by L J Andrews
“You’ve had your say,” Bradach said through a grin. “My turn.”
The feared sea baron rose from the iron chair at the table. Roark half-expected Bradach to balk at the request to join in negotiations and stay to his ship. The moment the towering, pale-faced baron had entered the lower tunnels and presented himself to Lord Tama, Roark felt the smallest glimmer of hope that he would be free of the Cyprus Hills. But it wasn’t a guarantee Bradach would take Roark. He’d need to be impressed.
Brass buckles clinked along his leather boots. The tip of his narrow, elegant blade nearly touched his heels as Bradach circled Roark’s stool. The sea baron had an uncanny talent of biting into the soul with a single gaze. Life on the sea created paranoia, mistrust, and bloodlust—or so, Roark heard. He didn’t need those qualities from the men of the water, he needed a cover, he needed transport, and he needed experts in plundering.
“Your lord says you are wise, Ro. I would agree, or you would have died long ago,” Bradach said after staring without a blink for at least ten heartbeats. “What can you offer my crew with your wisdom? I suppose there is more purpose to your risk of asking me, the master baron, rather than a lesser ship without such a gamble in joining. I am selective of my shipmates.”
“Why would I strive for a lesser ship when an opportunity to sail beneath a true seaman stands at my fingertips?”
“Bold. Arrogant, even.” Bradach tapped the pommel of his blade with one hand and rubbed his beard with the other. Roark swallowed hard and hoped he hadn’t misread the baron, but soon Bradach clicked his tongue and set to pacing again. “The sort of temperament needed on the sea. We don’t want a crew of kittens.”
“I read and write forgotten texts and most dialects in the Bloodlands.” Half true. Roark could read and write all dialects. But too much history could give way to the truth of his name, and word traveled quickly among the greedy. Alliances with General Kawal and Emperor Baz would suit Lord Tama and Bradach more than Roark’s life. Keeping a fugitive of one of the more feared military men in the Bloodlands wouldn’t suit, Roark was certain. “Imagine what such knowledge could do for your raids and ancient mapping. I wonder how many times your crew makes educated guesses on where to make berth after reading old maps. What if you knew for sure every time?”
“Intriguing,” Bradach said. “I saw you in the Ring, but hardly noted how you handled a blade before bones were broken. It won’t do to have an educated crewman who dies at the first conflict.”
Elder flashed Roark a glance as if the priest knew what the bruiser would do the moment the challenge was offered. A small knife was tucked in Bradach’s thick belt. Without moving off his stone seat, Roark ripped the blade free and pressed the deadly point in the center of Bradach’s chest. Roark smirked when Bradach’s man rushed to come to his baron’s aid, but Bradach held up one hand with a chuckle.
Roark narrowed his eyes at the baron and lowered his voice. “I know how to use a blade.”
Bradach urged his own weapon away from his heart, and Roark easily returned the knife so the crewman could sit back at ease once more. “I’ll admit that was impressive,” Bradach said. “But can you kill?”
Roark paused, his throat tight, and sweat beaded behind his neck. “Why would you doubt if I can kill?”
Bradach grinned and flicked dirt from beneath his fingernails. “Call it a hunch, Ro. I suspect you value life more than taking it.”
“Death is not a fear of the broken and abused in the Bloodlands. But to maim and leave them with an even worse situation than before—that is where fear lives. And fear merits power and control. Reputation can be the difference between resistance or compliance when your flag strikes the shore.”
“So that is why you break bones. You live in the power of fear.” Roark nodded though he refused to meet Elder’s gaze. The sea baron could turn Roark into a soul completely void of Elder’s so-called rays, and though he’d never admit it out loud, playing the part of a raider that shattered lives while preserving his own, churned his guts. Bradach’s mouth tightened as he stared at the floor. “I see in your eyes you are from Jershon, Ro. Tell me how you survived the fall. You were not always a bruiser. What was your life like behind those walls?”
His tongue swelled with dryness and Roark’s knee bounced beyond his control. “You determined my home from my eyes, not my skin?”
