Tide

by Lacy Sheridan

  Contents

  Also by Lacy Sheridan:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Acknowledgments

  About Lacy

  Also by Lacy Sheridan:

  The Otherworld Trilogy

  Dreams of Otherworld

  Six Waking

  Everlast

  Arcatraissa

  Tide

  Book One

  Lacy Sheridan

  Copyright © 2020, Lacy Sheridan

  All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design by Ljiljana Romanovic

  Author photograph by Mursal Faridun

  Interior Formatting by ReaderCentral

  For Anne

  Because you never let me stop moving forward

  The hare crept forward, nose twitching. Its ears were up and alert, swiveling at every rustle of grass and breath of wind, so I kept stone-still as I watched it. I held my breath, afraid even the slightest exhalation would scare it off. But its attention remained fixed on the thin slices of apple before it. Its fur, turned a dusty brown by summer, rippled in the breeze, and I thought of it lining a new pair of boots for this winter.

  Beside me, Tobin tensed, his gray eyes sharp as a hawk’s and set on the hare. A light touch of his fingertips to my elbow was the signal; I pulled the bowstring back, heart quickening in anticipation. I could hear Tobin’s voice in my head—aim there. Concentrate on where you want to hit. The hare’s ears flicked in our direction at the whisper, but it didn’t look. I kept still another moment.

  It sniffed at an apple slice. Another quiet second.

  Another.

  It nibbled at our bait. Tobin gave a slight nod, and I loosed the arrow, closing my eyes and mentally saying a quick prayer to the old gods. I knew before I’d finished the arrow had found its mark; Tobin laughed, a relieved sort of sound, and clapped me on the back. By the time I’d opened my eyes again he was already vaulting to his feet, leaving me behind. I couldn’t keep from grinning as I followed. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

  “That’s three of the five today,” Tobin said as he stooped to pick up the hare. “I’d say your garden should be plenty safe. And to top it off, we’ll have some nice fresh meat for dinner.”

  Three out of five—better than I’d done yet. I knew Tobin could fill our sack to the brim with game in no time, but he’d been infinitely patient in letting me do it, offering nothing more than gentle correction when needed. I handed him the bow, and he traded me the sack of our three hares. “We did better than yesterday.”

  “You did, you mean,” he corrected with a smile. “I’ll make a huntress of you yet.”

  “They’re only rabbits. You’ve hunted much bigger things.”

  “And I started with rabbits, too, if you remember.” I did; his seventh summer he’d come racing into the house evening after evening to present his victorious catches to Mama and I. Two years later, when I’d reached the same age, I had asked our father to teach me to hunt as well, but Mama had insisted a young lady shouldn’t be galloping about the wilds with a bow.

  “Summer hares are one thing,” I said. “But I think it’ll be years yet before I’m hunting anything else.”

  “One day, Hania.” There was a promise in his voice that I didn’t question. My brother never lied to me. He paused halfway across the field, basking in the warm weather. The breeze lifted his hair—golden, like our mother’s—and the sun cast glistening slants of light through it. I could see just why the village girls followed him with whispers and giggles; he stood tall and proud, strong from a lifetime of hunting and farm work, and had inherited the fair, noble features of our ancestors. As he stood there, he might have stood in one of the painted scenes in the village center, but I didn’t stop to admire him long. I closed my eyes against the sun as well, tipping my head to the sky and inhaling the sweet scent of flowers and woods, the distant salt of the shore. The grass was velvet-soft where it brushed against my legs, and the songs of birds rang around us. Summer was when our home came alive, and I loved every second of it.

  A beckoning whinny drifted along the wind to us and broke me from the spell. “More work to be done,” Tobin said, slinging the bow across his shoulder and setting off. I hurried to catch up. We walked in comfortable silence; the sun warmed our backs, reaching its highest point of the day, and at home would wait a full table. I had a list of things to be done, but I didn’t dread any of them. The day promised to be a peaceful one.

  Two of the horses met us at the edge of their field, the snow-white mare our mother had loved and Tobin’s powerful bay. Inka nudged me, the sun catching on her pale coat and flashing mane, turning her into a glittering island in a green sea. I complied and fished a piece of apple from my pocket for her, much to Tobin’s amusement.

  “You spoil that horse,” he said, shaking his head as we continued to the house.

  “Mama wanted her to be spoiled.”

  We climbed the two short steps to the door. I paused to give the old tomcat lounging on the porch a scratch behind the ears. Kotar, as I’d called him after the one-eyed warrior of lore, wasn’t much use in driving pests away anymore, but I’d talked our father into letting me feed him scraps. He closed his one yellow eye with a hoarse purr.

