Seasons of Sorcery

by Jeffe Kennedy

  A deeper, sharper whistle rose above the rest, and as one body, the merfolk splashed to a halt, their eyes shimmering green coins in the darkness. Flukes slapped impatiently at the waves, and Brida got her first clear view of the sea people who had come to claim their own.

  Like the merman on the beach, and the merchild in her arms, their kinsmen possessed the tails and flukes of dolphins instead of fish, and their skin glowed shades of silver in the moonlight. Seaweed hair spilled down their backs and shoulders, some woven with bits of shell. Like her merman, the males were muscular, with broad shoulders and powerful arms. The females in the group were smaller than the males, sleek and arresting, their long hair at times revealing or obscuring their bare breasts.

  One female swam through the center of the group, moving slowly as if all the time in the world lay before them. She entered the shallows just shy of any danger of beaching herself and stared at Brida with a puzzling combination of wariness and recognition. She parted her lips and whistled the four-note tune in clear, perfect mimicry.

  Brida’s throat closed against an involuntary sob, and new tears coursed down her cheeks. She swallowed several times in an effort to speak. “You,” she told the merwoman. “I heard you once. Long ago.”

  The merwoman didn’t reply with either words or whistles, only watched Brida for a moment before her gaze slid to the mechild. She raised a webbed hand in an unmistakable command for Brida to bring the girl to her.

  Brida’s feet moved of their own accord, or at the will of a sea spell cast silently by one of its denizens. She clutched her flute in one hand and waded deeper, closer and closer until she stood directly in front of the mermaid, and stared down into a pair of sea glass eyes full of ancient secrets. She dropped to her knees and held out her arms, her muscles quivering with the effort to hold the heavy merchild.

  “She lives,” she told the merwoman. “For now.”

  Slender hands lifted the girl from Brida’s embrace. The merwoman spoke in a series of soft clicks, and the child’s eyes opened for just a moment before closing once more. The merfolk surrounding them trilled as the merwoman passed her to a mermaid who snatched her away before disappearing into the deep. Three more merfolk followed, but the rest stayed behind, their regard unwavering as they watched Brida.

  She braced a hand in the sand to keep the waves from knocking her over. She considered standing, but something warned her to stay put, at least for now. The merwoman whose voice had haunted her all these years whistled again, a single note ending on a question, and Brida recognized it as the merman’s name.

  Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I don’t know. I can’t know, and I can’t help unless I go back ashore.”

  The two stared at each other for long moments before the merwoman nodded as if she understood what Brida said. Careful to act as if negotiating with merfolk was an everyday event, Brida stood and waded steadily back to the beach where the water glossed the sand like a thin shield of glass. Here she was safe from a drowning. Here she could gather her sodden skirts in her hands and bolt for the safety of the salt grasses, leave behind a beached merman and the danger of being drowned by angry merfolk if she delivered their kinsman back to them, dead. The thought crossed her mind, brief as a candle flame flicker, before she cast it aside.

  She was scared, terrified even, but she wasn’t a coward. She returned to the tidal pools.

  The merman was as she’d left him, sprawled across the filling pools, tangled in bloodstained seaweed. His wounds still trickled blood and a small cluster of sand fleas gathered around the jagged line of flesh that marked where sharp teeth had torn into his tail. Brida approached him far more cautiously than she did the merchild, whistling his name in a steady repetition in case he lived and could hear her. His neck, under her palm, burned hot instead of cold, and a pulse beat in a thready rhythm just below his skin.

  “Thank you,” Brida said, not dwelling on whether she thanked the merman for not dying on her or the gods for being merciful in keeping him alive this long.

  His oddly handsome face tightened for a moment, his breathing growing louder. He convulsed, one hand digging into the seaweed beside him.

  Brida stroked his smooth cheek. “Shh, your daughter is returned to your kinsmen. They’re waiting for you now.” His eyelids lifted a fraction, giving her a glimpse of his eyes, no longer pale, but glowing with the same eyeshine she’d seen from the merfolk in the water. She offered him a smile and whistled the merchild’s name before pointing to the water.

