Cynthia wished she could cry out in frustration. With the pain and shock of her contact with Edan, all thoughts of the girl had slipped from her mind. Edan’s mouth gaped open and closed, and his eyes pleaded with her. She reflexively reached out toward him, then pulled back. She couldn’t touch him again, not without maiming herself further. Besides, another shock like the one they had already endured would likely kill him. She urged the sea to gently surround him and move him, motioning to him to stay still. He coughed a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, and stared blankly at her.
As they reached the door to the corridor, Cynthia looked back. Samantha remained pinned to the wall, but she didn’t struggle against the power of the sea. She just stared into the water before her, eyes wide and blank, transfixed upon the drifting tendrils of blood, bereft of cognizant thought.
For an instant, Cynthia felt a piercing sympathy for the girl; she was a victim, a product of Bloodwind’s merciless indoctrination. But she was also responsible for the deaths of dozens of Cynthia’s friends, and indirectly for the conflagration of the Clairissa. She had murdered Ghelfan in cold blood in this very room, and had tried to kill Cynthia and her baby. Any one of these had earned her a quick death, but Cynthia could not make herself do it. She could not murder her.
But she’d be damned if she’d save her life.
Let the sea decide, she thought as the last of the light faded from the chamber.
The peal of splitting stone snapped her moment of reverie. The last vestiges of magic that held Akrotia’s structure intact had failed. Cradling Edan in a gentle cocoon of water, Cynthia urged the sea to take them out of the chamber.
Shrieks and howls of collapsing metal and stone sounded them; Akrotia’s death throes. Then from behind them a tremendous rumble, deep and powerful, as the Chamber of Life collapsed. Struggling to suppress her panic, Cynthia pushed ahead as quickly as she could without harming Edan, but an instant later, the pressure wave of the room’s collapse hit them. Tumbling in the roiling water, utterly disoriented, she called on the sea to protect them.
In the silent darkness that followed, she saw in her mind’s eye the faces of her son and husband. The last of her energy was gone, the sea’s power slipping from her grasp, and all she could think was that she would never see Kloe or Feldrin again.
≈
“Admiral!” Captain Betts snapped an exhausted salute. “We’ve searched all the wreckage, and all survivors are aboard. There’s still no sign of the mer or…the seamage.”
Admiral Joslan gazed out across the calm blue sea from the vantage of Indomitable’s quarterdeck. They had done it!
Actually, he admitted to himself, she has done it. The warships’ attacks had been like the pecking of pigeons on a granite statue, save for Donnely’s foolhardy plunge. The seamage and her magic had made the difference. Without her, his vaunted navy would all have burned, and with them, Tsing itself, the seat of the empire, would have gone up in flames.
He heaved a sigh of relief. Peering down into the crystalline depths, he searched the waters one last time, looking for a sign that the seamage had survived. Nothing.
“Very well, Captain Betts,” he said as he strode down to his cabin for a stiff drink. “Signal the armada. We’re going home.”
Chapter 34
Spoils of War
Chains rattling, Feldrin once again walked the grim corridor toward the room where he had last met with his wife and son. The guards who gripped his arms would tell him nothing, and his heart hammered with trepidation. He’d heard already some of the news: Akrotia destroyed, two ships lost in the battle, but not a word about Cynthia.
Hold fast, he thought vehemently. They’re gonna open that door, and Cyn will be sittin’ there as beautiful as ever, holdin’ Kloe. You’ll see. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—think otherwise. Then the door opened, and Feldrin felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.
Count Norris sat at the table, his face as still as stone. Feldrin stepped forward and gripped the back of the chair before him. The wood groaned under his grip. When his legs felt like they would support him no more, he collapsed into the seat.
“Count.” His voice cracked, and he swallowed before attempting to speak again. “How’s Kloe?”
“He’s well,” Norris said, attempting a smile. “Camilla dotes on him.”
“Good.” Feldrin cleared his throat. He had only one other question, and he both longed for and dreaded the answer. “And Cyn?”
