Carousel Sun

by Sharon Lee

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” I said again.

  “Thanks,” he said, and produced another faint smile. “Like to get a reading on if I’m losing my mind.”

  “Sounds reasonable to me.” I hefted the padlock. “I better get down to the carousel.”

  “Oh, hell, yeah! Good choice, by the way—nobody’s gonna break that lock.”

  If I hadn’t seen what Borgan had done to it last night, I wouldn’t have thought the storm gate had ever been dented, much less sustained an explosive blow that shredded metal, and produced a hole big enough for a big man to leap through.

  I wasn’t seeing illusion, either, but a true and lasting repair. I touched the healed steel and received a jumble of signatures: Gaby, Feesila, Carn, and Artie.

  Artie? I thought, and then realized that of course Artie would have to be involved—he was, after all, a backyard mechanic of no small skill, and he’d probably done the giant’s share of the repair work.

  So, then, I thought: Good work, team!

  The old lock was in place, its shackle seemingly through the loops. That, however, was seeming, only. Borgan’s burst of power must have been the magical equivalent of a solar flare. When I looked at the lock with the land’s eyes, I saw that it was friable, its shattered form stitched together with strands of sea grass and homey land magic; the shackle was gone completely, and the only thing holding the lock near the loops was a dollop of some unmundane substance that reminded me of pine sap, and that bore Gaby’s signature.

  I put my hand on the lock. The land magic unraveled with a vibration that I felt at the center of my chest. In my hands was . . . nothing; my fingertips showed dusty red, as if I had touched something rusty. I dusted them off on my jeans.

  Then, still entwined in the land’s regard, I pushed the door open.

  Nothing happened.

  Well, of course nothing happened, I scolded myself.

  But I stood on the threshold, anyway, and allowed a tendril of jikinap to quest before me, while I queried the land regarding any possible presence within the storm gates.

  My magical feeler reported Borgan’s curtain—and nothing else. The land discovered no one within the gates, save myself.

  I stepped through the door, walked over to the utility pole and threw the switch for the lights.

  Even in the flood of artificial light, the curtain ’round the carousel glowed and shimmered, a thing of grace and . . .

  From the depths of my pocket, my cell phone sounded. I dug it out and flipped it open.

  “Kate,” Peggy said grimly. “Where are you?”

  I blinked.

  “At the carousel.”

  “Thank God. You’d better get over here. We’ve got a problem.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  High Tide 10:59 A.M. EDT

  Ulme was crouched in the center of the desk in the office behind The Mango, feet flat, like she would take off running at the first hint of threat. Her glorious hair was a knotted mess, and her face . . .

  . . . her face was swollen, the pale skin mottled with interesting colors; her mouth was crusted with blood. I could see bruises in a black bracelet around her wrist, where the sleeve of her sweater had ridden up.

  “Okay,” Peggy was saying. “I get that you’re not going to call the cops. Joe’s a bad dude, bad dudes work for him. I get that. But, sweetie, we’ve at least got to take you to the ER!”

  “ER?” Ulme’s voice was strained and high—a peculiar combination of stress and exhaustion. “What is that?”

  “Emergency room,” I said, stepping nearer, and keeping my hands in plain sight. Her eyes turned to me, brilliant in the mask of bruises. “Hospital.”

  “Hosp—” She shook her head. “No hospital.”

  Peggy looked at me. “She’s got to get checked over.”

  “No,” Ulme repeated. “Joe must send me home.”

  “Joe’s done enough!” Peggy snapped. “You wanna go home? Fine. Where do you live? I’ll take you home!”

  Give it to Jersey, her heart was in the right place, but that was a dangerous thing to say, right here and now, to this particular person, occupying what was probably an extremely volatile emotional space.

  Ulme smiled; she seemed to glow a little, along her edges, as if a candle had been lit inside her.

  “Will you?” She leaned towards Peggy, her lips slightly parted, and her eyes glowing warmly amber. “Promise?”

  “No,” I said firmly—okay, maybe a little too firmly. “She can’t take you home. That’s a promise.”

