Seaborn 02 - Seaborn

by Chris Howard

  I know. Ampharete sobbed. I am so sorry. It was never your father's fault. It was mine. I drove him off when our love grew strong. It scared me, and I hurt him, and to win me back, he left me ... on that fool's errand. His love competed with the Wreath. Anything else on earth or in the sea is ultimately going to lose against the gift of Poseidon. I felt guilty at having it while I denied everything to Zypheria. She had no life outside of protecting me. The few who were bold enough to approach her, soon learned how high the price would be for loving my friend, my protector, my sister. She swore to protect me with her life. I accepted her vow, and held her to it. She would die in place of me ... and I would have let her. I would have ordered it—I did order it!

  "You ended up on the wrong side of that one."

  Agathonumos created an island for the porthmeus. When I passed the Wreath to you, I went with it. An echo of me remained inside my body, enough to hold the door against the Olethren for a short time, until they broke it down and ripped me apart. I commanded Zypheria to die saving your life, and she did what she could. Both of us did.

  "Zypheria's my friend and protector now. I'm not sure she would die for me. I don't think I could ask her to—although she acts like I have when I ask for a peanut butter sandwich.” Kassandra brought Zypheria to her thoughts and smiled at her reaction to some of the foods she liked. “She's like an older sister who bosses me around and knows things I will never know. She's still loyal to you."

  And you.

  "I won't ask her to give up her love."

  Make your plans, plot against my father, promise anything to anyone, except that. That is all I ask of you, daughter. Do not take it away from her.

  "Agreed."

  Promise me also, that you will protect her.

  "I promise. No harm will come to her that does not come to me first.” Kassandra's voice sharpened, whittled to a point as she waited. “Would you have me promise the same for Father?"

  Yes. Of course.

  "Good. I wanted to hear you say it. I have already sworn that. I will not allow Tharsaleos to take him away from me.” Her voice went quieter. “You know he sits on the same bench in the evenings, and he looks at the silver waves and the moonrise. Do you know what he does, Mother?” She didn't wait for Ampharete's answer. “He cries. He sobs like a child. Not for me. Not for the years he spent inside a tomb in the prison of the king. Not for some old dragon. Not for his failed House, not for his father, not for the poverty his mother and sister endured for years. He cries for you."

  * * * *

  Kassandra threw the back door open, slammed it behind her, and stopped on the concrete walk, breathing in the ocean air. She bounded down the stone steps, her bare feet digging into the moss and soft grass.

  She spun once, waited for something to happen, a feeling to well up inside her, and then spun again. This is good, but what is it about it that makes Jill giddy? Jill was the dancer—a theatre major with an emphasis in dance—and when she stepped onto the lawn and moved, the whole world brightened.

  I can only make it gloomier.

  A cold wind sliced through the pines, making them creak and gyrate. The sky was pale and faraway with streaks of white thinned to translucence like a sheet of cotton spread tight over a still blue background.

  Kassandra wandered across the yard in the general direction of Nicole, who was on her stomach in the shade with her sketchbook, using the low stone wall as a windbreak. She was doing something white against dark blue in oil pastels.

  Nicole Garcia had it all; she was an artist and an exceptional student, breezing through her political science degree. Kassandra watched her working in her sketchbook, her long brown fingers gripping a stick of pastel, sharp strokes defining a human figure in pale blue, several more fluid movements filling in the spaces, graceful and strong.

  Kassandra felt a stir of feelings, a mix of admiration, and love, and even a mild current of envy. Nicole was tall, with beautiful skin, browner than her own, long black hair that she always wore in braids as if she'd come from the sea, and she had a well of calm in her soul that Kassandra wished she could tap into.

  Kassandra didn't want to intrude, and took a seat on the stacked granite that walled in the yard, waving at Zypheria and Mr. Henderson on the other side of the street as they strolled by, holding hands, on their way to North Hampton Beach.

  Nicole glanced up when they passed. She noticed Kassandra sitting nearby. “Are you okay?"

  Kassandra looked over at her, distracted. “Fine. What's up?"

