The crowd at the Sea Dog had been growing since morntide, spilling out onto the walkways and street when the gathering inside swelled until the tavern seemed to fit to burst from the rafters.
Grimefell's most popular—and raucous—inn was used to its ale-swilling congregation, assembling to worship the barrel and the wine flask with a greater fervour than they'd ever paid homage to the dead gods, but Elara could see this was different. The people of the slums were well-known for how brutally ruthless they could be. Here, it was every rat for himself. Where a man could be persuaded to turn in his life-long neighbour to The Order if it meant an extra water ration, or extra coin in his pocket. Where people feared to speak louder than a whisper when discussing the King and did so only in the company of those they knew for certain they could trust, for even whispers were treason.
There were no whispers now.
Now, there was outrage and angered talk, simmering at the edges until Elara could practically see the smoke rising from the crowd, tiny sparks of fury and fear flickering from within the crush of irate faces and raised voices.
From her vantage point across the street, concealed in a nook in an alley directly opposite, Elara pulled the hood of her cloak further over her head. Kelena had helped mask her hair yestertide, pulverising foxwort seeds into a paste and massaging it into Elara's tresses until they took on a reddened hue similar to that of Clova Dell.
Once it was dry, Elara had stared at herself in the mirror for the longest time. Her mother had had red hair. Not like this, but deeper, with streaks of the richest carmine running from root to tip. Under the water, the base colour always seemed darker but the shades of red always caught a vibrant glimmer.
Looking into the mirror and seeing her mother staring back made her heart flutter in her chest and Elara wasn't sure if it was a good feeling. It had made her massage her breastbone with her knuckles, wishing she could still the quiver she felt there.
Or maybe the tremble that had lodged itself behind the bone was for Juda.
When he'd finally left the bedchamber to return to the novice barracks for the final time, Elara had watched him leave with that same feeling inside her throat, which was just as well, for they had exhausted words as much as they had exhausted their bodies. She knew not when she would see him next, if at all, and as much as she'd wanted to say everything to him then—let the words gush from her mouth in a flood—she found she could say nothing more. Instead, they had dressed in silence, and he had crushed his mouth to hers one last time—the taste of their sex still lingering on his lips—and then he had gone, leaving her to this cramped attic room where the window was too high through which to watch him walk away.
Probably a good thing. She would do as he said and focus on what she could control. She couldn't stop him from walking away, any more than he could make her board the Dreynian trade ship. Instead, she would concentrate her efforts on the plan at hand.
A plan that had taken root far quicker than she'd imagined it would.
Bazel had got to work planting the first seeds with the other slum rat kids, whispering in darkened corners with Erron Rhomm and his gang, who'd ran on bare feet or worn-down boots to the next alley, and the next. Anton had murmured into the ears of the other courtesans and any Grimefell resident who had extra coin in their pocket for his services—for he was not above taking his wage from the lower echelon. Kelena had lit a spark in the tavern, watching it catch from person to person, the tiny flames dancing over each in turn.
Elara knew the fire would grow, but not like this. Her heart thumped hard in her chest as she watched the crowds gather. Could this really be the start of it all? She'd been firm in her insistence to Juda that he underestimated Grimefell, but even she hadn't been able to suppress those little itches of doubt that had scratched at her skin.
As their voices rose with swollen rage, she nipped into the alley behind her and headed back towards the Clova Dell's place. As much as she wished to be in the thick of it, with The Order still searching for her, it wouldn't do any good to be lingering too long out in the open, dyed hair or not. And besides, the skin sealants behind her ears were starting to peel away and she needed to spend some time replacing them, thankful to Anton for fetching the pouch she'd concealed under a floorboard in their lodgings.