  Her heart jumped in her chest when his eyes rolled back and his body collapsed, as if her words offered not only succor but permission for him to die.

  “No you don’t,” she snapped, her gentle caress on his cheek changing to a pair of quick slaps that made his eyelids flicker.

  Inquiring whistles sounded behind her. The merwoman and her people were growing impatient. And concerned.

  Brida stared at the merman. Now what? She couldn’t wait for the tide to move farther inland. It would be at least two more hours before it had filled the pools enough for her to float him into the deeper surf, and by then it would be too late. He was far too heavy for her to lift, much less carry.

  There was nothing for it. She’d have to drag him across the sand, risking more injury to his already battered body, and no doubt a terrible amount of pain. Brida prayed the gods would remain merciful and keep the merman unconscious through the ordeal.

  Her soaked skirt impeded her movements. She stripped down to her shift, shivering hard in the cold breeze that blew off the equally cold water. The flute joined her shawl on the rocks. Her teeth clacked together as she maneuvered behind the merman and bent to slide her hands under his shoulders.

  “Mother’s mercy,” she said between grunts. “You are heavy!”

  He was dead weight in her grip as she she slowly turned his body. Her discarded skirt became a useful tool when she wove the material under his armpits, and gripped the excess to tow him toward the surf and the waiting merfolk. His head lolled, and more than once she stepped on his trailing hair, jerking his head back so hard, she feared she’d broken his neck.

  Brida laid him down and straightened, pressing her hands to the screaming muscles of her lower back. Her exertions made her forget the cold, and she swiped a forearm across her sweating brow. The whistles from the surf grew demanding and ever more impatient. She spun to frown at the figures patrolling the surf. “You’ll kindly hold down that racket and keep your flukes in the water, mind. This is even harder than it looks.”

  A sharp click followed and the whistles stopped. Brida lifted the merman’s head and gathered his hair to drape it across his chest where she quickly wove it into a loose braid and tied it into a knot. That done, she resumed her task, leaving a trail of blood in their wake.

  This time the merfolk didn’t wait for her to wade deeper into the surf. A half dozen mermen suddenly surrounded her, and she fell back on her haunches in the water as they lifted their brother’s limp body and floated him into the waves. The rest followed, their excited whistles and clicks resuming once more.

  Short of breath and exhausted, Brida watched them go, both relieved the merman and merchild were no longer her responsibility and happy that she’d done all she could to save them. What a story she had to tell to her nieces and nephews, even if they thought it only an imaginative yarn spun by their eccentric aunt. Only she would know the truth of her tale or how the memory of the merman’s face would haunt her for many days to come.

  She was thoroughly drenched in salt water, as was everything she wore. If she didn’t develop a cold after this, it would be a blessing. Dark memories of the now dead obluda motivated her to hurry out of the surf even more than the cold did. The merfolk hadn’t tried to drown her, but that didn’t mean she was safe from some other lurking danger that swam along the Gray’s shores at night.

  Sand slid beneath her feet as she trekked to the rocks where she’d left her skirts, shawl, and flute. A clear whistle made he
r turn.

  The merwoman who’d approached her directly bobbed in the waves, moonlight plating her skin in dappled argentum. She raised a hand, in thanks, farewell, or both. Enchanted, Brida offered a nod and returned the gesture, watching as the merwoman turned and dove, disappearing beneath a rising hillock of water.

  “You’re welcome,” Brida said softly, with only the wind and the moon to hear her.

  It was time to go home.

  Chapter Three

  Brida walked barefoot among a flock of gulls patrolling the beach. Some followed her in hopes of reaping scraps she might drop as they hunted for crabs and darter fish at the edge of the surf. She kept a close eye on those winging above her, grateful for the kerchief she wore around her head to tame her hair and protect her head from bird droppings.