Finally Norris’ unreadable façade cracked, his eyes registering a deep sorrow. “She…didn’t come up after Akrotia capsized. Admiral Joslan assumed she was lost.”
“He assumed?” Feldrin clenched his hands in his lap to still their shaking, but his voice came out loud and accusative. “She saved their precious city and no one could bloody well take the time to make sure she wasn’t just hurt? They couldn’t even recover her body for a proper burial?”
Norris waved back the nervous guards and fixed his eyes on Feldrin’s. “They did search, Feldrin. Admiral Joslan’s entire armada scoured the area for hours. He even admitted that she was the reason they succeeded where the navy alone couldn’t have. But I’m afraid she’s gone.”
“I see.” Feldrin swallowed again, slumping back in the chair as both his rage and his strength drained away. He clenched his teeth against the scream that threatened to tear out of his throat. Cyn! Breathing deeply, he forced it all down until he felt no emotion at all. His soul was empty. When he finally spoke, his voice was dull to his own ears. “Is that all?”
“No, Feldrin.” Norris shifted in his chair. “In light of Cynthia’s success and personal sacrifice, as well as recent…negotiations, the emperor has reduced your sentence to just one year. During that time, he has agreed to employ the crew of Orin’s Pride to train navy personnel in the art of sailing a schooner. At the end of your sentence, since the empire will be constructing a fleet of ships from Cynthia’s designs, he will no longer need Orin’s Pride, and has agreed to revert ownership of the schooner back to you.”
“I…see,” Feldrin replied, not knowing what to think. He’d been given his life back, though what kind of life would it be without Cynthia? But there was Kloe to think about. “That’s…very generous of him.”
“The emperor’s not a tyrant, Feldrin,” Norris explained.
“Not as long as he gets what he wants,” Feldrin countered through clenched teeth. “Well, I’ll not look a gift horse in the mouth, Count. I don’t suppose he’d grant a few visits with my son over the next year?”
“Camilla and I will visit with Kloe every week, Feldrin. You have my word on it.”
He nodded. “Thanks fer that, Count. I’d like him to know me when I get out.”
“He will, Feldrin.” Norris gave a quick nod and rose. “I promise.”
“Aye.” Feldrin stood, steadying himself until his knee stopped shaking. “And Camilla. How is she?”
For the first time, Norris truly smiled. “She’s fine, Feldrin. Completely over her ordeal. She’s even agreed to marry me.” The count’s smile faltered with the realization of the pain such a thought might bring, but Feldrin understood. He smiled and nodded, then turned away without another word.
He barely noticed the walk back to his cell. They may as well have been leading him to the guillotine, so bleak was his mood. Memories of Cynthia ran through his mind: walking along the beach in her bright sarong, emerging from the sea with a wide smile, laying with him in the dark of the night… He wondered how he could ever live without her, but realized that he had no choice; his son needed a father.
The clang as the door to his cell opened jolted him out of his reverie, and he finally looked up. The guards removed his manacles and he stepped inside, looked around at his home for the next year.
“Wait!” he said as he turned back to the guards.
“This isn’t my cell.”
The guard looked at him with a sympathetic smile as he closed the door. “Part of the negotiations,” he said. “Enjoy the view.”
Feldrin staggered across the cell and caught himself on the bars of the window. Outside, the sun shone brightly, the ocean twinkling in the distance. Cynthia had gotten him a room with a view.
An inexorable wave of grief broke over him, and Feldrin fell back onto the cot. Powerless to hold the pain at bay any longer, he embraced it and let it consume him. A flood of tears poured forth, and a piteous moan escaped his throat. He wept until his strength was gone, then wept more. Finally, his grief spent, he lay on his cot, reliving the memories of the woman he loved. The woman he would never see again.
Cynthia…
He heard a flutter of wings, as if a bird was attempting to perch on his narrow windowsill, and he opened his eyes. Nothing at the window. On the floor, however, a tiny scrap of vellum fluttered in the errant breeze.
