“I think I should wait for you.”
“No,” she insisted. “Get these three safely to the inn. Feed them and let them bathe. If they have any belongings, collect them on the way to the inn. I will return before dark.”
Lan opened his mouth to protest.
“I promise.”
“You heard her,” Lan said in a commanding voice to the three.
“Yes, Mistress,” Dragorloth said. His voice was a deep baritone infused with a sensual purr.
Gráinne noticed that Lan’s ears perked at the sound of it, and she smiled.
“Zak, no stinging. Lan will remove your blindfold. And Jaer, no stealing,” she said, looking at each. “Behave yourselves, and you just may find yourselves freer than you ever imagined.”
“Yes, Mistress,” the two said in unison.
Gráinne walked toward the stairs to find MacMoragh. She heard Jaer’s voice from behind her as a lock clicked. “I don’t know about that. I’ve imagined myself to be thoroughly free.” Someone sniggered. Gráinne was fairly certain it was Zak.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lost and Found
Fenn had watched the ongoing sale, but his mind had wandered elsewhere. Vandovir, the island of the Seetans, was connected to his birthplace. The lass. She was obviously married to one of them. The Seetans had never produced a female heir. Perhaps Slydor had set aside his wife Diadem and taken a younger wife who would give him a daughter. Or perhaps she had wed one of Slydor’s sons. He remembered Stephen, the youngest, as a shy loner whose eyes betrayed his blood—torn between his mother’s good will and his father’s greed for power. He didn’t know much more about the lad, though, as he’d left Incorrigible when the boy was young. Slyxx, the eldest, was his father born into arrogance and cruelty. The lass who had bought the special arrangement contracts didn’t seem like the type who would gravitate to Slyxx’s kind, though Fenn was certain she was capable of fury. He’d felt her anger when she approached the Scribe to pay for the contracts. He’d felt something else, too, a familiarity that played at the edges of his memory.
***
The Scot’s red hair came into sight as Gráinne ascended the stairs. She stopped, still nagged by a feeling she’d seen it before. Staring at the way it was knotted at the top of his head and then flowed down below his shoulders, she felt almost sure it was the same hair she’d seen in the marketplace on her first day in Port Firth. Still, the likelihood it had been MacMoragh she’d spotted just before she choked on the pastry didn’t satisfy the nagging feeling. She’d seen that hair before she came to Port Firth, but she couldn’t remember when or where.
“Captain MacMoragh,” Gráinne said, mustering enough courage to speak to him.
Fenn turned around. “Aye,” he said, focusing his one good eye on the face of the Marquessa of Vandovir.
“I d . . . do not wish to interrupt your transactions.” She swallowed hard. “If you have a moment when you have finished, I would like to discuss a matter of business with you in pri . . . private.” Gráinne blushed at stuttering. What is wrong with me?
The Scot grinned widely. “I’ve nae more purchases to make today, lass.”
“No, I . . . I did not mean I want to sell you anything,” she said, realizing he thought she wanted him to buy Goddess knew what from her. Her cheeks turned crimson.
The Scot laughed.
“I have a proposition for you,” she blurted out and then felt her cheeks grow even hotter.
The Scot laughed harder.
Gráinne cupped her mouth and nose with her hands, horrified at her word choice and the way her words had stumbled over her own tongue.
Fenn turned to Marjorie and said, “Go collect your son and meet me at the Inn of Port Firth. Ye look like ye could use a good meal, and Marta is sure to deliver just that. Tell her I sent you.”
Marjorie smiled and descended the steps, giving Gráinne a dubious look as she passed by her. Gráinne felt even more embarrassed.
“Come on then, lass. We can walk and talk at the same time. Well, I can. I am nae too certain ye can.”
The pair descended the platform’s stairs and walked in silence toward the perimeter of the square. Far enough away from the crowd to assure privacy, Gráinne stopped and looked up at Fenn. Concentrating on remaining calm and focused on the task at hand, she got straight to the point before she lost her nerve. “I have been told you might be interested in commanding a ship. For a fee, of course.”
“That depends on the journey, the ship, and the fee,” Fenn replied.
The way he looked at her told Gráinne he was watching for reactions. She didn’t blink. “Of course, and we can discuss those details.”
“Which of the Seetans is ye husband, lass?”
