by K. M. Shea
When the seamstress was there she held bolts of fabrics against Dylan’s tall body, struggling to find one that had enough material. As the measuring dragged on, Dylan began to shed her caution, swapping it for anger with Jarlath.
You beat magic by depriving it, do you? She curled her hands into fists and glared at her bare feet. You’ll never beat me. Though I love my sea lion body, I can survive without it. I will see this through. I will figure out what you and the sea witch are doing, and I will stop you.
The door opened, and the seamstress stuck her head inside long enough to whisper to the short guard.
He glanced at Dylan before he left the room, shutting the door behind him. Lest she get any ideas with both guards outside, there was a distinct thud as a latch settled in place over the door.
Dylan lurched into motion, searching through the piles of trinkets that Jarlath deemed treasure. She made her way to the swords gleaming with magic. Was there a dagger nearby?
She spotted two beneath the rim of a glimmering shield. The first dagger almost made her wretch. It was made of black metal and reeked of curses and black magic. Jarlath was an idiot for owning it, much less keeping it out in the open like this. Dylan used the shield to nudge it aside so she could snag the second.
The dagger was dull, and she didn’t know how to sharpen it. While the selkies had weaponry, most of Dylan’s responsibilities in terms of fighting and protection hinged on her powerful water-channeling abilities. But a dull dagger is better than no dagger. She snatched up the unornamented weapon, scurried across the treasury room, and darted into her barred-off prison. Hiding the dagger under her cot, she prayed no one would search her little room for weapons.
The seamstress and the guards weren’t back, so Dylan turned her vengeful eye on the dried-out water horse. Before she knew what she was doing, she picked up her bucket of fresh water and stalked across the treasury.
The kelpie’s curdled-milk-eyes moved to focus on Dylan, although it did not lift its head. You are a twisted creature. But you are being held by a monster, and if you get a chance, I hope you snap his arm off.
She didn’t give herself a moment to rethink her plan—knowing that if she did, she would talk herself out of it. Dylan tossed her bucket of water on the kelpie, splashing its face, neck, and side. She hugged the bucket to her chest and darted backwards.
The kelpie didn’t move for several moments. Finally its ears lifted, and it blinked its sunken eyes as its skin soaked up the water like a sponge.
Dylan heard a female voice outside the door, and she ran to place her bucket inside her cell. Then she lunged towards the spot she had stood when the short guard left. She had just enough time to fix her belt and toss her wild hair over her shoulder before the door swung open, and the seamstress and guards trooped inside.
The kelpie acted no different the rest of the day, but Dylan wasn’t fooled. Water horses were cunning creatures.
That evening, Dylan’s guards escorted her up to a bedroom in stony silence, evicting her from her cell in the treasury. She managed to smuggle her dagger up, carrying it in a blanket she insisted on holding. It was just as well she hadn’t carried it on her person, for the servants shoved Dylan into a lukewarm bath of suds and kept her there for what felt like hours.
They finally let her out, only to hold her captive in her room, bored and famished, until the following day when the seamstress appeared with a dress and a looking glass.
The seamstress bundled her into a new, clean shirt styled similarly to the one she already wore, although this one was much shorter, and the sleeves were long and droopy. The seamstress then stuffed her into a sleeveless gown that was a saffron color before placing the mirror in front of her. The finished look included a pair of black buckled shoes that made Dylan’s feet sweat and itch.
She didn’t know much about human fashion, but she suspected the orange-yellow color was not very complimentary. Although it looked well enough on her bronzed, sun-kissed skin, it made her hair appear more coppery than normal. Her hair was dark brown but was sun-bleached, so the top layer of her hair was gold or (if one was being uncharitable) orange. Her hair, kinked in tight curls like dry seaweed, fell just below her shoulder blades in a wild mess. Dylan’s eyes—which were sea glass green with swirls of ocean blue—looked odd against the orange of her gown.
She looked down at the seamstress and raised an eyebrow, but the woman didn’t notice and fussed with the fabric of the gown.
Jarlath entered Dylan’s rooms a few minutes later. “Good enough,” he declared. “I’ll take another if you think you can finish it in time. A lady needs a change of clothes, eh?”
