Cinders on the Wind Page 7

League chuckled, as did some of the others in the boat. That was good. Gav and League knew how to ease their troops’ nerves, especially before a potential skirmish. Gav looked on the cluttered trees just beyond the beach. He hadn’t been here for years, but he never knew there to be settlements nearby. But one could not be too certain—in a rebellion, the enemy always had a way of popping up when you least expected it.

  The landing was uneventful, save for two rowboats that floated smashed and broken beyond the razor’s edge of lava rock that did them in. Some sixty soldiers were forced to either climb into other rowboats or jump in the cool water and cling to the rope thrown out to them so they could be pulled ashore instead of drowning beneath their heavy plate, or being obliterated by the waves and needle-edged black shore.

  At least we didn’t lose anyone, Gav thought as he sat at the small table in his tent, behind the shadow of his guardsman outside the front flap. He sharpened and cleaned two blades, his long and short swords, originally gifts from King Greenvale himself. The once-fresh woodgrain and shiny brasswork that adorned the handles now looked streaked with age and wear. But that’s not what mattered. Gav knew they were still just as strong of steel as the day Lord-general Zulltah handed them to him before his majesty in the throne room of the Grey Keep.

  Outside his tent Gav heard footsteps. He turned to see the guard nod and Sergeant Trammell enter.

  The young man, boy really, bowed, then stood stiff-backed and rigid. He carried a small wooden crate tucked under his left arm. “Captain Fayne, sir,” he said, struggling to balance his delivery with military formalities. “I have your documents. I made sure they were kept dry and confidential.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. How are things moving forward?”

  “Reconnaissance by our scouts shows no enemy within a few miles. Not yet anyway, sir.” Trammell set the small crate on Gav’s desk. “I’ve set up picquet lines at our perimeter, in good position to see anyone coming.”

  “Good work.” Gav gave the youth a cuff on the arm. “Make sure the other sergeants know to have their troops hydrated and fed. Late this afternoon, I’d like us to do some further scouting to see where the rebels in this area are lurking.”

  “Very good, sir.” Trammell bowed, spun and exited. The tent canvas flapped on his exit and continued to do so from the offshore breeze, a calming sound Gav cherished after spending nights aboard a stuffy, creaking ship with feet trampling on boards above and beneath his cabin.

  Sergeant Trammell was a loyal subordinate and excellent soldier for one so young. Ten years his junior at age nineteen, the lad had already served in three tours of Backland service, having fought in his first battle at fourteen. Gav thought he was the only one who had imposed death at such a young age, being Cylarnti and using his training in the warrior’s art. Surprisingly, the Royal Army trained them just as young, no doubt to help fight against enemies trained in that same, sacred way.

  Gav opened the crate on his desk. The smell of vellum and papyrus hit him, intermingling with the sea air. Inside lay his correspondences from his mother and sister and his official orders from Lord-general Zulltah, along with warrants for the arrests of the lords, James Hannery and Stevyn Appleton. One of whom Gav knew while growing up on the island. Both of them leaders of the rebellion. Lord Hannery had been the father of one of Naomey’s friends, and he had met him on a few occasions. The man had always carried that diplomatic charm—always smiling, interested in what you had to say, and always saying the right things at the right moment. Appleton, Gav never heard the name—but the fact was, these two men were the most powerful and influential leaders of the Redwoodian Rebellion, more commonly referred to as the Rouser Uprising, the term rouser being interchanged with Redwoodian among Backlanders.

  Though Gav was not born on Kontera, his family moved here when he was three. The way of life and its culture had been ingrained in his psyche. The Prestonpan Isles, and especially the Konterans, were deeply independent, and calls for their separation from the Backlands had been made long before Gav existed. The self-governing spirit came from the native Redwoodians’ influence. Redwoodians composed of different clans and had worked the land with tireless ingenuity for centuries. When Backlanders settled the Redwoodian forests, fells, and islands, wars broke out between the residents and newcomers. Eventually a peace was made and both Redwoodian and foreign families intermixed their heritage and cultures, creating a unique identity that Gav observed as a boy.

