“It did.” Nevan glanced at him in suspicion. “He’s been forced to abandon the oar to hold her. The poor lad is paddling as best as he can to keep them on course.”
Trystan nodded knowingly. “The lady is a relation to Mariel. She knows far more than she lets on, I believe.”
“She knows the whale is pushing them toward us?”
Trystan pounded his friend on the back. “Women are mysterious creatures. You should learn more about them than how to seduce them.”
With that friendly advice, Trystan tore off his wet shirt, climbed upon the rail, and glorying in his wife’s audacity, dived back into the sea to carry the tow rope out to the dinghy.
As much as he trusted Mariel, Trystan didn’t trust a whale beneath his ship.
Thirty-three
Mariel watched from a distance as the crew helped the baroness up the rope ladder to the Destiny’s deck, followed by Nick and the chevalier. When Trystan turned in Mariel’s direction, she waved merrily, hoping he could see her. He lifted his hand, although whether it was in greeting or just to shade his eyes and follow the whale’s progress, she could not discern.
She dived back beneath the waters, swimming away from shore.
It was just as natural for her to kick her feet and glide through the sea as it was for her to run down the street. She could spin and dance with the current, or push water aside and speed silently from one end of the harbor to the other in minutes.
Murdoch’s small fishing sloop could navigate the incoming tide more easily than Trystan’s large schooner, but not faster than she could. She knew nothing of naval battles, but she hoped to give the Destiny time to escape Murdoch. Trystan might relish warfare, but she preferred to frustrate warriors with peace, especially near her home.
If Trystan was the god of her mother’s prophecy, then this was certainly a time of great danger, and Trystan’s sword had wreaked justice by saving Nick and his guardians. She didn’t want the danger to engulf the entire village—along with her sister and the baby.
The small, shy dolphins who swam beside her were more honor guard than soldiers, useless for warfare but convenient for underwater communication and safety. Whistling, Mariel directed the larger porpoises and the orphaned whale toward the keel of Murdoch’s sloop, from the Channel side where he would not expect attack.
She meant only to interfere a little—until the whale abruptly whistled in alarm and dived downward, taking her small army with him.
Startled, Mariel glanced up to Murdoch’s small boat.
Over her head, a hose shot streams of appallingly smelly liquid, which caught fire the instant it hit the water. And kept burning.
Fire, the one element she feared with all her heart and soul, burned a barrier between her and Trystan. A wall of flame licked across the water to the Destiny, carried on the tide toward her home, cutting her off from land.
***
“By Zeus and Hades!” Waylan cursed in horror as the small fishing boat approaching their bow spewed liquid fire, turning the sparkling water into an oily cloud of smoke and flame. Racing for the helm, he began shouting orders even before he reached the wheel.
“Greek fire,” Nevan said in shock. “He’s using the devil’s weapon to stop us!”
Every sinew in Trystan’s body froze as he watched the sloop draw near to spew another murderous wall of flame. Mariel had been swimming on that spot just moments ago. Mariel, his mermaiden, who lived for seawater and wasted away without it. She had every reason to fear fire.
The appalling spectacle raced toward them with the first shots. The wind and tide caught the flames and blew them faster and higher, spreading the danger past them, in the direction of the shore. Every boat in Pouchay would go up in flames, and from there, the fire would spread to the tavern. Once it reached shingles and thatch, it would travel up the hill to devastate the village and everyone in it.
Including Mariel. Trystan searched the harbor for any sign of his wife. He’d seen the whale swimming for Murdoch and assumed Mariel was guiding it, as she had earlier. He saw no sign of either now. All he saw was a wall of flame racing across the water toward his ship.
Waylan shouted commands to the men in the rigging. Nevan grabbed the wheel.
Trusting his friends to the sails, Trystan touched his ring for reassurance, but he could not feel Mariel’s presence as he had before. Panic closed his lungs.
