Blue Pearls

Posted by Cynthia on August 13, 2009

Blue Pearls 

By Cynthia Rodiana

Copyright and Printed October 2007

Freehold, Monroi Pass, Book 2

“Idiot!” Brogan Laroult shouted. His sword clashed with that of an onrushing goblin rider. His roan charger wheeled on a tight circle as he raised his sword for the next pass. “Alik! You idiot! Get back on that horse!” he shouted as the roan thundered behind Alik, who had dismounted to face his opponent. Rasduu’s daemons, each one uglier than the last, Brogan thought. He shoved the reins into his mouth, clenching them with his teeth as he pulled a short dagger from the bandolier crossing his chest. The slender weapon, nearly invisible as it hurtled through the air, struck the goblin rider in the armpit. Brogan grinned and grabbed back the reins. A golden tooth glinted in the sun. The goblin’s sword drooped and his slashed across the creature’s neck. Its head lolled at a grotesque angle.

“I fight better on the ground,” Alik shouted, barely parrying the blows coming at him.

“If you call it that,” Brogan said, pulling up next to him. A downward stroke cleaved a second goblin charging Alik from shoulder to gut. “Your uncle paid me to deliver you unharmed to House Ansara. You’re making my job difficult.” Brogan paused to look forward along the caravan’s line. The other outriders were holding their own against the sudden swarm of pale creatures that ambushed them from the grassy ravine next to the road. “Quit toying, kill the bastard!”

“I’m trying,” Alik said, breathing hard. He grasped the sword with both hands and spun away from the goblin. The goblin jumped into Alik’s former position, screamed and fell twitching to the ground with a pair of arrows in his back.

Another arrow tore through Brogan’s shirt. He felt it bump and slide against the tightly woven maille tunic he wore beneath his shirt.

“Get behind the wagons!” Brogan shouted to Alik, who stood panting and staring with horror, realizing he escaped by a step.

Alik ran after Brogan, who heeled the charger then dismounted four wagon lengths up from where they had been. Brogan lifted the tarp covering the load, peered inside and shoved bundles out of the way.

“What are you doing?” Alik strove to catch his breath. His eyes darted nervously.

“Getting you the quarterstaff,” Brogan answered, retrieving the weapon.

“I’m not fighting with that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a peasant’s weapon,” Alik said, offended.

“Suit yourself.” Brogan shrugged. He leaned the staff against the wagon, reached back and slid his sword into the baldric. He glanced right. The fighting progressed toward the lead wagons.

“Down!” Brogan shouted, looking left and grabbing the staff.

“Wha – !” Alik ducked as a mace head flew toward his face, just missing him. He heard the crack of facial bone. Blood splattered in the dirt. The goblin behind him groaned. He saw the shadow of the quarterstaff twirl on the road and heard the sound of a blade punching through flesh. The goblin went silent.

“Never give your back to the enemy,” Brogan said, pulling the staff back. “Damn, these things are ugly.”

“You talk like you’ve never seen them before.”

“I haven’t. Not something you see on the western shores.”

“I thought you said a quarterstaff,” Alik said, straightening. He looked at the staff. The steel head of a mace was attached at one end and a sharp blade at the other. The leather grip wrapped around the middle was worn, but supple.

“It is. Just made my way,” Brogan said. He peered around the wagon. Alik turned, putting his back to Brogan’s.

“Now what?” Alik asked.

“Sheath the sword. We’re leaving.”

“But the goblins. We can’t leave!”

“I said we’re leaving. The fiends are going down fast. Mount up. Where’s that box of yours?” Brogan asked.

“Don’t touch it!” Alik said, grabbing it out of Brogan’s reach.

“Fine. Let’s go,” Brogan said, mounting the roan. He cinched the quarterstaff into a special holster, then grabbed the bridle of Alik’s horse. As soon as Alik’s backside hit the saddle, he kicked both mounts to a gallop.

Battle sounds faded as Brogan led them across the grassy plain and finally back onto the road leading to Monroi Pass. When the road curved north, they lost sight of the caravan.

“I didn’t think you were a coward,” Alik said, when Brogan finally slowed the pace, making conversation possible.

“Coward?” Brogan scowled fiercely. His fingers curled around the hilt of the lowest dagger on the bandolier.

“You made us run like cowards.”

