Satin Hostage – Chapter Ten
Several days passed as the Eliana Nor made good time heading up Embrosse's western coast. A southwest wind prevailed, blowing in a shallow rain the second night that broke the following morning. Serena lost track of the days she'd been on the ship in that time, preoccupied as she was with her own dilemma.
Darien was well aware of the days. The Nor would find the harbor of Cold Rock in another five days. He wasn't concerned about missing the appointment with Zoicite Maeyen. It would take at least fifteen days to reach Lusson by land and another three to go from there to Cold Rock. And that was with fast horses.
He knew Serena was anxious to dock at the northern port, but she wouldn't like waiting nearly half a week for Zoicite while bottle up in the cabin. With the Nor's present speed she already had a wait of a day or two before Zoicite could possibly reach the port.
Not wanting to be trapped in Cold Rock wasn't the entire reason Darien wanted to dock in Brimshire. The Nyan weapons would bring handsome prices there, and he was eager to give the crew a short holiday before the next confrontation with Maeyen.
He looked to where Serena leaned on the rail watching the evening waters lap at the hull. The wind lifted her green velvet skirts and hem of the white chemise just enough to offer a stunted peek of her legs beneath in the muted torch light. He wasn't alone in noticing. Under their captain's glare three crewmen averted their stares, also.
"Captain," Brons said, breaking Darien from his thoughts, "the galley asking to close for the night."
Darien nodded. "Shut it up."
"Aye." The boy disappeared quickly below deck to the forecastle.
Darien's eyes went back to Serena. She wasn't the only one who'd given his newly voiced accusations so much thought. He had known immediately he shouldn't have told her anything. He hadn't meant to tell her, but the appeal of those deep blue eyes and the beckon of her soft pout had been so persuasive, even when he knew things would only worsen between them.
That was where I made the first dire mistake, he knew. Thinking of her in any manner except as a captive - a tool to be used in achieving Joshan's release - was a downfall he could have avoided. Had this been over in Leneau, as he'd planned, he would have been done with her, and concerns for a woman aboard the Nor would never have been an issue.
But he wasn't entirely to blame for revealing the Maeyen practice of slavery, he rationalized, watching her long hair wave in the breeze of the starless, opaque night. She shouldn't have seen mark on his arm, but should have taken his word not to ask about it. Her stark shock that night had been unpretentious and as the realization of her uncle made its impact, she had exhibited a concern he had not expected.
Darien had anticipated denial, which she portrayed, or maybe indifference, if she already knew, and perhaps even a condescending amusement. She was Izmaruthen and the idea of slavery in a country where it was forbidden may not be a complete astonishment. Her reaction to the revelation unsettled him. He almost preferred callousness rather than her shame-ridden apologies. It left him with a moral uneasiness for which he had not prepared, and he didn't like it.
Darien met her when she moved to the center of the ship and leaned against the wide hind derrick beneath the crow's nest, hiding from stares of some of the crew at the fore deck.
"Are you cold?" He took her arm. "I'll take you in."
Serena tried to avoid his touch. "Not yet. Please. I ..." She looked to the back of her hand as two drops of blood fell on it.
Darien snatched her hand, looking up to the crow's nest above them. The crewman on lookout duty was slumped to one side, an arrow protruding from his throat and one arm hanging over the nest side, dripping. Darien pulled Serena behind himself and faced east, eyes searching the inky night water. Across the ship, Lucas now also saw the dead lookout.
Serena tried to look around Darien and started to speak, then shrieked as a thin, black feathered pointless arrow ripped through the back of his shoulder from the front. He cursed, breaking off the short shaft and ripping it out of his shoulder. Another ship suddenly materialized a short distance away in the thick darkness.
"Cyntians! Board her!" Darien commanded as a bell rang out. He pushed Serena into the cabin as heavy ropes bearing foreign, bellowing pirates swung onto the Nor's deck.
In the bedroom he slammed shut the starboard windows. "Against the wall!" he ordered, pointing, when Serena attempted closing the opposite windows. She pressed herself shakily to the stone mantle wall as screams filled the night deck side. At the last window a Cyntian managed to crawl through before Darien shoved shutter. Barely had the man entered than the blade of Darien's knife sunk deep in his torso. Serena watched, ashen and speechless, as the bleeding intruder was heaved back out the window.
