Authors: Sharon Lee
Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Contemporary, #Dark Fantasy
Carousel Seas (34 page)
She smiled, and caught the braid again. This time, she ran her hand down its length hard and fast, stripping away all the little charms.
A cry, this time, as he felt the loss even in the depths of his struggle—and another bit of his will floated away.
She surveyed the captured bounty in her palm. He had stored more among the little charms than she had expected, ceding her, if not a feast, then a very satisfying dinner, indeed.
Lips pursed in anticipation, she lifted up one of the captured charms—and absorbed the flow of its power.
I slid into the water like it was a silk robe. It was remarkably clear water, not the murk I’d had to deal with when I went in beyond the breakers, days ago. The general feeling was of age, and peace, and power. You could lie down in these waters a monster of depravity, and rise up as pure as a newborn star.
And there, scarcely an arm’s length away, was Borgan, his white leathers gleaming, his braid floating free—and unadorned.
“If you arrive to unbind him,” a sweet, high voice said, “you arrive too late.”
Apparently, the waters here weren’t as clear as I’d initially thought. I had to bring real effort to bear, to see the woman at Borgan’s side; her long black hair moving lazily in the ancient current; her slim figure wrapped in the simplest and softest of creamy robes.
She smiled at me, and it was as if I had looked directly into the eyes of the sun.
I averted my gaze, so as not to be blinded, but before I did, I saw her raise something to her lips, like a piece of candy, and saw the tiny flash of power consumed.
“I thought you’d be home in Cheobaug by now,” I said, bringing my best attention to Borgan’s situation.
“There is a disturbance; the Wind Between the Worlds has become unbalanced. The geas broke inside the storm, my will was insufficient to bring me to Cheobaug—and thus I return here. It is fortunate, is it not?”
I raised my eyes in time to see her consume another bit of candy.
“Fortunate, how?” I asked. “Unless you’re going to help me get Borgan out of this.”
This
was a complex series of bindings. Picture a kracken holding Borgan in its mighty tentacles, applying slow, even pressure. Eventually, Borgan would open; his power, his will and his soul would flow out and he would become one with the sea.
At the moment, his soul was still bright, his defenses battered, but holding. The price of that . . . was his power, which was bleeding out into the ancient waters at an alarming rate. I wasn’t sure what the reasoning was, there, unless there was a threshold of diminishing returns involved. If that was the case, how much power did he have to lose before he went below the sea’s radar?
Best not to wait around to find that out.
“You come on a useless errand,” the woman from Cheobaug told me. I looked up at her. She was still eating candy. “The sea will prevail. He will be one with her, and I shall be goddess in his stead.”
“This is the Changing Land. We don’t have much truck with goddesses here. Also . . . if what you did to the
ronstibles
is an example of your work, I think we’re better off going with the incumbent. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to concentrate.”
The Borgan’s power, which had been stored in the small amulets, was sweet, and unexpectedly potent. Strange passions ran in her veins, altering the flow of her blood, mingling with the power she had absorbed from the treacherous waters wherein he had imprisoned her. Strange passions, indeed, and, even stranger, a sense of restraint.
Her intention had been to embrace the interloper who strove to free the Borgan from his fate; she was rich in power—surprisingly old power, or so it seemed to her questing senses. Such would be useful to her . . .
But, her hand was stayed, her will diverted, her intention floating away on a current she did not fully understand.
The interloper was the Borgan’s lover—so much she knew from his power that she had eaten. There was no need to harm the Borgan’s lover; after all, she would soon know grief enough.
It was a young creature, the Borgan’s mistress, strong in power; her soul fierce and brilliant in these kindly waters.
She had entered her task with a will, snapping the sea’s bindings, seeming to care not for the increased loss of the Borgan’s power. Perhaps she did not see it, flowing away upon the waters. Perhaps she did not know that he might die, if he lost too much. The Borgan was old, and his power was his life-force.
Also, the determined young mistress did not seem to notice that these deep and placid waters were beginning to warm, and, somewhat, to roil. Anger was rising in the currents—and yet she worked on, oblivious to her danger.
Well, there was no reason for her to remain, to take the brunt of the sea’s anger. She might easily return to the goblins’ house and wait inside the deep grotto until the currents brought her news of the Borgan’s consumption.
