“Where are we, Jaja?” she asked with hushed wonder.
Mother Tree, he replied within her mind, for the first time not just with abstract feelings but in actual words. Source of all zabbaroot.
For just a moment Mahri could see the trunk of the mammoth tree, a dark mass of twisted bark that would take many moons for her to even walk around, if that was even possible. The limbs that splayed out from it stretched into infinity and she shuddered at the sheer majesty of it.
Tendrils of fog wreathed her face and blocked her view, as if mere mortals were allowed only a glimpse of the tree. The mist thickened as their route dipped down to meet the surface of the sea, and through another break in the whiteness she could see beneath a parallel branch and stopped in stunned amazement.
“Zabbaroot,” she breathed, and felt Jaja nod his tiny head in excited agreement. Not just one but hundreds of roots grew from underneath the branch, long tendrils that dipped their tips into the water and curled back up and around each other. The pale green tubers sparkled with suppressed Power. The natives that tended them reflected that light in their black eyes.
Mahri frowned. Although many natives hovered around the fringes of her own village, frequented the wharves and were said to tend the Royal’s root farms, she’d never paid them any notice. Similar to Jaja, they stood larger, perhaps half her own height, possessed the webbed hands and feet, the scales that looked like fur until closer examination. But their heads were much larger in proportion than her monk-fish, and their eyes glittered a uniform black instead of the soft brown orbs of Jaja.
How could she have never noticed them? Like the sound of the sea they existed on the fringes of the conscious but never drew attention to themselves, never spoke, just appeared from the forest to take over a task that needed doing. Why had she never questioned their existence before?
She felt rather than heard the laughter in her mind, met Jaja’s eyes but he shrugged in negation.
“Who?” she mouthed, and a tiny webbed finger pointed toward the trunk of the Mother Tree.
Mahri lifted leaden feet, hesitant to walk away from so much root without harvesting just a bit. Yet she had a feeling it wouldn’t be allowed, that she’d be upsetting some kind of balance.
Then she almost smacked nose to bark, if Jaja hadn’t tugged on her braid, pulling her up short as mist unfolded to reveal a door set into the trunk before them. A door unlike any she’d ever seen, one solid piece of bone carved with scenes of the natives, arms opened to the sky and something falling from the heavens, an impossible bird with a tail that spewed fire. Mahri knew she should understand this, something tickled at her mind, like an old memory…
Jaja shook her braid, the seashells entwined in it tinkled in muted tones, and her hands rose of their own accord and pushed open that door. When her fingers touched the bone she knew it to be Leviathan; impossible really, for something that large. But she felt her retracted pole in its sheath of octopus skin and knew they were of the same substance.
They’re wealthy, yet they serve humankind as willing slaves, fetching and working with such unobtrusiveness that most of the time they go unnoticed. Why would the natives of the sea forest pretend to be unintelligent animals—and to what purpose?
To learn, to guide, answered that same voice that had laughed in her head earlier.
Mahri stepped into the room, then reassessed that definition. A room had sides and a ceiling that she could see, yet this place stretched beyond sight. What could she call this surround of blackness? An abyss? And she shuddered with more than fear.
“Where are you?” she asked, searching for the source of that mind contact. She’d never heard of a coma inducing such vivid dreams. Then again, she’d never met anyone who’d survived an overdose of the root.
Enter, sit, replied the voice inside her head.
A cushioned pallet of the skin of an unfamiliar sea creature appeared at her feet, and Mahri sank with a sigh. A pool of light surrounded her but couldn’t penetrate the recesses of the inner trunk of this tree, and when a native stepped into the seeming brilliance her mouth dropped open in stupid wonder.
Natives didn’t often wear clothes, but this one sported layers of spider-silk scarves, a crown of birdshark feathers, jewelry of carved bone and iridescent shells. Even slippers of sharkskin covered the webbed feet.
“Who are you?” breathed Mahri.
