Authors: Sharon Lee
Carousel Sun (25 page)
They went out at once, almost apologetically.
I dropped to my knees and stared at the place the fire had been, butterscotch and adrenaline mixing badly on the back of my tongue, shivering with remembered horror—
And, throughout the whole, there had been not one ripple in the serenity of the trees.
I swallowed, and took my
jikinap
back to myself as Borgan knelt beside me.
“Fire?”
“Fire,” I confirmed.
Truth told, and in the calm of hindsight, it hadn’t been much of a fire. It left behind an extremely modest patch of scorched grass, and two singed leaves on a nearby sapling.
Still, there came no word of complaint or alarm from the Wood.
I stepped Sideways; looking first to the wards.
They were intact, which raised the musical question: How the
hell
had someone managed to build a fire here,
right here
on the very edge of the Wood, under the nose of the trees and the wards?
That was an interesting question, I thought. I’d have to ask the perpetrator, when I caught up with him.
I turned my attention to the surrounding area, looking for clues to the identity and means of my arsonist.
I found nothing, save that lingering, vague impression of embarrassment.
Blinking back into the Real World, I stared down at the scorched grass.
“This,” I said to Borgan, who was still kneeling patiently at my side, “should not have happened. The wards didn’t even notice it.”
“Natural fire, then,” he said. “Little one, too.”
Borgan had been present when Mr. Ignat’ had guided me in the construction of the wards; he knew as well as I did that they . . .
. . . had been built to respond to intended threats against the Wood.
I rubbed my forehead.
“So you’re thinking because it was
natural
, it didn’t trigger the threat key?” I asked.
“That, and it being so small—might’ve blown out all on its own, if we hadn’t happened by. If it’d been a bigger, bolder fire, the wards would’ve seen it, I’m betting.”
Thinking about it, I was willing to bet the same way. The fire had been so small, it hadn’t even gotten the attention of the Wood.
“The land is traumatized,” I commented. Inside my head, I heard a long, doggy sigh of contrition and smiled. “That’s okay, so am I. Well.”
I came to my feet, and Borgan did, too.
“Doesn’t look like there’s anything more for us to do here,” I said, and offered him my hand.
He took it and together we approached the trees.
Welcome, Kate.
The voice of the Wood was as always, but no path opened before me. That might have to do with the fact that I wasn’t alone; which meant that it was time to bring out another of the old forms.
“I ask safe passage, for myself and my true companion,” I said. “We wish to pass through, and arrive safe above Kinney Harbor.”
There was a pause, as if the Wood were giving due consideration to the matter. Borgan gave my hand a reassuring squeeze—and a path opened before us.
We entered . . . but we did not enter the Wood I knew.
The path shone, dimly, before us; the trees were fearsome, hulking shadows, and no breath of air or breeze disturbed their black leaves. For the first time in my life, I was aware of the Wood’s power and presence—not as old tales, but right in the pit of my stomach.
I gripped Borgan’s hand so tight my fingers ached, and asked the land for night-sight.
After a moment, it seemed as if the pathway glowed a little brighter; the trees became more distinct, as if they were merely shrouded in fog; and a very small breeze kissed my damp brow.
I took a breath, tasting salt, kept my eyes on the path, and my fingers around Borgan’s.
The path curved sharply to the left; the trees thinned . . .
Between one step and another, we were out, looking down the Hill to the sea, and the boats that lay asleep in Kinney Harbor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Wednesday, June 21
Low Tide 1:45
A.M.
Sunrise 5:00
A.M.
EDT
Gray Lady
was as gracious and winsome belowdeck as she was above. Her paneling was cedar; her saloon neat; and her tiny galley thoughtfully laid out.
I followed Borgan into said galley, and leaned against the wall, watching his back as he opened an overhead cabinet and took out a can of coffee.
“That shelf we’re talking about’s forward,” he said, without turning his head. “If you wanna take a look. Coffee’ll be a minute or two.”
“Okay. Coming through behind you.”
I’m neither tall nor broad; thin as the passage was, it was plenty wide enough for me to pass behind Borgan without touching him. So, it was purely to please myself that I put my hands on his waist as I skooched by—and gasped as I received the certain knowledge that the contact didn’t
just
please me.
Shaking, I made it to the far side of the galley and stepped into a stateroom.
Like the rest of the
Lady
, it was shipshape and sharp. There were books in the shelves at the head and foot of the bed, and storage lockers over the length. More storage was built into the bulkhead opposite, with a metal mirror over. I glanced into it, seeing nothing markedly different in my face. My hair was snarled beyond belief—not surprising, considering what I’d put it through tonight. What did surprise was how much it irritated me. Maybe it was the spray of pine needles tangled in above my left ear.
There was a comb on the shelf to the right of the mirror. I picked it up and waged a brief, vicious war with my hair. When the knots were vanquished, I braided it, which, since I didn’t see any elastics to pilfer, would keep me neat for exactly as long as it took the braid to unravel.
