Tide

by Alydia Rackham

  And he nodded.

  She let go of him, and climbed on the horse, sitting astride him. She picked up the reins, and waited.

  Galahad, his muscles weak and watery, put his foot in the stirrup and managed to haul himself up behind her. She gripped his left wrist and wrapped his arm firmly around her waist. He leaned against her, dizzy again. She kept her hand on his wrist, adjusted her seat, and clicked to Thondorfax.

  As if he’d simply been waiting for the word, Thondorfax broke into an eager trot, then extended to a swift canter. Galahad held onto Meira as securely as he could—but he could feel the sinking of the moon as if it were happening inside his own body. And the edge of the coming sun burned the fringes of his mind.

  Through the darkness, he made out the wide road that led down into the valley toward Megipesk. Meira simply held onto the reins, seeming to communicate with Thondorfax with only her thoughts. As they entered the borders of the town and Thondorfax struck cobbles, the stars in the east began to dim, and the scent of morning dew filled the air.

  They clambered through the abandoned streets, past the trickling fountain, around a corner toward a narrow street that ended in two adjoining buildings. One was a tall, well-kept stone cottage with a thatched roof, all its windows dark. The other was a church.

  Meira hiked her left leg up and over Thondorfax’s neck and slid down off the horse. She struck the ground in stride and hurried up the front walk of the cottage. With both fists, she beat on the door, threatening to hammer it down.

  Galahad watched her, drawing his wounded arm close to him, bracing his right hand on the front of the saddle.

  In a moment, a lamp flickered on upstairs, and traveled into an inner staircase. The light then blinked in the front window, and a woman’s face appeared. A face Galahad recognized: it was the milliner who had made Meira’s dresses. Her eyes went wide, and the next instant she had darted to the door and opened it.

  “Oh, my goodness! Lady Meira! What is the matter?” she cried, clutching the front of her housecoat. Meira made several motions with her hand, and pointed back to Galahad.

  “Do you…Do you need my husband?” the woman guessed. “You need the parson?”

  Galahad swayed forward and rested his forehead against Thondorfax’s neck. The horse whuffled in concern.

  “Good lad,” Galahad whispered. “You’ve been a good lad, Fax...”

  A yelp and a shout issued from the cottage doorway, and then the flurry of footsteps ascending a wooden staircase. A few minutes later, more ruckus disrupted the night as a masculine voice joined the woman’s. Galahad managed to tilt his head and glance toward the cottage to see a kindly-faced man in a housecoat and nightcap hurrying toward him carrying a lamp, followed by his wife and Meira.

  “Sir, I’m Mr. Sutton, the parson,” the man panted. “Am I…Am I to understand that you require me to perform a ceremony now?”

  Galahad pushed himself into a sitting position, feeling his face and hands go cold.

  “If you can,” he tried.

  Galahad felt Meira wrap her arm around his leg and hold his knee to her chest. Mr. Sutton hoisted the lamp to see Galahad better, and his face filled with alarm.

  “You are unwell, sir!” he cried. “Come inside and lie down!”

  Meira grabbed Mr. Sutton’s arm and violently shook her head.

  “Child, can’t you see how sick he is? He’s in no condition to—”

  “It’s a spell,” Mrs. Sutton gasped, her hand fluttering to her mouth. “He’s dying of a spell!”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Mr. Sutton demanded. “What kind of spell?”

  “Honestly, Carlton, don’t you ever read?” Mrs. Sutton scolded. “Help him off that horse and into the church immediately!”

  “But—”

  “Do it now!” she ordered. “I’ll fetch your book!” And she hiked up her skirts and pelted back toward the house.

  The poor parson stammered questions after her, but finally heaved a sigh and handed the lamp to Meira.

  “Take this, dear—I’ll help him down.”

  Meira took the lamp from him and Mr. Sutton reached up to tug on Galahad’s shirt.

  “Come on there, young man, let me assist you…”

  Galahad fought to maintain his own balance, but in the end, he had to lean heavily on Mr. Sutton’s shoulders as he slid out of the saddle.

