Elodie of the Sea

by Shari L. Tapscott

  “Yes.” She presses a soft, single kiss to my lips. “But not yet.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Elodie

  “Now hold still,” I tell Bran, trying not to laugh at the slightly horrified look on his face. We stand on a sandy patch of shore just down from our protected cove.

  We plan to walk north, toward Murin, and hopefully, we’ll find a road—or better yet, a cottage or small village where we can obtain directions. Judging from the landscape, Bran believes we’re east of Saltwreath. I’m not sure how he can tell. Triblue is long and narrow, spanning a great amount of land from east to west, but it’s all coastal and looks very much the same to me.

  I raise my hand, pursing my lips as I cock my head, and let a drying breeze swirl around him, whisking sea water from his skin and hair. I try not to look at the jagged lines that separate the new, pink skin from the rest of his tanned chest.

  In my mind, I can still see him losing blood. I knit the wounds as best I could, but we were in the water, and my greatest concern was closing them. If the circumstances hadn’t been so dire, I could have taken my time, done the job with a bit more finesse. But I didn’t have time, and what’s done is done.

  Bran swallows, trying to remain calm though I can tell my magic troubles him. I understand it. Humans are most accustomed to the dark work of wizards, but ours is entirely different—though now I see how even it can be made evil, and that’s a sobering thought. Perhaps it’s the heart of the wielder that makes the most significant difference. Still, Bran has no reason to fear it in my hands.

  “I’ve never clothed a man,” I say, trying to picture what it is I mean to construct. I’ve done it for myself so many times, I don’t even think about it. It’s like I have a full wardrobe at my disposal, and I simply pull from my collection. Sometimes I’ll change little details—colors, beads, jewels—but for the most part, I know the styles I like, and I use them over and over.

  “You don’t have to do this.” He eyes my raised hand like it’s turned into a viper.

  “No?” This time I don’t hide my smirk. “Are you going to walk back to Castle Calland like that? Shirtless, bootless, and with ripped trousers that are stiff with salt water? You look like a castaway.”

  He glances down at himself and gives me a grim smile.

  “They’ll think you kidnapped me when they see us walking down the road,” I continue, happy to tease him.

  Now that I’ve gotten a full night’s sleep, I feel new. There’s no longer that maddening tug on my magic, and the fog is gone. I am my own person, I am in love, and I’m almost giddy because of it. Even if we’re returning to Triblue.

  He’ll have to choose a queen before the month is out, and it won’t be me. And though it hurts—though the very thought is an ice-cold shard of steel in my heart—I know it’s for the best, not just for the kingdom but for Bran as well. The last thing he needs is a waning mermaid at his side.

  How much time do I have left? The thought comes and goes, though I try not to dwell on it.

  I’ll stay with Bran until the gala. Then I’ll leave, perhaps I could make my way to Ptarma. It’s beautiful this time of year, the weather warm and gentle, and the water is calm. It wouldn’t be a bad place to live out the last of my years.

  I could sail there with Grace and Javid—save myself a swim. I’m not sure I have enough left in me to make it to even the nearest island.

  Oh, but it will hurt to leave him. Part of me wonders if we should have left well enough alone, never crossed that tempting line. Unrequited love surely hurts less than love lost.

  But then I remember how it felt to kiss him in the ocean, with him holding me like I’m the most precious thing in his life. I could never give our time up, no matter how fleeting it might be.

  “Are these boots?” Bran asks, horrified as he looks down at my first creation. They’re a bit misshapen, and one is taller than the other.

  “Hmmm.” I narrow my eyes, studying the sad footwear. “I can do better.”

  “Elodie—”

  Before he can finish that thought, the boots transform again, this time into something much more functional.

  His protest dies, and he stares down at the new pair.

  “Better?” I ask.

  He shuffles back and forth, testing them, looking terrified to move.

  I roll my eyes. “You look like a goat in shoes for the first time. Walk.”

  “The first time? Tell me, do you put many shoes on goats?” He grins and manages a few steps.

