Three Wells of the Sea Series Box Set: Three Wells of the Sea and The Salamander's Smile

by Terry Madden

  Angharad knelt and lifted the forequarters of the large creature and waved its foot at Lyleth, saying, “This is Ceinwen. I named her after the littlest of the seven sisters. Say hello to Mama, Ceinwen.”

  The creature’s foot was more like a bird’s, with long talons at the end of long fingers which were strong and worked the way human hands work, clasping Angharad’s forefinger like a twig. Unlike a bird, it had sharp teeth to match its talons. Certainly not the kind of salamander one finds under damp leaves in the woods. Lyleth said, “Shouldn’t she be in water? Or is she a fire salamander?”

  “She swims when we’re at the garden pond, then comes out and follows me.”

  Angharad gathered the animal in a tight embrace and even in the dim light of her candle, she could see Angharad was crying. Lyleth knelt beside her. “What is it?”

  “It’s almost time.”

  “Time for what?”

  Angharad turned teary eyes to Lyleth. “To open the well. I couldn’t let him kill Elowen. Not Elowen.”

  Lyleth asked, “When will Talan open the well?”

  “He can’t.”

  “What?”

  “Only I can.”

  Angharad wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “He will free the Crooked One, and then the well must be opened. There’s no other way.”

  “No other way to do what?”

  “To stop him.” Angharad wiped at her tears and gazed intently into Lyleth’s eyes, saying, “The Sunless will come with the Old Blood and a battle will be fought once again for this land.” Angharad wiped at her eyes and released the salamander to waggle-walk beneath her skirt.

  “Then we must stop it. Stop him.”

  “Look into the clouds at sunset, Mama. You know that’s not what’s to come.”

  Lyleth gripped her daughter firmly by the shoulders saying, “Our future isn’t written in the clouds, child. We make it ourselves. And you must prepare to go. We’re leaving tonight.”

  “But I can’t leave.” Angharad’s face bunched up in a pout. “The well—”

  “Fiach has arranged passage for us to Cadurques.”

  “If I go,” Angharad said, “Talan will go back to the bog, and when he does—”

  “Angharad, child.” Lyleth drew her closer. “Your cousin is not what you think he is.”

  “I know what he is, Mother. I’ve seen the little man on his tongue.”

  “What little man?”

  The story Angharad told her was one of sure possession. Elementals had been known to take up residence in people, remove all inhibitions and entice them to ecstatic madness. The souls of the executed, or perhaps the sacrificed, might do the same.

  “The souls of the executed.” Lyleth must have said it aloud, for Angharad gave her a questioning look.

  “What did this little man look like?”

  “Besides small, he’s old and round. His name is Finlys, Talan says.”

  The name Finlys stirred memories in Lyleth. She knew a druí of that name, one who served Talan’s father, Marchlew. “Did he wear the tonsure of a bard?”

  “Perhaps. But he’s so small,” Angharad said. “He hollows out Talan’s insides so that he may be filled up with foulness. Talan is hiding in there. I’ve seen him, and he’s not so bad. He needs me.”

  “I know this little man.” Lyleth couldn’t shake the image of Marchlew’s druí, Finlys, hanging from the branches of an oak tree without arms or legs. He’d been executed by Ava, drawn and quartered, his soul tethered to a conjured red crow that became Ava’s eyes. The day Lyleth shot the red crow from the sky, Talan had climbed the tree and touched the filthy remains of the executed druí. With his touch, the rotting flesh had dissembled into fine red powder. For the space of a heartbeat, it had covered Talan, and must have entered him.

  “It was Finlys. He was a follower of the Sunless,” Lyleth said, remembering what Nesta had said of the druada who practiced blood magic.

  “I couldn’t cast him out,” Angharad said. “I tried.”

  “I need to know,” Lyleth said, looking deeply into Angharad’s eyes. “How did you send Elowen to the other side?”

  “With the seeds.” Angharad took a pouch from the front of her gown. “I found them with the salamander in the room at Caer Ys.” She shook out plump spheres that, by candlelight, looked like black pomegranate seeds.