  “Can you manage to walk from here?” Mr. Sutton asked him, gripping his arm.

  “Yes,” Galahad murmured, straightening up. Meira passed the lantern back to Mr. Sutton, then bound her arm around Galahad’s right.

  “Follow me, then,” the parson instructed, and started off toward the church. Just then, Mrs. Sutton reemerged from the house and hurried up to them, carrying a book and a set of jangling keys.

  “I’ll get the door!” she called, darting in front of her husband and clattering the key into the lock. Galahad paced after them, taking measured breaths, battling back the pain that had now worked its way into his shoulder.

  The Suttons pushed through the creaking church door into the darkness. Quickly, Mrs. Sutton began lighting the candles with matches, illuminating a small, simple stone sanctuary, with wooden pews and rafters, an altar table at the far end, crowned by three-tiered stained-glass window, whose design it was impossible to distinguish, since it was still dark outside. Mrs. Sutton lit the two candles that sat on the altar table, and then handed the book to Mr. Sutton.

  Galahad stopped at the beginning of the aisle. Meira’s arm tightened on his, and he felt her watching him.

  “Meira, you…” he began, staring at the stained-glass window. “Meira, you mustn’t do this. I have…I have been prepared for death all my life. It’s no stranger to me.” He drew in a breath that ached. Fangs of pain had begun to sink into his neck. “This is far more dangerous for you than you realize.” He lowered his head. “I would rather you…you just sit beside me, and together we can watch the sun come up through that window.” He finally turned, and looked down at her.

  Her crystal eyes locked with his.

  “Meira, please,” he whispered.

  Her jaw tightened. She didn’t shift her gaze.

  And she shook her head.

  Galahad closed his eyes.

  Meira stepped forward. And, as if he were chained to her side, Galahad came with her.

  They trod the length of the aisle, torture stinging up and down his whole flank with every step. At long last, they arrived at the altar, where Mr. Sutton stood, his eyebrows drawn together.

  “Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

  “I am,” Galahad managed, nodding once. Mr. Sutton glanced at his wife, who impatiently waved at him to go on. Mr. Sutton cleared his throat.

  “I should tell you,” he said. “I have never performed a ceremony for a Curse-Breaker before. It’s…It’s extremely different from the others.” He shifted uncomfortably. “It’s a far more binding contract. For you see…the wife of a Curse-Breaker will live as long as he does—as many centuries as he does—but if he dies, she will die also. Instantly.”

  Meira didn’t stir. Galahad halfway glanced at her…

  She just lifted her chin.

  “And, erm…” the parson went on. “It has a very particular seal that if…Well, if it isn’t true, the marriage won’t bind. Do you understand?”

  Meira nodded.

  “Ahem. All right, then,” the parson winced, and lifted his book.

  Meira pulled lightly on Galahad’s arm…

  And he shuffled his feet, and faced her.

  She took up both his hands and held them against her heart, looking unfailingly into his eyes. And he couldn’t turn away.

  “We gather today, in the presence of this witness, to join in bond this Curse-Breaker and this woman, in sacred trust,” Mr. Sutton began. “A bond created at the forming of the world, at the very mouth of the Source. A bond surpassed by none other, for it is a willing and everlasting bond, stretching to the ends of li
fe and beyond death. Once made, nothing can un-forge this bond, nothing can tear it loose. It takes two beings and makes them one, forever, unto the breaking of the world.”

  Galahad swallowed. Meira strengthened her hold on his fingers.

  “Do you have rings?” Mr. Sutton asked. Meira glanced at him and shook her head. Mr. Sutton cleared his throat again.

  “Very well—we’ll simply continue with the vows.” He straightened. “Curse-Breaker Galahad Stormcrane, do you faithfully take this woman to be your only wife, to guard and to protect, to deliver and to favor, to share her bed and her sorrows, her happiness and her defeats, her property and her poverty, her illness and her health, her children and her barrenness, unto the breaking of the world?”

  Galahad’s face heated, and his vision flickered. Slowly, he glanced past Mr. Sutton at the stained glass window…

  Which had begun to take on a soft life in the depths of its colors. His fingers shook.

