The Changing Tide: Book One of Rogue Elegance Read online

  The Changing Tide

  The Changing Tide

  Book One of Rogue Elegance

  K A Dowling

  Copyright © 2016 K A Dowling

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 9780692773314

  ISBN-10: 0692773312

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016914375

  Kelly Dowling, Sharon, MA

  For Sam, who has been besting me in epic swordfights since we were old enough to walk.

  Acknowledgements

  When I first published Rogue Elegance in the fall of 2015, it came out in what could rightly be called a tome. I put the story together the way I wanted it to be put together, with Emerala and Nerani’s story as one, cohesive unit.

  Spending a year immersed in the heavily saturated, high-paced literary world has led me to decide a Second Edition publication is good and ready for its moment in the sun. The newest edition has allowed me to make some tweaks and right some wrongs that have been plaguing me for a while (Yes, that means James Byron no longer defies science and fills his air with lungs, a typo that several people including myself managed to miss, and one has unfortunately become a popular anecdote around the dinner table at holidays).

  With a shiny new Second Edition copy comes another round of people to thank, some old and some new. Thanks to my mom and dad for endless phone conversations listening to me spout off theories and edits and harebrained schemes. As always, they’ve been my loudest cheerleaders from the very first day, and I probably would have given up a long time ago if it wasn’t for them. I want to thank my dad for being my date to writer’s conferences, and for dutifully helping me learn everything I can about the world of publishing. He’s got a brain for business, whereas there seems to be little space in my brain for anything reality-based, and I couldn’t have accomplished the things I’ve accomplished this past year without he and my mom keeping me firmly rooted.

  I also want to thank my husband for graciously accepting his role as a permanent sounding board. He is always ready and willing to listen. I’m grateful to him for continuing to tolerate me in spite of the fact that our evening walks are often comprised of me alternating between yammering about my characters and stopping in the middle of the road to catch Pokémon.

  Thanks to Liz, the real-life Nerani the Elegant, for always being willing to read, reread, and read again when I am neck deep in edits and on the verge of pulling out my hair. She is probably one of the few people that understands the psyche of my characters as deeply and as thoroughly as I do, and I couldn’t have accomplished any of this without her.

  Amanda, Kat, and Catherine, you ladies rock, and you’ve been fantastic support systems when it comes to getting the word out there. Thank you also to Danielle, Elizabeth, Bekah, Emily, Nicole, Hilary, Amber, Rebekah and Allison for tolerating my endless social media spam and always being willing to share my book related posts. Aunt Peggy and Auntie Rachel, thank you for being fans of the story, and for always making me feel like it’s worth it to keep writing, even when I’m not so readily convinced. Hilary, thank you again for kick starting this whole process with your feedback and copyediting. You have a fantastic eye for picking up all the things I’ve missed, and you somehow always know exactly what it is I’m trying to say—even when I don’t. Vikki, thanks for the stunning visual on the cover, you knew exactly what I was looking for and how to execute it.

  Last but not least, thanks to you, the reader, for picking up this little book and giving it a chance. I really hope you fall in love with the world of Chancey as deeply as I have fallen in love with it over the years.

  This story is Emerala’s story. It’s Nerani’s story. But most of all, it’s my story. I hope you enjoy every minute.

  Kelly

  The Mame’s Portent

  Delivered to King Lionus Wolham

  In the sixteenth year of his reign

  Harvest Cycle 1402

  Who are you,

  The seer asked,

  That knows his fate is set?

  Your day will come

  Your line will fall

  Your people will abet.

  But in the babe

  So soft and pure

  Your bloodline will be spared

  She’ll fall to dust

  And dust she’ll be,

  Forgotten by the erred.

  And when the years,

  They roll away

  Knowing what’s to come

  Her blood with blood

  Will mingle true—

  A queen she will become.