“My job is to make sure you arrive at your wedding safely, not to kill goblins,” Brogan said. He realized the arrow was still stuck in his shirt. He yanked it out and tossed it away. “I do what I’m paid to do. Nothing more, nothing less. That raiding party wasn’t that big. Now a ship boarding, that’s something. Took out at least nine myself.”

“Seven.”

Brogan frowned.

“It was seven,” Alik insisted. “And stop treating me like a child. You’re only a winter or two older than me.”

By comparison, Brogan looked the older by a number of winters. His skin was bronzed by time spent sailing the Meridian Ocean. An old scar near his left ear partially disfigured his cheek and old wounds scarred both forearms. Few men Alik had ever seen could match him in stature or weapons prowess.

Or perhaps that wasn’t saying much as Alik Coppersmith, of House Coppersmith, grew up on a large estate halfway between Hopi and Monroi Passes in the foothills of Tral’s Teeth Mountains. Garrisoi was the largest town he had ever visited. Compared to the cities of the North, he hadn’t seen much.

 “What’s in that box of yours? Got gold in there?” Brogan asked.

“It’s…personal,” Alik said. Brogan rolled his eyes. “My uncle’s business. But I’ll show you these.”

From a pocket inside his tunic, Alik drew out a strand of cerulean blue pearls.

There was no mistaking that shade of blue. A pang of longing for the sea, for the Lancer Archipelago where the pearls were harvested, washed over Brogan.

“Where did you get those? They seem a very fine set,” he said, noticing their matched size and color.

Alik shrugged. “They’ve been in the family for years.”

“She will certainly enjoy them. So, what does this bride of yours look like? She pretty? She have big – ”

“Stop!” Alik said, turning pink. Brogan grinned at him and wiggled his eyebrows. “Here, they sent this.” He took a miniature portrait medallion from his pocket.

“Now that’s a fair sight, and so is that,” Brogan said as the gates of Monroi Pass came into view.

*   *   *

Alik sat alone at a table in the common room of the Dusty Moon Inn. It was a place quartermasters favored for its security as it was reconstructed from the ruins of Monroi Pass’s first fortress, while the outriders enjoyed its steamy bathhouse and the fetching wenches that served in the dining hall. Alik’s fingers traced the ironwork pattern of a sconce sitting on the table. He was waiting for Brogan to bring their dinner, when he heard Brogan’s deep laugh from across the room. Alik was appalled to see him grab a barmaid’s backside and kiss her halfway to her toes. He laughed again as he nudged her away and grabbed up a tray.

“You’re a dog,” Alik said, disgusted, when Brogan put down the tray.

“Why?”

“I saw what you did.”

“She wanted a kiss, so I gave her one.”

“That wasn’t a kiss. More like a mauling.”

“Listen, a word of advice to one about to be married. When a woman sneaks up and has you by the balls, you give her what she wants,” Brogan said, sitting. He pulled a steaming tray of meat in front of him, gulped down his cup of wine and refilled it.

“She wouldn’t – ”

“She did. Honor says.”

Alik looked down and stirred the potatoes and gravy on his plate. Probably she did, he thought ruefully. In their short time together, he realized Brogan stood out in a crowd; his roguish smile and gold tooth, easy charm, and the strange piece of jewelry he wore on one ear. A diamond stud set in the middle of a golden filigree rose, whose thorny branches wrapped up and around the curve of his ear.

“Alik, drink up!” Brogan encouraged, seeing him pick at his food. “It’s two days from here to House Ansara. Then, your freedom ends.”

“Freedom from what?” the barmaid asked, sidling up to Brogan. “Joining up to fight goblins?”

“He’s getting married,” Brogan said, with a wink. “Alik, this is Larisse. Maybe she can show you that technique so – ”

“I think not!” Alik said, turning red. “Gentlemen don’t play such crude games as…as pirates and wenches.”

“Pirate?” Larisse said, and eyed Brogan anew. Her finger traced his unusual earring, then down his cheek. Her hand flattened over his chest, fingers lingering on the daggers. “That explains why we’ve never seen these before.”

“Privateer, not pirate,” Brogan said.

“There’s a difference?”

“It’s in the details,” Brogan answered. Gold shimmered in his smile.

“Perhaps I need to see these differences…” Larisse whispered.

“Maybe we could – ”

“No!” Alik said. He slammed down his fork. “We took the last room. I’m not sleeping in the hall while you two rut half the night!”

“Next time.” Brogan shrugged and kissed her cheek. “My master has spoken.”

