Seasons of Sorcery

by Jeffe Kennedy

  Edonin had warned that Ahtin courted danger by courting Brida, but Brida wondered if maybe the ap herself was at more risk and unaware of it. “I don’t know if this will mean anything to you, but there’s a land dweller in Ancilar who I think searches for the mer. Searches for you specifically. His name is Ospodine.” At Edonin’s puzzled look, Brida clarified. “Ospodine means ‘horse of the sea.’”

  A sound, desolate and stricken, erupted from Edonin’s mouth. Her skin turned the shade of old hearth ash. Desolation, mixed with terror, darkened her eyes. She shuddered, the motion traveling from the top of her shoulders, through her tail, and into her fluke.

  Shocked by the extraordinary reaction, Brida waded toward her. Edonin raised a hand to stop her. “Again, I’m in your debt.” Her voice no longer carried the lyrical quality Brida had learned to associate with the merfolk. “I beg you, please, if you care anything for Ahtin—anything—stay away from him. If you care for your own life, stay away from the one you call Ospodine. I know him well, and wish with all my soul I never did.”

  At that, the ap sped away, the wake of her quick departure a cut in the waves that marked the direction of her path to the deep from which she’d come.

  Brida, thoroughly frightened now, for Ahtin, for Edonin, and for herself, sprinted home, throwing the bolt to her front door as soon as she closed it behind her. Her body, still throbbing from Ahtin’s lovemaking, now shivered as much from fear as from chills. Her instincts regarding Ospodine had been right. She had no idea what terrible thing existed between him and a merfolk matriarch, but Brida had no doubt that Edonin’s reaction had not been overly dramatic or unjustified. Ospodine was dangerous. She only wished she knew exactly why.

  She checked all her locks twice before changing into warm night clothes and crawling into bed. Brida didn’t know why she bothered. She’d have to be up in a couple of hours, and there was no chance her spinning thoughts would allow her to drift off. Moments after she nuzzled into her pillow she was asleep.

  A sharp pounding awakened her to a bedroom bathed in punishing sunlight. Her throat was on fire, and every swallow was like downing a handful of ground glass. The incessant pounding came from inside her skull, but also from her front door.

  She wove her way through the parlor on unsteady feet. “Who is it?” she croaked, surprising herself by the awful sound. Gone were the days when she opened her door without knowing her visitor first. Ospodine’s trespassing had seen to that.

  “Are you all right, Brida? Open the door.” Norinn’s exasperated command seeped through the wood. Brida yanked back the bolt and shoved the door open, squinting against the unseasonal brightness. The slant of the sun on the cobblestones told her it was well past morning and into early afternoon.

  Her sister-in-law’s irritation changed to concern, and she gently nudged Brida farther into the house, closing the door behind her. “My gods, you look ghastly. I think I’ve seen healthier looking wraiths. Are you sick?”

  Brida shuffled back to her bedroom and collapsed on the mattress. “I must be. I feel like death.” Inwardly, she wailed her frustration. Now was not the time to be ill!

  “You look like it,” Norinn blithely informed her. She tucked Brida’s feet back under the covers, then adjusted them until Brida huddled under their weight, certain she’d never get warm.

  Norinn pressed a hand to her forehead. “A fever as well.” She clucked, reminding Brida of a disgruntled chicken. “Stay in bed. I’ll make willow bark tea before I go.” She clucked again at Brida’s disgusted rumble. “Bad taste or not, it will help,” she admonished. “I’ll send Yenec over later with soup. She can mind the house for you while you rest.”

  Brida didn’t argue. If she ever decided to take over the world, the first thing she’d do was enlist Norinn as the general to lead her armies. She drifted off to sleep, waking only long enough to down a cup of bitter willow bark tea at Norinn’s urgings.

  Night had fallen when she roused again, feeling fractionally better but still like Zigana Imre’s brave mare had decided to stomp on someone else after the obluda and had chosen Brida as her next victim.

  “Come tomorrow, Brida.” Ahtin’s voice wove through her foggy mind.

  “I’m sorry,” she croaked. “So sorry.”

  Would he wonder why she didn’t appear? Would he wait or search? She prayed not, especially after Edonin’s warning.

