by Sharon Lee
It looked to me like healing was needed right now, but a man had to be the judge of his own wounds. So I’ve been told. I took a breath, and touched the land on my own behalf. Cold alarm faded, leaving behind warm concern.
“This is—because of the ronstibles? How—”
“The ronstibles are—were.” He paused, mouth tightening. “Part of the sea. Their natures came from the sea; she made them and she valued them. Losing them…diminishes the sea, and—”
“Diminishes you,” I finished, when it seemed like he wouldn’t—or couldn’t.
“That’s right, but it’s temporary. A hit, and a hard one, but nothing we won’t come back from.” He took a careful breath, like maybe there were cracked ribs involved. “Me—the sea didn’t make me; she just…accepted me.”
A long time ago, the sea had accepted him, and he’d been dealing with the consequences of that acceptance ever since. I wondered how long it had taken him, to come to terms with the duties and existence of the sea’s Guardian. It didn’t seem like the right time to ask, but there was another question that did want asking.
“The lady from Cheobaug,” I said carefully. “Where is she now?”
“Tucked up in quiet water. She’ll do fine there for the rest of her grant.”
“What happens when her grant runs out? Poof! She spontaneously crosses the World Wall into Cheobaug?”
“The sea will send her; that piece of work’s all built and set.” He shifted slightly on the seat, and released the hand he had been pressing against his shoulder.
“Kate…”
My chest cramped, for no reason I could say.
“What did you do?” He leaned forward sharply, cupping my cheek against his palm, and looked hard into my eyes.
“Do?”
“Your…fires are gone. Let me…”
I smelled salt, felt a tickle of ozone, and a wash of warmth. Then Borgan let me go and sat back into the corner of the bench.
“What made you decide to give your fires to the land?”
“Truthfully, it was more scared stubborn than decide. When the Wise One dropped in last night, the very first thing she did was try to pull my jikinap—I guess so she could get to know me all up close and personal without actually having to put herself through the aggravation of talking to me. I had to do something, and I couldn’t hold long against her, so I—gave it away.”
“To the land.”
“Why not?” I shifted irritably. “I never wanted jikinap—Mr. Ignat’ tricked me into taking it, and then I kept it because I figured I had to, in defense of the Beach. But it makes me vulnerable to other, more experienced Ozali. I really hate to be vulnerable.”
“Do you, now?” murmured Borgan, and continued before I could answer. “So all those little tricks you used your fires for—the light, and your Varothi’s shortcut spell—that’s all gone now?”
“Haven’t run a diagnostic, but I imagine so.” I sighed; the shortcut had been useful, still…
“It’s okay; I can walk—or run—and get to where I’m needed soon enough. The Beach isn’t that big.”
Borgan nodded.
“How ’bout a race, then?”
I frowned. His color was bad; ashy, rather than rich red-brown; and it was clear he was in pain, be it existential or physical.
“Are you sure a race is a great idea? You really don’t look good; I’m not just saying that to be amusing.”
“Just a little race, with lunch at the end of it, and no harm in between.” He waved a hand in the general, downhill, direction of the sea. “How’s this? Last one to the entrance of the Pier buys lunch at Neptune’s?”
I opened my mouth, but there was nobody to answer.
Borgan had vanished.
“Shit!”
I came to my feet—and I was standing at the base of the ramp that led up to the Pier entrance. The land nudged me; I turned to my left, and found Borgan leaning easily against the guardrail with his arms crossed over his chest. He was, I thought, looking a little white around the mouth, but he was smiling.
“What just happened?” I asked.
His smile morphed into a grin.
“Maybe the Beach’s a little bigger than you remembered?”
“Smartass.”
“Been said often enough that I’m beginning to think there’s justice in it. Now, let me ask you a question.”
He unfolded his arms and leaned forward, so I could look directly into his eyes.
“Kate, where are my fires?”
“You’re a Guardian; your power comes from the sea.”