  Some of the villagers had begun giving her odd looks, pitying ones even, and she’d overheard a whisper or two floating amongst the crowds during the busy market day. They worried the solitude of her widowhood had brought on a dangerous melancholy. She walked the beach these days far more than a body should, especially now that colder temperatures had seeped in and settled, and the autumn sky was often bleak.

  Brida smiled as she wrapped her shawl tightly about her shoulders, her flute tucked under one arm. Who knew that she, Talmai’s flute-playing widow, would ever become as interesting a topic of public house conversation a the noble family to whom Ancilar was a vassal village? They were welcome to their conjectures. Gossip was its own form of entertainment in Ancilar, and she found it funny that for once, people weren’t gossiping as much about the inhabitants of Castle Banat perched on the bluff behind her.

  Her smile faded a little. Solitude wasn’t a bad thing, nor did she possess an overabundance of it as her neighbors assumed. Helping her sister-in-law with her large brood of children during the day guaranteed she was rarely alone or uninterrupted. She’d resorted to spinning wool—her main source of income—at night, when she escaped to her own house for some much needed quiet.

  Sometimes though, her curiosity got the best of her, along with a futile hope, and she put aside her spinning to walk the shoreline in the twilight hours before the gulls settled down to roost. Except for the birds, the beach was hers, as it was now, with only the waking stars to keep her company and the surf to sing to her.

  A fortnight had passed since she’d watched the merfolk disappear into the Gray with the injured merman and child he’d done his best to protect. She thought of the two often, especially the merman. He haunted her dreams, and she found herself remembering his unique eyes and the apologetic whistles he’d uttered in a weak breath after he landed that strike on her with his tail. She’d woken the following day with a painful lump on the back of her head but nothing more, except maybe a passing uncertainty that the events of the previous night had actually happened. She told no one. Who would believe her anyway?

  You know of one, her inner voice warned.

  As if her uncharitable thoughts had summoned him, a familiar figure perched for a second time on her favorite lookout spot. A saddled horse grazed on sea oats growing amid the salt grass nearby. Brida paused, pondering whether to continue or turn around and go home.

  “No reeking nobleman with his nose high in the wind is going to chase me away,” she grumbled under her breath and continued toward the ledge. She had her spare flute with her instead of the one her father had made for her, and if Ospodine tried to take it from her, she’d willingly surrender it to him and wish him good luck and good riddance.

  That pale, cool stare didn’t waver as she drew closer, and the thin smile playing across his mouth was as insincere as the cheery tone of his greeting. “A pleasure to see you here again, Madam Gazi. It seems we both like to stroll the shore this time of evening.”

  Brida considered herself a mild-mannered woman with a wealth of patience. This man, however, made her hackles rise. He wore an air of contempt about him that belied his surface manners. She hadn’t forgotten he’d entered her house to pry while she and the rest of the village harvested seaweed. She’d been startled and then dismayed to see him at Ancilar’s market day a few days after Lord Frantisek’s party, a guest who had not yet worn out his welcome at the castle or didn’t have the sense to know when he actually had done so.

  “Syr Ospodine,” she said shortly, not bothering to smile in return. This was no one she wanted to befriend, even under different circumstances. He reminded her too much of a cat that played with its prey before killing it.

  He unfolded his tall frame from the perch and gestured to the space. “Please, take my seat. I believe this is your favored spot, isn’t it?”

  An oily shiver eeled down her back. How often had he seen her sitting here this past fortnight, watching the Gray and playing her flute? Once? Twice? Every night?

  “You’re welcome to your privacy, syr,” she said and pivoted to trek back the way she came.

  The slap of footsteps in wet sand echoed behind her as Ospodine caught up with her. She jerked away when he touched her elbow, and he dropped his hand as if scalded. His expression held a mix of mutual dislike and revulsion.

  She didn’t stop walking until he strode ahead and stopped in front of her, blocking her path. He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Please. I mean you no harm. I only want to ask you something.”

  Wary, Brida tucked her hands into her shawl, using one to grasp the scissors on the chatelaine tied at her waist. “And what is that?”

  “Would you play the tune I heard at Lord Frantisek’s?”