  “…And on the fifth day of the feast, in the fourteen hundredth and third Harvest Cycle, Lord Stoward rose up and struck the Wolham king from his throne. His sons were slain upon the steps of the palace. Their blood stained the streets of Chancey. The queen was stripped of her fineries and tied to the stake in the marketplace. She burned before the people as her crimes were read. Witch, she was called. Conjurer of the old magics.

  The infant, the child, was never found. The Stoward usurper searched to no avail, but she was gone. Her memory faded to dust, whispers of her name were stolen away by passing years. Her father’s armor was left to rot in the hall of kings.

  But the prophecy remained.

  When the heir of Saynti joins the blood of Cairans and the blood of royalty, then shall the Wolham line be restored to the Chancian throne.”

  Excerpt from Chancey: A Written History

  By Scribner Littleton

  Harvest Cycle 1511

  Chancey

  Alarana,

  Read this letter once and let it burn.

  I am setting sail today. I know you are angry with me. You must trust me when I tell you there is no other choice. I did this for you. I did this for our children.

  Through my sins I have evoked something older and darker than either of us can possibly comprehend. My mistakes have led to this, and only mine. I am deeply apologetic for any suffering they have caused you.

  You asked me, once, how far I would be willing to go to keep our children safe. I told you I would go to the ends of the world. I meant that.

  I do not know what fate awaits me at the end of this journey, but I take solace in knowing that you and the children will be unharmed in my absence.

  Alarana, it is the only way.

  Roberts and Emerala are only children. They will forget me quickly. And you—you, too, will forget. Your heart will heal, in time.

  Please know that my deepest regret is causing you pain.

  Destroy this letter. In the wrong hands, it can be deadly.

  Be safe, and know that I did love you, once.

  Eliot Roberts

  Contents

  Chancey Harvest Cycle 1525 Midnight

  CHAPTER 1: Emerala the Rogue

  CHAPTER 2: Seranai the Fair

  CHAPTER 3: Captain Alexander Mathew

  CHAPTER 4: Nerani the Elegant

  CHAPTER 5: Roberts the Valiant

  CHAPTER 6: General James Bryon

  CHAPTER 7: King Rowland Stoward

  CHAPTER 8: Emerala the Rogue

  CHAPTER 9: Captain Alexander Mathew

  CHAPTER 10: Roberts the Valiant

  CHAPTER 11: Seranai the Fair

  CHAPTER 12: General James Byron

  CHAPTER 13: Nerani the Elegant

  CHAPTER 14: Emerala the Rogue

  CHAPTER 15: Seranai the Fair

  CHAPTER 16: General James Byron

  CHAPTER 17: Evander the Hawk

  CHAPTER 18: Nerani the Elegant

  CHAPTER 19: Emerala the Rogue

  CHAPTER 20: Captain Alexander Mathew

  CHAPTER 21: General James Byro
n

  CHAPTER 22: Roberts the Valiant

  CHAPTER 23: Emerala the Rogue

  CHAPTER 24: Captain Alexander Mathew

  CHAPTER 25: General James Byron

  CHAPTER 26: Emerala the Rogue

  CHAPTER 27: General James Byron

  CHAPTER 28: Roberts the Valiant

  CHAPTER 29: Captain Alexander Mathew

  CHAPTER 30: Emerala the Rogue

  BOOK II: The Rogue and the Elegant

  About the Author

  Chancey Harvest Cycle 1525 Midnight

  The guardians come quietly that night. Their footsteps go unheard against the din that fills the walls of Toyler’s Tavern and spills out onto the murky street. For a moment, they linger before the entrance, bright and clean and out of place. They shuffle their feet against the cobblestone, their mouths settling into deep frowns. Their noses wrinkle at the putrid stench that leaches out from the sewers.

  Their golden cloaks catch upon a gust of brackish wind as they shove through the squealing doorway. The inebriated occupants of the room fall into stillness at the sight of them. A jangling tambourine shudders to a stop. In the corner, a silk-clad woman shrinks into the shadows. Her instrument falls to her side with a tinny clatter. All about the room, dark eyes glitter in the dancing torchlight. These soldiers are not expected. They are not welcome. Silence nestles sluggishly into the air, dense with smoke.