  Nicole paused with a frown. Pointing across Ocean Boulevard with a piece of dark pastel, she asked, “Question for you or your Wreath buddies. What happens if Michael and Zypheria have a child? Is it a Seaborn or a human—I mean surfacer? Do you make a child go through the drowning?"

  Kassandra chewed at her lip. “If you're asking if babies are born with the curse, then yes. Eupheron says that's most likely.” After a pause with her eyes fixed in the distance, she added, “My mother says to ask Lady Kallixene when she arrives."

  Nicole's shoulders tightened and she sat herself up in a cross-legged position, flipping slowly through sketchbook pages.

  Kassandra leaned toward her. “Is that Jill?"

  Nicole nodded, grinning mischievously at a picture of a slender blond girl at the beach, hand on her hip, long tanned legs braced apart. “With tiara."

  She tugged a few pages back and folded the rest around the end of the book. Nicole rubbed one finger through the color along Jill's cheek.

  Kassandra sat on the grass next to her. “That's really good. Just like her."

  Nicole looked over, smiling. “Jill the princess."

  "Perfect skin, tiny feet, no hips. More of one than I'll ever be."

  Nicole laughed and flipped another page around, the dark blue one with a pale girl in the foreground, dropping through the ocean, one hand above her head, releasing a final breath like a bouquet of bubbles, saying goodbye to someone on the surface.

  "Me?"

  Nicole shrugged uncertainly. “I took some liberties. You never say goodbye, no blowing kisses. You just go. No looking back. So I made sure to put a hand wave in."

  Kassandra stared at the girl in the water, her skin white with a blue tint, a sword in her right hand, three long braids sticking straight up as she sank in the deep. “Why am I so pale? I'm like a ghost."

  "You're the Ocean, Kass—capital O.” Nicole ran a finger into the gradient blue background, bright turquoise at the top, nearly black at the bottom. “This is what I see when I picture you underwater. You're cold even in the shallows, playful but with a mean streak.” Nicole gave her a smirk. “You're a siren. Lure them onto the rocks, girl. That's where you're strongest. Look what you did to an entire army when they came out of the water to get you.” Nicole moved her shoulders in a flowing wave motion. “You have eternal rhythm, just like the tides, the roll of the surf is like your heartbeat.” Nicole's eyes drifted away from Kassandra to the Atlantic, and her voice dropped to a cheerless whisper. “Bitterly sad even when you are the cause of the birds’ sweet cry, and the most important advice for anyone you meet?” Nicole swung her eyes back to Kassandra. “Same thing you tell anyone exploring the seashore. You tell them never to turn their backs on you."

  Kassandra choked down a retort. She held Nicole's hard coppery eyes a moment longer, scowled over the decision to admire her for her honesty in nailing her character to the wall, gave her a nod, and then turned toward the ocean, child to a mother, watching the long iron gray bars tumbling into the coast of New Hampshire.

  "You are the smart one, Nicole,” she said in a faint whisper. “That is why it must be you."

  "What must be me?"

  "Nothing. I have to go.” Without looking back, Kassandra jumped the stone wall, dashed across Ocean Boulevard, went down the face of the cliff and into the cold gray waves.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Fourteen

  Iced Wine

  Eupheron grew up
behind the scenes of the Seaborn court, constantly guarded; well educated, but alone and friendless. There were no less than eight attempts on his life. In spite of all this, Queen Kleonike eventually crowned Eupheron king, arranged his marriage to a prominent noblewoman, Daphne, and passed on the Wreath of Poseidon at the end of her reign. He was called Eupheron the Liar the moment he took the throne.

  —Michael Henderson, Seaborn History

  * * * *

  Captain Martim Teixeira was almost sixty years old and he'd been at sea, or very close to it, for all of them. He wasn't tall or intimidating; he was a quiet, fair man with three features that qualified him for commanding a cargo ship: piercing eyes, a fine aristocratic nose, and large brown hands that had worked every wheel, bolt, switch, and cover on every ship on which they'd found themselves. He was an intuitive sailor, and he trusted the feelings his mind sent him.

