Elodie of the Sea

by Shari L. Tapscott

  “Very fortunate,” Deacan agrees, but there’s something in his voice that has me wishing we’d hidden in the brush when we had the chance. These gypsies see too much. Just like Rosie, they’re alarmingly astute.

  “You have nothing to fear from us,” the woman by Deacan’s side says to Elodie, her voice kind. “We don’t use the dark magic, and we have no desire to steal yours.”

  Elodie sucks in a startled breath, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders. How do they know?

  Deacan leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “I have an interesting tale for you, King of Triblue. Care to hear it?”

  I nod even as I take stock of our surroundings and the weapons available. Most of the men carry blades. If I act quickly, I could swipe a sword before anyone thought to stop me—if the need arises, which I’d rather it didn’t.

  “Two months ago, my troupe traveled into Saltwreath to sell goods we acquired in Errinton to a merchant who distributes them in Waldren,” Deacan begins. “On the pier, I was sought out by a sailor—a man I’ve never met before. He told me if I camped in this spot, on this very night, I’d find the King of Triblue walking down the road with his remarkably lovely mermaid friend at his side. Obviously, I thought the man mad, but I felt like a lark, so here we are.”

  “The man’s a gimly,” Elodie says, surprising me. “If I’m not mistaken, I know him.”

  “I gathered as much,” Deacan says, smiling like a cat in the sun. “Imagine meeting a gimly and a mermaid, all in one season.”

  “What do you plan to do with us?” I demand, assuming they will hold us for ransom—a ransom that my foolish brother will pay.

  “I don’t plan to do anything with you,” Deacan says, letting out a deep laugh. “But it’s not every day an honorable gypsy like myself gets a private audience with His Majesty.”

  I wait for it, knowing they will demand something in return for sheltering us safely through the night.

  Deacan pins me with his eyes. “My people have wandered too long. We need a place to call home, something that is ours.”

  “What are you asking for?”

  The massive gypsy crosses his arms and studies me with his dark eyes. “Land—nothing larger than what you would bestow upon one of your esteemed lords,” he quickly adds when I begin to object. “A territory of Triblue that you grant to us, the Bandolian people. We will care for it, govern it, build a prospering city and port. There is plenty of untouched land near your eastern border—land you do nothing with.”

  “And how will Triblue benefit in return?” I ask.

  “We will negotiate taxes with you, of course.”

  It’s not manipulation—it’s a business deal, one I would have likely considered even if he hadn’t found Elodie and me along the deserted road.

  Intrigued, I ask Deacan more questions, all of which he answers with gusto. His men loiter about, listening to our conversation, silent yet eager. This isn’t a hastily constructed plan—the man has been building the idea up for years, possibly most of his life. It’s solid and reasonable.

  We talk long into the night. I don’t realize how late it’s gotten until Elodie lays her head on my shoulder, half asleep—exhausted from a long day of walking.

  “I believe this might be a worthwhile investment for Triblue,” I say to Deacan, pulling Elodie to her feet as I rise. “We will discuss it at length once we return to Castle Calland, but it’s late now.”

  Deacan nods, more than pleased, and motions to the edge of the forest. “We’ve prepared a tent.”

  The gypsy’s wife nods and leads us there, squeezing our shoulders like a matronly aunt and telling us if we require anything at all, we only need to ask. “Sleep well,” she says, and then she leaves us.

  The tent glows softly in the night, internally lit by firelight. Elodie casts me a hesitant look before she presses through the flap. Following her, I fight the path my mind attempts to travel. Once inside, I pause, impressed—and surprised to be so.

  Despite the size of the space, it’s decadent. The tent is constructed over a large, imported rug, creating a floor. Candles burn atop plates, which are scattered on low tables and on a credenza along the back panel. A bed is adorned with an intricately stitched patchwork quilt in shades of amber and cobalt, and tasseled, silken pillows sit atop it, finishing off a space that’s a little too cozy.

