Sue-Ellen Welfonder - MacKenzie 07 (6 page)

She served them well.

"Great is our magic," she cackled, looking down at the little red dog fox standing so quietly beside her at the rock pool.

The fox didn't blink.

Devorgilla laughed with glee, not bothered by his solemn stare.

"A mere wriggle of these fingers" - she held out her hand and admired each knotty-knuckled digit - "and there he was in Dunakin's tower window!"

Her old bones warmed with the glory of it.

Her pulse quickened.

Of all the tidal pools dotting the narrow stretch of beach beneath Doon's cliffs, she'd chosen rightly. Its smooth surface understood her need, allowing her to peer into its secrets, conjuring as she wished. The most powerful spelling words she could've mumbled wouldn't have mattered if the water wasn't obliging.

Even a newt-brain knew that.

Her own knowledge was vast.

Throughout the land, paeans were sung of her skills. Those who loved her threw open their doors in welcome. Anyone fool enough to shun her was wise to hide in shadow, quaking in their fear.

Devorgilla patted her grizzled hair, pleased with her reputation.

Soon, this very night, she'd demonstrate that greatness.

But first she'd celebrate having shown the doubtful one a glimpse of her future.

So she took a small silver flask from her belt and treated herself to a sip of her own prized heather ale. Then, after wiping her mouth with the back of her gnarled hand, she rummaged in her skirts until she found a little bag filled with twists of dried meat.

From this she selected a particularly large strip and handed it to the fox.

He, too, played a role in her success and deserved his due reward.

"Did you see her eyes widen?" She relived the moment, victory still sweet. "How her breath caught as she stared up at him?"

Somerled, her pet fox and helpmate, continued to eat in silence.

He didn't seem to appreciate their accomplishment.

With a disdain worthy of the most high-browed noble, he ignored the two keeps that were only now beginning to fade from the dark, mirrorlike surface of the tide pool. Instead, he turned a deliberate gaze on the steep stone steps carved into the cliff face.

As he'd done again and again, ever since they'd picked their way down the harrowing path with its many heart-stopping twists and plunges.

Indeed, if she hadn't nudged him with her black-booted foot, he might have missed the grand moment when she'd caused the young warrior's silhouette to disappear from his own window and reappear at Dunakin.

And even then - as soon as the wonder happened - a single swish of the fox's plush, white-tipped tail was the only indication he'd noticed.

The cliff path fascinated him more.

A fixation that annoyed Devorgilla until he returned his attention to her and she saw the worried look clouding his deep golden eyes.

Understanding, she laughed. Then she hitched up her skirts, displaying ankles surprisingly well-turned for someone of her untold years.

"These feet are as sure as your own, my little friend. Even if I hobble, I made it down yon slippery track. The climb back up will be no bother! Now come" - she dropped her skirts and began peering along the strand - "help me find a curl of mist thick enough for our purpose."

At once, Somerled dipped his paw into the rock pool, rippling the surface until the fading outlines of the two keeps vanished completely. The deed done, he lifted his foot and shook off the water droplets.

They fell to the sand, cold sparkles lit by moonglow and - Devorgilla beamed -

caught up by a sudden gust of wind and turned into a lovely, whirling twist of blue-white haze.

"O-o-oh!" Devorgilla trilled her approval.

Somerled nodded acknowledgment.

Then, as the mist pulsed and thickened, she wiggled her fingers again, this time procuring a length of thin, knotted rope.

Thrusting her hands into the spinning mist, she caressed each of the four knots -

one for each direction of the wind - before untying two... the knots representing the north and the west, the direction from which a certain merchant cog would approach Doon.

"North wind, so cold and mighty," she chanted, lifting her voice as the mist whirled even faster, "carry this fog to where I will it. West wind, so strong and honored, keep it there so long as needed. Old Ones, you who rule all days that have passed and all those yet to come," - the cording vanished from her hands -

"hear my plea and bless what has begun."

The spell released, she took a deep breath.

No longer a tight, fast-spinning vortex, the mist now shimmered and grew, spreading and thickening as it drifted seaward, moving slowly toward the horizon.

There, she knew, the creamy white fog would remain until she recalled it.

