The Emerald Storm (The Riyria Revelations #4)

The realization dawned on her and devastated Arista. He was not there to save her. He was not her friend. The betrayal was almost too much to bear.

“It’s true,” her voice quivered. “You do believe the stories they say about me. That I am a witch. That I am evil. That I killed my father over my lust for the throne. Are you working for Saldur, or someone else? Did you steal me from the palace guards for some political advantage? Or is this all some plan to—to control me, to get me to trust you and lure me into revealing something?”

Her words had a profound effect on him. He looked pained as if rained by blows. His face strained, his jaw stiff.

“You could at least tell me the truth,” she said. “I should think you owe that much to my father, if not to me. He trusted you. He picked you to be my bodyguard. He gave you a chance to make something of yourself. You’ve enjoyed the privilege of court life because of his faith in you.”

Hilfred was having trouble breathing. He turned away from her and, grabbing his scarf, moved toward the door.

“Yes, go—go on!” She shouted. “Tell them it didn’t work. Tell them I didn’t fall for it. Tell Sauly and the rest of those bastards that—that I’m not the stupid, little girl they thought I was! You should have kept me tied and gagged, Hilfred. You’re going to find it harder to haul me off to the stake than you think!”

Hilfred slammed his hand against the doorframe making Arista jump. He spun on her, his eyes fierce and wild in a way she had never seen before, and she stepped back.

“DO YOU KNOW WHY I SAVED YOU?” he shouted, his voice broken and shaking. “Do you? Do you?”

“To—to hand me over and get—”

“No! No! Not now, back then,” he cried, waving his arm. “Years ago, when the palace was burning. Do you know why I saved you then?”

She did not speak. She did not move.

“I wasn’t the only one there, you know. There were others. Soldiers, priests, servants, they all just stood watching. They knew you were inside, but not a single person did anything. They just stood watching the place burn, but not me. Bishop Saldur saw me running for the castle and actually ordered me to stop. He said it was too late, that I would die. I believed him. I truly did, but I went in anyway. Do you know why? DO YOU?” He shouted at her.

She shook her head.

“It was because I didn’t care if I died. I didn’t want to live…not if you died.” Tears streamed down his scarred face. “But don’t ask me to be your friend. That is far too cruel a torture. As long as I can maintain a safe distance, as long as…as long as there is a wall between us—even if it is only one of words, I can tolerate—I can bear it.” Hilfred wiped his eyes with his scarf. “Your father knew what he was doing—oh yes, he knew exactly what he was doing when he appointed me your bodyguard. I would die a thousand times over to protect you. But don’t ask me to be grateful to him for the life he’s given me, for it has been one of pain. I wish I had died that night so many years ago, or at least in Dahlgren. Then it would be over. I wouldn’t have to look at you. I wouldn’t have to wake up every day wishing I had been born the son of a great knight, or you the daughter of a poor shepherd.”

He turned away covering his eyes and laying his head against the threshold. Arista did not recall doing it, but somehow she crossed the room. She took Hilfred’s face in her hands and rising up on her toes she kissed his mouth. He did not move, but he trembled. He did not breathe, but he gasped.

“Look at me,” she said extending her arms to display her stained asomehowrn kirtle. “A shepherd’s daughter would pity me, don’t you think? She took his hand and kissed it. “Can you ever forgive me?”

He looked at her confused. “For what?”

“For being so blind.”





Chapter 12

Sea Wolves


As it had for days, the Emerald Storm remained on its easterly course, making slow progress against a headwind that refused to shift. Maintaining direction required frequent tacking which caused the top crews to work all night. Royce, as usual, had drawn the late shift. It was not Dime’s fault. Royce had concluded that the mainmast captain was a fair man, but Royce was the newest member of a crew that rewarded seniority. He did not mind the shift. He enjoyed the nights he spent aloft. The air was fresh and in the dark among the ropes he was as comfortable as a spider in his web. This afforded Royce the opportunity to relax, think, and occasionally amuse himself by tormenting Defoe, who panicked any time his old guild mate lost track of Royce.

Royce hung in the netting of the futtock shroud, his feet dangling over the open space—a drop of nearly a hundred feet. Above lay the dust of stars, while on the horizon, the moon rose as a sliver—a cat’s eye peering across the water at him. Below, lanterns flickering on the bow, quarterdeck, and the stern, outlined the Emerald Storm. To his left he could just make out the dark coast of Calis drifting lazily by thick vegetation punctuated by the occasional cliff, often marked by the brilliant white plume of a waterfall catching moonlight.

The seasickness was gone. He could not recall a more miserable time than his first week on board. The nausea and dizziness reminded him of being drunk—a sensation he hated. He spent most of the first night hugging the ship’s figurehead and vomiting off the bow. After four days, his stomach settled but he remained drained, and tired easily. It took weeks, but he forgot all that as he nested in the rigging looking out at the dark sea. It surprised him just how beautiful the black waves could be. The graceful undulating swells kissed by the barefaced moon, all below a scattering of stars. Only one sight could beat it.

What is she doing right now? Is she looking at the same moon and thinking of me?

Royce reached inside his tunic, pulled out the scarf, and rubbed the material between his fingers. He held it to his face and breathed deep. It smelled like her. Soft and warm, he kept it hidden—his tiny treasure. On the nights of his sickness, he had lain in the hammock clutching it to his cheek as if a magic talisman to ward off misery. It was how he fell asleep.

The officers’ deck hatch opened and Royce spotted Beryl stepping out into the night air. Beryl liked his sleep and, being senior midshipman, rarely held the late watch. He stood glancing around, taking in the lay of the deck. He cast an eye up at the maintop, but Royce knew he was invisible in the dark tangles. Beryl spotted Wesley making his rounds on the forecastle and made his way across the waist and up the stair. Wesley looked concerned at his approach but held his ground. Perhaps the boy would get another beating tonight. Whatever torments Beryl planned for Wesley were no concern of Royce, and he thought it might be time to scare Defoe again.

“I won’t do it,” Wesley declared, drawing Royce’s attention. Once more Royce noticed Beryl nervously looking upward.