Every child on Aelynn had been taught the lesson of the ancient fire. The world had thought the formula long lost, but it had been held secret on Aelynn for centuries, just as the Sword of Justice and Chalice of Plenty were kept hidden except on ceremonial occasions. In the case of the formula, it was because it was far too dangerous to be unleashed in the world again. Once, Turkish emperors had used it as a means of defense, but the weapon was so destructive, the gods had decreed that the secret be lost for fear it would fall into offensive hands—like Murdoch’s. How had he stolen the formula?
Watching the wall of flame, Trystan realized the tales hadn’t explained just how dangerous fire on water could be. For all he knew, it might suffocate all life below it. And this nightmare had been unleashed by an Aelynner.
He had to save as many innocent people as possible. Shoving the screaming panic for Mariel inside his heart and locking it in, Trystan swallowed and debated the only two courses open to him.
He could have Waylan the Weathermaker blow up the wind at an angle that would take the Destiny past the fire and out to sea, letting the fire travel on to the shore where it would undoubtedly consume the village and perhaps all life in the harbor. His men and passengers would be safe, and he would be obeying the laws of Aelynn by not interfering except in defense of his men, as was allowed.
The alternative was to order his crew to fight and protect the village, using their abilities as they’d been forbidden to do.
The point was moot now. May the gods banish him, but he could not sail away. He must intervene, with no assurance of the outcome, and become as criminal as Murdoch.
As much as he would prefer to return to the rational Guardian he’d once been, Trystan could not. Fury with Murdoch, fear for his new family, and a screaming agony in his heart overruled logic. Stripped bare to the waist, his hair blowing in the wind, he gestured toward the fire. “Rain aloft,” he cried in a command Waylan would grasp instantly.
He prayed his friends would be willing to risk banishment and obey.
Intent only on trapping the Destiny, apparently unaware—or uncaring—of the direction in which the waves carried the flames, Murdoch shot another fiery river across their bow. Sparks leaped to the deck and lines. Murdoch was counting on Trystan’s not interfering and ordering the ship to surrender.
“All hands on deck. Cannon to the starboard, fire!” Trystan shouted as heavy clouds scudded into place overhead. Thank the gods! —Waylan had followed Trystan’s command and worked the weather magic to call up the rain that always lingered over the Channel.
Functioning at the extraordinary speed for which they’d been trained, his crew pumped water and doused flames. Fire on board was deadly. He had to save his ship and crew first, so he could save the village next.
He had no means of saving Mariel. The fuel had to burn itself out. He did not want to imagine what the suffocating fumes did to the sea life below. The thought of his beautiful wife choking on oil and fumes would cripple him, so he quit thinking and simply acted.
While Waylan worked his magic on the skies, Trystan commanded the cannon fire, driving Murdoch’s ship back before his mercenaries could tackle and board the Destiny. The other ship was so close, he could see the shock on the soldiers’ faces as they gradually realized flames were sweeping toward land instead of forming an orderly line of fire to ensnare their prey. If Murdoch had thought to control his dastardly weapon, he’d failed.
Once upon a time, before Dylys had suppressed his abilities, Murdoch could have commanded the flames, Trystan realized. It was highly possible that his former friend had plann
ed for years to use this weapon, knowing his ability to direct the blaze. What had he intended to accomplish with the knowledge? A weapon of such destructive power unleashed in the defenseless Other World could level kingdoms.
Any remaining sympathy Trystan harbored for his childhood playmate died with the fire. He located Waylan near the main mast, his potent gaze focused on the amassing storm.
“Lightning, Tempestium, strike the bastard down,” he shouted.
Waylan cast him a look that spoke aloud what went unsaid. Trystan was not only asking him to disobey Aelynn’s commandments—displaying his terrible ability for all humankind—but he was also ordering the death of a man they’d both called friend.
Trystan met Waylan’s frank stare without flinching. Without another word, Waylan lifted his long-fingered hand to the sky and swirled it as if directing an orchestra. The darkening clouds overhead roiled and thickened with the energy gathering around the powerful man commanding it. Drops of rain formed a thick mist, and lightning flickered back and forth. With a bolt and roll of thunder in the distance, rain gushed from the clouds in a sudden burst.