An impassable barrier, dense and impenetrable, its eastern edges shaded in black.

Devorgilla's eyes flew wide.

She clapped a hand to her breast, her jaw dropping.

But there could be no mistake.

Even Somerled saw the unholy blackness. His hackles on end, the little fox ran to the water's edge, snarling. Not that his growls and agitation or Devorgilla's own dread could change what was done.

They could only look on in horror, watching as the blackness spread.

A terrible darkness such as Devorgilla had never seen.

And that she knew meant grave danger.

All her earlier elation evaporated. Her mouth went dry and her stomach dropped.

Unknown evil was almost impossible to challenge.

Shuddering, she grabbed up her skirts again and hastened for the cliff path, leaving Somerled to trot after her. If they hurried, they might be able to avert disaster.

So much was at stake.

Perhaps even Lady Arabella's life.

"You should be in your cabin, my lady."

The MacKenzie guardsman gave Arabella a look that said he wasn't making pleasantries. And even if his eyes held concern rather than fierceness, she recognized the iron will her father prized in those who served him.

"Not just yet." She tried a smile.

The guardsman's face didn't crack. "I don't like these seas." He glanced at the thick drift of mist just beginning to swirl around them. "If you ask me, it's worsening faster than a wink."

She hadn't asked him, but she refrained from saying so.

She understood why he didn't want her on deck. The endless blue-green of the Hebridean Sea had turned murky and dark, the waters churning and white-capped. Nor did she need anyone to tell her that the tides ran with ever increasing speed. She could taste the salt tang on her tongue and inhaled it with each breath. Almost as if the sea was claiming the air. And that wasn't all. The winds no longer simply blew but shrieked through the rigging, the wildest gusts they'd seen since leaving Kyleakin a sennight before.

Seven days of calm, barely rippled water. Only an oddly persistent bank of fog had broken the monotony.

This was different.

And the cold, flying spray and heavy swells excited her.

The guardsman narrowed his eyes as if he knew. "This is no place for you."

When he took a step toward her, she flashed a glance at her aft-castle cabin with its sturdy door and security. A tiny coal-burning brazier waited within, spending warmth, and a small table and chair and a snug berth lent an air of coziness.

She'd even taken a few curls of cinnamon bark and dried heather from her herb pouch, using them to scent the air.

But at the moment, such comfort didn't interest her.

Looking away from the cabin, she eyed the tossing seas. Huge breaking seas that tested her mettle, as did the darkening sky. Never had she seen such heavens.

Seething black clouds blotted the moon and stars, leaving only angry, rumbling masses that boiled like an upturned cauldron.

Arabella shivered.

But beneath that one wee quiver, her heart soared. Frightening or not, the roll of the ship exhilarated her. The leaping waves were a delight, absolutely fascinating.

And the racing wind, so sharp and brisk, made her feel more alive than ever before.

Just days ago she might have hidden in her cabin's bunk, the covers to her chin, and curled into a cold ball of fear and dread.

Now...

She tossed back her hair. "I came on deck to fetch a meat bone for Mina," she lied. The little dog was asleep in her padded crate, her belly filled with tidbits and broth. "As soon as - "

"I'll see to the dog bone." The guardsman dismissed her excuse.

She started to argue, but just then a plume of spray arced over the side, wetting them both. An irresistible urge to laugh welled inside her. She burned to give into it and savor the night's fury. Revel in the icy prickles of the sea misting her skin.

Instead, she blinked and lifted a hand to slick the damp from her face.

Her father's man was only doing his duty.

A bit longer and she'd return to Mina.

Even so, she shifted her feet on the slick deck, made sure she was standing ramrod straight.

The guardsman came closer. "See here, lady. Your father would know you safe."

"I'm not afraid." Arabella scooted down the railing, secretly relieved by how strong and solid it felt beneath her fingers. The rise and fall of the sea suddenly made that so important.

"I'll go inside shortly." She lifted her voice above the wind, her bravura making her pulse quicken. "For now" - she pressed against the rail and hoped he wouldn't notice how tightly her hands gripped the slippery wet wood -

"I will stay here."

The guardsman frowned.

