by Sharon Lee
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Carousel Seas – eARC
Sharon Lee
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Baen
BAEN BOOKS by
SHARON LEE and STEVE MILLER
THE ARCHERS BEACH SERIES
by Sharon Lee
Carousel Tides
Carousel Sun
Carousel Seas
THE LIADEN UNIVERSE®
by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
Fledgling
Saltation
Mouse and Dragon
Ghost Ship
Dragon Ship
Necessity’s Child
Trade Secret
Dragon in Exile (forthcoming)
Short Story Collections
A Liaden Universe Constellation, vol. 1
A Liaden Universe Constellation, vol. 2
A Liaden Universe Constellation, vol. 3 (forthcoming)
The Dragon Variation (omnibus)
The Agent Gambit (omnibus)
Korval’s Game (omnibus)
The Crystal Variation (omnibus)
THE FEY DUOLOGY
by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
Duainfey
Longeye
Carousel Seas
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Sharon Lee
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN: 978-1-4767-3696-9
Cover art by Eric Williams
First printing, January 2015
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Pages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com)
Printed in the United States of America
Electronic Version by Baen Books
www.baen.com
Many, many thanks to:
Meg Davis, for writing
“Captain Jack and the Mermaid”
Steve Jackson, for being a good sport
Mike Barker, for beta reading par excellence
Archers Beach, Maine, is a fictional town, though it owes portions of its history, coast line, and geography to the communities of Old Orchard Beach, Ocean Park, Kinney Shores, Camp Ellis, and to the Rachel Carson National Wildlife Refuge.
The Chance Menagerie Carousel at Palace Playland in Old Orchard Beach occupies roughly the spot where one would find the Fantasy Menagerie Merry-go-Round in Fun Country at Archers Beach.
The cure for anything is salt water:
sweat, tears or the sea.
—Isak Dinesen
It is not the strongest of the species that survives,
nor the most intelligent, but the one
most responsive to change.
—Charles Darwin
In the Changing Land, a stranger…
By ways unseen, she came to the sea.
There, she paused, caught by the murmur of the surf, to overlook the undulating surface, and the drowning reflections of stars.
She had been afraid, but now she was content, with the damp breeze caressing her cheeks, and the whisper of moving water in her ears. Her head felt bright and empty, like a room made ready for a tardy guest.
She breathed in, tasting salt; and sighed, tasting desire.
It was good, the sea.
Yet, for all that it was a sea, and good, it was not her sea; so much she knew. It was very nearly everything she knew, now that she was free…
Free.
She considered the thought, and so recalled a dreary, long expanse of fog: imprisonment.
An imprisonment that had ended without warning; the ties that bound her exploding; ejecting her into a maelstrom of chaotic forces. She had narrowly escaped dissolution, snatching up what power she might before a sizzling bolt singed her hand, awakening her to danger.
She ran, then; ran for her life.
Ran.
Until instinct brought her to the sea.
Which was not, so said her heart, her sea.
No, she thought, gazing out over the breakers, and the white mists rising from their lacy skirts to the stars; this was no sea…no sea…
This was no sea…
…such as she…knew.
She knew…the ways of the sea. Of a sea. She knew the silken caress of water against naked skin; the sweet rocking of the waves; the exuberant crash of breakers. The sea…belonged to her, and she to it. Neither could thrive without the other.
And, yet…this was not her sea.
That certainty burned in the bright empty space of her mind. She felt the truth of it in her soul, even as she longed to step into the waves, to immerse herself, and become one with the waters. Surely…surely even a stranger sea would shelter her?
She stepped forward, until the frothing edges of spent breakers twined ’round her ankles like crystal chains. From…somewhere—perhaps the past?—she heard a keening, and felt a shiver of fear.
But that, she knew, was nonsense. She need never fear a sea.
She waded further out, bending to stroke the silken backs of swells.
Power petaled over her skin, soft and damp, smelling slightly of mud. She straightened, the energy she had stolen stirred watchfully at the base of her spine.
From the rolling waters before her rose a woman, yellow-haired, and pale of skin.
“My name is Daphne,” she said, and her voice was as fair and as strange as her seeming. “The sea brought your scent to my sister and me. We would make common cause with you.”
