1

Nobody aboard the Rosemary Row would speak a word to Yuliana. Regaining her senses early in the morning following her capture, her Imperial majesty located herself in the aft of the ragged schooner, among bundles of ropes, chests, and sacks, like only another piece of plunder. She was not bound. Where would she have gone on this small platform of many times mended wood, surrounded by the sea in every direction? The only way out was by joining the fish. She was unarmed, of course, dressed only in her nightgown and the dark, hooded robe she had cast on her shoulder upon leaving her cabin. Pulling the still damp veil now tighter on about herself to cover her figure, she drew her knees closer and sat huddled and scowling like an insulted kitten.

The pirate ship had a crew of eighteen men. They ranged from slender teens to robust adults in their thirties, dressed in colorful cotton rags without a common theme, and scarves or little hats to cover their heads from the sun. Almost all bore a knife on the hip, but ones meant for work, to process fish, wood, or rope, in place of human throats. The crew operated the ship with discipline, exchanging no needless words, and paying little heed to their royal catch.

Judging by the position of the rising sun, they were headed northwest, determined to outrun possible pursuit with all due haste.

The nightly storm was only a distant memory.

The sea was somewhat restless, with hard winds and erratic waves, but the weather was otherwise clear and blindingly bright. The Rosemary Row sped on with the ease of an arrow, the sails flapping and bulging like chained pidgeons.

The ship was quite as unrefined as her handlers; the main sail was sewn together of multiple pieces of cloth, most of it light gray, but not all patches were of the same color, or even close enough. The deck was likewise a mishmash of boards of different tones, ages, and sizes, but polished and overall kept clean. Despite the heavily improvised fixes, which gave the ship its unique, haggard, very pirate-like appearance, there was nothing unnecessary or impractical about it; every line had its purpose, and no plank stood out of place.

Not that Yuliana had the education to appreciate these details. To her, the weather-worn schooner was only a mess of rope, wood, and junk, a large piece of flotsam on its own.

The crew washed the deck in the morning, after which half of them—the starboard watch—ceased their work to have breakfast, while the other half continued to watch the helm and mend the sails. Hard bread and slices of salted beef was their menu. In an hour, the watches would trade places, and the voyage carried on without slowing at all. Breakfast was also when the kidnappers first acknowledged the existence of their captive, bringing Yuliana her share of the meal. The Empress was given no special treatment. An inch-thick slice of white, hard-baked bread and cuts of beef were also her share, with a cup of fresh water to wash it down with. There were no vegetarians at sea, apparently.

Yuliana had been determined to refuse anything they should offer her, in protest to the barbarous capture, the murder of so many unsuspecting knights and sailors, as well as the on-going infringement of her personal liberty. Alas, her empty, hurting stomach didn’t think this was such a good plan at all, and loudly protested. It was well and fine to be principled, but how could she properly express her disapproval, if she passed out of hunger? Her knightly side reminded her that it was better to preserve her strength, so that she could protest with all the more vigor instead. So she begrudgingly received her share and did her best to get it down. It was far from royal levels and not particularly tasty by any means. The beef was so salty it brought tears to her eyes, and the bread hard and dry enough to make her gums bleed. But the food did its job and soon made her feel a good deal firmer.

Regaining her confidence, Yuliana asked the sailor who came to collect the plate and the cup, “Where are you taking me?”

The man gave her no answer, took the dishes and went away, and Yuliana regretted ever warming up in the slightest to this inhospitable lot of scoundrels.

“I have certain rights, I believe!” she informed them, “even by your heinous code! At least tell me who is the one to imprison me? Who is the captain of this ship? Will he not come forward and assume responsibility for his deed?”

Again, she went without answers. It was rather difficult to identify the captain of the ship only by looking too. They were all dressed equally poorly, wore no insignia, made no salutes, expressed no distinct hierarchy. The men didn’t need orders to recognize what had to be done at any given moment, and each one worked at his own initiative. It was not a warship, but more akin to a simple fishboat.

“Unbelievable!” she grumbled aloud. “This is simply unbelievable!”