  Meira squeezed them. His head came around. She lifted his hands, and pressed his knuckles to her chin.

  “Yes,” he breathed.

  “And you, Lady Meira—do you faithfully take this Curse-Breaker to be your only husband, to guard and to protect, to deliver and to favor, to share his bed and his sorrows, his happiness and his defeats, his property and his poverty, his illness and his health, his children and his barrenness, his life and his death, unto the breaking of the world?”

  Meira nodded.

  She didn’t hesitate, she didn’t blush.

  She nodded—once, with absolute firmness.

  The stained-glass window began to glow. The reds flushed scarlet, the blues turned sapphire, the oranges turned to gold…

  “Very well,” said the parson. “By the power given to me as a minister of the Source, I pronounce you, O man, to be the husband of this lady, you, O woman, to be the wife of this Curse-Breaker. Now let this marriage be sealed…With the kiss of true love.”

  Meira let go of Galahad.

  And before he could think, or move—

  She took his head in her hands, leaned up, and kissed his mouth.

  The sun broke through the window.

  Pure golden light showered over them, flooding the sanctuary, overwhelming the candlelight.

  Galahad’s eyes fell closed as Meira’s soft lips pressed fiercely to his. Colors burst in his mind, the scent of roses and sea air filled his lungs, her hands burned deliciously across the scar on his face, sending pangs down through his throat and over his chest.

  Fire coursed all through his body, chasing the agony loose from the muscles in his neck, the bones of his shoulder, the sinews in his arm, the gash in his hand. As Meira pulled him into her, threading her fingers through his hair, locking her flaming mouth more deeply to his, a morning wind gusted through his soul, driving out the agony and the ache, dispelling the blackness of the Sea Witch, driving her out of his blood.

  And the Source-Light within him roared back to full strength, exploding against his eyelids, nearly blinding him.

  She broke the kiss.

  He opened his eyes…

  And drew in a long, deep, pure breath.

  Meira smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling with the light of the morning.

  “I love you,” she said.

  Galahad blinked.

  Her voice.

  Rapturous and musical, quiet and gentle as the dawn. It rang in his ears and penetrated to his heart.

  He gasped, jerking his left hand up.

  It no longer hurt at all. With shuddering fingers, he unwrapped the binding Meira had tied there, and dropped it…

  Utterly stunned, he flexed his hand.

  His perfectly-healed hand.

  His head came up. He stared wildly at Meira, who just stood there, beaming.

  “You…” he stammered. “You married me.” Hot tears welled up in his eyes, and tumbled down his face. “You love me.”

  Meira grinned, then let out a ringing laugh.

  “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

  Galahad captured her face in both his hands—and his mouth crashed into hers. She sucked in a startled breath, then flung her arms around his neck. He frantically loosed his arms and then wrapped them all around her, lifting her up off the floor. He kissed her mouth over and over with joyous fury—but he could hardly match her own.

  And as the sunrise deluged the church, and Mr. and Mrs. Sutton laughed in happy bewilderment, the Curse-Breaker and the little mermaid lavished each other with passionate, tender kisses, breathing as one, tasting the delicious seawater of their mingled tears.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Galahad took a long, drowsy breath and opened his eyes. He lay on his back on an unfamiliar bed, gazing sleepily at the rafters in the parson’s upstairs guestroom. A low fire crackled in the hearth to his left, and afternoon sunlight poured in through the tall window. He stretched his left arm up and pillowed his head in his hand. And again, his eyes drifted shut as he savored the feeling of Meira’s warm hand spread across his skin, just above his heart. For several minutes, he just measured the beat of his own pulse, and listened to her deep, steady breaths.

  Finally, he tilted his head to the right and glanced at her.

  Her head lay on his pillow, her long hair cascading over the white bedsheets. She lay on her side, with the length of her warm body pressed against his side, underneath the blankets. And her right hand rested on his bare chest, her thumb lined up with his scar.

  For a long, long time, his gaze caressed her sleeping features—fresh and blushing, her curls girlishly decorating her brow, neck and shoulder. Then, trying not to stir too much, he adjusted and turned toward her, bending his elbow and laying his head on his right arm. With his left, he reached over and, very lightly, tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

  She opened her eyes.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  She smiled at him.

