Would she even accept you?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Maeve
THEY CAME UP WITH A PLAN and voyaged out to sea with the original crew, now including the magistrate Karl Yanni. Speaking with the leader of the merpeople, they struck a deal. The people of Nucifera would begin the custom of burial at sea, and as soon as the funeral procession was over, the merpeople could take the bodies and do with them as they wished. Additionally, sailors going out to sea would slash their hands or prick their fingers and let drops of blood enter the sea. This would be collected for the merpeople’s spell work.
When the leader turned to Rodan, his gaze remained impassive. “As for you, King Rodan,” he said. “We still wish for a tie to your kingdom and your throne. Will you take the selkie to wife?”
The selkie herself tried to lunge for Rodan at one point, and the leader of the merpeople gave her a casual backhanded slap. She sulked, riding her waterspout and staring at the king as though he were her last meal. Rodan shook his head. “I will not,” he said. “I will, however, allow that one of your people have a place of honor in my court as an advisor, with all the rights and privileges that such a position allows.”
The merman considered this for some time before nodding. “Very well. Perhaps when you have your own children, we may yet consider an alliance between the land and sea.”
Rodan nodded, conceding only a, “Perhaps.”
Upon their return to Nucifera, the magistrate rang the bells and announced to the city that their long struggle was over, that the seas would return to their bountiful state and the rice would grow again. He did not mention the burials, but Maeve thought he might bring about that change as gradually as possible.
Once again, she knelt beside Rodan, accepting a crown. The magistrate would hear of nothing else. So, she bent her head and accepted the driftwood and woven reed crown that he placed there. Though the celebration was a subdued event compared to that of Ishtem, she saw people smiling up at where they stood on the platform, crying out their thanks for the relief of their long suffering.
Before they left, Rodan transmuted more food to tide them over until the fish began coming in, supplying them primarily with beans and rice. It took much energy, and as soon as they climbed aboard the larger ship—The Lady of Light—that would take them to the third Realm, he went to his cabin and slept.
Maeve stood on deck, watching as the sun sank behind the city of Nucifera still visible on the distant horizon. All day she avoided being too close to Rodan, or alone with him, and now her body ached from the strain. For all that she wanted to guard herself, she wanted to touch him, to be near him.
She would hold fast. She realized, now, that he could not give himself over where he wanted. Rodan would make a political alliance for a marriage. Not that she wanted to marry him, but she wanted to know that she would not be cast aside for the first political prospect that came his way. The selkie had been avoided, but who else might they encounter on their travels? Some Realms contained royal courts that would clamor to have their progeny tied to Rodan and his crown.
Now they traveled on their way to the third Realm—the one featured in The Whispering Grass back home. When she went with Sebastian, the place had been under attack by a dragon who would set fire to the great prairies and caused the wandering city of Karst to flee before the flames. It took a dream walking potion to grasp the beast while it slept, holding it in unconsciousness, while Sebastian and the others cut out its heart.
She would never forget that sensation, of being in a place with a being who perished before her eyes. The dream walk made her intensely aware of when the sword sliced between the thick plates of the creature’s breast.
In the books, they battled the dragon with sword and arrow and spell while it fought back. Somehow, when she wrote the story, she could not bring herself to tell the whole truth, to pour out the pain and release she had felt being there with the beast while it died.
She did not want Sebastian to appear as a coward, for sneaking up on the dragon while it slept.
She fingered the little pouch around her neck that protected her sleep from Sebastian attacking her. She removed it last night, unsure if it would interrupt her potion. She was relieved that it lay back on her chest.
The suns set and the moon became the greatest light in the sky, casting its silvery glow on the lapping waves. The Five Realms only had one moon, like home, but it was larger, and its craters were in all the wrong places. The stars, too, dotted the sky in odd positions. No familiar Big Dipper, Draco, or Orion constellation greeted her gaze. Here, without the light pollution of Earth’s many cities, the sky spread like a carpet of glittering diamonds, showing the edge of a spiral galaxy.