  “I’ll take the floor,” I say, not meeting Elle’s eyes. I should have requested a separate space to sleep. Perhaps there’s a tent with unwed men, but that would mean leaving Elodie alone. I’m not about to risk her safety even if the gypsies have been surprisingly hospitable.

  Elodie wanders the tiny, makeshift room. A comb sits on the credenza, next to the plate of candles. She picks it up, admiring the delicate carvings. “These people are artists,” she murmurs with appreciation, and then she sits on the bed and begins working the comb through her wind-blown, sea-knotted hair. Even in a state of chaos, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen—which is precisely the sort of thought I don’t need to dwell on at the moment.

  I make small talk as she tends her hair, and I take a pillow and blanket from the bed, creating a nest on the floor. We speak of things we saw on our way—birds, flowers, anything meaningless and trivial. When she is finished, she slips under the covers, still fully clothed, and I blow out the candles and stumble to my makeshift bed on the rug.

  As if the darkness has stolen our voices, neither of us speaks. The silence stretches, heavy, weighted. I try to focus on sleep, but the meadow is rocky, and it’s difficult to find a comfortable position.

  “You don’t have to sleep on the ground,” Elodie says after I roll again, though I thought I was the only one still awake. “We shared a bed of palm leaves last night, and nothing dire came of it.”

  I grin to myself. “Last night, we were exhausted—you from dragging my sorry self across the sea, and me from my near-death experience with the most peaceful of Triblue’s sea beasts.”

  She rolls over and peers down at me, her chin resting on the edge of the bed. My eyes have adjusted, and I can just make out her shadowy features in the dark. A sheet of her silken hair falls on my chest as she changes her position, and I hold back a groan. Then her hand follows her hair, and she traces swirling designs on my shoulder, driving me mad.

  “Are you not exhausted tonight?” she asks softly.

  I catch her hand, bringing to my lips. “Not in the slightest.”

  “Hmmm.” Her tone is playful, far too appealing. “Then you’ll just have to stay down there, I suppose.”

  And with that, she withdraws her hand and hair, and rolls over, settling in. I let out a chuckle that’s half a groan and then close my eyes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Elodie

  I’ve seen a few royal parades, but I’ve never been part of one until now—though this one certainly wasn’t planned. I’m atop Deacan’s beautiful mare once more. Bran’s at my side, and the people of Triblue gather in droves to celebrate the return of their king. We were spotted just outside of Saltwreath, and the news of Bran’s return spread like wildfire.

  Deacan paves the way on his dark horse, waving to the people like he’s the man they’re flocking around to catch a glimpse of, and the troupe’s carts travel behind us. To add to the fanfare, several of the gypsies dance with scarves and shake tambourines while others tumble in the streets.

  Either side of the road is packed with people—women, children, and men of all ages are cheering, crying, even falling on their knees at the sight of the monarch they thought died at such a young age. And we’ve barely entered the city.

  “You are beloved,” I whisper to Bran, in awe of the scene.

  Bran gives me a stiff nod, but I don’t believe it’s because he is brushing off the sentiment. The new king rides with a tight expression, looking half choked up, surprised by the depth of his people’s adoration and devotion. He nods to them as he passes and accepts each trinket the children offer as we make our
way through the street—whether it’s a fine embroidered cloth or a sad, wilted wildflower that’s been crushed in a child’s eager hand.

  My eyes sting as Bran dismounts to accept a ratty fabric doll from a young girl in the street. It’s most likely her prize possession, but she offers it to the king with a shy smile. He kneels in front of her, pausing, obviously not wanting to take the toy from her. It’s likely the only one the girl has.

  “Thank you,” he says sincerely. The streets are so loud I can barely make out the words. Then he asks, “Does she have a name?”

  The little girl bites her lip, looking down at the doll before she answers.

  Bran holds the doll to his ear as if he’s listening to something she’s saying. He nods several times. Finally, he turns back to the generous girl. “It seems Harriet is very glad to meet me, but she would like to return home with you. She says you have taken excellent care of her, and she’s never cared for castles—they’re so drafty.”