  Her niece Yenec entered the bedroom, balancing a tray with a bowl whose contents sent up ghostly tendrils of steam. The girl, oldest of Laylam’s and Norinn’s nine children, smiled as she set the tray down on the table close to the bed. “You’re awake, aunt. That’s good. How do you feel?”

  “Terrible,” Brida whispered, regretting it instantly as more of the glass splinters embedded themselves in her throat. “How long was I asleep?”

  Yenec helped her sit up, fluffing the pillows behind her. “A few hours. You were restless. Dreaming and talking in your sleep. Who’s Ahtin?”

  Brida froze, then offered her niece a casual shrug. “I have no idea. For all I know I was dreaming about someone’s sheepdog named Ahtin.”

  She spent the next half hour eating the soup Yenec prepared and drinking more of the vile tea before plummeting into sleep that left her more tired than rejuvenated each time she awoke. Four days passed before she felt well enough to leave her bed and sit at her table, and two more days beyond that before Norinn declared her well enough to take a much-needed bath. In that time, Brida fretted and worried over Ahtin. And said nothing to anyone.

  By the time the next market day arrived in Ancilar, she was well enough to leave the house and vowed she’d return to the cave. She had no hope that Ahtin would be there. The weather was fast leaving autumn behind for winter with its bitter, gusting winds, snowfall, and sea ice. Edonin would have urged her extended family to migrate south to warmer seas, and Ahtin would have followed. At least she hoped that was the case. A part of her sorrowed that she hadn’t had a chance to tell him goodbye, while another part feared he might think she’d abandoned him. But the greatest part prayed he had left with the others, finding sanctuary in safer waters, away from a man whose very name had made the ap blanch in horror.

  Norinn had fetched her early in the morning, bundling Brida so thoroughly in layers of wool, she sweltered in the house and felt none of the cold, despite her breath steaming in front of her as the two women strolled to the market. Brida’s larder was nearly bare, and she intended on using the money she’d earned from her spinning to restock. The pearl Ahtin had given her rested safely in a box buried in her garden at the base of a citrus tree. Reason dictated she sell it in the spring when she could travel to one of the bigger towns and find a jewel merchant who wouldn’t cheat her too badly in the sale. Her emotions refused to consider the idea.

  Norinn had wandered off to browbeat her favorite costermonger into selling her produce for half the price that he was hawking it, leaving Brida to load her basket with those things she needed to fill her bare cupboards.

  A voice she hoped she might never hear again addressed her. “Mistress Gazi.”

  Brida gripped her basket, took a bracing breath and turned slowly to face Ospodine. She stared at him without returning the greeting, uncaring that it was rude. This man had breached the sanctity of her privacy, nearly attacked her in Lord Frantisek’s castle, and threatened her on the beach. She didn’t owe him a thread of civility. “Leave me be, syr. I’ve nothing to say to you.”

  She turned her back to him and strolled to the next stall, hoping he’d go away. She hoped in vain.

  He kept his distance but didn’t leave. “I only wish to inquire about your health. I’d heard you’d taken ill.”

  Her skin crawled at the thought of him asking about her, or worse, lurking about to see when she might emerge. He believed she knew more about Edonin than she was saying, and now that suspicion bore out. She did know.

  “I’m fine,” she snapped. “You need not concern yourself.” She moved to the next sta
ll where the merchant sold brooms and washing bats. Brida eyed one of the stouter bats, wondering if she’d have to resort to clubbing Ospodine in order to for him to leave her alone.

  “The sea air can be hard on the lungs in autumn and winter, especially at night.” His oily voice oozed an unpleasant slyness. “Better to stay inside by the fire, don’t you think? But you’re a strong woman, befitting of your name. I’ve no doubt you’ll be right as rain and playing your flute in no time. Good day.”

  Brida kept her back to him until she heard his footsteps walking away. Only then did she turn to watch him, made even more uneasy by his emphasis on her name. He hadn’t gone far when he began to whistle, a discordant combination of notes that sound like nothing more than tuneless ramblings, but which swamped Brida with terror.

  “Come tomorrow, Brida,” he whistled as he sauntered off. “Beautiful, beautiful Brida. Come tomorrow.”