“Skin doesn’t mean much through decades of hidden cross-breeding among empires. As a sea baron you learn to see the truth in the eyes. Necessary when maintaining order on a crew filled with all walks of life and desperation. I see gold and green in the darkness of your eyes. Pure Jershonians can boast such uniqueness. I am fond of Jershon for my own reasons and visit often enough. I’ve never encountered another bloodline with the same eyes. Am I mistaken?”
Roark didn’t see the point in hiding the truth. Bradach was certain, and if he was caught in a lie the baron would set sail and Roark would be lost to the cliffs. “You aren’t wrong.”
Bradach sniffed, but there was the slightest twitch in the corner of his mouth. “I see more than your culture. I see you hide truths inside. We all are afforded our secrets. I suppose I care less about how you escaped Mulek’s siege, and more why you wish to join my crew. The truth, Ro. I will see a lie.”
Roark swallowed gritty nerves until his throat was scratched and sore. Elder shifted, tugged at his collar, and bit his bottom lip. “You are sailing to the Forgotten Isles. I seek to pillage the ruins of a rumored temple.”
Bradach’s gaze darkened. “How do you know where I will sail?”
“When barons and crews come to the cliffs, I am afforded rewards for winning. I request information from sailors. I ask questions. It always amazes me how loose tongues become after drinking too much Cy wine. I’ve tracked sailing routes and predicted your destination.”
The room settled in suffocating silence. Bradach stalked across the space and lowered to his haunches. “You are more educated than I thought. Are you noble?”
Roark laughed darkly. “Noble? No. When an empire is falling those cunning enough to survive will do just that. Those without forethought, well, their blood now colors the stones of Jershon’s streets, doesn’t it?”
“You’ve asked your questions, Bradach,” Tama said through his teeth. “Ro, you wish to go to the Forgotten Isles. I will allow it after one year of trading for me.” Tama snapped his fingers and one of the guards slipped outside the room and returned with two women. Their bodies were adorned in golden jewelry with their intimate areas hardly shielded with silk. Roark’s throat burned when bile slipped from his stomach. The women smiled, but like Bradach, Roark saw the paralyzing fear in their eyes. He’d always desired women, like his father desired his mother, but Roark would never understand how a man—and some women—could find pleasure knowing they were destroying a soul in the process of taking what they wanted.
Tama waved his hand and the guard tugged the two women toward Roark. They brushed their hands along his shoulders, one daring to tug on his belt, in order to keep the pretenses of her duty. Roark shot to his feet and eased from their grasp. Tama chuckled. “There will be more where this comes from should you stay, Ro. Women, drink, travel. Money. I suspect my offer is greater than Bradach’s.
Roark grimaced. Although Corian was known as the Blood Empire, and Sha’run’s darkness rumored to be terrifying, most Corian people were bright. It was an empire where people either boasted the smoothest dark complexion, or pearliest light with golden hair. One woman with crystal eyes and golden braids met his eyes with a coy smile. She hid beneath her seductive expressions, for as Bradach said, Roark could see the terror of growing up in the Blood Empire in her eyes. What was worse: being treated as a slave or living beneath Sha’run’s rule?
“You think I would be tempted by poor souls you’ve enslaved, Lord Tama? I know what comes with being your property.” Her despondency could have been what spurred his temper, that or unbridled hatred, either way Roark wished he could take th
e words back.
“Slaves? These are concubines, Ro. Willing, wanting, and yours to pluck.”
“I see unwilling, broken, and afraid.” Roark met Bradach’s curious eye. He was losing his mask of heartless bruiser and that wouldn’t suit if the reputation of sea barons were true. He cleared his throat and dared lean over his palms on the table. “Your pieces do nothing to tempt me. Nothing in this forsaken place tempts me, to be clear.”
Tama glared. His drunken arrogance seeping toward blind fury. “You walk a dangerous line. Perhaps Bradach refuses and you shall be left to me with only your words in my memory.”
“I wish to be granted my promised freedom along with items all free bruisers are allowed to take with them.”
Tama flicked his hand again and the guard gripped the two women. Their faces fell when Tama said, “Take them to my chamber.” Roark tried not to feel the twinge in his chest that only came from empathy for the women.
