by Renee Wildes
Braeca sat in the rocking chair, reading a story to Ioain. She was learning to read and do simple sums at Mistress Greta’s school down in Lighthaven, and shared her newfound ability with her little brother and her mother. ’Twas one skill Finora wished she possessed. Bran had taught her enough math and currency to not be cheated in business but to read a poem or story for herself, to be able to help Braeca when a word gave her pause, would be a wondrous thing.
Finora got out her wooden mixing bowl.
Braeca’s eyes lit up. “Can we have biscuits with supper tonight, Mama?”
“That’s my plan.” Finora went for the flour, salt, cornmeal and soured buttermilk. Equal parts wheat-and-barley flour and coarse-ground cornmeal, a sprinkling of crushed sea salt. Just as she poured the milk, Rona jumped onto the table and bumped Finora’s arm. A great tidal wave of liquid sloshed into the bowl, and Finora stared in dismay at the resulting slop. Irritated, she dropped the cat onto the floor. Rona gave a startled mew, glared at her and stalked off, swishing her tail.
Ioain giggled.
Braeca fought not to. “Just add more flour, Mama.”
“Hope you’re hungry. Guess we get biscuits for breakfast tomorrow, too.” Finora added enough to soak up the extra liquid and stirred a vast mound of dough. “Probably dinner.” Varden cat.
The still-bare lilac bushes rattled against the windows as she set the bowl aside and covered it with cheesecloth. Rain pounded on the wooden shingles of the roof.
Braeca shivered. “Stormy night, Mama.”
Storm pricked his ears. Ioain wrapped chubby arms around the great dog’s neck.
“’Tis just Cilaniestra throwing a tantrum,” Finora replied with forced serenity. “Why don’t you read us another poem whilst we wait for supper?” She sat in Bran’s straight-backed chair and resumed braiding the hemp line she’d begun earlier in the week.
“I want the waven one.” Ioain knocked his tower of blocks down to begin another.
“‘The Raven an’ the Fox’ it shall be.” Braeca removed the scroll from the “book box” and unrolled it, sprawling on the rag rug afore the fireplace to read. Storm sniffed her hair, then went back to drooling on his paws. “‘Once up-on a morn’ I saw’…”
Finora’s mind drifted at the familiar words and Braeca’s careful pronunciations. Just beyond the breakwater, Cilaniestra stirred Her cauldron in the deep. The waves churned around Finora, tugged at her hair, pushed at her clothes.
The sighting struck. No dream, this, but a rare waking vision. The sea creatures dove as deep as they could to find easier going. Far above them, a ship bobbed like a cork in the waves. From her wide girth, a merchant vessel. Fully loaded, riding low on the waterline. Lightning illuminated the waves crashing over the familiar peacock figurehead on the bow. Tattered sails strained in the wind. The returning Sunrisen was almost home. The wind drove her at obscene speeds toward Lighthaven.
Thunder rumbled. Foreboding shivered up Finora’s back and made her fingertips tingle. The Sunrisen hurled toward the great rocky breakwater that sheltered the harbor. Never had Finora been so thankful for the Light above her and the smaller one atop the end of the breakwater itself. So long as ships steered betwixt the two lights safety was assured.
Another intense flash lit the entire cottage, followed by a clap of thunder that rocked the candlesticks on the table. Storm reared up onto the table to peer out the window. He barked once. Finora grabbed her shawl and opened the door. Storm followed her into the wind and the rain. The light on the breakwater still glowed in the distance. “Easy, boyo.” She curled her fingers into his fur. “Everything’s fine.”
Storm shoved past her to get inside first. It took some effort to close and lock the door. Finora wiped the rainwater streaming down her face with her wet shawl and laughed. “Lotta good that does.” She tossed the sopping shawl over Bran’s chair and moved to the fire to stir the soup, testing the firmness of the vegetables. Time to bake the biscuits. Braeca brought her the bake kettle. Finora rolled out the dough and Braeca cut out round biscuits with the tin cutter. Ioain placed the biscuits in the kettle. Then Braeca covered the bowl whilst Finora placed the kettle in the coals on the edge of the fire and ladled more coals atop the cover.
