But now…a ray of hope pierced her, shining a shaft of light through her mental fog.
She listened harder—and could’ve cried. Those weren’t gentle swells but rather curling, crashing combers. Worse, in the smothering dark she couldn’t see if the waves lapped at a beach or smashed themselves against rocky cliffs.
So tired… Her body ached at the thought of fighting against those waves. Safer to just float out here—or was it? She was cold and beyond exhausted: she’d never last until morning. So really, it was possible death now or all-but-certain death later.
Holly struggled to make a decision. She wanted to live, but she was so tired it was hard to remember why. She goaded herself by thinking about her mom.
If she drowned, her dad would grieve, but he’d channel it into his movies. He’d be okay. But her mom…whom did her mom have, except her? She had to at least try for her mom’s sake.
Numbly, Holly oriented her body toward the sound of the breakers and began moving her arms and legs in disjointed strokes.
The land rose in front of her, black and forbidding in the moonlight.
The first few waves weren’t so bad, but the fourth and fifth ones dunked her. She pushed her way up, gasped in a breath—only to be slammed again. Harder and harder. And each time it took her longer to struggle back to the surface. Her lungs ached.
Jagged rocks loomed ahead.
The next wave tumbled her. In the dark there was no up and down. She stroked blindly—only to be rolled by another wave before she reached the surface.
She had no breath, no strength. A few minutes of choking, and it would be all over: she could rest. She made herself kick one last time—
Arms grabbed her. Bore her up. Her head broke through the waves, and precious air filled her lungs. She gasped for breath.
“Keep still,” the—man? Boy?—said, as he adjusted his grip so that one of his arms hooked across her chest in a lifeguard hold. Then he began to backstroke with his free arm, towing her along. He steered them between the deadly line of rocks into the quieter backwater beyond.
She floated on her back, staring up at the sprinkle of stars and the wispy cloud fringing the full moon. Cold and half dead with fatigue, it took Holly a while to wonder who her rescuer was—and how he could swim so fast while supporting her dead weight. Making an immense effort, she turned her head.
Her rescuer’s wet hair gleamed black with blue highlights. His skin seemed to collect the moonlight until it shone like a white pearl in the dark sea. The water hid most of his body, but she caught glimpses of his muscular upper torso and firm biceps.
She ought to help him keep them afloat. Experimentally, she tried to move her legs. They responded with a weak kick.
Her toe brushed the sleek skin of his—leg? Except—
“Don’t try to swim,” the boy said in a deep voice. “I’ve got you.” He turned his head, and Holly’s pulse jumped.
He. Was. Gorgeous. His face could have been carved from a block of marble: a straight nose, dark brows, strong cheekbones, and a well-shaped mouth.
“Relax. You’re safe.” He laid his head back and powered through the water.
Safe. Holly stopped craning her neck and let herself be carried along. She studied the hand and arm clasping her.
Her rescuer had thick wrists and long fingers. His fingernails were short and clean but covered in white enamel. His hand flexed—revealing fleshy webs between his fingers.
Holly jerked in surprise. She stared up at him, just as the moonlight fell full across his face. Oh God, his eyes. They were blind and white.
What was he? Mindlessly, Holly struggled in his grip. His hold tightened. “It’s all right. Be still. You’re safe.”
Something in his voice made her relax and trust him. Once her pulse calmed, she saw that he wasn’t blind. He had irises and pupils, but an opalescent film slicked across them. A moment later his tail broke the surface of the water.
She’d been rescued by a merman.
Unlike the children’s illustrations, his tail was sleek and white, shaped like a dolphin’s. Nor did he have gills—Holly could feel his chest rise and fall.
She felt no fear. In her state of dreamy exhaustion, he seemed both strange and beautiful.
When they reached shallow water, the merman shifted her around and carried her high against his chest out of the foaming surf.
“You have legs now,” Holly rasped.
The merman hesitated, looking down at her. The film had disappeared from his eyes. “I’ve pretty much always had legs,” he said.
“I saw your tail.” Holly felt light-headed. “You’re a merman.”