Feeling somewhat less harum-scarum, I called to mind the reason why I’d come into Borgan’s bedroom, and turned to survey the shelves built into the short wall at right angles to the mirror.
Borgan had been generous—there were
two
empty shelves, low, where they’d be the most use to a height-challenged woman. They weren’t wide, but they were deep, each shelf fronted with a rail, to keep things from flying all over the room, in rough weather.
I smiled, and felt the land’s pleasure, fainter than I was used to, echoing my own.
“Coffee’s done,” Borgan said from the galley. It came to me that he sounded
careful
. “That’s three creams, right?”
“Only if your coffee’s as bad as Bob’s. Two usually does me fine,” I said, reaching in my pockets, searching for something—it suddenly seemed important, absent those “things” we’d euphemistically talked about, to leave
some
thing. To let him know that I was pleased.
I didn’t have much beyond the necessary in my pockets—ID, a couple of dollars, my house key. What else do you need at Midsummer Eve?
Biting my lip, I dug deeper, knowing that there was nothing more.
“Kate?”
“Just a sec.”
My fingers touched something hard and smooth at the bottom my pocket, hiding under the house key.
I coaxed it out—a plain white beach stone, cool against my palm.
Perfect.
I put it on the topmost of the two empty shelves and went out into the galley.
“I like the braid,” Borgan said. “Oughta do it more often.”
“I ought to,” I said cordially, taking the mug out of his hand. “I got used to having my hair all around my face—protective coloration, I’d guess you’d say.”
He nodded, frowning slightly.
“One thing, though. It’s gonna come undone. Hang on.”
He put his mug on the counter and slipped past me, with no extracurricular touching, into the stateroom.
I felt— through the land? the sea?
Gray Lady
herself?—a jolt of surprised joy, and then Borgan was back, looking utterly matter-of-fact, a leather string in his hand.
“Here we go,” he said. “Turn around.”
Meekly, I put my mug down, and did as I was told. I felt him fiddle with my braid, and tie off the string. His hands settled, big and warm, around my shoulders.
I felt his lips against the nape of my neck.
Molten power shot up my spine; I moaned, knees suddenly soft, gasped—and gasped!
“Wait!”
He let go of me immediately, even as I extended my will to banish the rush of
jikinap
back where it belonged, only to be met by—nothing. I did the metaphysical equivalent of the stagger-and-snatch you do when a surface you expect to be firm gives—
And began to laugh.
“Kate?” Borgan
definitely
sounded careful. Well, who could blame the man?
“Wait,” I said again, gasping, one hand raised. “I don’t—” I lifted my face to his. “I—I thought it was my power, rising . . .” I said, unsteadily. “I—that felt really good, by the way.”
I love Borgan’s laugh; it’s deep and rich and generous.
“Don’t remember a time I had a better recommendation,” he said at last, raising a hand to wipe his eyes. He shook his head. “You want to go topside? Nice night to drink coffee and look at the stars.”
“Sounds great,” I said, truthfully.
The waning moon had risen; the tide had hit dead low and turned.
What I’m saying is, it was late. Or really,
really
early, depending on your referents.
We leaned against the rail. I was tucked under Borgan’s arm, snug in the curve of his chest. The coffee was long gone, and we’d done some more kissing, though it must be noted that Borgan stayed strictly away from the back of my neck.
Have to do something about that, I thought drowsily, looking down at the dark water.
Something moved in the depths, and I half-stirred—but it was only a harbor seal, breaking the surface in a lazy roll and vanishing again, below. I resettled with a sigh. Sadly, though, I couldn’t
quite
settle back into mindless contentment.
“Borgan?”
“Hmm?”
“Tell me about the
ronstibles
.”
“Thought I did that a couple days ago.”
“Well, bare bones, sure. But if they were the old Guardians, and you displaced them—how did that happen, exactly? And why are they around to hold a grudge? And—”
“Mercy, woman.” I heard his laughter rumble in his chest. “All that, right now?”
“Right now, I’ve got the upper hand,” I pointed out.
“You do at that,” he agreed, deadpan. “No sense to wastin’ an advantage.” He took a deep breath, and sighed it out.
“So . . .
ronstibles
.”
He was quiet for a minute or two—organizing his thoughts, maybe. I snuggled closer, content—and content to wait.
“Some claim Lorelei for a
ronstible
, and the Siren sisters, too,” Borgan said conversationally. “So far’s I know, though, those ladies took shape from the terror of mariners and the cunning of rocks. The
ronstibles
—the ones Nerazi and I know—they might be as old as the sea itself.
“Sea witches,
ronstibles
—whatever you might call them, they’re of the sea and for the sea. If a man should sin against the sea, then they made his life payment for the sin.
“Not all the sea’s waters hold a witch; not every witch born of the sea’s genius thrived. The
ronstibles
of the Gulf of Maine, they weren’t the worst; they didn’t tempt men to drowning, though they had no pity for those who died on their waters.”
