Carousel Tides

by Sharon Lee

  This time, I did my utmost to ignore the static, annoying as it was, bringing every bit of my concentration to the task of isolating—of locating—one single, familiar, and beloved voice.

  After a time that seemed good to me—realizing that time within a meld has no relation, really, to the time the sun told along the brass dial in the park where Borgan sat with my body—I reassigned my concentration to Heath Hill.

  The trees there murmured and caressed me as I flowed among them, to the Center, and the tree itself, the ancient tupelo. I extended myself to encompass it—and reeled back, retching, horror shredding my concentration. Borgan’s lifeline tightened cruelly around me and I was jerked up and outward—gasping and coughing like a fish out of water.

  “Kate!” Hard hands on my shoulders, shaking me, pulling me completely out of the land and into the world of men. I took a calmer breath, and opened my eyes to dusk, and the long glow of sundown over the sea.

  “Kate?” Borgan’s hands were gentler now. “Did you find your gran?”

  “No,” I said, blinking up at him. “She’s not on the land.” His eyebrows went up, and his lips parted—but he held his peace when I raised my hand.

  “She’s not on the land,” I repeated. “Worse, there’s a blight on her tree.”

  “A blight,” he repeated. “How bad?”

  I sighed, seeing it again in my mind’s eye. “From this perspective, hardly bad at all. Just a blot, really; an ink splotch. Nothing she couldn’t put right in half a second. But she’s not in her tree. She’s not—anywhere.”

  Borgan frowned. “Everybody’s got to be somewhere,” he pointed out.

  “And a trenvay more than most.” I scraped my hair back off my face with fingers that weren’t quite steady, took a deep breath and gave him a nod.

  “Thank you.”

  “What you asked me to do,” he said, with a half-shrug. “Now, if your gran’s—damn it, she’s got to be here! The woman’s tied to her tree!”

  I nodded in sympathy. “I know. But, trust me, she’s not. Here, that is. I hope she still is tied to the tree,” somehow, “or else we’ve got bad problems.”

  “I thought we already had bad problems.”

  “Not ’til tomorrow,” I said tiredly.

  “Anything might happen by then,” Borgan agreed. “What’ll you do now, Kate?”

  I sighed. “Go see Nerazi. Cut out my liver in exchange for a straight answer, or a—” I looked at him, sharp. “There’s snallygasters, Black Dogs, and willie wisps on the beach, so the heeterskyte tells me.”

  He nodded. “I’ve heard the same. Haven’t seen any, though, and to tell the truth, I’m more worried about those smugglers we talked about.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and the Black Dogs’ll do the smugglers.” I levered myself upright, only staggering a little, and managed not to glare as Borgan came to his feet as light as a feather. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell.

  “Beam me your number?” he asked, and I laughed, relieved at the everyday-ness of it, and pulled out mine. “Exchange of hostages.”

  “Done.”

  I slid the phone away, and bent to retrieve my ruined jacket, straightening slowly.

  “Thanks,” I said again, and held out my hand.

  He took it, and before I could blink, bent and placed a lingering kiss on the back.

  “There,” he said, straightening and giving me the devil’s own grin. “That was nice, now wasn’t it?”

  “Get out of here,” I snapped, heart pounding with, I told myself, anger.

  “All right,” he said equitably. “See you around, Kate. Give a call if you need me.” He slung his jacket over his shoulder, and turned away.

  “Borgan,” I said, hearing the fizz of static in memory.

  He turned back.

  “Kate?”

  “There’s—” I cleared my throat. “I felt like there’re a number of sections of the Beach not . . . not reporting in. No voice, no—just static.”

  He didn’t say anything, just stood there waiting, like he expected me to go on.

  “I just wonder,” I said lamely, “if you know what happened.”

  He blew out an exasperated breath.

  “Didn’t they teach you anything over there in Flowerland, Kate? As above, so below? Sound familiar? Or did you think you could die alone?”

  I was still gaping, speechless, when he gave up on an answer, and strolled out of the park, across the street, heading downhill.

