Rising Tides: Prologue

Prologue

The fire crackled merrily in the hearth as a man sat at a desk covered in scattered papers and charts. He looked up wearily, his coal colored eyes set deep in his skull. With a long, suffering sigh, he bowed his head, gently rubbing his temples. The papers below his gaze seemed to hold nothing but swimming numbers and letters, causing his eyes to cross for a moment as he struggled to regain his grip on his sanity. He pushed himself away from the cluttered desk with a loud protest from the unfortunate chair. “I need a pint and a smoke if I want to get through these before morning,” he growled softly to himself.

Gingerly he stood, his knees creaking as they threatened to drop him to the floor. A shaking hand pushed dark, silver streaked hair from his face as he glared at his mutinous legs. “I’ll die at this desk at this rate. Tides take me, I pray something exciting takes me out instead of this blasted paperwork.” He moved towards an ornate liquor cabinet in the corner of his lavish office. With a smirk, he grabbed a well crafted, but non-descript brown bottle and made his way towards the hearth. Prize in hand, he settled down in a large armchair, his feet propped up towards the fire and his eyes fixed out the window to the storm beyond.

“It's no wonder I hurt. I don’t envy any poor soul caught out in that tonight.” Not bothering with a glass, the man took a generous swig from the bottle and melted deeper into his armchair. After a short time enjoying the sound of furious rain and thunder from the safety of his home, he reached into his breast coat pocket and produced a small pipe. Uncapping the packed bowl, the man clicked his fingers and produced a small, dancing purple flame at the tip of his thumb.

Happily alternating between smoking his pipe and long gulps from his alcohol, the man relaxed. Or at least he tried to. Some unseen worry pulled at his brow, weighing it down. He scowled past his crooked nose into the dark window, trying in vain to escape the nagging feeling that something was very, very wrong. Try as he might however, the sense persisted. Setting aside his pipe and bottle, he arose from his seat and made his way towards the window. Below him lay the flickering lights of the city streets and revealed the occasional fellow night owl working in their homes by candle light. Something pulled his gaze past the city beneath his office and towards the horizon.

The harbor which lay neatly tucked into the bay next to the port town and just below his cliffside office was now shrouded in darkness. The light of patrolling lanterns were nowhere to be seen. Any sailor worth their salt would be keeping their distance from the tall ships that were moored there through the worst of the storm. Each ship held their own skeleton crew within for the additional security, but he did not envy them their short-straw positions tonight. The storm tossed the ships about even here in the harbor, shielded from the worst of the ocean's ferocity. Guardsmen were not needed there tonight. If they went over, they'd be lucky if their drowned bodies were found in the morning. Still, the growing discomfort in his stomach had his piercing glare searching each ship’s silhouette as if he could pinpoint any would be thief or troublemaker moving about the darkness below.

With a grumble, he turned away from the window and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re being a silly fool, Donovan. Getting worked up by the storm like a cabin boy his first night at sea.” He made his way over to his desk, expression still pinched. Reaching down to the lowest drawer, he carefully pulled out an ornate lock box. The ebony wood was polished and painted, showing glistening, vibrant hues in the warm firelight. He pushed aside a few of the errant papers on which he had been working and sat the small box upon his desk gingerly. Sighing heavily, he reached into his white poet’s shirt, pushing past the ornate ruffles and collar to hook his finger to a small chain fixed around his neck. Once the key dangled freely, he grasped it, pulling it up to his lips and whispering a few words. Runes etched magically into the simple iron key flashed to life with a slight pulsing orange light before fading away. He inserted the key and the lock gave way.

The contents of the box were laid in the bottom of the small space very carefully and intently. Nothing seemed to move or jostle needlessly. Donovan reached into the box, pulling out the small locket that sat among the dried flowers. Carved from a piece of vibrant red coral, the oval shaped locket was carved with an enchanting mermaid embracing a handsome man with a large ship in the distant ocean behind them. Gripping the braided silver chain it hung from, Donovan gently took the locket in hand and pressed the opening mechanism, exercising great care to not damage the delicate carvings. Inside was a small image, enchanted to the piece. It showed Donovan, though much younger with a full head of deep blue-black hair, and a young woman at his side. She smiled so brightly, her sea-green eyes staring back up at him. In her arms, playing with the silver ribbon in woman’s long chestnut hair, was a young infant girl. Barely a year old, her white blonde hair standing in strange wild tufts, the young child looked every inch like her mother, save her brilliant hair. Donovan smiled warmly down at the image in his hand. He opened his mouth as if to speak when the sound of racing steps met his ears.

Donovan set the locket down as quickly and gently as he could amidst the flowers. He closed the box and reached for the sword displayed on the wall behind his desk. Hand clasped firmly around its sheath, he pulled it close to him as whoever was racing towards him reached his door. A loud knock, broken in sequence and deliberate, brought a quick flash of relief to Donovan’s face. After a moment, he regained his composure. Putting his body between the door and the box, he called out with a powerful, stern voice, “enter!”

A young servant, nearly doubled over and drenched stumbled into the room. His fine white shirt was plastered to his body beneath the green jacket. “My Lord, Captain Wolfe has returned to Port Black. He has Captain Redd with him, though her ship is nowhere to be found. I saw them struggling to come up the road and rushed out to help them. Captain Redd appears greviously injured.” Donovan fought hard to keep his expression neutral even as the news seemed to hit right in his gut. This must have been what that uneasy feeling was about. Ma always said to trust your gut before you trust your eyes, he thought wryly to himself, fighting to keep his expression neutral.

“Bring them up boy, double time!” The servant nodded and raced back down the hall the way he had come. Donovan waited until the boy closed the for behind him before frantically turning back around. He reached back down into the box, pushing past the locket and dried flowers to grasp an envelope from the bottom. The aged parchment smelled heavily of the lilacs and hibiscus that lay on it. His thumb brushed the emerald green wax seal which secure the small silver ribbon to the front. Donovan stared hard at the ornate letter 'K' pressed into the wax. He scowled at the letter for a moment, his mind wrestling with something silently as the storm raged on outside.

“No, not yet” he said, quickly replacing the letter in the box. He closed the lid and quickly relocked it, placing it back in the drawer. Donovan grit his teeth and frowned as he hurriedly replaced the key around his neck and under his shirt. “The time is not right.” Donovan looked out the window once more just as lightning split the sky and thunder rattled the window panes. “Depths preserve me, I hope that she is alright.” Upon hearing footsteps hurrying along the hall towards him, Donovan straightened his spine, though the worry did not quite leave his face, and he turned to face what the storm had brought him.