Tempest
Author: Cari Z.
Date: 2016-04-05 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; M M Romance; Romance; Mermaids; Paranormal; M M Fantasy; Lgbt; Fiction; High Fantasy; Fantasy Romance
Description: Love can change a soul. But can it save one life? Colm Weathercliff is a simple fisherman with an uncanny some might say preternatural knack for his trade. He thought leaving his small village to take his father s ashes to the capital city of Caithmor for a proper burial would be the grandest adventure of his life. At first, all his hopes seem to be fulfilled. He finds a home where he s accepted without question, the freedom to use his talent to its fullest effect, and love with Nichol, a man with a longing for the sea as powerful as Colm s. But Caithmor holds as many dangers as it does attrac
Publisher: Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
Rights: All Rights Reserved (c) 2016 Cari Z

Love can change a soul. But can it save one life?

Colm Weathercliff is a simple fisherman with an uncanny—some might say preternatural—knack for his trade. He thought leaving his small village to take his father’s ashes to the capital city of Caithmor for a proper burial would be the grandest adventure of his life.

At first, all his hopes seem to be fulfilled. He finds a home where he’s accepted without question, the freedom to use his talent to its fullest effect, and love with Nichol, a man with a longing for the sea as powerful as Colm’s.

But Caithmor holds as many dangers as it does attractions. Colm’s greatest secret turns out to be a dark revelation that gets him and his family shunned—and changes everything he thought he knew about himself.

The truth—about his parentage, his gift, even his physical form—could poison his chance for love. And doom both him and Nichol to a gruesome, inescapable fate.

Warning: Contains graphic violence, explicit sex, and scenes of torture that may not be for the faint of heart. These mermen bear no resemblance to those you might have seen in a certain animated film.

Tempest

Cari Z

Dedication

Sometimes the best things occur when you twist your expectations just a bit, which is what happened for me with this story. Immense thanks to my betas for proofing, to my editor for improving, and especially to my readers. I hope you enjoy this new adventure.

Chapter One

Colm crouched on the edge of the half-sunken pier and submerged his ash-covered fingers in the shallows of the loch. He twitched them idly, watching the soot start to cloud the water, and fought the urge to jerk them back out. It seemed a sacrilege to wash away any part of what had once been his father, but Colm figured that if Ger’s soul was to rest happily anywhere in Anneslea, it was here.

He shut his eyes and let his spine soften, feeling the ache of a full night and day spent tending the forge in every muscle. It was tradition that the oldest son assist the smith in feeding the fire and speaking the prayers while the body of the family patriarch returned to its elements. For all that he’d barely had to move, the work had seemed far heavier than any Colm had ever known before. That much time in the firebrick cavern had ensured the body was consumed, but rather than wait for the priest to collect and bless the ashes, Colm fled once his duty was done.

He’d intended just to come out to resecure the sails on the boat. But the lure of fresh air after the heat of the forge and the staleness that lingered in the house following his father’s death was too great to resist. Colm had left black smudges on the damp sailcloth as he tightened the lines, and seeing them there felt right. He’d meant to clean his hands and return home after that, but instead he got comfortable and let his fingers drift in the glacial cold of the water. He read the signs as they filtered up from the depths, resolutely avoiding any thought of home.

A needlefoot crab pushed a small school of rock trout out of the nearest underwater outcropping. Colm felt disgruntled fin flicks as the trout relocated farther away from the shore. They preferred to stay where the rocks gave them some cover from the slipperscales that nipped at their fronds, and where the occasional marauding pike was too large to follow them. The crab paced back and forth on its pointy feet in victory, waving its claws over its head. Colm sensed every step of the dance, recognizing the tiny, familiar vibrations against his fingertips.

The mist in the air changed to rain, at first falling lightly enough that Colm could ignore it. Soon, though, it became a deluge, slipping past his hood to slide down his back in crawling rivulets. It disrupted the signals from the fish too, leaving Colm unable to feel anything but the pounding of the rain on the water. Still, he resisted returning to the house. The priest had undoubtedly brought the ashes to Desandre by now, and Honored Gherick was no friend of Colm’s. Better to be damp and muffled outside than uncomfortably on the spot inside.

Piety wasn’t a strength of Colm’s. He was a fisherman in a town full of farmers, with no ingrained connection to the rhythm of the land or the rituals of its worship. He’d been encouraged in his different interests by his father, who hadn’t cared much for religion himself. Services in Anneslea’s little church left Colm feeling restless, the magic of the Four’s blessing so sharp in the air that it made his eyes water and his nose run. Ger had tended to skip all but the most important village festivals, and Colm had followed gratefully in his footsteps. There were too many expectations, too much conversation during and after, too many women casting long, interested looks at him that left Colm uncomfortable.