≈
“Thank you for coming,” Master Fergus said as he ushered Marta, Rowland, and Brolan into his office. “Please have a seat.”
“Thank you,” Marta said as she took one of the three thickly upholstered leather chairs in front of the banker’s desk. Brass lamps lent a cheery glow to the gleaming leather and polished wood. On a side table sat a tea service and a plate of tiny cookies. It all looked very homey, but nonetheless, she was suspicious. “You said you had a letter from Cynthia?”
“Yes, but…”
“Well, what did it say?” she demanded. Cynthia’s letters usually came directly from the ship to Marta’s hand, not through the banker.
“Well,” he began, retrieving a large leather-bound packet from a drawer of his desk. “I don’t exactly know yet. They were delivered by a very curious fellow who refused to identify himself, and the cover letter instruct me not to open this packet until you three were present. It all seemed so mysterious.” Fergus broke the seal on the packet and folded back the cover and began to read.
“Well, no sense in lettin’ the tea get cold,” Rowland said. He got up and poured four cups full. Fergus ignored his, and Marta put hers firmly aside. Only Rowland and Brolan enjoyed the steaming brew, along with a generous number of cookies.
“Well!” said the banker finally as he looked up, a perplexed look on his face. “This is quite a surprise. This is a legal document written by Cynthia Flaxal Brelak...”
“Flaxal Brelak! She finally married Feldrin! Ha!” Rowland grinned until Marta elbowed him sharply in the ribs.
“…transferring ownership of Flaxal Shipping and all its assets, as well as the Flaxal estate here in Southaven, to the three of you, lock stock and barrel. Marta, you’re the primary executor. It was ratified by a magistrate in Tsing more than a month ago.”
“What?” Marta exclaimed. Rowland’s teacup rattled as he dropped it onto the saucer, and Brolan choked so hard on a cookie that Rowland had to pound him on the back.
“It appears that there were some…difficulties with ships sent by the emperor,” Fergus summarized, reading ahead. “Mistress Flaxal…uh, Flaxal Brelak and her husband were about to undertake a journey to save their son, who was kidnapped by the merfolk. She wasn’t sure when or if they would return, and wanted to make sure the shipping business was put into good hands if things there, or with the empire, went poorly. There is only one stipulation: that the business and estate be bequeathed upon your deaths to Cynthia’s son, should he survive...”
“Her son!” Marta couldn’t speak. She grabbed her teacup and downed half its contents, but when she looked back to Fergus, he proffered to her a slim envelope.
“This is addressed to you.”
With shaking hands, she took it, cracked the seal with her thumbnail and unfolded the single page. She caught her breath at the very first line.
Dearest Marta,
I am sorry to burden you with this, but there is no one else I can trust. The documents I send with this letter put everything I have worked to build into your hands. I know you will keep it safe. The trouble mentioned in the cover letter sent to Fergus is specified in the documents, but these instructions are not.
Take all of my ship plans and place them in a single case. Deliver this case to the Lightkeeper. If ever an imperial courier visits requesting or demanding my ship designs, ask him to provide a letter of consent bearing my full signature and seal. Take that letter to the Lightkeeper. He will know if it is authentic if he feels my magic upon it. Instruct him beforehand that if he does not feel sea magic on the document, to burn all of the plans.
All my love, Cynthia
PS: Burn this letter immediately!
Marta swallowed hard and stood. Two steps brought her to one of the brass lamps and she held the letter over the chimney until it burst into flames.
“Marta! What are ya doin?” Rowland asked, his eyes wide as she turned back with the flaming document held carefully away from her.
“Exactly what Cynthia asked me to do, Row.” She fixed her husband with a meaningful stare, and held the paper until only a tiny scrap remained unburned. This she dropped into a brass wastepaper bin beside Fergus’ desk. “I’m going to do everything she asked me to do, right down to the last letter, so you’ll all just have to trust me.”