The native female, judging by her size and the thick head of fur-scales, tried to imitate a smile by the baring of sharply pointed teeth. At Mahri’s alarmed expression, she shrugged and squatted down next to her, black lips quickly covering those deadly incisors. Jaja hopped on the native female’s shoulder.
I’m the Speaker, she thought-answered while she rubbed scaled cheeks with Jaja.
Mahri fought down a sense of betrayal at her pet’s abandonment and frowned at his contented little expression. “Speaker for who?”
The female waved a webbed hand negligently in the air. For all.
It felt peculiar to hear words without a mouth moving. Jaja hopped back onto her own shoulder and Mahri grinned with satisfaction. As if this had been some kind of signal the female almost-frowned and met her eyes with her own black, intense native ones. Eyes that weren’t truly black, Mahri noticed with a start, but such a deep green that they darkened to black.
Hard to speak to your kind, began the native. Still learning… odd thought directions.
Mahri rubbed the top of her bone staff. “Am I dead or just dreaming?” she wondered aloud. The native leaned forward, she could almost feel the slight wind from the flutter of those impossibly thick alien lashes.
No matter. No time. Root allows speak… but danger to you if long. Heed me. Black lips thinned with determination, the feathered headdress fluttered in agitation.
Mahri had a sinking feeling. This dream took on an aspect of importance that she suddenly didn’t care for. “I’m just a water-rat, a rootrunner that only cares for her village. I don’t know what you want from me, but your people had better choose someone else to speak with, someone who cares what you have to say.”
The native widened her eyes and slowly blinked. You only one. The HALF. Protect… nurture, the Prince of Changes. Make whole.
The prince of what? wondered Mahri. She didn’t know any princes… then she groaned. “You don’t mean Prince Korl, do you?”
The native nodded her head, clapped webbed hands that made a soft popping noise. We guide your people, you help. Prince of Changes must rule with you. The beginning of… peace, brotherhood, for all of Sea Forest. And she stood, as if she’d made Mahri understand her wishes and didn’t doubt they’d now be followed.
“Must rule?” shouted Mahri, springing to her feet. “Listen, I’m a smuggler, I stand against everything the Royals want—control of root and knowledge. I wouldn’t help anyone rule, even if I knew how!”
The native fluttered her hands and began to pace around their circle of light. When your people come from above… different. Want, demand. Either fight or help. Choose to guide, see long future. Understand?
Mahri shook her head, a bit dizzy from following the native circling around her. “You’re telling me that old tale of our people traveling through the stars, coming from another world, is true?”
The native stopped in front of her, looked up into Mahri’s face, nodded slowly. Need Prince of Changes, she shouted into Mahri’s mind, making her head ache. Path to peace. But he needs you.
“Even if that were true,” she replied, stroking Jaja’s tail for comfort. “I don’t see how I can help him to rule. A water-rat could never be Queen of Sea Forest.”
If the native had been human Mahri would swear the look she wore reeked with a sly, subtle humor. You. Bond. With Prince of Changes.
That seeming demand made Mahri freeze with shock. A Bond! She wouldn’t enter into that state with her chosen lifemate, and by-the-thirteen-moons she’d never even consider it with a Royal! To link Power through the zabbaroot with another took far
more trust than most people were willing to give, much less someone like her.
Mahri’s only comfort lay in the thought that this was a root-induced dream, albeit of the highest caliber. “You want the impossible,” she replied.
The circle of light they stood in began to shrink. The native eyed it with alarm and grabbed the taller woman’s forearms. Not impossible. You… the half.
The light now encompassed only Mahri, the native’s grip had loosed and disappeared into the blackness. “The half of what?” she demanded into the growing abyss.
The answer in her mind tickled faint as a whisper. The other half… of his soul.
Chapter 3
MAHRI OPENED HER EYES WITH A SCREAM IN HER throat that couldn’t be voiced. The noise that did come from her mouth sounded like a fair imitation of Jaja’s squeaky chatter and made her snap her lips shut, swallow hard against the sandy feel of her tongue. Her eyes flew open onto daylight, and she became aware of the rhythm of the water beneath her and a body that felt bruised all over. And felt an amazed gratitude that she seemed to be alive.
