Carousel Seas (15 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SATURDAY, JULY 8

The goblins had not said that the Borgan was beautiful.

She lay in the water with her guide; a
shark
, so Olida had it, a creature that had some resemblance to the
herigana
of her own lost sea—toothy, tough-skinned and murderous. When first she beheld it, she had wondered if the goblins at last understood their peril—but, no. It would appear that Olida was owed some service from the creature and it understood, as
herigana
did, that it was wise to bow before those more ferocious than itself.

So the shark brought her to a boat, and, obedient to Olida’s command, remained with her. Whether it would seek to protect her from the Borgan, which had been Olida’s further command, she doubted; but in any case, it would not be put to the test.

The love the sea held for the Borgan was plain to her senses.

Poor goblins. For such as they to aspire to something so rarified and perfect . . . It could never be; even the goblins must know it, in the deepest cave of their hearts. And yet, one could not find it in one’s own heart, to scorn them.

No, she thought, for the goblins to desire what the Borgan shared with the sea was, perhaps, an effrontery—pathetic and laughable—nothing more. Neither they nor any of theirs could sully or break the purity of the sea’s passion. One could almost pity them.

For a moment, she simply floated, rapt in the reflected glory of the sea’s love. Then, with an effort, she focused her attention elsewhere.

The Borgan’s power was old and deep: subtle and elegant. There was a constancy to it, and a sweetness somewhat familiar, as if it were—as if it were
exactly
the sweetness of the sea itself, which had so struck her when first she had entered these waters.

His power drew her; she felt that she might gaze upon him always and never wish to gaze elsewhere. He was seducing her, of course; seducing her to the sea. Such would fall well within his honor as the beloved of these waters, to capture random elements and weave them into harmony with the waves. She bore him no ill will for the doing of his duty, but
she
would not be seduced.

She drew back from her meditations, and brought his physical seeming under scrutiny.

The form he manifested was a pleasing echo of his power—strong, supple, and sure. His business upon the boat was a harvest of fishes—a duty she had known well, and often performed, in that time before she had become a goddess. For the doing of the work, he had stripped to the waist, showing a broad, bronzed chest, trim waist, and hard belly. She approved both the form and the use of it. Indeed, she was drawn . . . almost, she—loved.

That, she thought, was the action of the sea upon her. It gave her a new respect for the goblins, that they could continue to hate him against all of the sea’s persuasions.

Watching him work his nets, she cast aside her plan to wrest this sea from the Borgan and make it her own. The sea would never love her as it loved him, though it would, because it did, treasure those things that the Borgan treasured.

To succeed, then, the plan must be to become the Borgan’s foremost treasure. It must not be a rape, nor a battle—nor, as the goblins hoped for, a murder. No. It must be—it could only be—a marriage. She, who had been solitary in her power, who had shared with no other power, not even with her own, her beloved demons . . .

Yet, if she would have this sea for her own, then . . . she must, at first,
share
in the Borgan’s power. Later . . . conditions might favor a reordering.

If she had any hesitation in adopting this change of plan, it was that the sea’s passion might overwhelm her own necessity. It was, so she admitted to herself, a risk; however, it was not a very great one. She had been a goddess, and with care and cunning, she would be a goddess once more. For such a reward, she could be patient. And perhaps, she thought, watching the Borgan upon the boat . . . perhaps it would be
interesting
to love, for a little time, at least, without reservation.

A marriage, then. It was decided.

Obedient to the conditions of its debt, the shark had remained nearby. She called it to her now, and cast the web of her will about it, holding it quiescent while she drank of its energies. Her reserves were yet low, and for this, she required strength. Still, she did not sup the shark entirely, but left it to drift, the spark of life still burning. Perhaps it would make a recovery, if none of its kindred found it soon.

Strengthened by the shark’s essence, she placed herself upon the deck of the boat.

The Borgan did not look around from his net, though she was certain he was aware of her. She had chosen to manifest in robes of sea green and aqua, extravagant sleeves lined in white. Her hair was an ebony crown, into which coral, pearl, and shell had been woven. He must see at once that she matched him in beauty, and was in every way worthy of him.

“There you are, then,” the Borgan said, swinging the net over the hold, muscles moving, sweetly pleasing, beneath red-brown skin.

“Yes,” she said, matching his tone of unsurprised composure. “I am here.”

“You kill that shark?”

She raised disdainful eyebrows.

“Must you ask?”

The net emptied, he at last turned to look at her. His eyes were dark, his face austere. The long braid that fell over his shoulder was as black as her own hair, inter-woven with shells, beads, and other small items of power.

“In fact, I don’t have to ask. I’m curious about your motivation.”

She glanced down, feigning a pretty confusion, and looked back at him with a simulation of shyness.

“I am the guest of the sea. Shall I show my gratitude by murdering her children?”

“So it’s manners, is it?”

Her smile was shy, but the robe moved seductively as she stepped toward him.

“I have been well schooled, in manners . . . and in other skills.”

“Stop,” he said, and she did, finding that she no longer wished to approach him.

