Tom gagged on wet flesh and the taste of salt. Tentacles were wrapped around his neck, his head, he couldn’t push the shell off his face, his lungs burned, he had to breathe. His traitorous lungs exhaled. No. He put both hands to the shell, pushed as hard as he could. But the creature was strong. And he was weak. He drew breath before he could stop himself.
He waited to choke, to drown.
Air.
He took another careful breath.
He could breathe.
This creature was breathing for him. He took another breath, so deep his chest might burst, let it out. The revolting, sucking lips in his mouth drew his breath away. Tiny little bubbles escaped from the shell. Incredible.
And there, drifting just a foot away, was a merrow. Like Nimuë it had a human form but was covered in scales, a shimmering green. Fins grew out of its arms, legs, and in place of its hair. It grinned a shark’s grin, rows of tiny sharp teeth, and its fins flapped. It was laughing at him.
He was too relieved to care.
It flapped forward, took his arm, tugged him down. Tom looked up and saw other merrow taking the others. They were safe. They were saved.
Claws pricked the skin at his wrist and he nodded, letting the merrow guide him deeper. Swimming felt almost impossible. He did his best, but he knew he was mostly dead weight. It didn’t seem to impede the merrow at all; it swam as if unencumbered, as easily as a fish. The terror and the exhaustion of the past few days began to settle around Tom, and his eyelids grew heavy. His mind began to wander.
Wake.
The thought jerked Tom’s limbs and he snapped to consciousness. The merrow scowled at him but said nothing. Tom could feel pressure growing in his ears as they swam deeper. Away from the surface. He glanced up, filled with a fear of never seeing the sun again, and saw the others spread out behind him. It was a comfort to see he wasn’t alone.
There. Light. A faint glow ahead. But there was no doubt it was their destination. It took only a few moments for the shape to coalesce into a chariot, an enormous construction of rib bones from a dead sea creature. Four great fish were tethered to it, and a skin was stretched over the bottom to create a platform. But the sides and top were open to the water, covered only by a shimmer, like dancing air over a fire.
The merrow released Tom and he felt a moment of panic, cast off and alone. He flailed after his guide, but it sneered and pushed him away. Tom drifted a moment then, with nowhere else to go, he swam for the chariot. It was only a small gap, but each kick and pull at the water felt like he was swimming up a waterfall. Then he had hold of a rib, pulled himself through the gap and onto the skin floor.
The water was gone.
The creature in his mouth began to squeak, the tentacles flapping. He pushed and it came free, the sucking lips slipping out from between his own. The thing was hideous, all wet and soft and slimy, wriggling in his hands. Eirwen’s grace, the taste in his mouth. He spat. Revolting. But it had saved his life.
A merrow snatched the shell from his hands.
“Thank you,” Tom managed. But it said nothing, just took the reins and waited.
Tom struggled to his feet, the floor beneath him soft and yielding. Some kind of glowing moss provided their light, growing at the base of the enormous ribs. There was nothing between those ribs to stop the water yet it waited there, rolling and splashing as if it had forgotten how to fall. There was a familiar vibration to the air that told him how this trick was performed.
Another merrow dragged Katharine into the chariot and dropped her on the floor. She lay where she fell, hugging herself, her eyes tight shut, denying the world around her. Tom took hold of her shell and pulled. She pushed and kicked at him, and when the shell came free her eyes snapped open, nothing but wild panic inside.
“You’re safe,” he said. “There’s air. We can breathe.”
Dank stepped out of the water, taking off his shell with practiced ease. The boy wore an expression of wonder and acceptance, as if he had never seen such things before but knew all about them.
Katharine let out her breath in a ragged gasp, unable to hold it any longer.
“That’s it.” Tom pulled her into an embrace and stroked her hair. Dry. They were all completely dry. Incredible. “Breathe,” he told her. “Just breathe.”
She drew in air like it was made of gravel, harsh and rattling. Tom could feel water at the back of his throat and tried to resist the urge to cough. It might unsettle her more.