The contrast was not lost on her—the cozy homey setting, the scent of a wood fire, salt pork and baking biscuits inside, whilst outside men battled Cilaniestra’s fury and raced for the Light…for home. The Mermaid Pub and Madame Jasmine’s would be busy tonight. She went back to braiding hemp.
Storm just could not settle. He lay down by the fire for but a moment afore getting up to pace to the door. He pawed at it a couple of times, then went back to flop onto the rug, only to repeat the cycle. The rhythm of the dog’s nails clicking on the wooden floor drove her to distraction. When the biscuits had browned, she sat the children down at the table with their supper. Her own appetite was gone, fretted away with Storm’s pacing. A tremendous crack of lightning made her jump—as did the warning horn coming from Lighthaven.
Ioain whimpered.
Braeca’s eyes widened. “M-mama?”
“Stay here,” Finora ordered. She unbolted the door and opened it. The wind snatched it from her grip and slammed it back into the wall. Storm bounded out into the driving rain. She stared down from the cliff, out toward the lower light. She saw only darkness. Whether by wind or wave, Cilaniestra had obliterated one-half of the corridor markers. There was no way to mend the lower light in this storm. ’Twould be sheer suicide to try. With the wind ’twas no turning back for the Sunrisen now. Captain Reed would be forced to play a guessing game to judge the safe distance from the rocks, where the deep channel lay. Around or through the breakwater were the only two options.
Finora went in to soothe the children. Storm whined and pawed the door. A door slammed above them, the sound of breaking glass coming from the Light.
“Cilaniestra, no!” Finora charged up the stairs, into chaos and darkness. The bronze latch on the outer door had given way. It was completely twisted. The wind had flung the door open into the wall next to it, the glass shattered all over the floor. Wind and rain swept the interior. Everything was saturated. The Light was out. “Cilaniestra, you ravenous bitch!” Finora screamed into the wind. She grabbed the remains of the ruined door.
“Mama?” Braeca had followed her up.
“Get the oiled sailcloth. Tell Ioain I need the hammer and the big nails. Go.”
Braeca scrambled below, whilst Finora fought to hold the door shut. Icy rain slashed her face and her braid flailed in the wind like a sea snake. She squinted to see in the dark. Lightning lit the shards of glass on the floor. Braeca reappeared, dragging the roll of oiled sailcloth behind her. Ioain followed with hammer and nails.
“Mind the glass, poppets,” Finora cautioned. Braeca and Ioain leaned into the door whilst she unrolled the window-sized cloth over the hole where the glass had been. Ioain handed her the hammer, and one by one the nails, to block out the storm. Once the wind and rain were shut out, Finora sent Braeca to find small blocks of wood that they used to nail the door shut until she could make a final repair.
Additional horns sounded in the dark, Lighthaven’s final warning to any who could hear above the storm.
Restarting the Light was priority. Ioain brought towels, and Braeca a broom and dustpan. Finora took apart the central lamp, rubbed the chimney dry and emptied the oil basin half-filled with water. Ioain fetched the sealed box of wax-tipped wicks wrapped in oilskin, then held the dustpan whilst his sister swept up the watery remains of the window. When the basin was refilled with fresh oil, Finora threaded in a new, dry wick and covered it with the glass chimney.
She scooted the children downstairs. “Finish your suppers whilst I relight the lamp.” She grabbed a candle from the table and took it upstairs. Standing between the Light and the trickle of wind that remained, she touched the flame to the wick. The wax softened and melted. Finora held her breath as the flame tickled the wick. She watched the e
dges brown and curl. “Come on,” she begged. “You can do it. You have to do it…”
With a tiny puff, the wick caught and flared to life. Finora waited to ensure it burned, then replaced the chimney and turned the little air vents to burn the flame as high as it would go. She re-buffed the mirrors as the Light once more blazed out across the bay.
But the horns did not lessen. Someone pounded at the door below. By the time she made it downstairs, Braeca had let in Johls, the Lighthaven thatcher. “What’s happened?” Finora asked.
“Cilaniestra’s tithe. Ship ran aground the Break. Life rafts are lowered but we need yer help—an’ the dog’s.” His eyes were bleak. “Whole town’s turned out. Hurry. ’Tis the Sunrisen.”