"Behind the screen," Darien told her, forcing another long knife into her unmoving hands. "Go, Serena!"
She stumbled behind the screen as the lantern was turned out, unable to yet utter a word. The bedchamber and office doors were shut and locked. She huddled in the dark screen corner, her heart choking in her throat.
Not more pirates, she prayed. Not Cyntians! The dark of night had hidden the attacking ship well and the loss of the lookout gave the Cyntians a deadly advantage. She'd never seen a ship so black. In her fleeting glimpse of it before Darien had hastily escorted her to the cabin, Serena had see the black masts and hull that offered not a single torch light.
After a grueling hour and a half, the noise of battle changed, sounding farther away. The retreat confused Serena, and after another hour of waiting with bated breath and knotted fingers, she chanced to open a window. She hesitated, hands trembling on the wooden shutter lock. As she futilely fumbled with it, desperation growing, the bedroom door opened. She spun around to see Darien enter with a lantern.
"Don't look out that side," he warned, lighting the table candle with a torch.
"Is it over?"
"Yes."
More light stretched into the room as he lit two oil lamps. She moved closer to him, and he looked down as her fingers paused on the torn material at his shoulder.
He moved her hand. "That's not something a nobleman's wife should touch."
Serena frowned, withdrawing her hand. "I'm not that fragile, Captain."
"Aren't you?" He grinned. "Someone saw you here." He soaked a cloth in his washstand, and then took her hand washed the drops of dried blood from the back of it. "Unlike the one that took the lookout, Cyntians don't poison arrows when they mean to eat their targets."
A chill swept up her spine as he moved away and opened the portside windows, her fingers touching her damp hand.
"They were pirate?"
"Not exactly. Something of a livestock vessel." He pulled off his shirt and found another clean one in his closet. She looked at the bandage at his shoulder, where the white was tinted pink. "They were probably hoping we were slavers, and empty hold."
Her eyes went to his scarred arm bearing Methuen's mark as he pulled on the shirt. "What will you do with them?"
"Let the pellums have them."
She followed as he went to the cupboard by the table and poured the ivory cup full from a dark bottle. He gave it to her, and then spoke as she started to speak. "Drink it anyway. You'll have nightmares tonight."
Serena looked with dismay at the cup as he built a small fire in the hearth. He stood and looked to her, smiling at her paleness.
"You're all right, Serena. It's over."
She cleared her throat, eyes going to the bandaged spot at his shoulder on the brown shirt. "You're hurt."
"Not much."
She tried to keep her voice steady. "It happened so fast."
"Cyntians are like that. Swift. That's why it's important to put the fight on their vessel. They feel they've already lost. I'll be back in an hour." He unlocked the starboard windows, but didn't open the shutters more than half a hand. "Don't look out."
She frowned, standing nearer to the warming fire, hoping to quell the nervousness seeping through her again. "You're unloading their ship?"
He shook his head, glancing at the floor near a window. "I want nothing from the vessel. It stinks of rot." He went into the office and paused at the stair door and called for Brons. He returned to see Serena still immobile at the hearth, her eyes on the cup in her hands. She set it on the mantle and looked to him.
The cabin boy joined them almost immediately in the bedchamber with a bucket of lye and water and a scrub brush. He knelt at the dark stains left on the floor by bleeding Cyntian.
Darien tapped the ivory cup on the mantle. "Good night. Try to sleep soon."
Brons left shortly after Darien, and Serena leaned against the mantle, her racing pulse finally slowing after the rampage. She watched the wet floorboards dry without seeing them. From the look of Darien's bandaged shoulder she guessed the arrow had done less damage than she first thought. Perhaps it hadn't been as bad ... No, she thought. She had seen it pass through his shoulder. She closed her eyes as a faintness caught her legs. The arrow had been meant for her.
She sat at the hearth as her knees weakened, then reached up to the mantle for the ivory cup. A livestock vessel. The words kept replaying in her mind until she drank half the cup of brandy.
Voices called through the outside night and she resisted the urge to look out the partly opened shutters. After a few moments of shouts, however, she gave in to one small peek.
The black ship was more visible now as the Father Moon shone stronger on the waters. Silhouettes of bodies hung by their wrists swung from masts and derricks. Oddly, Serena felt no resentment for the sight. Instead she breathed a sigh of victory, surprising herself.