She pretended not to notice.

"Come, lass." He tried a different tone, but his eyes still glinted like steel. "'Tis fell dangerous, such pitching and rolling. It isn't natural for a good, God-fearing soul to have naught between hisself and the deep, dark depths than a thin plank o'

wood!"

"Captain Arneborg said cogs are the safest ships afloat." She held fast to the rail as the cog lifted, then plunged into a trough. "Nigh unsinkable."

The guardsman's scowl deepened.

Arabella smiled sweetly.

It was new for her to be so bold.

Having none of it, the guardsman snorted. "If he believes that, then why does he have bells hanging everywhere to ward off sea dragons?" He grabbed the rail, his knuckles whiter than hers. "That proves he's fearful of capsizing!"

"Faugh!" The shipmaster strode up to them, laughing. "It proves you've let my crew fill your ears with nonsense. The bells" - he reached out to set a cluster of them clanking - "are plague bells. They have naught to do with sea beasties. They

- "

"There isn't any pest in these waters." The guardsman swelled his chest, ready to argue. "Latest word put the malaise many leagues from here, in England and - "

"Then who's to say it isn't my bells that's keeping us safe?" Arneborg jutted his chin. "Everyone knows the scourge travels on the wind. A medical man in Hamburg told me jangling bells break up the air, scattering the pest. As I've not been bothered anywhere I've journeyed since tying the bells to my ship's timbers, I believe him."

"I've ne'er heard the like." The guardsman remained doubtful.

Arnkel Arneborg shrugged. "Be that as it may" - he flashed a bearded smile - "the bells serve me well."

"Ah..." Arabella's heart stuttered.

She'd forgotten the bells. Even though their clanging had rung in her ears since she'd boarded the Merry Dancer. The rising tempest drowned their clatter and that could only mean one thing.

The storm was worse than she'd realized.

"Er..." Once again, the words stuck in her throat.

"Eh, lass?" Arneborg looked at her, one bushy blond brow raised in query.

She swallowed. "Do the bells help against storms?"

There.

She'd blurted her dread.

Heat flamed her face and she glanced aside, letting the spray cool her cheeks.

Across the deck, several men rushed about lashing together the huge herring barrels. Only the barrels had already been tied in place. The portent of the men's preparations made her stomach clench.

There'd be no need to secure the barrels with extra lines if they weren't in danger of being swept away.

Arabella's eyes widened.

The shipmaster followed her gaze. "Yon's but a wee precaution. And, nae, the bells aren't storm charms."

He stepped closer, taking her elbow in a firm, fatherly grip. "Such things aren't needed on the Merry Dancer. There isn't a gale that can take her or a breaking sea she can't ride." He sounded sure of it. "We'll wait out the storm here and sail on when the fury's past us."

Arabella bit her lip, unconvinced.

If only the guardsman hadn't spoiled her brief moments on deck. She'd done so well before his arrival - and his voiced concern - reminded her of the dangers.

"Have you already forgotten the fog bank?" Arneborg looked down at her, his smile still flashing. "Such impenetrable mist could have brought ill to a lesser ship. Yet here we are" - he started leading her across the deck, toward her cabin -

"and nary a wood splinter out of place."

Arabella nodded.

She wanted to believe him.

Her guardsman caught up to them, blocking the way. "We avoided the fog by not sailing into it. This storm" - he shot a glance at the living seas - "is all around us.

Wouldn't it be better to seek shelter in the bay of some islet? The saints know we've passed enough of them!"

"All the more reason to stay put!" The shipmaster stepped around him and reached for the cabin door. "Were you a seaman, you'd know anywhere near land is the worst place to be in a gale. If that land is a lee shore..."

He shot a glance at the guardsman, letting his expression explain the unspoken words.

"I am thinking of Lady Arabella." The young man flushed. "Her safety - "

"Will be assured in my cabin" - Arnkel flung open the door and ushered Arabella inside - "well away from breaking swells and jagged rocks and ledges that could rip the bottom out of us were we to approach land."

Releasing her, he crossed the cabin and lit two horn-held candles bracketed in the wall. "In such weathers, it only takes one strong gust to hurl a ship to her doom.