  Like most holdings of the Backlands, the Prestonpan Isles pulled for more representation and ability to tax its own, rather than send the revenues to be redistributed throughout the realm. Popular opinions began to spread that there should be no rule under King Greenvale and his military commanders and regional overlords. Coups were made and the Isles’ armies changed their loyalties to their native land, casting out royalists and executing caught conspiring traitors. Foolish people, Gav thought. A defining characteristic of the islanders was the inability to realize they had a good thing—only to dash it on the lava beds. That’s exactly what Naomey did.

  He remembered that day all too clearly. He remembered thinking on that fateful morning how for the past four years Naomey and he had shared many adventures, trials, and successes. Gav had tried to get close with Naomey’s family, particularly her father, for he had lost his to green fever a short while after he’d been chosen by Master Yentay to train in the Cylarnti Arts. But Naomey’s father, Lord Androus—a minor noble with a stout keep—was an embittered man obsessed with his business dealings and making Gav feel unwelcome. Lord Androus wanted his daughter to be with a man of a stronger title. Gav felt that partly because of this issue, the tail end of Naomey’s and his relationship hit snags. But there were other problems as well. Gav wanted to move beyond his work as security for wealthy merchants of Hilontera, the great port city where they lived. He wanted to join the home army of Kontera, enlist and work his way up so he could help support a family after he followed through with his plans to ask for Naomey’s hand.

  But Naomey did not want him to enlist for that meant Gav would be stationed on the west side of the island, and she wanted to pursue the study of law in Hyanti on the eastern half of Kontera. Evident in this pursuit was the divide in their politics. Naomey wanted to study law to assist Isle lords to draft charters calling for more autonomy from Em Regis, the capitol of the Backlands where the king’s keep resided along with the Guild Hall of Guildmasters and the main noble council of the kingdom.

  Gav’s family was originally from just outside the capitol, but his father’s work as a customs agent had brought them to the island. Because of this, his opinion on limiting the power of Prestonpan Isle holdings often led to heated arguments with Naomey. Their last year together sizzled like a kettle until it boiled over onto the cold hard ground. They fought and resented one another due to their different life agendas and philosophies. Though Gav hung on to a small hope that she would come around. And that one day crushed it all.

  Drizzle pattered on the busy thoroughfare of town-square Hilontera as Clydesvales and Beljjunns, the great workhorses of the islands, pulled trains of carts packed with imports from Em Regis and other parts of the continents from over a thousand miles away. The port area was busy that morning, hawkers shouting their wares of oysters, scallops, cockles, clams, and shrimp, beneath dripping canopies. The surrounding buildings made of limestone and coquina stood as sentinels over the humdrum of the street. These many-storied edifices dated back to the founding of the Prestonpan Isle holding, built proudly and hastily for the glory and expansion of the Backlands, their towers and spires and gabled roofs adding a majestic touch to the coastal skyline.

  At the end of the street was the customs house where his father had worked, with its stone pillars in front, topped with volutes and etchings of ivy all along the sides. Below in the basement, more hidden from public, were the dungeons where his father and his superiors ordered the enchainment of smugglers, pirates, and spies.

  Gav had met a few
of those lowlifes, though in a different capacity. Typically, he had bruised them up a bit before sending them off to the customs officers to be shackled.

  “You’re distracted,” Naomey said, stirring her soup across from him. In the patio of the tavern, she looked angelic and unblemished by the morose weather. Her intricately-embroidered dress with dragon brocade was dry. Even her silky hair had managed to have but a few drops. She looked elegant next to Gav’s more rugged jerkin and trousers and muddied boots. “We came here to talk,” her tropical blue eyes pierced his, “and you seem to be in your own mind out there.” She nudged her head toward the street, causing her chestnut brown curls to shift about her shoulders.

  “What’s there to say?” Gav said. He paused taking a sip of his rich, dark ale. “You’ve told me what you’re going to do, and I can’t stop you.”

