Rise of the Darkwitch (The Dance of Dark and Light Book 1) Page 9

  They were not the Masvam sailors come to murder their prisoners. The rich brown of their armour, the darkness of their skin, marked them as distinctly not Masvam.

  They were Althemerians.

  A wave of elation crashed through the hold, but it held little joy for Emmy. When a wiry sailor approached her, wearing a weather-beaten blue tunic and the heaviness of a life of battle on her face, Emmy cried out.

  ‘My friends! I can’t see them. Please, find them!’

  The female struck off the lock that had hemmed Emmy in for so long. The door swung open, the screech sweet. Emmy lumbered forward, crashing to the deck.

  ‘Easy,’ the sailor said, her many bracelets jangling. ‘Easy now.’

  Emmy would not listen.

  ‘Charo! Zecha!’ she cried, cursing her legs for their weakness.

  Then a reedy voice answered, lingering somewhere under the destruction.

  ‘Emmy?’

  It was Charo. The sound gave Emmy the strength she needed. She scrambled forward, digging through the debris. Seeing her struggle, the Althemerian bent to help. After a moment, Charo’s dark eyes peered from the gloom.

  ‘Zecha,’ she said as they pulled her out. ‘Where is Zecha?’

  Emmy trembled as she turned, but more Althemerians were already there, digging through the remains of hull on the deck. Freed Metakalans scrabbled for sunlight and fresh air.

  Two sailors hefted Zecha’s body from a blanket of splintered wood.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Charo cried. ‘Tell me he’s not dead!’

  The first Althemerian pulled Emmy to her feet.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  Emmy took Charo’s hand as the sailors slipped into the flow of freedom, carrying Zecha between them. They followed in silence, limbs cracking and loosening after so long in captivity. Emmy took in heavy swallows of freshness, trying to quiet her hammering heart. The unsullied air caught in the back of her throat.

  Alongside the captured Masvam ship was a long Althemerian rig, complete with unfurled flags streaming in the sea breeze. They bore the entwined serpents of the Althemerian gods. Emmy had seen the sigil before, struck onto the backs of foreign coins. The image didn’t fill her heart with joy.

  After a few moments, the air was thick with the smell of blood again. Hewn bodies littered the deck, a garden of murder.

  Kelom was there, his insides spilling out, death’s scream on his face. Yamor’s head was at arm’s length from his body. Another commotion came from up the deck. Pesmam struggled in the grip of his Althemerian captors. Another, the striking female who had spoken in the hold, was in front of him. She wielded a heavy sword, her arms bedecked with hundreds of sparkling bracelets.

  ‘As captain of this slave ship,’ she said, her voice regal, ‘you have committed a grave crime. I, Princess Valaria of Althemer, condemn you to death for your wickedness, on the authority of my mother, Queen Valentia, and the balance of Ethay and Apago.’

  Pesmam’s struggle grew stronger as he was forced to his knees, but he was no match for his captors. The Althemerian princess raised her sword high.

  Pesmam was held in place. He had no final words. His last gesture was to spit at the princess’s feet.

  The blade was sharp and swift. The Masvam’s body slumped to the deck of his ship. His head was held aloft.

  ‘So is the justice of the Twin Gods, and of the Queen of Althemer,’ said the princess. Then, all grandness gone, and she handed her sword off to an attendant. ‘Put that head somewhere. I’ll need it later.’

  ‘Yes, Princess.’

  As Pesmam’s decapitated corpse was tossed into the sea, Emmy couldn’t quell the justice in her chest. Along with Pesmam went Krodge and Bose.

  Finished them off, I did.

  The princess turned and disappeared. The atmosphere was one of unabated elation. Althemerian sailors brought supplies from their rig, taking charge of the Masvam ship. The injured were transported to the other vessel, the Althemerian sailors’ feet light on the planks slung between the ships. They must take care of Zecha, Emmy thought. They have to save him…

  A loud voice beckoned the hungry for broth and bread, and Emmy’s stomach gurgled in spite of her fears. As she turned to join the lengthening queue, Emmy grabbed Charo, pulling her aside.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Charo asked, her eyes searching Emmy’s face. ‘We’re free now. We can make our way back to Bellim, or what’s left of it. Or we could go somewhere else, once Zecha’s better…’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so hasty,’ Emmy murmured.

