The Water Thief

by Jane Kindred

  He slipped the vial into his pocket, feeling the usual reluctance to let go of even that tenuous connection to the magic, and returned to the manor.

  * * * * *

  They dined together in the small dining room that evening, and Emrys was unusually pensive. Macsen began to wonder if he’d noticed the missing vial among hundreds after all, and it seemed his fears were about to be confirmed when Emrys spoke at last over the second course of beef consommé.

  “Fancy leaving this world, boy?” He wasn’t smiling.

  Steeling himself for the explosion of fury, Macsen set down his spoon. “I beg your pardon?”

  Emrys wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “I’m planning a trip to meet with my connections in the upper realms. I thought it was time you joined me. It would serve you to see what your new domain is like, get you acclimated. The difference can be a bit of a shock.”

  He’d thought for certain Emrys was going to ask if Macsen was planning to go himself with the stolen vial. “Is it that easily done? One can just take a trip?”

  “It is with the earl’s magic. Be in the courtyard at dawn. I’ll have appropriate clothing laid out for you by your valet.”

  Macsen felt he managed an expression of eager anticipation with a dash of self-assurance rather well. “I look forward to it.”

  * * * * *

  In the morning, as Emrys had promised, he found garments waiting for him that appeared to be business attire—a tailored silk jacket and trousers, and a crisp white shirt with tight, long sleeves that buttoned at the cuffs, along with a pair of stylish leather shoes. He wondered exactly how such an outfit was meant to fare on the trip, knowing the travel itself involved submersion, but he put it on anyway. The thin cravat was beyond him, however, and while he hopelessly mangled it, his valet arrived to help him with it, apparently having been well versed in its use by Emrys.

  Emrys sat waiting impatiently for Macsen in the carriage when he arrived. “I told you to be here at dawn. I’ve been waiting nearly half an hour.”

  “I couldn’t figure out the necktie. Wouldn’t it have been better to change into the garments once we reach the other realm?” Not wanting to give his knowledge of the magic away, he didn’t add “since they’ll get wet.”

  “Don’t concern yourself with details.” Emrys leaned back against the seat and immersed himself in a newspaper Macsen recognized from Cardiff, while the carriage set out for the coast.

  Macsen closed his eyes and dozed a bit, waking to find the road shaded by close-set trees. This wasn’t the coast. He sat up and glanced at Emrys. “Where are we going? Is this the right way?”

  Emrys was still engrossed in his newspaper. “What makes you think it isn’t the right way?”

  Macsen shrugged guardedly. “I thought it would be a trip by boat. Cantre’r Gwaelod is an island, after all.”

  “You’re thinking in pedestrian terms.” Emrys folded the paper and set it on the seat between them. “It’s not a journey from Cantre’r Gwaelod to another land. It’s a journey through the fabric of the world to another plane of existence.” He smiled, and it was one of those smiles that chilled Macsen’s blood. “I check in on my business in the upper realms from time to time with a quick draught of the elixir. Imagine my surprise on my most recent visit when I was informed that an individual calling himself ‘Macsen Pryce’ who fit your description was reportedly involved in a brawl at a bar not a block from my headquarters in Cardiff during your absence.”

  Macsen forced himself to remain still and relaxed so as not to give himself away. “Surely not such an uncommon name. Why would you think anything of it? You said it was a populous realm. And after all, that isn’t even my name.”

  Emrys’s face twisted with anger. “I’m glad you’re aware. I’ve given you a name and a title you do not even deserve.”

  “Emrys—”

  “Lord Pryce,” he snapped. “This Macsen ‘Pryce’ was in the company of none other than one Sebastian Swift. When my associate informed me of the nature of the establishment, your little tête-a-tête with Lady August suddenly became clear.”

  The carriage came to a stop, and Emrys’s eyes flashed with menace. “Get out.”

  “Lord Pryce—”

  His words were swiftly cut off as Emrys swiped the newspaper from the seat and slapped him with it in a stinging blow that cut Macsen’s cheek.

  “Get out, you miserable cur.”

  Macsen opened the door of the carriage, deliberately letting the blood run down his cheek unchecked. He found himself on a road that was barely a trail in the thick of the forest, and he wasn’t alone. Four brigands, no doubt in Emrys’s employ, awaited him.