Cannibals, she told herself, watching the Nor's crew slash the Cyntian sails. Worse than pirates. She turned from the window, suddenly weary, but not disgusted. The Cyntians made Darien's men seem somehow less dishonorable.
The unsettling ordeal lingered with Serena and the crew the next day as the Nor headed for Cold Rock. She watched as the men treated each other's wounds on deck and recounted individual fights. She tried not to listen, but a few stories demanded her attention. She learned that the Cyntian dead and dying alike were left to hang from the black ship as warnings to other, similarly minded Cyntian vessels.
She knew she had lingered too long when Lucas explained to Brons that none of the wounded Cyntians would survive for long dangling from the black sails. It had been the first mate's idea to clip their wings, as he termed it, by driving a knife deep under each Cyntian man's arm before being hoisted. Brons had thought it a good idea and said so, adding that this would encourage the pellums. Serena had quickly moved to the quarterdeck to deck to escape further details.
Later that evening Serena was glad to be alone in the cabin bedroom. Darien said they would be docking yet again before reaching Cold Rock and the announcement, coupled with the attack and Lucas' account, left her in foul spirits.
With a cautious glance at the door she took the wedding gown from the armoire, seeking a distraction from thoughts of the previous night. Again the touch of the luxurious material eclipsed the meaning of the dress. She smiled, pulling the collar to her chest and looked at her reflection in the armoire mirror. The heavy satin swept the floor as she held it higher.
The opalescent pearls caught the dim lamplight, blinking minute borealis rainbows of color when Serena turned sideways. She'd only seen bolts of the material and the seamstress' sketches for the dress during fittings the past year and was pleased with the results. After a little deliberation, she took another look out the door and closed it completely.
Behind the screen, the gown settled over her in smooth folds, draping her figure loosely. She didn't try to lace the back by herself, but held it closed with one hand and emerged from behind the screen. She stood before the open armoire mirror again.
She frowned, noting slackness in the front pleats of the skirt, and pulled the back tighter. The past few days of little appetite now showed, and her normally slender waist was smaller. She took a deep breath and turned, scowling at the mirror. She would have to change her melancholy habits if she wanted to fill out the dress properly for her postponed wedding.
She smoothed the bodice, then pulled her hair high over her head in loose twists with the other hand, turning her head as the blonde tendrils fell about her face and neck. She turned again, and another movement in the room made her look to the door. In a brief moment of awkwardness Serena could only return Darien's stare as he paused in the doorway. His hand was still on the door latch, his eyes moving over her face and gown with surprise and approval.
She caught her breath, and then instinctively reached for the flannel cote in the armoire.
"Hold it," he said, closing the door behind him. "Turn around."
She held the laces tighter with one hand at her back, her other hand clutching the dressing cote. "It isn't fastened," she stammered.
His eyes moved over the dress with appreciation until she ducked behind the screen in a flurry of satin. For a moment he watched what he could see of elbows, wrists and ivory material above the screen. He looked away slowly.
"Zoicite will have a pretty bride."
Serena hung the elaborate dress over the screen and whisked the velvet skirt up hastily, fumbling with its ties. She shrugged into the bodice, her shaking fingers refused to work, making tying the bodice laces difficult.
"Need help tying something?" Darien's voice snapped her fingers into a new frenzy of awkwardness.
She finally finished tying and stepped out from behind the screen, the blush still bright on her face as she held the draped gown. "No, thank you." She shook her head at the pewter goblet he offered when she met him at the table.
"It's only cider."
She hung the dress in the armoire, then accepted the goblet, mulling over the thoughts replacing her fading embarrassment. She sampled the cider and took a seat by the moderate fire. Darien claimed the opposite chair, one of the Nyan falchions across his knee. She watched as he removed the coat of wax from the dulled blade.
"It's very likely Zoicite will meet you in Cold Rock without a ransom for me," she said, a controlled alarm in her tone as she voiced the thoughts haunting her all day. "What will you do with me then?"
He scowled at the question. "We aren't going to discuss that, Serena."
"But if he -"
"Don't ask," he warned thickly, his hand tightening on the sword hilt. "I've told you more than you need to know already."
Despite repeated attempts, Serena learned nothing, except she was taxing his humor to no avail that evening. After eating a very late supper and irritating him with more unanswered questions, she went to bed, but to sleep.