  Chapter Six

  She had come full circle since playing her flute for Lord Frantisek at Castle Banat a month earlier. From doing her best to avoid Ospodine with his strange obsession, she now sought him out, determined to learn what lit the fanatical gleam in his eye each time they crossed paths and what lay behind the sinister hint in his whistling of Ahtin’s affectionate call to her.

  “We’ll wait for you in the bailey,” Zigana Imre said, glancing at Brida over her shoulder. The two women shared a ride toward Castle Banat on Zigana’s mare Gitta with Brida riding pillion. She’d started her journey on foot in the late afternoon once she managed to escape Norinn’s hawkish scrutiny to return to her house. Once again she sneaked out through her back garden, only to go in the opposite direction of the cave where she spent her nights in Ahtin’s company.

  Zigana had crossed paths with her not far from the base of the castle bluff, riding Gitta back to the village. A widow, like Brida, Zigana had lost her husband on the same ship as Brida lost hers. Their casual acquaintance had become friendship, strengthened by the bonds of common tragedy. Brida had readily accepted the other woman’s offer of a ride to the castle, and Zigana didn’t question why Brida walked there instead of having her brother take her in his wagon.

  The trip up the bluff road to the castle took a quarter of the time it would have taken her had she walked the entire way. She stared toward the Gray from her lofty seat atop Gitta, searching for a hint of pearlescent skin catching the last of the day’s light or the flick of a tail rising above the waves. She prayed she’d see neither one, sick with a nameless dread that had plagued her since seeing Ospodine in the market earlier.

  The sun set a little earlier each evening as autumn arced toward winter, and the red blaze of its descent turned the Gray bloody along its horizon. No different than any other fall afternoon, yet the sight now heightened her alarm along with her determination to confront Ospodine and demand he tell her exactly what he wanted from her. She carried the bone flute with her this time, willing to play any tune he demanded.

  She no longer worried that Edonin would respond. The merwoman’s expression had spoken more clearly than words what she thought of Brida’s information, and Brida wondered what terrible connection Ospodine, an outlander in Ancilar, had with Edonin to inspire such horror, such anguish.

  Some of the guards in the bailey were local men from Ancilar, and they hailed both women as Gitta trotted toward one of the hay racks set along one side of the stables. Brida shook the wrinkles from her skirt and recited in her mind what she’d say to the steward to convince him she was worthy of a few moments of Lord Frantisek’s time. Luck, for once, played in her favor.

  “The flute player from Ancilar,” a familiar voice said from the other side of Gitta’s big frame. Brida glanced across the horse’s back to find his lordship gazing at her, a curious light in his solemn eyes. That gaze shifted, deepened, just as his voice did, when it landed on Zigana standing at Gitta’s shoulder. “And Zigana. What brings you here? A visit with Jolen?”

  Zigana avoided his gaze. “A favor for Brida. She’s come to Banat to speak with you. I brought her so she wouldn’t have to walk.”

  Undercurrents heavy enough to drown in flowed between his lordship and the woman who was his wife’s bastard sister. Any other time Brida might have squirmed inwardly at the moment’s awkwardness and made her excuses to find something else to do. However, she hadn’t come to Castle Banat on a whim, and she needed Lord Frantisek’s attention.

  “My lord,” she said, interrupting the silent exchange between the two. His eyes shifted from their heavy regard of Zigana to focus on her. Zigana snatched up Gitta’s reins and led her to the farthest hay rack, out of earshot.

  “Mistress Gazi, how may I be of service?”

  Brida’s eyebrows lifted. He did remember her name, and his courtly manner toward her eased her fretfulness a little. “My lord, I know Syr Ospodine is still your guest. I must speak with him on important matter as soon as possible.”

  She tried very hard not to reveal her distaste for the man in front of his host, but she needn’t have worried. Judging by the lift of Lord Frantisek’s upper lip, he shared the sentiment.

  “He is indeed, Mistress Gazi. It has been long and long, and I count the hours until he tires of my hospitality. But he isn’t here at the moment. You may find him walking along Madigan’s Teeth. There’s a path that winds down the bluff where the slope isn’t so steep. You can reach it from the east side of the demesne. I can have one of my guards show you the way.” He motioned one of the soldiers over, a man Brida recognized as the son of Ancilar’s miller.