  “How are they?” I ask, ignoring the question.

  “Much better. How did you manage it?”

  I shrug. “It’s easier to create when you have something to work with. The first design is always a bit rough.”

  Finally giving in, growing accustomed to the feel and look of my magic, he stands still for me while I create a shirt.

  “Nothing too fine,” he warns. “I’d prefer not to be recognized until we return to Saltwreath.”

  “Scared of bandits?” I wrinkle my nose, working on the sleeves of a simple muslin shirt.

  He cranes his neck, looking the shirt over. “If you’ll notice, I don’t have my sword.”

  “And I cannot help you there. I’m not gifted with metal, though Aristos is excellent.”

  The thought stops me. Aristos is the best—I’m sure that’s why Croissin had him create the bands.

  “What is it?” Bran asks, seeing the look on my face.

  Worry swirls in the pit of my stomach, and I grow cold despite the warm spring sunshine. “I think I’ve been deceived,” I whisper.

  “By whom?” He steps forward, no longer concerned with the origin of his clothing.

  I fight the panic. It’s not helpful; it’ll only keep me from thinking rationally. I face Bran. “I don’t think it was Croissin who was stealing my magic—I think it was Aristos.”

  “Your friend?”

  No. The man I thought was my friend.

  ***

  We walk for hours, fighting our way through the subtropical vegetation that grows in abundance on Triblue’s shores. Palm trees tower above us, swaying in the light breeze. It’s a little too cool in the shade, but it gradually grows warmer as the day goes by.

  Both Bran and I are quiet, consumed with our own thoughts. Just thinking Aristos could do this feels like a betrayal, but at the same time, there’s a rightness to it. He was so nervous the night I left, shifty even.

  Why would he link me? Why steal my magic to create dangerous storms and compel dragons to attack ships? It’s like he has a personal vendetta against the people of Triblue, but I cannot think of why.

  And what of Croissin and Greer? I can’t argue the fact that she died far too early in the marriage. Maybe it was the king after all, and my distrust is misplaced.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Bran asks when we reach a sunny clearing with large boulders jutting from the ground. It would make a good resting spot, but I’m too edgy to sit. I need to keep moving. It feels crucial we return to Triblue. Neither merman can access my magic any longer, but that doesn’t mean Bran’s people are safe.

  “I’m fine,” I answer.

  I continue along our narrow animal trail, but Bran catches me by the arm, gently pulling me back. He narrows his eyes as he searches my face, looking for signs of exhaustion. “Are you sure?”

  I nod.

  Finally, around midday, we find a road. It’s a narrow thing, and judging from the vegetation sprouting between the wagon tracks, it looks seldom used.

  “Let’s follow it,” Bran says. “It should eventually lead to a larger thoroughfare.”

  The sun reaches its apex in the sky and then begins to fall. We pass a freshwater stream, and Bran stops to drink. I pull out a bottle I created before we left the cove and take a sip of salty water. The king glances over and cringes.

  “Problem?” I ask, smiling because I know.

  He shakes his head. “I have no idea how you stomach that.”
<
br />   I make a face toward his cold, clear creek. “I have no idea how you stomach that.”

  “Fair enough.” After he drinks, he splashes water on his face and neck, and we continue down the road.

  Though we’ve walked all day, we haven’t passed a soul. As the sun sinks and the day turns golden, I begin to worry about the impending night. Where will we find shelter? The thought of sleeping in the forest, on a bed of tangled vines and thorny weeds, with snakes, lizards, and the occasional tarantula holds no appeal.

  Suddenly, Bran stops, holding out his hand, silently requesting me to be still too. I stand, listening.

  “Riders,” he says, relief washing over his face.

  I don’t hear a thing, and I’m about to tell him so when there—just faintly—is the sound of hoofbeats. I glance around, not liking how alone we are.

  “Do you think we should hide in the brush? Make sure the group looks respectable before we give ourselves away?”