She stared up at it all and breathed deep of the salt sea air. She held onto the rail of the prow of the ship and thought she might fall upward into that sky.
The scraping of boots alerted her to a presence, and she turned to note Captain Fisher coming up behind her. He volunteered to aid them in their sea journey, even though he and the actual captain of the ship, Captain Price, seemed to be at odds with each other. “Hello, lass,” he said, coming to stand beside her. “Or should I say queen? How do I address you, now that you’ve been crowned?”
She touched her head where the crown sat hours before. It, like the one from Ishtem, was a ceremonial prop and not for her to keep. “Just Maeve, I think,” she said with a smile. “How are you, Captain Fisher?”
“You can call me by my given name. ‘Tis Conroy.”
“Conroy,” she said, smiling. “It is a beautiful night.”
He laughed and nudged her with his elbow, leaning down on the railing with his forearms so that he stood more at her height. “What are you out here thinking about now? Aren’t your troubles over?”
“For now,” she admitted. “At least until we get to the third Realm and discover whatever is ailing them there. We’ll be off again, trying to find some way to help.”
“You must be tired, lass. Why don’t you have an ale? There’s a keg here on deck.”
She smiled. “That’d be lovely, actually.” She followed him to the center of the ship, where supplies were stacked from their hasty loading earlier that day. The voyage, set to last for at least two weeks, required barrels of water near the sacks of grain and beans that Rodan conjured up for them.
Conroy tapped the keg and poured an enormous mug full of the frothing ale for both of them. When he passed her the mug, their fingers brushed, and she knew it not to be an accident.
Captain Fisher was not an unattractive man by any means. Broad and well-muscled, he looked like a Celtic warrior of old. All he needed was the face paint, and perhaps a Scottish kilt. She would certainly have given him a second glance if she saw him on Earth.
The ale, a bitter brew, warmed her stomach as she gulped some down.
“Have you thought much on what I said to you, lass?” Captain Fisher asked, eyeing her over his own mug.
She paused with the beer halfway to her mouth, setting it down on a barrel of water as she rubbed her temples with her fingers. “Yes, actually.”
“What have you decided?”
That I’m too entwined with Rodan to consider anyone else now. “I’m not trying to start anything with anyone,” she said instead. She glanced around the deck of the ship, empty of anyone but them. She heard the crew below decks, and the gentle creak of the sails, but aside from a lone sentry on the topmast they stood alone.
Captain Fisher came around the barrel, setting his mug down next to hers. “Is that so?” His hand snaked out and took hold of her waist. She froze, askance. “I thought you fancied me, lass.”
She shoved his hand away, and backed up a few steps. “Look, you’re not a bad looking man. You have your choice of the ladies, I’m sure. I’m not going to be one of them.”
He pursued her across the deck, until her shoulder blades hit one of the masts. “So, you’d rather sleep with that creature? He’s not even human.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. Rodan might not be human, it was true, but there had been real disgust in the way the captain had said it. “That’s none of your business.”
A hand slammed into the post by her head, and she flinched, cursing herself as she did so. Never show fear, Pike told her more than once. Conroy bared his teeth. “He’s got his claws in you that deep, eh?”
“No,” Maeve snapped, trying to move away. Captain Fisher’s other hand fell heavy onto her shoulder, locking her in place. You’re smaller than most of them. Weaker. You can use that to your advantage. Pike’s words flooded back to her, reminding her to stay calm. She swallowed hard. “I’m as invested in Rodan as I would be for any companion on the trials.”
“Just as much, eh?” He rose to his full height, a good several inches taller than her. “He’s not what you think he is, Maeve. He was a monster to us folk in his day, and you would put him right back in a position of power.”
Maeve frowned and shook her head. “I know that he made mistakes, but Sebastian—”
“Sebastian leaves us alone,” Conroy interrupted. “He meddles less. He hurts less. If he had been king when I was young, my brother would still be alive.”