  Toward the sea.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Princess Kaederon.” The voice was smoky and rich, like dark chocolate laced with ginger. I hated it; hated what it could make me do. Hated myself for not being strong enough to resist it.

  “Princess Kaederon,” Ramendysis said again, caressingly. I concentrated on my handwork—stitching the binding spells into the sable pennants, and did not dare look up.

  “Will you play the coquette, then?” he murmured, I felt it, the hated crawl of his power over my skin. He was going to force me to do it again. I was a coward, a fool, and a weakling. At least I’d managed to hide my shame from my mother.

  “How she teases me,” Ramendysis said regretfully. “And yet, my lady, you will shortly see the fullness of her affection.”

  My heart froze.

  “The child grows comely,” he continued. “And increasingly skilled.”

  “Indeed, sir,” my mother said steadily, “she honors my husband in her face.”

  “Why, so she does!” he exclaimed, and I felt his shadow shift behind me. “That must be the reason I love her so well. For you know, dear Lady Nessa, how fond I was of your husband. It quite distressed me to unmake him. To find that he lives again—ah, that would be delight, indeed!”

  “Princess Kaederon,” he said for the third time, and the binding thread stuck to fingers suddenly damp. “Rise, and show your mother how you return my regard.”

  His will moved my limbs. I fought to stay seated—fought my own muscles—gripping the embroidery frame, deliberately driving the needle deep into my finger. The pain helped, a little, though I was shaking like a leaf in a storm wind with the effort to resist him.

  “She grows,” Ramendysis remarked, amusement lacing his rich voice. “But perhaps not as much as we feared. Kaederon. Your little game grows tiresome. Come to me here.”

  His will struck me like a lash. My fingers snapped open and the embroidery frame fell with a clatter, silks spilling like jewels across the floor. I felt my body rise, and turn smoothly on a heel. As always, he imposed a smooth, gliding walk upon a body more accustomed to striding, my back forced straight to the point of agony.

  He was lounging on his favorite piece of furniture in this room that had once been my private parlor; the chaise where he had compelled me to sit and watch while he broke each of my servants in turn, absorbed their jikinap, and rendered their bodies into dust.

  Beside him stood my mother, grave and calm in her sea-green dress, her hair loose around her shoulders. She smiled at me as I glided across the floor, and my frozen heart broke into a thousand pieces.

  Ramendysis also smiled, and extended his long, white hand. “Come,” he whispered, and my traitor body continued onward, resistless, just as it would very soon pull the gown from its own shoulders, pinch and massage its own budding breasts, kneel down and part my lord’s robe for him, so that—

  No.

  Six paces out from doom, between one unnatural step and the next, I stopped.

  Ramendysis frowned, his power oozing over me like honey. My skin began to burn, or so it seemed. I dared not break my concentration by looking down at myself. Better to burn, I thought. Far better to burn.

  “Well,” Ramendysis said softly, and brought himself up on an elbow, storm gray curls swirling about his head.

  I felt his will increase; the weight of his regard all but unbearable. But those other things—the horror of doing those things ever again, of watching my body move in response to another’
s desire . . . My will was set in utter opposition to his, and I held my ground.

  Unfortunately, holding my ground was all I could do, resistance my only weapon. I could neither retreat nor disengage.

  “Sir.” My mother’s voice was coolly amused. “This is unworthy of you.”

  Ramendysis turned to look at her, and the weight of his will eased by a fraction.

  “Unworthy? Conquest is always worthy, madam.” He flung up a white hand, amused. “But, there. You were not born to this land. Our customs must be forever strange to you.”

  My mother laughed, a light, cruel sound that I had never heard before. “Fie, sir! What is the conquest of a quarter-bred child to one of your stature?” She tipped her head, her hair flowing like water over her bare brown shoulder. “What you want, I feel, is a powerful and fully capable woman, one who will increase your stature a hundredfold, whether you choose to drain her, or to use her.” She smiled, and moved forward in a glide eerily like that which Ramendysis had imposed on me, placing herself between us.

  “Acknowledge your true desire, my lord—you want a woman of voysin. You hunger for that which is rare in this land, and which is the greatest treasure of mine.”