  Behind the bar, Manfred Toyler watches with bated breath. His beady eyes follow the soldiers as they make their way towards him. He places the glass he is cleaning down upon the bar, startling at the sound it makes. It is too loud against the formidable silence of the room—too crisp against the climate of dread that strings among the rafters. A cold sweat forms upon his brow. He moves to mop it up with his kerchief and pauses, his hand freezing before his nose as the guardians take their seats at the bar. Their faces—newly shaven—sneer at him through the tendrils of smoke that dissipate around them.

  Toyler clears his throat. He tilts his chin in a show of respect.

  “General Byron.” His voice ekes out in a throaty croak. “Corporal Anderson.”

  “Mr. Toyler.” Corporal Anderson’s acknowledgement is nonchalant. His slick silver hair catches the light as he glances idly at the room about him. His face, long and narrow, looks as though it could have been carved from stone. His long, crooked lips curl downward into a sneer.

  Toyler’s tongue feels as though it is coated with sand. “What can I get you gentlemen?” He knows they will not ask for anything. He already knows why they are here.

  Before him, General Byron’s deep brown eyes are cold. “We’re on duty. We’ve come to visit you strictly on business.” His fingers flick at an invisible speck atop the bar. His close-cropped brown hair appears black and oily in the shadows.

  Toyler thinks of Thomas of the Wandering Lady and how all that the guardians left was the faded, splintering sign. He thinks of how the fire had spiraled up towards the muddy clouds overhead, and how he had never seen so much smoke. He frowns, fighting to keep his gaze even. He will continue to play the fool.

  “What possible business can you have in my humble establishment?”

  Corporal Anderson laughs. The echo knocks into Toyler with crippling force. He presses his toes deeper into the soles of his worn leather boots. Steady.

  “I hardly think you need to ask.” The corporal’s sneer widens, but it does not quite spread to his eyes. “You all but keeled over when we stepped inside your bar. A sure sign of a guilty man, don’t you think?”

  “Guilty?” Toyler repeats. His laugh chokes off in his throat before it can reach his lips. “Guilty of what?”

  “Of harboring criminals.” The volume behind General Byron’s voice is intentional. His words project across the room. His gaze is impassive as he studies Toyler’s reaction. The swift shuffling of many garments follows his words. Toyler does not dare to glance over their shoulders. He can feel the dark, sobering gazes scrutinizing the soldiers’ golden cloaks. He can hear the treacherous whispers roll across the tavern like a swollen wave.

  The guardians before him act as though they are oblivious to the sudden, muffled clamor that overtakes the room. They remain resolutely still upon their stools, their faces blank. Toyler feels his brow deepen across his forehead. Angry heat seeps through his veins.

  “How much has Rowland Stoward promised you, General?” Toyler’s hands shake as he speaks. He places them beneath the bar and hopes that the soldiers will not notice. General Byron’s dark eyes disappear and reappear as he blinks slowly.

  When the soldier speaks, it is as though he is speaking to a child. “His Majesty does not bribe his Golden Guard, Mr. Toyler. And he certainly does not deal in the dirty gambles of common men. He is merely attempting to clean up the trash that litters his city.”

  Toyler sputters angrily. His fist comes down unbidden upon the surface of the bar. “Cleaning up my customers is more like it! You’re raking away all my income in one attack after another!” He leans forward, lowering his voice to a murmur as he looks General Byron dead in the eyes. “Your father never would have stood for this, James, not if he was alive.”

  General Bryon remains silent. The square line of his jaw is locked as he surveys Toyler coldly, but Toyler swears he can see a flash of pain in the young soldier’s eyes. Toyler feels a palm press into his chest. He glances up to see that Corporal Anderson has stood from his stool.

  “Stand down, you fool,” he commands. His brown eyes glimmer with naked disdain. “You will address your superiors with the respect they are owed.”

