Chapter 34 A Hollow Victory
To race the wind is nothing.
To lie beside the storm and find peace—
that is where empires fall.
— Excerpt from the 'Forbidden Anatole Text', by the Crimson Scholar
We dock in the harbor, leaving a row of smaller ships in the Nightingale’s shadow, their decks full of haggard, cut throat looking crews who eye us with a special sort of malevolence.
If Rhyland wasn’t a target before, he is now, putting on a show like that.
Surely the crowds gathered along the port strip will be rooting for him in droves.
How did he take on the serpent face to face?
They’ll wonder. How did the Nightingale’s crew survive?
The captain of course.
He held command unflinchingly, that fierce god trapped in a mortal skin suit. He’ll be their champion in the arena…unless. Unless I can convince him to let me fight.
A line of stiff figures clad in violent shades of red stand waiting in a uniform row just beyond the docks, their faces half shadowed by deep hoods, but from what I can see, it’s all business beneath—hard lines, sharp noses, yet somehow every one of them is unremarkable.
Almost indistinguishable from the next. They pose like statues, so still it’s unnerving to look at them until the one in the center gives a sharp nod and they march together along the water slick planks, each stepping onto the gangway of every harbored ship.
“The messengers,” Cyprian murmurs under his breath, “here to collect our entry fee and deliver the terms of the games.” Our navigator looks a bit shell shocked but otherwise unharmed. I can’t say the same for the rest of the crew, but most of us are alive. It could be worse.
Two stoic messengers climb aboard and assess us all in turn. Rigid features. Shoulders that could have been cut from stone. Archer and Aizen trudge forward with a heavy chest they’ve fetched from the hull—presumably full of gold and jewels stolen from the Black estate.
The thought makes me hesitate and shift to look behind us where wreckage of the two brigs floats and the Morningstar seems to have suspiciously vanished during the fight.
It’s Rhyland’s snarl that brings me back. He storms forward, fury and vengeance, to stand before the messengers. His frame shakes. His runes glow.
“What the fuck was that?” he demands. “We were told there would be a safe path to navigate around the serpent. The beast has free reign of the entire bay?”
One of the messengers pushes back his hood. Plain, even-faced, but there’s a sneer in his eye. Something truly sinister. Maleficent.
“There was an issue with the Queen’s magickal barrier. A momentary slip. The problem has been rectified and the beast contained.”
Rhyland’s fists clench tight. Every vein threading his strong arms rises and I wonder what will happen if he attacks a messenger.
Surely, trying to win the games would become impossible and the least of our worries.
“Momentary? You expect me to believe that wasn’t calculated timing. Look at my ship, look at my crew.”
The messengers expressions remain unchanged by the sight of it all—the bleeding men, the disastrous state of our ship.
Calmly, he reaches into the layers of his clothes to withdraw a scroll and begins to read in a loud, clear voice, “Queen Deirdre welcomes you to the renowned shores of Staygia and bids you to join her at the palace for the Feast of Champions, a welcoming ceremony for the games. We do ask that you agree to a set of rules before making any attempt to enter her city. As follows: crime of any sort within Umbra's high walls will lead to swift detainment and execution. Your tribute fund must be handed over for collection before you are permitted off your ship, and her contract will be signed at the feast. A reminder that once the contract is signed, you are beholden to the gods and will enter the colosseum or die resisting. Combat within the colosseum is to the death. Surrender is not an option. Competitors will fight alone. Weapons of any kind are permitted within, provided they are not enchanted with magics deemed ‘unseemly’ by the Queen’s judges. You will turn said weapons over to be inspected before entering. The remainder of the announcements will be given by Queen Deirdre herself at the feast. You may choose a party of three to accompany you.”
They don’t pause for questions, but move together in a sort of synchrony that brings little bumps of fear over my arms, gathering the chest to haul away.
I don’t think I breathe properly until they’re off the ship.
Something about them…this place itself, it all feels wrong.
Before I have a chance to open my mouth and voice any of this, Rhyland practically whisks me off of my feet and into his cabin.
He goes to the small stove, stokes the embers before turning to me, his features drawn tight.
Dried blood is caked over his warm skin; his hair’s disheveled at strange angles.
He’s unraveling, faster and faster like a spool of thread thrown into the dark.