  “Now?” Brida stared at the nobleman, very glad for several reasons that she’d brought her spare flute with her this evening.

  He nodded, an avid gleam entering his eyes. “Yes! Here. Now.”

  He knew. Knew just as she did that the four-note tune was something other than varied breaths blown through a musical instrument during warm-up exercises. The man vibrated with a suppressed eagerness verging on hysteria. The flatness of his mouth against his teeth and the narrow gaze he cast on her warned Brida that she might well compromise her safety if she refused.

  She adopted a bored expression, matching it with an equally casual shrug. “All right. If it means that much to you. Though I can play a ballad or a plaint for you that’s more entertaining.”

  “No,” he almost snarled before remembering himself. The false smile grew ever more strained. “Just the tune, and play it more than once.”

  Brida didn’t dare mention that only the flute her father had made could replicate the merwoman’s whistles perfectly. This flute, no matter how hard or how often she played it, had never accomplished the same.

  She fished the flute out of the folds of her shawl, warmed it up with a few experimental scales, and played the merwoman’s short song, never taking her eyes off her audience who loomed over her like a vulture.

  He flinched as if the sounds grated on his ears. “That isn’t right,” he complained. “Play it again. As you did at his lordship’s celebration.”

  Brida did as he commanded, playing and replaying the notes until Ospodine cursed her and snatched the flute out of her hands. “Stupid woman,” he snapped. “Like this.” Instead of putting the flute to his mouth, he whistled the notes himself, and this time it was her turn to wince at the discordant sound.

  She barely dodged out of the way in time when the nobleman flung the flute at her, enraged. It landed in the sand, and she left it where it lay, far too busy with keeping an eye on the red-faced Ospodine and her hand on the scissors. With her heart in her throat, she backed away from him.

  “Where did you learn to play that tune?” he shouted at her, advancing on her with long strides.

  “I didn’t ‘learn’ it! I only heard it long ago and repeated it!” Her shout carried alongside his over the dunes.

  “Oy!” a voice called out, making them both turn. “What are you going on about down there?”

  Brida almost burst into relieved tears at the sight of two of the village elders watching fro
m the top of one of the dunes. She used the distraction to dart around Ospodine and run for the safety of their company.

  He didn’t follow, taking the opposite path to retrieve his horse and vault into the saddle before galloping back toward the castle. Brida watched him go, her heartbeat still banging inside her skull like a war drum. She and the elders watched as his figure soon diminished, becoming nothing more than a fast moving speck that disappeared behind a hillock of sand before reappearing at the bottom of the castle road.

  “Trouble, that one,” one of the two elders said as he squinted into the distance. “He’s been roaming about the village, asking odd questions.” His aging gaze drifted to Brida. “A few of those questions about you, Brida.”

  “What were you two arguing about?” the second elder asked. “We could hear you playing and then you both shouting afterwards.”

  Brida shuddered. “He’s obsessed with a few notes I played at the castle during her ladyship’s name day celebration. They mean nothing to me.” That wasn’t quite true. “But they’re important to him for reasons he’s chosen not to share.”

  “He didn’t hurt you, did he?” The second elder’s face bunched into a thunderous frown. “Laylam will want his head on a plate, nobleman or not, if he did.”

  She groaned inwardly. The last thing she needed was her brother’s already overprotective instincts to flare into a bonfire. He’d try to nail her feet to the floor of her own house in a misguided attempt to keep her safe. “He didn’t touch me. Just grew angry when I played what he requested, but it seems I played poorly.”

  Thank the gods she hadn’t brought her bone flute. After discovering Ospodine had wandered uninvited through her house, Brida had taken the flute to Laylam’s where Norinn had stashed it and Brida’s earnings in a locked box stored beneath the kitchen floor.

  The thought reminded her of her forgotten second-best flute, still in the sand where Ospodine had thrown it. She asked the elders to wait for her while she retrieved the instrument. She bent to pick up the flute and froze at the faintest sound purling toward her from the incoming tide.