“Your brother?” She tried to duck to the side, but his fingers dug into her shoulder and pulled her back, slamming her against the mast. “I don’t understand, what does your brother—”
“My brother is dead because of your king,” he snarled, and his free hand reached down, hooking his fingers into the top of her bodice. Maeve froze. “That imperious bastard looked on while they hung him. Hung and gutted.”
“Let go of me,” Maeve hissed, wrenching out of his grasp. “I’m sorry for—”
“You’re sorry,” he spat. “You’re going to be sorry.”
Maeve opened her mouth to say something, but Conroy’s enormous fist lashed out and the world erupted in bright spots of stars. She gasped, crashing to her knees as a hand fisted in her hair and another slapped over her mouth, muffling her cries.
Maeve reached for the dagger at her waist, but he dropped her hair and slapped it away. It skittered across the deck of the ship as he rode her down to the wooden planks, his hand heavy on her mouth, bruising. “If you think he gives a shit about you,” Conroy rasped, “you’re wrong. I’ll show you how little he cares.”
Be patient, Pike said, they always make a mistake. Show their throats. Be ready.
The hand over her mouth stank of sea salt and ale, of grease and dirt. She breathed through her nose and went still as he tore one-handed at the lacings of her bodice. She had another knife in each boot, but his knee was painful on one thigh, and she could not raise the other one without him noticing. Not yet.
“I know his type,” Conroy said, his words barely a whisper above the creak of the ship and the slapping of sails. “If he knows you spoiled, he’ll never touch you. I’m saving you from him, Maeve.”
The man pulled back with a snarl as the bodice remained stubbornly in place, pulling a wicked looking hunting knife from his side. He slid the blade under her lacings and jerked up. He put the knife back before returning to her, his hand so hard on her mouth that she feared her jaw might break. Her bones creaked in time with the moving of the ship.
Conroy squeezed one of her breasts, hard, and put his lips close to her ear, “I know you like my body, lass. This won’t be too hard for you.”
Maeve took the opportunity to lift her free leg, moving as slow and steady as she could to avoid detection. Conroy settled between her legs with a grunt and a sigh of pleasure, his tongue darting out to caress her ear. She shuddered, thankful that both of them still wore their pants. He was not that close. Not yet.
She felt him pressed against her, though, hard and eager. Felt his lust in the way his free hand traveled her body and groped her. She’s been through this before. He became more distracted by the moment, thinking about what he would do to her. She tried to remain calm, to be still and patient like Pike taught her, but when Conroy’s fingers dove under the hem of her trousers she bucked and thrashed, her eyes wide and her breathing coming in hard pants.
Not again, a part of her screamed. Please, not again!
The hand over her mouth went away, but before Maeve cried out, stars again erupted across her vision. She coughed and spit blood on the wooden deck. A few of her teeth were loose, and when she tried to raise her head the world spun, the stars turning into meteors swirling in the sky above her. Then his hand pressed down on her throat, and all that she could think of was the need to run. To get away. He ground her into the wooden planks, and when she tried to claw at the arm, to tear at it, he only leaned in.
Grey spots started to flood her vision when his face appeared, huge and taking up every bit of her sight. His tone calm, cold, and dangerous. “If you try that again, I will kill you.”
Her legs kicked uselessly, trapped under his bulk, and the moment before she thought she would lose consciousness he released her. She took in a deep, gasping breath, choking. Her neck and throat burned. Tears streamed down her face, and when next he reached for her, she did not pull away, even though she thought she might be ill at his touch.
Her stomach roiling, she reached again for the knife in her boot, grasping the handle as Conroy jerked at the front of her pants, tearing them down the center. She flipped the knife in her hand like she practiced during those stolen moments each day between traveling and sleeping. Rusty at first, she had set her mind to refreshing what Pike had taught her.
