Carousel Seas – eARC

by Sharon Lee

  Well, something else to talk about. At this rate, we weren’t going to run out of topics anytime soon.

  “Here you go,” I said, bringing the mugs to the table. “Sit, and eat your breakfast.”

  “My liege is seated first,” he said. A glance up into his face showed it stern. A blink Sideways showed a man in distress, seeking to hold strangeness at bay with the proper application of manners.

  I sat down and put my napkin on my knee.

  “Sit, Cael the Wolf,” I said, trying to sound gentle but firm. “The food’s better when it’s hot, and I have questions to put, over the meal.”

  He still didn’t like it, but he could scarcely refuse an order from his lady. Which gave him another sort of relief—no matter how strange, he was among civilized folk, if the High still gave orders to those who sat Lower.

  “Eat,” I said again, and picked up my fork to address my eggs, so he could see the way of it.

  He watched for a moment, then copied me—I should say that the utensils in the Land of the Flowers are roughly analogous to knife, spoon, fork, but that there are a lot more of them, and very specific rules about which to use on what. Including the big, sharp knife athwart the top of the main tray at each place at every meal, which was technically not for stabbing the person next to you when they got too annoying to bear, but which, so history taught, had from time to time been pressed into such service.

  “I like scrambled eggs,” Cael said eventually. “And I like coffee. Thank you, my…Kate.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, putting my plate aside. “More coffee?”

  “Please, I will serve you.”

  “Thank you.”

  He took the mugs away and quickly brought them back, filled to their brims with coffee and cream. Mine was settled first, then his, before he sat down, put his plate to one side, as I had done, and leaned back, gingerly, into the chair.

  I nodded.

  “I need to know why you were bound into the carousel as a high-security prisoner,” I said, watching his face, and bidding the land pay attention and judge the truthfulness of the answers I got.

  “I was bound because my lord so decreed.”

  I frowned. “Aeronymous had you bound?”

  Grandfather might’ve been a bastard, but binding prisoners into the carousel was strictly within the honor of the Wise.

  “No, my lady. The Wise bound me.”

  Okay, I had it now; we were going to play chess.

  “For what crime were you bound?” I asked, letting him see that I was being patient.

  He raised his hands, showing me empty palms.

  “There had been complaint; a scheme to create imbalance between the Worlds had been discovered. The Wise came to Lord Aeronymous and laid claim that one of the saboteurs resided within his court. He protested, but as you are aware, my lady, there is no appeal from the Word of the Wise. Therefore, I was given over to them, and brought to this place to be bound.”

  He paused, then added, softly, “Before I was bound, the warden—who I heard last night was your grandmother—the warden created a diversion, and bought me time to flee.”

  He shook his head, his face shuttering like a camera, and picked up his mug.

  I drank some coffee, too, and waited until he’d put his mug down to ask the next question.

  “What happened?”

  “I chose the wrong direction in which to run. It went worse with me, then, and in the end, there was the binding, after all.”

  “Were you trying to sabotage the dance of the Worlds?” I asked softly.

  “No!”

  And that was the truth, said so vehemently that my head rang.

  “I think, now, and in the days since I have been given my liberty…I think that it was done to make my lord Aeronymous vulnerable. So much of his power was woven into his people—into our oaths. It was in defense of the House, and we all of the House, but…”

  The front door opened, sweet and silent, and Gran stepped through, Mr. Ignat’ right behind.

  “Good morning, Kate,” she said crisply, glancing at the book-cluttered couch and the blue blanket of flying elephants folded neatly on the end—Cael’s doing, not mine—and then at Cael himself.

  He rose with alacrity, and bowed low. Gran’s eyebrows rose.

  “Introduce me to your friend,” she said.

  “Gran, this is Cael the Wolf, liegeman of Aeronymous, once master of hounds.”

  She nodded, face calm, eyes narrowed.

  “Cael, this is my grandmother, Ebony Pepperidge, of whom we were just speaking.”

