Elodie of the Sea

by Shari L. Tapscott

  Bran thanks him for waiting and takes my hand, guiding me into the open-top carriage. The driver clucks his tongue, the horses jolt to a walk, and we make our way past the now familiar shops and cottages.

  We don’t speak, but we don’t have to. Silence is comfortable with Bran. He never presses; he never demands.

  The carriage climbs the winding street that leads to Castle Calland. The gates are open, and the portcullis is raised the moment the wall guards spot us.

  We come to a stop in the courtyard. It’s lit with fiery urns that are bright enough to see by now that it’s dark. My eyes stray to the fountain that towers in the center. It’s a likeness of a mermaid and a dolphin carved out of white stone. Water spills over the edges, calling me even as it repels. I study the girl’s tail as we walk by, hoping to trigger a memory. Is that what I look like?

  “Are you hungry?” Bran asks once we’ve stepped into the entry.

  I’m never hungry, and yet I’m always starving.

  Bran laughs at the look on my face and tugs my arm. “Come on. We’ll find you something.”

  Servants and maids stop in their tracks to bow or curtsy for their king, and Bran has a smile for each of them. He’s settled into his new role as their monarch, though I know he’s still uncomfortable.

  It should be strange, strolling on the arm of Triblue’s ruler, but it’s one of the only things about my new life that feels normal, feels right. And that’s probably bad.

  No one says a word as Bran leads me into the massive kitchen. The maids don’t second guess him when he sends the last of the nighttime attendants out. His personal guards don’t even flinch as he closes the doors on them.

  Once we’re alone, the king turns, and a broad smile spreads across his handsome face. “You know what they are thinking.”

  I laugh, glad to shed the melancholy blanket that’s wrapped around me so tightly, I’m afraid I might suffocate.

  Safe behind the heavy doors, in the room that always smells like fire, bread, and herbs, I hop onto the wooden counter and swing my legs. “Your lady friends look at me with such loathing, I’m surprised I haven’t been struck dead simply by their hate.”

  He cringes, disliking it when I bring up the peacocks. He’s running out of time. His parents will return in a little over a month, and he must choose a queen.

  A queen who won’t be me…a queen who won’t allow our friendship to continue.

  For the briefest moment, as Bran joins me on my perch, I allow myself to imagine what it would be like if the speculations about our relationship were true. If I was in his arms right now, enjoying luxurious kisses. But it’s too late for those thoughts now.

  And I’m not a fool. I know kings don’t fall in love with presumed mermaids they find on the shore. Yet so many times I’ve imagined the feel of his lips, his hands in my hair, his heart beating under my palm.

  And there’s still the matter of my ring.

  Bending backward, Bran pulls a wooden platter onto his lap. It’s heavy with the weight of leftovers from dinner.

  “Let’s see,” he says, studying the smorgasbord. “Your options are nearly limitless. You can choose from smoked fish, dried fish, boiled fish, or fish in a fish sauce.”

  As always, I wrinkle my nose, avoid the fish altogether, and drop several olives into my mouth, savoring their salty, sour tang.

  “A girl can’t live on olives alone,” he reminds me.

  Hopping off the counter, I walk across the room and choose a piece of citrus from a massive bowl. Without question, he holds out his hand so can I give him the fruit. He peels the smooth, leathery hide with ease.

  “What is that one again?” I ask as he reveals the bright pink fruit inside.

  “Tannelo.” He takes a slice for himself and hands me the rest.

  “Tannelo,” I repeat. Triblue has dozens of varieties of citrus trees, all of them bearing colorful fruits in a rainbow of colors throughout the year. Someday, I might be able to remember their names.

  I set the fruit on my lap and reach for the bowl of salt on the bench.

  “That’s not normal,” he teases as I sprinkle the coarse mineral on each section of the sweet yet bitter fruit before I eat it.

  I set my hand over his lips, silently telling him to keep his thoughts to himself. He laughs, pretending to nip my finger.

  He’d blush if he knew the thoughts that pass through my mind. Behaving myself, I focus on my meal.