There was motion and the chariot began to move.
“Wait, the others,” said Tom.
“We saw two other vehicles,” Dank said.
Tom looked out into the water and saw the boy was right; they followed behind, on either side.
“Is she okay?” Dank asked.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine.” In truth he had never seen her so frightened. Katharine had always seemed to know everything about Tir and, in knowing it, had no fear of it. Even when they had been travelling through the Whispering Woods she hadn’t been scared.
“Don’t touch me,” she croaked. She’d remembered her anger. Tom felt a flare of his own. He’d saved their lives. Couldn’t she be grateful? But then he remembered her words in Faerie. You used me, she’d said. You’re a liar and a coward. He clambered to his feet and let her be. She sat in the middle of the chariot, staring at the floor. Angry, scared, so unlike the Katharine he knew. Had he done this? Had he made her this way?
“Do you know where they’re taking us?” he asked Dank.
The boy nodded. He spoke with an older voice and his expression was hard. “A place where they can decide what to do with us.”
“What to do with us?”
“Few mortals ever see a merrow, Thomas Rymour.” Dank’s eyes held the same dark amusement Tom had seen in so many fay. “They like to keep it that way.”
“Where is this place?”
In a moment the boy had changed, his face growing softer and younger and his eyes more innocent. He shrugged. “We don’t know.” He grinned. “Isn’t it incredible, though?”
But Tom wasn’t in the mood for wonder. He turned to the merrow and asked, “Where are you taking us?”
One of them turned and said something in a harsh language Tom didn’t understand.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know your tongue.”
But the merrow turned away.
“Did you understand that?” Tom asked Dank.
He nodded. “It’s a lot like the old tongues,” he said.
“What did he say?”
Dank just shook his head. But Tom didn’t need an answer. The chariot was descending into deeper water. That was answer enough.
They seemed to travel for hours. Katharine fell asleep, curled up in the very centre of the chariot. Tom leant against a pillar of bone and tried to sleep too. But, despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t relax. His pounding head seemed filled with foresights. A mighty stone city under the water. An enormous pyramid with a golden capstone. A crowd of elfs staring up at him as he cried, “For the king.”
And when he did begin to drift into sleep, he would dream that he was back in the rat pit in Cairnalyr. That the water was rising up past his chest, his chin, his mouth, that he was beginning to choke, the water was washing up his nose and into his lungs and he would cough and start and wake himself.
And when he woke, Dank would be watching him, thoughtful and intense. It was unsettling. More so than the foresights Tom couldn’t stop seeing or the dreams he couldn’t stop dreaming. In his exhaustion he thought he could see Dank’s tattoos moving, the whorling patterns twisting on his skin. They were even on the boy’s eyelids. How long must it have taken to ink his entire body? What had made him agree to that? Tom imagined having that same link to the fay, to share their minds, to even share his body with them.
It made him shudder.
Dank noticed. “Trouble sleeping.” It wasn’t a question. He sounded almost amused.
Tom nodded. It didn’t help his headache.<
br />
“We understand. This must be frightening.”
Tom glanced over at the two silent merrow at the reins. “Yes,” he replied. His life, all their lives, were in the webbed hands of these bizarre creatures. This little bubble and their goodwill was all that stood between them and a watery death. True, the merrow carried only a short knife at the small of their backs; Caledyr’s reach would make short work of them. But what then? Could he drive the chariot, get back to the surface? What about the others?
“Frightening too,” Dank said, “to know that one amongst you is a traitor.”
“You think so?” Tom thought so too. But it was a thought he didn’t want to dwell on. Not right now.
“We know.” Dank’s voice lowered and his words came slow and with menace. “The elfs did not know we were there. Then they did. Only Draig was left alone.”
“Our prisoner could have shouted out, alerted a patrol.”
“Or he may have led Draig back to his new masters.”
“We don’t know what happened.”
“Don’t we?” Dank tipped his head to one side and smiled a secret smile. It reminded Tom of Glastyn. “We know that Draig wasn’t in those cells with us.”