Waylan had yet to call forth a gale, for fear the wind would only drive the flames faster. Beneath the downpour, the small sloop foundered, its sails fluttering haplessly while their enemy ordered the sheets redirected.
Trystan regretted any loss of life among soldiers who’d simply followed Murdoch’s orders, but a man who would call down the wrath of gods and inflict it upon the innocent was not a man who could be left loose in the world. Trystan didn’t have to look at Waylan or repeat his order of destruction. He could feel the electricity gathering in the air.
As the enemy crew aligned their sails to catch the tide and sail out of reach of fire and the Destiny’s cannon, Waylan pointed the fingers of his other hand at the tall man standing in the sloop’s bow. Lightning shot from the sky and struck the deck.
With Waylan controlling Murdoch’s fate, Trystan finally gave in to the urge to lift Nevan‘s glass and scan the water for any sign of Mariel. His breath caught in his lungs at the emptiness of the harbor. His ring still lay dead upon his finger. Let it just be distance disconnecting us, he prayed. But the shore was not so very distant.
Bucket brigades were forming down the village street, dousing sparks as they landed and fighting the fire in the tavern. The dock had been destroyed by the flames, but the rocky beach and high cliffs acted as a barrier against the worst of the destruction. With the rain beating steadily upon the water, the leaping flames were dying back to smoldering embers among breakers and whitecaps. Each wave toward shore carried less of the fuel. Pockets of fire formed in the shallows at the cliff base, destroying Mariel’s wedding dress and the rest of their abandoned clothing.
And still there was no sign of Mariel.
Trystan willed her to climb out upon the rocks and rush up the hill to aid her friends. But only an oily smoke washed across the water.
“They’re escaping.” His face and hands blackened by the extinguished fire, Kiernan came to stand shoulder to shoulder with Trystan. A frown creased his forehead as he watched the other ship limp away between bolts of lightning. “Shall I direct Nevan to follow?”
Like a hound, Kiernan would follow Murdoch into hell if he were so ordered.
Watching the crippled sloop drift toward an outcropping of rocks in the distance, Trystan shook his head. He would not risk the island’s only Finder with his desire for revenge.
As they watched, another lightning bolt struck the mainmast of the fleeing sloop. It was a sign of Waylan’s fury that he could contain the energy so precisely.
“We’ve interfered enough,” Trystan said with a sigh. “We’ll wait for the Oracle’s orders to go after him.” After the uncanny battle that had been fought here today, the villagers would have more questions than his ring would allow him to answer. Even if the tide permitted, they must not return to shore. Better to let time blur memories and hope that people had been too busy saving themselves to notice anything peculiar.
The wind picked up, blowing the last flames away from land—filling the Destiny’s sails and driving her out of the harbor, into the Channel. Away from Mariel.
Every fiber of his being urged Trystan to leap in the water and look for his wife, to swim closer, to find the bond that distance had severed. Distance, or death.
What little logic Trystan still retained told him he couldn’t search the entire sea for her body. If she was alive, she would surface. His heart cracked and bled as he searched for any sign of her while the ship picked up speed. Understanding what he sought, Kiernan gazed steadily into the current, also watching. And with his job done, Waylan soon joined them, squeezing Trystan’s shoulder for lack of words.
Nick emerged from the cabin below where the passengers had been ordered to stay. Trystan had promised to take them to England. He owed Mariel that.
He turned back to watch the smoking oil-filled harbor, decimated dock, and the tiny figures that were Mariel’s friends and family.
Heavy tears wet his cheeks as his gaze scoured the cliffs where he’d first seen his wife flying down that rocky path to berate him.
He’d give all the world and all its treasures to see her there now, flinging curses.
Finally, he understood that the bond between them was the power that Others called love. For the first time, he knew what it meant to long for a single voice, a particular wave, a familiar smile. His heart sinking, he feared he would never share such a powerful force again.
