The Changing Tide

by K A Dowling

  He is aware of the stranger on the path behind him long before the man becomes visible. Over the distant echo of waves churning against rocks he can hear the squelching footfalls in the mud.

  “Valiant?”

  He turns at the sound of his title. It is Captain Mathew. The sun is at his back. The sharp black shadow thrown by his tricorn hat obscures the features upon his face but there is no mistaking that pretentious lean—those oversized golden buttons upon the long red jacket.

  “What are you doing out here?” Roberts demands. He scarcely works to try and disguise his dislike for the young pirate.

  “Your gypsy king mentioned you had gone out for a walk to try and clear your head.”

  “And you thought you’d find me here, of all places?” Roberts asks, gesturing towards the scattered copses of trees about them.

  The captain shrugs. He squints towards the Great Forest. The treetops are giving off an audible sigh. “This is where I would go.”

  Roberts does not provide him with an immediate response. He scuffs the big toe of his foot into a wayward patch of damp green grass at his feet. He can feel resentment for the pirate building up around his heart like plaque. He has nothing to lose, this thief. He can sail away whenever he pleases. Emerala’s fate will never weigh on him as heavily as it weighs upon Roberts.

  Her brother.

  Her protector.

  “I understand, you know.” The pirate has taken a few steps closer to him in the silence. The first gleam of twilight is bright upon his sun kissed face. One eye is squeezed tight against the glow. The flesh upon his cheek breaks out into a dozen black splinters.

  “What do you understand?” Roberts snaps. “What?”

  “I understand that impossible need to protect what you love the most. I understand the feeling that you would go to the ends of the sea to keep her alive—keep her happy.”

  Roberts shakes his head. His black curls are falling down into his eyes. “I don’t think you do understand,” he remarks disdainfully. “I don’t think you have any idea. You’re nothing but a pirate. You don’t love anything but the sea. You have no family—no loyalties.”

  The captain stares back at him—unblinking. After a moment, he smiles. “You may be right.”

  “I am right,” Roberts snaps. “And now, because I listened to you, innocent Cairans are dead.”

  “They would have died anyway.”

  Roberts can feel his anger twisting in his gut like a knife. How can he be so impassive and still expect anyone to believe he gives a damn? He spreads his feet further apart upon the ground—feels the mud squish between his boots. The evening dew is saturating the earth. He can smell the rich loam underneath his feet, smell the salt of the sea upon the air. His flesh prickles with the chill of night as the orange sunlight overhead begins fading to violet.

  “And Emerala?” There is a tremor in Rob’s hand as he speaks. “She’ll die too?”

  Is that how it is going to be? Is this some sick game of yours?

  “No,” the pirate says. His hazel eyes twinkle merrily in the twilight. His shoulders are taut with excitement—like a young boy that has caught his first fish. “Rowland Stoward sent out a herald not two hours past. Emerala is to be executed tomorrow at dusk.”

  He delivers the hearsay as though it is something positive—something to be celebrated. Roberts feels his gaze darkening. His fingers clench into fists at his sides. “And this is good news?”

  “Well, yes. It means we’ll have darkness on our side. Although unfortunate, our arrangement is hardly foiled by the death of the two gypsies today. Everything will go as planned. Your sister will not die tomorrow.”

  “I was never in agreement with this plan. It isn’t possible.”

  “Everything is possible,” the pirate disagrees.

  “Rowland is more powerful than a handful of pirates. What if you fail?”

  “I won’t.” The pirate’s tone exudes confidence. In the dusk his silhouette fades to black—contorts in the gloom. His buoyancy does nothing for Roberts. Only a fool is that sure of himself.

  But if he somehow manages to succeed—

  “I’ll never see her again,” Roberts says, confirming what he has already been told.

  We have to let her go, Nerani said to him the night before. If that is the only way she is going to live, we have to let her go. She never wanted to be here anyway. You know that.

  Before him, the pirate is quiet. “Not for a while, at least. It’s for her own good.”

