Suddenly, the ghostly tether that connected him to Edonin solidified, becoming a thick rope tightening on Ospodine’s arm. Edonin gave a quick jerk of her head. The rope snapped taut, yanking Ospodine so hard forward, he pinwheeled off the ledge and into the water.
Still trapped by the net, Ahtin managed to roll himself and Brida to a new position in time to see the spires of dorsal fins rise above the waves and speed toward Ospodine. He saw them as well and screeched his terror, an eerie combination that sounded both human and merman.
The Blessing of Pneuma was gone, spiraling back to its customary place, giving back the grace of the sea to one of its matriarchs. Edonin no longer looked the crone, but she still looked aged, not by the parasitic draw of stolen magic but by the actions of her son.
Ospodine flailed in the water, striking out for the ledge and the questionable safety of the rock flat. He made it, heaving himself onto its surface, murder in his gaze when it landed on Brida and Ahtin. He still clutched the athame and lurched toward them. He didn’t get far.
Brida screamed when one of the monstrous fish, bigger than a fisherman’s boat, surged out of the water onto the rock flat, its momentum and weight propelling it forward at the speed of a ship sailing under full mast. Its maw opened, revealing rows of cone-shaped pointed teeth, before it snapped closed on the back of Ospodine’s tunic. Ospodine never had a chance to cry out. As fast as the creature appeared, it slid back in the water with its prey and dove. Its companion followed, dorsal spire shedding water as it rose, slicing clean as it sank, followed by the slap of a fluke the width of a barn door.
The ensorcelled net surrounding Brida and Ahtin turned to dust and was swept into the sea to join its creator.
Despite her shock at what she witnessed, and the events prior to it, she flung her arms around Ahtin’s neck and kissed him. He returned her affection with gusto, pulling away only when an inquiring whistle sounded next to them.
Edonin swam to them, gripping the rock ledge with one hand, holding out Brida’s flute with the other. “This fell in the water.”
Brida reached for it, then drew back, remembering Ospodine’s words. “I think it belongs more to the merfolk than to me.”
Edonin’s effort to smile failed. She placed the flute on the ground. “You are mer in your way, and you’ve earned the right to keep it. Play it should you ever need us. Play to remember us.”
Brida wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry you lost your sons.” She was glad Ospodine was no longer a threat, but her heart ached for the ap’s grief at losing her children.
Edonin emitted a trio of despondent clicks. “Ahtin would say Seahorse’s death was just. I say it was merciful. He was born empty and sought to fill that space. Maybe now he’s at peace, and I have avenged his brother’s death.”
She exchanged a series of rapid fire whistles with Ahtin before turning back to Brida. “My son saved you. The debt is paid.” She raised a hand. “Farewell, Brida.”
The ap swam away without looking back. Brida wondered if she’d ever return to the waters surrounding Madigan’s Teeth.
A caress on her leg made her look down to find Ahtin next to her, balanced on his forearms. His tail arched his back, and the shallow cut from Ospodine’s sacrificial dagger no longer bled, though it left a red mark on the merman’s ivory skin. He nodded to where Endel now lay sprawled along the path. “Your friend?”
Brida gasped and raced to where the guard lay, no longer frozen in place by a siren’s spell but sleeping the sleep of the innocent, completely unaware of what had just played out before him. Brida tucked his arms against his body and watched to make sure he breathed steadily. She’d have to invent a plausible story to explain why she was soaking wet, how her skirts ended up shredded, why Syr Ospodine was nowhere to be found, and why Endel was napping outside in the middle of the night. It shouldn’t be too hard if she put some effort into it. She thanked the gods it was Endel who accompanied her here and not the far more astute Lord Frantisek.
She returned to find Ahtin floating in the water, waiting for her. Shrapnel from crushed mussel shells crunched beneath her feet, and she swept some aside to clear a spot for herself on the rock ledge level with the water. Seawater sluiced under and over her, cold enough to make her bones crack.
Ahtin curved an arm on either side of her legs and rested his chin on her knee. “I feared you had spurned me, Brida.”
She wove his slippery hair through her fingers in a long caress and bent to steal another kiss from him. “No,” she said when they parted. “I was sick. And then I was afraid. Ospodine knew about you. I prayed you and your family had already begun your journey south.”
He nuzzled his cheek into her skirts, a frown drawing down the corners of his mouth. “We were leaving when Edonin heard your flute. She came back, and I followed. The rest continued south.”
“And now she’s gone to join them.”
“Yes.”
“And you will too.” It was the way of the merfolk, and who was she to change it? Still, her soul ached at the idea of this inevitable parting.
Ahtin captured her hand to kiss each of her fingers, her thumb, then her knuckles and the inside of her wrist. “I can stay.” He pressed her hand to his cheek. “I want to stay.”
Brida sniffled and blinked back the tears threatening to spill down her face. “I want you to stay too, but sooner or later someone will discover you, and I don’t want that to happen.” She traced the elegant line of his nose down to the fine curvature of his lips. “Your ap needs you. All of your family needs each other. The children your women will bear are going to need all the protection they can get.” She stroked the high planes of his cheekbones. “I will miss this face.” Her thumb pressed his lower lip. “This mouth.” He covered her hand with his where it flattened against his chest. “This heart.”
