Chapter 2
Ridaeron’s silence for the past year had made Caecilia lax, especially since Eisland had joined forces with Creag Morden and Samahara in patrolling the Viridian Sea.
It was nice to have a break, to relax after three centuries of constant vigilance, though she wished for company at her side. Days like this made her long for Croc’s companionship.
Foolish, short-sighted creature.
Caecilia sighed and banished the dead reptile from her thoughts. Croc had made his choice, and no amount of wishing would bring him back. After all, she’d pleaded for him to leave James Hook be, even if the pirate had broken her heart. Clearly, she’d underestimated Croc’s devotion to her.
She stretched across a strip of beach on one of the uninhabited southern isles, eager to soak up the warmth and let her mind drift. Part of her wanted to return to the ship, to see if their celebrations continued and enjoy the show. Her rational half decided it was too big a risk.
A brilliant flash of color on the horizon caught her attention, but it was the taste of magic on the wind that prickled her skin in warning. From this distance, she could barely make out what was happening, until the sky seemed to split apart and fire rained down.
Swift as the currents, she rushed underwater to investigate, but it was too late. A bolt of lightning exploded down the ship’s mast with a strength she hadn’t seen since her father raised a mighty tempest to take down an ancient evil plaguing the ocean centuries before her exile. But this hadn’t come from Triton. Men and women threw themselves overboard to escape the raging inferno. Four escape boats splashed down not long after, and the surviving crew hauled themselves into the safety they offered.
Caecilia scanned the water, trying to spot any sinking bodies. Then something heavy splashed, blazing bits of wood and burning sail also collapsing into the water.
“Joren!” someone screamed from one of the skiffs as he rose and shucked off his jacket, intending to jump into the water, only for another man to grasp him by the arm.
They argued, shouting at each other, gesturing with their hands.
One of the other emergency boats vanished beneath a wall of illusory magic, blending into the rippling night reflected on the Viridian. Expecting the other boats to do the same, she went for their fallen crewman. As a water serpent, she saw with flawless vision and recognized his face in an instant.
One captain’s life for another, Caecilia thought. There would be a time for handling the Ridaerons later. The fragmented mast and heavy rigging carried Joren deeper into the abyss as blood streamed from his open head wound. All the while, she imagined the water filling his lungs and the limited time she had to take him to dry land.
Favoring the giant body of her water serpent form, she transformed and knifed through the water, grasping the dying captain in her mouth. He didn’t react to her presence, not so much as offering a feeble shove of a palm against Caecilia’s snout. With no time to guarantee the safety of his crew, or to warn them that she had him, she raced for the islands and slithered onto dry sand still warm from the sun.
After gently dropping the injured fellow on his back, Caecilia returned to her haggard body. If she was to save him, she needed her hands. He looked so still and helpless, his face pale, lips blue, lids half-open to reveal lifeless cobalt eyes. She pressed on his chest to expel the water, not that it did any good.
Something must have struck him after the mast, for she saw the back of his head had been split, spilling salty blood on the sand from torn flesh and fractured bone. Drawing parallels between beautiful Henri and the fallen captain on her lap now made her wonder if everything she coveted was doomed to meet an early demise.
Weeping for a man she didn’t know, a man who had been so vibrant and full of life only hours ago, Caecilia cradled him on her lap. He was only moments dead, but so cold it hurt her to touch him. Perhaps the soul wasn’t even gone from his body. As a demigoddess, she’d grown indifferent to the loss of mortal life through war and battle, but his loss stabbed with an acute ache in the center of her chest.
Her father would have forbidden her from interfering in the natural order and tampering with death, but her father had also forsaken her and turned his back. What Triton wanted no longer mattered.
What mattered was whether or not Caecilia had the power to pull off the impossible without her divine gift. Healing a lethal wound required a magical expenditure of equal measure; an equivalent exchange. For the islanders who came to her, she’d always demanded a price of something precious, a sacrifice to use as fuel for her later spells, a fraction hoarded in the hopes of one day having enough energy to break Triton’s curse on her own.
She wondered who he was, and the friends he’d leave behind. If he had a family, a wife, and maybe even children awaiting him at home. She wondered if he’d be missed nearly as much as she missed her father and her kingdom, the people who no longer acknowledged her existence at all.
If the celebration they’d thrown him was any indication, he was a man well-loved, and she would send him back to them.
I won’t let Death have him.
Caecilia summoned her phylactery from the grotto. The glass jar appeared between her hands in a flash of shimmering blue-green light. She flipped up the lid and every ounce of magic collected over the years poured from her little jar of soul particles and energy. Every happy thought, every hope, dream, and memory. Each wish and fallen tear, the essence of everything granted to her stores—gone in a blink for one human soul.
It was the least she could do.
Captain Joren wasn’t hers to keep, but just the same, he was worth saving if it repaid an iota of the debt she’d incurred against her soul the day the Queen Priscilla’s Passion sank.
* * *
Joren awoke to rough sand beneath his cheek and blistering heat on his back. No amount of coughing cleared away the dry and salty taste in his mouth, and the base of his skull throbbed.