  Ulme wilted; Peggy swung ’round to stare at me, anger in her purple eyes.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you, Archer?”

  “So it is true, what Joe says,” Ulme whispered. “Only he can send me home.”

  “Well, no,” I said, considering her. “That might not be exactly true. Am I right in thinking you’re from Kashnerot?”

  Ulme nodded, watching me with hot amber eyes.

  “Do you know it, my land?”

  “Never been there, but I’ve heard stories.” I bit my lip, thinking. This business about only Joe being able to send her back . . .

  “Does Joe have something of yours?” I asked.

  “Yes, he has my . . . my vishtayre. The amulet of, of my clan.” She took a breath, and winced. Might be some bruised ribs there, too. “Joe said that you are a malicious enemy, without glory or honor.”

  And I’d thought the man didn’t care. I shook my head.

  “Takes one to know another,” I said. “How did Joe bring you here?”

  “By the virtue of the Great Star; for bait, his voysin. He had learned this, he said, from a Great Flame. Are you a Great Flame?” Plainly, she doubted it.

  “No, I’m a Small Flame. But I am a Flame. I’m also Guardian of this land—it’s small, too, but not without virtue. I might be able to send you back home, given luck and a tailwind, but before I can even try, you’re going to have to get that amulet back.”

  “Yes,” Ulme said, her mouth tightening. “I cannot go home without my amulet.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “My vishtayre is part of me. Always, I feel it.”

  “I don’t suppose you can call it to you?” The question had to be asked, but I wasn’t really surprised when Ulme shook her head.

  “Here, it is not possible; I have tried.” She sighed. “So many things here are not possible.”

  “We’ve got a whole ’nother set of values,” I told her.

  “Yes?” she said vaguely.

  I sighed and got back on topic. “Joe’s using the amulet to hold you here.”

  “Yes,” she said. Firmly.

  “And you can feel it.” I chewed my lip. “Do you know where it is?”

  Ulme drew a sharp breath, and her eyes flickered, bright and hard, as if she’d reached her limit on stupid questions—and then suddenly she must’ve understood what I meant, because she sighed and lowered her gaze.

  “No. I do not know where it is being kept.”

  “Okay, let me think about that. I might have to bring in a consultant.”

  I took a breath.

  “The cops confiscated Joe’s shipment the other night, didn’t they? That’s what this”—I moved a hand up and down, showing her battered self to her—“is all about, isn’t it? You were supposed to protect the runners and the cargo. What happened?”

  Ulme sat up a little straighter.

  “I tell him—I am not a Great Flame—no! Not even a small one. I am only myself, Ulme, and I have in my care the children of the clan, to teach them their lessons, and their manners. Joe does not believe this; he believes that I prevaricate; that I am lazy, and do not wish to help him. Which I do not, now. Then . . . I was dazzled; his voysin enwrapped me; I forgot myself; and I wanted only what Joe wanted. But even then—” She stared at me. “Even then, I said to him that I was no one—a . . . a governess. He asked could I shift from sight, and of course I could do that! I showed him, and he sai
d that, for him, I should shift many persons from sight—which, I have not the heat, nor the way of it. Joe did not believe me. He hurt me, and sent me to punish his enemies with fire . . .”

  I looked at her, dawn breaking.

  “You set the fires at the Wood, and at Daddy’s?”

  “Yes, although I did not wish to do so. Joe’s voysin had begun to thin, and I knew myself again, a little. I was also to fire the carousel, but the Flame at duty there did not allow.”

  “Vassily’s not a Flame,” I objected, but I felt something funny going on in my stomach.

  “Vassily is a willing vessel,” Ulme said, with conviction.

  Possibly, I blinked. A willing vessel? I repeated to myself. For what, exactly?

  “Kyle—” Ulme said, disturbing what passed for my thought processes.

  Peggy shifted, but didn’t say anything, smart girl.

  “What about Kyle?” I asked.