“Neither was Neirin,” Tom replied. “Or Six.”
“True.”
The boy said no more. What was he trying to imply? That Six and Draig had both betrayed them? He found it easier to believe of Six. He liked both elfs well enough, but Draig seemed honest and straightforward. But Six carried secrets. That elf was a many-sided die and he was only showing one face. Tom had to admit that it was possible Six had betrayed them.
“But Six was with us the whole time.”
“So he was.” Dank nodded. “How then could he have contacted Gerwyn?”
“Perhaps he gave the prisoner a knife? To cut his bonds? Overpower Draig and run back to the castle?”
“Except that Draig was not at the campsite when we returned.”
“He could have been taken away.”
“Was he?”
“How would I know?”
“What we know is that he was sleeping in a soft bed. Eating good food. Drinking good wine.” Dank lifted his eyebrows. “Why, unless he had earned it somehow?”
Tom closed his eyes and tipped back his head. Now wasn’t the time for this discussion. Better to talk about the merrow, options, a plan for escape. Did they need to escape? Were they prisoners again?
But Dank pressed on. “He knows suspicion is on him,” he said. “He won’t wait again. He will take the sword. Leave you, betray you, kill you himself.”
The sword. Caledyr. Tom put a hand on the pommel. Emyr had trusted him with it. Maev had ordered him to bring it back to her.
“Say it was true,” Tom said. “Say Draig was a traitor. What should we do?”
Dank smiled. It was a slow, satisfied smile. “Get rid of him.”
Tom shook his head. Draig was a friend, a good elf. If he had betrayed them, he would have a good reason. Perhaps Gerwyn had threatened to kill them all if he hadn’t talked? Perhaps the Westerners had beaten the truth out of him? There could be a dozen reasons. No, Draig had earnt the benefit of the doubt.
But would a traitor make the most of such largesse?
One of the merrow spoke and Tom looked up to see light, a bright glow from beneath the chariot. They were almost there, wherever that might be. He was looking forward to sleep, even if it was in a cell. Right now he’d be a prisoner anywhere and for anyone if it meant he had a bed.
He nudged Katharine. She would want to see this.
“Look,” he said, voice soft.
She stirred and groaned. He tried to peer over the edge of the chariot but couldn’t without putting his head in the water. So he looked out instead. The glow was strong, almost as strong as daylight. It illuminated the waters, darting fish flashing in the light. Merrow, too, were swimming in the waters. Some looked like Nimuë and their rescuers, human enough but with fins and scales. Others had long, snake-like tails instead of legs and their faces were far more fish-like. They were broad and strong and monstrous and they looked at Tom like he was prey. He shivered.
The chariot began to drop and revealed the source of the light: an enormous city of coral and rock. It seemed to grow and twist at random but, as they descended, Tom began to make out merrow in windows and sitting on balconies. It had been grown, he realised. Shaped, somehow, without tools or instruments. Fashioned from rock and lit with moss. He had heard stories of the power of magic, but never seen proof of it until now. Despite his fear and uncertainty, he couldn’t help but stare.
He saw himself place a hand on an impossibly smooth stone wall, the colours faded, a hint of magic still within after countless centuries.
The foresight faded as the chariot turned. Were they leaving? No, the merrow had jumped out. They were in the water, pushing the chariot back until, with the sound of crashing waves, the chariot burst into a clearing of sand. Here too there was air, warm and close, like a thunderstorm about to break, and waves crashed against invisible walls.
“Looks like we’re here.” He stood and offered a hand to Katharine. But she ignored it, pulling herself to her feet. She said to Dank, “What now?”
Dank shrugged. He was different now, less intense. “We don’t know,” he said. “Your guess is as good as ours.”
“I thought you were supposed to be our guide,” Tom said. He strapped Caledyr to his back as the merrow stepped out of the water and waved them forward. They always seemed angry.
“We were supposed to deliver you to the sword,” Dank replied, stepping off the chariot with the rest of them. “You already have your guide.” He pointed to Katharine. Katharine who was ignoring the pair of them and gazing instead at the water above them.