“Wow. That’s quite the hallucination you were having.”
She shook her head, stubborn.
“If your name’s Ariel, I may have to throw you back in the ocean. That Ursula chick is scary,” he deadpanned, setting her down.
Her legs promptly buckled. Swearing, he helped her sit on the beach, then, moments later, wrapped a blanket around her upper body. Shivers racked her.
He moved a few steps away in the dark, then returned, tying the drawstring of a pair of black swimming trunks.
Holly blinked. Had he been naked before? “Mermen c-can’t wear swimsuits.” Her teeth chattered.
He snugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “We need to get you someplace warm. Fast.”
“C-call nine-one-one.”
He grimaced in frustration. “Sorry. No cell phone, no car, no boat.”
That jolted a thought loose. “C-Coast Guard.”
“Ah. I think I saw them earlier.” He thought for a moment, then scooped her up, blanket and all. “There’s a spot about half a kilometer down where the current washes up things on the beach. I’ll take you there.”
“Know—why—mermen—don’t use—cell phones?” she forced out through chattering teeth. “No pockets.”
He laughed, a warm, rich sound. “You don’t give up, do you?”
Despite the dark, he moved swiftly, as if she weighed nothing. The jogging motion lulled Holly into a stupor.
“Hey, stay with me, okay? No slipping into shock allowed. Tell me your name.”
“H-holly.” She didn’t want to talk about herself. “Where do you live?”
“Is that another merman question? Am I supposed to say, ‘in a castle under the sea’?”
She nodded solemnly. “Made out of p-pink coral.”
He snorted a laugh. “Not even close. Nor do I ride around on a mutant sea horse.”
“D-don’t forget the mutant c-clam beds.” She started shivering again and had to stop talking.
She roused some time later to the roar of a motor and the glare of searchlights sweeping back and forth across the water.
Her rescuer laid her down in the soft sand. “As soon as I’m gone, call for help.”
Gone? Holly encircled his wrist with her fingers. She could feel his pulse, strong and steady, under the thin skin. “Don’t go.”
“I have to.” A regretful sigh. “And it’s best if you don’t remember any mermen.” He tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear. His voice stroked her skin like velvet. “Forget me.”
And she did.
Chapter Four
Thunderhead
A firewasp landed on Leah’s shoulder. She fumbled with her reins and brushed it away before it burned a hole in her cloak. Clouds of the orange insects infested Thunderhead’s valley.
“Why are there so many firewasps?” Leah asked when Qeturah nudged her mule forward to join Leah’s at the crest of a low rise.
“The eggs require extremely high temperatures to hatch. They breed in one of the mudpots hereabouts.”
Qeturah had spent the last few days flattering Jehannah; Leah had spent them indulging her curiosity. She’d found Qeturah very knowledgeable.
“What do you think of my duchy?” Qeturah asked.
It frightens me. “Thunderhead is taller than I expected.” Although the young Volcano Lord w
as smaller than Grumbling Man, his cinder cone was surprisingly steep, looming a mile over the valley. Worse, he seemed full of barely leashed anger. With no hot-blooded duke to soothe him, how long before Thunderhead erupted again?
Earlier they’d passed through a scrubby forest, green and full of life but carpeted with rotting tree trunks, knocked down by the last large-scale eruption thirty years before. Now they were skirting a desolate lava plain on which only the hardiest weeds had gained a toehold in the basalt.
An amused smile curved Qeturah’s lips. “No need to spare my feelings. I know that my duchy is poor. Five thousand people live in your father’s duchy, while mine contains less than a thousand.”
Leah repressed a snort. She’d be surprised if the handful of cultivated fields could support more than three hundred people. They’d passed only scattered houses, no towns.
“But do you know what I see when I look at this valley?” Qeturah asked. “I see opportunity. I see a population that has doubled in the last ten years. I have immigrants from every duchy. People who want to live without tyranny.”
Desperate people. Anyone who had a choice wouldn’t live in the shadow of Thunderhead. Leah had only met the men who traveled with their little caravan, but the scars on the muleteer’s faces and the bold way they eyed her made her think they might truly be bandits. Fortunately, Qeturah could cow them with a look.