  There she stood, her hair loose down her back, glowing like a star with the seductive power of her voysin. I felt a tremble of desire—and if I, quarter-bred and a child, was so moved, who can doubt that Ramendysis, warrior, philosopher, and mage, was moved even more and on levels that I could scarcely guess at? Who, indeed, among the good folk of the Land of the Flowers could have looked upon that voysin, the fire of her soul, and not desired to possess it?

  Ramendysis tipped his head, with a show of thoughtfulness. “I understand that you offer yourself to me—willingly,” he said, his voice perhaps not as nonchalant as he wished it to be.

  Nessa, my mother, shook her head, slow and seductive, raised a hand and brushed the back along her cheek. She must have been smiling at him, and it sickened me to know it.

  “My Lord Ramendysis is not a child. He knows that there is a price for everything worth owning.”

  “And your price would be?” As if he were compelled, which was impossible, Ramendysis rose from the chaise, and looked upon her, his face avid, his attention wholly on her, but his will—enough of it—still on me.

  “My price is this. Have my child conveyed immediately to the Changing Land and placed into the care of my mother, Ebony Pepperidge, severing all her ties and duties to this House and Land. Let the Ozali Zephyr be the one who transports her.”

  I saw the ebony lace move over his breast as he took a breath. “And that is your price?”

  “It is.”

  “And what do I gain, in return for depriving myself of an amusing toy?”

  My mother leaned forward, and set a languid hand over her breast. “You gain my soul, put willingly into your care.” He said nothing, and she straightened, head tipped to one side.

  “But perhaps my lord feels that resistance lends spice?”

  “When other attributes are absent—yes,” he said, breathlessly. “However, you propose to place yourself and your voysin entirely into my keeping . . .”

  “Yes . . .” she whispered, and took one single step backward. “But none of it until the child is safe away from here.”

  He stared at her. “Do you suppose that I can’t force you as you stand here?”

  She laughed.

  He spun, his will leaving me so suddenly I fell to my knees, and clapped his hands.

  A messenger coalesced out of the air, silver wings glittering.

  “Go to the Ozali Zephyr,” Ramendysis said, the rich voice strained, “and beg her to attend me here. I have a boon to ask of her.”

  “No,” I whispered, and thrust myself upward, collapsing again when my abused muscles refused to hold me. “Mother, no . . .”

  Her hand fell on my hair. “Hush,” she said gently, and my throat closed.

  But that didn’t stop me from screaming.

  EIGHTEEN

  Sunday, April 23

  Low Tide 1:09 a.m.

  Moonrise 3:47 a.m. EDT, Waning Crescent

  One good thing about screaming yourself out of a nightmare is that you’re full awake and ready for any pre-dawn rendezvous you might happen to have.

  I left early for my hopeful date, the dream driving me to seek clean air, unburdened by any scent other than salt and sea.

  For of course it hadn’t been a dream, but a memory. The replaying of the hellish bargain my mother had made to save me from the attentions of our just overlord, the murderer of Aeronymous, Nathan, and all of our House. My mother had been spared, as I had come to believe, because she possessed the brilliant, seductive voysin which is the birthright of those born to the Changing Land. I think that Ramendysis had always meant to consume her—I had only been the means to ensure her acceptance of his will; her total surrender. Not that he hadn’t tried to renege on the agreed terms: I’d shown some spark, after all; there might conceivably be a swallow of jikinap to be had from me. Zephyr had been too canny for him, though.

  Now and then, I still wonder what happened to her.

  The wind blasted me as I left the dune walk and came out onto the beach. I was wearing the trusty Google sweatshirt over Gran’s sweater and a long-sleeved denim shirt, which turned out to be a warmer solution than my now-air-conditioned jacket; and the work gloves were keeping my fingers toasty. The knife I’d taken from Joe Nemeier’s messenger boy was thrust like the afterthought it had been between belt and jeans at the small of my back. Not much protection against either Borgan’s smugglers or the heeterskyte’s bogies—but something more than a pure heart.