  “What about you?”

  The pirate appears intrigued by the question. “What do you mean?”

  “How does this benefit you? What do you get out of helping my sister? You haven’t asked for compensation. Am I to believe you’re doing this out of good will?”

  The pirate laughs at this, his cheeks dimpling. It is a small sound, barely audible. He stares down at the toe of his boots before glancing sideways up at Roberts. “Would you believe that I don’t quite know why I’m doing this?”

  Roberts thinks about this. “No.”

  “I thought not.” The pirate smiles and tugs at the golden scruff upon his chin. “Well, if you wanted an honest response, that’s the only one I can give you.”

  “It’s a terrible response,” Roberts says pithily.

  “I agree.”

  Silence hangs in the air between the men. Roberts does not know what else to say. He supposes he has no other choice than to trust the pirate. What else is there to do? If he does not give him his support—if they do nothing at all—Emerala will most certainly be executed.

  At least, then, they are trying to save her. At least, then, they are doing something. Still, he cannot shake the looming feeling of trepidation that has taken root within his gut.

  “We should be getting back, mate.” The pirate’s voice sounds out of place over the steady rise of crickets chirping in the high grass.

  “Most likely,” Roberts agrees numbly.

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  He hesitates. The grass is slick with moisture beneath his boots. “I thought we were expected to stay out of your way.” The words do not escape his lips without some trace of hostility.

  The captain shrugs. “It would be better if you weren’t there, but I hardly think I can keep you away.”

  He’s right, Roberts thinks. There’s no chance I’ll entrust my sister’s fate to pirates.

  If they are truly going to go through with this, then Roberts will make sure that he is there to guarantee that they do the job correctly. He purses his lips, holding back any argument that threatens to leak out from between his clenched teeth. The pirate has already turned his back to him—has already begun making his way back towards the grey walls of the city.

  Slowly, letting his feet drag through the sleeping earth, Roberts follows. He glances out at the sea. The moon is a flat, circular disk of silver. It is low in the sky, dancing idly upon the oily black surface of the ocean. He thinks again of Death, and of the stories he heard as a child.

  He thinks of a woman, old and grey, bending down and kissing a sleeping Emerala upon the forehead. He pictures those gnarled white fingers taking Emerala’s hand—leading her into the sea.

  He thinks of Saynti, the Cairan queen executed for her heritage, and of how the Mames say to pray to her is to pray to a goddess.

  The wind is blowing through his hair, tugging relentlessly at his black curls. Salt stings his lower lip.

  Not yet, Saynti, he thinks. Don’t take her from me yet.

  Away in the trees he thinks he sees the shadow of a woman, her slender form watching in silence. Waiting. But he blinks and there is nothing there. It is only the night, playing tricks upon his eyes.

  Seranai the Fair draws back behind the thick copse of trees in which she is concealed. Roberts is staring at her—directly at her—and yet she is sure there is no way he can make her out in the blackness. She is rendered invisible by the shadows of the leaning tree trunks—a shapeless wraith in the
dark.

  She exhales through her nose. Her grey eyes, silver in the moonlight that trickles down between the fluttering leaves overhead, follow Roberts and the captain as they make their silent way back to the walls of the city.

  Everything is going exactly as planned. She does not know what the Hawk said to his captain in order to convince him to take Emerala on board, but it matters not. In a matter of days—hours, even, Emerala the Rogue will be out of her life forever. She grins, her teeth grinding against one another as she stares at the fading outlines of the two men on the horizon.

  It is a dangerous undertaking, trying to rescue the young woman from the grasp of the king. She cannot imagine how the captain plans to succeed. She supposes it matters not. The outcome makes little difference to her.

  If Emerala is rescued, she will sail away from Chancey, never to return.

  If the pirates cannot get to her in time—if she is executed at dusk—well, that in itself is a good enough solution for Seranai.

  Emerala will be dead, and Roberts the Valiant will be hers.

