Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  The man would say it of his own son, before others. James had to close his eyes, counting the forceful beats of his heart, and when he opened them again René’s lips were curved, and whatever his dark eyes were saying now, they did not speak to him.

  It hardly mattered if their father saw the truth and had wished to insult them, or if he merely wanted to wound the son who had spoken for him. Nothing about him would matter soon, if he did not learn the lesson he had already forced upon his children.

  He offered up his son as well, making him a pandering fool no better than Sir Marvell with his contracts and lies. There had been many covenants sworn in the past months, and one made in the shadowed, stinking hold of a rogue ship had more power than any he could think to make. Indeed, a promise made to a madwoman had more weight.

  “Once again you force me to question whether you are any of my blood.” As though the truth were not clear in each face, each voice, each set of eyes. James could have traced their lineage in each branch of veins twining under pale skin.

  René had not lowered his head, but his face was somehow turned from him. His fingers curled as they had once done around sword hilts and a golden crucifix, but he did not raise his gaze, not to James, and he said nothing at being denied once more.

  “He is frightened and blind,” James spoke lowly, just restraining himself from reaching out to pull René to him. “James.” René said his name, and only that, for a long moment, and then glanced up through his lashes. Only a small portion of the thoughts behind his eyes left his mouth and those so small and quiet it was nothing for another to silence him. “I know who granted me life…”

  “Never!” On a clear, fine day the winds would have carried the pronouncement across the seas, perhaps even as far as Jamaica and yet that would still not make it true. James felt his mouth fall open, no longer fighting to keep silent as he had when faced with Lord Cavendish in his beggar’s clothing. His words have never mattered, had not once been heeded, and yet he had wished to speak regardless, and once more he could hear the man’s low warnings.

  “You will watch your words, Father.” Whatever Etienne’s thoughts they were not in his voice either. James jerked his head around though Etienne spoke softly and his footsteps on the bare floor were whispers. “What do you imagine you will do, chase after them yourself and fight them in the streets?”

  To hear that question asked brought James’ head up, his hands pressing into René’s sides so close he could feel the rapid flutter of René heart, it seemed weak, just as René felt hot, and James dragged his gaze over René’s face, his eyes sharp for the first sign of pain or fever.

  He let himself imagine it, René sick once more, Ben waiting for them, the hurried flight to a ship, escape and freedom finally within reach. As though similar dreams held them all, for a moment everyone was locked into place, and then the spell was broken by a soft, breezy sigh from someone, as though some long-awaited solution had been realized.

  “Here is a pistol, Father,” Etienne offered, his voice ringing loud and James snapped his head to frown at him, saw Etienne’s pale fingers holding the gun aloft. He dangled it almost in the manner of a fishwife holding up a good catch for inspection. James could almost see him sticking his hip out suggestively, the gaping mouth of the dead fish. “Do you wish to use it?”

  At the cool smile James heard himself make a noise, parting his lips only to stop at violent shake of René’s chest. He turned and blinked to see René’s slender brows drawn together, though there was a strange curve to his lips and his hands kept their grip on James.

  “Only against a child,” René remarked lightly, as though he joked across a stolen chessboard, and his smile left his eyes even though stayed at his mouth. He glanced up, and James thought he sought out his gaze before finishing. “He has no stomach for bigger prey.” His eyes were speaking again.

  “You truly wish this, René?” James murmured, not wishing any one else to share this, and René kept his stare level, fighting with a body already worn thin to stay on his feet. James felt an itch at his back, a restless motion in his legs. He thought of the world outside once more and tossed his head.

  René’s heart jumped for him, and then René nodded, ducking his head. He was looking at him in the same manner of confusion as Ben when confronted with a new lesson. For a moment his eyelashes rested against his too-pale cheeks, and then he swept his gaze upward. “I am not afraid.”

  “I should have sent you away too.” Like a lost man who did not realize his destiny, Saint-Cyr continued to speak, far too loud, crashing like the wind against the roof of an old church. He blustered, but could not find his way inside when the stone held. His head went from the son he would deny to one he would repudiate.

  He had no place left, no child of man to hold him, and James looked away from René, looked to his father, the pathetic figure stumbling forward like a drunkard, and he did not see the way, would not find the path even if guided, as they had all tried to guide him.

  James looked up, lifted his eyes to the ceiling as René had done, and the heights made him shudder and lower his eyes to the floor. James felt the burn of an unending stare, but did not blink or turn away from the thick trickle of René’s blood, the lines it traced in the white marble. Like rivers on a map, the charts painstakingly guarded and protected with only a tiny rose.

  They were still talking, some voices raised, but it was only the sound of water rushing past him. The seas seemed tranquil and clear in the New World, but their vengeance was fierce and swift. A moment perhaps, and then the calm would return, a silence unlike anything he had ever known as a child. It was never what he had dreamed, his voyage away from home, and not for the first time he thought it strange that it had happened this way at all, that he should end up here.

  He saw his own feet in his stolen shoes, René’s feet in dark leather, the space between them. Then he raised his head.