  “He is hunting Joe,” Ulme said simply. “Maybe he will kill him. I did not want that, but now, I think it would be a good thing.” Her shoulders drooped. “I should have helped him, when he asked, but I was afraid.”

  There wasn’t much to say to that, and the silence grew a little unwieldy, until Peggy broke it.

  “So, if we’re not going to the ER, you can stay here, sweetie, okay?”

  Ulme nodded. “Thank you. It is a kindness.”

  “You could put her to work making smoothies,” I suggested, only half serious.

  Peggy took it as offered, though, looked momentarily thoughtful—then shook her head.

  “I would, but I can’t put those bruises behind the counter; they’d freak out the paying customers.”

  I sighed, and eyed Ulme.

  “I can do something about your hurts, if you’re agreeable. Get you some ease, and give you a chance to pay Peggy back for sticking her neck out for you. If Joe figures out where you are . . .”

  “I will help Peggy,” Ulme interrupted. “Joe will not hurt her.”

  “That’s fine, sweetie, but I can take care of myself. Kate—”

  “I am agreeable,” Ulme overrode her. “Please. I submit myself to your fires.”

  “All right, then.”

  I stepped up to the desk, and held my hands out, palms up.

  “I’ve got to touch you,” I told Ulme. “Avert your eyes, Jersey.”

  “Up yours, Archer.”

  “Have it your way.”

  I took Ulme’s outstretched hand between both of mine. Her pale skin was hot; hotter even than Mr. Ignat’s skin.

  I closed my eyes and breathed in, allowing the healing virtue of the land to rise and pass through me, to Ulme.

  There was a sharp intake of breath. I opened my eyes, saw Ulme’s face, smooth and white; her perfect lips moist and full. A downward glance showed that the black ring of bruises ’round her wrist was gone as if it had never been.

  I nodded and dropped back, releasing her.

  She bowed her head, a formal gesture.

  “I thank you, Kate Archer. May your fires burn hot and ever bright.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, and looked to Peggy, who was standing a bit stiffly, I thought, her face bland and somewhat less pink than usual.

  “Good?” I asked her.

  She swallowed; gave a brisk nod.

  “Perfect!” she said brightly. “I knew you’d know what to do. C’mon, Ulme, let me show you how the juicers work.”

  It was a little after 10:30 when I arrived at the carousel for the second time that morning. I used one of the new keys on the new lock, shot the hasp through one loop and let the door fall closed behind me.

  I’d left the lights on, and even if I hadn’t, Borgan’s spell was plenty bright enough to see by.

  The curtain ’round the carousel not only glowed, it was a thing of rare and supple beauty.

  . . . and not a little power, I realized as I extended a tentacle of my own power toward it.

  There was frisson at contact; the curtain flared bright; and Borgan’s signature was suddenly strong.

  I paused, my hands tucked into my back pockets, and considered the artifact before me, remembering how easily—how effortlessly—he had produced this subtle and complex working. The power that I wasn’t using for the tentacle stirred, and rose, the sense of it more akin to curiosity than avarice. I allowed it to regard the working, even as I tried to memorize its subtleties.

  I could have looked at it all day; it was that beautiful. But the land interrupted my reverie with a tiny, undignified jolt accompanying the realization that time marched, and Vassily would soon be reporting in for work.

  I sighed, and bowed slightly, acknowledging the work of a master. All that remained to me was to release it.

  Which was when I realized that I should’ve asked Borgan how, exactly, his beautiful spell was to be released. In theory, I could just absorb the jikinap that had been used, thereby collapsing the spell, but, truth told, I was off absorbing jikinap for the foreseeable future.

  In which case, all I had to do was dismiss the working, and allow the power to return to its rightful master . . .

  . . . and that brought me right back around to how?

  I glanced down at my fingers, still reddish with rust, and looked again at the shimmering curtain.

  Borgan knew my skill in spellcraft was fairly basic. He would, I thought, have built in a simple and easy trigger for me, which would, at the same time, be completely impervious to the meddling of others.

  Which meant—first—that the spell needed to know that I was me.