Since she'd learned of Joshan's existence and Darien's allegations of slavery, Serena felt a restive urgency to leave the Nor before they reached Cold Rock. Whatever Darien promised her now she couldn't believe if Zoicite showed up without the ransom. Good intentions would not be enough to save her from what little she knew of the pirate's temper. She had yet to see him angry, but was certain he wouldn't spare her. With his view of slavery, he might even consider murder more humane than selling her.
Docking in Brimshire now took on a new interest to her. Escape was nearly impossible and utterly senseless while on the ship, but once they docked it was a different matter completely. She believed Darien would allow her to go into town at least once. After all, she had behaved herself in Amstead under his careful guard and she felt he had gained some confidence in her. There'd been no more attacks when he was not looking, and he had even admitted to telling her more than necessary about his demands.
That thought put a chink in Serena's planning for escape. Perhaps, honestly, she was more willing to put her efforts toward attaining her own freedom than weighing the notion of Zoicite as a slave owner. She may have convinced Darien she didn't entirely believe him, but in her heart she wasn't certain.
In all practicality, she had to ask herself why Zoicite would tell her if the mines were run by slave labor. As she thought back over all their casual conversations, and even the more private talks, she realized the subject of slaves had never been an issue. Likewise, she hadn't told her betrothed husband that her Izmaruthen home had been free of slaves, that her father loathed the practice. It was possible Zoicite assumed he knew her view of the bondage and thought she would accept it, even in Embrosse.
Serena sat up suddenly, catching the comforter as it fell to her lap. The Maeyens had always married Izmaruthen women. A portrait of Shayla flashed through her mind, but it wasn't merely the woman's face she saw. The dark amber hair, the tawny skin, the light brown eyes - all were characteristic of Izmaruthen women.
No, she thought, her fingers twisting the thick cotton bed covering. But why else would it be the Maeyen custom to marry women from a country accepting slaves? How could a Maeyen man convince an Embrosse bride to keep quiet about illegal bond slaves?
Serena covered her face with her hands, fingers pressing into her scalp as she drew up her knees beneath the comforter. Was this the ugly Maeyen secret that made the family mines so prosperous? Is this what I'm marrying into? She hugged her knees close and stared unseeing at the low fire in the grate. A creak of the hammock made her look to that corner.
"Are you ill?" Darien asked.
"No."
Serena took a slow breath and laid down facing away from him. She rebuked herself for her former thoughts. She wanted to prove him wrong, but in examining Zoicite's family she hadn't found evidence to contradict the accusation. She pulled the comforter closer, sighing. But that didn't mean Darien was right.
He may think he's right, she calmly told herself. She could admit Methuen possibly worked the mines by slave labor. It was surely her uncle's mark she had seen on Darien's arm. And Brons? She continually hoped he would not enter her sight minus a shirt so she could avoid seeing his arm. She considered what little she knew of the cabin boy and Joshan. Perhaps they had been subject to Methuen's bondage. Brons could have escaped shortly before Methuen died two years ago. When Zoicite had taken over the operation he would have freed the slaves, she rationalized. Of course, he would not, could not, return them all to their homelands. Joshan could be wandering Ibereth, or Cor Ten, as Darien had.
Even as the thoughts came into her mind, Serena didn't believe them. Darien said he saw Joshan at the Ibereth mine before the collapse. He tried bribery to get the boy out. And, more convincing yet in her own desperate scenario, why would Zoicite release a slave force when he would have to replace it with hired workers?
It was that lone thought that nagged her the most when she tried to vouch for Zoicite. The Maeyen mines were a lucrative operation and the cost to run it by paid laborers would diminish the healthy profits. She rolled onto her back and stared at the dark beams crossing the ceiling.
She was supposed to be thinking about escaping in Brimshire, not the mines. They were Zoicite's business. If he was a slave owner, she would find out soon enough.
Her brow wrinkled. When? After they were married? When it was too late? A wave of panic made her breath catch. It was already too late. She had no other option than to marry Zoicite. Going back to her father's house was unthinkable, and she would not disgrace him by doing it. She had no way to prove Zoicite as a slaver to her father.
A shudder grabbed Serena's spine. Darien is wrong. She couldn't say why, or how, but he was. He had to be.