Chapter 5 The Bastard Black #2
My hand goes to my mouth as my stomach threatens to spill its contents.
All around me. I scan the cold stone. Whatever remains of them.
How brave they must have been in their final moments—most Nymphs are wise.
Many, if not every single one he brought here, should have recognized the bushes from Aurorae.
And were likely intuitive enough to realize they could offer Harlow the solution in hopes to spare themselves, but all stayed silent.
Refused to help him. Now they rest like ash around me. Less than ash. Dust. Nothing.
A mix of pride and guilt floods my chest. I'm luckier than I ever imagined, escaping Harlow's clutches and then Solomon's, too, even if it meant a life alone on the streets.
Harlow runs a hand through his hair and curses. "I don't understand why you need the piece before he gets here if you're double crossing him anyway—which I still think is mad. You know what they say about him."
Solomon's sneer is palpable, even through the misting fall.
"What, that he's Talon of House Sól, one of the old gods trapped in a man's body? Women’s gossip.
You may be a bastard, brother, but father still paid for your education.
Clearly, money wasted. Rhyland Crow is nothing but a thieving pirate.
A man, flesh and blood, carried on a tide of outlandish stories that paint him into something more. "
"If you don't believe it, why are you so afraid of him?"
"It's not fear but diligence. Thinking ahead, understanding people.
Crow is clever as he is ruthless. He hasn't made it this far on luck alone.
The magistrate has commissioned a naval fleet.
They're on their way, but he's no one's fool.
He'll take precautions of his own, and the sooner he realizes the piece I have is a fake, the sooner he will retaliate and try to escape as he's done so many times, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. "
Harlow pauses, and looks as thoughtful as someone with half a brain cell can. “He’s rumored to have a piece of the crown already. And they say each piece offers the bearer a special strength, or is this more ‘women's gossip?’”
Greedy light shines through Solomon's dark pupils as he turns to appraise the fall again. “No, this my spies tell me is true. The Stygian Queen in Umbra has a piece as well and her lands thrive. If we managed to take hers next…imagine what a forged crown could offer?”
The hungry edge to his voice makes my stomach twist. He forgot to mention the Games this queen hosts.
Gruesome, bloody trials to compete in to win her crown piece.
No one has yet to finish the trials, and few have come close.
Whispers of the events that take place in Umbra, Staygia's capital—the gore, the hellish two weeks she treats like a festival each year—have been enough to dissuade me for the time being.
But if this piece of the crown could offer me power, advantage, perhaps this is the year I can enter.
Though I would need the tribute fund, which is a challenge on its own.
Some sort of treasure to appease the vile woman.
My hand slips into my bag and gently closes around the warm crown segment. A surge of heat floods my veins.
One step at a time, Avalon.
Solomon clears his throat in that dignified, important way of his.
“All the more reason why we need to find this one, get the protection it offers. It was hard enough to lure him here with the promise that I'd discovered it. He’ll likely want proof before he deigns to bring the Nightingale into the cove. We’ll need to capture the whole ship, but only after he’s shown us the reward he’s offering in exchange for the piece.
We’ll stow that away before we claim the king's bounty on his head and leave this whole ordeal as two of the richest men in Helgate—nay, two of the richest men in Ethirya. And that’s before forging the crown to a whole.
Imagine the power that comes with it. You could leave the slave trade, retire on a private estate. ”
Harlow blanches, and that awful scar pulls downward with his frown. “Leave the trade? Never. My plans are to expand. I don’t want an estate; I want a dynasty, one that will ring through the ages. One to rival our little brother’s in the north. To finally prove to father that—”
Solomon waves a hand at him. “Yes, very good. But want holds no weight. Fill a bucket with your want and what are you left with? An empty bucket. We must find the piece. I’ve had my craftsman create a replica of sorts, but if Crow gets close he’ll likely recognize it as a fake.
I’ve no idea which god-gem he has, the diamond, sapphire, or ruby.
My spy has been unable to get close enough to see—”
"My lord!" From the entrance of the cave, a guard stumbles in, tall and wind blown. He rushes up the incline to meet them, dark hair swept with wind. "The Nightingale's been spotted, not two leagues off the coast."
Red rushes back to Solomon's face, his vein pulsing again.
"Damn him!" His stout fingers fumble for a burnished gold pocket watch tucked in his overcoat and flick it open to glance at the time.
"Early. Far too early. Fetch another slave, Harlow. Do whatever it is you must to get past that fall. Find a way, or I fear not even the Magistrate themselves can save us. They won’t be here in time.
We must keep Crow placated. Go, now!" he shouts.
Harlow pushes up the sleeves of his dirty white dress shirt and nods, making for the entrance.
"You," Solomon snaps at the guard so loud I flinch.
"Stay here and watch the cave until Harlow returns.
I need to speak with your commander about sending for a support brigade.
Crow being early isn't a promising sign.
He was to arrive with the evening tide." The last bit he mostly mumbles to himself, but the guard still nods.
As much as Crow arriving at all is a thorn in my side, I can't help but smirk slightly at the beads of sweat forming along Solomon's brow before he turns to storm out of the cave.
The guard bows him past, and watches as he leaves before making a slow pivot back to inspect the fall.
He walks forward, one dark boot after another, pushing back the hem of the maroon guard jacket all Solomon's men wear to tuck a hand inside the pocket of his white trousers.
He draws close, and though I know he can't see me, I still jerk in surprise when his eyes fall over my face as they scan the water. They’re the deepest shade of blue I've ever seen, like clouds passing over a midnight sky.
They churn in almost that same pattern. While it should be unsettling, I find myself slipping forward an inch, dangerously close to the acrid, glassy stream.
He moves forward too, almost mirroring the movement, the look on his face calculating and just a touch amused.
And then he blinks and turns away, adjusting the rifle strapped over his shoulder to pace back toward the cave mouth.
I blink, too, eyes dry as the dusty southern plains.
Now isn’t the time to be ogling the enemy. How are you going to get out of here? The thought is a harsh reminder of how trapped I am and how little time I have to escape before Harlow returns with more men and slaves. The passage below me is impassible, but the one ahead....
One guard. A shredded shoulder. No weapon.
I’ve faced worse odds. Blood drips from the gashes where that creature maimed me, splattering over the cavern floor, and it feels like someone’s taking a hot blade to my skin, but I can't wait here long.
If I don't get the wound stitched soon, I'll likely pass out and never wake again. His back is turned. My fingers unfurl from the crown piece to make a careful reach for an old tunic that I quickly rip into strips to dress the weeping wound as best I can. I’m no healer—being trained by the Sisters at Blossom House did me little good; their tonics and remedies were confusing, and I couldn’t even stitch fabric to mend clothing, let alone an open flesh wound.
With a small pained noise, I grab for the berry stuffed socks. Another obstacle. I’ll need to swallow them to pass and then try to eat three of the sanaberries before he spots me.
There’s no time for more planning or hesitation. Not if Rhyland Crow is almost here. I tip the dreamberries past my lips and chew. Quickly, I hug my satchel to my chest again and step beneath the cool breeze of water that ghosts off my shoulders.