  Her eyes were dark. Her expression bore no joy.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Charo asked, tilting her head to the side. ‘We’re free from the Masvams.’

  ‘We’re free from one slaver,’ Emmy said, gesturing at the flag of two twined serpents flapping on the breeze, ‘but we’ve been saved by the hand of another.’

  ‘What?’

  Emmy chuckled, but the sound was dry.

  ‘Don’t they know anything in the north?’ she asked. ‘The Althemerians have saved us, but by their laws, we now owe them a debt. They’ll keep us until they decree that debt repaid.’ She choked out a laugh. ‘Don’t you see? We haven’t been given our freedom at all.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Resurrection

  The journey to Kubodinnu, the Althemerian capital, took many days. At all times, Phen stayed with her son’s body. Fonbir stayed with him too, grief etched into his young face. They sat on either side, eyes fixed on Mantos’s prone form.

  ‘We were friends,’ Fonbir said. A wan smile crossed his lips. ‘More than friends, talking in two languages, for years and years.’ His smile faded. ‘That was before the great schism between our peoples. Your husband wanted to marry my mother,’ he said, casting her a sidelong glance. ‘Mother would have none of it. She wouldn’t let her queendom fall to Masvam rule.’

  ‘Not to mention that the empress was alive, simply locked in a tower,’ Phen added.

  Fonbir gave a brief nod.

  ‘We were forbidden from seeing one another, even from exchanging letters,’ he continued. His face softened. He touched Mantos’s shoulder. ‘It didn’t stop us. We made a codex, exchanged secrets, told lies so we could kindle our flame.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect any less from my young,’ she said, placing her hand atop Fonbir’s. ‘I would have done the same. I am glad you remained friends,’ she continued. ‘You care for him very much, it seems.’

  ‘I do,’ Fonbir said. ‘Very much.’

  The two huddled in the cabin with Mantos until the coast of Althemer appeared through the murk of fog. Fonbir slipped off, leaving Phen alone with her son and her weariness. Eventually, they docked.

  Phen remembered little of the journey from boat to palace. There was no pomp, no ceremony for the arrival of a foreign empress. Of course not, she thought. I am no empress. Not anymore. So much has changed, and nothing for the better. Now, she was a minor guest in modest quarters. At least, that was the story.

  She did not remember falling into bed. What she did remember was the glorious feeling of a feather mattress, then nothing.

  When she woke, it was night again. There was a rolled parchment on the table, lying in a pool of yellow candlelight. It was sealed with the sigil of the Althemerian empress: a twisted, two-headed creature. Their gods.

  The rushes crunched beneath Phen’s feet. The wax broke in whitening shards. The parchment scuffed as she unrolled it. It was a summons to meet the queen. Phen held the scroll for a moment, glancing around. I need to get ready...

  Fresh clothing had been hung over a screen, and within moments of her rising, an attendant entered with hot water in a ewer. He kept his eyes averted, leaving without a word. I am a Masvam, Phen thought. I am the enemy here. Even the water could not take the edge from that chill.

  Having washed and dressed in strange trousers and a tunic, Phen slipped her feet into soft shoes, breathed deeply, and opened the door.

  It was flank
ed on both sides by guards.

  ‘We are to bring you to Her Highness,’ one of them said, eyes glinting beneath her helmet.

  Phen nodded her acceptance and was escorted away.

  So many things had changed in the cycles she had hung somewhere between life and death. Fashions were different, more fitted and less boxed. Frond styles were more elaborate, a far cry from her own simple braids. There must be many things I have no idea about, Phen thought. It’s like waking up in a new world.

  The Althemerian palace shared many similarities with its Masvam counterpart. There were carvings and tapestries on the walls, depicting scenes from the Althemerian holy books. They didn’t believe in the Dark and the Light. They had Ethay and Apago, together two heads of the same god. Phen tried not to pass judgement. Religion says little about a person’s goodness, she thought. Holy is not necessarily good.

  They wound through a warren of corridors, the passages narrowing, and Phen’s heart quickened. It didn’t seem like she was heading to the queen’s chambers.

  She wasn’t. Regardless, the queen was still waiting for her.