“Cynthia saw fit to trust you,” Fergus said as he leaned back in his chair, “so I see no reason why the rest of us shouldn’t, Miss Marta—Mistress, now. As to the details…”
≈
“You should not be doing this, Milord,” Huffington said as his master placed a food-laden tray table across his lap. He was propped up with half a dozen pillows, reclining in bed in the guest room of Count Norris’ townhouse. He tried to adjust his position, and winced at his tender stomach muscles. It would be weeks before he healed completely, and Norris seemed determined to coddle him the entire time. “I don’t deserve all this.”
“You most certainly do,” Norris replied, pouring his secretary a cup of tea and adding just the right amount of milk. “You found Parek, then saved Camilla’s life, so just sit there and tolerate a little well-deserved rest!”
“Milord, please! I didn’t save Lady Camilla, she—”
“You gave me the dagger that pierced Parek’s heart,” Camilla interrupted, bending down to kiss his brow. “I just put it where it belonged.”
“Well, I…” This close, her scent befuddled his mind; he could see why the count was so smitten with her.
“You saved more than my life, Huffington,” she said, her voice clear and steady, her countenance bright. She fairly glowed. “You showed me that I’m not helpless, that I needn’t fear men like Parek.”
He cleared his throat. “A dagger’s just a tool, milady. It’s the wielder that matters.”
“Well, you put down two pirates and nearly took Parek himself!” Tim said, obviously taking some pleasure in the secretary’s discomfort. “But for the next few weeks, I think you really will be nothing but father’s secretary.”
“And these,” the count said with a grin, producing a slim mahogany box, “will be the only weapons you’ll be wielding in my service.” He opened the box to reveal a beautifully wrought set of pens, styluses, inkwell and silver letter opener. “At least for now.”
“Milord, I—”
“Shut up and eat, Huffington,” Emil Norris ordered as he placed the box on a side table, then put his arm around Camilla. “You’ve got a lot healing to do before you get back to work.”
Huffington could only stare in wonder as they all smiled down at him. They were strong and good and full of love for each other. And for him, which left him speechless. He was part of this family, had helped make it a family again. Parek’s death had purged the last bit of Camilla’s pain, and had given both the count and Tim a measure of revenge that they need not feel guilty abo
ut. With nothing left to say, he took up fork and knife, and followed his master’s orders.
Epilogue
Into the Arms of the Sea
Feldrin Brelak strode through the gates of the Imperial Prison wearing his dress captain’s jacket, a brand new bronze cap on his peg leg, and a broad smile on his face. Count Emil Norris and his wife stood in front of a waiting carriage. Countess Camilla Norris had her hands full trying to keep hold of a squirming one year-old Kloe Brelak. The count’s man Huffington sat upon the driver’s seat, looking like a secretary and nothing else. The three adults were grinning at him, and Kloe was busily trying to rip the lace from the collar of Camilla’s dress. Emil greeted Feldrin with an extended hand, and Camilla kissed him on the cheek.
Kloe screeched out, “Da!” and latched firmly onto his beard.
“Hello, Kloe!” he said, relieving Camilla of the boisterous tyke. “Oi, you got a grip like a harpooner’s mate!”
“Da!” Kloe agreed, grinning up at his father and giving his whiskers a tug.
“Everything’s ready, Feldrin,” Norris said, opening the door of the carriage, “and we don’t want to be late. Time and tide, you know.”
“Right!” Feldrin took a long look up at the sky, at the seedy row of buildings lining the avenue, and the masses of people walking this way and that, carrying out their lives, oblivious to the joy of their own freedom. He took a deep breath of the less-than-fresh air, and said, “Bloody fine!”
The carriage ride was noisy, bumpy, smelly and utterly blissful to a man who had spent a year in a prison cell. Feldrin seemed incapable of keeping the grin from his face, even when an irate shopkeeper shouted at them to slow down. When they finally pulled onto the broad avenue of the waterfront, his face was beginning to ache, and he had to blink to keep tears from spilling down his cheeks.
Scimitar War Page 42