Scimitar Sun
Page 39
That got Cynthia’s attention.
“He didn’t…”
“He burned her to the waterline and killed everyone aboard. More than a thousand men, Cyn, and he laughed about it. At least that’s what Horace said.” Camilla’s tone was flat. “Horace knocked him out and chained him in the hold before he could do any more damage. When he came to, Horace told him that if he burned the ship, he’d drown. He’s been quiet since then.”
“And Feldrin?” Cynthia asked, her eyes returning to the sleeping Morrgrey. “Does he know?”
“About the Clairissa? No.”
“No, I mean…” she nodded to his amputated leg.
“Dura and Jimijo, the native herbalist, did the surgery. I’ve never seen anyone with hands like that dwarf! She cleaned up the leg as if she was doing carpentry. He came to a bit after, just kind of smiled and said, ‘I suppose that’s why the gods gave me two,’ and went back to sleep.”
Cynthia coughed a bark of tearful laughter and sighed, caressing Feldrin’s face with the back of her hand. “Bloody jokester.” She pulled over a chair and sat down. “I’ll stay with him, Cammy,” she said, turning to her and smiling, tears streaking her cheeks. “Thank you. I want to talk to you about…everything, but not right now.”
“I’ll be here when you need me, Cyn,” she said, resting her hand on Cynthia’s shoulder. Mouse hopped over and sat on the seamage’s shoulder, tucking his head under the crook of her jaw. Camilla turned and walked away. She managed to make it out of the room and close the door before her grief overcame her.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Love and Sorrow
Cynthia woke from a deep sleep to the sensation of Feldrin’s thick fingers running through her hair. She stirred and straightened, plagued by pains from sleeping in the chair, and stretched. Her gut wrenched at the sight of Feldrin’s leg propped up on pillows. Memories returned in an anguished flood, and she felt a dark emptiness centered in her belly. Her eyes met his and a thousand unspoken words passed between them.
Somehow, he knew. She could see it in his eyes; pain that had nothing to do with his own injury, so much deeper than the loss of a limb.
“G’mornin’, love,” he said, cupping her cheek in one huge hand. “I was a mite worried about ya.”
“Feldrin,” she began, the pain in her own voice speaking volumes. “The baby…our baby…”
“It was the mer did it, wasn’t it?” he asked, a hint of the anger she’d expected edging the weariness in his tone.
“Yes,” she said, closing her eyes and letting the tears flow. “But I don’t know why they didn’t just kill me. I mean…”
“Well, I’ll have to thank ‘em fer that I guess, then, won’t I?”
She looked at him, astounded, unable to put the question to her lips: How could he say such a thing? He answered anyway.
“Love, as much as I wanted our child to be born, as much as I longed to watch that bit of you and me grow up, I love you more. They took our child from us, and I’ll never forgive ‘em for it, but they didn’t take you, and they could have. I don’t know what to make of it, and I intend to find out why, but fer right now, I’ve got ya back, and that’s enough.”
She stared at him for a moment, tears running down her face, and she could only think one thing: She did not deserve this man. He had given her his all and she had returned nothing, yet still he loved her.
“Marry me,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. “Marry me right now. I don’t want anything more to do with the mer. They can rot in all Nine Hells for all I care. All I want is you, Feldrin Brelak. I want to wake up next to you every morning for the rest of my life, wherever you go.”
He cupped her face in his huge hands and smiled at her, that incongruously boyish smile of his. “Aye, lass. Aye…”
And that was all she wanted to hear.
≈
Sleep fled Sam’s mind, replaced by a wave of sheer terror.
She didn’t know what had woken her, but she knew — absolutely knew — that something was watching her.
Momentarily frozen by her horror, she realized that the usual sounds of the jungle were absent; there were no bugs buzzing, no nocturnal animals skittering through the brush. But she heard…something, a heavy, wet sound without a steady cadence, as if many large animals were breathing at the same time. Yes! That was it! And they were all around her.
She let one eye open a tiny crack. The fire had died to a low bed of coals, and her sight slowly adjusted, In the embers’ glow, she could see their eyes. Dozens of them, just out of the light, watching her every breath.