“Do not move. You have injured yourself,” a feminine voice spoke from behind him. Cool fingers smoothed down his arm, contrasting the unforgiving sun.
“Where—” He coughed again, which jarred him and sent pain reverberating in his skull like an echo in a cave.
The voice shushed him again. A moment later, a shadow fell over him and gentle hands touched his cheeks. He blinked open his gritty eyes and looked into the face of a woman with dark skin, bold streaks of crimson and blue painted across her cheeks in an elaborate pattern that reminded him of waves.
“Drink,” she said. It finally clicked in his foggy brain that the woman spoke the Eislandic tongue, though a bit stilted. She dribbled refreshing water into his mouth from a water skin as he licked his dried, cracked lips and savored every droplet. Before he could sate his thirst, the woman withdrew, though he leaned up and followed after the water sack, hoping for more.
“You will sicken with too much. Come. You must leave the sun.”
Help from her got Joren on his feet, but he staggered to the side until her muscled arm looped around his waist.
“A minute, please,” he rasped, eyes closed against the dizziness.
His rescuer had the patience of a saint, waiting alongside him as his silent support. Eventually, the world ceased spinning wildly and he blinked his eyes open again. The woman barely reached his shoulder, but her golden arms held him effortlessly, untiring and toned with enough muscle to compete with some of his sailors. As she helped him away from the beach, he glanced back, unable to shake the feeling of being watched.
Finding no one on the beach but them, he picked out pieces of flotsam and battered wood matching the color of his glorious ship, shattering any hope that the vessel had survived the ordeal after all.
“My crew. Did you pull anyone else from the water?”
The woman’s brow creased. “Only you.”
He had no idea how far they traveled from the beach, though he measured the time by the breaks his guide allowed him. Three, so far. As they took shelter from a gent
le rain beneath a thick copse of palms, Joren finally felt aware enough to study his companion.
“I never thanked you for rescuing me,” he began. “I don’t even know what to call you.”
“I am River Crane.”
“Where did you learn my language?”
“Hook teach us.”
His brows shot up, the gesture immediately sending pain shooting through his head. He winced and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You mean James Hook?”
“Yes.”
“Is this Wai Alei?”
“You are strange sailor, to not know where you are.”
“It’s just, we were nowhere close. Our ship was south of the archipelago. How did you pull me from the water?”
“I find you on shore after tide sweep in.”
“Which island is this?”
“This is southwest island. Alu Teppe.”
He tried to think back and recall what happened after he was pulled underwater but drew a blank, unable to recall more than the rescue boats beside the burning ship and incredible pain. Frowning, Joren raised his shirt to look at his ribs, expecting to see one hell of a bruise. Nothing was there.
“Come, rain is gone and we reach town soon. You have sun sickness.”
The sun had reached its highest point in the sky by the time Joren and River Crane reached the village. His pulse throbbed behind his eyes, pounding harder than the bass drum of the Jonquilles Marching Band. He became dimly aware of voices greeting them, first in welcome, and then in concern. He stumbled, and cool hands lowered him to the ground in the shade as the world around him faded to blobs of gray.
* * *
Quiet words spoken in an unfamiliar language roused Joren from sleep. He blinked open his eyes, vision blurry, and groaned. The voices stopped and soft footsteps drew closer until a woman with a solemn face came into view. Orange and white markings in the shape of flowers framed her eyes.
“Rest,” she said, laying her hand against his chest. “You need to heal.”
“How long have I been here?”
“My huntresses brought you to me two days ago. You must be hungry.”
The mere mention of food, even broth, made his stomach gurgle in anticipation. His caretaker helped him sit up, then she brought over a bowl and spoon fed him like a child. The flavorful broth went down easily, quelling the gnawing ache of hunger in his belly until his stomach cramped. Joren groaned and held up a palm for her to stop.
“I think that’s enough for now. Thank you.”
The woman nodded and set the bowl aside. Joren expected her to shush him back to bed again, but instead, she leaned forward and studied him, elbows braced against her knees and hands loosely clasped. “What should I call you?”
“Joren.” Remembering his manners, but unable to thoroughly demonstrate them as he preferred when meeting a lovely woman, he settled for a proper introduction instead. “Prince Joren of Eisland. And whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?” In an incredibly awkward and painful situation he’d sooner forget, because he realized he was not wearing pants beneath the thin linen sheet pulled up to his waist.
It was very difficult to be princely and hold on to his dignity when not wearing pants.
“I am Tiger Lily, High Chieftain of Wai Alei.”
“Ah, a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I only wish the circumstances were better.”
Tiger Lily bowed her head. “Yes, I am sorry to hear of your misfortune. I have already sent word to James. I expect he’ll turn up over the next few days.”
“Can you get word to Eisland?”
She shook her head. “Our birds do not know your kingdom, but they know the Jolly Roger.”