“What’s your name?” he asked, and she laughed—a true laugh, for surely he knew better. Perhaps he thought to disarm her, to convince her of his ignorance. Or perhaps, she thought, her amusement fading as she stood, held still and content by his will—perhaps he sought to find the limits of his control over her.

She lifted her chin and glared at him.

There had been a time when her displeasure had the power to kill. The Borgan . . . only shrugged.

“Is it hard to move in that thing? This is a fishing boat, in case you hadn’t noticed. Not much use for silk here.”

So, he saw her as foolish, and unequal. That would not do. After all, they shared something very important.

The formal robes flowed and melted until she stood in plain cotton tunic and long pants, her hair rolled out of the way, into a knot at the top of her head.

“This is what I wore,” she said, “when I fished on my father’s boat.”

“Looks a deal more useful.”

“I will,” she said diffidently, “need to learn what is proper here.”

“No need at all. Best thing for you is to go home, deah—back to the Land of Wave and Water. This is no good place for you to settle, and I’m not just talking about this piece of water. You know you’re in the Changing Land?”

“Yes,” she said, and forbore to explain the myriad reasons why she could not, could never, go home.

“Then you know you need to leave, before you take damage.”

She considered him, a noble man, and, as she read it, genuinely concerned for her well-being. It would perhaps be advantageous, now, to tell some bare edge of the truth, and make an appeal to the noble heart.

“I have been here, imprisoned, for how long a time, I do not know. Perhaps I am changed; certainly, I am weakened. I have enemies at home. Please, may I not remain for . . . a few days more, as a guest, to build my strength?”

The noble heart responded; she saw his hesitation, and hid her elation, standing before him docile and patient. She felt his power brush over her, tender as sea foam.

“All right,” he said. “Twenty days more, to build your strength. The sea will nourish you that long, so you don’t have to feed on any more of my sharks.”

She bowed.

“I am grateful,” she said.

“Just mind your manners,” he told her, turning back to his nets. “Go on, now; I’ve got work to do.”

There was nothing else to do at this moment but demonstrate obedience. And so, she reentered the sea.

It was cooler under leaf.

As I walked the path the Wood opened for me, I began to hear music. Guitar, and something else—piano? A dozen steps down the path and a woman’s voice asked the musical question, “Are you going to Scarborough Fair?” with a man’s voice joining in the next line, “Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.”

Music and the lyrics grew louder as the path led me onward. Not a piano, I decided. Maybe a harp? Mandolin?

The path ended at the edge of the clearing. I stopped where I was.

Not a harp, Kate
, I told myself,
dulcimer—remember?

My mother’s concentration was on her instrument, and she smiled as she sang.

Andy’s concentration was on my mother. He’d left his smoked glasses off, and his bright orange gaze never left her face. His expression was—well. I’ve never actually seen a man sight water after wandering days in the desert, so I’ll just say that Andy looked like a man who held his heart’s desire . . .

. . . and knew all too well how fragile it was.

They sounded good together, I thought, and as far as I could tell, Mother wasn’t rusty at all.

I sighed, watching them—and sighed again when Nessa turned her head to meet Andy’s eyes and they finished off the last line together, their instruments taking the music through the finishing arabesques while they gazed at each other. I couldn’t see my mother’s face, but Andy looked like he was about to break into tears.

The last note faded. The musicians were still gazing at each other. My mother put her hammers down on her instrument; swayed toward Andy—and it occurred to me that I’d better announce myself.

I applauded, and whistled.

Andy jumped, orange eyes flashing as he looked across the clearing. Mother turned more slowly, smiling—but the trees would have told her that I was on my way.

“Katie! What do you think?”

“I think you’re ready for the Big Time,” I said, moving into the clearing proper. “Here Andy was telling me that you were afraid you’d forgotten how to play. It sounds to me like you never had a day away.”

“I’m not as rusty as I thought I’d be,” she said, picking up the hammers. She frowned down at them, then threw me a smile. “But I
am
rusty.”

“I think we did fine,” Andy said. “The finish was a bit ragged, but nothing practice can’t cure. We might try something simpler, if you just want to get comfortable again.”

“Something simpler?” She threw him a grin, raised her hammers, and brought them down.

I blinked, my ear confused for a moment by the dulcimer’s voice, and then I had it, and came in on the line.

“In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight!”

Andy joined in, orange eyes slitted in amusement. He drummed his fingers lightly against the belly of his guitar, for the counterpoint, and my mother wove a bright embroidery of
Weeheeheehee dee heeheeheehee
around the chorus, hammering her dulcimer the while. We sang all three verses, and every damn one of the
wimowehs
, Andy raised his hand, brought it down, and we all stopped at once, the Wood around echoing with our music.

And then with our laughter.

“We gotta bring Kate onboard!” Andy was able to say eventually.

“Kate,” I answered, somewhat unsteadily, “is not a musician.”

“Nothin’ the matter with your voice. If you feel like you gotta have an instrument, we’ll just hand you a tambourine, and you rattle it when the mood strikes.”

My mother didn’t say anything. I noticed that, and I didn’t look at her as I shook my head, still grinning.

“I’ve got enough on my plate right now, but maybe I’ll take you up on it, after the park’s sold.”

“What?” Mother was interested now. I turned to face her.