  Angharad held a seed out to Ceinwen, and the salamander snapped it up. “She likes them.”

  “What room?”

  “It was the soulstalker’s, Talan told me. Filled with her things.”

  Lyleth felt her heart race. Angharad had been in Irjan’s room? It was this ice-born soulstalker’s magic that had murdered Nechtan, and it still reached cold fingers into the present. “But Connor said it was a moth?”

  The girl nodded. “It was a seed when I put it in Elowen’s mouth. The green gods answered my wish. They’re wishing seeds. I wished for a green moth to carry her across the Void, safe to the other side. To my father. I know he’ll protect her.”

  Lore said that moths could carry messages to the dead. Lyleth recited the old charm, “Wings of night, soul take flight. What else did you find in Irjan’s room?”

  “My friend.” Angharad squatted and picked up the squirming length of salamander, holding it in a fond embrace. Its mouth gaped and snapped at the air, then closed into a perpetual smile.

  As the child mounted the steps, she said, “I know you fear opening the well, Mama. But it must be done. Besides, salamanders can eat your fears.” Lyleth knew her own fears were far greater than Angharad’s. “Try it, Mama.”

  Lyleth stroked the cold head of the beast and its second eyelid slid over the golden bead of its eye. She whispered very softly so her child couldn’t hear, “I fear losing Angharad.”

  The salamander gulped and snapped at the air, its tongue sucking back into its mouth. It returned to its perpetual smile.

  Angharad giggled. “See? Gone!”

  How Lyleth wished it was so easy.

  Angharad wrapped her arms around Lyleth’s neck, like a child who’s fallen and skinned her knee. Lyleth inhaled the sweet child-smell of her hair and forbid herself to cry.

  “You must go, Mama. There’s no telling what the little man will do to you if he finds you here.”

  **

  Night fell. It would be hours yet before Fiach’s guards would escort her from the castle. Connor had warned her that if Lyleth died in this world, she would return to the dead, and there stay until the worlds dissolved into the stars. She could accept that fate if she could prevent the Crooked One from waking. If the Old Blood never found their way back home… she could accept that as well. The plans, so carefully conjured and carried out by her and this druí Merryn, meant nothing to her now. The only person in two worlds she cared about was her daughter.

  Angharad would not meet her before dawn, would not steal away to Cadurques as planned. Angharad bore an innocent fondness for the man trapped inside of Talan. The cousin who might be a strong and just ruler if he could be freed of the little man, Finlys. Lyleth understood the child’s affection, and yet, there was one truth that presented itself with unwavering clarity. The Crooked One would not be freed, and the Old Blood not returned from exile, if Talan was dead.

  Chapter 18

  In the past two days, Iris and Elowen had opened all but two boxes of books Merryn had stashed in the cellar, had flipped through every page in the hope that something would fall out. Anything unrelated to their search was stored in the shed along with family photos Dish had set aside to give to Bronwyn, whom he was expecting to arrive any moment. Celeste had succeeded in calming her down, and she’d finally agreed to come and help with the sorting. Dish had saved Merryn’s closet for Bronwyn. Nothing but clothes and shoes and the like in there.

  Elowen took a scrapbook from one of the last boxes and slowly turned the pages. To her, a photograph was magical. Dish doubted she would recognize anything useful, but then again, it was possible. She knew the symb
ols of the druada better than he did.

  “This looks like a map,” she said, pointing out a trifold brochure from the National Wetlands Centre in Wales.

  “Aye, it is. But nothing we’re—” Map. Connor had said Merryn kept old maps that Clyde had collected. Maps that showed a well on her property. “Maps. We’re looking for maps.”

  “Aye, so I’d think, my lord.”

  He repeated it in English to Iris, who was looking over Elowen’s shoulder at the map of the footpath through the Wetlands Centre.

  Elowen glanced up at her and said, “I don’t understand how Connor could see such disfigurement in a woman as beautiful.”

  Dish knew she referred to the multiple piercings on Iris’s face, something not done on the other side except by certain warriors as mementos of particular kills. “It’s good she doesn’t understand you,” Dish told Elowen.

  “She frightens me somewhat, to be sure.”