  There was a young woman in his medic's quarters with sheer connective tissue between her fingers—not her toes, however. She'd surfaced a hundred meters off the bow where the forewatch spotted her, and she'd survived a horrible headlong drag along the ship's hull, squeezed between the Maria Draughn and the Pacific. She'd fought her way clear of a slow-moving propeller but became disoriented and slammed her head into the rudder.

  An engineer and a third officer fished her out of the water, getting her to another third who doubled as a medic on board. She was breathing and, except for some cuts, bruising and lack of consciousness, appeared healthy.

  Teixeira held the report from the spotter in one hand, and the California driver's license issued to Corina Lairsey in the other. If there were such things as mermaids, they did not carry licenses to drive cars in America.

  The crew, all eighteen of them, had come up to see the woman—who they called “mermaid” or “gorgona” or “nixe” depending on where they were from. Teixeira had already disciplined Pinnet and another of his crew for fighting over Miss Lairsey—and she hadn't even opened her eyes yet.

  Gabriel Pinnet, of the engineer's crew, was always in trouble, always throwing his fists around. The captain had already signed the man's termination papers. This would be Pinnet's last run on any vessel captained by Martim Teixeira.

  The rap of knuckles on his cabin door drew the captain's eyes from Corina's driver's license.

  "Come in."

  The door swung in with the second officer, Trevor Aldrich, taking up most of the doorway. “Sir, you wanted to see me?"

  "Sit down, Trevor."

  The second officer nodded, crossed the captain's quarters, and took a seat under one of the forward-facing windows. Teixeira had selected Aldrich to keep an eye on Pinnet because he was the tallest and most intimidating deck officer on board. He had a burning glare that could cut holes in softer metals. He shaved his head regularly, he had big white teeth and looked as if he could eat the ship's low-grade bunker 380 fuel and suffer nothing more than a few cramps and some belching.

  "I hate to do this to you.” Teixeira rubbed his tired eyes. “I can't lock Pinnet in his cabin, but I can't let him have the run of the ship either. And with this woman aboard...” He handed the second Corina's driver's license. “The man's unpredictable. I confined him to quarters until 1600 for using his fists in an idiotic squabble over Miss Lairsey. He seems to be under the impression that our mermaid is attracted to him. He's either an idiot or she's put him under a spell because he's told me that he'd do anything including die for her. Take your pick as to which one's more likely. He's free now, but I cannot have him ... disturbing her."

  "You want me to watch him?” The look he gave the captain held more meaning than in his words.

  "Keep him occupied, play cards with him, anything to keep him from bothering the woman—at least until she wakes."

  "No problem, captain."

  * * * *

  Gabriel Pinnet glared like a caged animal when Second Officer Trevor Aldrich stopped by his cabin with two bottles of wine and some cards.

  His face expressionless, Aldrich gave Pinnet a good going over, noting a drool of something oily staining the front of the man's uniform. Damp blooms of perspiration under his arms spread toward the rolled-up sleeves at his elbows; grease streaked his forearms. There was a sweaty sheen to his cheeks and stubbly chin.

  Pinnet had a raw oozing cut that ran from the center of his forehead into his hairline on the right side, the result of one of his earlier scuffles over the woman in the medic's quarters.

  McHutcheon, a third officer with medical training, had tired of patching up Pinnet weeks ago, and although he had gone to school to study forensics and medicine, and was considered “the doc” at sea, he'd never sworn anything to Hippocrates or stated out loud or in writing that he would continue offering medical treatment to those who didn't appreciate his effort. Captain Teixeira was fine with that.

  Aldrich grinned and shook his head. “You're a swine, Pinnet. When did you shower last?"

  Pinnet's slow gaze landed on the bottles of wine, remained there thoughtfully for a moment, and then he returned the officer's grin. “In my own sweat, sir? Or a proper one from the stalls?"

  Aldrich was already looking beyond Pinnet, around the man's cabin. The bunk was piled with dirty clothes and garbage. None of the lamps were on and the stink of rotting food, urine and old engine oil crept into the hall, up Aldrich's legs, chest and into his nostrils, needling his senses and making his eyes water. He forgot about Pinnet's counter questions and took one step back, clutching the bottles of wine higher as if the stench could somehow seep through cork and affect the contents.

  "A couple drinks and some cards tonight, Mr. Pinnet?"