Retreat, indeed, was the course of wisdom. Despite which, she remained, watching the young lover work, feeling the sea’s anger rise and the bitter taste of guilt upon her tongue.
The sea was getting mad. Check that. The sea was
getting madder
.
I tried to ignore the unsettled sensation in the waters and the bubbles boiling up from the deep, and kept chopping away at the kracken’s tentacles.
Each tentacle I broke meant more of Borgan’s energy left him. I tried to ignore that, too. There was only one connection that I had to be sure not to break—the brilliant blue rope that bound Borgan’s soul to the sea.
It wasn’t easy work; the tentacles were tough; they resisted the bite of my will, and, if I didn’t strike hard enough for a clean cut—they grew together again, tougher than ever.
Around me the water was heating fast; it was getting downright choppy. I narrowed my concentration and plied my will like shears, the same technique I’d used to free Aleun and Tioli from their bindings.
“The sea is becoming angry,” the woman from Cheobaug said.
“At this point, I’ve got no sympathy for the sea.”
“If she grows angry enough, the sea will kill you. You are nothing to her, but an inconvenience and an irritant. Allow me . . .” She stopped.
I spared her a half glance. Three more biggish bindings to go. She—the woman from Cheobaug—was frozen in place, staring at Borgan’s face, her fingers pressed to her lips.
“I will create a diversion,” she said slowly, as if she wasn’t quite sure what the words meant.
“I’d appreciate it,” I said softly, suddenly understanding what was going on.
She’d taken some of Borgan’s power—
taken
it, like I’d taken Prince Aesgyr’s power, though it had been too much and too hot for me. Unless I missed my guess, the lady from Cheobaug was finding herself suddenly very concerned with caring for the sea, calming the grieving waters.
. . . and giving Borgan a chance to get gone.
Well, she wasn’t my problem. My problem was chopping the last three of the kracken’s tentacles and getting the hell out of here.
I managed one, though it took two strikes—couldn’t handle too many more of those; my power was blunting, like I was using physical shears, and I had no idea how to sharpen it, except to bring more of my will to bear.
The next time I had leisure to look up, with one tentacle left to break, the woman from Cheobaug was gone.
It was true that not even a goddess may hide from a sea, and she did not wish to hide. Still, she chose her place carefully: the goblins’ abode, which had been theirs since the sea had spawned them. There, supported by waters still bearing something of their taint, she rested for a moment.
She had brought this trouble into the sea—she knew that. And having brought trouble to the sea, it fell to her to bring relief. She was a goddess; it was hers to heal, to comfort, and to bring order out of chaos.
There among the waters, she smiled. The Borgan was a subtle man. Perhaps she
could
have loved him, if . . .
No, let it be, for this moment, perhaps the last of her own existence— Let it be that she
did
love him, that she had loved him for all of her life, and that the influence of his power was no more than that which she herself had always desired.
She opened herself to the waters.
I offer myself willingly, to serve the sea and mingle with the waters. I bring myself, who loves you and wishes nothing else but to serve you as a child serves her mother. I bring also those whom I have in my ignorance consumed. They can be yours again, through me, and our love will never fail you . . .
Anger rocked her, and a grief so terrible it might never be assuaged. She felt the goblins move in her soul, as the waters washed through her . . .
And unraveled her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
SATURDAY, JULY 29
HIGH TIDE 2:17
A.M.
EDT
SUNRISE 5:27
A.M.
The last tentacle parted just as the sea went crazy.
Water crashed and boomed, the calm and ancient pool was calm no longer. I felt a tugging, growing quickly stronger, as if the sea was pulling back into a tidal wave, which would come crashing down to flatten Archers Beach, and everything and everyone in it . . .
I felt Cael’s rope of
jikinap
tighten around my waist, threw my arms around Borgan and held on for all I was worth.
* * *
We landed soft in dry sand.
I rolled to my feet, spinning. The land ran a tickertape parade through my head, while I craned out to sea . . .
Tide was in; Nerazi’s Rock was half-drowned in sea water. If there was a tsunami building, it wasn’t going about it in the usual way.
“Are you well, my lady?” Cael was at my shoulder. “There were strange motions upon the waters, and I felt it best to bring you away.”
“You did good. Where’d Nerazi go?”
“Into the waters. She would have it so.” There was a small pause before Cael said, softly. “And your leman?”