“It’ll be okay,” Tom whispered. But it was unnerving, the water rolling and churning above them in great waves. With every step he waited to fall up into the water, as if he was being held above it rather than it being held above him. It gave him a sense of vertigo.
The clearing was a bare circle of sand, fenced in by water, the only exit an archway of coral. A single merrow blocked their path. It wore an unusual leather skirt and held a pike of sorts. Tom thought of approaching but the merrow’s expression suggested he should keep his distance.
A crash behind them announced the others, clambering out into the clearing, Neirin and Six from one, Brega and Draig from another. Brega scowled at Six like she was ready to behead him there and then. Draig was silent and still, tense, in a way Tom hadn’t seen before. Six was examining everything he could and Neirin was withdrawn.
The chariots slipped back into the water and they were alone.
“Well.” Six said into awkward silence. “We made it.”
“Yes,” Brega said. “Your plan worked, Rymour.”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t say it was a good thing.” When she had been dressed in her black robes and veil she had been intimidating. But those robes had been taken by the Westerners. Now she wore a shift and a yellow scarf around her face. She might have looked silly if she hadn’t seemed so self-conscious. Her barbs couldn’t bother Tom while he was feeling sorry for her.
“We’re alive,” he pointed out.
“For how long?”
Their guard moved aside for another merrow sweeping into the clearing. This one wore crude jewellery and a soft purple robe that hung from one shoulder. It came at them with bared teeth and upheld palms, as if warding them off.
“Welcomes,” it said. “Humble welcomes.” The words didn’t seem to fit in its mouth, coming out harsh and jagged, with the emphasis in the wrong place. It was followed by two other merrow, neither armed but carrying strange leather bags that hung over their stomachs instead of their backs.
Tom turned to Neirin, expecting the elf to offer his usual haughty introduction. But he was stood alone, staring out into the water.
Katharine was the Pathfinder, the wanderer and the diplomat, bes
t suited to greeting foreigners. But she just stared at the waves crashing above them.
And the others looked to him.
“Um.” He cleared his throat, tried to remember all the courtly manners he’d seen in Cairnagan. “Greetings,” he said. He sketched a rusty bow and pasted a warm smile on his face. “We thank you for your most generous hospitality.”
The merrow aped the gesture, spreading his arms and showing off his fins. They bore splashes of bright colour, like a butterfly. “Humble welcomes.” He appeared excited. Was that a good sign? He stepped forward and extended a hand, palm up. When Tom did the same, the merrow corrected him, turning his hand palm down and placing his fingertips on its wrist. Tom had expected cold, rough skin but it was warm and smooth, a rapid pulse beneath. “I am known as Sânuoi of the Peljaä. Where is Nimuë?”
To business, then. That suited Tom. He wasn’t good at the empty pleasantries. He opened his mouth to answer but Brega interrupted, “We need safe passage back to the surface,” she said, glaring at Tom.
But Sânuoi shook his head. “That wasn’t the arrangement we made.”
“We’re making it the arrangement.”
Sânuoi nodded and the guard took a few quick steps and pointed its pike at her. “The merrow made their arrangement with Thomas Rymour.” And to Tom he said, “You requested we rescue you from the bay in exchange for information about Nimuë. We upheld our end. Uphold yours.”
He had a point. Tom hadn’t specified where the merrow take them after a rescue. It had been poor wording on his part. He should have known better. He’d spent seven years watching the fay spar with each other.
“What guarantees do we have of safety?” he asked.
“None.” Sânuoi’s reply was blunt but not unkind. “First let us assess your claims. If you have been honest with us, that will bode well for you.”
So he would let them go once he’d found Nimuë. Very well. “There is a forest towards the south of the island you rescued us from. When we saw Nimuë, she was in a clearing with a pond.”
The merrow nodded and his two companions stepped past and into the water. Tom watched them swim up and away. “They will look for her. You will wait here. It is decided.” Sânuoi turned and swept away.
The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 32