  The guards followed as Phen entered a small room. Light from torches danced on the stone walls. It was furnished with a simple table and six leather-padded chairs. Queen Valentia sat at the head, her son to he left. Fonbir gave Phen a brief smile. Another female regarded her with cold eyes.

  Queen Valentia was older than Phen, but likely younger than she looked. Kingship, queenship, the mantle of an emperor—all these things led to the same conclusion: premature demise. For some, it was death in battle. For others, it was the slow crush of power and responsibility. Valentia’s red fronds were fading, growing translucent with age. Her arms bore the outline of once-strong muscles, now weakening. Her brown skin was tight on her knuckles.

  Dismissing the guards, Valentia bade Phen to take the free chair. Bowing, Phen did as she was told.

  ‘My son tells me your son is dead,’ the queen said, her voice level. ‘I also know that your husband is dead, and that your other son, Bandim, is on the throne.’ She shook her head, her expression softening. ‘For all of these things, I am sorry.’ She sat back, her horn jewellery tinkling as it moved. ‘In truth, I thought you were dead, too.’

  Phen clasped her claws on her lap.

  ‘I suppose I was, in a way,’ she said. ‘Now I do not know what I am.’

  ‘You are still responsible for your son’s actions,’ the youngest female snapped, leaning forward. She was the image of her queen, an echo of the past, and clearly a daughter. ‘Even before his father’s death rights, Bandim started his military campaign. He has rolled his armies over Metakala, gaining more territory for your wretched empire. Even now, my sister is risking her life to save those your people would enslave, and —’

  ‘Fylica,’ Fonbir snapped.

  The younger female tutted and shook her head.

  ‘Your love for the Masvams is well known, brother,’ she said.

  Fonbir went to react but the queen slammed her hand on the table, commanding silence and obedience in one movement. Phen jerked back.

  ‘Enough of this childishness,’ the queen said, glaring at one child and then the other. ‘You shame me with your actions.’

  The prince and the princess sat back, the former more cowed than the latter. Fylica glowered. Fonbir looked away.

  Queen Valentia leaned back and laid her claws on the table. She drummed them. The torchlight glinted on her rings.

  ‘It was not my choice to bring you here,’ she said. ‘It is best if no one knows who you are. Your late husband drove a deep wedge between our peoples. Masvams are not welcome here.’ Her eyes gleamed, grey and cold. Then they warmed. ‘However, I trust my son, and I trust my adviser.’

  Phen narrowed her eyes. Adviser?

  The queen called out, and a figure entered the room, tall and imposing and dressed in embroidered robes. Phen turned. Her breath caught.

  ‘Bomsoi!’

  It was Bomsoi, and yet it was not. Her colouring had entirely changed. No longer a reflection of Masvam normality, her skin was pale and blue. Her armour was gemstone purple. Phen’s eyeridges drew together. She licked her lips. How can this be?

  With a shallow bow, Bomsoi stood off to the side. Queen Valentia gestured to her.

  ‘Bomsoi has been in my service for many years,’ she said. ‘There are things that she knows and things she does that I will never understand. But she asked if she could retrieve Mantos’s body. She told me you were not dead. And she tells me that Bandim on the Masvam throne will bring about our destruction. And therefore, you are here—as is your son’s body.’

  Phen held Bomsoi’s gaze. Her eyes filled.

  ‘Destruction?’ she asked. ‘Why? How did you know about me? Can you bring Mantos back?’

  ‘All questions will be answered in time,’ Bomsoi said. ‘But for now, I will address the latter. Yes, I can bring Mantos back.’ She turned to Valentia, seeking approval. ‘And I will, if Your Highness will permit me.’

  Nodding, Valentia stood and stepped away from the table.

  ‘Bring the body in.’

  Hands shaking, Phen stood. She trembled as two attendants entered the small chamber, carrying a body in a shroud. My son. My son! As her knees buckled, Fonbir was at her side. Fylica glared. Fonbir pulled her upright as attendants laid the body on the table. They opened the shutters to let in the moons’ light, then left without a word. They took the torches with them, leaving the room in near darkness. Phen stared at the three moons that had settled over one another like stacking cups. The Lunar Awakening, Phen thought. It’s finally here.