Common cause? she thought. A seductive swell stroked her waist; she yearned toward it, aching; lost for a moment…
…which would not do. She was at risk here, with her bright, empty head, and her meager supply of power. Sternly, she forced herself to regard the yellow-haired woman, who stood motionless among the moving water. Fair face, and fair words, and the woman wanted something from her. There was a slender safety in being needed. Best, then, to learn more.
“What is your cause?” she asked the yellow-haired woman. Her own voice was high and lilt
ing, like bird song. She smiled to hear it.
Before her, Daphne also smiled, showing the pointed teeth of a goblin.
“Our dominion has been torn from us by a usurper. We would have it back.”
Goblins were not trustworthy; she knew that. And yet this tale of having lost dominion…resonated. And she knew, though she did not know how—very well she knew in what manner to deal with a usurper.
“I am interested,” she said, and again the goblin smiled.
“My sister and I offer you safe passage, and our protection, while we explore these matters further,” she said.
The sea sealed the promise; she felt it in the busy current, and bowed.
“It is done.”
She clasped the white, webbed hand of the goblin Daphne. Her own was long and tan and free of webbing.
The odor of mud grew stronger as Daphne manipulated her magic, binding them together.
“We go now,” said the goblin, and drew her beneath the welcoming waves.
Chapter One
Monday, June 26
12:06 A.M. EDT
I put my palms flat against the unicorn’s gilded saddle, and stepped Sideways. This was the tricky part—well. And not burning down the carousel in the process.
The unicorn, in Side-Sight, was a void, a blankness, nothing but a carved wooden animal, with neither wit nor soul about it.
Exactly what you’d expect, right?
Right. Except if you happen to be looking with wizard’s eyes at the Fantasy Menagerie Carousel in Archers Beach, Maine. Then, what you’d expect to see in Side-Sight would be two things:
One: a binding spell enclosing the entire animal, woven with interlocking cords of forgetfulness, immobility, and sleep.
Two: the faint red gleam of a soul, ensorcelled and unaware, barely visible between the binding cords.
The fact that this wasn’t what there was to be seen by those with the ability to see such things…
…was very, very bad.
Which was why I was standing on the carousel at midnight-oh-six with my hands on the unicorn’s back, raising just the tiniest, rosiest smidge of power, pinching it off, and placing it into the hollow wooden body.
I withdrew my will, and watched as the mite of power settled into its new home.
“Does that,” I asked aloud, though without stepping out of Side-Sight, “look convincing to you?”
“You’re doing fine, Katie,” Mr. Ignat’ said from his lean against the utility pole. Let it be said that Mr. Ignat’—the Ozali Belignatious, formally—is my grandfather. He’s also my spellcraft tutor. Which means he can run circles around me, magically speaking, and by rights ought to have been the one doing the detail work, except…
…well…it’s complicated.
See, until very recently—by which I mean a little under twenty-four hours ago—five of the twenty-four animals and one chariot that comprise the company of the Fantasy Menagerie Carousel had been…prisons. Prisons for people from other Worlds—criminals so badass their own people had given them over to the council of beings called the Wise—sort of an inter-World court of last resort. Who had, in their—dubious, in my view—wisdom bound those criminals into the carousel in the hope—even more dubious—that the natural forces at work in the Changing Land would do…something…possibly beneficial to them.
Oh. This place here, that we like to call the Real World? The citizens of the other Worlds call it the Changing Land, when they call it anything at all; the last and the least of the Six Worlds.
So, a little less than twenty-four hours ago, all five of the prisons had been breached, all five of the prisoners unbound, awakened—and freed. After which—and very naturally—they’d run off.
Except the two who were dead; they had just…evaporated.
I’d like to say that nothing about this rather comprehensive mess was my fault, but unfortunately, the only truthful thing I can say is that not all of it was my fault.
I’m Kate Archer, Guardian of the Land of Archers Beach, carousel-keeper, and Ozali-in-training. And, no, I’m not making any of this up.
“All right, then,” I said to Mr. Ignat’. “Onward to step two.”
This was the easy part: a simple matter of reweaving the shredded bindings. I had the binding spell down cold, having watched my grandmother weave it every Season and end-of-Season since I was even shorter than I am now. In fact, I’d put the previous set of bindings in place at the beginning of this current summer Season, Gran having been busy elsewhere, and that…was the reason that I had to place the decoys. My magical signature was all over the bindings—as it should be. If anyone—no, let me be specific—if any of the Wise happened by and looked with Ozali eyes at the carousel, they would therefore and correctly see my signature everywhere.