“Him? Master you?” Larisse said, doubtfully.

“I am escorting him to House Ansara; thus I am in his service,” Brogan explained.

“Well why not? Probably end up dead either way,” she said, rising.

“Why?” Brogan asked.

“Here you might become carrion for the goblins harrying the plains. Go west and ride into Redspot Fever. Caravan masters have reported plague flags for the last two months. Your bride may yet live,” Larisse said, and walked away.

“See what you’ve done? You get a woman. I get an empty bed,” Brogan said, in mock despair. He skewered the last bit of meat and ate it. “Maybe I should take you back to your uncle’s until the fever passes.”

“No. I am never living near goblins again. Nasty, filthy creatures. Besides, the people of the north are more genteel than these southern dirt farmers,” Alik said.

“Believe me, the north breeds a different kind of rot,” Brogan said. He drank the last of the wine straight from the bottle and grinned. Alik frowned. “Let’s go. I want to wash this goblin stink off. Worse than sharks rotting on bait hooks.”

For once they agreed.

Brogan tossed his soiled tunic into a corner. Alik looked with wonder at the fine maille shirt he wore. He had never seen anything like it; a precise, close-meshed weave that fit him without excess bulk or weight. Brogan sat on the edge of the bed, leaned forward and tugged at the back. The links rolled off of him into a silvery puddle on the floor. He untied the laces of his gambeson and laid it on the bed, then stretched and yawned.

“Look, two basins,” Brogan said, walking to one. He tossed a wash rag at Alik. “See what kissing the girls will get you.”

Alik scowled as he slid his box under the bed then joined Brogan at the wash stand. It felt good to wash away the dust and stink.

Washed and scrubbed, Brogan filled the deep basin full and stuck his head in to wash the dust and grit from his long hair.

Alik, realizing suddenly what he was looking at on Brogan’s upper arm, shouted, “Defiler!”

Brogan flung his head, sending water flying, and crouched into a double-fisted stance.

“What! What’s wrong?” Brogan asked, alarmed.

“You’re an unbeliever!”

“You’re an idiot, but I’m not scaring you half to death,” Brogan said, wiping the water from his eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Explain.”

“You have the Mark of Deauxama on your arm, but you have desecrated it with some filthy pirate tattoo,” Alik said, pointing.

“That is the crest of the king’s privateer fleet, the Lion Marines.”

“It isn’t. The lion is a birthmark; the rest is unholy.”

Brogan shook his head and turned away. He opened the shutters and stared out over the torch-lit city.

“You shouldn’t judge on appearance alone. What you could hardly understand living the sheltered life you have,” he said, quietly. The bravado of the day faded.

“My life hasn’t been that sheltered and my uncle should have chosen better,” Alik said, defensively.

“Really? Were you born a bastard of one of these great houses to the north and then to hide the indiscretion, you and your mother sold as slaves in the markets at Fen Way? Did your mother sell herself to rat-faced scum to keep you with her, only able to feed you scraps of bread? Did she hold you while you screamed as the marines punctured your flesh a thousand times to force dye under your skin to save you from vengeful relatives, or idiots like you? Honor says…” He let the words trail off. He pressed his fists into the windowsill.

Alik’s head dropped. He was an idiot. His parents had died in their beds of Redspot Fever when he was ten. His life had been good up to then. After he mourned their passing, his uncle had treated him well and had now chosen him to firm up an old trade alliance with House Ansara.

“I’m sorry, Brogan. I didn’t mean – ”

“Let it go,” he whispered. “Let it go.”

*   *   *

“Wake up!” Brogan shouted, and repeatedly slammed Alik with a pillow. “Your head has more stick to that pillow than a barnacle to a keel.”

Alik smiled as he raised a defensive forearm. “I bet you’ve heard that often.”

“Aye!” Brogan laughed, and hit him again.

Weapons ready and the marriage box safely stowed; they left by the northern gates.

“How does House Coppersmith know House Ansara?” Brogan asked. “Seems an unlikely pairing with a mountain range in between.”

“It’s a trade alliance. House Coppersmith, as you saw, works the copper from the mines. Farming is a recent addition,” Alik explained. “Once, years ago, members of the two houses met at the Winter Festival in Monroi Pass, each eyeing the others’ goods. Copper bowls, platters, what have you, in exchange for apples and nuts. In summer it’s other fruits, mostly dried. Overall, it’s a decent business. You can’t grow apples in the south.”