  I dropped the hares onto the table inside, and Tobin set the bow down beside them, turning to retrieve a knife. “I’ll clean them. You go on to the market.”

  “Are you sure?” But I lifted the basket our father had left for us, swinging it from hand to hand as I waited for his answer. I knew he would urge me to go on before him. Anything to allow me to meet Edrick Catessar without a chaperone—as much as he would deny it. My brother had never been as stealthy a matchmaker as he was a hunter.

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  “Alright.” I checked through the basket—fruits, a few flasks of milk, cheese wrapped in a thin cloth, and two extra hares’ pelts to barter with—slipped the pouch of coin into my pocket, and pecked Tobin on the cheek before I turned away. “Don’t miss the storytelling.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  I let the door swing closed behind me and started down the winding dirt path that led to the village. Our farm sat on the outskirts, deeper into the loose woods than the scattering of houses most lived in, but though the walk was long, it was familiar. Fields and trees lined the path, sunlight and shadow dappling the ground as I passed. When I broke from the trees, I could hear the s
oft roar of the waves and see the sea stretching beyond. Each white crest shone like diamonds before shattering on the beach, and the water ran to the horizon, one striking blue meeting another.

  Once, I would have dreamed of seeking out where that line led, what was beyond it.

  Now I was content with my feet on dry land.

  I let out a long breath when the first houses of the village came along, the path veering from the water. I returned the few greetings I got as I wound my way to the market; a handful of people working in their gardens or walking the same path. It was a small village and I knew every face, if only by name. My family had settled on our land four generations ago, long enough for our history beyond that to be meaningless. Long enough for us to simply be the farmers that lived in the woods. I was alright with that.

  “How is your father, Hania?” a woman who often bought our crops asked as we fell into step beside one another. The smith’s wife.

  “He’s well.” I brushed a bit of dirt left behind from my hunt with Tobin off my skirt. “He’s hard at work today, of course.”

  “Will he be joining the storytelling this afternoon?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Maybe next week.”

  “Well, tell him I’m eager to have him return.”

  “I will.” I bid her goodbye as our paths split and continued into the busier parts of the market. While anybody could sell their wares or make a trade any day, once a week—the day of the storytelling—the center circle of the village bustled with goods changing hands. Once in a while a traveling merchant appeared, but for the most part it was the same every week, though I didn’t mind it. It made buying whatever food and supplies my family needed for the week easier. I knew what was there and how much it would cost us. When our true harvest came in, Tobin and I would be among those selling, but for now I was happy with the freedom to shop.

  I went over the list in my head as I studied the crowd, deciding which things our money needed to go to first. The roof of the stable needed a repair but was holding alright; it would go another week. Papa’s shoes needed mending, though I knew he’d put it off as long as he could manage. We didn’t need much in the way of food for the moment, a blessing that meant we could take care of other things. I browsed, considering my options. I traded the milk for thatch to fix the hole in the roof. The cobbler agreed to have a look at my father’s shoes if I could get him to come, and after admiring the pelts, said he was sure we could come to an agreement on the price once I had. The cheese went to a ball of thread I could use to repair some of our clothing worn ragged in places by the mice Kotar let slip into the house. I stopped at the smith’s, looking over the display in the front window of his shop, when the sun caught on the arc of steel and made it glow.

  Right in the center sat a hunting knife, its handle engraved with vines and leaves weaving their way around a sleek wolf. Intricate and beautiful, far from the simple, plain efficiency of most of what my family owned. I hesitated before slipping inside and lifting it, tracing the design with my fingertips.

  “That brother of yours need a new knife, does he?” the smith asked behind me.

  I glanced up and shook my head, though I smiled at his warm voice. “No, not need, but he would like it. It’s beautiful.”

  “Three coin for you, if he promises to carry it instead of that old bow around.”

  “Tobin likes his bow,” I said with a laugh, setting the knife down with care. “Maybe next week, for the festival, if you haven’t sold it by then.” The midsummer festival was a week away, my favorite celebration of the year. A thanks for the kindness of the warm season before the days began growing shorter in the autumn.

  He chuckled. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

  I studied the knife once more before I bid him goodbye and went to the street, finding a figure waiting outside for me. Edrick never dared interrupt if he found me talking to somebody else. He stood off to the side of the door, a wrapped package in his hands, and lifted one eyebrow when I looked at him. A silent question of whether I was busy. I crossed to him, tucking a loose strand of hair out of the way.

  “Hello,” he murmured as I stopped, and after a beat of silence held out the package. "For you."