  Toyler’s mouth snaps shut. He rolls back onto his heels. His breathing comes in ragged pulls as he attempts to settle his nerves. Behind the guardians, the room has gone still.

  “What’s next, General?” he asks. Sweat has broken out in glistening beads upon the bald curve of his scalp. “Have you come to shackle me and make an example of me before all of the good people of Chancey?”

  “Not just yet.”

  “What about them? Are you to round them up like swine and throw them in prison?” Toyler can hardly keep the poison from lacing his words.

  General Byron’s voice is detached as he speaks. “No one blames the king for wanting to rid his realm of gypsy scum.”

  There is the abrasive scrape of chairs across the floor as a few customers rise from where they sit. The pellet bells of a tambourine clink together as a woman gasps. Toyler thinks he sees the candlelight catching on a dagger or two, but he dares not look away from the guardians before him.

  “Quiet,” he hisses. His beady eyes have narrowed into slits. He is through with respect. There are more frightening men than the guardians lurking in the shadows of the tavern. “Do you wish to start a brawl? You will not win, James, against the wrath of Cairans.”

  At his words, General Byron rises from his stool to join the standing corporal. A cold smile settles across his jaw. His eyes flash dangerously in the candlelight.

  “I will not play games with you or your customers, Mr. Toyler. I came here tonight to deliver a warning. Stop serving the Cairans.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  A smirk teases at the corners of the corporal’s lips. Next to him, General James Byron draws himself up to his full height. He appears malicious beneath the wavering shadows. “I am not a patient man. Have them cleared out by tomorrow or I’ll burn this place to the ground.”

  With that, the two guardians turn on their heels and head out the door as quickly and quietly as they came.

  CHAPTER 1

  Emerala the Rogue

  The sky above the sea is red this morning. Red, the color of blood. Red, the symbol of death. Red, the harbinger of doom. Red skies in the morning are an omen, everyone who knows anything about anything knows as much. Emerala the Rogue, of course, knows a great deal about a lot of things. More than most people know, and she would bet good coppers on that—if she ever had any coppers to spare. She stands with her back to the sheer cliffs o
f Chancey and studies the deep crimson reflection that cuts through the black surface of the sea. It looks, to her, like the ocean is bleeding.

  Gooseflesh blooms like buds upon the exposed skin of her arms. She shivers, catching her elbows in her fingertips. A cloak would have been fair protection against the crisp morning, but it is not her nature to think of such things. She takes a step forward, pressing her weight down upon her heels. Dull grooves appear in the sand beneath her pleated forest green gown.

  The surf at her toes is deepest black, untouched by the fingers of gold that have begun to seep into the sky at her back. The spring storm that passed over the island the night before had raged with a terrible vengeance. The waves are still brimming with vigor; their crests are cut with shadows as deep and as dark as an onyx. Overhead, muffled daylight is streaking across the bloody sky like a whisper.

  Emerala watches the morning unfold before her through narrowed green eyes. The wind tugs at her locks, black as night and coiled like a cat waiting to spring. She revels in this time of day—when the citizens of Chancey are only beginning to stir in their cots. She imagines them warm beneath their itching wool blankets, scowling at the frost that clings to their windowpanes. They do not know what they are missing beyond the crumbling walls of their reeking, stacked homes. They do not know what it is to watch the rise and fall of the sea—to shield their eyes against the glittering sun as it tickles the dark edges of the waves at her feet. Chancians do not venture beyond the shaded cliff walls that loom heavy at her backside. They remain tucked away within their fortress. Protected. Ignorant.

  She feels a pull in her chest as she stares out at the empty horizon. The merchants arrived with the turn of the seasons. Their white sails were full of wind and their holds teeming with goods from lands that Emerala is certain she will never see. Her lips turn downward into a frown. It is all well and good to bicker and barter over prices with the aggressive, feathered men of trade, but it is not merchandise that her heart desires.