  The tide was out—’way out; soon to be dead low—and three Subarus could have raced abreast down the strip of firm sand. Me, I walked, the sense of the land a quiet, comforting murmur at the back of my head, no louder than the distant plash of water against shore.

  Up in the dry sand, I could hear the plovers trading the day’s news among themselves. Now and then, I would see a flicker of wings in my averted vision, but no heeterskyte called welcome, or came nigh to pass the time.

  Just as well. My thoughts were shadowed by my memories, and I doubt I was good company.

  The boundary rock came into sight, and I angled toward it, taking it easy. At a conservative guess, I was an hour ahead of the time I could reasonably expect to see Nerazi, though she had been known to stop by the rock early.

  And sometimes, she didn’t stop at all.

  At the back of my head, the land continued its contented murmur. The wind puffed a petulant gust from up Surfside way, flinging a thimble’s worth of dry sand into my face as I ducked ’round to the protected side of the rock.

  It was crouched in the deep shadows where stone met sand, pulled in tight on itself, hidden even from the land, waiting for its moment—

  The tentacle whistled as it cut the air, and old, old reflexes pitched me forward and down, rolling in a spray of dry sand, the land blaring alarm at the unnatural thing that skittered out of the shadow on caterpillar feet, two sets of tentacles flailing.

  I twisted and got my feet under me, coincidentally kicking sand into its great eye, and snatched the knife free from its nestle against my spine. The blade gleamed like rune-steel in the darkness, and the snallygaster hissed, tentacles whipping in earnest now.

  I caught the first in my gloved left hand, slashed at the second with the knife, and stamped on the third.

  The fourth, unfortunately, got a grip on my ankle. I slashed again, severing the sensitive tip of the wounded tentacle. The snallygaster screamed, and tried to yank the other out of my grip. I held on like it was a lifeline, feeling the pressure around my ankle tighten. If I didn’t end it fast, I’d take crushed bones away from this encounter.

  Twisting, I used the knife on the appendage I had in hand. The blade cut the rubbery flesh like going through hot butter, black blood spurted, and a stench like rotting flesh tainted the clean sea air. The snallygast
er’s cries of pain and outrage disappeared into the ultrasonic, and I went down like a ten pound sack of taters, a second tentacle tight around my thigh.

  I slashed down—stupid, but the only move I had. The knife cut ’gaster-flesh, severing the tentacle two-thirds of the way through. Good enough for rock ’n roll. I twisted, the flailing stump hit me in the head, and blood like hot pitch spattered my shoulders. I slashed again, at a bad angle. The ’gaster was convulsing, slamming me against the sand, grit in my eyes, ears, nose, mouth. I jacknifed, ignoring the shriek of agony from my abused ankle, and brought the knife down, blind.

  The tentacle parted, and I was rolling, away, away.

  A noise like a locomotive running at me across the beach, steam whistle wide, screaming death, destruction, and—

  Silence.

  I lay face down in the sand and whimpered, the land dancing manic in my head.

  Eventually, the land quietened, my heart rate came down to within shouting distance of normal, and I pushed myself up, sitting half-curled in the sand to take stock.

  I reeked. My clothes, hair, and face were sticky with black blood, and there was something unfortunate going on with that ankle. I started to roll my jeans, the land leaning over my shoulder—when I heard the howl.

  “Oh, no . . .” I breathed, and as if in answer, a second howl answered the first.

  No dog born to the Changing Land could produce such a sound—mournful, savage, and insatiable. Snallygasters hunt alone. Black Dogs run in pairs.

  A third howl, closer now; inside my head, I felt the pounding of huge feet upon the sand. Around me, the night air thickened and the blood chilled in my veins.

  Carefully, favoring the wounded ankle, I got to my feet, my back against the rock. The blade in my hand blazed like a lantern, and I spared a wonder for where Joe Nemeier’s boy had gotten such a weapon while I fished my cellphone out of my pocket.

  I found Borgan’s number and hit “send.” Another howl scarred the night; the land’s awareness flickered and for an instant I saw them, running shoulder to shoulder down the beach, red tongues like flame, iron nails for teeth, then the cell connected and his voice was in my ear, tiny and too far away.