  He had the absurd thought as the first blow struck him in the gut that it was a shame such a fine suit would be ruined. As with any violence dealt him by Emrys during his youth, he knew there was no point in struggling, but Macsen managed to land a few blows anyway as they took him down. Fists hammered into him, the dull thuds that pounded inside his head at the impact eclipsing any meaningful sensation. He managed to curl into a ball and shelter his face and gut after several blows, and something heavier rained down on him, thick pieces of wood pounding his back and shoulders and the side of his head, followed by sharp, directed blows his overwhelmed mind couldn’t make sense of at first until one of the boot tips caught him in the balls and he nearly blacked out from the radiating agony.

  Macsen vomited into the dirt, trying to crawl away, disoriented and dizzy, but the blows continued. Someone kicked him in the face, his jaw exploding in a burst of pain that brought things more starkly into focus. He was pushed onto his back, a boot against his cheek forcing his head to the side. His mouth was full of the thick, metallic taste of blood.

  “No permanent damage.” Emrys’s voice came from somewhere above him. “I want him to remember this.” Evidently, he hadn’t spoken soon enough. One boot slammed home against Macsen’s ribs while a heavy object struck the crown of his head even as the words were uttered.

  * * * * *

  The annoyance of a whimpering moan dragged his conscious mind kicking and screaming to the surface. He tried to open his mouth to tell whomever it was to shut up because he had one hell of what August called a “hangover”, but realized it was his own sound against swollen, bloodied lips. The ground was rocking and creaking beneath his aching head. Macsen couldn’t recall where he was.

  “You’ve stolen something from me.” Emrys spoke, his voice calm, almost disinterested. Macsen opened the one eye that would obey and found himself on the floor of the carriage, Emrys’s boot in front of him, the other casually balanced on Emrys’s knee. “And you will give it back.”

  He tried to form words through the pain in his skull, but only more moaning sounds came out.

  “No need to tell me anything. I know precisely where it is: 842 Bath Street, Aberystwyth, Wales. Very considerate of you both to jot down the address.” The sound of newspaper flipping in Emrys’s hands was followed by a few minutes’ silence before Emrys spoke again, giving Macsen time to register the myriad nerve bundles throbbing and shrieking deep under his skin. “I might have forgiven your insolence if you hadn’t used my name. Let the pain be a lesson to you, since you failed to learn it as a child. You are nothing but a mangy cur. The bastard get of a woman willing to spread her legs for any man who would toss her a coin. You’re the son of a whore. You are not the son of a lord.”

  He was, however, the public face of a lord, and Emrys needed him. That, Macsen was certain, was the only reason he’d lived to wish he hadn’t.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Where are we going?”

  As she had every time I’d asked over the last three hours, August remained silent. She’d woken me with a jolt, tossing my clothes at me and ordering me to get dressed and get in the car. “Ordering” was the only word for it. She delivered the commands with a h
ard, immovable tone and a granite set to her features that allowed for no argument. As I hopped about on one foot, fumbling to pull on my trousers, I had the distinct impression she would find a way to make me do as she said if I refused, and it would not be pleasant.

  Within two minutes of my rude awakening, we were on the highway, headed north. My heart leapt. Macsen had returned. But she drove on past the spot where he and I had arrived before, and past the spot where we’d sent him on his way. The car wound up the coast, inland for miles, over bridges, then back toward the shore, the ever-present wetlands dictating our route as river inlets bled over the sandy terrain, signs of a coastline that had been slowly lost to the sea over centuries.

  “Can’t you at least tell me why we’re going? You’ve barely said a word to me all morning.”

  “Why?” August didn’t turn her head. “Because despite my providing you and Macsen with untraceable aliases and identification, the two of you acted like half-witted yokels and handed over every piece of information Emrys needed to know to find us.”

  I cringed at the hardness of her voice. “But there’s no reason to think he’d search for a Macsen Pryce. You said so yourself.”

  “No reason at all, Sebastian. Except that he did. Someone did. I received the call this morning from my contact in Cardiff who monitors things for me.”