“I will return when the waters are warm again, beautiful Brida,” he promised. “Come to the shore then. I will be waiting.”
He pressed her hand even harder to his chest before folding her fingers over her palm. “My heart,” he said softly. “Keep it safe.”
No longer caring that tears streamed down her face and dripped off her chin, Brida repeated his gesture, pressing his hand to her chest just above the edge of her bodice before curling his webbed fingers closed. “My heart,” she whispered. “Take it with you.”
They kissed a final time before Ahtin launched himself into the surf and dove out of sight. Brida watched the fading wake of his departure, peering into the darkness for a final glimpse of him until her eyes ached. The Gray held its secrets close and showed her nothing more.
Epilogue
Summer returned to Ancilar on the back of an unexpected gale that launched the Gray far onto the shoreline and snapped trees under its might. In the aftermath, the villagers crept out of their battered houses to survey the damage and thank the gods the sky was once more blue, the sea calm, and the temperatures warm.
Brida joined the rest of the villagers as they gathered at the shoreline with their wagons, clearing away the debris strewn from one end of the beach to the other. Most would be taken back to the village for sorting and salvage. All the effort went toward clearing the area for the safety of the horse shrimpers who planned to start the trawling season in a few days.
Norinn helped Brida throw pieces of driftwood into the dray. “Why is it all we ever do on this beach is work?” she said, encompassing the length of sand and dunes with a sweep of her hand. “Why not have a gathering? Build a fire. Bring food, play music, dance. Lord Frantisek is always borrowing you and the others to play at the castle. Why not play here for the neighbors?”
Those who overheard her comment embraced the idea, and Brida was swiftly conscripted to play at the impromptu celebration that evening. She didn’t mind. Winter had been a lonely season, punctuated by bouts of melancholy that gave way to brief cheerfulness at the thought of summer’s return. Brida missed Ahtin, missed him even more when she played her flute. She worried as
well. His world was far more dangerous than hers, at least in her opinion, though hers didn’t lack its share of evil men like Ospodine.
No one seemed to care that he hadn’t returned from Madigan’s Teeth, though his lordship had asked her twice if she’d seen him there. That somber gaze, deep as the Gray itself, had settled on her for a long moment until he finally said “Sometimes the sea takes what it wants with no apology for the theft.”
At the memory of the great fish snatching Ospodine off the rock ledge as if he were a seal, Brida couldn’t agree more.
Once the sun set, all of Ancilar gathered around bonfire stack they’d built. When two of the men set the kindling aflame with torches and fanned the flames to flare up the heap, everyone cheered. Children raced along the beach, chasing and being chased by pet dogs. The ale flowed, along with the gift of a cask of wine from his lordship on the bluff. No one worried about an obluda, especially after Zigana Imre dipped her hands in the shallow, then stood up with a smile and shake of her head. The Gray this night offered no threat to those who remained on the shore.
Brida played alongside a large group of musicians with various instruments and skill levels spanning from beginner to expert. She’d brought her bone flute, her most treasured possession now, and played all the songs the villagers knew by heart. Her lips tingled with the urge to play the two-note siren song: Edonin’s name and so much more, but she resisted the temptation. That wasn’t merely a tune. It was a spell, and a powerful one at that, and had no business at this gathering.
She did slyly incorporate the whistle that was Ahtin’s name into three of the songs. No one noticed, but Brida stared beyond the crowd of villagers and the bonfire with its blaze of light, to the dark sea.
Was he out there? Had the merfolk returned? And if they had, had Ahtin forgotten her? Brida prayed he hadn’t.
As the evening wore on, the women gathered sleepy children and rode back to the village. Some of the men went as well. Those who stayed sat around the slowly dying fire, swapping stories and boasts, all growing exponentially more outlandish in proportion to the ale imbibed.
Brida returned with Norinn to help her put her large brood to bed. She declined an offer of tea, claiming exhaustion and an aching back from a long day of cleaning up the beach. She returned home, and just like more than a half year earlier, she sneaked out her back gate, taking a path that avoided the bonfire and its admirers.
Ixada Cave no longer frightened her. She now welcomed its rumors of hauntings and doorways to dead places. It kept others away while Brida sat on the sand not far from the flooded entrance and serenaded the Gray with her flute playing. She did the same tonight, hoping against hope that she might hear an answering whistle.
The crescent moon, though bright in a clear sky, offered little illumination, and night settled heavy on the Gray and its bordering shoreline. Brida played a few more tunes, stopping mid exhalation during one as a sound drifted above the surf’s rumble.
She didn’t move, certain that if she did, the sound would disappear. The flash of a pale fluke striking the water made her heart leap. Streamers of seaweed hair glistened under anemic starlight, and a webbed hand rose in greeting.
Brida stood, laughing and sobbing at the same time. She brought the flute to her mouth with shaking hands and blew into the mouthpiece, playing a song of salutation and pure joy as she waded into the shallows.
The whistle came again, short and sharp, followed by a series of clicks that made her breath catch.
“Brida. Beautiful Brida. Did you keep my heart safe?”