She kept alert along her journey in her usual way, cloaked but ever wary of what was coming her way and what might be loitering behind her, but it seemed the people of Grimefell were too busy stoking the flames she and her friends had lit. Every side street she turned into, every passageway, every bridge, there was none of the usual whispers and low talk. Instead, they assembled in groups, hands grabbing at anyone who had hoped to pass unnoticed to tell them of what they had heard and pull them into the gatherings. Elara herself was accosted, and each time the stories had become more lurid, more colourful, as the rumour-mill churned out more terrifying and elaborate tales of what the King planned to do with Grimefell.
She couldn't help but grin under her hood by the time she reached the door of Clova Dell's brothel, the thrill of it all fizzing inside her veins.
Inside, however, Clova Dell was not awaiting her with the same sense of exhilaration.
Seated in her armchair, her legs propped onto a footstool, her trademark silk ligatures hanging from her exposed thighs, Clova shot Elara a grim look as she closed the door behind her and glanced around. None of Clova's girls were hanging around the foyer, as they often were, waiting for the next customer. No doubt they were all preoccupied. They too would be a part of this, whispering into the ears of those who came to enjoy them, swapping rumour and flame for smooth, supple flesh, hot, wet mouths, and skilled hands.
"Enjoying the games, girl?" Clova said, smoothing her fingertips over the long, red tresses twisted over one shoulder.
"No games, Clova." Elara pushed back her hood and began to unfasten the cloak at her throat. "Grimefell no longer has the luxury of playing games. Time is fast running out..."
Clova snorted, dismissing her words. "For you, maybe. As if Grimefell ever had the luxury of anything." She nodded her head upwards, her expression grave. "You have a visitor."
The blood rushed in a torrent to Elara's head. Not Juda, surely? He couldn't have returned, not yet, unless he'd refused his place in the Elite Guard, and even then, she doubted they would just let him walk away. It would surely be a treason to desert a post by the King's side? He would be punished, for certain. Maybe even shipped to the dead fields. Like his mother.
Without another word, she dashed to the stairs, taking two at a time until she reached the attic room, bursting inside to find, not Juda lying on the bed, his hands linked behind his head and legs crossed casually at the ankles, but Riggs Cree.
By his side on the bed, her knapsack lay open, the rough cloth pouch containing her skin sealant kit discarded on the blanket.
Elara's hand drifted to the dagger on her hip, a move not unnoticed by Cree, who raised one brow—in amusement or disgust, she wasn't sure.
So, he knew. Whether he'd worked it out beforehand, or when he'd been here, rifling through her things, Riggs Cree, the one whose bed she'd shared, the one who'd etched the delicate script down her spine, knew that she was a Naiad—and that she'd lied to him. That she'd been lying to him the whole time, just as she had with everyone.
"Really, Elara?" he said, his position on the bed unchanged. "You would think to use that on me? I'm hurt."
He wasn't and she could see he wasn't. He was toying with her because he didn't see her as a threat, and well he might not. She could look after herself, that much he knew only too well, but he didn't believe she could best him.
Elara said nothing, preferring to see which path this altercation would take first, and besides, she was closer to the door than he, and could move faster. Flight might turn out to be her only option.
He sat up, swinging his legs round to sit on the side of the bed, taking the pouch in his hands and loosening the drawstring. Reaching inside, he pulled out one of the skin sealants and held it carefully between thumb and forefinger, turning it this way and that, as if he hadn't already spent time examining it, which she knew he would have.
"So, tell me," he said, his brow furrowing—another act. "How does this work exactly? I've heard the respiratory organs can be found...where? On the neck somewhere? I read it once in a book I managed to salvage from the library trash. That was until Ban-Keren started having the old books delivered to the palace to be used as fuel for his chamber hearths."
He looked pointedly at her, a glint in his eyes. "Don't ask me how I know that, by the way. All I'll say is that sometimes the palace courtiers like to rough it with a bit of Grimefell brawn." He placed the sealant back into the pouch and tightened the string. "You see, that's the thing about me, Elara. It's surprising what I manage to discover, how far into this fucked-up society I can infiltrate. People think they can keep things from me, whether it be overcharging and skimming the extra for themselves or feeding information to the other gang bosses about my deals. I always know. I always find out."