“Hm.” He leaned back against the rail again. “Now, I’ve always said your gran was a dab hand with a tricky bit of working. Where’s she keep her power?”
I could see where he was going with this—I thought. But old certainties don’t go down without a fight.
“Gran gets her power from her tree—no.” I closed my eyes, counted to ten, and opened them. “Yes, dammit; she’s trenvay. She draws power from her tree.”
Except Gran was a very fine magic worker, and if I’d ever doubted that, it would only have taken the distilling of Mr. Ignat’s jikinap into butterscotch brandy to make me a believer. And that was before we got to the fact that she had survived, away from her tree, in the World of all the Six which was most hostile to souls.
Her tree could not have supported that.
Not her tree, unaugmented.
I sighed, and looked into Borgan’s face. “So, why didn’t Mr. Ignat’ tell me this?”
But I knew why: Mr. Ignat’ was from Sempeki, and there he had been a very powerful Ozali, indeed. In Sempeki, power is its own reward; it’s sought after and kept close—and it’s always on display.
“You’ll have to ask him,” Borgan said.
“No need; I figured it out. I think.” I took his hand. “So, it looks like lunch is on me. Shall we?”
“Could use a bite, now that you mention it.”
He shifted away from the rail, and caught his breath, eyes narrowing. My chest cramped, and I gripped his hand tight.
“Maybe instead, I should take you home and put you to bed. Seriously, Borgan—”
He grinned down at me, eyes glinting with mischief.
“Well, now we got the whole day planned. That’s nice.”
There really wasn’t any way to answer that without digging myself in deeper. Besides, he was moving now, walking deliberately up the ramp, keeping pace with the tourists seeking out the heady pleasures of the Pier shops—or maybe just a beer.
* * *
It was early for the full lunch crowd at Neptune’s, but not too early for music—which was being provided by Nessa and Andy, like it said on the chalkboard.
They were deep into a toe-tapping rendition of “Old Dan Tucker,” when Borgan and I came onto the big deck. We found a high table sitting perilously close to the low guardrail, with an unobstructed view down the beach, and out, to Wood Island Light and beyond. I pulled out the tall chair, and Borgan gently lifted me into the seat. I sighed, and leaned against him for a moment, just…happy.
“Problem?” he asked, after I’d straightened.
I watched him get into the chair across and shook my head.
“No problem. I just…feel better—I feel calmer—when you touch me.”
His eyebrows twitched.
“Don’t know that I like to hear that. When’d it change?”
I picked up the menu.
* * *
We caught up the events of the last while over burgers and ale, while Neptune’s filled up with lunch customers. The band took a break and came back again, waving as they passed our table, but neither stopping to chat.
“Trouble with your mom?” Borgan asked, sipping his second ale.
I shrugged. “I think she’s a little jealous of her new life. It’s been a long time since she’s had one all to herself.”
“Hmm.”
He set the bottle aside; up on the stage, the band swung into “The S
loop John B,” with the dulcimer taking a strong lead.
“Now, this boy from your grandad’s House—what did you do to him?”
“I didn’t do anything to him, except take his oath.”
“Right. But normally, wouldn’t that involve a sharing of power? Jikinap, I’m talking about.”
“I guess it might’ve; Cael’s my first oath-sworn, and while he seems a nice enough guy, I hope he’s my last.” I had a sip from my bottle, relishing the chocolate notes. “What I did…it felt like we—the land and I—it felt like we did a healing. In a sense—well, no, not in a sense—in reality, it was a healing. The man was dying. Now, he’s not.”
“So now he belongs to the land?”
“Felsic seems to think so; I’m not sure I can actually do that.”
“You’re the Guardian. Somebody comes to you and offers to serve—why shouldn’t you be able to accept their service?”
Why, indeed? If a Guardian and the trenvay could strip someone of their service, then surely service could be granted.…
“I’m not sure how he’s going to feel about that,” I said slowly.
“Best to ask him, then.”
I sighed, and nodded at Borgan’s depleted bottle.
“You done? Want another beer?”