“—Exactly as you say, your majesty!” Waramoti concurred, sitting on a nearby crate, dripping wet. “I only just got my lute cleaned and dried up, and now it’s all soaked again.”

“Ha—?”

Everybody aboard the ship froze and turned slowly to look at the bard sitting at the stern, shaking water out of his lute.

“Waramoti?” Yuliana spoke his name, as though to check whether naming him would prove the youth an illusion and make him disappear. He didn’t vanish. It was undoubtedly the man himself, in the flesh, and so she had to question him further. “What are you doing here? How did you get on board...?”

This question was likely what all the pirates were thinking as well.

“Why, it’s quite simple,” the bard answered with a haughty smirk. “Feeling the nature’s call, I happened to be up and about on the deck when you were taken. I wasted no time but grabbed hold of the dragon’s tail as it departed, and let it carry me over to this lovely schooner. Well, fact is, I fell in the sea shortly before the ship and had to swim the rest of the way, but never mind the small details. I managed to climb on board through an open window, and spent the night down in the hold, intending to keep my presence secret until the destination. But, seeing as we’re nowhere close to land yet, and it is rather difficult to remain hidden on a vessel this small, I ultimately judged it wisest to make my appearance now, before the charges against me could grow any steeper. And, truth be told, I’m rather hungry.”

For a moment, the Empress and the pirates continued to stare at the bard, at a loss of words over his unbelievable tale. Meanwhile, Waramoti faced them with a prideful smile, sitting on his crate, and took up his lute.

“Well then, my friends,” he told them, “I trust a pirate wouldn’t blame a free man for not paying for the ride! In exchange for your hospitality, would you like to hear this new song I came up with?”

The bard struck the cords, which produced only a low, damp, not so melodic noise. PRUNG.

“Uh, would anyone happen to be carrying any nuts?” he inquired with a cringe. “No?”

A moment later, the minstrel lay tied up like a larva in the aft and the voyage continued.

“How on earth are you still alive?” Yuliana asked him with a heavy sigh. “I’m beginning to wonder if you aren’t simply addicted to bondage.”

“Ah, that’s what Izumi would say,” the bard remarked.

Though Waramoti’s appearance had served to change the situation little, Yuliana couldn’t deny that she felt a good deal more at ease with a familiar face around. At least she wasn’t all alone in her misery, even if it was a rather dodgy sort of consolation.

Hearing Izumi’s name mentioned, Yuliana had to wonder what the summoned champion would have done, were she here. She had asked this very question of herself countless times over the past months, in various situations, and the answer always came to her just as readily: leave none alive. And then Yuliana would go on to ask herself, why had she ever looked up to such a person in the first place? But even though the Empress could never produce a credible answer to why she missed the adventurer, it was no less a fact that miss her she did. The woman’s calm voice, her unshakable composure, that gentle, good-intending, a little pained smile—even the moronic jokes. They never failed to soothe her dread.

Nevertheless, under the circumstances, Yuliana could only be glad that wherever Izumi was now, she was not here.

Her majesty turned her gaze aloft.

High up on the main mast, balancing on the tip of the flagpole in daredevil defiance of luck and gravity, was a young girl in a pearl-white gown.

The child peered ahead with her wild eyes, attentive and excitedly smiling, smelling the wind. Once at about noon, without warning, she would lightly leap off to her apparent death, causing Yuliana to yelp in shock—only to soar the skies in the next moment in the shape of a grand beast.

The light green dragon would glide over the deep blue waters off to the larboard before suddenly plunging through the surface, to snatch a swordfish the size of a pony in its jaws. Making short work of this snack while rolling high up in the air, the dragon would then return back to the ship, and reclaim its post on the mast-top, wearing the guise of an innocuous human child once more, licking the bloodied fingers.

The pirates were apparently used to this show already, displaying little reaction to it, not even interrupting their work to watch.