Braeca had already grabbed Storm’s harness and tossed it over his head. The dog stood quivering and whining whilst Finora buckled the straps and cursed the sea goddess. Ioain brought the round floater on a rope and handed it to Finora. “Braeca, you and Ioain stay here. I’m taking Storm down to the water,” Finora said. “Johls, you can go back down to the marina.”
She and Johls followed Storm down the pathway to the base of the cliff, where Johls left them to return to Lighthaven. She tied the floater to Storm’s harness. The massive dog hurled himself into the pounding surf and struck out for the distant wreck.
As soon as Johls was out of earshot, she hollered out over the water, “Bree!”
A green-haired mermaid popped her head above the waves. “What?”
“Check the wreck for survivors. Anyone who might not have made it to the lifeboats, or is stuck on the rocks. There are but two boats. If all tried to get in, they’d swamp and capsize.”
“I’ll even make the girls help.” Bree’s eyes twinkled with mischief as a big wave crashed over her head and she spat out a mouthful of seawater. “Imagine the stories in The Mermaid Pub tomorrow. ‘I swear it was a mermaid, a real live mermaid.’”
Finora shook her head at her friend’s mocking tone. Bree cared little for the lives of land-locked mortals, but she was a good friend. She’d help because Finora asked.
Bree rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say.” She dove beneath the waves with a flip of her tail.
Finora shielded her eyes against the sleeting rain. Storm was nowhere to be seen. The Sunrisen settled on the distant rocks. Merfolk could streak at dolphin-speed through the water, even faster than selkies in seal-form.
“Finora!” Bree called. “Moon-Shifters! Weres. One’s hurt, bad. He’s in man-form, won’t be able to swim. Your dog’s here.”
“Let Storm tow him in. Can he hang onto the floater?”
“He can if he wants to live,” Bree retorted. “I’ll bring them to you, so the locals don’t squeak.” Her voice dripped with disdain. “I’ve got the other.”
“What forms are they?”
“Wolves.”
Lovely. Wolves would start a riot, especially if anyone saw them turn into men. “It’s a full moon. Don’t get bit.”
“He’d poison himself. Trust me, this one’s not that dumb.”
Was that admiration Finora heard in Bree’s tone?
Finora paced the rocky shore. She saw the boats put out from Lighthaven’s piers, saw at least one lifeboat make it into the calmer waters of the harbor. A misshapen shadow appeared in the waves. Bree half-carried, half-towed a waterlogged black werewolf. Lightning flashed, and his silver eyes glowed at her from the dark. Bree stopped short of the shallows and the Were paddled in the rest of the way, staggering up onto the rocks to collapse at Finora’s feet. He panted, too winded to even shake the water from his fur.
“Thanks, Bree!” Finora called.
Bree waved. “I’d better go check on his friend, make sure the dog doesn’t lose him.”
Storm could tow a human with his teeth, provided the human didn’t panic and thrash around. But it would be easier if the other Were could hang onto the floater. “How bad is he?” Finora asked Bree.
“Left leg injured,” Bree answered. “He can’t use it to kick. He knows the dog’s there to help and is trying to paddle with one arm. He keeps phasing in and out, but so far he’s holding onto his human form. I’m under them in case he lets go.”
Storm approached from the wreckage. He snorted water from his nostrils, but paddled toward shore. The floater drifted behind, with the grizzled grey head of a man shimmering aside it. Stars, he hung on by a thread. Above the tempest, out of sight, shone the full moon. Although she couldn’t see it, she felt it. Apparently, so could the unknown Were, and he fought a losing battle against it.
The black wolf hauled himself to all fours and stared out at the approaching dog. Nay, not at Storm but at the Were behind him. Finora got the impression of silent communication betwixt them, similar to hers and Bree’s. The shimmering subsided, but Finora knew it lurked beneath the surface, like a cauldron just shy of boiling.
Storm lumbered up onto shore and over the rocks, far enough for the Were he’d rescued to claw his own way free of the water. Finora untied the floater rope from Storm’s harness. Storm looked confused. He tried to go back in, but Finora whistled him away from the water. She didn’t need mortals on her beach at the moment. Lighthaven had things under control. The sudden silence of the horns told her that. Storm shook himself and sat down to wait.