“I’m fine. Thanks for lunch.”
“You’re welcome. Now. Am I taking you to Gray Lady or to my place, so you can get some rest?”
“Your place, if it won’t be too crowded. I don’t want you on the sea until my guest’s gone.”
“You don’t need me to be with you, and if the sea—”
“Yes,” Borgan interrupted, reaching across the table to catch my hand. “I do.”
I blinked at him. “Do what?”
He shook his head, his smile crooked.
“Here you tell me how it comforts you to have me touch you. Is it a surprise that you comfort me?”
Reciprocity, Kate, I told myself. Try to keep up.
“It does surprise me, yeah,” I said, and pushed past the resistance—the fear of being seen vulnerable, was what it was—to add, “but I’m glad.”
* * * * *
This pool into which the Borgan had compelled her…its waters were heady; layered and balanced: bright and dark, astringent and smooth.
These complex waters buoyed her, and strengthened her as even the sweet open sea had not.
Old waters, these, and treacherous. She must not trust them; for here was no faint hint of nobility, or gentle kindness.
It was strange, that the Borgan would have left her here, to grow sleek and fat with such power. Or perhaps, she thought, half sunk in the strange dreams carried upon these waters…perhaps he meant them to enchant her, and bind her; a far more potent trap than the mere misty wall he had placed about the pool.
She should, she thought, cast aside the water’s seductive charms, shatter the Borgan’s wall and go forth into the open sea, to find him and to claim him.
But…no, she thought sleepily. The Borgan’s grant had some days yet to run. She had time…time to soak up strength, to be renewed in power and in beauty. When the pool had given her everything it could, then she would deal with the misty wall, and seek him out.
He would not then, he could not then, withstand her. She would be a bride, indeed, and beloved of the waters.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tuesday, July 11
Low Tide, 5:42 A.M. EDT
Sunrise 5:11 A.M.
I called Gran before we left Neptune’s, explained that there was a Situation, and asked if she could keep Cael with her. She agreed, then handed the phone to him, so I could give him his orders, which I did as gently as possible.
“This liege thing’s getting old,” I told Borgan, snapping the phone shut and slipping it away.
I stood up and held my hand out to him. He took it, and rose. Which would’ve been more comforting if I hadn’t received the definite impression that he was grateful for the assist.
At Tupelo House, he was made known to the cat by her call name. That essential courtesy performed, we all went upstairs, where Borgan immediately fell into a profound sleep.
Breccia and I disposed ourselves for our own comfort—me, with my head tucked on his shoulder, the cat curled into a pleased, purring circle on his chest—and the three of us slept straight through until seven o’clock.
I woke to soft nibblings along my earlobe, and a warm hand on my breast. We made slow, leisurely love, drowsed, and finally rose, in no hurry about it, to shower together, and mosey out to the kitchen to see what might be for supper.
The fridge yielded leftover fried chicken, the potato salad I’d made yesterday, and a bottle of wine, which we carried out to the summer parlor and ate as we overlooked the sand and the surf. Twilight slowly obscured the sky, and the stars peered shyly down. The cat came out to join us, draped herself across both of our laps, and purred herself to sleep.
When the wine was gone, Borgan put Breccia on his shoulder, where she snuggled under his ear without quite waking up, and we carried the remains of our picnic inside. Dishes deposited in the sink, and cat on the blanket, we went upstairs again to bed.
* * *
“Go back to sleep,” he murmured, but he didn’t add the little nudge of sea-magic like he usually did, to reinforce the suggestion.
It shouldn’t have mattered; I was comfortable enough to drift back into dreamland for a few hours all on my own.
But the lack of that nudge—that did matter. Borgan, my waking brain reminded me, had taken a wound. Yesterday’s day of mostly rest should have, in my fond hopes, put him on the road to mending.
But if he was husbanding small bits of magic…
…then he was hurt worse than he’d let me nag him into admitting…And it also meant that I was an idiot, keeping him on land when he should have been healing, in the sea.