Yuliana stared at the monstrous girl full of healthy fear and awe, recalling the many legends her old teacher had told her when she was still little. She had never sincerely believed in those stories, no more than a dweller of Earth believed in the acts of Saint George, or in the authenticity of the Nibelungenlied. No dragons had been sighted in Noertia in hundreds of years, and even the older accounts were pushing the boundaries of plausibility. The more recent Imperial reports had mentally prepared Yuliana for the truth behind the myth, or so she had thought, but reality still went far beyond whatever fantasy she had entertained.

Now, in the lack of better things to do, the Empress thought back to the Tale of Creation, wondering just how much of it could correspond with real life events.

At the time long before the Covenant came to be, when the Old Gods had only just finished making the land, they began to dream of life forms to fill it. The Gods covered all the realm with beautiful flora and fauna, plants, and wild animals of various types, and they had put in the seas fish and such like marine creatures, so that no corner of the world remained barren any longer.

But the Gods were not content yet.

They wished to create life closer to their own radiant selves, beings of higher thought, who could be conversed with and taught. Beings, who would possess the ability to identify themselves, perceive themselves relative to the universe, and bring glory to the world with their deeds. Such a race was to be the Crown of Creation, the wardens of Eden, and watch over all other life.

Unable to agree on what form this enlightened race should take, the Old Gods each resolved to create vessels of their own design, and see which of them would be most suited to house True Souls. They agreed on certain rules for the basis of their work and then set out to bring forth the best they could.

The first one to finish was Valios, the God of Air, who made emiri, and in so doing enraged the other Gods.

“What have you done!?” they all questioned Valios while examining the result of his efforts. “Their might is too great, their lifespan has no limit! Have you forgotten all the terms we agreed to? What will you do if they choose to become gods in place of gods, and begin to reshape our creation to their own liking?”

“What is done is done,” said Valios, unrepenting. “I will not unmake them.”

The heavenly work was off to a sour beginning.

No one was willing to recognize another God’s work superior to their own, and as the Crown of Creation. Ere long, this noble endeavor had devolved into a childish game, where each God sought to surpass the rest, or somehow undermine what they had made, spinning outright mockery of it.

If one species could harness the elements, another would absorb them; if one could work stone, another would excel at breaking it; if one loved the day, another would live only at night. All the resulting creatures were more or less in conflict with some other, planting the early seeds of many tragic disputes to come.

Only Hamaran, keeping to himself, clueless of the other Gods’ contest, achieved his task with appropriate prudence, creating humankind with no hint of favoritism, their might and lifespans appropriately scaled. Not that they were fit to be the overseers of the Creation either, as they were, and his people would forever rue the honesty of their maker.

In spite of the on-going rivalry, the Old Gods were mostly benign in nature, and their followers likewise disposed towards peace and seeking the common good, in place of aimless aggression—even if their perceptions of the "common good" at times clashed.

Until Iraam, the many-faced God of Fire, made dragons.

Dragons were beautiful creatures, in their own way, but like fire, fickle and fierce, averse to rules and restraints. Iraam soon realized he had made a grave mistake. The great wyrms were quick to forget their maker’s words, and hostile to other life forms, killing and devouring them wherever able. No amount of education could make them see the wrong in it. Did not the wild animals on land and sea do the same with complete impunity?

In an effort to make up for his error before the other Gods would notice, Iraam stole the formula of Wisdom from Geltsemanhe, and gave it to his dragons. He hoped rationality would balance their feral nature, allowing them to reflect on the consequences of their actions, and thereby come to see the benefits in co-existence.

Alas, intelligence does not equal compassion, and insight is not the partner of love. The Fire God’s virtuous intentions only achieved the opposite effect. Through heightened understanding, dragons recognized their own overwhelming potential, and how meager their share of the realm was in proportion to their might. They were the race most suited to be the Crown of Creation, yet they were held back and hidden like something vile, a source of shame to their maker.

What followed was not peace but open rebellion.

Dragons stole away from Iraam’s Hold in the South Pole, and invaded the land of Crulea, chasing out its original inhabitants. They made that land Dali-thú-Dalinneá, their dominion on Ortho, whence they would launch their campaign to conquer all of the realm. Dragons loathed emiri, the first-created, above all and killed them in jealous anger wherever found.

So began the War of the Sky.