She tried to tense her muscles to sit up. Nothing happened. They wouldn’t—or couldn’t—respond; useless strings that now sufficed just to hold her bones together. Mahri lay immobile with what felt like swamp fever, watched the interlaced tree branches above, the shafts of sunshine that managed to filter through the canopy, and hungrily eyed the krizm vines that dangled their swollen globes of stored water from the night’s rain.
She couldn’t see him, but heard a whistled tune, knew that Prince Korl guided their passage through the channel by the unnecessary splashes from his inept paddling. They’d be better off if he just let her boat drift. Her mouth opened to ask for water when she realized that the Royal wouldn’t know a krizm vine from a dedo, would most likely pluck a pink globe instead of the red, accomplishing what the coma had not.
But thank the-thirteen-moons for the mind closeness of her pet. Jaja must have felt her need for his sweet little face appeared above her, brown eyes huge with concern, then the blessed relief of wetness flowed into her mouth, down her parched throat. When she’d had enough Mahri managed to turn her cheek into her pet’s hand, rubbing skin to scale in a silent thank you.
“So, the water-rat wakes,” drawled the Royal.
Mahri gritted her teeth at his patronizing tone. The brief flare of anger allowed her to lift her head and she gasped at the result, her vision red with the pain that pulsed through her skull.
I’m proud to be a water-rat, she reminded herself.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” he continued. “That much root would’ve downed many a Master Seer I know.” He dropped the paddle and turned, his face in direct contrast with the voice, for his forehead narrowed in concern as he studied her.
“You’ve still got a nasty lump on your head, but I’ve Seen to your shoulder and, er, chest.” His face reddened and Mahri fought back a smile. “The effects of the overdose, well, there’s nothing I can do about that. But it looks like time ought to heal you.”
He crouched beside her and Mahri stared in mute wonder. His eyes sparkled with root, eyes that glowed the palest green that she’d ever seen, their color and large, round shape making them jump out from the rest of his face, impaling her with their brilliance. She couldn’t look away.
“I thought about tying you up,” he continued, his face reddening again, “just to return the favor. But you’ll be too weak to give me much trouble anyway.”
Mahri could only stare and listen to that strangely deep throaty voice, unaware of the words he spoke, only responding to the feeling that shivered through her at the sound of it. Her heart thudded erratically and fish-fins fluttered through her stomach and she wished he’d keep talking forever.
The Royal’s mouth continued to move and she continued to stare at him until his words just trailed away, his eyes locking with her own, caught up in the same spell that gripped Mahri.
His pale hair absorbed the filtered sunshine and made each strand shimmer with gold; tendrils that had loosened from the strip of mosk-leather around his forehead curled lazily against his jaw and neck. Thick, brownish-gold lashes framed those startling eyes, high cheekbones sculpted an otherwise boyishly round face. Pale, creamy skin, the envy of any woman, allowed a blush to betray his thoughts and made Mahri want to run her hands along his face, to see if that perfection were real. And absently made her wonder if he spent any time out-of-tree.
She broke the trap of his gaze and trailed her own over to his mouth, that full bottom lip. Mahri could feel the sudden pull like a tangible thing, a taut rope that tugged her own lips to his, to barely touch that warm fire and allow her to breathe in the scent of him.
The sudden roar of rushing water, the spin of her little craft, broke the hold he had on her.
“Stop it,” she snapped.
“Me?” he growled, jerking his head back. “You’re the one who…”
Mahri raised her eyebrows and watched him blush in confusion. She could still feel the bare brush of his lips on hers, knew she couldn’t help the draw he had on her, that he’d done nothing she hadn’t asked for. Everything about him, every feature of his face, seemed to be made to fit her idea of perfection. He was simply the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. And her body wanted him.