Riggs put the pouch back inside the knapsack, fastened the buckle and placed the bag beside him on the bed, patting it for good measure.
"And yet, I never knew about you."
Elara still said nothing. The air between them prickled.
"I have to say, I'm impressed." He cocked his head to one side, his eyes appraising her, even if his face remained impassive and cold. "I mean, you always impressed me, but then again, I think you knew that, didn't you?" He didn't wait for her to answer, not that she was going to. "And then was the tide you came to find me on Midgulch Bridge, throwing silver at my rats and putting on that pretty speech about how the King was going to make us suffer."
"Was I wrong?" she finally said.
Riggs shrugged. "No, you were not. But you also only told half a story, didn't you? You failed to tell me the reason the King wanted Grimefell to suffer was you, Elara. Am I wrong?"
"The King despises us, he..." she began.
"He despises you. He despises the Naiad."
He stood up and Elara took a step back—another thing that didn't go unnoticed. Fucker.
"You killed the novice Zar-Kuron," he said. "All that time, I was wondering how it could have happened. Imagining it must have been some freak accident, that the idiot took a tumble, and the whole time, it was you."
The Naiad in her veins preened, remembering the look on the novice's face, the way his body had felt in the water, as she'd pushed him under the surface.
She smiled—couldn't help it. She had nothing to lose now. "Yes, it was me."
"What did he do?" Cree asked and Elara faltered then, not expecting him to ask. To even care.
"Breathed. Existed," she said, but she could see he didn't believe her. Her hand dropped from her blade. "He found me in one of the old temples and he beat me for not attending the The Gathering. At least, that's what he said, but I knew different. He beat me because he could. Because there was no one there to stop him. And then he decided to try and take that which wasn't his to take. Because that's what these people do, Riggs. They torture and they take. They do what they please and they do it in his name. Zar-Kuron chased me to the water's edge, and I used the water to drag him into the Setalah, where I held him under the surface until he rotted from the inside out. Enough has been taken from my kind. I was not about to let the likes of him take anything else from the Naiad."
"You killed the silk merchant," Riggs said, his voice flat. "What did he do?"
"He was Kelena's husband. Her family married her off to him, condemned her to a life of abuse. A maid took pity on her, nursed her back to health, and they fell in love. When Koh-Miralus discovered this, he had the girl thrown into the Setalah and made Kelena watch her lover die. She fled to Grimefell, changed her name, became someone else, but she was haunted by what he had done and was terrified he would come for her. I made sure that was never going to happen. I tricked my way into his home and into his bath, and as he lay his hands upon me, I lay the power of the water upon him and watched it drown him."
Riggs nodded, as if digesting it all and raised one brow. "The Naiad are indeed vengeful creatures."
Elara's rage spiked hard. "Fuck you. You know nothing of what we are."
"Then tell me, Elara of the Naiad," he said. Then softer, "Tell me."
She stared at him, feeling her face growing hot, emotion catching in her throat. Only Juda had ever asked her anything of her foremothers. She wasn't used to this. Talk of the Naiad came only with hatred. With ignorance. Not with an interest for the truth.
"Will it make any difference, Riggs?" she said, her voice thick. "If I tell you it all? Will it make you despise me any less than the King does? Any less than Druvaria does?"
He smiled then, a strange thing, she thought, for Riggs Cree rarely afforded a smile to anyone, even in the bedchamber.
"You forget, I am not Druvarian. I am Carraterrean. Inside my veins rests the sands of the desert. The salt of the mines. Luck or misfortune brought me to these shores and all these moons later, I still don't know which it was. All I know is that there will come a tide when I return there, and I will not miss this black rock. When I first arrived here, the people would spit at me in the streets. Lash out at me. Refuse me food and water. Accuse me of things beyond my imagining. All because I did not look like they did. Because I was not Druvarian."