Gods saw their world engulfed in fire, ash, and death, and were aggrieved to see that war had found it. But what could be done? Even by Gods’ measures, dragons were mighty, and not so easily disposed of. Not without a heavy cost. Yet, for a time, it seemed that unless the deities themselves intervened directly with force, Ortho would be reduced to only dead rubble ruled by terror, so soon after it was made.

Fortunately, it didn’t come to that.

Here, for the first time, the created surprised the creators.

The many races of Ortho, previously strangers to violence and sorrow, endured and rose up to the challenge, and became tempered into warriors by the crucible of dragonfire.

Among the oppressed emiri, heroes the likes of Giolgnam and Lebennaum found their strength, and went on to become legends and kings of their people. Homeless cruleans were rallied by the Iron Lord Orgumthraus, and they dug their new home in the eternal ice of the Northern Continent, where dragons dared not go.

Following the example of these valorous people, aided by the Gods where able, all life from the enigmatic goti to the smallest men stood united against the common threat. And after many bitter campaigns of blood and tears, the dragons were at last defeated. So thoroughly were they trounced, that all illusions of domination left the survivors.

Hunters turned hunted, the desperate dragonfolk went as far as to disguise themselves as the weakest of the warring races—humans—to avoid extinction. A skill that some among them still inherit through blood and retain to this day…

Such was the myth, too old for mortal memory, only preserved as thin-worn folklore. But why and how could a dragon come to Noertia now, after so long, and choose to live among the pirates, of all people? Yuliana had no way to explain this mystery yet. She could only hope that the answer would be revealed in time, and that she would live long enough to learn it.

2

For two days and two nights, the Rosemary Row sailed on, never changing her heading. Late in the afternoon of the second day, small, dark dots of land were beginning to appear in the glittering horizon. It was then that one of the sailors came to pass Yuliana a strip of black cloth.

“Put it on.”

After making sure she had the blindfold on properly, he went on to cover bard’s eyes as well. Clearly, they didn’t want their guests to memorize the route to their hideout. This turn of events gave Yuliana both courage, as well as concerns. Former for the apparent fact that they did plan to let her go at some point; and latter for confirming her theory, that her life was to be made a bargaining chip by which to extort the civilized lands.

Her eyesight taken, Yuliana instead focused on her other senses. She listened to the sound of waves, the footsteps reverberating along the deck boards, the sound of lines straining, sails shifting. It took some hours before they reached the islands she had perceived in the distance, but Yuliana could tell their proximity by the characteristic noise the waves made as they fell on rocks and sand.

Hearing their movements, sensing the shifting of balance, she could tell when the crew adjusted course to navigate past obstacles and shoals, along a path they evidently knew by heart. Based on these observations, she attempted to draw in her mind a map of their path.

Yuliana got off to a good start too, in her own opinion, yet over time the task proved more complicated than she had expected. Hours crawled by, and by the way sounds echoed about them, she could tell islands surrounded them in virtually every direction. Yet, instead of pulling up to shore, the schooner would pass all land, and move on to open sea again. The same auditory sensations would repeat again and again, first nearing land, then drawing further away, as if they were going in circles without any actual progress. Were they trying to confuse her on purpose?

Eventually, Yuliana realized the reason.

They had to have sailed to the Thousands, off the west coast of Melgier. True to the name, there were numerous islands in the region, some as large as thirty miles wide, while most of them between one to five miles, or less. There probably weren’t as many as thousands of them, but so many that nowhere close to all were marked on any existing map. In fact, map-makers were not wanted in these waters, for the reason that this was where the pirates liked to hide their loot and ships, and any who dared follow did so at the cost of their life.

The tight-packed isles provided the ideal setting for the small and agile pirate crafts to lose their hunters. The gaps between the dots of land were filled with webs of illusory witchcraft and alarming wards, making surprise assaults impossible. Larger islands were each coated also with verdant jungle, which had with resounding success hidden the rogues from the eyes of the Law for centuries. Only a fool with a death wish would sail here without the blessing of the Confederacy, which had—ironically enough—helped preserve the local nature and wildlife untouched for just as long.

