Princess at Sea

by Dawn Cook

  “Let go,” I snarled, as the air pushed against me, the thrum in my head promising it could free me if I listened hard enough. But he had my arm. His eyes were wide and full of fear. I remembered fear. I didn’t have any. The wind was calling. There was nothing else.

  “Let it go, Tess,” he said. “You have to let it go. You called the wind—I don’t know how—but you have to let it go. Let it go now, before it takes you!”

  He was holding my shoulders, but my head was up, watching the moon. There were no clouds. The wind pulled through my hair and swelled the sail as it swelled in my soul. I had summoned it, and yet I was chained to the earth. I could feel the anger building in me, the anger that he dare try to keep me from joining the power I had summoned. It was mine. “Take your hands off me,” I said softly. My lips pressed together and my pulse hammered. Venom made me warm, and my skin tingled where the wind touched it.

  He shook his head. “Tess, this was a mistake. Players don’t call the wind because they can’t control it. Let it go.” His voice was soothing, whipping my blood to a frenzy. “Let it go.”

  A wicked contriving filled me as I looked to the moonlit horizon, silver and jagged. The raft jostled, but I held my balance, pushed by the wind and the waves. I controlled the wind; the wind did not control me. I was stronger than it. It was mine. And after it did as I demanded, I was going to keep it. I was so strong, I didn’t need to hold to my word.

  A sudden anger filled me when I realized he was still gripping my arm. “Let—go.”

  He shook his head. “I won’t.” His grip tightened, imprisoning me. Hurting.

  Fury, hot and potent, rushed from my middle to my hands. The wind responded, swirling about us, soaking us as waves ran freely over the raft. I reached for him, placing my hands atop his shoulders. His eyes widened as he saw his death in my eyes. Clean and pure, it flowed from me, filling him to break him from his soul. He would let go of me. I would be free of him!

  A cry of victory tore from me, almost unheard over the wind thumping the canvas and the waves crashing to make my feet warm, then cold. The hands imprisoning me clenched in a spasm, then strengthened. “No,” a ragged voice rasped, and my joy turned to affront. He wasn’t dead. He was still here!

  “Free me!” I shouted, the sound of the wind goading me. I could feel it, singing to me—whispering words not spoken since the birth of time.

  “No,” he said again, his brown eyes wide and his jaw clenched under his beard. I howled and screamed at him, and the wind howled and screamed with me. I bit and fought. I thrashed and wrestled. He wrapped his arms about me and pulled me to the mast. He bound me with his arms and imprisoned me with his body.

  The waves crashed over us, soaking and streaming through my hair, and I shrieked my rage. The raft tilted and righted itself. He wouldn’t let go! I couldn’t kill him! He was stronger than I. But I was the wind, and nothing was stronger than that. The wind could kill him. The wind could break him. Then I could be free.

  I pulled to the wind, calling it to me with promises I had no intent to fulfill. With a contriving strength, it surged from the depths of the ocean, pushing the waves higher, running before them like a coursing hound over hills, its existence turned to one purpose. It laughed at my promises of freedom, telling me I couldn’t give something I didn’t have and that I couldn’t hold it. Soon it would be free—and it could take me with it.

  Denying it, I demanded obedience. The wind rebelled. The raft under me bobbed, and the waves soaked me. I didn’t care.

  “Tess!” a voice cried, loud in my ear.

  Confusion jerked me from the sky. It wasn’t the wind in my thoughts. The wind was both promising and demanding freedom, laughing at me as if I were a child with a string to hold a stallion. No . . . it had been a dark voice shouting to be heard, shouting to force a way into my head. “Let me go!” I cried, unable to move as the voice said my name over and over. I hated it. I couldn’t hear the wind with it talking at me.

  “Tess,” the voice rasped. “I’ll let you go if you make the wind push us to land. To land, Tess. Make it push us to land.”

  It promised freedom. My heart leapt. With a snarling vengeance, I stretched out my will and yanked the wind to me. It fought, and I subdued it. I had called it; it would do as I said! I made the same deal with it as the black voice holding me had. I would free it if it did as I told it to. But I lied. I would never let it go.

