hoarse.
Emerala shrugs. “I’ve almost died,” she says. “Several times, if that helps.”
“Saynti.” The word ekes out from between Roberts’s lips in a sigh. He pushes past Orianna and Nerani, pulling his sister into an embrace. “You’re alive.” He laughs, pulling her in so close that her feet rise up off of the stone.
“You’re alive.”
From the edge of the crowd, Seranai the Fair watches in fear.
Turn the page for a sneak peek into The Winding Maze
due out in Summer 2018!
Chancey
Harvest Cycle 1525
Rowland Stoward draws to a stop before the entrance, scarcely pausing to catch his breath before barreling into the heavy door. It flies open with a clatter, the gilded knob slamming hard into the stone and mortar wall. The chambermaid lets out a scream, dropping her bucket of ash into the fireplace. A cloud of soot distends across the room, coating the furniture in a thin filament of black. The maid falls back against the wall, her hand at her throat—her lips open in a strangled cry.
“Where is the boy?” Rowland snarls.
The sniveling maid stammers uselessly, her brown eyes fearful. It dawns upon her slowly—far too slowly—that she is staring into the face of the king. She drops to her knees with a gasp, pressing her forehead into the soot-covered floor.
“He’s in the solar, your Grace.” Her voice is shrill. Her nose is flat against the ornate carpet beneath her.
Rowland storms past her, nearly stepping on her fingers as he charges towards the narrow, arched doorway at the far side of the room. It wrenches open before he can break it in and he stops short, recoiling from the boy that appears like a wraith before him. At his back, a pair of Guardians has assumed their position in the open door. A meager wail quavers in the chambermaid’s throat. Rowland stares down at the boy in the opening, feeling something bitter and bilious rise in his gut. Two haunting, green eyes stare back at him from a pointed olive face.
“They’re here for you, aren’t they?” the boy asks. “The black ships?”
Rowland ignores him, trying in vain to catch his breath. His words fall out from his lips between sputtering wheezes. “Your father was a common man. A lecherous man. He was nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing!”
Before him, the boy remains as still as stone in the opening. His fingers clutch like talons at the door. The ache in Rowland’s heart is as sharp as a dagger. He presses his hand to his chest and takes a rattling breath.
“You will not be king,” he bellows. “You will never be king. The throne belongs to the Stoward line.”
“Not anymore,” the boy before him whispers.
The feeble wailing of the chambermaid falls silent. Rowland’s breathing cuts off in his throat. He sputters angrily, his face purpling as his cheeks catch fire.
“What did you say to me?”
“I said,
” the boy repeats, raising his voice, “Not anymore.”
Acknowledgements
Fifteen years ago two little girls were stuck inside on a rainy Saturday. They crept up to the attic and spent an afternoon dreaming up an entire world apart from their own. The story took root and the characters of Emerala and Nerani were born. In a weird sort of way, the story of Emerala is like my own personal diary (although I’ve never been a pirate, or even anything remotely close to one). It’s a strangely terrifying experience to have such a personal part of me out there in the world, but I’m so grateful for the opportunity to have gotten to this point.
This rerelease of the series as three standalone books has been a dream, and I’m so thrilled to have this chance to refresh and revamp the series in a way that fits the independent publishing industry. This has been a wild ride already, and I’m so excited to see where the story goes next.
Rogue Elegance has been a special sort of journey for me, and one that I could never have undertaken without the help, encouragement, and boundless patience of the people around me. I can barely remember a time when I haven’t been working on Emerala and Nerani’s story in one way or another, and most people in my life today never even knew me in the pre-Rogue Elegance era. For that, I owe a great many people a tremendous thank you. To my friends—thank you for putting up with my constant weirdness, occasional sullenness, and my nerdy tendency to talk about my characters as if they really exist.
To my beta-readers, writing classmates, and editors—thank you for always being honest and for telling me what I need to hear. I’m learning the importance of surrounding yourself with a community of writers, and it’s been so wonderful building up a network of people who are walking the same path as I am.
To my parents—thank you for being part of this journey every step of the way, and for always being willing to listen to me talk out inane plot points, even when they don’t make sense to anyone but me. I was a lucky kid to have had not one, but two parents willing to tolerate my requests for total silence during car rides (a girl needs her creative head space!).