Hidden somewhere in the Thousands, past all the lush trees and lonely volcanoes, secretive lagoons, and deceitful crags, was also said to lie the fabled pirate city, the community of the Confederates, their very own Libertalia, where the lawless anarchists gathered and traded. It was in their best interests to leave as few signs of their stronghold as possible on the outside, and have it slip into the realm of legend and gossip instead.

That place had to be Yuliana’s destination now, and surely only a miracle could deliver her thence—or else, a literal mountain of gold. She didn’t think waiting for either of these solutions was agreeable. No, one way or the other, she had to become her own savior and allow no one else to be inconvenienced for her sake.

Yet, will and wishes alone weren’t going to free her. Unable to do anything about her predicament at the moment, she could only sit and wait patiently for her circumstances to change for the better.

It took several hours more before the crew began to close the sails, slowing their progress, and the sound of the waves grew faint. The wheel was turned, quick words of preparation exchanged. Only a bit more, and the anchors were lowered, the gangplank set.

The voyage had ended.

Now, someone came and pulled the blindfold off Yuliana’s head, telling her to stand. It was already late evening, the sun but a red spot in the eastern horizon, yet even that little light stung her eyes. Blinking, she struggled up to her numb feet and looked around.

The schooner stood in the corner of a spacious cove shielded by tall, steep hills, overgrown with vegetation. Past the curving land, only a very stingy sector could be seen of the open sea and the neighboring islands. The cove was lined by a shallow beach of clean sand, upon which a network of wooden piers and bridges had been built of roughly sculpted, tarred logs and stalks of bamboo. There were several other small ships of no less personal looks anchored in the vicinity. Yuliana could see people carrying cargo ashore, to a handful of storage sheds built in the forest’s limit, but there was nothing suggesting permanent residence.

Regardless, this was clearly their last stop.

The two prisoners had their wrists bound with rope and were led off the schooner to land in a line, like slaves on the way to the markets. They weren’t going to spend the night on the naked beach, however. A narrow, stealthy footpath led uphill, past the sheds. Together with the buccaneers, they followed the beaten trail through the jungle, nobody uttering a word.

The path circled around a great hill of precipitous sides, well veiled by foliage all around. The worst parts of the rugged path were covered with boards. Even as they climbed onto higher ground, Yuliana could see no clues regarding their accurate whereabouts. Past the trees, in the southern distance, lay only the ocean, dotted by more islets of identical looks, as far as the eye could reach, as though there had been giant mirrors set up to endlessly reflect the same view. Yuliana could vaguely tell the cardinal directions by the position of the setting sun, but this information was of no use to her on its own. Even if she knew roughly which way the mainland stood, she would need a ship to reach there, someone to operate the ship, and a lot of supplies. The task seemed difficult, to a demoralizing extent.

As they got around the slope, deeper inland, the young Empress forgot about her concerns, witnessing a most breathtaking view spread downhill. The island was cleaved deep by a prodigious gorge of steep, naked sides, severing a solid fifth of the land clear apart from the rest. And stashed in that natural crack was a wondrous show of human craftsmanship, a town, a city.

Dozens upon dozens of board houses climbed along the nigh perpendicular cliff faces in several overlapping levels, connected with ladders, rope bridges, and narrow walkways. As daylight waned, torches and candles were lit, making the canyon warmly twinkle and glow from one end to another, in brazen rivalry with the darkening sky, where the galaxy's faint path was drawn in a closely mirroring arc.

Such a settlement was not built in a day or two, speaking of the corsairs’ long history. And yet, it was not a fortress of gold and splendor that stood in that hidden canyon either. Not all the houses even had a splash of paint to shield them from the elements. Villainy had evidently not made the buccaneers too opulent—or else, they had never known what to do with their wealth, and had squandered it all in the chase of carnal pleasure. So Yuliana speculated.

Many heads were turned by the procession and the fair lady in the returnees’ midst. Yuliana pulled the hood of her cloak on, but would observe her surroundings with great care, trying to determine what manner of a pit of centuried sin and corruption she had been brought to. To her continued surprise, she saw very few carnivorous looks, or malicious grins among the few bystanders.