“Most of all, I see a place that is not ruled by a man.” Fervor lit Qeturah’s green eyes. “My duchy proves that women can govern. Do you understand?”
Leah nodded slowly. “If one duchy is ruled by a duchess then so may another be.”
“Exactly.” Qeturah smiled warmly. “Perhaps even your own. You are Duke Ruben’s only child, after all.”
Not exactly. Though Jehannah could be a duchess in her own right. “But—” Leah framed the question as if she were Jehannah. “But a duchy needs heirs. If I didn’t marry, who would speak to the Volcano Lord when I died?”
Qeturah laughed. “Such an innocent you are! One needn’t to marry to have children.”
“But they would be bastards,” Leah said quietly. The stigma of her own birth clung like a shadow—she would never inflict the same shame on her child.
Qeturah shrugged. “You could still marry so long as you picked a man who wouldn’t usurp your authority.”
“Any man with hot blood would want the title,” Leah objected. “And marrying a man without dilutes the blood.”
Annoyance flashed in Qeturah’s eyes. Had she expected Leah—no, Jehannah—to leap at the idea?
To distract her, Leah asked, “Are we nearing the castle?”
“There isn’t one. See those rock formations over there? They’re made of compacted ash from an eruption thousands of years ago, and they’re riddled with man-made caves. The tallest one is my Tower.” Qeturah indicated a beige needle of rock, several stories tall. Its top was of different stone, as if it wore a hat.
Leah hadn’t noticed the windows carved into it until now. Dismay filled her. “It looks like a bandit hideout,” she said without thinking.
Instead of being offended, Qeturah laughed. “I suspect it has served that purpose in the past, but that’s not its original purpose. Castles are a relatively new development in your history. The Tower has been occupied by humans almost since this world’s birth.”
Leah stared at Qeturah, caught by her odd phrasing. What did she mean, “your history” and “this world”?
When they arrived at the Tower half a day later, Leah found that the hollow cave was furnished like a castle, but the oddly shaped rooms, rounded corners, and bumpy walls disoriented her. The first archway was big enough for a giant, and the next Leah had to stoop to get through.
“Sabra!” Qeturah called.
Within moments a tall blonde girl ducked through the left archway. “Yes, my lady?”
“Sabra, this is Jehannah. Introduce her to the other girls and show her around. I have business to attend.”
“Certainly.” Sabra’s blue dress was embroidered in red crossed swords. What duchy had that emblem?
As soon as Qeturah whisked out of sight, Sabra’s friendly smile vanished. “How old are you?” she demanded.
Jehannah was fourteen, but, at seventeen, Leah would never pass for that young. “Almost sixteen,” she lied.
Sabra smiled in satisfaction. “I’m the oldest. I’m eighteen. Duchess Qeturah leaves me in charge when she’s absent.” Sabra looked down her sharp-bladed nose at Leah.
Leah didn’t argue. “How many days a month is the duchess away?”
“Above half.”
Leah noted the information and followed Sabra.
“This is the kitchen. Such as it is.” Sabra sneered.
Stepping inside, Leah saw a heavy, middle-aged woman peeling potatoes at a wooden table. Fragrant steam billowed up from the large pot sitting on the hypocaust grate at her feet.
Leah inhaled appreciatively. “It smells good.”
“It’s just stew.” The woman’s eyes flicked to Sabra.
“This is Cook,” Sabra said. “Our resident poisoner.”
Poisoner? Leah didn’t know what to say.
“Don’t believe me?” Sabra asked. “Cook, tell Jehannah why you were banished from Smoking Cone.”
Cook’s shoulders stiffened, but she obeyed. “I poisoned my husband.”
If her sentence had been exile and not hanging, there must’ve been mitigating circumstances. All the same…Leah didn’t know whether to feel sorry for the woman or afraid of her.
“Cook’s not our only criminal,” Sabra said with relish. “Almost all the servants are outlaws of some kind. Our blacksmith is a murderer, the washerwoman is an adulteress, and the butcher was a bandit. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, my lady.” Cook kept her gaze on her potatoes.