I open my mouth, ready to ask after Tobias but his word finds me first.
“Avalon.”
The way he says my full name takes me by sharp surprise.
My stomach clenches and now I know he’s furious.
Yet, there’s more, brewing behind his eyes.
I want to tell him to swallow whatever it is—to never give it life to breathe.
If we bury our lies deep enough in ash and silence, maybe they’ll never break the surface, never take root to haunt our future selves.
The jig is up. I’ve disobeyed him for the last time and we’ve reached our destination.
There’s no need to pretend anymore, not for the crew. Not for anyone.
Is this it? Is this the end? The skin of my palms have grown slick with sweat and every thud in my chest aches like a bad tooth. Gods, I want it to stop. I want him to kiss me. I want to pretend just a little longer.
Please, I could beg.
Weep.
Instead I stare at him and wonder what my life will look like without him in it.
He steps toward me and I flinch in anticipation of the pain—the emotional lashing to come. It takes him aback and he searches my face, cataloguing every inch of me before taking my hands. His are warm and rough; the long, clever fingers eclipse my rather dainty ones as I stare down at them.
“I don’t know how to say this,” he starts, and gods damn it all, I flinch again, but clear my throat this time.
This takes me by surprise, how he doesn’t sound angry. How there’s no promise of retaliation for running off and throwing myself in the path of death. But maybe anger would be better. Would mean he cares enough to fight for whatever this is. For me.
“Don’t.” The plea is rough. Haggard and raspy and hardly audible at all.
I try again. “Don’t, Pirate. Just—it doesn’t have to be a thing, ending this.
But I think we can at least wait until the games are over, don’t you?
Until after we’ve won and you send me back to Helgate.
You still need my nymphfire. I’m sorry I didn’t listen, but what choice did I have?
We’d all be at the bottom of the bay right now if I hadn’t acted. ”
Confusion twists over the soft line of his high, dark brows, the set to his stubble lined cheeks. He seems to disregard everything but one word. “Ending?”
I give a short, tight nod. “Yes, I understand it has to end, but—” I can’t force the rest. They feel too pathetic.
Like I’ve lost something of myself in them.
I try in earnest to pinpoint the moment I fell so hard, the moment I went from hating him to tolerating him to… well, whatever this feeling is now.
“You are my wife, Avalon. And you aren’t fighting in the colosseum.”
Mehr’s harp, I wish he’d stop using my name. It doesn’t feel right—it’s cold, clinical, like an attempt at distance between everything that’s brought us together these past few weeks. A kidnapping, monster slaying, marriage, storm. It’s too much. Too much to just let go of.
My eyes flash sharply to his, and my fingers curl into themselves, half resisting his touch. Half wanting to fall into it.
“Your wife in name only. You made that clear from the start—that this marriage is done once we have the crown piece. But if I’m not in that arena with you, you don’t stand a chance against the Queen’s monster and you know it. You need my flame to kill it.”
“You heard the messenger, Nymph. The Queen’s games are every man, woman, creature, for themselves. and before you suggest it, I will absolutely not be throwing you into the arena alone.”
Fury rears its ugly head. “So you’ll, what, go in there knowing you stand no chance against her beast? You’ll die for the crown piece?”
There’s an imperceptible shake of his head, the smallest downturn of his lips when he pulls his hand from mine, more gently than he ever has, and rubs his fingers together.
At first I don’t believe it. I consider that I’ve gone quite terribly mad.
Silver flame dances to life in his palm, licks at the darkness around us, rivals the heat from the coal stove. He does it with an ease I’ve never obtained, a well-practiced expertise only a god could possess.
I stumble back. The flame sputters out and he reaches for me before I fall, his palm still hot to the touch.
“What?” I swallow, over and over, trying to wet my tongue. “H-how are you doing that?”
A surprising look of pain slips over his face, a tragic sort of truth waiting to be told.
“I promise I didn’t know—I mean, I didn’t think it would happen.
It’s never—I’ve never known it to happen.
I believed it was made up, or so incredibly rare that I didn’t think.
If I would have known you were a virgin I never would have gone through with it. I never would have touched you.”
My head grows light and dizzy. He’s not making sense—what the fuck—what the fuck is he talking about?