She flexed her hands minutely and felt something hard and cold in her left palm. She longed for the feel of the hilt of her cutlass, but instead identified the head of the marlinspike she had used to cauterize her leg. She tightened her grip on the foot-long iron spike and stilled her mind. She had not bothered to clothe herself when she came ashore, more concerned with tending her wound than any inane idea of modesty. Her cutlass was with her clothes, beside the barrel just beyond her feet. If she moved quickly she could get it, but to what end? Whatever they were, if there were dozens of them, she had little chance of defeating them all, though she might fight her way free to the Manta.
The thought gave her confidence; however ridiculous, she had a plan.
Then one of them moved, a foot rustling in the bed of leaves under the banyan tree, and she knew that if she did not act now, she would die.
The next footfall was right beside her and she jerked away reflexively. The impact of something heavy fell where her head had been. She rolled and reached for her cutlass but her attacker was faster; a foot came down on the sheathed blade, pinning it to the sand. A hand grasped her hair, and her head was wrenched back far enough that she was looking right up at him in the fire’s dying light.
He was huge, as dark as the night and festooned with raised scars and bits of bone that pierced the skin of his thighs, chest, neck, arms and face. A necklace of finger bones and teeth rattled when he moved, and the realization that the bones were human gripped Sam like a cold hand on her neck. Her attacker grinned down at her, his dark lips pulling back from teeth filed to sharp points, looking for all the world like the maw of a shark. He drew back his other hand, and she saw the two-foot hardwood club studded with sharpened obsidian. One blow from that would take her head right off her shoulders.
She reacted without thought, driving up her free hand, plunging the tip of the marlinspike into him just below the sternum. His triumphant grin vanished and the gruesome club fell from his nerveless fingers. As he fell backward, the bloody marlinspike slipped from its warm sheath, freeing a torrent of blood that drenched her hand.
Sam surged to her feet, jerking the cutlass free from its scabbard and sweeping it in a broad arc, the bloody marlinspike still in her left hand. The others had not entered the meager sphere of light offered by the bed of coals. She turned a full circle, glaring at the glowing motes of their eyes. There were too many of them; there was no way out. Whichever way she turned, eyes stared at her from the darkness.
Why haven’t they shot me? she thought, knowing that the cannibalistic tribes of the southern Shattered Isles used poison darts to subdue their prey. Here she was, an easy target, and they had not fired.
A low murmur in an incomprehensible tongue whispered through the jungle around her, the voices hushed, tremulous, frightened.
Frightened of me? she thought, wondering how she could possibly instill fear in anyone, standing naked in the ruddy firelight, even if she did have weapons. What in her could they find alarming? She glanced down at herself and caught her breath; the dabs and strokes of resin that she’d applied on her wounds had darkened and shone against her skin like streaks of blood. A gust rattled the limbs of the giant banyan over her head and a thought surged into her mind as if gifted from the gods.
She kicked the pot of resin into the dying fire and the volatile concoction burst into flames. She thrust her bloody
hand into the air as the flames illuminated her, and she shouted, “I am the Daughter of Bloodwind!”
Murmurs broke out around her. The watchers’ faces were suddenly illuminated by the fire before their arms raised to shield their eyes. White bone ornaments shone against their dark skin, the even whiter irises of their eyes glaring stark against their faces. The murmurs subsided with the flames, and the crowd of cannibals — young and old, gaunt and round, tall and short — edged from their jungle hiding places. All were armed with obsidian knives and clubs, and festooned with the ornamentation of their past meals. Skulls and jawbones hung from leather thongs at their waists. Finger bones and vertebrae clattered around necks and wrists. Everywhere they were pierced with shards of white, through ears, brows, lips, breasts and the men’s phalluses.
An older male stepped forward, a curved wedge of serrated obsidian in his gnarled old fist. He stood over the man she’d killed, staring for a moment before bringing the dagger down in a single deft stroke, opening the fallen man like a gutted fish.