Gráinne was unnerved. “How do you know my name is Seetan? How do you know the Seetans?”
Fenn grinned. “I have known that Clan me whole life, lass. I was born in the land bordering Vandovir.”
Gráinne felt the colour drain from her face. There is only one land that borders Vandovir—Incorrigible. Caleb is not the only survivor!
“Are ye unwell, lass?” He gently clasped the top of her arm to steady her.
Gráinne took deep breaths until the urge to cry had passed. She looked up at Fenn, searching for a sign of recognition to explain the eerie familiarity she’d previously felt. “I, too, was born in Incorrigible, but I do not remember your family name.”
“The Clan settled there during the Sieges. I am the last of me father’s direct line. And ye, lass? Ye were nae always a Seetan. What is ye father’s name?”
“MacKenna. Braeden MacKenna was my father.”
Fenn grasped Gráinne’s other arm, looking directly into her face. “Ye are a daughter of Arianna Ferrane?”
Gráinne nodded, determined not to cry at hearing her mother’s name spoken aloud. She found the Scot’s grasp comforting and his knowledge of her family even more comforting.
“Come with me, lass. We need to seek a more private place for this discussion. There is much I need to tell ye and much I need to know.” Fenn tilted his head and indicated that he meant they should head toward the harbour.
Gráinne knew she could trust Fenn. Her instincts had told her there were survivors of the mercenary attacks, and her instincts had been right. Now, they told her Fenn was the key to something she needed to learn. Gráinne nodded in agreement.
The two walked casually toward the harbour. “What do ye plan for those three ye contracted today, lass?”
Gráinne laughed and shrugged. “I have no idea. I just could not let them be treated that way. It was cruel.”
Fenn laughed. “Ye definitely are nae a Seetan, lass.”
“Thank the Goddess for that,” she mumbled.
Fenn laughed again, an unreserved laugh that warmed Gráinne.
When they reached the harbour, Fenn led Gráinne to a boat she estimated at about forty verges in length. He took her aboard the vessel and down into a chamber at the rear of the hold. Unlike the cavernous hold of Tell’s ship, the chamber in Fenn’s boat’s hull was lush. Its wooden floor was scattered with thick furs and brightly coloured rugs of woven wool. It held a table and three chairs, a desk, and a bed, all of which were large enough to accommodate someone Fenn’s size. A rope on one wall secured several large chests. On the opposite wall was a tall cabinet, the sides of which had metal rings through which rope had been strung. Remembering how the hold in Tell’s ship had taken the brunt of crashing waves, Gráinne presumed the straps held the cabinet in place when the boat rocked. All of the furniture, save the chairs, was nailed to the wooden floor. Drapes of black silk embroidered with red and gold dragons hung from the ceiling and surrounded the bed. At least a dozen tapestries of different kinds of dragons layered the walls.
Fenn closed and locked the door behind him and motioned for Gráinne to take a seat at the table. He went to the cabinet and took out a jug and two goblets, which he brought to the table. Fenn sat in a chair and unplugged the
jug. The scent of its contents wafted into the air.
“Whisky,” Gráinne said.
“Aye. The finest whisky e’er made.”
Remembering Lan speaking to his goblet, Gráinne laughed. She held up her goblet and waited for Fenn to do the same.
“To Incorrigible,” he said, downing the whisky.
Gráinne froze, and the hand that held the goblet began to shake. Tears welled in her eyes.
“What is wrong, lass? Tell me.”
Gráinne sat the goblet on the table and covered her eyes with one hand, trying to make the images of death go away. Fenn waited patiently. When she finally uncovered her eyes, she reached for the goblet and downed the contents in one long swallow.
Fenn arched an eyebrow. “That bad, is it?” he asked.
Gráinne nodded. “Yes. That bad,” she sighed. Unable to hold back the tears, she let them fall of their own accord. “The island was attacked.”
Fenn looked outwardly calm. “Go on.”
“Mercenaries. They came and attacked the island and burned anything that would burn.”
“And the citizens?” he asked.
It was the question she’d dreaded. She looked directly at Fenn’s face, deep sadness covering her own face like a death shroud. “I do not know. He told me all the citizens were dead.”
“Who is ‘he’?” The sternness in his tone suggested revenge.
“Sly’s servant.”
“Sly? Slydor Seetan?”