Conroy fumbled with the front of his trousers when she struck, aiming for the lower back where his organs were not protected by bone. Even still, the knife skittered off the top of his hip before plunging home. She re-angled the blade and struck again, then again.
Maeve managed four quick stabs before Conroy reacted, howling, rising to his knees and drawing the long hunting knife at his belt. The more than twelve inches of thick steel was massive next to her slender blade, no longer than the span of her hand.
Maeve crab walked back, throwing herself as far away from Conroy as she could. Distantly, a part of her mind noted the lookout peering down at them, finally alerted to the commotion brewing under his feet. A bell started to ring.
Whatever help that bell might summon, Maeve was still alone with a man who outweighed her by almost double, with muscles like corded steel and a fire in his eyes that screamed murder.
“You bitch,” he snarled, his hand going to his lower back and coming back slicked with bright blood. “I would have left you alive, but now you give me no choice.”
Maeve struggled to her feet, her legs numb where his body had pressed hard into hers, and pulled the other knife from her boot as she rose. She could not see her dagger on the deck and wished for it now—wished for its greater reach and potential for damage. She pursed her lips and waited.
She did not wait long.
Conroy rushed forward, faster than should have been possible for an injured man of his size. He slashed with his blade, and Maeve brought up her forearms. The steel cut into the leather of her vambraces, skittering off one but cutting through the other. The force of the blow made her stagger backward, falling over a coil of ropes to land hard on her butt.
He pushed his height, slashing downward toward her face. Maeve rolled back, tumbling end over end until the ships rail caught her, and she rose, knives at the ready once more. Conroy stalked forward, his teeth coated with pink blood.
He feinted right, and she fell for it, diving left. His knife met her, sliding through her shirt, and the soft skin of her belly. Her abdomen convulsed around the foreign object, as her hands came down, knives flashing in the moonlight as she slashed at his wrist and forearm.
Conroy pulled the knife away from her with a snarl. Maeve wavered. Cold, except down her front, where fire raged hot. Too hot. She knew enough not to glance down, not to see the damage. That would only make things worse. Copper was on her tongue and she swallowed hard.
She had to get that knife away fr
om him. He lunged at her again, slashing toward her throat, and she brought both her fists up into his armpit, driving the small knives into the unprotected skin. He screeched, and the knife slipped from his fingers—but he caught it before it fell.
Maeve grimaced and yanked, tearing into the flesh of his underarm, letting the hot blood rush over her sticky fingers. It made her knives slippery and hard to hold, but she managed. She yanked again, and this time the hunting knife dropped, sliding across the side of her neck and falling with a splash into the ocean below.
The surge of hope she briefly felt was dashed when his free fist slammed into her stomach, sliding into the wound his blade had made. “For my brother,” Conroy rasped as she screamed, the pain enormous. He grabbed her. Inside.
Maeve whimpered, and one of the knives fell limp from her hand. She clutched his shirt, near his throat, and the blade trembled as she pressed it against the skin of his neck. “Let go of me,” she said through the tears that blinded her. “Please.”
He leaned into the blade, cutting himself, so that his next words fell right into her ear, “I knew I’d hear you beg this night.”
Running footsteps, but too late.
Conroy pulled, and Maeve felt herself unravel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Rodan
RODAN HEARD THE BELLS, and then the running footsteps. He slammed open his cabin door and followed the tide of seamen up to the deck, where horror awaited.
Captain Conroy Fisher had his hand fisted inside of Maeve’s stomach. She bled from there, from her nose, her mouth, and from a gash to her wrist. Her clothing was torn. Torn in such a way as to suggest something abominable.
Rodan, a head taller than most of the sailors, saw every moment. He saw Conroy lean down, say something to Maeve, and watched him pull.
Maeve, despite it all, managed to drag her little knife across Captain Fisher’s neck before Rodan got to them, blood washing down his front as he stumbled backward.
Catching Pathways Page 17