“Yes, my lord,” the seamstress mewed as she bobbed in a curtsey.
“What do you think, little fish? This time tomorrow we’ll be taking in the delights of the Summer Palace. You’ll be the talk of the town—with your exotic eyes and all,” Jarlath said, coming to stand next to her.
He was several inches shorter than she was, highlighting her height even more than the seamstress’s petite body did.
He’s an idiot, and he’s off his waves, Dylan decided as Jarlath held his belly and laughed. But I’m glad. I hope he is just as careless tomorrow.
Chapter 4
Festivals and Food
The carriage ride was…not fun. It didn’t make Dylan ill—she had a stomach of iron from swimming upside down and backwards and playing in the undercurrents of typhoons and storms—but the walls of the carriage seemed to close in, as if they were planning to crush her over course of the drive. It was too small of space with no fresh air.
Jarlath, Dylan’s guards, and a number of other men surrounded the carriage on horseback. She didn’t envy their freedom. Being in a stuffy box was bad, but not so terrible that she would want to ride a creature that even slightly resembled a kelpie.
How long will this go on? My teeth ache from all the rattling. Although it was fascinating to witness the green pastures and forests—for Dylan was used to a world bathed in blue—the traveling wore on her. She would have sung with joy if she could have when Jarlath spurred his prancing mare closer to the carriage.
“There it is, little fish,” he said, as they left the thinning forest. “The Summer Palace.”
Dylan poked her head out of the carriage and squinted in the brilliant sunlight to catch a glimpse of the location where she would—hopefully—steal her pelt back from Jarlath.
The Summer Palace was nothing like Jarlath’s castle or the structures sketched out in Mairead’s books. It sprawled over steep hills, stretching in three separate directions. The main section of the palace rested atop the highest point of the hill, where it could bask in the sun all day long. Four towers marked the four compass points around it, tall and thin, like sea urchin spines. A smaller section was nestled on a beach, perched behind a sea wall, and a larger section was built on cliffs that overlooked an impressive marina.
Dylan almost bolted.
Not because the beauty of the palace, but because of the ocean—which stretched across the horizon like a field of aquamarine.
I’m so close! Maybe I could steal away and test the water—someone might recognize me! I could call for help…oh. No, I can’t.
“It is beautiful,” Jarlath said, wrongly misinterpreting Dylan’s slumped shoulders and sigh of longing. “Don’t suppose you’ve ever seen anything half as costly before.”
I have, Dylan thought as the ocean was obscured by a hill. And I gave up my voice to protect it.
Serenaded by the faint crashing of waves, Dylan sagged against the carriage wall as Jarlath and his men led the way into a pleasant village picturesquely arranged in front of the Summer Palace. A large wall divided the village from the palace, but she didn’t think she would have any problems scaling it.
As such, when the carriage rolled to a stop outside a house-like building made of rock, Dylan flung the carriage door open and sprinted in the direction of the wall.
The troll-sized man of her bodyguard duo was off
his mount and waiting for her. He let her crash into him and applied an arm to her sternum, knocking all air out of her.
“Morri? Is everything alright?” Jarlath peered around the carriage with a scowl.
“Right as rain,” the bodyguard rumbled as Dylan tried to suck air back into her lungs.
Tomorrow morning—before anyone rises. I will see you, my friend, Dylan thought while her guard dragged her past whitewashed shops and flapping Ringsted flags, as if the ocean could hear her.
“We’re staying here, at the Owl’s Hoot,” Jarlath said, shielding his face from saffron and emerald ribbons that were tied to poles and slapped the air. He pointed to what passed as a lander inn.
Dylan gave the structure a quick glance. She was more interested in watching what Jarlath’s men did with the leather valise that had been strapped to his mare’s rump for the ride.
“The festival started—what luck! I’ll make a big splash when I arrive with you at my tail. Move on,” Jarlath said. He grabbed one of Dylan’s wrists and yanked her through the village and into a cloud of noise, making her lose sight of his valise.
