The Jack of Hearts (House of Cards Book 1)

Chapter 3 | Bleeding Hearts

((TW: Violence))

The Xoni Coast, the Lands of the Clvuani,

Gulls cried over the sailors and dark surf.

The ocean had turned grey — grey like the sky and birds and old tunics the Cluvani wore; like the low-lying clouds that skimmed over the surface of the water every morning and evening; grey that clung to the jaquelle's fingers, and made everything feel damp and cold.

The Aertisian ships lowered their sails and small skiffs into the water loaded with trunks and servants. They disappeared into the thick fog toward the shadow they assured Jaquelle Rosalyne was the Southern coast of the Clan Xoni.

The noblewomen waited to be transported ashore as the mist began to dissipate. The jaquelle pulled her woollen overskirts over the side of the ship after Lady Euphemia, and climbed down the ladder to the skiff waiting below.

The ropes and wooden steps were slick from sea spray, shifting with the waves. The jaquelle's hands stung from the chill and bite of harsh rope. Her kid-skin boots lost their footing once, and Jaquelle Rosalyne hung by her grip for one terrifying moment, glove snagging on the hard rope, before her feet found their purchase again. She kept her face expressionless, but her heart pounded as the soldiers rowed to shore. 

The guards jumped out in the shallows to drag the boat onto the beach. Icy surf soaked their trousers up to the thigh.

Jaquelle Rosalyne and Lady Euphemia stepped over the bow on rounded stones two dozen paces from the flat-bottomed galley beached next to a dozen others of its kind — all with boar-shaped prows, snouts wrinkled and tusks bared for battle.

Captain Niel led the ladies away from the bustle of servants as they loaded the wagons.

The forest of cedar and fir crept up to edge of the ocean until the trees spilled into the water and washed up again pale and bare, tangling on the rocks like splintered bones. Up the coast on a craggy outcropping, a lime-stone motte crouched over the bluff. The tower was surrounded by a mossy wall enclosing a courtyard. Little stone houses tumbled down the slope. The women watched the Aertisians from the shadowed doorways of their homes. Children clutched their mothers' legs and pointed down at the movement on the beach.

None came down to meet them. No locals but the delegation spoke to any Aertisians — servants or otherwise. The local men had brought the wagons and horses down from the stone bailey before retreating to a safe distance to glower at the foreigners.

Jaquelle Rosalyne felt the recognition of the crowd spark as she moved up the beach; her bright red cloak drew their eyes like raging bulls. Their minds were wide open; their emotions so loud it felt as though they shouted rather than stared. She felt the pinch of migraine in the corner of her vision and began separating them out, detangling the hate, fear, and morbid curiosity from the knot of people. Her eyes swept over the gathering, attaching  each thread of feeling to its face; grounding the clamour so it did not overwhelm her.

Lord Year du Xoni of the delegation spoke to a warrioress near the ships whom the jaquelle did not recognise. Both wore their hair in coiled knots from brow to nape — a Xoni warrior then. The new Xoni watched the jaquelle from across the shore, arms crossed under her chest as she spoke to her clansmen; the woman's disgust and putrid loathing clawed at the jaquelle's stomach.

Jaquelle Rosalyne's eyes skimmed over the blade at the Xoni's waist. She reached out with her mind (just to touch) and felt an itch not her own scurry down to her fingertips. The jaquelle rooted deeper, digging further into the Xoni's mind, and felt the itch refocus; felt the emptiness of her hands. They tightened to fists but it wasn't enough. She wanted to grip, hold protection, safety — use it on the foul thing before her —