by L J Andrews
Joshua swallowed with effort and lowered his head, so chin touched the center of his chest. Isa’s jaw clenched as she struck the back of Joshua’s head with a sickening thwack against his skull. Joshua slumped forward and Isa checked quickly for his breath. Slow and steady puffs came as though he were sleeping. Isa took the edge of the blade and sliced a notch across his arm, and a superficial cut on his cheek so a trickle of blood coated his beard.
“What are you doing?”
“He must be beaten, or Master Hadeon will suspect him.” Closing her eyes Isa bent two of Joshua’s finger until the bones cracked. She brushed a gentle hand over his sleeping face as a final farewell. “We must go to Tjuvar.”
“To sail?”
“It isn’t safe, Angelet. Not with the Tyv, Ladroa, and Blood Knights looking for us; we won’t stand a chance in the Gaps. Nobles are offered passage on ships. We will buy our way with the weapons.”
Angelet didn’t argue and set to work gathering the daggers and swords from the hidden box. Isa studied Joshua and offered a blessing to the Mount his treason wouldn’t be found out. Glancing at Hadeon’s sword, Isa felt a hardness creep into her heart. The night darkened and the wind chilled.
Years ago, she was banished as the halfling daughter of the lunatic shouting about Jershon’s destruction. Leaving the forest that night, this feeling settling like a thorny bush in her chest, was so much worse.
Chapter 26
The Passenger
The entire empire of Jershon rung with tales of Kawal’s death. Somewhere in the chaos of blood moon celebrations, Roark had lost the fleeing woman donned in the general’s emblem. He’d had her in his sights one moment, the next it was as though she’d disappeared into blackness. What was rumor and what was truth remained a mystery.
“Get aboard, lads,” Bradach boomed from the deck of the ship. “Time to leave this wasteland.”
Roark trudged along the deck, pulling ropes and rigging under the direction of Kiln. Refusing to believe his campaign of revenge could be over, he was desperate to leave the shores of Tjuvar and continue his search for the missing temples and Lightborn. If he didn’t have the thought of spilling Kawal’s blood to motivate him, what did Roark have left? Thoughts of Elder and his soft reprimands regarding revenge drew a sad smile to his lips. Elder would probably tell Roark he was free at last. That he could finally live his life with honor and peace. The churning in his gut didn’t feel as though he were free.
Roark’s palms burned as he yanked too tight on a cord and took pause with a glance toward Bradach’s quarters. The whimpering had drawn his attention from the shouting of the crew. With a narrowed gaze, Roark studied the corner of the deck where a young girl huddled with a tattered blanket around her shoulders. She had wide amber eyes and her dark hair was covered in a thin head veil. Every order shouted by Bradach caused the girl to startle. By the Mount, what was a child doing aboard the ship?
“Bruiser,” a crewman shouted and clapped Roark’s shoulder. “Take this down to the lower deck. Might have some passengers coming aboard. Set up in the galley.”
“For the girl?” Roark nodded at the child as he took a stack of quilts that smelled of old pipe smoke.
The crewman pinched his lips and made a grumbling noise, before shaking his head and walking away without a response. Roark’s temper worsened at the crewman’s lack of answers. Every voice, every glance, every action seemed at risk for setting off his poor mood. Below deck the ship had the pungent scent of wood that was left damp too long. Dingy hammocks and cots lined the first chamber of the massive ship and the subtle hint of vomit was enough to burn his nose as he trudged toward the galley.
He couldn’t complain about the meals on the ship, in the cliffs he’d been lucky to get a drop of goat milk or fresh bread and cheese. Bradach’s crew ate well with jerky, flat bread that was soft, and dried berries from Zahara that Roark could eat by the barrel. Taking a handful of the purple berries, he shoved past the long dining table toward the back pantry where the dried foods were stored. It was the warmest, cleanest part of the ship.
“Ro…”
Roark turned and offered a curt nod toward Bradach as the baron drifted through the galley space. “Captain,” he said.