Although still young in years, she’d been married and knew lust when she felt it. Yet she’d only been with Brez, despite Vissa’s creative attempts at seduction, and even after her lifemate’s death had never even considered another. Until she’d met this Royal. This attraction went beyond her scope of experience, this demanding, hungry… she needed to touch him, crush him, overwhelm her senses with the taste and feel of him. Mahri nearly panted aloud with the ache of it.
She refused to believe she could behave like such a wanton.
Korl had grabbed the oar and attempted to stop the boat from spinning, his muscles bulging through the thin spider silk of his shirt, and Mahri closed her eyes against the sight. Immunity, she thought. I’ll just keep looking at him until I’m immune to this attraction, until his power over me fades with increased familiarity. Simple.
“Water-rat,” he shouted over the increasing roar of the current. “There’s whitecaps ahead.”
Mahri tried to rise but her muscles still refused to obey her. Where are we? She wondered. What channel had they been thrown into? Root-fried, yes, but she never should’ve relaxed her guard—those that did seldom survived the swamps.
“Jaja,” she whispered. “How far?”
The monk-fish hopped to the bow of the boat, made a show of shading his eyes with a tiny webbed hand. Then he undulated his fingers for entirely too long. The whitecaps went far down the passage.
“Zabbaroot,” she demanded. Her pet bared his teeth and didn’t budge. Now, she mentally screamed. He winced but held his ground.
Mahri moved her hand just enough to feel the loss of her mosk-leather belt from around her waist. Raised her head long enough to catch a glimpse of it now encircling Korl, the fish-scale pouch containing her root supply hanging against his hip.
So their positions were now reversed. But she wouldn’t lower herself to begging for root as he did. Either he’d get them through this or come to his senses and ask for her help. She felt around again, sighed with relief when her fingertips touched the warmth of her bone pole. At least he’d left her the staff, although without the root to fuel her muscles it wasn’t much help.
Mahri felt the boat buck beneath her, fought down impotent frustration at being powerless to act. She clenched her fists and occasionally raised her head to see how Korl fared, and those actions were all that her body allowed.
Jaja continued to perch atop the bow, the thrash of the waves too forceful for him to risk jumping down. His tail fanned out in fear, the fin waving back and forth like a banner. When the boat rocked with a force that almost threw Mahri from the deck, Jaja barely had time to scream before a swell swept him into the channel.
Mahri scre
eched the vilest curses she could think of, struggled to a sitting position and flicked her staff. The bone extended and she used it to support herself to her feet, only to have her body betray her and sag back to the deck. Jaja swam like the fish he partly was and he needn’t come up for air for hours, but if he slammed into a rock, or slipped into the maw of a wide mouth skulker… She didn’t know this passage, couldn’t know if any skulker’s had staked this territory, but any smuggler knew that where the water ran swift, skulkers usually hunted.
“What’s wrong?” That deep, strong voice at her ear.
“Jaja,” she cried, struggling upward again, locking her muscles when she reached hands and knees. By-the-moons, she’d asked too much of her body, it wouldn’t respond to her demands. She reached out a hand and tried to wrest the root pouch from him.
He swatted her hand away as if it were a pesky insect. “No more root, water-rat, do you want to die?” And then he did the most selfless, idiotic thing she’d ever seen. He jumped over the side of the boat after her monk-fish.
Now she’d have to save both of them, she thought with more than a little disgust, and started to crawl aft. Typically arrogant of him to think that the only zabbaroot she had lay in her pouch. Mahri pushed then twisted, and exposed the secret compartment in the deck—standard, although hidden differently, in every smuggler’s boat. She reached far into the cranny and pulled out her supply.
The Royal’s also a Healer, she reminded herself. What if he’s right about more root being fatal? She’d never pushed her tolerance this far.
Yet Jaja is more family to me than those in the village. There’s really no choice here. Mahri crunched zabba.
The oddest sensation shivered through her veins, as if the overdose of root had forged new pathways through her. When the flush reached her head she remembered the vivid dream that she’d had from her coma. That the natives were intelligent, that they could communicate through the mind and had done so with her. The Speaker’s demand that she Bond with the prince.
Beneath the Thirteen Moons Page 3