  My curses and shouts grew vengeful as the sail above me snapped into shape. The crack of it was like a goad. The wind screamed its defiance, and I met it with all my will. It would do as I said. Only then would I free it. I was its master.

  The heady rush of dominance scoured me, turning my blood to liquid metal. Like sand through my fingers, it poured unhindered, filling me with warm, heavy power. Wild and passionate, the wind fought to be free, and I held it. I saw its every move before it made it. I slapped it into obedience, and it roared its frustrations, making the waves higher and the sail strain at the ropes. It was mine.

  A soft whisper of words ran through my awareness. I hated it, hated the voice and the one to whom it belonged. Hated the arms that held me and forced my compliance. I took my anger out on the wind, layering my will upon it even as it made stinging whips of my hair and fiery drops of sea spray. If I took the black voice to land, it would let go of me. Then I would be free.

  And the voice was afraid. It was afraid even as it refused to let me go.

  I was afraid of nothing. I was the wind. I belonged to no one.

  Sixteen

  Land was coming. I knew this. The first of my zephyrs had touched it, arching up like angels to heaven, racing over the top of my wind and falling back to tell me.

  Land, the zephyr sang to me, my heart clenching in thrill. Soon I’d be free of the black voice that held me down, whispering promises of freedom after my task was done.

  I told the zephyr that when I reached the land I would free it. But I lied. The wind was mine. I would never let it go.

  The zephyr swelled into a frenzy at my renewed promise, and a surge of wind smashed into the already bulging sail. A cry tore from me at its ferocity. It was beautiful in its uncaring that it might capsize us. Water black from the as-yet-unrisen sun sloshed over the raft, soaking me. The voice and arms that had imprisoned me woke from his fitful slumber.

  I chafed at his grip, and he frantically sent his fingers over the silken knots he had tied about us, keeping us against the mast after I had tried to wash us off the raft. The mast was humming with the power of wind and water. The thrum had burned in my blood all night.

  The voice behind me sang, too, but his song paled beside the glorious ferocity of the wind pushing on my face in brutal gusts. I laughed, watching the swollen canvas slowly grow first white, then pink as the sun neared rising. The last of the stars were caught by the wildly shifting rigging, and they vanished from the bluing sky in shame.

  But the land was coming. I’d soon be free of the black voice whispering in my ear of things I no longer cared for. But he had promised to let me go.

  Stronger now, the first of the real wind touched upon the shore, sending a reverberation back to me, inciting a stronger force. My hair blew to hide my face, and the sail began to tear as it rebounded, and we raced ahead.

  Soon. Soon we’d be free. The black voice had promised. And then the wind would be wholly mine to do with what I pleased. My existence was a rushing sound of wind and water, and the rays leapt around us, trying to become one with both worlds, the sea and the air.

  Behind me, the black voice whispered. I hated him. I couldn’t hear the wind properly with him intruding. I wanted to hear the wind alone, to lose myself, but he was always there, an unwelcome rise and fall that hung and buzzed.

  Sunrise was a silent thunder of heat. Red and swollen, the sun rose—my sly companion, my agent provocateur. It was where the strength of my wind was born. Silent, steadily moving, heating and cooling the earth and water to give my wind its power. The black
voice holding me shuddered. He was afraid. I could smell it.

  And then I saw it. An unbroken line took shape from the haze of sun gold clouds. My salvation. My end. Land. It was close. Close enough to touch almost.

  The shadow whispering in my ear must have seen it, too, for his words increased, maddening me in their calm insistence, telling me where to go, what to make the wind do. I would be free of it. I belonged to no one!

  Like a harnessed stallion remembering its colthood free on the plains, I bent to his demands, running in the direction I was given. The wind shrieked in my ears, pulling me forward, demanding release. The waves ahead of us ran into the submerged land, rising when the wind refused to let them rest.

  A new sound rushed to fill my ears. I struggled to stand, failing as the ropes hindered every motion but breathing. It was my wind in the trees lining the approaching shore, harsh in the yellow light.

  They groaned and cracked against the power I controlled, and I sent my strength to smash against them. And my wind willingly responded.