Bradach bit into a dry piece of seed bread and slapped one palm on the table. “I’m prepared to negotiate, Tama. I will take Ro the Cruel and leave a month supply of Corian tea leaves. When smoked I assure you the experience is unlike anything else.”
“Tea leaves?”
“Worth two-hundred coppers.”
Tama paused, his jaw jutted forward and he softened his gaze on Bradach. “Still seems uneven in trade.”
“No, because I take the bruiser on condition. If after one moon cycle he displeases me, I shall return him. And you can keep the leaves.”
Tama grinned. “Should he be returned, Ro the Cruel will be in the Ring again. Oh, I do hope you find as much displeasure in the bruiser as I anticipate. We’re agreed, Bradach.” Tama faced Roark. “As much as I don’t care, I am required to ask if you agree to the terms.”
Roark cleared his throat and looped his thumbs in his belt. “I agree to the trial period with the baron, along with my items I wish to take. I ask for the Mount priest and the farmhand I was sold with.”
Tama scoffed. “A priest and servant aren’t victory items.”
“Baron Bradach, they will not be extra mouths. My wages can be a single copper as payment for their freedom,” Roark said, desperation filling each word.
Elder stared at the ground, but Roark knew he was wringing his hands beneath his robe. Furv’s dark eyes were wet, but he didn’t move from his stiff stance.
“Two extra souls to use resources on my ship?”
“The priest and boy will be under my charge. As I said, I’ll take fewer wages for their care.”
“No.” Tama’s voice was dangerous like it deepened when a mistress or Lady Cy disappointed the lord. Roark stiffened almost waiting for the bitter whip to fall. No lashes came, but Lord Tama stood and dared anyone to defy him. “The Mount priest is mine and will remain the holy man of the cliffs. The boy has not earned his freedom; he is not up for barter. Items afforded at freedom negotiations are food, clothing, weapons. Not breathing souls.”
“I agree with Lord Tama,” Bradach said.
“I request the Mount priest and boy.” As Roark spoke his voice grew raw.
Tama sneered as he rose from his seat. Roark could see it coming, he was too far, but lunged anyway. Tama opened his palm and struck Elder across the face hard enough Roark was certain any gash would scar. Furv’s muscles twitched and closed his eyes as two guards wrapped their arms around Roark’s waist as he shoved around chairs toward his friend. Roark’s elbow collided with one guard’s thick nose. He slipped from the grip and rushed toward Elder as Tama wound up again.
Roark’s fury broke his focus. He hadn’t seen the sailor of Bradach’s crew in the corner. The thick arm was more like solid ore when the sailor hitched his elbow around Roark’s neck and grappled him to the ground. Roark bucked to topple the sailor but stiffened at Elder’s cry.
“Stop, Ro,” Elder shouted, holding his bloodied face until Roark looked up. The sailor had crossed two silver daggers over Roark’s neck. The edges weren’t simple steel—no, a burn against his skin proved to Roark the rumors of Bradach soaking weapons in poisons was true. Elder took a deep breath and a daring step across the room until his voice could quiet to the soft tone he kept daily. “Stop. Please.”
“I suspect the Mount priest means more than blessings to our dear, Ro. I never suspected a holy man to find love with another man. Or perhaps it is the boy that dear Ro wants.” Tama’s rotting teeth showed as he wiped Elder’s blood off his hand.
“Does this change your mind on joining the sea?” Bradach pressed, after his sailor had dragged Roark to his feet.
Roark didn’t look to the baron, only to Elder who smiled through the ache in his cheek.
“No.” Elder answered instead. His calloused palms rested on Roark’s shoulders and he squeezed. “No. Ro the Cruel only asked for my presence because of his crimes against humanity. He fears without blessings he is damned to the gods’ fiery pit. I am of little consequence.”
“Untrue,” Roark said as the same desperation he felt the night his family was destroyed seeped through his hardened shell around his heart. “There are reports of bruisers taking women, men, or other bruisers, in negotiations. I ask for the priest and the boy.”
“And the request was denied,” said Tama.
