Isles of Ill

89212 words.

The Isles of Ill

by Jack Rickard

Chapter One

An invitation, 'My Lady,' I said the words to myself, I hadn't been called that in a long time, then, with a difficulty that annoyed me, I began to read, "you, and only you, are hereby requested to attend the wedding of the two. Arrive at port within the week, sincerely the silent man." As well as the note, there was a thick, golden coin. Embossed with the same sigil as the wax seal.

I keep playing that last Friday through in my mind, an invitation back, but why? I knew for the circumstances as the letter had said, "the wedding of the two," I knew who the two were, well in truth there was no way to know anything for sure, but I had a pretty good idea. Lady Florence and Prince Finnegan, the twins. They were a couple of years younger than me and had always been, experimenting, with each other. For sure such acts would be frowned upon on the mainland. But not back there, not in that city. So yes, I know as to why an invitation had been brought upon me, but what on earth would bring the Duke to want me back. Was it a trap? It seemed so; in any case it would be dangerous, certainly unwise.

Yet, I find myself staring out of this stained window, the glass was rough and tinted in green. Only the outlines of the thrashing waves were visible to me, soon enough, the fog would descend then everything said for the contents of my cabin would disappear. To get to my destination, one had to not only know who to find, but also have the goods to offer. Money would not be enough. I knew who to go to, and for the goods, the golden coin would suffice. Not every ship sails the fog, most that do are never seen again. Captain Three Fingers had taken me to the mainland; now, ten years later, he was taking me back. He didn't say anything when he saw me approach, when I walked on deck, he offered nothing more than a glare. One would be pressed to see any emotion under those excessive layers of black hair however, perhaps he had a beaming smile after-all. I remembered him fondly from my childhood. He was no more than four feet tall, and his captain or pirate hat was so big it was held on with a chin strap. He'd lost one leg to what he said was the fabled kraken, and his fingers had been bitten off by mermaids after he'd fucked them under the sea in one of their pleasure palaces inside a giant clam. Indeed, the man was bat-shit insane, yet the way he talked and what he talked about always put a smile of my younger face. Now though, he seemed... different. After ten years, he was a stranger, one I had no intention of talking to.

The fog had engulfed the boat, it had a certain presence to it, always here, always freezing and biting. The captain remained on deck, the only soul up there. He manoeuvred the ship with subtle twists of the wheel, changing course ever so slightly here and there. For anyone but himself, they would be blind in the fog, lost of their minds. I lay below, sitting snug under expensive fur. The cabin I'd been given was simple, yet it had a certain safety about it. The walls were plain with one window to look out, look out and see nothing. Two pictures hung on either side of the door. One of a city, shrouded in darkness, a gleaming moon hanging high above. The other was of what seemed to be wine, or blood, splattered in random fashion. There was no bed, for the journey would be no longer than four hours. There was a desk, it had paper and envelopes but nothing to write with, not that I had anything to write or anyone to write to. My suitcase had been dumped on the wooden floor, it swayed and swashed about, banging into anything it could. I was traveling light, very light. I had only the clothes I was wearing, the ones I'd escaped in ten years prior. In truth, it turns out I hadn't grown a great deal in the last decade. It helped that when I escaped, I had taken Lady Lilith's clothes, she was five years older and was always a tad taller. I'd had these clothes stuffed in the back of my wardrobe for all those years, never thinking to dig them out again. Yet here I was, wearing them, and wearing them rather well I must say. There were elegant and extravagant, as any attire of the Valentines would be. Fitted leather trousers and jacket tanned a deep black, the shirt was silky and blood red with white frayed cuffs and collar. Dotted all over was exquisite embroidery and lavish design. The gloves were velvet and stained a dark red. Everything fitted tight but felt secure. I threw the fur off me and went to the mirror for another stare, I hadn't really paid any mind to how pale I was, my alabaster skin was ashen, it almost matched the white of the shirt. My hair was so long, it too was ashen white and fastened into a double braid that hung down one side. I wasn't that imposing, pretty short really, only five foot two on a good day. The slight heel on my black leather boots offered me a tad more, but not much. I was thin, probably too thin, my cheekbones were visible, and my frail frame felt the cold more than it should. Yet I didn't feel hungry, just a little off. The boat shuddered, causing me to stamp out to gain my footing. After a few more heaves and wobbles, I retreated to the warmth of the blanket. I lay there, shivering for warmth. All I had for company was the creaks and wails of the wood, as it was battered in the stormy fog. I played with my hair under the fur, twirling it in hand. To tell the truth, I loved it, it seemed so unique, especially back on the mainland. So white, so pure. Yet it also had cursed me, cursed me to wander, to find myself. For I was not a Valentine, I may have the pale skin, I may have been raised by the Duke and his family, but my hair was ashen as the moon, not blood red.