That might, according to Mr. Ignat’, buy us some time. And there was a chance—granted, a very small chance—that whoever was doing the looking would be fooled into thinking the prisons were still occupied by prisoners.
The reason that was important is that the…let’s say, the major architect of the jailbreak had been after the liberation of one, specific prisoner. One, specific, wrongly imprisoned prisoner. Having recovered that prisoner, his sovereignty, his life, and the life of his recovered lover stood at forfeit, the moment it was discovered that all the prisoners were free.
So, I was covering for a jailbreaker. Say my sense of justice was offended by the imprisonment of an innocent. Hell, say that I was tired of minding a jail, a job I hadn’t signed up for—and I was pretty sure Gran hadn’t, either. The Wise had just sort of…decided that we had volunteered.
The Wise being what they are, it’s really better not to protest these little whims of theirs.
Now, it’s true that I had no idea why the remaining four individuals bound to the carousel had been imprisoned—and at this point, I didn’t care to know. The carousel was dangerous enough, being as it also was the official Gate between Worlds, without the added danger of pissed-off magic-using criminals escaping to ravage the countryside.
I am the Guardian of Archers Beach; I take my duty to the land—belatedly, I admit—seriously.
If the Wise wanted a prison, they could damn’ well build their own, out ’tween-Worlds someplace.
The bindings were in place. In Side-Sight, the unicorn looked precisely as it ought.
More or less.
“Well done, Katie!” Mr. Ignat’ called. “Only four more to go!”
“Piece o’cake!” I said with a heaping tablespoon of false bravado.
Then I walked down the curve of the carousel, to the next empty prison.
Chapter Two
Monday, June 26
Low Tide 6:16 A.M. EDT
Sunrise 5:02 A.M.
The hallway was familiar; comforting as only places known from childhood can be. Once, the ceiling had arched far above my head; the walls had been wide enough for myself and Jaron to walk side by side. Now, I walked with head bent, the gold and amber tiles warm beneath my soles; my wings stroking the walls.
For all of that, I walked swiftly, anticipation lengthening my stride. Jaron would be waiting for me in our rooms. Of course he would—had we not bound ourselves, heart, soul, and body, by and before the land and the people of Varoth? We were one in everything—save politics. In that thin realm alone, there existed a difference—for I was Prince Superior, Regent of the Land of Air and Sunshine, while Jaron was Companion and Consort.
The door to our rooms was before me, the tilework gleaming in the subtle light.
The tiles formed an image of a minali tree, indigo flowers nestling in such abundance against soft yellow leaves that the supple white trunks bent beneath the joyous weight of them.
I moved my fingers, calling the door’s key from the ether to my hand. I slid it home, turned it, heard the mechanism work…
The door swung open—
Into chaos.
Hangings had been torn from the walls; furniture upended, books thrown down
from the shelves with respect for neither pages nor binding.
Heart in throat, I thrust myself into the ether, crossing the ruined parlor in a single step, coming into our bedroom, where all was orderly, the seductive scent of losterberry yet floating in the air, and a table laid with wine and such delicacies as might please them to share, and in the deep chair next the table, waiting for him, was…
Not Jaron.
Ambassador Finaskai rose and bowed, wings spread, as if he counted himself my equal.
“My Prince,” he said. “I have gifts for you.”
He swept up one of the covers on the table, and there, terribly displayed with flowers and sprigs of new plants, as if they were some toothsome delicacy, a feather, a lock of hair, and a small cup of golden liquid that could only be blood.
Horror gripped me—I knew the feather, the curl, the blood. How should I not?
“We have him safe,” Ambassador Finaskai said. “Is that so, my liege?”
It was so; I would have known it, had they killed him. I should have known it, when they hurt him…but that was for later.
“And you wish him to remain safe,” the ambassador continued. “You will rule as my colleagues have long suggested.”
Rage roared through me—
—and I woke, gasping, sitting straight up in bed, which, had I been taller, would have earned me a stern meeting with the bulkhead.
Because I was on Gray Lady, Borgan’s tidy Tancook Schooner, and the man himself was right beside me, breathing deep and even, clearly very much asleep.