  “Lady, my thanks, long behind, for producing a moment when I might have saved myself.”

  “No thanks required, Cael the Wolf. It was a slim chance—what we call here ‘a long shot.’ That you saw it and took it—that was brave. It has long grieved me, what came after.”

  She moved a hand and Mr. Ignat’ came forward to stand at her side. He was smiling gently, and looking at Cael as if he was a particularly toothsome sweet.

  “I make known to you, Cael the Wolf, my consort, the Ozali Belignatious, out of Sempeki. Bel, I’m sure you’ll want a word with a countryman while Kate and I have a chat.”

  A chat, was it? Dammit, the woman was hardly out of her tree and already I was in hot water!

  “It will be a pleasure to speak with Cael,” Mr. Ignat’ said promptly. His smile grew wider. “Have you seen the view over the sands to the ocean?” he asked. “You really must.” He raised his hand, beckoning.

  Cael cast me a questioning look; I nodded and he allowed Mr. Ignat’ to lead him across the living room and out onto the summer parlor.

  I took a breath and stood.

  “Hi, Gran; it’s good to see you. People have been asking after you.”

  Her time inside her tree had healed her, I saw. She had been observably frail when she had decided to take the cure. Now, she stood straight, her eye was firm, and her voice strong. There were changes, though. The band of white at the front of her dark hair remained, and she seemed to…fill up less of the room than formerly.

  “You’ll have to tell me who,” Gran said, “so that I may pay my social dues. Is there any more coffee?”

  “Coming right up.”

  I rose, cleared the table, except for my coffee, and put the dishes in the sink, before opening the cabinet for a clean mug.

  Gran drank her coffee black, straight from the pot. I poured it and brought it, putting it down on the table by her hand before resuming my own seat.

  “Sorry ’bout the noise last night,” I said, taking a sip of coffee. It was tepid, but I didn’t get up to warm the cup.

  “I imagine so. One of the Wise, I assume?”

  “Isiborg, I guess her name is. You want the long form or the short form?”

  “The short form will do.”

  So I gave her the big outline while she sipped her coffee and watched my face, and didn’t interrupt.

  “We have a few weeks until the next atrocity reaches their attention,” I said, “but that one’s a doozy.”

  “So I heard from Bel. I’m sorry for those who died in Prince Aesgyr’s attempt. Is Cael the only one who remained?”

  “No, Borgan’s got a woman of Cheobaug guesting in Saco Bay. He gave her twenty days to build her strength because, so she says, there are enemies at home.”

  “I imagine that there are. It was generous of Borgan to grant her time. And of you, to give Cael shelter. When will he be returning to Sempeki?”

  “He did return, but he found things, as he told me the story, changed—the House broken, the Gate useless, the grounds deserted except for a gardener and a guard. You were there; does that jibe with what you found?”

  Gran nodded.

  “Right. Conditions being what they were, then, he came back here because he needed to swear to Aeronymous or die, and he didn’t feel quite like dying.”

  Gran looked at me over the rim of her mug.

  “You took his oath.”


  “I appear to be the closest thing to Aeronymous left. Yes, I took his oath.”

  I waited to be told that I’d made a very bad, or at least desperately foolish, decision, but Gran only finished with her coffee and put the mug down.

  “Henry,” I said, changing the subject by main force, “was particularly asking after you.” I paused, then decided not to tell her he was getting old. Gran has outlived generations of humanfolk; she’s well aware that they get old, and, eventually, die.

  She nodded. “I’ll try to see him today.”

  “Nerazi also has an interest.”

  Gran half-smiled.

  “I’ll have some explaining to do there, I don’t doubt.”

  That was…interesting. I’d never actually seen Gran give an account of her actions or defend her reasons to anybody. Of course, if there was anybody on the Beach who came close to deserving such an accommodation, aside from Mr. Ignat’, it was Nerazi. Her and Gran go ’way, ’way back.