“My offer is leaving the table. Make your choice, Ro.” Bradach crossed his arms so the bulge of his chest puffed out.
“He will take the offer,” Elder insisted. “I would ask, Baron Bradach, that I might give a final blessing to put his tortured soul at ease so he might better serve you.”
“Move on with it then. We are due in the port of Tjuvar by the blood moon,” Bradach said.
“Tjuvar?” Roark rose to his knees as the thud of his pulse ached in his head.
Bradach smirked. “Ah, I see hesitation, Ro. I told you I visited Jershon often. We might be sailing to the Forgotten Isles eventually, but there is work to be done along the way. Perhaps returning home to Jershon as a man on the sea will be easier than as a broken refugee.” Bradach wheezed a laugh when Roark’s body clenched.
Returning to Jershon before he was prepared boiled his blood with something harsher than anger and stronger than fear.
Elder stomped across the room, drawing Roark’s wide eyes to his. “I bless you that—”
“Stop,” Roark whispered.
“That you will be protected by the grace of the Mount of Rays. May you always stand true, and know—”
“Elder—”
“…Life has great meaning. The gods will guide you toward that meaning. By the rays, your life shall have great purpose. This blessing is yours, should you open your heart and accept it.”
Roark leaned his forehead deeper into Elder’s palm as his shoulders slumped. “I’ll return for you both,” he whispered so only Elder might hear.
Elder smiled. “I shall look after him.” Soon the hood returned to his graying head, and he took a step back.
Furv’s teeth scratched over his pierced lip, but the way his brow furrowed brought back the same frightened boy Roark stood in front of when they came. “Farewell, Ro the Cruel,” Furv said. “Perhaps, in Tjuvar you will find a greater purpose as the priest said.”
Roark glanced at Furv. With a flick of Furv’s brow, Roark knew the boy had something more to say in private. Perhaps, Bradach would give him leave to speak with him before boarding the ship. Roark tore away from his desperate expression fearing his soul would shred in two if he stared into his dark eyes a moment longer.
Bradach stomped next to Roark’s side, his strong grip curled around his arm. “Gather what belongings you have. It is time we left.”
Roark nodded and hung his head. With cautious steps he shuffled from the room. The prison of the Cyprus Cliffs soon to be nothing but a hellish memory filled with two souls Roark cared for deeply and feared he might never see again.”
Chapter 13
Thief’s Return
Isa cursed and sucked her finger after a bubble of boiling water splashed
on her thumb.
“Don’t you burn those potatoes, they’re the last of the harvest. You ruin this meal and I’ll take the switch to your palms.”
Isa dragged her finger through the cream whipped over the sponge cake and slurped over the bustle of the kitchen just to make noise. “You’ve said the same thing nigh every day, Briggy.”
“Brigita, girl,” the older woman said as she snapped a dingy towel against Isa’s hand. “I don’t care if you can lop off a head with your sword, in my kitchen you’ll show some respect, or you’ll get worse than a water burn.”
Isa chuckled and smoothed out the divot in the cream. She turned her back against the preparation table and hopped onto the edge, so her legs dangled off the side. The kitchen of Tyv manor was always a warzone. Between teas and dry cakes for the women of the esteemed thieves, coffees and sticky buns for their children, and the elaborate nightly meals for Hadeon and his intimate household, it seemed Brigita and her staff never rested.
“I need something to eat before I leave, Brig.” Isa rolled her eyes when the towel was raised again. “Brigita.”
Brigita pointed her flour dusted finger toward an ice chest. “It’s a good thing I know your habits, Isabelle. Pork, cheese squares, and a few salted wafers are ready and waiting.”
Isa bubbled and pounced toward the box. She handled the linen wrapped supplies with care. Isa had much to prove to the thieves of Tyv, but here in the kitchen she could smile and have a soul. “You always look out for me. What would I do without you?”
Brigita grinned so her snaggletooth gleamed proudly. “I made an oath with the Mount of Rays seven years ago when I thought Master Hadeon lost his mind bringing a girl here, that if you’d grow without the lust for gold and blood as the rest of this lot, I’d keep my eye on you.”