I felt him on the land, before I turned back to the edge of the dune where we had landed. I
felt him
, but not much of him.
Not nearly
enough
of him.
“Oh, God.”
I dropped to my knees beside Borgan.
His feet were bare; his leathers were gone, replaced by a soaked and sand-coated black T-shirt and a well-worn pair of jeans.
His eyes were closed, and God, God, he was so light.
“My lady?”
“He was bleeding power, and the lady from Cheobaug . . .” I reached out to wrap my fingers around his braid. Not one bead or shell remained . . .
“The lady from Cheobaug stole his cached power . . . to her undoing.”
And possibly to his.
I put my hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat—slow, and his skin so cold. The land again gave me his measure, worriedly. How much power had he lost?
How much power
could
he lose and still survive?
“Cael,” I said, my voice sounded creaky, as if the ocean had rusted my vocal cords. I cleared my throat and tried again, my eyes on Borgan’s face. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow.
“Cael—how do I share power?”
A charged moment of silence; I’d shocked Cael, who sank slowly to his knees beside me.
I looked at him.
“Tell me.”
He bent his head.
“My lady, you only call up your power, and you—give it to whomever you would. If—if he is a true leman, and holds you in his heart, he will return the gift to the balance, powers mingled to . . . produce a new power between you.
“To share power demonstrates a very great trust. In the village, there was a ritual, and everyone gathered to witness—and after, a feast, with dancing and games. I have heard it said that, among lords, such sharing is done in private, for reasons of state.”
“Right.”
I breathed in, and called my
jikinap
.
It blazed up my spine, just like old times, and only slightly tempered by the power of House Aeronymous. Pleasure flared with it, like I was greeting an old friend after a long absence—and I remembered Cael’s delight in finding that his spear was still available to him, only stored in a different trunk.
I whispered to my power, and it subsided, awaiting my command. I leaned close to Borgan, my lips against his ear.
“Borgan,” I whispered, and reached to the land for a quick jolt of healing power.
He stirred beneath my hand. I drew back very slightly, and saw that his eyes were open.
“Kate.” His voice was a ragged whisper. He moved his left arm, awkwardly, as if it weighed too much for his strength. When he got his hand up, he wrapped his fingers around my braid, and smiled. A smile so faint, I only saw it because I knew his face so well.
“Love you, Kate,” he whispered. “Should’ve said before now.”
I leaned forward, my palm pressing flat on his chest, right over his heart.
“Love you, too, Borgan,” I murmured, and kissed him, softly.
I retreated just a little, then, looking directly into his eyes, tapped the power burning along my spine, and said, “I freely give you everything that is mine.”
My center rocked, the smell of scorched butterscotch filled my nose. I saw Borgan’s eyes widen in the instant that I knew I was empty.
My heart stopped—
And jolted back into action.
Jikinap
flowed to me, warm and tasting of salted butterscotch. It was undoubtedly my own
jikinap
, yet it was different—enriched. Smoother, you might say, and infused with what might be humor.
I sighed in what I understood to be perfect contentment, and realized I was lying across Borgan’s chest, and his hand was pressing me against him.
Somewhere near at hand, someone cleared his throat.
“Witnessed, lady and lord,” Cael said, solemnly. “May great joy and long happiness proceed from this sharing.”
“Daughter, will you open your eyes, and tell me your name?”
A seal lay in the water beside her. She knew the voice, knew the taste of that particular power, and knew that this was no simple seal.
“Nerazi?”
“Exactly so. I am pleased that you recall me. You are . . . ?”
“I am . . . changed,” she said, and was not surprised to find it so.
“Indeed, you could hardly be other than changed. But I wonder
who
you are.”
“I am . . . the
lahleri
,” she said then, as the knowledge flowed into her. “Matsu, I was, and Korkilig, and Rinzirka. I am all, yet none. The sea has rewoven all of my strands.” She paused to consider the knowledge within her, and looked again to the seal.
“Perhaps I misspoke. Perhaps I am not
changed
, but made new.”
“That is possible. What will you do?”
“I must . . . learn my place, and so enrich the sea, that I love and wish only to serve.”
“It is well,” the seal who was Nerazi told her. “I leave you now to learn your place. When you are sure of that, come to see me. We have much to talk about.”
“Yes,” she said, and closed her eyes again, as the sea flowed through her soul.