“No. His son. Slyxx.”
“Ahh,” he said, “so you are the wife of Slyxx.”
Gráinne nodded. “If you could call him a husband, then yes.”
“What do you mean?”
“When Slydor’s son Stephen was killed, Slydor blamed my mother for his death. The Seetans called for Supplantation, and the Council of Elders gave me to the Seetans by judgment. Slydor arranged for a marriage ceremony.”
Fenn set his jaw. “Nae handfasting?”
Gráinne shook her head.
Fenn slammed his fist on the table, and the bottom of the jug rattled.
Tears flowed freely as Gráinne spoke. “I went to Incorrigible, and I found no one alive. But here, outside of Port Firth, I found one. Caleb the blacksmith. First he and now you. I know there are others. I feel them.”
***
Fenn listened. He didn’t know if this woman was right or wrong about survivors, but he knew she was the daughter of Arianna Ferrane. He would bet his last jug of whisky the Seetans were involved in a traitorous plot, and the girl had been snagged as part of it. He’d also bet if the lass were anything like her mother, she wouldn’t just feel and find survivors, she’d draw them to her. At this moment, though, her pain was obvious and deep, and Fenn couldn’t help but reach out and place his hand on Gráinne’s to offer solace. As he touched her, another flash of memory jolted him. “But that one is not for you,” he heard his father saying to him.
“Where are ye servants?” he asked her.
“I sent them to the Inn of Port Firth.”
Fenn grinned. “Good. Marjorie will be there with her young one. I can see that ye make it back there safely. Now, what is this about a ship and a journey?”
Gráinne smiled and used the sleeve of her gown to wipe her tear-streaked face.
Fenn noticed she made no attempt to slip her other hand out from under his.
“The ship is the Cailleach Bheur, and Lan wants to use her first to deliver trade goods to another port.”
“And after that?”
“To sail her to Incorrigible with passengers who will resettle on the island.” She looked apprehensively at Fenn and bit her lip.
Fenn laughed and shook his head. “By Manawyddan, ye have spunk, lass. The Cailleach Bheur is a cursed ship. Ye knew that, dinnae ye? Where will ye find a crew to sail with me? Nae that I am sayin’ I will steer her, mind ye.”
“We came here with Tell Bravin and his crew. Some of the passengers will serve as crew for the trade and resettlement journeys.”
“Tell Bravin?” Fenn belted out, laughing afterward.
Gráinne looked confused. “You know Tell Bravin?”
Fenn laughed and shook his head. “Spunk and luck, lass. Ye sailed aboard the ship of a Rogean slaver and managed to remain free. Pure spunk and luck, I tell ye.”
Gráinne gave a half-smile back at Fenn, as if there were something she wasn’t telling him. “I have made an agreement with Bravin to return to Incorrigible.”
“Nae aboard me ship, he will nae.”
“Your ship?” she asked, looking around at his cabin.
“Dinnae be daft, lass. This is a boat, nae a ship. Aboard the Cailleach Bheur I will nae have slavers while her helm is mine.”
Gráinne grinned and slid her hand out from under Fenn’s hand, offering it instead as a sign of a bargain sealed. “Fair enough. Then, we have an agreement?”
Fenn eyed Gráinne’s hand with his one good eye and laughed. He grasped her hand and squeezed it. “We’ve journeys to plan, and ye’ve much more to tell me about ye ship and her cargo. But first, tell me ye name, lass. I’ll nae be calling ye by that Seetan name.”
A smile stretched Gráinne’s lips, her eyes twinkled. “Gráinne. I am called Gráinne.”
As she spoke, and he held her hand, a vision appeared in his patched eye. Fenn saw the face of the young woman in the marketplace. She sifted through bouquets of flowers, holding up bunch after bunch. After smelling each bundle, she smiled. Her face was radiant, her hair a deep auburn. Tall and slender and with a laugh as fresh as the flowers she held, she chatted unselfconsciously with her companions, a young woman she called Annie and a stern-looking priestess in a blue robe. “Morgraine,” his father whispered to him, laying a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Her name is Morgraine, but that one is not for you.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Freedom
John and Marta rushed about the inn’s dining hall with food and drink. Lan had only seen them look happier after the fourth round of whisky. Or was it the fifth? For all the apparent chaos, the mood floated, lively and light. The sun was setting when Gráinne and MacMoragh arrived at the inn.