People lined the village streets like clams on the ocean floor. They laughed, shouted, and clapped in beat with the music. Many were ringed around a crowded dance floor—polished wood raised a few inches above the cobblestone courtyard.
The musicians played unfamiliar instruments—although she did recognize the flute and violin because of drawings she had seen in books—and the movements of the dances were utterly foreign. The dancers kept their bodies straight and barely moved their arms, tapping the floor and kicking their heels in swift, crisp waves.
Fascinating. Dylan watched the dancers as they formed two lines and ducked together. Selkie dances were much more smooth and liquid, not so…bouncy.
She skirted a child waving a sword in the air and eyed Jarlath’s back as he towed her along. He’s carrying a satchel, she realized, noticing the small bag tucked under his other arm. Could he have my pelt rolled up and stored there? King Murron’s crest—please let the man be that stupid.
Dylan watched and waited for the perfect opportunity. When Jarlath stood on his tip-toes—inspecting the crowd—she let a buxom village woman bump into her. Dylan was flung into Jarlath’s back, nearly knocking him over.
“Get off! You’re deuced clumsy, you know?” Jarlath complained. He was distracted enough that he didn’t notice when she tried pinching his flimsy case. The satchel gave.
Not my pelt. Dylan felt paper documents crease through the worn fabric. Disappointment knifed through her just as hunger gnawed in her stomach as the zing of sweet-spiced meats and the lip-smacking aroma of cooked oysters teased her nose. I hate being on land, she decided.
“Jarlath! You’ve dragged yourself here, have you?” a ruddy-faced man shouted above the celebration. “How’s Kingsgrace? Hallo—who is this?” He staggered up to Jarlath and Dylan with the gait of someone already deep in his cup.
“Hallo, Doyle. She’s the latest addition to my collection. What do you think?” Jarlath grinned.
“She’s deuced tall,” the man said, sagging his head back on his neck to look up at Dylan. “What have you fed her to make her like the Chronos Mountains—I’ll be jiggered!” He staggered another step backwards. “Coy, I ain’t never seen eyes like that. Where’d you dig her up?”
“It was a troublesome effort, but I believe the extension of my collection is worth it,” Jarlath said, his voice smug.
You did nothing, you red-faced-lubber. Dylan rolled her eyes.
“Kingsgrace! Didn’t think you’d come—I thought the royals snubbed you at the Frost Ball.” Another man—this one built like a slender sardine—yelled as he popped out of the crowd. He whistled when he got a look at Dylan. “Hallo there, darlin’!”
“Eyes off my goods, Teige. This one ain’t passing through your harbor,” Jarlath growled, although his lips formed a pleased smirk. “She’s a sight, ain’t she?”
“She’s something,” the sardine fellow said, gawking at her face.
Dylan didn’t understand what the men were fussing over. Yes, she looked different from normal humans. She was markedly taller, and her eyes were an unusual color, but who cared? It was like comparing spots on a selkie seal pelt. Each seal had its own pattern, so what did the spot arrangement matter? It must be a lander trait, Dylan thought. A rude lander trait. They keep staring at me like a fisherman gawks at his prized catch.
“Doyle, be a good man and take this,” Jarlath said, passing his cloth valise off to his ruddy-faced friend.
“Oh, is this the list of goods—”
“Shhh, yes. But we’ll not talk of it here,” Jarlath said.
“Not with the royal shadow on us,” the sardine fellow said, glancing over his shoulder to sniff at the Summer Palace.
“Right. But we can toast to our success, can’t we?”
Jarlath grinned. “Aye, we can.” He released Dylan so he could pick up a mug of ale in each meaty fist. “Don’t wander too far, little fish. Oisin and Morri are trailin’ you,” Jarlath said. He tossed back a drink and turned back to his friends.
“So does this gem of yours talk?” sardine man asked Jarlath as he pointed to Dylan.
Freed, she was torn between giving into her growling stomach, or trying to give her guards the slip and flee to the ocean. I should seek out the ocean, but… Dylan’s stomach twisted painfully and growled.
“Nope, she’s as silent as a mute,” Jarlath said. “Best kind of woman.”