The black wolf nuzzled the man sprawled on the rocks. Finora knelt aside him. Rolling him onto his back, she checked the strength of the pulse in his neck and the steady rise and fall of his chest. She brushed aside tangled grey hair, uncovering a long, swirling column of blue tattooing down the left side of his face. Her fingers caught in a small braid. Despite the hair and the grey color of his neatly trimmed beard, Finora didn’t get the impression he was all that old. He had strong features, with the crooked nose that all warriors seemed to sport. She placed her ear against his chest, against the supple armor he wore. Whatever it was, it wasn’t made of metal, but it wasn’t quite leather, either. His heartbeat was strong and steady and she heard no gurgling in his lungs to indicate he’d breathed in any seawater. He wore a coiled-bronze torque around his neck and a unique amulet—a wolf’s head with an eagle’s beak and wings.
She raised her head to find him awake, blue eyes staring at her from but inches away. “It’s all right,” she soothed, laying her palm against his cheek. “You made it to land, to Rhattany. You’re in Lighthaven now.”
“Lighthaven.” He had an unusual rolling accent. Something flashed feral-green in those piercing blue eyes, and she felt his jaw shift against her hand. “’Tis safe?”
“You’re safe here, cousin of the moon. I swear it.” She’d meant the words for reassurance only, realizing too late how he was bound to interpret them. Sure enough, he closed his eyes and shimmered into a very furry silver-grey wolf in battle armor, with a mangled hind leg. A very big, wet, unconscious wolf, at the base of a very tall cliff. “No! Sir, cousin, now is not the time. Wake up!” She shook him. He could have been a pelt, for all the life he showed.
The black wolf glared at her. She tried to lift the grey one. Stars, he was heavy. The lights of the cottage taunted her from a distance that might as well have been the moon. She had to get back to the children and she couldn’t leave an injured man on the rocks, exposed to the elements. She turned to the black one. “’Tis the full moon. I don’t suppose you could shift and carry him?”
He ducked his head and flattened his ears.
She sighed at the negative. For a Were to be trapped in alternate form, against the pull of the full moon—since werewolves did not shed their skins as selkies did—smacked of some sort of clan binding-punishment. Finora sensed a story or two there. “Well, I’ve bad news for you. Seal cows possess but a fraction of the size and strength of their bulls. I can’t do it, either.”
She tugged off the grey wolf’s human clothing, rolling it in his leathery armor to give herself time to think. The answer that came to her was her sire. King Griogair. If he’d even answer her. They’d not spoken since she’d left the wa
ters seven years ago, against his express command not to go near the humans. He’d not even bothered with an “I-told-you-so.” But he was the one bull she knew who might answer her. They’d been close, once.
“Sire? I need your help.” Finora sent out the call, not daring to hope for an answer, and waited. Several minutes passed. The wind tore at her clothing and rain pelted her numb skin. Still she waited. “Sire, please.”
A huge brown shape exploded out of the water and up onto the rocks with a roar. Even in seal form, the bull towered over her. Two others flanked him, shedding their skins to reveal giant, naked, grim-faced men with wicked-looking tridents. Storm rolled over onto his back. The black Were crouched down, curled a lip and backed away. The lead bull shook off his skin and became an equally nude, sable-haired man with proud, aristocratic features. He’d a commanding presence that made her first reaction one of wanting to cower at his feet.
King Griogair.
“Daughter.”
He still acknowledged her? Shaking, she knelt at his feet. “Sire, forgive me.”
To her shock, he reached down and raised her up. Those imperious brown eyes softened as they studied her. “Whatever punishment I might once have deemed appropriate for your imprudence, seven years of exile has more than wiped it away, Daughter. You are still bound?”
She nodded. “I can’t find it. I’ve looked everywhere.”
He smiled a slight, cold smile. “Not everywhere. It exists. Don’t give up. Don’t lose hope. When you find what you seek come home. As long as I reign in the deep you’ll be welcomed, I swear it. Matteo be damned.”
His face blurred in the tears that stung her eyes. He hadn’t forsaken her.
“Now, why did you call me?”
Finora turned to indicate the two Weres. “They’re from the ship on the rocks. I need to get them up to the cottage.” She pointed to the distant lights at the top of the cliff. “The grey’s injured and can’t be roused. He’s too heavy for me to lift. As they’re Were, I can’t ask the humans for help. Can you have someone carry him for me? The black can make it himself.”