“What are they trading you for?” Brogan teased.

“The old man doesn’t have any sons to inherit his estate, but he has a daughter, Melynn,” Alik answered. He pulled out the medallion. “Good land, a beautiful girl. The north is better than the south.”

The first day passed quickly. The road was full of travelers going to and coming from Monroi Pass. At dusk they encountered the first plague flags, sooner than Brogan had expected. Now that they were moving again, the number of flags remained steady. At noon, they were forced to ride a wide perimeter around the small town of Raming where men were posted to keep all travelers out.

“This isn’t good,” Brogan said. “Maybe we should go back to the Pass for a few weeks. I’ve got enough coin to cover us.”

“No. We take our chances going forward,” Alik said. His chin lifted defiantly.

“Why this stubbornness?” Brogan asked, disliking Alik’s attitude.

“I have escaped the south and I won’t go back,” Alik answered. “Look at this land. The air smells crisp and fresh. It rains here. This is where a man should live, not in a wasteland that spawns hideous goblins or where evil crawls in the Viper lands.”

Brogan sighed.

“You are younger than your winters. No place is without darkness and misfortune.”

The afternoon passed in silence. Even the people of a caravan they passed were unusually silent and wary, as if watching for signs of fever or the all too common sight of freshly dug graves.

It was dusk by the time they reached the field markers of House Ansara. On a post hung a weathered shield with faded images of an apple, a blossom and a bee hovering close by.

“We’ve probably missed dinner,” Brogan said as he rummaged in his pack, but it was empty.

“I’m sure you can cajole a crust of bread out of some scullery maid,” Alik said, curtly.

“And she will enjoy giving it to me,” Brogan laughed. Alik frowned at his innuendo. “Come, let’s be off this road.”

Doors and gates opened quickly and people came out and gathered in front of the manor house as soon as they heard the sound of horses’ hooves pounding up the lane. A large man dressed in a scarlet tunic and black breeches walked to the fore. His hair was silver, and he had a bit of a paunch, but there was still strength in his gait as he crossed the yard to meet them, a relieved smile on his face.

“Come, help them with their packs and horses,” he said as Alik and Brogan reined in.

Alik retrieved his box then dismounted. Brogan remained a respectful distance behind.

“So, you are young Alik. I’ve heard tell that you were growing well over these years and I see the reports are well spoken,” Lord Ansara complimented. He gave Alik’s shoulder a slap. “Come, we will get some food and you will meet my Melynn. Bring your servant.”

“Servant!” Brogan muttered, but smiled politely as his pack and bedroll were tossed at him. They stared at the odd quarterstaff lashed to the saddle. “Leave it be,” he growled as a boy reached out to touch it.

“I brought the wedding box from my uncle, who sends his regrets that he is no longer fit for travel,” Alik said, entering the manor.

“Ahh, time and living ravages us all,” Lord Ansara said, taking the box. He put it on a sideboard in the manor’s large feast hall and lifted the lid. Gold coins glittered. “Deauxama smiles on us. Gold once given to House Coppersmith in their time of need now returns to House Ansara in ours.”

“It’s hard to believe this house has need,” Alik commented, looking around the richly appointed room: a hall much finer than his uncle’s.

“Not for things, for people. The ravages of disease,” Lord Ansara sighed. “Until a month ago, this house was filled with people suffering the fever. We lost many. So many that I need gold to hire laborers to pick my fruit or else it will rot on the branch. And no one can say that my family was spared for wealth and comfort. But my Melynn, she is a strong girl.”

From out of a side room came a slender girl dressed in a gown of dark blue velvet. Waves of thick golden hair fell over her shoulders. A matching velvet band embroidered with golden flowers circled her head. In her trembling hands, she held a white bundle tied with a red ribbon.

“Come, daughter, Master Coppersmith has arrived,” Lord Ansara said as he put an arm gently around her waist. “Yes, my Melynn is strong, but the fever has, unfortunately, left its mark.”

Alik tried to hide his horror and revulsion as she raised her face. One side was beautiful as painted on the medallion; but the other side, her neck and hands were scarred by the pustules of the fever. The delicate skin around her eye was distorted and drooped. Melynn’s hands trembled more as she caught sight of Alik’s quickly suppressed aversion to her.

“I – I made this for you,” she stuttered, handing him the bundle.