  The sun has extinguished its last light beneath the swollen silver sea. From off in the distance she can hear the lonesome howl of some feral beast of the forest. It stretches up towards the black sky, speckled with flecks of gleaming silver stars.

  She only need be patient for one more day.

  One more day, and the sniveling nuisance of a girl will be gone.

  CHAPTER 23

  Emerala the Rogue

  The cell is black and cold. Emerala sits upon the grimy floor and hugs her knees to her chest. Her green gown billows out around her, dragging through the urine soaked hay at her feet. Dank air compresses against her exposed skin. She sniffles. Her grip tightens around her legs. Fingernails dig through the fabric of her gown, bite into flesh.

  She has never felt so foolish. She should have known—should have seen through Rowland Stoward’s ruse. His deal was as rotted and as false as his heart. Try as she will, she cannot rid herself of the image of that wolfish, hungry grin, smiling down at her even as he called for the deaths of her people.

  She thinks of Rob and wonders if he feels victorious. His doubts have once again proven to be correct. He knew the king would never follow through.

  Do you truly believe he will honor a promise made to you? A Cairan? You are nothing to him.

  It is beginning to seem as though Rob is always right. She thought he was foolish for doubting, then. Now, his words ring with incredible foresight. She shudders in the chill and adjusts her weight upon the hard floor beneath her. Her backside aches. Her bones are stiff. How long has she been sitting upon the floor in silence, frozen and alone?

  Tomorrow this nightmare will be over, one way or another. She blanches at the thought of death. Her insides feel as though they are coated in ice. Her throat aches from hours of suppressed tears. She must allow herself to have faith in Alexander Mathew—faith in his crew. Just because the two Cairans are dead does not mean she is doomed to suffer the same fate.

  She tries to remind herself that the Rebellion is captained by a pirate lord—tries to reassure herself that Alexander and his crew are far from typical men. If they are capable of besting the wild seas, they can handle anything. They have seen the world. Rowland’s golden elite has never sailed beyond the horizon.

  There is more than just a chance. She has to let herself believe that.

  There are footfalls upon the walkway beyond her cell. An orange tinge of light smolders in her peripherals, setting the rounded stone corner of the corridor ablaze with dancing light. She cocks her head to listen.

  The footfalls grow louder—heavy boots upon damp stone. There is the squelching sound of splashing water and a sigh. A shaded figure appears beyond her cell. A lantern is thrust into her face. She stares into the darkness beyond the orange haze, blinking like mad. She can see a golden clad figure standing erect beyond the rusting bars. His face is cast in shadow, but the light of the swinging lantern catches in his white-blonde hair. He looks familiar—she has run into him before. He is an official—a corporal, by the insignia upon his sleeve. She cannot recall his name.

  There is a moment of breathless silence before he speaks.

  “You should rise, Cairan, in the presence of your superior.”

  She blinks faster, feigning deafness.

  “Have you no respect?” His tone is even—cool. His question is rhetorical. Emerala ignores him. Instead she lies back, lowering her bare shoulders onto the reeking floor. A shiver goes up her spine as the dank water of a puddle laps against her flesh—tickles her shoulder blades. Her green gaze roves to the ceiling. She watches the darkness battle with the light.

  “Fine,” he says. “Lie there in the grime. You are no more than animal anyhow. Untamed, foul thing.”

  Emerala sighs. Her breath tastes stale upon her tongue. “Have you come here to hurl insults at me all day? Or do you have something important to say?”

  Her voice is hoarse from lack of use. Beyond the reach of the corporal’s lantern she can hear the breathy laughter of another prisoner. The voice is mad—choked with the dust of someone who has been abandoned in the darkness, left to wait for death. Forgotten by men. A chill creeps through her skin. She fights to keep her expression blank.

  “See,” begins the guardian. “I thought you would be grateful for a bit of conversation. I know how sharp that tongue of yours can be. Silence hardly suits you.”