  I stepped up to the curtain.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly, and put my hand into the coruscating colors, feeling them flow over my skin, each one distinct.

  A small breeze sprang up, as if I’d called it; I tasted salt. Before me, the curtains blew—and disappeared, taking the sense of Borgan’s presence with them.

  I sighed, mounted the carousel, and once more toured the animals, inspecting them with every sense available to me. In addition to wanting to be sure that the various wards still held, I was looking for clues, anything that would help me to find the Varothi before he tried again.

  While I was there, I turned on the running lights, and the orchestrion, and went into the center to start the motor.

  I’d just stepped back onto the deck when the door opened.

  Vassily stepped through, and stopped, the door held open on the tips of his fingers.

  “Opening time?” I asked, dropping to the floor.

  “It is, yes,” he answered gravely. “Are you well?”

  “I’m well,” I assured him. “Just came down to replace the lock, and to—spend some time in meditation.”

  “It is good, to meditate upon beauty,” Vassily agreed.

  I beckoned him nearer.

  “I’ve got a new key to open the new lock,” I said, showing him one. “Give me the key ring and I’ll make the exchange now.”

  He dropped the key and ring onto my palm, then turned his attention to rolling the storm gates back.

  “Here you are,” I said to him when he returned to the operator’s station.

  “Thanking you.” He put the key carefully into his pocket, and turned to the ticket box, opening it up and making sure the bag was present and empty.

  “Vassily,” I said.

  He turned his head to look at me, thin reddish brows drawn.

  “Yes?”

  “I hear from a source that you’re a willing vessel. You wanna tell me about that?”

  “Do you not know, of yourself?” He looked faintly surprised when I shook my head, then moved his shoulders in a tiny shrug.

  “It is simple.” He glanced at me. “Understand, I did not think that; I did not believe my uncle, the priest, when he said to me that it is simple. Worse than this, I did not care. I was . . . very bad. I did bad things. I hurt people.

  “Then, on a day, I met my Alisa. And I stop being bad. I am . . . transformed, you see? It is her. S
he makes me good.” He paused.

  “I was new, but the past . . . it follows. Bad deeds want blood for balance.”

  Another pause; and a tiny sigh.

  “My Alisa, she says, there is a program. We will get jobs in America. We will lose the past, she says. I say, yes, we will do this. And so we sign the papers and are told that Samuil will come for us on a day, to bring us here, to America, with all the rest.

  “Two days before Samuil is to come, the past . . . finds me. I had, before my Alisa transformed me, I had hurt, you will say, a wrong person. I did it for money. That person had . . . a protector, a lover. He found me. He found Alisa . . .”

  He bowed his head abruptly, shoulders stiff. I wanted to tell him to stop, to not go there, that I hadn’t meant . . .

  He raised his head.

  “So, this terrible thing. My Alisa is dead. I am . . . It is . . .” He catches his breath in what sounds like a sob.

  “I have the gun in my mouth when Samuil comes for me. He takes it away. He slaps me, and he brings me with the rest, because in the papers I signed was my oath to God that I would come here, to America.

  “On the plane, I pray. I pray for death, so that I will be with my Alisa. But that is no good. She is a blessed angel in heaven. When I die, I will burn in hell. But I pray anyway. I think maybe Alisa can hear me.”

  He paused again, shoulders hunched. Then he straightened and turned to look me straight in the face.

  “It is when we have come here. I am finish the cleaning at the motel, and I go to the ocean. I think about drowning, but I don’t know how. I close my eyes and I pray to my Alisa.

  “It is then that he comes to me, this other blessed angel, and he says . . . he says that I may be redeemed in him. If I open my soul to him, and help him recover his love, who was unjustly torn from his arms—if I will do this, he will bless me, and when I die, I will rise to heaven, and be with my Alisa.”

  I took a careful breath.

  “Have you seen him, this angel?”

  “Yes. He is very beautiful, and his wings are steel rainbows.”

  As fair a description of my Varothi as anyone could wish.