When he hesitated, Brogan poked him in the back. He took it without speaking, glad for an excuse to look away from the lie standing before him. He wondered if his uncle knew about this, or if they had both been tricked into a marriage contract with a creature no one would have. He untied the ribbon. A fine linen shirt with intricate blackwork embroidery on the yoke and cuffs unrolled between his hands.

“A beautiful and enviable piece of work, my lady,” Brogan said, smiling, when Alik was slow to speak.

“Yes, very nice,” Alik said, but only glanced at her.

“Enviable to be sure,” Lord Ansara said, with pride. “Many folk in this province wait months for a piece of her work. But, as I am sure you are tired and hungry, follow Berik. He will show you to your room. Tomorrow we will talk.”

“As you wish,” Alik said, with a bow. He followed Berik up the stairs with Brogan bringing up the rear.

“Here is your room. Dinner will be brought shortly,” Berik said, pushing open a door. “Your place is in the stable’s loft. It’s not cold yet,” he said to Brogan as he entered.

The stables, indeed, Brogan thought, arranging their gear in separate piles.

Berik closed the door and Alik slumped down on the bed. Brogan turned, hearing him mutter a curse. He saw the blue pearl necklace appear in Alik’s hands.

“You should have given those to her.”

“It would be a waste.”

Brogan stared at him.

“I can’t believe they lied to us and are trying to foist that ugly creature on me. If they wanted repayment of the gold, fine, but I’ll not be wed to that,” he said, looping the necklace around his fingers.

“It’s time to grow up, Alik,” Brogan said, tersely. “The fever is still out there. She was not this way when the arrangements were made, or when that picture was painted. The scars on her neck are still too red.”

“They should have sent word.”

“Then look at her from the right side. She is still comely and her father is right. She is strong and will bear you fine sons,” Brogan said. “So what if she’s partially scarred? Lots of us are. We’ve seen no mother here, yet the house seems well ordered and she has fine skill.” He pointed to the shirt.

“You don’t have to marry her. How can I look at her and not feel repulsed? Let alone kiss her or touch her,” Alik said, rubbing his hands over his head. “My mother was beautiful, but the fever made her ugly and killed her.”

“Life took my mother’s beauty, but love her I did, honor says. Did you love yours any less?” Brogan asked. Alik remained silent. Brogan’s temper grew. “Listen, boy, and yes I’m calling you ‘boy’ because you are being stupid. You have a contract to honor. Look at your gain: a fine house, land, a certain amount of wealth. It’s time you become a man and live your word. Why do I bother? My job was to deliver you, nothing more, nothing less.”

Brogan glared at him as he picked up his gear and slammed the door as he went out.

*   *   *

“Hey, boy!” a gruff voice called as Brogan felt someone kick his thigh. “If I were you, I’d be looking sharp about now.”

Brogan sat up quickly as the manor’s butcher hefted a beef shank onto a worktable. A warm kitchen corner and a few loaves of bread had made for a better night’s sleep than the stable. He brushed crumbs from his tunic and stood.

“Why?”

“Seems your master ran off in the night and took the gold with him,” the butcher answered. “Lord Ansara is livid.”

“Damn him!” Brogan swore. “The road out front, where does it go?”

“Mostly west another twenty miles or so, then you come to West Raming where it splits into three roads.”

“One head north?”

“Yup.”

“A sea-dog’s bet he’s on that one,” Brogan said, and headed outside.

“Hold up, boy,” the butcher said, hurrying after him. “There’s a heavy wood about three miles this side of  town. They can’t hang’em fast enough to keep that area safe.”

 “I need some practice.” Brogan grinned, but inside he felt his heart quicken with dread. Alik was a farm boy, not a soldier. The fight with the goblins had made that all too obvious.

The big roan thundered out of the barn and Brogan heard Lord Ansara’s shouted curses all the way to the road. The morning was cool and he pushed the horse hard, until he saw what looked like a heavy wood in the distance and slowed to a canter. He didn’t want to ride into a garrote line, or miss signs of being watched.

Entering the forest’s shadows, he wondered how far it stretched. Birds sang and squirrels ran across the road. It was comforting until he saw something lying on the road ahead. It was the shirt Melynn had made. He dismounted, picked it up and tucked it under the saddle. Maybe he just tossed it aside, Brogan thought, leading the horse. He pulled the quarterstaff loose. He walked another mile and seeing nothing unusual, decided Alik was riding the northern road. Coming around a bend, he saw small bushes broken and trampled. The horse whinnied softly. It smelled what he did, blood.