The child was at his side and seemed ready to slip through the floorboards she was so frightened. Bradach had one palm on her narrow shoulder before he nudged her forward. “We have a few souls who have paid for passage away from Jershon.”
“Is that normal?”
Bradach’s grip tightened on the girl’s shoulder, but she seemed to find more comfort than fear as if she were unstable on her feet and the baron held her steady. “It is costly to buy passage on my ship, but at times one or two are desperate enough to leave. Tonight, we have six. So, no it isn’t normal.”
“Something has happened in Jershon.”
Bradach nodded and shot a swift glance at the child. “This is Oriana. See to it she finds a comfortable place to rest.”
“Do you think it wise to have a child—”
“She will be with us for the time being,” Bradach said with a bite in his tone. “You will see to it the girl is looked over tonight.”
Roark’s eyes narrowed and he regretted allowing his frustration to spill out the moment the words crossed his lips. “I am to be a nursemaid?”
By the grace of the Mount, Bradach had a sense of humor. The baron chuckled and urged Oriana closer toward Roark. “If I ask you to be a wet nurse, I expect you to find a way. She is in your hands for the night, Ro, and unharmed.”
Bradach met Roark’s eye with ferocity. The very insinuation he’d do something to harm a child was insulting. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Go with Ro, Oriana. He shall look after you.”
“I want my mother,” she whispered as tears glistened in her eyes.
Bradach’s jaw flinched as he lowered to his haunches so he could meet the girl’s eye. “I’ve explained that you cannot be with your mother now, haven’t I?” Oriana nodded. “Good, then no more tears. Go with Ro.”
Roark did his best to calm his features so the frightened girl wouldn’t fear him further. She peeked around her veil and slowly sauntered to his side. Bradach adjusted the long claymore blade on his waist and backed into the main galley. “I shall check back in the morning. Ro, no one has a right to the child. See that any wandering crewmen understand.”
It was strange that paying passengers could somehow be claimed by the crew of the ship, but the risk was known and still desperation overpowered the chance of falling to the hands of barons and sailors. Bradach disappeared back onto the main deck and silence settled in the dim light as the ship bobbed and groaned in the port.
Slowly, Roark turned toward Oriana. “You may sleep there. It’s warm.”
Oriana bit her bottom lip and lowered her eyes. She choked out a small sob and Roark glanced about uncertain how to proceed. Once he’d been gentle with younger scribes, with Agnus and Furv in the Gaps, but now a child’s tears made him wish the sea would swallow him up.
“It will be alright,” Roark tried.
Oriana shook her head so her dark hair slipped over her tanned complexion. “No, it isn’t, she will die.”
“Your mother?”
The child nodded. “She is sick, and so I cannot stay. But I want to stay.”
Roark sighed and flicked his fingers nervously before crouching down as Bradach had. “My mother is dead.” Oriana wiped a few tears off her cheeks and met his eye. “It is painful, but I would guess your mother sent you with the baron to give you a better life. No one has harmed you, right?”
She shook her head. “He won’t let them; he promised.”
Roark released a breath of relief. “Then your mother made certain you have the protection of a powerful sea baron. I would guess she cared for you a great deal. You must remember that about her, not the sad parts. It is what I do when I miss my own mother.”
Oriana smiled and wrung her fingers together as she sta
red at her hands. “I don’t know my papan well. Is he kind?”
Roark coughed when he swallowed the shock wrong. “Do you mean the baron? He is your father?”
The girl’s shoulders curled slightly, and she shrunk as though ashamed. “I forgot it was to be kept secret for a time. Why though? I just…” Tears welled in her eyes again and she covered her face with her small hands.
Roark crouched down and tapped her shoulder as he pulse slowed so he could force a grin. “Oriana, I shall keep your secret if you want, but you should know the baron is a fair man. I’m sure he will always be kind to you.” A tiny smile tugged at her lips as she swiped at a few lingering tears. Roark tussled the veil over her head playfully until she giggled. “Now, are you hungry? There are berries that are sweeter than any cake.”
Oriana offered a shy grin and nodded. “Yes, please.”