  A tide born from my wind surged and crashed among the trees. The man holding me pulled me closer. I fought him, even as the raft was flung into land. We rode the swell into the scrub, lurching to a spinning halt against a willow.

  The water flowed out from under us in a wild swirl of cold and pressure. The world no longer moved, but the canvas snapped and tore in the wind. We were here. I would be free!

  I told the wind to swirl, and it did. I told it to rise, and my breath was taken from me as it pulled the air from my very lungs. Leaves, water, and sand rose in wild release. I had done what he demanded. Now he would free me, and I would be the wind. “Let me go!” I demanded, the waves drenching us when the wind continued to whip them into sacrificing themselves upon the land. The sun turned everything gold, and the water glinted yellow. “Free me!”

  “Tess.” It was a shout into my ear, almost unheard over the waves and wind.

  “Free me!” I demanded, telling the wind to wait, and it swirled impatiently, gusting into a temper to break the trees around us to shattered stumps. Noise beat upon us, but still I heard the voice’s one word.

  “No.”

  Shock struck through me. I knew what that meant. That word had meaning. It meant he had—He had lied to me!

  “Release me!” I demanded, pulling, fighting. He didn’t, his arms pressing against me with more insistence.

  “Come back,” he whispered, a warm breath on my neck when all else was cold. “Let it go, Tess. Let the wind go.”

  “It’s mine!” I twisted, feeling the burn of ropes for the first time. “It does as I say! I called it to me!”

  But he wouldn’t let go.

  Angry, I whipped my will against the waves and sent it upward. My will hit the ceiling of the sky and rebounded. Hell itself screamed down from the heavens, out of a clear sky came a heavy stone of wind. It slammed into us like a wall of water. It snapped the useless mast, its demise unheard in the agony of wind and waves.

  But he tightened his grip, telling me to let it go, demanding I hold to my word. “Let it go,” he said. “Let the wind go first, then I’ll free you, Tess!”

  “No!” I shouted, tears starting to mix with my defiance. I was beaten. He knew my name. I had a name. Reminding me of it gave him power. He was stronger than I. And I knew that voice. I knew him. Damn him, it was Jeck.

  “Free the wind,” he said. “It wants to be free. You promised to free it. Let it go.”

  “But it’s mine!” I cried out, frantic that I might lose it all. “I called it.”

  “I won’t let you go until you free it,” he said. “I promise. I’ll let you go. But you have to free the wind first. It’s not yours. Let it go.”

  “What if you don’t?” I whimpered, and the wind beat upon us. I had meant to free the wind, but it seduced me. How can you let go of so powerful a force without regret? I was weak. I had no will.

  “I’ll never force you against your will again, Tess,” Jeck whispered, and I wept as I felt my awareness return, making me less. “I promise,” he said. “Let the wind go. Do it for Kavenlow, for Duncan. You’ll never see them again if you don’t let it go.”

  Duncan? I thought, my wildly blowing hair sticking to my damp cheeks. The wind howled, sensing a weakening of will. It roared its approval, demanding release. Tears blurred my vision as I bowed my head. How could I let it go? I’d be nothing. I’d fall.

  “Let it go, Tess,” Jeck whispered. “I’ll catch you.”

  I could do nothing. He had bested me physically with his ropes. He had bested my soul by reminding me of my humanity. He had bested my will, forcing my obedience when I would lie and betray. I—who had called the wind, who had chained it to my will—would be beaten by another.

  Sobbing, I loosened my hold on the wind. It was only the barest lessening of wills, but the wind felt it.

  Shrieking in victory, it laid the beach flat. It swirled and whipped me for my audacity of thinking I could keep it, then it broke from me.

  I cried out in heartache as it raced away. I hung in my shackles of cord and Jeck’s arms, gasping for air. The hurt was so deep, I couldn’t breathe. The wind had taken a part of me in its revenge. Unseen claws had raked my soul as easily as it raked the tattered remnants of trees.

  “Stay with me, Tess,” Jeck said, his voice in my ear rough and frightened. “Don’t follow it. Stay here. Stay here.”