Sam stared in horror as he thrust his other hand into the pulsing viscera, withdrawing the man’s heart; another deft stroke freed it from its grisly home. He held the quivering organ up into the light, extending it out to her like an offering, but she could only stare at him. Then he brought the heart to his mouth and plunged his sharpened teeth into it, tearing off a bite of the still-warm flesh. Sam gagged, watching him swallow. Gore dripped from his chin. She stared in shock as he held the bloody organ out to her once more.
“Caratha!” he said, and she knew exactly what the word meant.
And she knew what she had to do, if she hoped to survive.
Sam dropped the marlinspike into the sand beside the fire, reached out and took the bloody piece of meat from his hand. Staring into the old man’s eyes, she brought the twitching mass to her mouth and sank her teeth into it, ripping off a chunk. She swallowed forcefully, then her eyes widened at the most astonishing thing: it had tasted good, like a rare piece of beef, warm and tender…
Oh, gods of the Nine Hells, what have I become? She let the piece of flesh drop from her hand.
The throng of cannibals shouted to the starry sky, throwing wood onto the fire and shrieking their elation, for they knew what she was.
She was one of them.
≈
Cynthia Flaxal and Feldrin Brelak stood upon the afterdeck of Peggy’s Dream, their backs to the taffrail. Cynthia wore a sea-blue sarong and her hair flowed over her shoulders. She glanced at Feldrin and thought that he had never looked so handsome, in his formal dark blue merchant captain’s coat with gold braids on his broad shoulders. One polished boot and one teak peg with a four-pointed bronze cap peeked from beneath the long navy trousers. She clasped his hand even more tightly, though they had hardly let go of one another for the last three days. They had debated the wisdom of holding the ceremony so soon after the horrific events, but the healer that Chula brought back from Vulture Island had mended Feldrin’s leg sufficiently that he could be fitted with the peg, and neither of them wanted to wait another day.
Chula stood before them as acting ship’s captain, fidgeting in a dark blue jacket of his own. Camilla had even coaxed him into wearing trousers, which Paska had said made him look silly. Chula hadn’t cared; he’d said he would have worn a coat of sea drake scales had he been told it was necessary for this occasion. Camilla stood next to Cynthia as her maid of honor. Beside her was Count Norris, who would leave for Tsing on Peggy’s Dream the next morning, to explain to the emperor the unbelievable chain of events that had led to the loss of the flagship Clairissa, and the warship Fire Drake. Tim would go, too, and Camilla would accompany them as Cynthia’s formal representative.
The crowd filled the deck of the schooner and spilled out onto the stone pier; all their friends, every soul on the island, was attending the wedding, save for one, who was still chained in the hold of Orin’s Pride. Cynthia’s quick twinge of guilt was soon forgotten as the ceremony began.
“We’re all gatha’ed here,” Chula began, his pearly teeth flashing, “to join togeda dis man and dis woman, who have been carryin’ on as man an’ wife fer near two yeahs anyway,” the crowd of sailors, natives, and imperial guests laughed raucously, “in a state of matrimony unda Odea’s eyes.”
Cynthia barely heard Chula’s words, so caught up was she gazing at her husband-to-be, and only when it was time for her to recite her vows was she able to focus. They exchanged their gold wedding bands, presented to them by a very formally dressed Mouse, who beamed as if he would burst right out of his gossamer-crystal wings.
“An’ so,” Chula concluded, “if dere ain’t a soul here who has some reason, and de plums to say it in public, why dese two shouldn’t be wed, I’ll be pronouncin’ you man an’ — ”
Something large splashed right behind the nearly wedded couple, and they whirled.
“It’s a mer! Look!” someone on the pier shouted, pointing at a tail that lashed the water’s surface.
“Bloody hells!” Feldrin swore, reaching for the dress cutlass at his hip.
He didn’t have time to draw the weapon.
In the blink of an eye, the air over Scimitar Bay solidified into burgeoning clouds — whirling, dark, angry billows that rumbled with thunder. Wind crashed from the mountain top over their shoulders and across the water, kicking up whitecaps. And the water answered, rising up in a flash to Cynthia’s hand and lashing out in a maelstrom, snapping up the mer who had dared to interrupt this one moment of solace.
There was only one mer, and it was now held harmless in her column of spinning water. Cynthia turned back to the stunned Chula. “Finish it!”