His avoidance hadn’t earned him Honored Gherick’s approval, though the priest hadn’t tried to gainsay Ger’s direction of his own family while he was alive. Now that he was gone, though…what would Colm do? He felt directionless, as adrift as a boat with a broken rudder and tattered sails.

“Colm!”

He stiffened with surprise, swiveled and saw his little brother stamp his foot on the ground at the end of the pier. Kels hated the damp with a passion, evading bath time with a skill that drove Desandre to the verge of despair. Colm was surprised he’d agreed to go out in the rain. “Mama says come home!” Kels continued, his lips set in a disgruntled pout. Colm stood up and made his way along the slick wooden pilings, finally hopping down next to his brother.

“Don’t splash me!” Kels squealed, jumping back. “I don’t wanna be wet!”

“Shall I carry you back, then?” Colm asked.

Kels considered the offer, but finally shook his head. “No, let’s just go.” He turned and led the way back into town, and Colm followed silently. Smoke drifted up from the chimneys of houses they passed, and here and there through the windows, Colm caught the glance of someone inside staring out at them, naturally curious about the pair now that their father was dead.

Colm quickly turned his face up to the rain, letting it wash across his pale eyes and mingle with the tears that welled up whenever he thought of his father. Ger had been ill for months, and his death wasn’t exactly a surprise, but Colm still hadn’t been ready for it. He didn’t know how anyone could be ready for that kind of thing. The titan of his childhood was gone, and now he felt lost inside of his own home. Like an unnecessary complication for everyone, even himself.

They walked briskly along the well-churned paths and made it back to the house before dusk completely obscured the way. Kels burst through the front door, tracking mud into the hearth room and prompting a yell from their sister Baylee. Colm followed at a more controlled pace, pulling off his tall, weatherproof boots and leaving them in the corner. Baylee already had her hands on Kels and was leading him back to the room he and Colm shared to strip him of his wet clothes. Merdith, his eldest sister, emerged from the kitchen a moment later, her expression stern.

“You finished in the forge hours ago. Where have you been for so long?” she demanded in a low voice. “You missed Honored Gherick’s visit.”

“I went to make sure the boat was properly secure.”

“You should have made sure of that when you last finished with it,” Merdith scolded. Colm could have told her about the effects of wind and rain on even the sturdiest of lashings, but instead chose to remove his cloak and hang it on one of the hooks above the fireplace, where it would dry out. Merdith sighed. “And now you’re going and dripping water all over Mama’s nice clean floor. You behave exactly like Kels sometimes.”

“Where is Desandre?” Colm asked, ignoring his sister’s complaints.

Merdith crossed her arms. “In the kitchen. Honored Gherick brought Papa’s ashes back when he came, which you would’ve known if—Colm!” But Colm wasn’t listening anymore, brushing past her and ducking under the lintel to enter the kitchen. Desandre stood up when he entered and he went straight to her, folding her into his arms.

“Mama, he will make you wet!” Merdith complained.

“I can survive a little wet,” Desandre said, her voice muffled against Colm’s woolen jumper. “Go and check on the others, Merdith.”

Merdith huffed but left the two of them alone. Colm fought against the burning in his eyes as he patted his stepmother’s back gently. After a moment, she leaned away, enough so that she could meet Colm’s gaze. He saw the blessing of the Four the priest had laid on her still lingering in her face, red spots like tiny burns on her forehead, cheeks and chin.

“So,” Desandre said, freeing one hand to wipe a few errant tears away. She guided Colm over to sit with her at the table. “You missed Honored Gherick’s visit.”

“Yes,” Colm said, wondering if she would scold him as well. Desandre just sighed, though.

“He brought your father’s remains back from the smithy.” Her small, strong hand played over the knot that held the bag closed. “He also informed me that our village is no proper resting place for Ger. We’re not to be allowed to bury him here.”

“What?” Colm was genuinely shocked. Of all the potential abuse he’d anticipated as a result of Gherick’s visit, of all the possibilities that had given Colm apprehension, this one hadn’t even crossed his mind. “How can he make such a ridiculous decision? Anneslea is Father’s home. He lived half of his life here!”

“Honored Gherick suggested that your father would be more at peace were he buried on the coast, where he came from. Where you both came from,” Desandre told him. “And Colm…I’m minded to listen to him, in this.”

“But why?”

Desandre leaned in and lowered her voice. “Think, Colm. Think of what life here will be like now for us. I must rely on the goodwill of the village to help me work our fields, and on Merdith and her husband’s spare time.”