“Can you put those things away?” Lan asked, shaking his head at Zak.
Zak just grinned in response. One of his tendrils snaked its way to his plate, and its barb stabbed a piece of lamb, lifting it to his mouth.
Lan rolled his eyes and waved at Gráinne as she stood in the doorway surveying the scene. “This one,” he said, pointing to Zak, “is trouble. He has a nasty temper and already has paralyzed the little Elf once.”
Gráinne looked from Lan to Zak to Jaer, who sat as far away from Zak as he could.
“It’s true,” Jaer said. “All I did was say his tentacles were interesting, and he stung me!”
“Tendrils! I told you they are tendrils. I’m Thrull, not an octopus,” Zak snarled back before chomping down viciously on the lamb he’d stabbed with the barbed tendril.
Fenn leaned down to Gráinne’s ear, and Lan tuned his ears toward them. “Ye’ve got a handful in those four lads.”
“Say something to them. They are yours!” Lan squawked, exasperated and tired from chasing the three around for most of the afternoon and evening.
“Did I not tell you not to sting anyone?” she asked Zak, wrinkling her brow as if she were thinking about her own words.
“I didn’t sting him. I paralyzed him,” Zak argued back.
“Make that two hands full,” Fenn said, laughing. He slipped around Gráinne and sat next to Marjorie and her mop-haired son.
Gráinne summoned a stern expression and looked at Jaer. “Tendrils. Call them tendrils.” Then she looked at Zak. “No stinging. No paralyzing. No touching anyone with your tendrils . . . or your barbs,” she said.
Lan thought it wise she covered every possible detail.
She turned her gaze to Dragorloth. “And I do not know what you have or have not done, but whatever it is or is not, do not do it again.”
/> Dragorloth looked down, an expression of guilt and remorse on his face, and Lan wondered what mischief he’d missed his fellow Kathan committing. He’d found Dragorloth amusing and energetic, but also gentle in a clumsy way.
Fenn burst into laughter.
Finally, Gráinne turned her gaze to Lan, who thought her stare accusing. “I have been the model of patience,” he said firmly.
Zak sniggered.
“I am not a nursemaid. They are your responsibility while they are in my service,” she said.
Lan’s eyes glazed. “But,” he protested. Did she just put me in charge of them?
“But nothing. Shush!”
The noise level in the room dropped dramatically.
“Well done, lass,” Fenn said, leaning over to her ear once more. “Someday, ye will make a good queen and mother.”
Gráinne looked horrified, and Lan heard the question in her thoughts. “Mother?”
“Lan,” she said, looking away from Fenn. “Captain MacMoragh has agreed to sail the Cailleach Bheur. He has questions I cannot answer, so I leave it to you to give him the details of the delivery contracts and the specifics of the ship’s capabilities.”
“Of course,” Lan said. He shook off his surprise. Turning his gaze to Fenn, he added, “Perhaps after we sup, we can discuss those matters. I am at your disposal, Captain.”
“Bah,” Fenn replied. “It can wait ‘til the ‘morrow.”
“As you wish, Captain,” Lan replied politely, but his ears slowly laid back against his hair in agitation.
“Do not annoy him.”
“Truly, woman,” Lan grumbled in response to Gráinne’s thought before he realized he’d spoken his own thought aloud. Something about the big Scot bespoke authority and danger, and it grated on Lan’s nerves ever so slightly. But, he needed a Captain, so he wouldn’t push his luck, at least not just yet.
Marta and John reappeared from the kitchen with more food and wine. The remainder of the meal was uneventful, much to Lan’s relief. The lads, as Fenn called them, behaved themselves. Chatter focused on forecasts mystics had given for the season’s sailing weather. Fenn predicted smooth sailing for both the delivery contract journey and the trip home if they didn’t delay in embarking. From time to time, Marta or John piped in with information about resources they would need, such as dry goods and where to get them. At the end of the meal, Marjorie said a polite goodnight to everyone and then took her son by the hand and led him out of the room toward the staircase, disappearing from sight. Shortly thereafter, Fenn and John disappeared into a room adjoining the dining hall. Lan guessed it was to consume volumes of whisky. He didn’t feel slighted for not having been invited to join them. He’d had enough whisky to last a good long time.
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