  "Here?” He threw a thumb over his shoulder.

  "No. I was thinking my cabin. Have a wash and meet me upstairs in ten minutes."

  Pinnet didn't answer at once, but stared at Aldrich blankly while whatever mental arrangement he had in his head fell into place. Aldrich's expression went cold. He knew Pinnet as a weasely underhanded bastard, and he went with the be-careful vibe his subconscious was feeding him.

  Pinnet ran his tongue along his lips and nodded. “Yes, sir. I'll wash and run by the galley on the way up and pick up some ice?"

  Aldrich's mind went through the ship's layout in under a second, determining if Pinnet could somehow reach the woman without him knowing. The galley was another two decks down, and McHutcheon's cabin where the woman slept was two above. Aldrich would wait at the foot of the stairs for the lout, and lead him directly to his cabin. Then it was his plan to play cards and get Pinnet too drunk to bother anyone, something that shouldn't be difficult since—judging by the smell of the man's breath—the third engineer was halfway along that path.

  With all routes to Corina Lairsey secured against Pinnet, Aldrich then spent a moment wondering about the ice. They were approaching the canal at Panama. It was a hot day and the evening wasn't going to cool down. The idea of diluting wine with ice wasn't pleasant but he'd play along. “Sure. Ice for the wine. Bring enough for both of us."

  Three hours later, Second Officer Aldrich had won four hands of Mexican Poker and his iced Cabernet was going down as smoothly as the evening. It wasn't until he kept losing contact with reality in two minute chunks that he thought something was wrong. He leaned heavily on his elbows and couldn't lift his head.

  Pinnet placed one hand firmly on the table across from him, cards against his chest, grinning. “I made your tray of ice especially for my beautiful mermaid, something to loosen her up, but since you brought the wine, I had no choice but to cool you down with it.” Pinnet licked his lips. “Perhaps she is still asleep, waiting for my kiss to waken her.” Pinnet's burbling laugh made Aldrich's stomach lurch.

  Pinnet poured himself another glass of wine, dumped his cards on the table, and waited for Second Officer Aldrich to slide off his chair to the floor.

  Ten minutes later, a little before midnight, Pinnet lifted his glass to the unconscious Aldrich and rose from the table.

  "Good night.” P
innet staggered off with the officer's keys.

  * * * *

  Corina heard the rattle of keys, hard metal clicking, and the slow whine of heavy steel hinges. The clicks and rattles were sharp with a trailing echo, sound hitting heavily painted metal walls. The world came into her senses slowly. She felt a slow rocking motion, the gentle touch of gravity pulling at her ankles, then at her shoulders.

  Confusion folded in on her like the branches and briars of a haunted forest. Where am I? I'm on board a boat. She repeated the thought because there was something odd about it. I am on board ... I am ... I am awake? But he is not.

  Time slipped by faster than she could push her thoughts into focus, connect them, draw conclusions and act. There are mountains in my mind. She felt the strange feeling again, and she spent a few seconds trying to put some order around them. Thoughts flowed and merged over her mind's—the closest word she could attach to it—terrain. Sometimes it's shallow and rippling like the surface of a sheltered cove, sometimes it plummets like a waterfall, and in places—she felt these by a prickling fear—there were edges to the terrain, sharp edges that led to something bottomless, suffocating, black as pitch. To go over an edge was to fall into madness. Somehow a normal mind steered away from these edges, but there seemed to be no guides or guardrails along the terrain where Aleximor had stuffed her.

  I can hear with my ears. I can smell with my ... I can smell the ocean, salt in the air. I can smell someone in the room with me. A man, perspiring, smelling like ... sour dirt and motor oil. I hear his breath, solid thumping puffs of air. I can hear his heart racing, exhilarated, the fear of getting caught.

  The intruder's warm, moist hands slipped around her wrists, dragged her arms over her head, and held them against a soft pliable surface. A bed, she guessed. I'm lying on a mattress.

  Corina pushed her thoughts toward something that felt like higher ground. One of the man's heavy calloused hands held her wrists down, while the other worked at a zipper at her throat. Hard scratchy knuckles rubbed along her neck, below her ear.