“I can keep fishing, I’ll fish more,” Colm argued. “I’ll bring in more money and goods.”

“No, darling. Think. Your father is gone, and I cannot protect you from the strictures of this life, not like Ger did.” She twisted her hands together for a moment, staring at her braided fingers as if trying to read answers in them. Finally, she spoke again, hesitantly. “You’re of an age to marry now. You’ll be expected to find a wife soon. To build your own home, to attend services and have children and work the earth.” Desandre shook her head.

“But the earth isn’t where your heart lies, Colm. It never has been. You love the water like your father did, and this may be your only chance to return to it. This is your opportunity to live the life you want to, instead of the life you would be resigned to.”

Her eyes spoke volumes left unsaid, and Colm flushed with surprise when he realized how much his stepmother knew. She knew why he avoided services, so full of talk of dutifulness and fertility. She knew that the thought of courting a girl here in town left him feeling hollow and uninterested. She knew, and she didn’t chastise him. She warned him instead, and offered escape.

“Where would I go?” Colm asked slowly.

“I have family in Caithmor,” Desandre said, “an aunt. She runs an inn on the waterfront. I can write you a letter for her, and I’m sure she’ll take you in. She knows our rituals, our customs. She’ll see that your father gets the rites he needs.”

“All the way to the capital?” Colm had never been farther from Anneslea than the foothills of the White Spires range, at least not in his conscious memory. “It will take a month to get there, at least.”

“You can ride along with a caravan heading south after you make it down to Isealea on foot,” she encouraged him. “I have a bit of money saved. It would have gone to paying for your father’s rites and funeral, but now our only expense is the smith.” Desandre didn’t hide the bitterness in her voice. “And you are so clever with your hands, Colm, and so good with your trade. You’ll surely find a new berth along the coast, somewhere that will welcome you and allow you to make a home there. Somewhere you can be happy.”

Part of Colm wanted to fight this plan, to stay and cling to what he knew. He may have been born on the coast, but Anneslea was where he grew up. He knew nothing else, and could hardly imagine a city as grand and far-flung as Caithmor, capital of the Muiri Empire, home to generations of conquering kings. What could he, a simple fisherman, make of life in such an inconceivable place?

The rest of Colm, though, the practical, adult side of him, knew that Desandre was right. If he stayed here, he would be married before the first snows fell. It would be expected, especially now that his father had passed. He would have to settle down, to become something that made his innards cringe. If he stayed, he would have to change his very nature.

“I’ll go,” he said to Desandre, and the relief that filled her eyes made him feel a little better. “You’re right, leaving is the best way. And I’ll take care of Father.”

“Thank you, darling.” Desandre drew him close and kissed his cheek, then sniffed and wiped away the tears that Colm couldn’t quite keep from falling. “Oh, look at us,” she chuckled. “Laid so low for his sake. Your father would be disgusted.”

“‘Crying is a waste of time and energy,’” Colm said, mimicking Ger’s gruff voice and broad downland accent. “‘Is’t broken? Are ye bleedin’? Then why’re ye so upset, eh?’”

“‘I’ve the solution for yer pain,’” Desandre added, a twinkle in her eyes. “‘Show me where it hurts, and I’ll cut it off.’”

Colm laughed. “He was miserable at comfort. That’s why I always went to you with my bumps and bruises.”

“Oh, you were an easy child,” Desandre demurred, leaning back and wrapping her hands around a tepid mug of mulled wine. “Sweet and soft as a petal. You did bruise so easily, though.” She stared down at Colm’s long, pale fingers. “Not so much anymore.”

“I had to toughen up at some point.”

“We all do,” Desandre agreed sadly. “Colm…you know that I love you like my own, don’t you? I would never ask you to leave if I didn’t think it was the best thing for you. You’re the child of my heart, and your father and I…we’ve only ever wanted what was best for all our children.”

“I know,” Colm assured her. “I’ve never doubted that.” They stared at each other for a long moment in the dim light of the fire, hearts full of the things they’d said and the things left unspoken.

Once she’d recovered her equilibrium, Desandre relocated to the hearth room and called the rest of the family to them. Two daughters looked at her expectantly, while Kels simply climbed into his mother’s lap and drowsed against her chest. Colm sat in what had been his father’s chair, conscious of how wrong it felt to do so, and let his stepmother do the talking.

“Honored Gherick feels that your father will rest easier in the lands of his birth,” Desandre told her children briskly. “Colm is taking his ashes to Caithmor, so that he might be buried at sea.”