Trystan wrapped his hands around the rail to keep his knees from buckling, and bowed his head against the burden of grief.
The Other World contained fascinating challenges he’d only glimpsed, but he’d lost the one who could have steered him through its treacherous waters with her love and wisdom.
With the cessation of cannon fire and no further need of shouted commands, the ship fell silent. The flapping of canvas overhead played a mournful dirge in his ears as the schooner slipped into the Channel.
The world would be an empty, hollow place without Mariel’s siren song to fill it.
Rain pattered on deck, but Trystan didn’t notice the droplets running off his bare shoulders. Not a single fish leaped or gull flew over the barren waters.
A sob formed so deep in Trystan’s chest that he nearly suffocated.
Waylan clung to the rail and uttered curses. Kiernan awkwardly patted Trystan’s back. Running up from the companionway, Nick wedged his way between the men, although he studied the Channel’s choppy waves ahead rather than the disappearing horizon.
“Aren’t we waiting for Madame Mariel?” he asked.
Trystan’s eyes were too blurred with tears to look down at the boy. He couldn’t even see land any longer. He felt the waiting depths pressing down on him, breathed salt into his lungs as she must have done. She must have gone down too deep for him to sense her, and still, the fire had consumed her.
Waylan caught Nick’s shoulder and tried to turn the boy away. “She’ll swim home,” he lied in a voice thick with tears.
Nick fought off his big hand and pointed. “I think she’s coming this way. Is that a porpoise she’s riding? How is that possible? Do you think she’d teach me?”
Waylan grabbed the glass from Trystan’s hand, then shouted for the sails to be lowered. Kiernan hooted in disbelief.
Trystan rubbed his eyes and stared at the gray waves through the mist of rain.
In the distance, the sleek backs of a school of dolphins arched and dived through the breakers, their tails flinging spray on their downward plunges. At the head of the pack a larger porpoise swam more steadily. Upon his shiny back, a small figure waved.
Mariel.
Without a second thought, Trystan climbed the rail and dived in after her.
Thirty-four
The porpoise flicked his tail and swam off when Mariel fell into her husband’s arms, and they sank beneath the waves, clinging to each other.
He was swimming with her.
She closed her eyes and gave praise to the heavens as Trystan’s muscled arms held her safely, and they bobbed below the surface, lips meeting in relief and love. She knew what he had done, for her. But right now, all she could absorb was that he wanted her enough to come after her, even after she’d revealed her uncanny abilities to the world, effectively banishing both of them from the homes they loved.
But as much as she might crave it, they couldn’t live in the sea forever. With Trystan’s arms around her, her head against his shoulder, they eventually bobbed to the surface. Mariel didn’t wish to ever let go, but it could be a trifle difficult scrambling up the side of the ship while wrapped in each other’s arms.
“I love you,” she murmured in his language and hers. “I worship and adore you.”
Trystan’s grip tightened and his chest heaved, but no words emerged. He leaned his bronzed cheek against her head, and she understood. Her multi-lingual husband had lost all the words available to him and was mute from the terror they’d just experienced.
She had no desire to relive those petrifying minutes under the sea with the fire raging overhead while her husband fought for life and death. She’d done all she could to direct her ocean-faring companions out of the harbor and away from the smothering oil. But she had been helpless to save her home. Trystan had done that for her, just as her mother had predicted.
To the triumphant shouts and cheers of the sailors above them, she clung to Trystan’s shoulders and kissed him until they nearly drowned within sight of the ship. Then once she had him weak and willing, she shoved at his great shoulders, grabbed for the rope ladder, and raced up, with him hot on her heels.
Nick and his family and Trystan’s crew were flinging the fish intended for their supper at her merry band of dolphins. Her cheerful friends leaped and cavorted, catching their meal in the air, diving headfirst into the water, and flapping their tails to send sprays of water up the side of the ship in their idea of celebration, to the delight of all those watching.
Mystic Guardian Page 30