  Brida glanced down at her shoes and inwardly sighed. She wasn’t wearing the right footwear to go hiking along Madigan’s Teeth, especially as it grew dark. The jagged landscape on that side of the bluff was a favored place for catching crabs and harvesting a type of mollusk that clung to the rock with holdfasts stronger than ship rigging. They also made the rock face slimy. Going barefoot was a fool’s choice that guaranteed feet sliced to bloody ribbons by the sharp edges of the mollusk shells.

  There was nothing for it. She’d pray they’d meet on the path as he returned, and if they didn’t, then she’d have to be extra careful navigating the Teeth and dealing with Ospodine.

  The miller’s son, a lad named Endel, saluted his lordship then offered Brida a smile. “Welcome to the castle, Mistress Gazi.”

  “Escort the mistress to the Madigan path.” Lord Frantisek eyed Brida. “He can go with you if you wish.” A brief scowl flickered across his face. “It might be wise I think.”

  She almost refused, afraid too many might learn of the merfolk’s existence in the waters or see Ahtin swimming in the waves. She discarded the idea. There were risks in everything, and after her last encounter alone on the beach with Ospodine, she welcomed the presence of a companion for this one. Besides, many a trick of the moonlight played on the Gray, and people imagined seeing things that weren’t there.

  She accepted the offer, then thanked Zigana for the ride, assuring her she need not wait for Brida’s return.

  “Brida.” Zigana touched her arm. A shadow of memory passed across her face. “Gitta killed one obluda. Only one. Be careful.”

  Brida patted the other woman’s hand to reassure her. If Zigana only knew how often of late Brida had visited the shore at night… Fortunately, the only sounds arising from the Gray had been those she heard all her life or Ahtin whistling her name in welcome.

  With the darkness fast descending, Endel handed Brida a lamp and carried one himself to light their way down the path. The dirt road snaked down the slope between scrubby bushes that shivered in the wind. Madigan’s Teeth lay ahead, rising sharply from the base of the bluff like fangs in a dragon’s mouth, spaced with narrow gullies hollowed out by the eternal tide. Shallow stair treads of more stone jutted into the water, their surfaces adorned with clusters of mussels.

  The Gray heaved toward the shore here, hurling breakers against the rocks with battering force as if protesting their intrusion into the water. Foamy remnants left
by the dying flow of waves burst and bubbled in the spaces between the mussel shells or oozed back toward their source in a serpentine wash. The sea didn’t just sing, it thundered.

  A black silhouette stood just out of reach of the surf’s swash, its long tunic flapping in the wind like a gull’s wings. Brida recognized the narrow profile and slim frame. Ospodine.

  “Stay here, keep watch” Brida instructed Endel. She didn’t need him overhearing this conversation.

  “But mistress.” Endel tugged on her sleeve. “His lordship said—”

  “For you to accompany me, and you have.” She held her lamp higher so that he could see her smile. “You can see me quite clearly from here, and you’re close enough to come to my aid should I need it.”

  He eyed her, then the place where Ospodine stood. “If you’re sure,” he conceded reluctantly.

  She admired his commitment and his bravery. “I’m sure.”

  Ospodine turned his head a fraction and dipped his chin even less in acknowledgement of her presence. “I wondered if you might join me.”

  “Don’t be coy, syr. You knew I would.” She set the lamp down. “I’ll not play this game of yours. You know I’ve some knowledge of the merfolk and their language, and I know you’ve been spying on me. Why?”

  His smug demeanor took on a more contemptuous quality. Brida was reminded of their confrontation on the beach when he’d touched her elbow before yanking his hand back as if discovering she had fleas. “I think your knowledge of the sea people goes beyond understanding a few clicks and whistles, wouldn’t you say?”

  She refused to respond to his baiting. The idea that he might have observed her making love with Ahtin in the cave sent a surge of bile into her throat. She held it back by virtue of silent outrage. “Why?” she repeated.

  Disappointed by her flat response, he gave up baiting her. “Because you’re a means to an end.” He pointed to her skirt pocket. “You brought the flute you used at the castle this time, didn’t you?”