Standing straight again, Roark pointed toward the quilts. “Go rest, I won’t be long.”
Roark popped a berry in his mouth as he stalked through the galley with a meager meal bundled for the child. The sun was breaking through the horizon and soon the blood moon would be forgotten for another year. On deck the salty air smelled of ash and rubble from the ruckus of the night. Today, the people of Jershon and other empires would repair damage that had been brought to their homes and learn how to prepare better for next year.
Roark had been gone from the galley pantry longer than he would have liked, but he’d been pulled to the main deck to help loosen the rigging as the ship disembarked. If Bradach was protecting the girl, he didn’t need to worry, but still he quickened his pace feeling anxious to keep watch over the child.
Nudging the thin wooden door with his shoulder Roark tried to seem at ease for the girl’s sake. “I’ve brought you berries, and I even found some extra bread.”
Roark paused when more than Oriana’s eyes met his. Two women were huddled on the quilts by the child; one was clearly from Zahara, the other Roark couldn’t tell in the dim light. A third portly woman with a stern mouth sat against the wall near two old men who seemed ready to turn to dust by the state of their wrinkled skin. All looked at him as though he would toss them to the sea in an instant.
Oriana smiled and reached for the meager meal. Roark cleared his throat, feeling the eyes locked on him as he handed the youngest passenger her fill. He glanced at the women near Oriana, one tilted her head, and tugged the thin veil tighter over her mouth so he could only see her stunning blue eyes. She was a noble, clearly by the silk gown she wore. A gown fine enough the lady could be from the Emperor’s court, or…Roark met her eye again. The woman tensed and seemed to reach for something buried beneath her gown. Roark had learned how to act swiftly from the Ring. He caught the gleam of a hidden sword, but in one swift motion he gripped the woman’s arm and pinned her against the wall before she could reach for it.
Oriana shrieked and dropped her plate. The men gasped, and the stern woman prayed to the Mount as Roark pressed the edge of his arm against the woman’s throat. “You are the one I saw running from Kawal’s manse, but…I’ve seen you before,” he said, pressing his face closer and her veil fell back, and her eyes pierced to his core. “You’re…you were in scribe square. You look different, but it’s you.”
“Release her,” the Zaharan shrieked and struck Roark’s shoulder. Oriana was crying, but neither protest eased Roark’s grip on the noblewoman.
She sneered and studied his face. “You have a knack for remembering women. I wonder if you remember any of the girls of the houses you visit in port.”
Roark didn’t know what she meant in the least, but desperation for answers overpowered good manners. She’d reached for a knife on his belt, but Roark pinned her arm over her head and chuckled. “You, Lady, are swift. I have but one question before I release you. Is Kawal dead?”
The woman must have been surprised because her eyes softened. Her reaction was short-lived and soon she was kicking at Roark’s shins. Using his body to pin her against the wall, he shoved her slightly until she calmed and seethed her anger at him instead.
“A boar like you doesn’t deserve to know anything.”
He scoffed. “I saw you with the crest of the general. You know him, or pretend to. Now, I’ll ask once more—is he dead?”
“Get off her,” the second woman cried.
“Tis their way,” a man muttered to the stern woman who kept tearfully praying to the ceiling. “Tis their way, best not to look.”
“Why should I tell you anything?” the woman huffed and tried to shirk Roark off, but he didn’t budge.
The pantry silenced when the floorboards creaked, and heavy footsteps approached the room. Even Oriana stopped her sobs and listened. A man sang softly with slurred words echoing along the lower deck. Roark glanced at the young Zaharan woman. “Get under the bedding. Don’t show yourself,” he insisted. “Now.”
She shuddered but listened and buried herself in the quilts as Roark pressed his face closer to his captive.
“Fight against me, but do it in vain.”
She shoved him with more strength than most noblewomen should have and spoke through her teeth. “You’re an animal, and I will fight you until you’re dead at my feet.”
He chuckled darkly and caged her slender figure with his broader, body. “Until then, lady, push back without such venom and forgive me for what I’m about to do. Maybe add a little scream for good measure.”