  I wanted to follow. I wanted to break free of my ropes and run after it. But I couldn’t. Even if my ropes were gone, I had lost the will. Sobbing, I slumped my head against the dead mast and wept.

  “Stay with me,” Jeck whispered, his grip easing when he felt my awareness return. The roar of the storm about me gentled, not remembering me and my demands anymore. Between one rasping breath and the next, it became a fickle breeze, playing with my hair. It no longer recalled tearing wave tops and breaking trees. But I did.

  Even my hair stilled. A faint zephyr brushed my cheek, then was gone.

  I was left behind, tied to a broken mast on a shattered raft flung thirty feet past the high-tide mark, sobbing while the sun continued its uncaring rise into the sky.

  Seventeen

  The sun was warm on my cheek, even where my hair was sticking to it. It was warm on my shoulder, too; bare to the slight breeze where my dress wasn’t plastered to me. My front was out of the wind, seeing as I was still tied to the mast with my arms wedged in front of me. And my back was warm because Jeck was sitting behind me, his attempts at undoing the knots binding us as yet unsuccessful. I was warm, yes. But I was more than a little concerned.

  Jeck’s arms were wrapped about the mast and me both as he struggled to undo everything by memory and feel. He’d been at it for longer than I thought he should be, growling for me to be still or silent every time I tried to help or offer suggestions. If the truth be told, I think he was starting to get worried, too, since his breath coming and going on the back of my neck had gotten faster and more strained. My thoughts shifted to Duncan, and my eye twitched.

  “Um, Captain?” I said uneasily when a muttered curse slipped from him. The raft was perched about two feet off the ground, cradled cant wise in the remains of a willow.

  “What?”

  It was sharp and terse, and I changed my mind. “Nothing.”

  “My fingers are numb,” he said, his voice low. “I’m working as best I can.”

  A sigh shifted from me, temporarily tightening my bonds as I breathed. Had I thought anything but that he wanted to get away from me as much as I wanted to be away from him, I would have elbowed him in the gut and tried to slap him. As it was, we were trussed up so well, I could hardly move anything but my head.

  I put my left temple against the mast and waited, suffering occasional jabs of pain on my tender wrist when he tugged the ropes too hard. My eyes drifted over the chaos of the beach. The waves were still high, rolling in white and gold with the stored strength of my wind. It was just past low tide, but one would n
ever know it from the storm surge pushing against the beach.

  Broken branches and foam made a thick line as the tide slowly crept in. Farther down the beach trees still stood, their branches stripped of their spring leaves. But where we had landed, the trees had been reduced to shattered stumps.

  “Did I really do all this?” I said softly. My throat hurt, and I didn’t dare raise my voice.

  Jeck didn’t answer, his breath coming in a relieved sound. “Got one,” he said, and I felt an inch more room between us. Then it was gone as he pressed closer to get a better reach on the knots that remained. He smelled like ocean and leather, not entirely unpleasant.

  “Why did you fasten them so tight?” I complained, not liking that he had been tied to me all night, and liking even less that I didn’t remember any of it but snatches.

  “You were trying to kill me.”

  Shocked, my breath caught and held.

  He grunted, and my back went cold when a second knot loosened, and he leaned away.

  “With my magic?” I asked, aghast. “I . . . I’m sorry. I don’t remember that.”

  “No. You didn’t use your magic. You were very sly about it.” He seemed to be in a much better mood now that he was making some progress, and an almost jovial tone had crept into his voice. “Mostly trying to push me off when I wasn’t looking. I tied you to the mast when you kept trying to climb it. But when you began inciting the rays to capsize the boat, I tied myself behind you.”

  The muscles of his arms still about me hesitated, then flexed as he renewed his work. Water plinked from the cuffs of his Misdev coat. “By then, the water was coming over the raft fairly regularly, and my voice seemed to be the only thing keeping you halfway to what was real and what wasn’t.”

  My gaze went unfocused. Someone had been singing, low and soft. I remembered hating it, wanting to forget everything so I could hear the wind speak in tongues long lost, but the voice wouldn’t let me. Jeck had kept me sane. “I don’t remember that,” I lied, thinking it would do neither of us any good if he knew I remembered.