  Bran’s eyes dart to his side, to the place his blade rested before it found its new home at the bottom of the ocean, and then he looks down the road. He nods, agreeing, and motions me to the side.

  But it’s too late. The riders come into view, and the noble king curses under his breath, saying a word I’ve only heard from sailors.

  My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I’m already grinning, ready to comment on it, when I realize why he’s less than pleased with the new arrivals. I suck in a breath, near swearing myself.

  Gypsies.

  It’s too late to hide at the side of the road. The men have already spotted us.

  Not all gypsies are wicked, but a rather large percentage of them lean in that direction. Many dabble in dark magic, and more than one mermaid has found herself shackled to a wizard of their kind.

  There are three of them, each on handsome horses, and they pull their mounts back as soon as they reach us, making the poor creatures dance, reeling from the abrupt stop. They wear vests of bright fabric and scarves for belts about their waists.

  “Pleasant evening to you.” The man at the front jerks his chin up in an amused greeting, his voice thick with the distinct Bandolian accent. “Do you particularly enjoy traveling by foot, or have you been set upon by bandits?”

  “Neither,” Bran says, stepping forward, perhaps trying to keep the men’s eyes off me. Judging from the curious stares I’m receiving, I don’t think it’s working. “Our ship was attacked by sea dragons, and we barely made it to the shore.”

  The man’s black eyebrows scrunch together in thought. He’s not good-looking—not by a longshot—but there is a handsomeness about him nonetheless. He’s like a bear, massive and furry, and he makes his tall horse look like a pony.

  He’s precisely the sort of man you don’t want to meet on a deserted road near dark.

  “I’ve heard tales of the dragons of the sea setting upon ships. Strange times.”

  Bran nods.

  “I am Deacan, leader of The Traveling Noloscas. We’ve made camp not far up this very road. You are welcome to share our fire tonight. We’ll fill your bellies and send you on your way in the morning.”

  I can tell Bran would like to decline, but it’s more dangerous to turn down their charity. They are a proud people even though they are wanderers of Elden, no longer with a kingdom of their own. They would take insult to our refusal.

  “I’m Brad, and this is my wife, Eleanor. We are most grateful,” Bran assures them.

  “We’ll return with horses,” Deacan promises, laughing like Bran said something amusing, and then he motions his companions forward. Leaving a cloud of dust in their wake, they ride down the road, their horses’ tails streaming like banners in the wind.

  Bran’s eyes follow them.

  “Wife?” I nudge him in the side. “Brad?”

  A small smile tugs the corner of his mouth. “It’s safer, Eleanor.”

  I laugh, though worry makes its home in my stomach.

  He turns to me. “Do you think you’ll remember to answer to it?”

  “Probably.”

  His eyes stray to my temple. “Someone will ask you about your mark. Just like before, tell them you’ve had it for as long as you can remember and be done with it.”

  I nod and absently touch my face. “It was my mother.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “She gave me the mark—it was a sign of beauty, of affection. A gift that is now fueled by my magic. I think she thought it would keep me from wandering too far from home.”

  “Apparently she was wrong.”

  I smile, feeling melancholy as I think of my childhood on Isle Milayle. “Apparently she was.”

  We continue to walk toward the gypsy camp. I’m relieved we happened upon the riders before stumbling on the rest of their troupe. At least we have their welcome now.

  Deacan and another man return just as the sun sinks below the forest, both with an extra horse with them.

  I stare at the creatures, and dread slows my stride.

  “I’ve never ridden before,” I whisper to Bran before the gypsies meet us.

  “Never?”

  I shake my head.

  “Are you afraid of them?”

  “No, I’ve just never had the opportunity to try. I have no idea how to…direct it. I use the leather strips, correct?”

  “Kingdoms of Elden,” Bran mutters softly. “Act nervous, but don’t say a word. I’ll take care of it.”

  Nodding, I gulp. The creatures are beautiful, all in varying shades of dark brown and black, with sleek coats and well-combed manes. More than anything, I want to stroke their muzzles, see if they’re as soft as they look.