“Of course, but I should try to get my own message out. The Eisland fleet must be made aware.” He swung his feet from the bed and immediately grimaced as pain shot through his skull. The room swam in his vision for a moment, and Tiger Lily’s cool hands steadied him by his shoulders. She guided him back against the bed again.
“You will rest, Prince of Eisland. Messages can wait until James arrives. Until then, you will remain in our care.”
“Seems I have little choice,” he gritted out, waiting for the pain to pass. Something cool and damp settled over his scrunched eyes, filling his nose with the soft scent of flowers. The soothing fragrance helped quell the rising nausea.
“Sleep. I will check on you again soon.”
“Thank you,” he said, managing to lift the cloth enough to give her a final glance before she left. “I won’t forget this.”
Tiger Lily smiled, and then left him to his sleep.
* * *
Recovering on an island paradise might have been pleasant under any other circumstances. Tiger Lily finally gave Joren the all-clear to venture outside, so long as he had someone with him. The fresh air helped, as did moving around. Even as a child he’d hated to be cooped up when ill.
Today’s nanny was a boy no older than ten or eleven, with ginger curls and big gray eyes set in a freckled face. Aureus skipped ahead of Joren onto the beach, going as far as the surf where it washed up over the sand. A moment later he rushed back with an opalescent seashell held high over his head.
“That’s a pretty one.”
Aureus grinned. “Juma,” he said, patting the shell. Unlike some of the older islanders, the child didn’t speak Eislandic. In fact, Joren didn’t recognize his native language at all.
The boy pushed the shell into Joren’s hands and raced off once again. While he played, Joren helped himself to one of the hammocks slung between two palms. He lacked the energy to walk more than a few yards at a time before needing rest.
His caretakers had been kind about that, expecting nothing of him and even loaning Joren clothing in their colorful style. The sun had burned him crisp and red until Tiger Lily slathered an unfamiliar, pale green medicinal gel on him the previous day. He wore a traditional island man’s garment that reminded him of one of Muir’s tartans, though it was bright blue and decorated with white birds.
Twice more, Aureus brought him some treasure from the tide pools, including a delicate starfish with long, brittle arms. The beautiful creature shone a brilliant shade of cobalt blue striped with vivid yellow.
“That’s pretty, but it needs the water to live.” He gestured back toward the ocean. Aureus wrinkled his nose and laughed, but he took the starfish back to the waves.
Tiger Lily stepped into view, hands clasped loosely behind her back. “You are good with him.”
“He’s a nice kid. Inquisitive. Where does he come from?”
“Far away.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
His lovely hostess smiled, her eyes bright as she watched the boy. “It is the only answer I have. He does not come from any of the lands you or I know. Like many, he was rescued from a slave ship.”
“The Ridaerons.”
“Yes.”
He sighed and rubbed his nape, careful to avoid the lump on the back of his skull. “Any word from James?”
“Not yet, but he will come. As for you, prince, I think you’ve had enough air. You are pale again and must rest.”
Chapter 3
Brooding was second nature to Caecilia. After a morning spent watching Joren and a young boy from the shadows of the reef, she ventured out to a rarely visited stretch of rocky shoreline and dragged her heavy body onto the sandy pebbles. The radiating warmth of the stones did little to pull her from the morose mood haunting her day.
She often missed sitting in the sun. In the days before her curse, she could spend hours on the shore, brushing her hair and singing while the gulls cried over the sea. But Triton had taken all of that from her, not content to merely steal her beauty. He’d taken her voice, one of the most precious gifts any siren could have.
“A lovely day, wouldn’t you say?”
She twisted around to face the source of the voice, a local shaman named Ghost Hawk who was blind as a bat and absolutely harmless. The old fellow
picked his way across the shore, using his staff to feel out the ground before him. She watched his slow progress without acknowledging his greeting. Maybe he’d leave, thinking no one was here.
Yet still he moved forward, his uncanny path coming straight for her and a sinkhole in the ground.
Caecilia sighed. Conscience won every time. “Two steps to the left, old man, lest you break an ankle.” Why in the void is he here?
“Many thanks.”
Ghost Hawk adjusted his course and eventually made his way to her side. Caecilia shifted slightly, keeping her long, sinuous tail out of his way. The old man lowered to the rocks and set his stick aside, his milky gaze trained on the ocean beyond. For a moment, she wondered if he could see anything at all. His vision must have been reduced to shadows and light, or even vague shapes, just enough to perceive her presence.
“I like to listen,” he said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“No, of course you didn’t, but I know the question on your mind.” He turned his unseeing gaze toward her and smiled. “You wonder why I am here. There is much to listen to, when one forgets everything else. The ocean has stories to tell of the memories preserved in its waves.”
She scoffed. “I don’t come here to listen to stories.” She came here to be alone, which typically worked, until meddlesome island men intruded and spoke to her in riddles.
“Why do you come?”
“If you know the questions on my mind, you should know the answer to your own.” Annoyance with his incessant babbling tempted her to leave it at that. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked away, watching the surf foam and crash against the shore. Ghost Hawk kept his silence, a patient companion.
Sea Witch and the Magician Page 3