  René’s lips were parted as though he was about to speak, and James smiled to see him though for a long moment he heard nothing at all.

  “…Think to command me? There is one master here.” Such arrogance was something James had forgotten, but it washed over him now, left tracks behind like the disappearing tide. He heard that edict echo, ringing in the rich, elegant voice, and then again in another, a stronger voice, darker. His own as well perhaps, coming to him as though he dreamed, and James opened his eyes wide at the silence that followed.

  How foolish he had been, how René had saved him from it. The madness was there, making him tremble as René did, parting his lips to speak with the same sickness rising in his belly. He had always thought that it was as though another spoke for him, to hear himself saying things he knew he should not.

  No one else seemed to think anything odd in his manner, or perhaps they saw the spirit in him. In him, with him, guiding his feet, andJesu, he was a fool. James turned his head to look at the figure of Saint-Cyr. He stood alone, not yet come away from the staircase, surrounded from near to every angle by his children, and perhaps for the first he saw their contempt, even if he could not fathom it. No servants ran to him, and even the most devoted son had ceased to plead for him. And he called himself master.

  James felt his mind skipping free, turning circles that left him almost ill, as sick as that old man must be feeling, the floor beneath his feet unsteady, his senses gone or useless. René had caused that, brought that to him amid a sea of blood and smoke at the cost of so much of himself. James knew himself wrong, misguided, still blind to have thought to make himself alone, thought to end this with no one’s aid. He had refused to see just how he had come to be here. When the game was finished, all the pieces went back in the box, even the King. There was nothing left to chance.

  James looked to him, wondering if he smiled to find René watching him. René with his full, red lips and his straight nose. For a moment he had one eyebrow arched up, his eyes black with blazing coals behind them.

  He felt tall suddenly, though nothi
ng to the far away ceiling, the gray clouds outside. The city would welcome the rain, the wind and water chasing the stench from the streets for a few hours at least.

  René put a hand to his stomach, his brows dropped into a fierce frown. Wounds healed when treated with care, and James had thought it remarkable before that his ship from England should be the one carrying the powders needed. It was remarkable still, but no chance course, for did not ships follow the stars and the wind, the Heavens themselves?

  He was such a fool. René’s humility was another gift to be grateful for. Wherever René had learned it did not matter.

  René wished to leave and James coughed to clear any sentiments from his throat, pitching his words for René alone.

  “René,” he called to him and saw the flare heat of René’s eyes, an answer clear enough to read across a ship full of men, and if he had known, he would have made his lips form the question long ago. Instead they had been carried back to this place. It was his fault for not seeing the truth of his place sooner, but he did not have to allow it to continue. “Let us go,” he finished, a long breath out easing his tight chest.

  René blinked, his mouth turning up into something soft as he inclined his head, as though it were truly enough for him to turn from this and leave. There were voices, loud voices crying out, and if James was careless in staring for a moment he did not care. But his head came up at the whirling hints of colour and motion, the alarm in René’s eyes as he fell back. He put his arms out, reaching for René too late at the thundering explosion of the pistol.

  Smoke always reeked of Hell, and for a heartbeat James stood there, on his feet but dizzy, deaf. Fear held him still until the cries returned, startled, frightened, angry, followed by moans of pain.

  His gaze would not hold steady, and he swung around, close to sick until he found the source of the noise, flinching away from the red streams of blood, uncaring of where they might lead. His eyes went up and he flinched anew to find heavy black watching him.

  “James…” René said his name, René spoke, and James tore his eyes away seeking out the well-loved figure. For a short space, René held himself upright, swaying with weakness as men did when the battle was over. He blinked, his mouth thinning as though that took some effort, and then he moved his head slowly, following the same dark river.

  It was Ben’s eyes that turned back to him before René lost the last of his strength and fell to the floor. He got his hands out, his palms to the marble, curling his fingers into the mess his own blood had made. If the others were only lost for the moment, James felt as though René were slipping away forever. Only his breath seemed close. Much too loud, far too uneven, and James’ own knees weakened, bringing him down to the floor as well.

  The marble should have been cold, but it burned the tips of his fingers as he wrapped them around René’s thin wrists. He could still feel the startling trace of heat as his hands wandered on, moving quickly over René’s arms to his face, forcing René’s head up.

  On his own, René suddenly sat back, his mouth open as he stared over at the foot of the stairs. He did not speak, and he would not acknowledge the light touch on his face. “What has been done?” René spoke in a voice small and alone, in the young voice of his horrible dreams. It would be cruel to leave him, as immoral as the man who had first sent him away. James had to look with him, and turned his head to look at the moaning, wretched form on the floor.

  He could smell the blood now, the hot stench of it. Wounds to just the flesh did not have this tang of acid to them, the sour odor of rotting fruit. The smoke of the shot was clearing, and with it gone, James could see straight into the black eyes of Saint-Cyr, saw them looking to him in confusion, in pain. Perhaps he wished for aid, or it was anger leeching from the dark eyes. James could not tell, and guessing made his stomach churn.