He held out his arms, bare to the shoulder, but both etched heavily with ink that swirled over his body.
"I was barely eight moons gone when this first began. I asked the artist to cover my skin with ink because I did not want to look different. I thought the etchings would help disguise what I was. Eight moons and taking the needle! The pain was almost intolerable, but it was nothing in comparison to the burn of the spit that hit my skin or the tread of the boots that tried to crush my bones."
Riggs ran his palm up one arm, admiring the needlework. "Nobody ever forgot I was Carraterrean, Elara, no matter how much of my skin I tried to conceal. Soon, I learned to remind them of what I was. I didn't want them to forget. I wanted them to know that the migrant boy they had spat on, had become the man they would fear. The man who would earn his fortune on their land. The man who would run their streets. No one spits on me now, Elara." He grinned. "I would take their tongue for it, and more besides."
He stepped closer to her, looking down into her face. "You'll find no loathing here, for I understand what it is to be despised through no fault of your own, but because of the people who have gone before you. Because of the stories that get whispered behind your back, the ones that grow and spread like rot. I understand what it is to cover a part of yourself you wish you could show the entire world. To answer your question: it may well make a difference. So, tell me it all and leave nothing out, and let us see if we can find common ground, one outcast to another."
And so, Elara told Riggs Cree all of it. The stories carved into the walls of the old Naiad temple. The stories of her foremothers. Of a time when the Naiad sat aside the crown. Of how the Druvari changed it all with their own tales, whispering into the ears of the boy who would be King. She told him of how the water witches were betrayed, hunted, and captured. Of how the palace ran with rivers of Naiad blood. She told him the truth of her foremothers and how they enacted their revenge upon Ban-Keren, and upon the kingdom which had dragged them through the streets. And finally, she told him of the last of them all—of a girl who had kept herself hidden for her entire life, who had lived with shame and guilt until it drowned her, a girl who had always dreamt of the tide when Druvaria would finally open its eyes and its heart, and she would topple the tyrant from his throne, just as her story had foretold she would.
When she was done, Riggs studied her for a moment longer, his face inscrutable. Finally, he frowned, his brow dipping into a valley, his eyes narrowing.
"And you mean what you said?" he asked. "You would really seek to lift the curse?"
"If I can, yes." She nodded. "Once the King is dead, I will do whatever I must to free Druvaria."
Riggs' eyes widened, and then to Elara's surprise, he leant back his head, opened his mouth, and laughed so hard that she could do nothing but gape at him. In all the moons she had known Riggs Cree, she'd never once heard him laugh—not like this. A chuckle here or there, but a laugh that seemed to shake him to his very boots?
"Elara," he said, as if he could barely catch his breath, he'd laughed so hard. "After everything they have done to you and your foremothers, you would still seek to save them?" His face was red now. "Then you are a far better creature than I, that much I can tell you!"
Grasping her hand, he pulled her to the high window. "Come," he said, urging her up onto the ledge, while he just grabbed a small stool. He pointed through the window, the thickened glass blurring the view, but still the citadel beyond was unmistakable.
"You have wreaked havoc on my streets, Naiad," he remarked. "Druvaria is aflame like I have never seen. What am I to do about it?"
She tore her gaze from the view, as he still stared through the glass.
"Keep the fire burning. Pour oil onto the blaze. Stack the kindling high. Give the people a choice: fight back against those that seek to douse the flames or burn with the rest of the citadel. Be the firestorm to my water, Riggs. Help me prove to Grimefell that I am not their enemy. They will listen to you."
He turned to her then, eyes full of surprise. "Elara, do you not hear? They are listening to you."
She swallowed and shook her head. "No. They are listening to a story. They just don't know yet that story is mine."
Riggs smiled at her—if such a sly, wicked thing could be called a smile.
"Then, Elara Consuli of the Naiad, Last of the Water Witches, we will just have to ensure that they do."