  I took it and tucked it into my basket, pushing the pelts aside to find his payment. Two loaves of bread for a bag of apricots, we’d agreed at the beginning of the summer, and every week I’d made sure to hide away a bag the night before, where Tobin and Papa wouldn’t get into them. Edrick had faithfully come with fresh-baked loaves each time. I handed the thin bag over to him. “And for you. They’re especially sweet this time of year.”

  A faint smile flitted across his face. “Thank you.”

  We hovered, neither of us speaking. Some days that was it; we exchanged goods and went our ways. Some days we ended up walking the circle together, talking about whatever passed through our heads. I knew today would be the latter when he shifted closer, lowering his voice and with a mischievous glint in his dark eyes. “Open it.”

  I glanced down to the wrapped bread and then to him, my voice lost for a heartbeat as I processed the near-brush of his arm against mine. “Open it?” He nodded, that smile back. I hooked the basket onto my elbow to free both hands and pulled the package out again. The soft, warm smell hit me as I pulled the layers of cloth off to find two small loaves, fresh as always, nestled inside. At first that was all I saw, and I turned to Edrick for an explanation, but he was watching me, waiting. My stomach dipped at the way his attention fixed on me.

  I pushed one of the loaves aside, and there, hidden beneath them, was a third roll no bigger than my palm. It was a paler color, iced with a glistening white topping, and a little thrill of disbelief and excitement ran through me at the sight of it. It had been years since I’d had one of his family’s sweet rolls; Mama had once bought them for Tobin and I on special occasions, but we seldom got them anymore. “You didn’t,” I breathed.

  Edrick’s smile widened. “Don’t tell my father.”

  I rushed to pull the roll out and rewrap the rest. It had been squashed a bit by the heavier loaves, pushed into a misshapen oval, but my mouth watered. “He’d have your skin for stealing what he meant to sell, wouldn’t he?” But I tore the roll in half and offered the piece to him.

  He took it with a shrug. “He won’t notice one. And it’d be worth it,” he added in a whisper, looking at the people passing by.

  “Worth it?”

  “To see your face.”

  Heat surged to my cheeks, and I took a bite to distract from it. The roll was lighter than our normal bread, delicate and sweet, and I closed my eyes to enjoy it for as long as I could. Edrick didn’t appear to mind standing in silence. When I finished, I licked the last drop of icing from my finger. “Thank you, Edrick.”

  He looked down, scuffing one boot against the dirt. “When do you have to be home?”

  I had work to do at home yet, but it was still early. “Not for a couple hours,” I answered, daring a glance over at him. He pushed his hands into his pockets, waiting. “When do you have to be home?”

  “We have work to do before the festival, but I can stay a little longer, I think. I shouldn’t be in too much trouble.”

  “I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “Please, Hania, I get myself into trouble. You have nothing to do with it.”

  I did. We both knew I did. But I didn’t argue. I glanced to the village center instead, where a few of the elders huddled together to speak beneath the broad openings. The paintings shone in the sun, and their swirling golds and blues called to me. The storytelling would begin soon, and people would gather beneath the shade to listen to the ancient songs and fables. A few children were already watching, impatient. “Tobin will be coming to listen soon, but will you be able to stay for one story?”

  Edrick’s careful smile appeared again. “I can manage one.”

  We walked side by side to the center, just like almost every week of our lives. Tobin and I
had gathered with the other village children for storytellings when we’d been young, and Edrick and I had kept going long after some others had outgrown the tradition. The center wasn’t quite a proper building, but a shelter to gather. A raised wooden floor and arching roof held together by four panels serving as walls, separated to provide four entrances that looked out into each of the four main streets of the village. The walls were painted with the dancing murals I stopped to admire each time I came here. They depicted our history, the tales of the glittering tidespeople emerging from the sea to attack, and our warriors driving them back. Figures of green and black became the monstrous armies that had raided and ravaged our shores generations before, and those of brown and white became the villagers. Above them, people of gold and silver, painted with fins and tentacles and spines, drew the villagers into the swirling blue sea with songs and spells and riches. Yellow-crowned kings raised swords against them.

  I broke apart from Edrick to step up to my favorite of the murals, the human king against the ruler of the tidespeople. The immortal monster was painted in pure beauty—skin fair, his face like a god’s, black hair rippling down his back to blend with a tunic trimmed in gray. His eyes were like twin sapphires. Across from him, the human king was tans and golds and greens, the lush warmth of the land against the cold of the sea. I touched my fingertips to the place where their weapons clashed. They met with only weather-worn wood and smooth faded paint.