  “Good morning, mo grá,” she murmured.

  He said nothing—just rested his hand upon hers, and entwined their fingers. She studied him.

  “What is it?” she asked softly. The sound of her tones—so strange, yet somehow utterly familiar—sent thrills all across his skin. He squeezed her hand.

  “I still don’t understand,” he finally managed.

  “What?” she wondered, her brow furrowing.

  “How did you…” he tried. “When did you love me?”

  She didn’t answer. But she freed her hand and stroked his eyebrow, then his cheekbone, and then laid it across his throat, so she could feel his pulse.

  Just as he had rested his hand upon her throat, that aching night before the fire.

  “Dóchas,” Meira whispered earnestly, her eyes shining.

  Galahad closed the distance between them, deeply kissing her lips, taking her into his arms so powerfully that he could feel her heart hammer against his. And they spoke no more—for, as they had learned the moment they met that, unlike everyone else in the realm, they needed no speech.

  “What?” Little Emblyn shrieked, her eyes big as saucers. “What?!”

  Meira burst out laughing. Galahad just felt his face get painfully hot.

  They stood in the yard of Euryor House, where Galahad had been attempting to give Thondorfax a morning bath.

  He and Meira had stayed to dine with Mr. and Mrs. Sutton, all the while conveying their boundless gratitude, then traveled home to Euyor House quite late at night, when the house was dark.

  Now, Galahad stood shirtless in his work trousers and boots, attempting to soak the great, muddy horse in sudsy water—interrupted by earsplitting howls from the servant girl.

  “Not only does a palace messenger come bashing through the house at the wee hours of the morning after the wedding, shouting that Meira is not to be found—and then both of you are missing all day yesterday, but then I come in this morning and find you in the bed with her—” Little Emblyn screeched, jabbing a finger at him. “And then she speaks to me. In her own ruddy voice—and t
ells me that the two of you ran off together two nights ago and got married!” She flung her arms into the air, her face red as a beet. “What in all blazes is going on here?”

  Meira, unable to control her laughter, collapsed back against Thondorfax’s rump, tears running down her temples. The horse snorted. Galahad rolled his eyes and flicked soap at Meira. She batted it off—Thondorfax sidestepped, and she nearly lost her balance. Which just made her double over and laugh harder.

  Little Emblyn let out an incoherent roar.

  “You were in love with her all the time, weren’t you?” she accused, pointing at Galahad again. “Admit it!”

  “Whaaat?” Meira feigned a dramatic gasp and turned to him.

  “Oh, tosh, there isn’t any use lying about it,” Little Emblyn scoffed furiously. “I saw his face every time you came into the room.”

  Meira raised her eyebrows at Galahad and made an “o” with her mouth. He heaved a sigh and dunked the brush in the soapy bucket, then vigorously scrubbed Thondorfax’s flank.

  “But you were supposed to be in love with the king!” Little Emblyn flailed her arms toward Meira. “When…When did you fall in love with…with him?”

  Galahad shook out his right hand, sending cascades of soap suds splattering across the dirt, fighting not to look at her…

  “Oh…Surely that’s just as obvious, isn’t it?” Meira asked.

  He had to turn.

  She stood there, gazing at him in the morning light, her plain dress half soaked, her hair coming loose of its braid, her cheeks and lips rosy, her gaze soft and laughing.

  “What?!” Little Emblyn squawked again. “You too?!”

  And slowly, Galahad smiled.

  It warmed him through and through—especially when he saw it mirrored on Meira’s face.

  “Wh…What on earth was I doing then—trying to make you the queen?” Little Emblyn sputtered. Meira came up and put her arm around Little Emblyn’s shoulders.

  “You were quite busy being the dearest friend I’ve ever had,” she said, and swiftly kissed Little Emblyn on the cheek. “Will you come with me and make some breakfast?”

  Little Emblyn stared at her, then gasped and let out a watery giggle, accompanied by a surprised spill of tears.