  “Me too,” Dish said and smiled.

  “What are you two talking about?” Iris scowled.

  “We’re saying that pile of books on the floor might have some maps shoved inside them. Let’s get busy there.”

  They found postcards and receipts inside yellowed paperback novels, doodles drawn by Dish and Bronwyn as children, photos of unknown people, coupons clipped from the local newspaper dated to as early as the 1960s. On one such coupon was written a poem in Ildana which Dish set aside after a quick read. It appeared to be nothing more than a musing, but he thought it might become clear later.

  At the bottom of the last stack, he picked up a book in a Ziploc bag.

  “Halloo!” Bronwyn called from the unlocked front door. He dared not lock it again.

  The book was unmistakable. Clyde Pritchard’s infamous Ancient Monuments of Wales for the Intrepid Wanderer. He tucked it between his bum and the seat of the wheelchair, then rolled out to greet Bronwyn.

  Celeste appeared to be right. His sister had arrived with a bucket of cleansers, brushes and rubber gloves, and in good cheer.

  She gave him a conciliatory kiss on the cheek and Dish wrapped her in a long hug. “Thanks for coming, Wyn. Now, the closet is stuffed with clothes. Perhaps the church can use them?” He pointed Bronwyn to Merryn’s bedroom as Iris walked by carrying the last stack of books to the drawing room.

  “Right,” Bronwyn said. “Merryn never threw a single stitch away, I think. She has clothes from the Forties in here.”

  When he heard the clothes hangers sliding on the bar, he pulled the book out and dangled it in front of Iris, whispering, “Is this the book Connor gave to the guardian?”

  Iris took it reverently and whispered, “Well, fuck me… he traded it to that—that worm that crawled out of the well. Ned was his name. The guardian. Connor gave him the book in exchange for taking him across—to get you.”

  Dish opened the Ziploc and flipped through the book. He remembered ordering it from the bookstore near school right before the accident. He found the page he was after, the photo of Lyla Bendbow beside the well stone. The chiseled image of the water horse defined in dark gray relief beneath the runes that ran around the edge. A perfect match to the tattoo on his wrist. But it was the woman who drew his eye, glancing over her shoulder. He would know her anywhere, in any world, in any flesh. Lyleth. The blinding flash of a bulb placed him there, behind a tripod with a camera on it. Clyde and Lyla. She unmasked herself for one moment, and her soul filled his mind.

  And all the pieces of his long search for the well fell into place.

  The well guardian, Ned, had been in league with Merryn all along. He’d baited Dish into finding that well on the beach, setting him up for his trip across, all planned by Lyleth and Merryn. And once the child was conceived, the hunt for the well ceased as if guarding it was Merryn’s responsibility, not finding it. But why? If Merryn was Old Blood, wouldn’t she want it to be found and opened?

  “Stars and stones,” he muttered in Ildana.

  A scream sounded from the bedroom. Glass breaking. Bronwyn.

  Dish met Iris and Elowen in the hallway, all hurrying to the bedroom. Bronwyn was frozen on a stepstool, broken glass surrounding her. And there in the middle of a throw rug with faded pink roses, sat a lizard-like thing the size of a cat.

  “A salamander,” Elowen said with wonder. “In a jar.”

  It was long and sleek with black skin spangled with brilliant gold spots. It reared up on its back legs and flared a fleshy collar out from its neck in a threatening manner. Its mouth gaped, revealing needle-like teeth. As it waved its forelimbs, Dish could see skin that spread taut between the four appendages, like the wings of a flying squirrel, but scarlet. It looked more like a small Komodo dragon than any salamander he’d ever seen.

  “Shut the door,” he told Elowen. “Whatever it is, we can’t let it out.” He glanced at Bronwyn, frozen on the top step of the stool. “I think it’s time I explain a few things to you, Wyn.”

  Iris had crawled onto the bed, and Elowen was talking to the creature as if it were a puppy.

  Dish became aware of knocking at the front door, growing more persistent.

  “Stay here,” he told them.

  “But I can’t get down!” Bronwyn cried. “You’re not leaving me here!”

  “Don’t let that thing get away,” he added, before exiting the room.