  “But you won’t go with me.” Naomey stated bitterly, sighing and leaning back in her chair. She looked down, continuing to slowly stir her soup. “You know there’s plenty of work you could find in Hyanti. You could work for the merchant guild there, be head-of-security at the great warehouses. You could even join the watchmen…”

  “Catching petty thieves and wrangling child beggars out of wealthy alleys? All while making a pittance. No thank you.”

  Naomey shuffled her chair forward. “You know, if Em Regis increased our budgets we could afford a better watch force and crime would be lower and people in cities would feel safer.”

  “Don’t start, Naomey,” Gav rubbed his eyes. “Every city throughout the world has its issues.”

  “Yes, but not the type that Kontera has or the rest of the Prestonpan Isles for that matter.” She dropped her spoon on the saucer with a clatter. Why had it come to this cycle; they used to live easier days. “Let’s just call it for what it is, Gav. You want to get out of Hilontera, to get away from the grief associated with this place. I know you’re grieving for Yentay—it was a surprise for everyone, but the life he lived had aged him faster than others. You feel your training is wasted in Hyanti, but I’m telling you it’s not. The merchants there are the most powerful on the island. You can be the enforcer, protector, whatever you want to call yourself, for any one of them. Have your pick of the litter!”

  Gav leaned forward, clenching his teeth. “My life’s training leads to a path of serving my kingdom. I cannot betray that.”

  “You just want your fortune and glory,” Naomey said, turning away, a look of mild regret flashing at the sting of her own words.

  Folding his arms, Gav said, “And you want yours. I’m fine with your studies. It’s just, you don’t seem to be fine with my endeavors.”

  “Once you’re in Backland’s Royal Army, Gav, that’s it. I’m at the mercy of your marching orders. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to be in tow, following in lock-step to unknown locations, taking care of our children while you’re out on campaign, doing God-knows-what for the Backlands. I think after my schooling, I deserve to use the knowledge I acquire, for the good of the islands and my people.”

  “You can use your knowledge wherever we are.”

  “Where I want to be is the Isles. I want to make a difference here. Who knows what holding you’ll be sent to and for how long.”

  “Well, it seems you’ve made up your mind.”

  Now it was Naomey’s turn to fold her arms. The rain beyond the patio became heavier, creating pools on the cobbles, and a low mist hovered around the carts beneath the canopies that hung from the row of inns, taverns, generic shops and apothecaries. The poor in their drabs and well-to-do in their silks and velvets appeared as phantoms behind the horses, waiting for the volatile climate to subside so they could go about their business.

  At last Naomey said, “And you’ve made yours…” Here she cleared her throat, gently like a dove before flight, and wrapped her cloak about herself. She reached for her gloves. “We’ve had this conversation innumerable times, and I think this is the last of them.”

  The finality in her tone made Gav’s chest tighten. He took a deep breath, not knowing what to say, weary of the absence of middle ground.

  “Good day, Gavin.” She said, getting up abruptly. For a brief moment their eyes met and then, swiftly, she turned out into the downpour, grabbed a carriage-for-hire, and trundled out into the haze, a distant, shrinking shadow.

  And Gav, as much as it hurt, did not pursue.

  The two weeks after that morning plagued Gav like atrophy on an invalid. On the surface he still did not know where he stood with Naomey. Would she return to him, ever talk to him again? Or had the final stamp on their demise been slammed down? He wasn’t sure—until the mail came. In a way, he was glad. It brought him out of his lethargy and ambiguity. His pace to work had slackened; his morale ebbed on the job. He had an itch, but his mind was too muddled to scratch it. Until the note came.

  A courier brought it to his abode one morning, two weeks after they last spoke. Gav still remembered Naomey’s flourished cursive, the dried ink scrawled on parchment as dried blood on a sword-slain relationship.

  Gavin,

  Weeks have passed since we last spoke, and I think it’s safe to say that our time together has come to an end. We, together, are like wheels in a swamp. We don’t see things the same, and never have. Thus, we shall go nowhere. And I cannot marry you and start a family, only to subject my children to back-and-forth protestations of two dissenting rivals.