I opened my eyes, stretched and rolled out of bed.
“How long do you think I—even I—can sleep? I’m wide awake. I’ll walk you down to the water, then go collect Cael.”
Borgan was pulling on his T-shirt. I snagged my jeans and skinned into them, and looked up into his face.
I couldn’t say he looked worse than he had yesterday.
But he surely looked no better.
I opened a bureau drawer, pulled out a bra and a T-shirt at random, and finished dressing inside of an absolute silence.
“Kate,” Borgan said.
I pulled my shirt down, and turned to face him.
“How bad?” I blurted. “How bad are you hurt, and how long until you’re healed? And, while I’m at it—special bonus question, since you didn’t want the land healing you—shouldn’t you be letting the sea do just that?”
He sat down on the edge of the bed, and held out his hands.
“Kate,” he said, and, when I just looked at him, “I’d like a hug, if you got one.”
I sighed.
“I don’t think I’m out, yet.”
I sat across his knees, facing him. He put his arms loosely around my hips; I wrapped my fingers around his braid, and looked at it. Shells, shaped glass, beads. There was a new one, I thought—blue and green swirls, like water. I sighed again, reluctantly let the braid go and put my hands on his shoulders, looking straight into his eyes.
He nodded.
“Those are good questions you’re asking. I don’t want you thinking that you did me harm by keeping me on land. First thing is, you didn’t keep me, except that I wanted to be here, with you. Second thing is, you did me good, not harm. Heart’s ease, if not land-healing, and that’s not to be discounted.
“Why I can’t let the waters heal me…” He sighed, his arms tightening around me. “Kate, it was the sea took harm from the ronstibles’ death. That’s where the wound is.” Another sigh, and he bent his head until it rested against mine. “It’s me that has to heal her.”
I took a breath, tasting salt and ozone.
“Isn’t there anything I can do to
help you?”
He snorted a soft laugh.
“Let me study on it.” Deep breath. “And, now, I got to get moving. Hum’s boat won’t fish itself.”
“I’ll go with you,” I said, “to the sea’s edge.”
“Sure. Be glad of he company.”
* * *
Mr. Ignat’ was asleep with his back against Gran’s tree, which I supposed she had reentered for the night. Cael was curled in soft grasses nearby, Arbalyr on a branch above his head.
Neither the bird nor Mr. Ignat’ woke when I stepped into the clearing, but Cael raised his head, nose leading, as if he was in fact a wolf, testing the morning air.
He rolled smoothly to his feet, began to bow, and stopped himself.
“My—Kate. Good morn to you.”
“Good morn to you,” I answered, considering him.
Gran had done her job well; Cael wore the latest in Archers Beach chic: multipocket khaki shorts and a red T-shirt with an abstract gold design splashed on the front. His feet were, as before, bare.
“Do the clothes please you?”
He glanced down at himself.
“If it pleases my lady that I blend in, then the clothes can do naught else but please me,” he said.
Bless the lad, he was full of politic answers.
“Would you care to come home with me?”
“Yes,” he said simply, and reached behind the tree Arbalyr was sleeping in to pull out a tote bag with DYNAMITE! exploding in orange and yellow across the front.
“I have several changes of clothing, as your lady grandmother advised. She also advised shoes, but, those are not possible.”
“You might change your mind, come winter, but for now, bare feet totally blend in.”
I waved him forward and turned to follow the path the Wood opened before me.
* * *
“I do not think that I like bagels so much as scrambled eggs,” he said some while later, “though I think I could become very fond of cream cheese.”
“The reason bagels exist is as a carrier for cream cheese,” I assured him. “Also peanut butter. And occasionally jam.” I took a bite of my own bagel—onion, garlic, and poppy seed, for the curious—and chewed for the amount of time required to chew a bagel, before cleaning my palate with coffee.
“The coffee’s good,” I said, which it was. Cael’d made it under my direction, though not my supervision. I’d been too busy sawing bagels in half to do anything more than outline the basic technique for him.