Brogan looped the reins over a bush and walked into the woods. Against a mound of gray rock, Alik sprawled pale and lifeless. A missed parry and his opponent’s blade had sunk into his belly. His weapon, gold and horse were gone. Before regret could sink in, Brogan heard the rustle of leaves behind him. He turned quickly putting his back to a tree just as a blade struck his chest and fell harmlessly to the ground. His tunic hid the maille beneath.

A big man grinned toothlessly as he stepped closer. “I don’t have a maille shirt.” He pointed at Brogan with his sword.

“Won’t be getting one either,” Brogan said. The staff balanced lightly in his hands.

“Lom!” he shouted. “I want this peasant’s shirt.”

Another man stepped from behind a tree. “The odds are on us,” he laughed, drawing his sword.

Brogan didn’t answer as they closed on him. A step left and his right hand drove the sharp-spiked mace head into the first man’s shoulder, making him drop his weapon. Lom charged. Brogan twisted back, clutching the staff in both hands. Lom’s two-handed blow bit into the leather wrap. Brogan kicked him. Rivulets of blood darkened the first man’s shirt. His sword trembled as he clutched it with both hands. A sideways sweep of the staff sent the blade flying and Brogan quickly reversed the staff’s circle. Before the thief understood the move, the mace smashed into the side of his head. Brogan fell to his knees, ducking under Lom’s swing. A quarter arc back, an upward thrust and the blade end disappeared beneath Lom’s ribs. His sword dropped and he fell backward, dead.

Brogan quickly regained his stance. Silence. Pity filled him. He sighed as he looked at Alik. Unable to kill a goblin, Alik was no match for these two. It took Brogan a while to locate the thieves’ camp, but finally he found Alik’s horse, the gold and other useful trinkets.

The horse sidled nervously as Brogan put Alik’s body across its back. Something fell at his feet. Looking down, he saw the pearl necklace that Alik had hidden in his tunic.

*   *   *

It was late afternoon when Brogan returned to House Ansara. Field hands left their apple trees and ran to him, when they realized the second horse had a body draped over it.

“Bury him,” Brogan said, flatly, and tossed the reins to the first man to approach. He went to the main house, where somber-faced servants let him in. He walked through the hall toward Lord Ansara’s angry voice.

“Where are they? The bastards! I’ll have their – ”

Brogan didn’t hear the end of the threat as coming around the corner, Lord Ansara’s fist slammed into his jaw. He staggered backward. Blood ran into his mouth and down his chin. The coin box, hidden beneath the shirt, flew from his hands and shattered against the stone floor. Gold coins scattered across the room.

“Papa! No!” Melynn screamed as she ran to him and grabbed his arm.

“Thieves! Daemons!” Lord Ansara shouted, and kicked the broken box at Brogan.

“No, Papa! Look! He has your gold,” Melynn cried, tugging him away. The old man calmed.

“I brought back what belongs to you,” Brogan said, wiping blood on his sleeve. “The boy I could not save.”

“He…he’s dead?” Melynn asked. Her tears fell faster as she realized it was her shirt Brogan held. He nodded.

“Why didn’t you just steal it? The way you stole my hospitality? The way Alik stole my daughter’s heart?” Lord Ansara demanded. He looked suddenly weary.

“I will repay you your hospitality. The gold is yours by contract with House Coppersmith, honor says,” Brogan answered. He took several valuable rings that he had found at the thieves’ camp from his pouch and put them on a table. “My debt is paid.”

“The world is all wrong,” Lord Ansara said, looking at his daughter, who was crying quietly. “A beautiful girl ruined, a good boy dead and a pirate speaking to me of honor.” He walked away.

“Melynn?” Brogan called gently to her. She turned and he tried to give her the shirt.

“I don’t want it,” she said, angrily. “You keep it.”

“Such fine things do not suit me.”

“Nor me,” she said, bitterly.

“Nay, you are wrong, lady,” Brogan said, pushing it into her hands. “There will be another and he will love you.” He pulled the necklace from his pouch, showed it to her, and fastened the strand around her slender neck. “With these pearls that match your eyes and are as bright as the seas of the archipelago from which they come, I will make him cleave to you with endless jealousy. Tell him that a wayward pirate gifted these on you, because he was overcome and touched by your grace and beauty. Honor says.”