Satisfied, Sabra led Leah through a second doorway. “Here’s the dining hall.”
“Hall” seemed too grand a word: the table seated only eight.
Without pausing, Sabra showed her the pantry, the storeroom—where the muleteers were unloading the so-called “gifts” sent by Duke Ruben—and the laundry. Leah glimpsed a pregnant woman hanging clothes outside—the adulteress, she assumed—but Sabra had already ducked through a low-hanging archway. “And here’s where we sleep.”
Leah found herself in an open space with alcoves budding from it like flower petals. Each alcove contained a bed; one had two beds stacked over each other with a wooden ladder between. The mattresses looked like regular straw ticks, not the feather-stuffed kind Jehannah had slept on.
“Are you betrothed to anyone?” Sabra asked.
“No.” With a thrill, Leah wondered if her hot blood might someday merit her some second or third son. If her spying pleased the duke.
“Really?” Sabra raised one pale eyebrow. “I thought there was something offing between Ashmount and Cauldron.”
“I’m from Grumbling Man.”
Sabra’s blue eyes narrowed. “No, you’re not. I met that Jehannah two years ago, and you’re not her.”
Panic gripped Leah’s throat. “Yes, I am,” she said, not blinking. “I’m Duke Ruben’s daughter, Jehannah. I don’t remember you. What duchy are you from?”
“Smoking Cone. We met at a wedding.”
Yudith’s genealogy lessons ran through Leah’s head. There had been a recent alliance between the duchy of Smoking Cone and Poison Cloud. “At your brother Talibard’s wedding?” Before he’d gotten himself killed.
She must have guessed right, because Sabra demanded, “What did we have to eat?”
“I don’t remember.” Leah tried to change the topic. “Where do I sleep?”
Sabra stared at Leah with the focused gaze of a predator. “Jehannah had the same color hair as her mother.”
Leah shrugged. “I did when I was younger. My hair has darkened since.”
“In only two years? And you’ve grown taller than me? And acquired a bosom? I don’t think so.”
Leah ignored her and searched for an unoccupied bed. The three lowest berths had rumpled blankets, but there was a bare mattress in the farthest, darkest corner on a high shelf of stone. Leah regarded it with dismay. If she rolled over in the middle of the night, she’d fall and break her head.
She’d rather sleep on the floor. But Jehannah would never consider that. When Leah turned, she found herself almost nose to nose with Sabra.
“I thought so,” Sabra said smugly. “Your eyes are brown. Jehannah’s are blue.”
“They are not!” Leah snapped. “Jehannah’s are brown just”—like mine—“like the duke’s.” No, Jehannah would have said, “like my father’s.”
She’d given herself away. Twice over.
Sabra bared her teeth. “You’re an impostor. I’m going to tell Qeturah.” She swished out of the room.
“Wait!” Leah caught her arm. “Please, don’t tell.”
“Why not? Surely, it’s my duty to inform my hostess that she has a wasp in her nest?” Sabra asked coldly.
But the way she’d said “hostess” gave Leah hope. Sabra resented Qeturah. She just needed a reason not to tell. “I’ll do your work for you,” Leah offered.
“I’d hardly trust you with anything of importance. However…” Calculation filled Sabra’s blue eyes. “I wasn’t allowed to bring my maid. You can take her place.”
Leah nodded, almost sick with relief.
“Excellent. Come along.” Sabra led her to the end of the hall. “Here’s the schoolroom, where Qeturah lectures us on history when she’s in the mood.”
History? Not embroidery, candle making, healing, and all the other sundry tasks a duchess needed to know?
A handful of books rested on a shelf carved out of the wall. Two noble girls pored over a map at a beautifully carved rosewood desk. In jarring contrast, the chairs they sat on were plain, yellow pine, unvarnished, and splintery.
The girls looked up, curiosity on their faces.
“Zamara, Niobe, this is…” A deliberate pause.
Leah’s heart skipped a beat.
Through Fire & Sea Page 4
