Part Two

Hankscrew

“You can take a weaver’s strength, but you can’t take his heart.

You can take a Draker’s ship, but you can’t take his prey.

You can take a pirate’s life, but you can’t take his freedom.”

-Captain Drevor,

Captain of the Night Sword

Asta

Never get captured by the Ladians.

It’s brutal.

And I know what will happen to me.

Shortly after the man with the cruel smile came and told me I was in the South Empire, I was picked up by a handful of four guards, my limbs bound in heavy chains, a leather gag shoved halfway down my throat, and dragged out of the stone cell into a cobblestone hallway supported by copper archways with oil portraits of the Ladian gods between each arch.

There was Pluta, the goddess of storms, in her swirling indigo skirts and four-pronged trident. Dreko, god of the hearth, his pointed beard alight with flame, large hands cupped around a blistering fire. Aroe and Akoe, the god and goddess of the moon and sun. Aroe in his ivory ship pulled by two Drakes. Akoe in her golden tunic and armor, a crown of sun bursts on her head, the scepter of the sun in her hand. There were other gods too, but I only knew those and a few others. Right before the guards and I entered another corridor, I spotted the blue and black burka of Tydia, the patron goddess of Ladia.

And the goddess of death.

I remember some of the pirates on the Scarecrow praying to her right before a raid. They had knelt in front of small towers built of bone held together by dark blue wire. I had asked Rover why they did it, and he had simply stared at me, a war of emotions in his remaining green eye.

What I knew of Tydia was that she was small, with a single edged black dagger as a weapon. Her burka covered her from head to toe, though in some myths she wore a silk dress. Only her eyes were visible, and like her skin, they were the color of wet ink, oily and as dark as the deepest parts of the Strait, with a single thin ring of neon blue in each one, like the rings in Isabeth’s eyes.

The guards deposit me on another stone floor, attaching my chains to various hooks on the floor, before backing up, hands on their weapons. I can feel my heart pounding, climbing into my throat, with the same erg to escape as a captive Drake. Someone comes into the room behind me, their footfalls soft and padded, unlike the metallic clank of the guards. Their feet pass across my line of sight, then back out of it, leather scuffling the floor as they pace in a circle around me.

“This is it?” The person speaks Hadirin, though their voice carries a heavy southern accent.

“Yessir.”

“Tragic.” The person kneels in front of me, tucking his hand under my jaw, lifting my head. His hand is cold and smooth, like water. He’s wearing a military uniform, the material hugging his muscles. With his other hand, he reaches up to the right side of my face, brushing aside my hair. I whimper, my body shaking.

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“I wondered why they call you a Narbenträger. Now I see why.” He tilts my head up, forcing me to expose my throat. The last person who touched me like this got bitten. And that last person was Rover.

The word he used, Narbenträger.

The man steps back, studying me.

“Bathes. Make him presentable.” He stalks out, footsteps receding until they cease to exist. Two guards unchain me while the other two grab my biceps, hoisting me to my feet. They bring me to a bathing room, white steam rising from a tub of water, the walls covered with gold panels, reflecting harsh brass light. I get tossed to the hard tile floor, jarring my shoulder.

“Get yourself clean. Don’t want to have to do it for you.” One says. They leave, shutting and locking the oak door. I groan, laying there, not wanting to move. But curiosity overtook the need to rest my sore, beaten, abused body.

Staggering to my feet, I managed to cling to the marble sink counter. Then I looked at my reflection in the mirror.

My face was covered in blood. It was everywhere, caked into my hair, staining my clothes. So much blood. My hair hung in oily black strips, pasted together, hanging in twisted locks.

So much had happened to the boy staring back at me with his haunted, pale blue eyes. So much pain. So much agony.

The door opens with a metallic squeal, two guards entering in its wake.

“Gods, boy. Ever cleaned yourself before?” The one on the right complains, groaning.

“Pirate, remember?” The other elbows his friend.

“By the gods.” They approach me, moving slowly and cautiously like hunters. Then they lunge.

One grabs my arms, yanking them behind me, sharp pain slicing up from my right shoulder. The other takes a knife and begins to cut, shreds of cloth landing around my feet as I’m stripped. I can feel warmth flooding my cheeks, as well as the guard’s hands rubbing a thick brush and soap up and down my body.

“Hope you know how to put clothes on, pond-scum.” I’m dropped on the ground, eyes closed, naked. The guards leave. And I’m alone, nothing but a cold bathroom and new clothes with me.

Curling up in a ball on the floor, I try not to cry, my chest throbbing, breath coming in strangled gulps. I stagger to my feet, wanting nothing more than to go back to the Scarecrow. Even Oliver’s ship was better then this. Here, my body doesn’t even seem to belong to me anymore.

I find the clean clothes, putting on the baggy white shift that goes to my knees and a loose pair of brown breeches.

“Good.” I spin around to see the two guards from before and the man with the cruel smile.

“The Princeps is waiting. Best not to delay.” I get manhandled out the door, thick chains wrapped around my wrists and ankles, a heavy collar put around my neck.

Then we enter the throne room.

It’s massive, with a tall, stained glass ceiling, built to resemble the captain’s office on a sailing galleon. The floor is covered with a heavy royal purple rug, the walls ebony wood with stained glass portraits of different sea battles in sharp, brilliant colors. On a raised dais at the far side of the room, a golden and emerald throne sat, the back carved of dark wood. Behind the throne, was the biggest oil painting I’ve ever seen.

An oil painting of Tydia.

In it, the goddess stood in a graveyard, a skeleton man holding out her dagger for her, in preparation to drive it through the hearts of the family kneeling at the goddess’s feet.

“Sire, the Dragonweaver.” The man bows, one arm at his side, the other folded against his chest.

“Excellent.” The voice is cold and stunning, like melting ice. The guards holding my chains attach them to the floor, forcing me onto my knees. I look up to see a tall, thin young man climb up the dais to sit on the throne.

Princeps Emmett had a light stubble on his chin, pale blond hair, and a narrow build and face. His uniform was navy blue, gold medals covering his entire chest. A rapier hung on his left hip, the blade thin and naked.

“I have always been curious of weavers. Always wary of the rune they have. Always afraid of them. Do you know why, boy?” The Princeps of Ladia says, folding his hands in his lap.

I wet my lips, not knowing how I’ll be able to answer.

“Because we can kill you without even trying.” I groan, forcing the words past my sore throat. The man’s face narrows. Then he flicks his right wrist.

“Arwen!” He shouts.

“Yes, Princeps?” I turn my head. A sturdy-looking boy with shoulder length neon blue hair wearing black and green robes is the speaker. He looks nervous, hands fretting with a small gold chain that he runs over and around his fingers.

“Make sure that the Dragonweaver stays alive.” He says.

“Yes sire.” Arwen shoots me a look, brief concern flashing across his amber brown eye.

“Guards. Take him where the last weaver who disobeyed me went.” Emmett says. Arwen gulps.

“Are you sure, sire? The last one sent up there never came-” Arwen’s cut off by a glare, his gaze falling to his feet.

“I am sure. Take him to the Spire.”