  The girl gives him a wide smile and takes the doll back, clutching her in her arms. Behind her, the girl’s mother wipes her eyes and sets her hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

  Bran stands. “May I inquire where you live, madam?”

  “Above the Grendel bakery, near the eastern pier.”

  The king smiles, acknowledging the information, and says goodbye to the girl and her doll.

  And I am completely lost to him. I blink several times, forcing myself to look away. Underlying the pleasure of seeing the sweet scene, there is sadness because I know I will never belong to this man—not how I desire. I thought I could stay here until the gala, but now I know my heart will break if I must watch him choose a bride.

  It’s already broken just from thinking about it.

  Bran is just about to mount his horse when the crowd clears ahead of Deacan. The people shift, making way for several riders moving quickly on horseback. Many in the group crane their necks for a better view, gawking at the royal newcomers.

  Dristan leaps from his stunning white stallion before the poor thing has a chance to stop, and he runs for Bran. The brothers embrace, and then Dristan pushes Bran back. “They said you were dead,” he practically yells, his relief laced with anger. “Said a sea dragon dragged you from the ship, into the ocean. We’ve searched continuously—even Lionel’s dragons, but there was no sign of you. Then, days later, I receive a report that the king has returned with a band of gypsies! Where have you been?”

  Bran clasps his harried brother’s shoulder. “It is a long story, one I will tell you in the privacy of our own quarters.”

  Dristan looks at Deacan and his men, narrowing his eyes slightly. “And the gypsies?”

  “We have business to discuss. I promised them an audience once things have had a chance to settle down.” He turns to Deacan. “Stay anywhere you like in the city. I will send a messenger to set up a time we can visit further.”

  Deacan nods and motions for his men to follow him.

  “Oh,” Bran says, turning back to the large gypsy as he motions to the horse I’m riding. “I’d like to buy the mare as well.”

  “Bran—” I start to protest, but he grins at me, waving his hand to shush me.

  Deacan holds out his hands, delighted. “I’d be happy to sell her to you, Your Majesty, but I must warn you, she’s very expensive.”

  “Send me a bill,” Bran says, giving his own borrowed horse back and motioning for a new one from Dristan’s group. A knight immediately hops down, honored to lend the king his steed.

  We continue to Castle Calland, this time at a much faster pace now that Deacan and his group’s theatrics aren’t slowing us. As expected, Bran is swarmed by friends and subjects, all relieved that he’s alive and mostly well. All but Stuart and the royal elite knights, that is. Bran’s cousin hangs back, his expression enigmatic.

  I stay out of the way, stroking Firefly’s neck, feeling awkward and out of place. But then Pippa hurries into the courtyard, unbraided hair flying behind her, and spots me.

  She hurries to my side and peers up at me. “You’re alive.”

  “I promised you, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but then you and Bran disappeared into the ocean. As I’m sure you can understand, I was left with little confidence in your oath.” She sets her hands on her hips, grinning. “Why are you still atop your horse?”

  I shrug. “I like to look down at people.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Have you been on a horse before?”

  “Yes, this is my second time, actually.”

  “You have no idea how to get down, do you?”

  “Not by myself.”

  The princess holds Firefly’s bridle, giving me extra security though I know the mare won’t move. “Lean forward, swing your leg behind you—over the horse’s rump—and step down.”

  I do exactly as she says, but I end up hovering awkwardly, belly pressed on the saddle, foot twisted in the stirrup, and my other leg dangling.

  Unable to help herself, Pippa laughs as she tries to explain what I did wrong.

  “How do I get down?” I ask, growing exasperated.

  “Just—”

  “No need,” Bran says from behind me, interrupting her.

  My cheeks flame.

  “I’ve got it,” I insist, but then I realize I don’t want him eye level with my rump for any length of time. Seeing as it is rather awkwardly protruding in the air as I cling to the side of the horse, I say, “Never mind. Help me.”

  His strong hands settle on either side of my waist, and he lowers me to my feet, leaving his hands in place to steady me. In my ear, he whispers, “We’ll practice. You’ll have it in no time.”