I’d fallen asleep across Borgan’s chest; I woke with the sun in my eyes, and a rumbling boom in my ears. Borgan stirred beneath me.
“Listen,” he said.
The waves, the sound of the surf, striking the beach with energy and purpose, and the rattle of beach stones, as the water withdrew.
I let go a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Well, that’s what I’m going to need to find out, though I’ve got some guesses, you understand.”
“The woman from Cheobaug. She was going to create a diversion.”
“Looks like she did that just fine, then.” He stirred again. “Help me up, Kate.”
I froze, knowing his intent, as if it was my own . . .
. . . and exactly as if it were my own intention, knew there was no way I could talk him out of it. Battered as he had been, he was yet the sea’s chosen Guardian, and duty to the sea trumped . . . everything.
I sighed and came to my knees, surprised to find hands under my arms, helping
me
to rise.
“Cael?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t have to stay.”
“I wanted to stay, my lady. Are you able to stand?”
I tested the proposition and found it sound.
“Perfectly steady.”
“Good. Sir?”
He leaned forward and offered Borgan his hand.
I took the opportunity to commune a bit with the land, which was beyond happy to see me, and downright delighted with the sharing. There was something a little different in our bond, but I couldn’t get enough space between us to study it. Well, tomorrow, everybody’d be calmer.
I asked again, worried, and got the measure of Borgan’s weight upon the land—and chewed my lip in worry.
He weighed more than he had when I’d brought him out of the ocean.
That was the good news.
But if he weighed half as much as he had when I’d first met him . . .
“But now I’m bearing something else,” Borgan said from beside me. He took my hand and smiled down at me. “Something special.”
“Flatterer.”
“Only for you,” he said, and that . . . sounded serious. Even, the land told me, true. I looked up into his face. The smile this time was more apparent, and only slightly whimsical.
“Walk you home?”
“Cael—”
I looked around.
“He went on ahead. Said you’d be hungry, after all that, and he’d better be scrambling up some eggs.”
I laughed.
“Sure. Walk me home.”
* * *
We walked down the beach, splashing through the retreating breakers.
“No jellies,” I said, pointing at the waves.
“I’d gotten that much fixed before it swam backward,” he said, sounding rueful. “Gonna get the rest of it patched up soon’s I can. It’ll still be a couple days, week maybe, to get everything back to normal.”
Because he was, of course, going back into the water.
Right now, in fact.
We stood at the water line, holding hands, our backs to Dube Street, and Tupelo House. We weren’t saying anything, but not because there wasn’t anything more to talk about.
“When were you going to tell me that the bead was a power cache?” I asked him.
He sighed.
“I’d been planning on telling you everything, Kate, but the timing ran bad, and you weren’t trusting anything like sharing, so . . . I held off. And then, when it had to be now, I couldn’t figure how to explain what I was doing without making it seem like I was getting in over my head.”
“Which you were,” I’d pointed out.
“Well,” he wasn’t exactly ready to concede the point. “Kinda comes with the surf.”
“So, it was dangerous, but not above your pay grade. Got it.”
He laughed. “Skin me later?”
“I’ll mark it on the calendar.”
“Well . . .” he said, and moved one step further into the water.
“Wait,” I said. “One more thing, before you go.”
“Sure.”
“Borgan . . .” My voice died from sheer cowardice, leaving me looking up into his face.
He raised a hand and touched my chin. “Not breaking up with me, are you?”
I choked.
“Not yet,” I managed, and took a breath. “I just wonder . . . if we
had
. . . shared power
before
. . . would you have gotten in over your head?”
He frowned slightly, moved his hand and fingered the bead in my braid.
“No way of telling what
would’ve
happened; what we have to deal with is what
did
happen. Which is why I’m going back to her, now. It’s mine, to make peace, and weave together all the raveled bits, into something that’s whole again, and strong. I know you’re thinking it’s not the smartest thing I could do, having lately been unraveling, myself, and I’m not saying you’re wrong. But there’s nothing else to do.” He tipped his head and gave me a slow grin.
“See, this is hard on you, ’cause you’d never do anything like it.”
I laughed.
“Okay; point taken.”
“That’s right. In the meantime, the sooner I start this, the quicker I’ll be done.” He ran his hand down my braid, and we both shivered in pleasure.