  He opened the front door to face Alfred Trewin, the local inspector.

  “Mr. Trewin,” Dish said, “what a surprise.”

  “Not too surprising, I should think, Cavendish.” With that, he handed Dish pages of paper covered in very small type. “I’ve been issued a warrant to search your place.”

  “Search? For what, may I ask?”

  “The personal belongings of one Connor Patrick Quinn, last seen leaving the hostel in Madron village well before dawn on the day of Merryn Penhallow’s death.”

  “You saw him yourself,” Dish said. “When you came to ask questions about her—her death, he was here, with me.”

  “Exactly. The owner of the hostel told me that it was you, Mr. Cavendish, who came to collect Mr. Quinn’s personal effects and to check him out of his room, just two days later.”

  “What are you implying, sir?”

  “I’m implying nothing. I’m here to have a look around.” He nodded over his shoulder to the two men waiting beside the police car.

  Dish swallowed hard. He thought of Connor’s rucksack full of clothes that he had asked Elowen to store in the shed. Not just clothes, but a gun. He hoped it was buried in boxes of books by now.

  “Come in,” he said to Trewin. “We are in the process of sorting and packing up my aunt’s belongings.”

  “You’re going to sell the place?”

  “No, no. I’m considering moving back here. You can only take so much sun and palm trees.”

  Trewin just gave him a scoffing grin.

  “Iris?” Dish called to the back room. “Can you come here for a moment?” Then to Trewin, “She’s busy with some heavy boxes in the bedroom.”

  After some moments, Iris emerged from the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Her eyes were wide, and her cheeks flushed from. What was that she was trying to say to Dish with her look?

  “This is Connor’s girlfriend, Iris McCreary. Perhaps she can shed some light on his whereabouts for you, Mr. Trewin.”

  “I should like to talk to you, but may I get my boys going with the search as we do?”

  “Uh, uh, of course,” Dish muttered.

  “Miss McCreary, shall we step outside?”

  With a wave of his hand, Trewin sent the two officers into the house.

  Dish felt sweat beading on his face as he pushed his chair to the porch. He glanced to the sheep shed to see Peavey standing there with a sack of feed in his hands. Peavey dropped the sack and tipped the brim of his cap to Dish. What was that supposed to mean? And what about the salamander? How could he possibly explain that?

  Dish couldn’t hear what Trewin and Iris were saying, but she re
ached into her pocket and withdrew her cell phone, then held it up to him.

  Dish became suddenly and intensely aware of the slim book sealed in a plastic bag that rested under his bum as if he were hiding it.

  Entering the cottage, he found Bronwyn sitting on the sofa, her trembling hands locked together on her lap.

  Dish whispered, “I’ll explain when I can.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  **

  The explanation would have to wait for nearly two hours as Trewin and his men opened every box, every drawer, every cupboard. Their search of the shed took longer than the house, since Dish had been stacking boxes there. At last, Trewin approached Dish who sat beside Bronwyn in the drawing room, gave them both a tip of his cap, saying, “Thank you for your cooperation.” And then he was gone with his officers. Had he not found the rucksack in the shed? How could that be? And where was the bloody salamander?

  “What did you say to him?” Dish asked Iris when Trewin had gone.

  “I showed him a text message from Connor,” Iris said. “There’s an app to create fake messages with the appropriate time stamp. I just sent myself one from Connor’s phone, marked yesterday.”

  “What did Trewin say to that?”

  “His eyebrows just jumped a bit, and he made some notes in his notepad. I told him that I intended to leave tomorrow for Lancashire to meet Connor.”

  “But if he checks the phone records, he’ll find out the message isn’t real.”

  “Sure. If he does.”

  “Where is Connor?” Bronwyn demanded, “and why would the police come to search Merryn’s house?”

  “I only gave her the ten-second explanation of all this shit,” Iris said to Dish. “The rest is up to you.”

  Suddenly realizing Elowen was gone, he said, “Where’s the salamander?”

  “With Elowen,” Iris said.

  Bronwyn interjected, “She climbed out the bedroom window with the beast in one of Merryn’s handbags.”