Borgan paused, took another breath, and pulled me closer to him. He rested his cheek on my hair and sighed softly. When he spoke again, his voice was low and slow, like he was talking in his sleep.
“The sea is older than any man, and the sea has her own ways and meanings. It’s in her nature to be bountiful, and it’s in her nature to be deadly. The people of the land, they fear what might kill them. The people of the land feared the sea, though she fed them, but they feared the
ronstibles
more.
“The sea, she might kill them, but the
ronstibles
were cruel.
“That’s how it was, and that’s how it stayed, until, like everything, it changed.
“Change was a man. Warrior, Hunter, Fisherman. The man, this man, he loved the sea, and all the creatures within her bounty. The sea noticed. The sea became interested in the man.
“The man, this lover of the waters, he took from the sea’s bounty, but only enough, and never more. He took a loon chick from Old Man Turtle’s mouth, and gave Turtle fish from his own net. That loon, he raised him like a brother.
“The sea fell in love; she granted favors to the man. The
ronstibles
did not love the man.
“And, then . . . it changed a second time. The man went away.
“The sea mourned her loss, and the
ronstibles
had their way.”
He paused then, and I kept very still in the shelter of his arm, not wanting to disturb him until the story was done.
“For a third time . . . it changed.
“The man returned to the sea. He was a chief now, with people to protect from the sharp knives of a rival.
“He wanted to take his people to the islands. It was an easy trip by canoe, on a fair day.
“The day the man came back, it was not fair. He and his people, they were closely pursued.
“As dirty as it was, they could not wait for the weather to turn. If his people fell into the hands of their enemies, they would all die. If his people put themselves onto the sea, they might, most of them, survive.
“The canoes took the women, and the children, each with a warrior to paddle. The chief and three of his best warriors stood on the land to guard their retreat.
“Their enemy arrived, and the battle was terrible. The chief, once beloved of the sea, prevailed. At the end, he alone remained standing among all who had fought there. Bleeding from many wounds, he turned to see what progress his people had made across the water.
“It was then that he saw the
ronstibles
, attacking the canoes, flinging his people into the cold, stormy waters—his people who could not swim.
“The man cried out to the sea, begging that his people be spared, and offering himself in their stead.
“The sea heard him. The sea . . .
remembered
him.
“The sea extended her power.
“A great wave gathered in the gray waters, and sped toward the shore. The chief saw it, and straightened, even as a loon—his very own loon, that he had rescued so many moons past—settled between his feet. The wave sped toward him; beyond it, he could see his people—his people . . .
“His people, swimming gracefully toward the islands, changed by the sea’s mercy—into seals.
“The last thing he saw, before the wave took him to the sea, were the
ronstibles
being drawn beneath the waters, wailing.”
I took a very, very careful breath.
“Borgan?”
There was no answer.
“Borgan,” I said again, slightly louder.
“Kate,” he answered, and raised his head.
“Was that you?” I asked. “The warrior on the shore?”
But I knew the answer to that—I had seen him, in his leathers, with his loon nestled by his foot . . .
I heard a sharp intake of breath.
“I told you
that
story?”
“If
that story
is how the
ronstibles
fell into disfavor with the sea, and Strand and Blunt Islands came to have seals—yes.”
He closed his eyes.
“Why didn’t the sea unmake them?” I asked, eventually, and hoping I wasn’t venturing onto unwelcoming waters.
“Well.” He opened his eyes. “The sea can’t unmake a part of herself, and the
ronstibles
are just that: a part of her nature.”
The piece clicked into place.
“And that’s the reason there wasn’t anything to clue me—or anybody—into the fact that everything wasn’t perfectly fine. The
ronstibles
are part of her nature, and you were with her.” I drew a breath. “How long could they have kept you . . . subdued?”
He sighed.
“I’m thinking the longer they have me, the easier it is
to
have me, if you take my meaning.”
I shivered.
“Kate, they’re weak and—”
“I know,” I interrupted. “You built wards, and that ought to hold them. Unless something weakens
you
again, and they slip the leash.”
“This is getting ’way too serious,” Borgan said, and turned, bringing me with him, so he could kiss me, an exercise I entered into with enthusiasm.
“It’s late,” he murmured some little while later, nuzzling my throat, and I had just enough wit online to realize that was a question.
Well, Kate,
I asked myself kindly,
staying what’s left of the night, or not?
“I think,” I said slowly, holding onto his braid. “I think I’d better go home.”
He raised his head. “If that’s what you think, I’ll walk with you.”
We walked empty streets, under a sky already beginning to lighten. Hand in hand by mutual choice, not talking; there wasn’t really any need to talk. Just holding hands, and walking . . . that was good enough. No. It was as near to perfect as made no difference.
We turned the corner from Grand and I could see the porch light glowing like a moon at the top of Dube Street. Home again, not quite the same day.