The door opened and the woman cast her blue eyes toward the frame. Roark pressed his lips against her neck. She shuddered as his mouth traveled toward her lips. The woman didn’t budge; perhaps she hadn’t understood his meaning? Finally, after a few deeper kisses she dragged in a deep breath and shoved Roark’s chest weakly and twisted her wrists in his grip.
“Get off me, you…brute. I demand you release me.”
Roark chuckled and gripped her chin, urging her face upward. He regretted that Oriana whimpered and buried her face.
“By the Mount, don’t tell me you beat me to her.”
Roark glanced over his shoulder toward the drunken crewman in the doorframe and grinned. “You took too long, my friend.”
“Wasn’t there another woman?” He glanced at the stern lady sobbing and scooting her old bones behind the ancient men. “Younger, I mean.”
Roark shook his head, and glanced at Oriana. “Bradach protects the child.”
The man hiccupped and glared at Roark. “Who do you think I am, Bruiser? I wouldn’t touch the baron’s bastard, or I’d be sleeping with the fishes. Maybe…maybe after you’re finished you could—”
“I’m not one to share.” He dragged his fingertips across the woman’s neck, and she stabbed him with her eyes.
The crewman glared at Roark and scanned the elderly group before clicking his tongue. “So old.”
He turned to leave the pantry, muttering about the unfair lot he’d drawn regarding the passengers. When the crewman was gone, Roark finally released the blue-eyed woman. She rubbed her wrists and studied him suspiciously. Roark tried to keep his face flat, but the softness of her skin was filling his cheeks with heat.
“Crew can claim passengers for their purposes,” Roark said as he gathered her sword from the ground. “I’ve protected your life.”
“Protected my life,” she said briskly. “By claiming me yourself. Trust me, I know how to handle a weapon.”
Roark studied the sword in his hand. It was well used, but finely crafted. The way the woman had fought against him, Roark imagined given a larger space she could defend herself impressively. “I’m sure you do, but not against an entire crew. Now, answer me, is Kawal dead?”
“What is your fascination with the general? You asked about him in the square as well. Why do you care to know?”
Roark closed his eyes as tension pulsed in his jaw. “Because,” he said, pressing his forehead close enough they nearly touched. “He was mine to kill.”
Her face softened. Her skin had been darker when Roark had seen
the curious woman in scribe square. He’d mistaken her for a Jershonian, but now he wasn’t sure.
“The general is dead,” said the Zaharan woman as she peeled back the quilts.
Roark clenched his fists at his side and glanced at the woman. “You’re certain?”
She nodded and signaled to the blue-eyed woman. “We saw the attack with our own eyes. He was killed by Blood Knights.”
Roark closed his eyes and scrubbed his face as he turned away. Kicking, a barrel, it felt as though his chest were collapsing. Oriana covered her mouth and met his eye, calming his brimming rage with a single, terrified glance. Roark offered a soft smile at the child and lowered to his knees to gather the spilled berries. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Are you alright?”
A single tear dripped down her cheek, but she nodded as she accepted the fruit.
“Who are you?”
Roark turned around as the mysterious woman inched closer and spoke softly.
“You play the part of a sailor, but wear the marks of the Lightborn.”
On instinct he tugged down the long sleeves over his arm. “You know ancient text?” Roark stood, embracing his intrigue he’d initially felt to this woman in the wreckage of the scribes. Intrigue and a fading memory he couldn’t place in the dim pantry. “And you play the part of a noble, but you’re…a halfling. Aren’t you? A halfling who can handle a sword and disguise her nature.”
She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin as if her small stature should intimidate him. “You’re educated, but have slave scars on your back. Where do they come from?”
“You dress in fine things, but threaten an entire crew with a sword. Where does your skill come from?”
“You have no need to know anything about me.”
“Perhaps, neither do you about me.”
“Oh, by the gods,” one withered man shouted. “Are we doomed to watch this all night? You don’t trust each other, clearly. Yet neither of you seems as though you shall harm any of us, so by the mercy of the Mount please allow the rest of us some sleep while you bicker elsewhere.”