  If you’re reading this, I’ve already left the city two days ago to seek my own life. Consider easing your love of self in seeking your next woman. Do not write. Do not seek me out. Farewell.

  Naomey

  That day Gav had the news he needed. He’d thought long and hard on what he planned to do. In the afternoon, he gave his notice to his merchant employer, foregoing the offering of a raise to stay on.

  The following morning he rode his horse to the Royal Army Enlistment Chambers, carrying with him the parchments with Master Yentay’s waxed emblem, certifying Gav as a Cylarnti—a prized asset of the military. Upon showing his paperwork, the enlistment officer behind the desk folded her hands, which were scarred along with her face. “And what branch are you applying for, Gavin Fayne? Domestic or Abroad?”

  Originally Gav was determined to choose domestic, but fates changed.

  “Abroad,” he replied, with the most resolve he’d ever possessed.

  12

  Her lodgings sat on Broad Street on the second floor of a hundred year old abode. She rented from a Lady Hoskins, an old widower who was the quiet type, just the way Sho preferred her landlords. The price wasn’t too bad, considering her monthly pay from the Defense Guild, and Lady Hoskins did not mistreat Sho even though Sho had darker skin. Some previous lessors held prejudices against her, and Sho never knew what type of person she’d get next.

  Exiting a carriage, Sho turned and dropped the required coins into the driver’s hands who tipped his feathered cap and rode off. Quinlander was more spread out in this older part of the city, being mainly of middle class artisans and merchants. Sho walked briskly up the porch and opened the front door. Across the entryway, Lady Hoskins sat in a cushioned chair, knitting for one of her many granddaughters. Upon hearing Sho enter, the woman hopped up with surprising alacrity, her grey hair and wrinkled face betraying the energy she harbored.

  “That you, Shoshana?” she called.

  “Yes, Lady Hoskins. How has your morning been?”

  The woman smiled. “Oh, you know me.” She held up the half-completed quilt. “My fingers aren’t able to stop. How’s your work? I’d imagine you can’t talk much about it, working alongside the Watch…”

  “It’s been a busy day so far. Will you please let any visitors know to leave me a note, for I will be doing studies in my rooms and would like to be undisturbed.”

  “I will do just that,” the woman said, smiling.

  “Thank you.” As Sho walked up to her quarters, she couldn’t help but wish her own mother had the same health as Lady Hoskins. N
ot nearly as old as the woman, her mother Clara suffered from many ailments, the most hindering being aching of joints, particularly her legs, which did not make it easy for her to move around and do things for herself, putting added pressure on Sho’s working father.

  Sho sighed at her thoughts before entering her rooms. Her bedroom was small and had a modest nightstand and armoire, and past that sat her study. She strode in, placing her cloak on a hook and taking out the vial she filled at the crime scene. A much larger space, her study housed numerous bookshelves containing leather-bound volumes both in common language and arcane, foreign script. Books of all shapes and sizes dotted the shelves, and some lay stacked on her desk half or a third the way open.

  Smaller shelves sat atop the ornate oaken desk. Sho had added the shelves, in order to better accommodate her activities. In the spaces sat bottles, tubes and vials filled with various liquids of reds, blues, oranges, and purples. In smaller glasses were black and white and yellow powders, some overflowing near the corks, and others almost completely used. Across the room on the floor sat a dark chest with a drab blanket thrown over it. Sho eyed it warily and took a seat at her desk.

  She moved over a small stack of books, pulled a velvet cloth from a drawer and laid it flat on the desk’s surface. She emptied the small blood residue from the vial on top of it. Taking a smaller vial with blue liquid, she poured a white powder inside. A small fog sizzled from mixing the two substances. She shook the vial around to further dilute the two.

  With a small eye dropper, she took a drop and released it on the blood residue. She bent over, looking at the reaction closely. At first, nothing happened—but a split second later, a small spark popped, followed by a pause. She moved away, drawing her chair back on the floorboards, creaking with the movement. A small explosion erupted from the admixture creating a single six-inch flame floating midair. It appeared briefly, then vanished.

  Just as I thought.