  Her gaze returned to the body on the table. The edges of the shroud were picked out in silver. Bomsoi approached and uncovered Mantos’s face, then undid the rest of the covering. Phen pulled away from Fonbir, trying to go to her son as grief overflowed. But the prince held firm, shaking his head.

  So, they were gathered, with a body on the table and a weeping mother at its side. Bomsoi looked at Valentia, flanked by her children. At the queen’s nod of consent, Bomsoi stepped forward. From inside her tunic, she drew out a small knife.

  Phen tried to step back.

  ‘Please,’ Bomsoi said, reaching out for her. ‘His life was bound to yours for many years. You wove a bond with the underworld that cannot be undone.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ Phen asked. ‘Who are you?’

  Bomsoi ignored her.

  ‘His life was sustained by yours, kept from death by your life,’ she continued. ‘Now, with the help of the moons, it is time for your life to bring him back again. That is why I need you.’

  Phen swallowed. She blinked. A thousand unanswered questions swirled in her mind. Yet, when she looked at her son’s pale face, the need for answers fell away. She loosened Fonbir’s grip and stepped forward. She held Bomsoi’s gaze.

  ‘What must I do?’ she asked.

  ‘I need your blood,’ Bomsoi replied, raising the knife.

  ‘Dark magic,’ Phen said, the words catching in her throat. She tried to back away again. Fonbir held her steady. ‘Darkwitch.’

  Bomsoi shook her head and reached out to take Phen’s hand in her own.

  ‘I am no Darkwitch,’ she said, ‘and this is not dark magic. This is the will of the gods.’ Her face became deadly stern. ‘Give me your hand, or your son will never live again.’

  Everything within Phen wanted to turn tail and flee. Her heart pounded. Her mouth was dry. But when she looked beyond Bomsoi, to the figure lying prone on the table, she closed her eyes.

  ‘I only ever wanted him to live,’ she whispered.

  ‘Let him live now,’ Bomsoi replied. ‘Open your palm to me.’

  Trembling, Phen did so. Bomsoi brought the knife down, and slid it over Phen’s exposed palm. Blood wept from the straight cut. Phen withheld her whimper.

  Bringing her to the body, Bomsoi placed the bleeding palm on Mantos’s forehead, just under his first horn. Then she slid it to each of hi
s cheeks, and wiped blood over his lips. Stepping back, she bade Phen do the same. Fonbir took her by the shoulder, offering a clean cloth for her cut hand.

  With blood coating Mantos’s face, Bomsoi reached over his body and started to chant.

  The language was strange and archaic. The more she spoke, the faster the words came. Her eyes closed. Her brow shone with sweat. The air cooled and her breath ghosted. Ice penetrated the walls, cracking the stone, climbing in sparkling tendrils. Phen leaned on Fonbir, her legs failing even under her meagre weight. She wound the cloth tight. It bit her skin.

  When Bomsoi opened her eyes, Phen’s legs gave way.

  The female’s once-grey orbs glowed, bright and blue, shining as if the power of the moons were channelled through them. Her chanting grew to fever-pitch, her arms raised over the body. All around them, icy wind whipped from nowhere. Phen clung to Fonbir, and he drew her up again.

  Then it happened.

  Her son, her dead son, sat up on the table, the death shroud falling from his shoulders.

  ‘Mantos,’ Phen whispered, her breath coming in ragged gasps. ‘Mantos!’

  He looked at her and, for the first time since he was a hatchling, their gaze met.

  His eyes glowed blue.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Camp

  As the ship glided into the giant harbour, Emmy’s mouth gaped. The Althemerian city of Athomur was majestic, nestled between two huge spurs of land. The water glimmered like gemstones as dawn sparkled on the waves.

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ Charo breathed.

  Emmy nodded. Countless vessels cut the water, from the smallest of galleys, manned by females with faces eroded by decates of salt air, to ships with impossibly tall masts, built in the new fashion. Their gigantic sails caught the wind, propelling them for hundreds of miles.

  The liberated Masvam boat approached the shore through a floating forest. The ships split into distinct sections. To the right were the merchant vessels, their coloured sails furled, unloading wares into shallow boats. To the left, the ships were darker, with sleek lines and rows of cannon. Their decks swarmed with blue-garbed Althemerians.