  I’ve learned a lot about myself in the last month. Meat makes me ill, so does dairy. The idea of eating fish is repulsive, and baked goods like cakes and bread are hard to swallow. So, I consume fruits, vegetables, broths, and teas.

  And copious quantities of salt.

  Bran drops from the bench, walks to the basin of water at the side of the room, and washes the sticky tannelo juice from his fingers. As he dries his hands on the towel, he turns and leans a hip against the wall.

  I choose to ignore the way he studies me like I’m an enigma, a problem to solve. An anomaly.

  “Elowyn?”

  “No.” I take another pinch of salt and sprinkle it directly into my mouth.

  “Eloise? Ellyn? Elevain?”

  Smiling, I meet his eyes. “Elevain? Is that a name?”

  “An awful one.” He frowns. “You’re sure it starts with ‘El?’ Maybe I was wrong.”

  I don’t even have to think about it. “Yes.”

  You’d think he’d give up.

  He walks back, his eyes narrowed with thought. He stops in front of me. If he were to move closer, his stomach would press against my knees. With him standing and me seated on the counter, we’re nearly the same height.

  Bran wraps a loose strand of my hair around his finger. “Who are you?”

  My first impulse is to tell him that I’m whomever he wants me to be—whatever he needs me to be. But that might be a tad bit forward.

  “We’re going to find out,” he promises. “I won’t give up on you.”

  “You have enough on your plate, Your Majesty. Don’t waste all your free time on me.”

  “You’re the only person I want to spend my free time with.” He looks hesitant, like he wants to say something else, something he shouldn’t.

  It’s still there, this maddening attraction. I’ve been so careful, but it defies me by growing stronger with each passing day.

  Since I cannot speak of it any more than he can, I study him instead, filing away every detail. He has lines at the very corners of his eyes, likely because he’s always smiling. Never was there a friendlier, more approachable king than Bran. I worry about him sometimes, wonder if his gentle spirit will be his undoing.

  I slip another wedge of tannelo into my mouth, and his eyes follow the movement. It’s suddenly difficult to swallow.

  Slowly, he raises his hand, and the pad of his thumb brushes my bottom lip, gently rubbing away a drop of juice.

  I hold my breath, delirious with sudden longing.

  After several long heartbeats, Bran clears his throat, breaking the moment, and steps back. “It’s late.”

  A sharp pain stabs behind my eyes, coming on so fast it makes me queasy. I clutch my head, gasping.

  Immediately, Bran’s hands are on me, pulling me from the workbench. He’s talking, but the pain is all-consuming. It pulls and yanks—robbing me of something vital, something I cannot place. I stumble against him, whimpering, wishing I were stronger.

  Once the worst of it passes, I choke back a sob.

  Bran’s hand is on my chin, gently raising my face. His worried eyes search mine, and he looks half frantic. “Are they always this bad now?”

  I shrug and swipe at the tears running down my cheeks. It’s humiliating, and I don’t want Bran to see them.

  He pulls me into a tight embrace, as I’ve imagined so many times. There’s little pleasure in it now. “We have to find someone—a gimly. They’re the only ones who will know what to do.”

  “Where are you going to find a gimly?” I dem
and, still breathless from the pain.

  It’s not as if they advertise their services.

  “I’ll find one,” he swears, stroking my hair.

  After several long minutes, I push away, still embarrassed. “I’m all right now.”

  He doesn’t look convinced.

  “Are you meeting with your council in the morning?” I ask.

  Hesitant to change the subject, he slowly nods. “I’m afraid so. We’ll be most of the day.”

  “I’ll be at dinner tomorrow,” I promise.

  That earns me a wry smile. “I’ve heard that before.”

  He walks out of the kitchen, holding the door for me. Before we’re over the threshold, we’re stopped by a great commotion in the hall.

  Guards holler, and one of Bran’s knights rushes forward, his face pale. “Your Majesty, we’ve been looking for you.”

  “What is it?” Bran demands, his tone instantly changing to that of Triblue’s ruler.