“I, uh, yes.” Chula straightened his jacket, sheathed his cutlass and calmed the frightened crowd with a gesture. “If any man, woman…or creature of da sea is foolish enough to bring up any stupid reason why Cynthia and Feldrin shouldn’t be man and wife, say so, and may Odea have mercy on ya.”
Silence reigned, save for the tumult of rushing water and the rumble of thunder overhead.
“Den, as captain of dis here ship, I pronounce ya man and wife! Now kiss de woman and let’s gaff dis bloody fish!”
Feldrin turned to her and drew her into his broad arms, planting a kiss on her lips that cleared the skies and calmed the winds. The tornado of water that held the single mer imprisoned wobbled a bit, but did not collapse. When he released her, they exchanged a long look, then turned to their unwelcome guest.
The waters of the bay calmed, and the spinning maelstrom slowed and shrank until the disoriented mer within it was held in a still pillar of glistening seawater directly off the transom of the ship.
“Chaser!” Cynthia said, making a series of signs with her hands, shoulders, head and legs. *Why do you intrude here, Chaser? After what was done to me, no mer is welcome here!*
*The mer did not take your child, Seamage Flaxal,* he signed slowly, regaining his wits. *Eelback was acting outside The Voice when he did this.*
“What’s he bloody sayin’?” Feldrin snapped, his hand resting menacingly on the pommel of the sword at his hip.
“He says that the mer did not take my baby, but…” Cynthia wrinkled her brow and signed, *You signed ‘took,’ not ‘killed’, Chaser, and you called me Seamage Flaxal, not Seamage Flaxal’s Heir. Explain this!*
*Your son lives, Seamage Flaxal,* he signed with a gesture of submission.
Cynthia staggered, and the column of water wavered and nearly collapsed. Only Feldrin’s strong arm kept her from falling to the deck.
“What, love? Wha’d he say?” Feldrin glared at the mer as Chaser cringed.
“He says our baby, our son, is alive!”
“Son?” Feldrin said amid the murmurs and exclamations of the amassed crowd. “Our son?”
“Yes, he…I’m sorry, but let me get to the bottom of this.” He nodded to her and she turned back to Chaser, her features grim. *If you sign falsely, Chaser, I will crush your home grotto to s
and.*
*I do not sign falsely, Seamage Flaxal! Eelback took The Heir to Akrotia. He seeks to use your bloodline to bring it back to life!*
*Akrotia? What is that? Your sign means nothing to me.*
*Akrotia was a city, Seamage Flaxal. A great living city of mer and landwalkers, built and inhabited by both for many thousands of seasons, long ago. But the city died! The landwalker who had given himself to Akrotia became ill, and when he died, Akrotia died with him. None came forth to take his place, and the mer said this was treason. No mer could take his place; no mer has the gift, your gift.*
*Gift? You mean no mer can become a seamage?* Chaser gestured the affirmative and hung there, waiting. *And they want to use my child, my son, for this?*
*Yes, Seamage Flaxal. It is the only reason that makes sense.*
*But I saw Kelpie and Tailwalker with them! Did they also seek to resurrect this city using my son?*
*I do not know Kelpie’s mind on this, Seamage Flaxal, but Tailwalker was taken against his will. They have your son; he is alive, and they go to Akrotia.* He made a gesture of helplessness. *The rest is supposition.*
*Supposition?* she signed, her anger returning. *You don’t know? How do you know my son lives?*
*Our allies, the deep dwellers, helped me track the Seamage Flaxal’s Heir,* he signed, posturing submission again. *Trident Holder Broadtail consulted with them, asked their help. The dolphins and I followed his scent with their aid. They go to where Akrotia lies, where no mer goes, where no landwalker goes. There can be only one reason to take The Heir to Akrotia, Seamage Flaxal.*
She stared at him for a moment, her mind whirling with questions which she knew he could not, or would not answer. There was one question, however, that she could ask: *Why do you sign this to me, Chaser? Why would the mer tell me this?*
*The mer know your anger, Seamage Flaxal,* he signed, his colors shifting submissively. *If you blamed all mer for the loss of son, you would destroy us.*