  He swallowed with the ease of too much practice and gritted his teeth as he turned, seeking out the fluttering forms on the edges of the room. For a moment they stank of Hell-fire too, but when he shook his head, they were only three slight figures breathing hard behind him.

  “What madness is this?” he demanded, letting his voice rise for him. He did not know himself, a snarling captain on the floor, but René did not flinch from the sound.

  He looked up, but of course he could not see into the Heavens. He cast his gaze back down and sought out Etienne when his sisters hid their eyes from him. “You thought to trick me into this?” He could not help the question, knowing he had handed over the pistol himself. The shadows beneath Etienne’s eyes did not answer him and Etienne himself was frowning and silent. Brightly coloured skirts dipped and rustled at his back but James did not wish to look at them. Seeing them at the edge of his vision was enough to make him ill, the inconstant, shifting array of shades, unsettling next to the black Saint-Cyr eyes.

  Etienne’s hands were out, caught in some strange, silent moment of alarm but he stayed as he was. The low moaning seemed to come from all directions, and hearing it brought out the memory of another not granted a quick death. James closed his eyes for a moment and remembered the shaking hands clasped tight to the plump belly, the fluid slipping out from between his fingers no matter how tight he closed them.

  They had chosen a shot to the stomach, and the dead-white cast to the skin meant long moments of agony before peace. “I did not ask for him,” René spoke quietly and James opened his eyes and looked at him. René stared at his father as he lay dying. “I would not wish that for you, James.” He turned his head, moving slow with ancient aches. His thin brows drew together, his mouth a crushed rose. “He will burn,” he remarked and lifted his chin. His gaze rested somewhere beyond the ruined floor, far from the stairs.

  The skin under James’ palms beat as hungrily as drums from the fields of Jamaica. He did not know if it was René or himself, if there was even space between them.

  He caught another moan, pitiful and alone. “What have you brought us to?” He shouted when there was no need, and thought he would not mind seeing the gently raised, fair-skinned children of Saint-Cyr hide away from him. But they were already hidden, or had been, ready to fade from the man’s memory rather than face him. Not until James had come here and handed them the means to murder, offered them escape under the name of justice. He shook his head, and the gleaming painted image of them seeking shelter from lightening vanished from his mind.

  “You…” His soul burned as René had predicted, left him blistered, the back he wished to turn to them a seeping wound. He could not shudder away from the knowledge of his complicity. Etienne. He almost gasped the name but moved his eyes on, to the blooming figures of the ladies. He could not make his parched mouth speak of their promise, could not form the words when Etienne suddenly stepped forward in his vision, his empty hands offering too much distraction.

  “It seems he was found wanting.” The cold words were too close to the voice in James’ memory, like the killer who had left him shivering with fear as he had carved a bloody map from Carter’s chest.

  He felt his lips part and darted out his tongue to wet them as he glared back at Etienne, Etienne posing with his head up, his arms out to eclipse all else behind him. An ugly colour mottled his cheeks, and he could not catch his breath, but the black eyes would not allow James to look beyond him.

  “You will not mock.” René’s voice shook with heat, his gaze wild, but Etienne jerked, and there was another swirl of motion behind his body. There was another voice, the voice that had forced a beast to heel, that had tried to urge him from his knees in a filthy Tortuga street. “Spawn of the Devil,” René murmured finally, and narrowed his eyes at the high, small voice that sought to deny him. “You will see what you are.”

  “René…” James heard himself, his tongue restored to him at last. “René let us leave.” He wrapped his hands around René’s arms and urged him up, but it was as though René were made of stone for all his trembling. He pulled, but René would not move, and fixed him with a furious stare for
the attempt.

  “We will not leave yet.” René snarled at him, the fearsome creature who had once taken his ship with cannons at his back, even if he now knelt on a floor dark with his own blood. James frowned, pulling once more only to ease his hold when René shook him off and turned his anger on those around him.

  His gaze fell on all of them and then his eyes narrowed as Etienne took one step forward. James focused on Etienne as well, his eyes dry as he realized that Etienne would not look at him. His skin, always as fair as René’s, seemed too pale, as though he had been drained to match his brother. James turned his head away too fast, felt the world spin for a moment. James put his hands flat to the floor as Etienne moved, swaying as though René’s illness had perhaps touched him too. His eyes went to the blood and then to the body beyond them. René had not ceased his glare, shared it with even those who thought themselves sheltered by the door. That stare had known James for what he was at the first meeting, now it knew all their sins and sneered to see them.

  James exhaled and heard the sound of the others as they did the same. The sound was like newborn cats and beggars drowning in the rain. He put his hand up once more, felt René’s shoulder burn hot through the thick coat to sear him, and the slender arc of bones pushing out, trying to break free of René’s skin.

  For too long a moment James imagined that, shuddering to imagine René something else beneath his ribs, the light pushing out from the torn flesh the way the heat had spilled from him in his fever. Just as then, René had opened his unseeing eyes wide and seemed not of this world, horribly beautiful as his mouth had shaped words in another tongue.