  “You know Mother and Andy—” I began.

  “Yes,” she said briefly.

  Okay, then. I picked up my mug of what would now be stone-cold coffee, and put it back down, without sipping.

  “Point of information,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “When will you be moving back?” I waved my hand at the mess in the living room. “I ought to clean up at least. Also—I have a cat.”

  “Do you? What’s her name?”

  “Breccia. She’s only been here a couple days. One of the Dummy Cats; comes with Old Mister’s personal recommendation.”

  “You can hardly do better than that,” Gran said. “How is Frenchy? I haven’t seen her in…a very long time.”

  “Seems to be doing fine. A little annoyed at the disruption around the cats—did you hear about that?”

  “I don’t think I have; you’ll have to catch me up on it a little later. To answer your question…” Her voice drifted off and she turned her head to look down the hall, a slight smile on her lips.

  I followed her gaze, just as Breccia strolled ’round the corner into the kitchen, ridiculous tail held at half-mast.

  “Still holding a grudge, are you?” I murmured.

  She stopped to glare—and her tail lifted high into an ecstatic, quivering welcome. She rushed to Gran and stropped her ankles.

  Gran laughed, and bent down to offer a finger.

  “Yes, yes, I’m glad to see you, too. Thank you for coming to take care of my granddaughter.”

  Breccia bumped the offered finger joyously, not once, but three times. Then, she reluctantly tore herself away from Gran, came past my chair and gave me a casual bump before marching on to her food dish.

  “She’s a little beauty,” Gran said. “You’re very lucky.”

  “I think so,” I answered, watching the cat’s ears twitch as she followed our conversation.

  Gran sighed.

  “To answer your question, Kate—I’m not certain that I’ll be moving back here.”

  I felt a slight chill.

  “Going to retire to the Wood?”

  Gran shook her head. “I’m not certain of that, either. Bel and I need to talk—and I should see Henry.”

  “Gran, look; you deeded the house to me, but we can undeed it, it—”

  “No, let’s keep everything as it is for the moment—if you don’t mind, Kate?”

  “I don’t mind; but I also don’t want you to think you don’t have any right to move back into your own house.”

  She smiled and patted my hand.

  “I don’t think that at all. Is there anything I can do for you, now that I’ve disrupted your morning?”

  “No, I don’t—yes, there is. Do you have time to take Cael down to Dynamite and buy him something a little more Changing Land to wear? I promised the cat I’d check out a still spot she found for me—today, so I should probably get on that.”

  “I’ll be happy to; I haven’t seen Mrs. Kristamos in too long, so it will give me a chance to catch up. After you’re finished with your business, come to the Wood; I’ll keep Cael with me.”

  “Great; I shouldn’t be long.”

  “Take all the time you need,” Gran said, and got up. She held out her arms and I stood into her hug.

  “Thank you, Katie,” she murmured in my ear. “Thank you for freeing the carousel.”

  I felt her lips against my cheek, then she released and turned away.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Monday, July 10

  St. Margaret’s Catholic Church sits at the corner of Maine Route 5 and Archer Avenue, right at the top of the hill. It’s a big church, for so small a place as Archers Beach, but modest despite its size. You might expect a stone church, given its age, but what stands on the site is a wooden building, demurely whitewashed. The entranceway doubles as the base of the bell tower, and of a design that might make a passing tourist think the whole project had started out as a lighthouse.

  St. Margaret’s fills up its corner lot—there’s no cemetery or churchyard, only a small garden plot cuddled into the curve of the wall facing Route 5. The garden itself is a careful foreground planting of hosta, day lilies, and dwarf hydrangea; a neatly trimmed shrubbery behind. Between the shrubbery and the flowers is a large glazed tile, painted in primitive style, portraying a haloed woman in blue and white robes, holding a similarly haloed, white-swaddled babe in her arms. She’s standing on the beach, apparently being adored by a starfish, a sand dollar, a few seagulls and some stones. There’s a larger stone behind the woman and the child, just at the edge of the dark line of the sea, which bears a disturbing resemblance to Googin Rock.