“Better than those rowdy bandits,” the ruddy-faced man said. “They keep trashin’ my ship even after I talked to them.”
“For the love of—won’t you learn? Keep it down, fool!” Jarlath snarled.
When Dylan’s stomach rumbled so loudly with hunger that it caused both of her bodyguards to stare at her, she decided it was probably in her best interest to eat before making another attempt to slip away. I haven’t had a decent meal since I got caught. Nitwit Jarlath and his plan to starve the magical.
She slunk away from Jarlath—still lecturing his friend—and grabbed the first food item closest to her—fish dipped in batter and grilled to a crispy perfection.
Dylan polished off her fish in moments—careful for bones—and considered her next move. Her guards stood nearby—the smaller one a bump on the ground, the bigger one a larger lump. Both had stone-bored expressions on their faces.
If I ate everything on this table, the bigger one would still outweigh me, Dylan thought—tearing into a loaf of rye bread. Better wait until I’m alone with the smaller one—although he did have an unsettling amount of finesse with his dagger. Still, he might be easier to escape. I don’t imagine he can toss daggers freely in this crowd.
As Dylan eyed her guards and dwelled upon possible ways to escape them, she feasted to her heart’s content. She had oysters simmered in some kind of amber-colored liquid, lobster, creamy potatoes, two different kinds of soup, and two loaves of rye quick breads.
She chewed the last hunk of her second loaf of rye bread as she watched the dancers whirl around the dance floor. Could I lose them by the dancers? Maybe they’ll get distracted.
Dylan grabbed a few more pieces of grilled fish and wandered towards the dance floor. Hoping to lure her guards into a false sense of security, she was careful to tilt her head and gaze curiously as the dance master shouted out the next dance and the steps that would be in it.
As Dylan publically gaped, her gaze fell on a young man. He was perhaps a few years older than her and possessed sand-colored hair—the kind that could be the soft beige of a dried beach in the afternoon sun, or the darker brown-tan color of wet sand at twilight. He had hazel eyes and wore a pleasant, open smile.
He looks familiar, Dylan thought as she ate her fish. But I’ve seen only a few dozen humans in my life. Maybe he was with the merchants Ma met with last time she allowed me to go trading with her.
His identity was like an itch Dylan couldn’t scratch when she was swimm
ing as a sea lion. He can’t be a selkie—he’s too short and land-like. Is he a friend of Da’s? No—Maili would have fallen for a face as pretty as his, and all the humans Da knows are near his age.
She was close to huffing in frustration and didn’t notice when the dance ended. He can’t be anyone important. Maybe he’s one of Jarlath’s men.
“May I have this dance?” someone shouted in her ear.
Dylan turned, blinking in shock when she found the sand-haired dancer next to her. He was her height—perhaps a finger’s thickness shorter than her. Standing this close to him, she could see flecks of green and gold in his hazel eyes, bright and pretty.
She opened and closed her mouth, wondering how she could refuse him. She turned to look at her guards, but the bump and the lump were as stone-faced as ever.
“Come on,” the dancer said, taking Dylan’s arm and leading her forward. “If we wait any longer, we’ll miss the instructions.”
Instead of having to elbow their way through the crowd, folks moved aside for Dylan and the dancer. The dance master even bobbed a bow in their direction before he started shouting out the directions as the other dancers gave them curious glances.
Dylan bounced in place to see if the dagger she’d stolen from Jarlath’s treasury—she had it tucked into the belt of her white undershirt, hidden beneath her gown—wiggled or moved. It didn’t.
“If you don’t know the dance, just follow my lead. As long as you move in sync, you’ll be fine. We repeat five basic moves for the duration of the song,” the dancer said as the music started.
Dylan watched the other dancers as they stood in a square—one couple on each side—and started dancing. Her movements were a little sluggish as she noted the way the dancers tapped the ground. Their hops were lower, and they didn’t kick like all the previous dances did, but the pattern was easier to follow because they moved their feet to a specific beat.
Within a minute Dylan picked up the beat and let her partner lead her, turning her to face him when necessary. He led her forward when they danced in a circle like the spokes of a cart wheel.