  My stomach tightened. “Emrys knows? You’re certain?” What was happening to Macsen in Cantre’r Gwaelod if Emrys knew?

  “He knows.” Her other words registered: Contact. Monitors things.

  “August, you have to tell me what’s going on. You’ve been tight-lipped and mysterious since I arrived—and you lied to me every time you came to me in Cantre’r Gwaelod, letting me believe you were dead. If I’m in such danger—if I’ve put you in danger—I need to know the truth.”

  August went silent again, and no amount of coaxing could get another word out of her. I sat back, worry for Macsen eating at me, and watched the scenery pass by. The sloping green valleys were enchanting, but the coastline, when we followed it, was desperately beautiful, as if the land itself held such tragic secrets that one couldn’t help but feel them in its every rise and fall.

  We left the highway at last at one of the many hamlets we passed, and August drove for the coast until she could drive no more, parking the vehicle and abandoning it on the roadside. I followed without question as she made for the great bay over dunes swaying with green and wheat-tan grasses dotted with delicate pink flowers, the wind brushing sand across the dune grass around our legs, until we stood on a desolate shore. I waited for her to speak to me, both of us communing with the sea-sprayed, salty air in silent understanding—at least, of this shared magic between us.

  When August spoke, she was so quiet, I had to move close. “I’ve spent my whole life—my whole life since mine began again—protecting you. You and Cantre’r Gwaelod.” I slid my hand into hers, and she didn’t pull away, but held mine loosely. “Do you know, they speak of it here? The legend—the lost hundred towns, sunk beneath the waters of Bae Ceredigion. They say on a quiet morning you can hear the church bells of Cantre’r Gwaelod, still tolling from the deep.” She was silent again for a moment before going on. “I lied to you. When I washed ashore here after my ordeal, it wasn’t a kindly older couple who found me and took me in as their own. It was a man who had been waiting for me his whole life, who’d watched for me, and felt me coming as surely as I felt you when you arrived.”

  “A man?” My heartbeat stuttered with misgiving. “What man?”

  “Dafydd Thayer. He’s a priest of Mererid.” August sat in the sand, and I sat with her.

  “What’s Mererid?”

  “Not what, who. She was the last priestess of the well, tasked with protecting the waters of our ancestral land. She watched over a magical font—the source of our magic—to make sure it never overflowed when the tidewaters rose, and to keep it from those who would use it for gain.” She went still again, and I felt I had to keep her talking. There was a strange urgency to this quiet conversation.

  “Is this a fairy tale?”

  “Yes,” said August. “And no. If you’re asking if it’s a story I’m making up, it is not. It’s our history. Mererid’s failure is why our ancestor, the first earl of Cantre’r Gwaelod as we know it, used his power to sink the realm, to hide it forever. Men were killing to gain our magic, to exploit it, because she had allowed some of the water to be taken during a single moment of inattentiveness.” She tugged off the knit cap she always wore to the beach and ran her fingers through her cropped hair. “Dafydd, like many who came before him, was waiting for Mererid’s heir, a daughter of the earl who would return to this realm to protect Cantre’r Gwaelod once more in its time of need.”

  This time when she went quiet, it was the silence of an ending. There was no more to her tale.

  I glanced at her profile, dark eyes intent on the horizon, the ocean breeze playing with her tangled curls. “You believe you’re that daughter.” She didn’t deny it. “So this Dafydd, he finds you half-dead on the beach and tells you you’re the heir of a fairy priestess. Then what did he do? You said there was no older couple who took you in. Did he…?”

  August cast a sidelong look at me finally, the pink in her cheeks brighter than the brisk breeze would warrant. “Dafydd taught me who I was. He believed in me, and he gave me a home. He kept me safe when anyone else would have put me in an asylum. He’s kind and decent and brilliant—he’s a professor of antiquities at Cardiff University, though he used to be at Aber while I was at school.” She was speaking rapidly now, as if afraid of what I might say if she paused. But I found my opportunity.

  “Dafydd’s your lover.”