  Not really much here for a trenvay to get their teeth into, I thought, surveying the tidy little garden from the sidewalk.

  Well, you never knew until you asked.

  I stepped carefully into the garden, drawing a curtain of light fog between me and the sidewalk. No need to attract attention to myself, or to the trenvay of this place.

  If any.

  I settled on my heels on a patch of mulch to the right of the tile, emptied my mind and opened my land-ears, quiescent and receptive to whatever this bit of land might be willing to say, just between us.

  The fog curtain isolated me from traffic noise, and the sound of voices. Overhead, a seagull laughed, possibly a commentary on my efforts, or a general observation on life.

  Cautiously, I let myself sink into the land, hoping to hear…something; to trigger a memory and waken whoever had watched over this small patch of land, once. I heard nothing, saw nothing, sensed only the living land about me, growing things, and the small lives that thrive in the soil. But nothing that indicated that there was—that there had ever been—a spirit entwined with this place.

  And, then, just as I began the slow rise back into my body—

  “Do not leave me!”

  Anguish washed through me, and crazed determination.

  “I do not allow it! I will heal—”

  I froze where I was, listening with my whole being, but there were no more words. There was a sense of rushing, an outpouring of power, and a scream as the land died—and the trenvay, too.

  “No!” I threw my will into the land, but I was chasing a ghost; whoever had drained the power from their service, in an attempt to heal…someone…that had happened a long time ago. Something here remembered it, but it wasn’t the trenvay, nor the little piece of land she had betrayed.

  I rose into my body, and let my focus go, realizing as I did so that my fingers were cramped, squeezing hard against a surface as ungiving as rock.

  I opened my eyes, and saw that I was gripping the top edge of the tile. The tile remembered?

  My eyesight became sharper, though I hadn’t consciously made the request of the land. There were words written on the tile’s reverse, very nearly invisible, even to my enhanced vision.

  In loving memory of Margaret, who tended this place for time uncounted. When I lay dying, she traded her life for mine. I set this marke
r I have made where she perished, and I pray God we will meet again, at His right hand. —Gerald McKenna

  The tile’s memory, yes; from the man who had made it, his grief poignant even now. The man Margaret the trenvay had loved so much that she had drained her service, and killed herself, to preserve him.

  My vision misted. I shook my head, sharply, and surged to my feet, looking around at the mundane little garden, and the raveling curtain of fog.

  I wasn’t exactly surprised to find that I was shivering.

  * * *

  It was quiet in the little park that had been the site of the Archer family homestead. I sat on one of the benches, closed my eyes and just…savored being alone. The land murmured inside my head, and gave the impression of mine faithful hound curling at my feet. I slid down, resting the back of my head on the bench, and tipped my face up to the sun.

  I might’ve dozed; it was a good day for dozing with the sun on your face. In fact, I must have dozed, because the next thing I knew, the land was jumping up with excited yips, like a puppy welcoming one of his favorite people ever.

  Well, we all knew who that was, didn’t we?

  I opened my eyes, and turned my head, not bothering to lift it from the back of the bench.

  Borgan had settled sideways into the corner of the bench, apparently so he could get a good angle on my face as it slowly succumbed to sunburn.

  “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said.

  “Didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’m glad you found me.”

  I skooched up straight, turned on the bench to face him, and felt a thrill of cold alarm.

  “Should you have found me?” My hand moved on its own, reaching out to grip his shoulder. “Borgan, you look like hell.”

  “Feeling a little better than that,” he said, and his smile was tired. He put his hand over mine, and pressed it. “Took a hit, like I said.”

  “You also said it’ll heal. I can—”

  “Sure you can—and I ’preciate it, but let’s hold any land-healing in reserve.”