About Grace Draven
Grace Draven is a Louisiana native living in Texas with her husband, kids and a big, doofus dog. She has loved storytelling since forever and is a fan of the fictional bad boy. She is the winner of the Romantic Times Reviewers Choice for Best Fantasy Romance of 2016 and a USA Today Bestselling author.
Find Grace on Facebook!
Additional works by Grace Draven:
The Bonekeeper Chronicles
The World of Master of Crows
The World of the Wraith Kings
The Fallen Empire Trilogy
Other Works
A Curse for Spring
by
Amanda Bouchet
A malevolent spell strangles the kingdom of Leathen in catastrophic drought. Prince Daric must break the curse before his people starve. A once-mighty goddess trapped in a human body might be the key—but saving his kingdom could mean losing all that he loves.
This is a stand-alone novella
Copyright © 2018 by Amanda Bouchet
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or business establishments, organizations or locales is completely coincidental.
Thank you for reading!
Dedication
For S & S
You bring me so much joy.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to express my thanks to Jeffe Kennedy, Grace Draven, and Jennifer Estep, three kind and talented authors who gave me the opportunity to work with them and learn from their experience. My thanks also to my editor for this novella, who prefers to remain anonymous, to Adriana Anders for her early feedback, and to Callie Burdette for always being there for me, whether it’s for a morale boost or for an emergency proofread. Thank you also to my family, because I couldn’t do any of this without you.
Prologue
Prince Daric touched his fingers to the giant column of mist and then jerked them back. He stared at his fingertips, but nothing had changed. His skin hadn’t reddened; the nails weren’t blackened. Nothing, in fact, had happened.
With a nervous swallow scraping down his throat, he turned his head to check that no one had followed him from the royal encampment. The dying forest stared back with gnarled eyes, everything brittle, creaking, and ready to catch fire. Nothing disturbed the too-dry branches, but it was only a matter of time before someone noticed he’d snuck off and came looking for him.
They were still days from home after a long journey to neighboring Raana followed by a pilgrimage to their own sacred Wood of Layton. Negotiations with Raana’s Royal House of Nighthall had not gone well, putting everyone in a foul mood, especially Daric’s father. King Wilder worried for his people, and Queen Illanna Nighthall had shown more greed than humanity, as usual.
Every year had been the same since Daric’s birth—ten years of drought. Fields grew drier, the people of Leathen thinner, and the royal coffers lighter as Daric’s parents were forced to pay the surrounding kingdoms for water, grains, and provisions.
After another look around him to make sure all was quiet, Daric turned back to Braylian’s Cauldron. A thick column of mist rose from the sacred circle, but he knew that at any second, the elements could shift, turning into violent flames, bolts of lightning fierce enough to blind a man, gales that whipped and wailed, or shards of ice that exploded upward before raining down like daggers.
Children were warned away from the Cauldron from the moment they could understand fear. At least once a year, Daric joined the rest of the royal family at the volatile stone-lined circle to pay homage to Braylian, the goddess of the elements and the divine creator of the four seasons.
Usually, he was not alone to come before Braylian and beg for the return of water to Leathen’s lakes and rivers. And to his knowledge, no one had ever stood this close to the Cauldron. He was not too young to understand the consequences of this ongoing lack of true springtime. He saw the tension in his parents and the gauntness of his people. The fact that he and the drought were the same age made him even more determined to find a solution
. Somehow, he felt responsible.
Gathering his courage, Daric stretched his hand into the mist again, this time losing sight of everything up to his wrist. It was cool, damp, and terrifying. He curled his hand into a fist and drew back. As he did, he could have sworn he felt a soft brush of fingers across his knuckles.
Daric shivered in a way he knew a brave young prince shouldn’t, and had he been a hallerhound, he’d have felt the hair on the back of his neck rise and quiver.
He squared his shoulders. Raana coveted Leathen’s orin mines. No longer satisfied with simply purchasing the strong, versatile metal, Illanna Nighthall had just successfully bartered for a nearly untapped mine that hugged the border. She had one shaft now. Next year, Daric feared she would have another.
Why spring rains would still water and nurture the surrounding kingdoms but not Leathen was a mystery. All Daric knew was that Leathen had faithfully guarded Braylian’s Cauldron for generations. It was time that Braylian returned the favor for Leathen.
“Braylian!” he called out, frightened, even though the stone circle seemed calm today. This was where spirits gathered, the seasons changed, and storms were born from nothing. “We need your help!”
No response came, and the mist remained quiet. He leaned forward, dipping his head into the column. To do so was bold and spine-chilling, but if the goddess saw him, maybe she would answer.
A thick gray cloud dampened Daric’s skin with more wetness than he’d felt on his face outside of his own washroom since the last snows of winter, but he saw only fog in front of him.
Disappointed but also a little relieved, he straightened out of the column. Leathen’s summer heat sucked the moisture from the land, its autumn storms sometimes ruined the crops the kingdom’s struggling farmers managed to cultivate, and its harsh winter freezes left too many people huddled around kitchen fires, cold and hungry. The long, ground-watering rains of springtime had abandoned Leathen the moment Daric came into it.
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