  I take a hesitant step closer. They’re so tall. I’m not even sure I can reach the horse’s back. How am I going to crawl up there?

  The men bring the animals to a stop.

  “You have fine horses,” Bran says, admiring them just as the gypsy expects.

  Deacan smiles in a satisfied sort of way and motions toward one of the unoccupied animals. “Firefly should suit your lady fine.”

  She’s the smallest, but she’s still huge.

  I blink at her, trying to figure out how I’m going to get from the ground to her saddle. I’ve seen men do it in one smooth movement so I know it can be done. But how?

  “Will you be all right?” Bran asks me, lightly touching my back, his eyes warm with feigned worry.

  I want to raise an eyebrow at the suffocating concern in his voice, but I merely nod.

  Bran turns to the gypsy, extending his hands in apology. “My wife was thrown as a child and knocked unconscious—suffered for weeks. She’s understandably hesitant around horses.” He then turns back to me. “But these are fine, well-trained animals. You’ll be all right.”

  “Even the king’s Altiers are inferior to our Bandolian steeds,” Deacan assures me. “You, my lady, have never ridden such a gentle horse.”

  For half a second, a bitter look crosses Bran’s face, making his nose wrinkle with distaste. He schools it quickly, but it’s enough to make me want to laugh out loud. I hold back the urge and nod sagely to the big brute of a gypsy.

  “Shall I assist you?” Bran asks, offering me his hand.

  “Please.”

  Acting like a doting, smothering husband, Bran shows me how to mount and reminds me to use my legs in tandem with the reins to direct the horse. Like a dream, the mare waits, patient and unmoving.

  “Well?” Deacan asks, smiling benevolently in the fading light. “What do you think of her?”

  “She’s exquisite,” I say, meaning every word. I stroke the horse’s soft, soft neck, instantly in love.

  Deacan nods with approval and turns toward the camp. Thankfully, Firefly merely follows the others, needing no direction from me. Content to sit atop her and look at the world from a different viewpoint, I gaze into the forest.

  Wood smoke greets us, and soon the light of flickering campfires shines through the trees. There are half a dozen gypsy carts in the clearing an
d far more tents. They are opulent things, made of silken fabric in oranges, yellows, and reds, and each of them drips with tassels.

  Several people yell out greetings when we near the camp, welcoming us warmly. Perhaps the tales I’ve heard about gypsies are untrue. They seem like warm, friendly people, but I’m still cautious.

  Bran dismounts and comes to my side, steadying me as I swing my leg over the horse’s back. He places his hands on either side of my waist as he pulls me down. I beam at him, unable to hide my joy.

  He grins. “What did you think?”

  I lean close so only he will hear. “I want to ride every single day.”

  His thumb moves over my side, making me tingle. “Then I will give you a horse, and you may take her out as often as you desire.”

  “Bran.”

  And despite our audience, he presses a soft, quick kiss on my lips. The crowd cheers, and though my cheeks grow hot, I don’t mind.

  Bran takes my hand and pulls me to the closest fire. Deacan already sits with a large group, all of them lounging on logs covered with strips of velvet. They’ve created a strange juxtaposition in the clearing with their finery alongside the untamed land. It’s enticing in its oddness, and I want to soak it in, remember everything from the way the fire crackles to the aroma of the spice-ladened foods sizzling on spits and bubbling in iron pots.

  Before I’m even seated, a woman in a tinkling, patchwork skirt presses a warm mug of something suspiciously potent into my hand. Bran accepts a cup with his thanks and makes a show of taking a sip, though I’m not sure he actually dares to drink the brew. She smiles in a motherly way and squeezes in next to Deacan.

  “Now,” the large gypsy says, leaning forward. “What really brings the king of Triblue to our fire? Rumor has it you’re dead.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Bran

  I stiffen but force a pleasant smile. “Our ship was attacked, just as I said. We were fortunate to make it back to shore.”

  Deacan’s eyes move to Elodie, lingering on her face in a way that makes me want to hide her from prying eyes. But it’s too late now.