  The man glances at me, uncertain, and then his eyes move back to Bran. “There’s been an attack just past the eastern pier.”

  Shock flashes over Bran’s face. “An attack? Pirates?”

  The knight looks visibly shaken, and panic dances in his eyes. “No, Sire.”

  “Spit it out,” Bran says, losing his patience.

  “It was a monster of the deep.”

  Bran steps forward, his brows lowered with doubt. “I’m sorry—a monster?”

  Finally, the knight takes a deep breath. “Sire, from my position on the ramparts, it appeared to be a sea dragon.”

  I shake my head, startled by something I know to be true. “They are peaceful, gentle creatures.”

  In my mind, I can see them swimming, playing in the ocean…their magic glowing like stars in the water. But it’s not the memory of the creatures that stuns me. In the vision, I’m in the water as well—far below the surface, in the deep.

  The realization is staggering, and even though nothing else accompanies it—no more than that flash of memory—I clasp Bran’s arm to keep my balance.

  Bran’s frown deepens. He probably thinks the headache has returned. “Lady Elle is right. Sea dragons keep to themselves.”

  The knight’s eyes harden. “Not anymore.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Bran

  This is the very last thing I need right now. Sea dragons attacking ships? It’s as unheard of as a marauding gang of turtles.

  I stride through the halls, making my way toward the council room. I’ve called an emergency gathering.

  Several more reports of attacks have filtered in, proving that the ship in the harbor wasn’t an isolated incident. But is it one deranged beast wreaking havoc? Or have they all gone mad?

  I push through the door, and it opens with a bang. The few men who have beat me look up, shocked by my loud entrance.

  Stuart purses his lips and clasps his hands behind his back. He’s waiting for me to crumble under the weight of my first catastrophe—I can feel the ice of his stare.

  More men arrive, including several of the visiting nobles I asked to join us. Pippa’s eldest brother, Percival, walks into the room. He takes after his father—light brown hair and tall, kingly build. None of Pippa’s rashness abides in him. He gives me a reassuring smile as he walks through the door. He’s calm and reasonable, and I’m thankful for his presence.

  My brother walks in behind Lauramore’s crown prince, his face grimmer than I’ve ever seen it. We’re both thinking the same thing: did our parents make it to the islands, or were they attacked as well? And what of Marigold and Teagan?

  Without a word, Dristan takes a seat.

  Eight lords of Triblue; my steward, Hummel; my father’s ancient scribe, George; and five guests finally sit at the long table in the middle of the room. My elite knights stand by the wall, waiting for orders.

  A silent maid enters, pulling a silver cart behind her. Like a wraith, she fills a credenza with citrus tea, fresh scones, brandy, and several bottles of wine before she slips out.

  Just as we’re sitting, Irving comes stalking into the room. His face is gaunt, and his eyes are troubled. He chooses a seat next to Dristan and nods for us to begin.

  I stand, not relishing my place at the head of the meeting. “We’ve confirmed that it was a sea dragon that destroyed the ship in the harbor and the ones at sea, but we have no idea what might have provoked the attack.”

  Stuart crosses his arms and sits back in his seat. Because his calculating expression is unsettling, I keep my eyes averted.

  “For the time being, no ships will be permitted to leave the harbor,” I announce. The men begin to grumble—many of them make a living off our sea trade—but I hold up a hand, silencing them. I don’t want to be a harsh ruler, but I will not budge.

  This is my decision, and they will abide by it, whether they agree with me or not.

  One of my lords, a man by the name of Charles who rules a small plot of land not far from the Vernow border, shifts in his seat. “What of the Dragon Treaty, Sire?”

  “Are sea dragons included in the agreement?” Percival asks.

  The truth is, I have no idea. Last night, my advisors poured over books and scrolls in our library, looking for similar incidents. There was an accident noted where an unfortunate fishing vessel collided with a pod of the beasts, but no actual attacks were recorded.

  “Do you have an open line of communication with the dragons of Lauramore?” Charles asks Percival. A few men nod, liking the lord’s train of thought.