  “What does it matter? I’ve nothing to keep it sharp for.” A dull ache has begun to throb behind her sockets. The light is hurting her eyes. Or perhaps it is the smell of urine.

  The corporal chuckles. It is a forced sort of sound—dry and lifeless. “I’ll get right to the point, then.”

  “Please do.” She can taste the brassy twinge of blood upon her tongue. She did not even notice how roughly she had been chewing her lip. The guardian takes a step closer to the bars of her cell. His long black shadow stretches and contorts, creeping up the wall until it looms over her like some nefarious demon.

  “I know your people, Cairan. And I know you. His Majesty is delighted to have you within his grasp, but I know better.”

  He waits—an intentional pause. The deep, dark shadows beneath his brows explore her supine figure upon the floor.

  “Do you?” Emerala asks, after a moment has gone by.

  “I do. You would never have handed yourself over without an escape plan. You’re much more cunning than that.”

  “I’m flattered that you think so,” she says flatly.

  “You have something planned.” It is not a question.

  “You’re right,” she retorts. “I intend to use old magic to turn you all into the pigs you are while I make my dramatic escape.”

  That same, crazed laugh leaks out from the darkness. It is closer this time. In the distance she can hear the rattle of rusted bars. Someone hisses softly, and the echo of the sound slithers across the shadows. Her stomach turns.

  “You can make light of this all you want, gypsy. But I promise you this—if you or your people so much as attempt an escape, I will condemn all of you.”

  Emerala considers this. She sits up, letting her wild, black ringlets fall about her face. “Who made you king?” she asks, defiance riddling her words.

  She can see the black slit of his lips widen into a grin as light and dark fight for space upon his stony features. “I am an extension of his Grace, and in the streets of Chancey my word is law. Think very carefully about your next move, Emerala the Rogue.”

  And then he is leaving. She listens to the sound of his footfalls receding on the cool stone. Emerala rises to her feet—presses her cheeks between the bars. The golden aura of light is drawing away from her skin, leeching the warmth from her flesh. She watches the circle of orange grow smaller and fade to black. She is left blinking at nothing. Residual fragments of white light drag across her retinas. She rubs at her temples. Exhales through her nose.

  The man in the shadows is chuckling soft
ly, rattling his chains.

  “Emerala the Rogue…” he whispers into the darkness. He speaks with the tongue of a dead man, beckoning to her in the gloom.

  “Who made you king?” The words come out in a barely audible hiss. The sound is smothered by the impenetrable shadows.

  Swallowing a whimper, Emerala presses her hands hard against her bodice. Beneath the curving whalebone, she can feel the outline of her dagger. General Byron had found it upon her as he searched her for weapons earlier that afternoon. She had felt his fingers slow over the bulge beneath the trailing lace stays—had felt his eyes upon her face. And then his fingers moved away, searching onward. He said nothing. He made no point to remove the weapon from her person.

  She sighs, running her finger along the outline of the narrow blade. Its presence, however useless, provides her with some, small flicker of comfort.

  Saynti, she thinks, sending up a prayer to the blessed dead, please let the captain succeed.

  CHAPTER 24

  Captain Alexander Mathew

  The nondescript colors of dusk are settling in the air, casting the buildings around Alexander in indistinguishable shadow. He blinks into the sleepy grey silence, a bead of sweat tracing the hard outline of his jaw. Beneath his red jacket, his white undershirt is sticking to his skin. When did the spring become so damned hot? He cannot remember. He leans against the faded red brick of the building at his back. The pressed stone is clinging to the residual heat of the afternoon sun. It scorches his flesh through his clothes.

  Across the way he hears a whistle—sharp. Two golden eyes are watching him from a dark alleyway cluttered with reeking trash. The Hawk holds one long finger to his lips. Silence. His free hand cups his ear. Listen.

  Over the distant rumble of the sea, Alexander can hear the muffled cacophony of Chancians in the square. They all went to the center of the city an hour ago, each eager to get a good view of the execution.