  When he sets me free, we step apart and find Pippa watching us with a knowing look on her face. Thankfully, she chooses to keep her thoughts to herself and instead asks Bran, “How does it feel to be back from the dead?”

  Bran looks around the courtyard, which is still a mess of people. “Ask me in an hour.”

  Then he spots Hummel in the crowd and hollers for him. The king’s steward hurries our way, expressing his extreme relief to find Bran alive and well. Pippa, unable to stomach the fawning, joins Archer, who stands with Dristan and Rosie.

  “I have an errand for you, Hummel,” Bran says. “Take one of the maids into town and have her pick out a fine doll. Then wrap it and deliver it to the little girl who lives with her mother over the Grendel bakery.”

  “Would you like to include a message, Sire?” the man asks, not even blinking an eye that his king is sending him toy shopping.

  “Yes.” Bran thinks about it for a moment. “Say, ‘A friend for Harriet.’”

  “Would you like to remain anonymous, Your Majesty?”

  “She’ll know who it’s from.”

  Hummel bows and hurries away, taking his mission very seriously.

  Bran turns back to me and then raises a startled brow in my direction. “What is it?”

  “And you’re baffled why they love you.”

  He gives me a soft smile, the kind that begs me to step closer, though I don’t dare in this multitude.

  “Meet me tonight, by the fountain, just after dark. There’s something I want to show you.”

  “Tonight?” I look around. “Do you think they’ll let you disappear so soon?”

  He sets a hand on the small of my back. It’s a subtle move, but one that sends tingles to my toes. “I am king—I don’t need their permission or anyone else’s. Promise me you’ll come?”

  I meet his warm brown eyes. “Yes, all right.”

  Before he can answer, his attention is stolen away by a quartet of lords.

  “Go on,” I murmur, giving him a light shove.

  “Tonight,” he promises in my ear before he walks away.

  ***

  I work my magic across the canvas, using careful, sure strokes as a painter would use a brush. The eyes are the hardest thing to get right, and I study the painting, making tiny tweaks until they are just the right s
hade of brown.

  I’m too tired, though I tried to hide it from Bran earlier. I worry my magic is lower than I realized, that it’s almost gone. I should conserve it, use it only when it’s necessary, but it feels good to create again—and not with paints. Besides, I want to have something to take with me when I leave. Better to work on it now, while the details are fresh in my mind.

  When I’m finished, Bran looks back at me, a slightly crooked smile on his face, eyes narrowed in shadowed humor. The sea stretches behind him, blue and serene.

  I sigh as I sweep a drying breeze over the canvas and then place it face down on a table in my room.

  Frowning, I sit on the edge of my bed. It’s a beautiful room Bran gave me, light and airy, and it even has its own little balcony. Beyond the glass, the sun is low, and soon it will be time to meet the king in the courtyard.

  I haven’t fully convinced myself, but I think this is the night I should say my goodbye. I’ll go to Lauramore, as I originally planned, and stay there for a while. When I tire of it, I’ll go somewhere else—if I’m able.

  How much life do I have left?

  I stall as long as possible before I finally make my way to the castle’s massive entry. The courtyard is lit with flaming urns, and disk-like candles float atop the fountain’s pool, creating an almost magical effect. I could add real magic to the scene, make the courtyard truly sparkle, but it’s perfect just the way it is, especially with Bran sitting on a bench near the water. He rises when he sees me and offers his hand.

  I step forward, taking it without hesitation, and then glance around. People mill about. They talk in groups, making their way to and from the castle, but none of Bran’s knights are in attendance. “Have you escaped your guards?”

  “For tonight.”

  “What did you want to show me?”

  His fingers wind through mine, and my heart warms even as it shatters. The king leads me past the courtyard, into the garden maze. The night is pleasant, and many of the late spring flowers are in full bloom.

  We walk for a while, hand in hand, saying whatever comes to mind. Just when I think Bran has planned nothing more than a leisurely stroll, he stops in front of a locked gate in a wall. Ivy grows on either side, creating a living border.