In fact, she counted none. No jeering, no wicked laughter.

Most of the people about seemed not like pirates at all, but ordinary men, and women there were too, of various ages, even children she saw, and elderly. They all stared at the Empress eyes rounded and jaws agape as she passed, looking even more surprised than she was, seeing no prize but a myth, an existence no less foreign and incomprehensible than a dragon.

Were these people slaves the pirates had captured from the mainland and forced to work for them? That had to be it. How many generations of tyranny and grief had this small island witnessed? It was revolting. One way or the other, Yuliana resolved to put a stop to it.

The men of the Rosemary Row took her majesty to a slim, two-story cabin on the north side of the canyon, nestled against a bushy slope rising behind it. Sandwiched between two very clearly abandoned shacks, it was somewhat removed from the rest of the population and good enough for a gaol, apparently.

The line stopped there at the door, which the man at the front unlocked with a large, rusty key. Inside was a cramped room full of junk, crates, boxes, barrels, empty bottles, sacks, ropes, and whatnot. It was so full that not a soul could fit in. But in the corner by the door were board stairs—better described as wide ladders—taking to the attic.

Nodding with his chin, the man urged Yuliana to climb up.

“You’re joking?” she asked. He was not.

Yuliana climbed up, loath to touch the dusty steps. There was a little landing above, a bit over a foot deep and four wide, and another locked door. The man squeezed up to the level with her, unlocked the attic door with effort, and gestured at her to go in.

Beyond was a compartment fortunately cleared of junk, barely high enough for Yuliana to stand upright without hitting her head in the roof framing.

In the back wall was one tiny, circular window, about the size of a person’s head and round. A number of carpets were cast on the floor, and some large, rough-knit pillows for a bed in the back. As she had guessed, this was to be her guest room.

The man beckoned Yuliana to come closer and removed her bindings.

“Welcome to Harm’s Haven, your ladyship,” he told her. “Enjoy your stay.”

With that, the sailor stepped out and locked the door after him.

It took Yuliana a moment to adjust to the new conditions.

After four days of constant motion at sea, it felt weird to have a solid footing again, in silence and alone. Was the floor still swaying or was it only an illusion? Should she have thanked her luck that nothing worse had happened? Not that she felt like cheering either.

Instead, Yuliana went on to examine her royal suite closer.

In the right side corner was a bucket of fresh water, for washing, or drinking, or likely both. Further in from there, on top of a small drawer, was a wood tray with fruits and some bread. Her dinner, clearly. On the left side corner was an opening to a smaller expansion box, barely large enough for one person to fit in. There was a seat with a hole in the back of it—the toilet. Through the filthy hole, an open fall of about twelve feet could be seen, to a cluttered jungle ravine between the buildings. Even if she got desperate, the hole, like the window, was much too small for her to fit through.

Such was the reception prepared for the Sovereign of the Western Continent.

Frustrated and dejected, Yuliana touched not the fruits, drank a bit of water, and sat down on the pillows, trying to think.

What sort of unreasonable conditions would the pirates demand for her return? She couldn’t even imagine. Tons of gold and jewelry? Freedom for their imprisoned criminal comrades? Or worse: the lives of their sworn enemies, politicians, army leaders, brave defenders of law and order? Anything was possible when dealing with these heartless rogues, and Yuliana couldn’t tell which would be worse—that the demands were rejected, or that they weren’t.

What if it was the Principality, or another foreign kingdom, which purchased her freedom, then to demand political concessions from the Empire? Would Tratovia even care to respond? Yuliana had never been truly one of them and she’d made a lot of enemies in the brief months of her office, instigating too many changes. It was possible some of the nobles, or criminal kingpins would rather pay for the pirates to keep her. Meanwhile, Miragrave would ruin her own reputation trying to save such a worthless monarch.

Which was the lesser evil?

To be rescued? Or to be simply forgotten?

Only time would tell. So fatigued Yuliana was by the long, anxious voyage and the restless nights, that sleep overtook her before she realized it, well before she could even get started with the escape plan.