  We don’t have the land-dwelling beasts in Triblue—they rarely travel this far south, so Lauramore is the closest kingdom with a known population.

  “Lauramore’s dragons are temperamental,” Percival answers ruefully. “We haven’t had good relations with them since Pippa’s tournament.”

  The few of us who competed for his sister’s hand share knowing looks. It’s been eight years since Lionel of Vernow broke the treaty and got himself carried away, never to be seen again. To this day, no one knows what happened to the prince. Most speculate he’s dead. His cousin is expected to take Vernow’s crown in the next five or so years.

  “We communicate regularly with the dragons of Errinton and could speak with them,” Archer says, joining the conversation. “But it’s at least a fortnight’s ride to reach them.”

  Neil, one of my elite knights—an unyielding man nearing fifty years of age with short-cropped graying hair, skin like leather, and sharp eyes—steps forward. “Would you allow me and a small crew of men to take one of your ships and attempt to make contact with the sea creatures themselves, Your Majesty?”

  The men in the room share uneasy looks, but I see the wisdom in Neil’s suggestion. Why speak with the dragons of the land when it’s the beasts of the sea who have a quarrel with us?

  “Are they even capable of speech?” George asks, looking up from the parchment he’s scrawling notes on. A curling strand of his long white beard has fallen into his pot of ink, but I doubt he’s noticed. “Are they sentient? Has anyone tried to contact them before?”

  He looks at my advisors, two men who I swear are left over from my grandfather’s reign. One is tall and reedy, and the other is quite stout. The tallest of the two adjusts the spectacles that sit askew on his nose. “None of the text we found said either way.”

  “Do you dare send a ship if you can’t confirm they will be able to communicate?” Stuart asks, looking irked that Neil spoke directly to me instead of going through him.

  I stand, needing to pace as I think. If there’s anyone who knows anything about the beasts, it’s Elle. I could see it in her eyes yesterday; she remembered something, something about the sea dragons. She swore they were peaceful. Has she spoken to them? Did she at one time have a rapport with them such as Rigel’s queen Seirsha is said to have with the beasts of Errinton?

  I’m not sure we’ll ever know.

  “I have no idea,” I finally say, and then I turn to Neil. “But if you a
nd your men are willing, I believe we must try.”

  Irving has been silent all this time, but now he slowly rises to his feet. “I request to send a Primewoodian ship to Lestonia to search for Teagan and Marigold.”

  I can tell that it rankles him that he must ask permission to use our ports, but I appreciate his respect.

  I turn to Neil before I answer Irving. “Do you have any idea how to track the beasts?”

  “Yes, I believe so. I’m in the acquaintance of a captain who’s charted the seldom-sailed waters in the southwest. He told me there’s a pod that travels through that area this time of year.”

  Turning back to Irving, I say, “I grant your request, but I ask that you wait until Sir Neil and his crew return.”

  Irving’s eyes flash, and I know he wants to argue with my decision. “Bran, I swear—”

  Galinor clears his throat, and Irving cuts off sharply. He shoots me a frustrated look—one I fully understand. He’s as worried about his sister as I am about my parents. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time Marigold found herself in trouble on the high seas.

  Again, I turned to Neil. “There and back—how long?”

  The knight thinks about it. “It will take at least a week to assemble my crew, so…three weeks at the earliest.”

  “We cannot afford to wait that long,” Irving snarls. He shoves his hands through his light hair, disheveling his usually carefully kept locks. I rarely see my friend without good humor etched into his face, and his fear does little to ease my own worry.

  “You have two weeks,” I tell Neil.

  The knight wants to argue, but he clamps his mouth shut and nods. “Yes, Sire.”

  Irving shakes his head, so frustrated he won’t even look at me.

  “We’re done for now. I’ll call you again when we know more about the situation.” I turn to Hummel. “Please find the families who lost loved ones in the attacks. Make sure they’re taken care of—give them supplies, food, whatever they need.”

  Hummel nods, and George lowers his head to make a note of it in his records. The old scribe realizes his beard’s been inked, and he scowls. On an average day, we would probably laugh.