  She turned her gaze back to the waves. “Yes. But it’s not what you think. We didn’t become lovers until after I was eighteen. There was nothing inappropriate in the way he behaved toward me. I stayed with a pair of grad students who’d studied under him. Megan and Trevor were believers in Mererid—and in Dafydd. Like most of his students do, I couldn’t help falling in love with him. The way his mind works—the way he believes. And he was charmingly unaware of my infatuation with him until I was much older. Eventually, he stopped seeing me as the girl on the beach or a student—or a reborn magical priestess he had to protect—and saw me for the woman I’d become.”

  “I’m not judging you. If you say he’s kind to you, and you love him…” I shrugged. “Who am I to judge?”

  August looked down at the cap she was twisting in her lap. “I need you to understand, Sebastian. Nothing we did was to harm you. I need you to understand how it was. How it is. When I arrived here, I had only hazy memories of my drowning, and I believed you were dead. We assumed you’d have come with me if you possessed the Swift magic. I’d been coming into an awareness of my connection to the water for some time before the drowning, and I knew you hadn’t. Dafydd theorized that perhaps only the firstborn of the earl was endowed with it. And he said that if you were still in Cantre’r Gwaelod, I ought to be aware of your presence, just as he’d sensed mine in the crossing. And I felt nothing.”

  August shrugged as if in apology for her failure to sense me. “It was only later, when Emrys began to harvest your magic, that I began to have an inkling that you’d survived. Dafydd taught me to read the waters, to feel for any disturbance in Cantre’r Gwaelod’s balance. We knew crossing between the realms wasn’t restricted to those with Swift blood. There are places a person might stumble through, desolate beaches with causeways leading to the sunken cantref where you might swim too far and find yourself floundering in the surf only to swim ashore in a land lost in time. It’s rare that such crossings happen, but if someone were to find one, and they were the unscrupulous sort… It’s something Mererid’s devotees have kept an eye on for hundreds of years.”

  Her eyes were focused somewhere beyond the hazy line of the horizon. “I spent my evenings on the beach watch
ing the sun set below the waves, letting myself breathe in the sea air, each particulate of mist I took into my lungs speaking to me of the water’s pathways to the lost land. And I began to sense something in it that was as familiar to me as my own skin—but something dormant. Your magic, Sebastian.” She glanced at me once more. “It lit up the night. Yet your consciousness wasn’t part of it.”

  We were both silent a moment—contemplating, communing, sharing regret—before she continued.

  “I was afraid to believe it was you. Five years had passed, and I’d felt nothing. Yet in those brief moments when the power was activated, it felt as if you were standing beside me. If I closed my eyes and reached out my hand toward the water, listening as the waves tossed and sighed against the shore, I could almost feel you. I kept it to myself at first, sure I was imagining it, and then afraid of what Dafydd would make of it once I became more certain. When I spoke to him at last, he shared my doubts. And then Emrys made his first attempt to use the power he’d stolen.

  “I woke in the middle of the night, ripped out of sleep by the sensation of something tearing through my skin and a violent ringing in my ears. Dafydd confirmed it in the morning when he analyzed the pattern of the receding tide. Cantre’r Gwaelod water had breached our realm. It wasn’t an accidental crossing. It was Swift magic. Through the same method he’d used to detect my arrival, Dafydd tracked the disturbance. I hoped and prayed to the Fates that you’d somehow finally found your way here, but part of me knew it couldn’t be you. There was too much violence in it, as though the magic had been torn out of you by force.”

  I swallowed convulsively with my hand to my throat, that first conscious “extraction” with Emrys’s apparatus a vivid memory.

  August didn’t seem to notice my distress. “By the time we discovered the breach, Emrys had returned the way he’d come, only briefly setting foot in the upper realms before slipping back into the water and into Cantre’r Gwaelod. It had been an experiment. But it was the first confirmation that you might truly be alive. After that, I began to seek you in the waves of Cardigan Bay, calling out to you when the tide was high. At night, I dreamt of you, hazily, holding out my hand toward you but never able to reach you, your image disappearing into mist when I drew close. When you never responded in my dreams, and I never felt you in the waves and tides, I began to believe once more that I’d indulged in false hope. Emrys might have stolen your magic before killing you, storing it up somehow to use later at his leisure.” Her voice hardened. “And if he had, I knew it was my duty to stop him.”