“Colm is going to Caithmor?” Baylee burst out, looking frantically from mother to brother. “But the journey will take months—you’ll miss the harvest festival!”

“I may decide to stay awhile,” Colm said, and now Merdith was beaming. “There are opportunities in Caithmor that I want to explore.”

Baylee glared and set her jaw pugnaciously. “There are plenty of opportunities for you here. I don’t see why Father can’t be buried in Anneslea, so you don’t have to go.”

“This is the best solution, and I’ll not hear any arguments on it,” Desandre said firmly. “Colm leaves early tomorrow, so I suggest you say your good-byes tonight. Now, I’m tired, and it’s been a long day.” She stood up, carrying Kels with her. He hadn’t even shifted. “I’m going to sleep. Colm, bank the fire before you’re to bed. Merdith, give our greetings to Tellan.”

“I will, Mama.” Desandre left, and Colm’s sisters stared at him with wildly opposing emotions. Merdith came forward first.

“Safe travels,” she said, hugging him gingerly. “Do write to us and let us know when you’ve settled. Is everything ready on the boat?”

“All safe and sound,” Colm replied, inwardly smirking over the fact that his desire for occupation had led him to tie triple-Granyards in all of the boat’s ropes. Tellan would have a fine time unraveling those. “Be well, Merdith.”

“I shall,” she said with a smile before turning, collecting her cloak and clogs and heading out into the drizzling dark. Her home was close enough that she could get there without a torch to illuminate the path.

That left Baylee, and she wasn’t going to be so easily placated as the rest of Colm’s family. “Lee,” he started, reaching for her, but she slapped his hand away.

“Don’t you Lee me!” she snapped. “What are you thinking of, leaving us? Why would you even consider such a stupid idea?”

“It’s for Father.”

“Father is just your excuse,” Baylee sneered with all the venom a fifteen-year-old could bring to bear. “It’s you who’s decided not to stay. Is it Merdith and that stupid Tellan?”

Her demeanor switched from angry to pleading in an instant. “You don’t have to give in to them. Father wanted you to have his boat! You don’t have to be a farmer, you can fish and have a little house by the loch and, and I’ll help you keep it clean, and someday when we have our own families, we can be neighbors, and it will be lovely!” Baylee was crying now, huge, ugly tears that left her heart-shaped face blotchy. “Don’t let them ruin it!”

This time when Colm reached for her, she jumped into his arms. “Lee,” Colm sighed, fighting to keep his own composure. “It’s not them, I promise. I don’t feel…that is, I don’t think I can live the sort of life I want to here in Anneslea. I need to learn more about where I came from.”

“Father never said he came from Caithmor,” Baylee said indignantly.

“No, but Mama has family there. It’s as good a place to start as any.”

“I don’t want you to go,” she said with an air of confession, and a moment later, her stern façade fell away, the tears overwhelming her. She muffled her sounds against his chest, but he felt every wretched quiver that racked her body.

“I’m sorry,” Colm said miserably, over and over, stroking his sister’s long dark hair. “I’m sorry. I have to go.” He let himself cry as well for a few moments, but his tears were nearly exhausted. He stayed quiet until her chest stopped heaving and her eyes slowly dried, then said, “Lee, I have to go. I want to go.” It wasn’t even really a lie anymore. “You’ll be all right.”

“I want to hear from you,” she demanded, recognizing his implacability. “I want letters, every week.”

“Lee…” Writing had never come easily to Colm. Every word was a struggle to set down, and he was never sure any of them were spelled correctly, not even his own name.

“Every week,” she said, punctuating each word with a poke to his chest. “I don’t care how hard it is, you owe me letters if you’re going to abandon me here.”

Colm scoffed. “You aren’t being abandoned. You’ve a whole family here.”

“Not a whole one,” Baylee corrected him. “No father, and soon no you. It sounds like a broken family to me.”

It sounded broken to him too, but Colm didn’t say anything. After a long moment, his sister sighed. “Come on, then. You’d better let me help you pack, or you’ll be out of socks and unders before you hit Isealea.”

“Your faith in me is heartening.”

“Ha! I know you,” his sister said, arching one eyebrow perfectly. It was a gesture she’d picked up from their father, and one Colm had never been able to duplicate. “Put you on a boat and you know where every last thread lies, but beyond that, you’re a bit hopeless.”

“I admit nothing,” Colm said loftily and was heartened by Baylee’s snort. “But I’ll let you help me, just this once.”

“I suppose this once is all we have.” Baylee turned and headed back to his room. Colm took a moment to bank the fire in the grate, then followed her.

They packed by candlelight, and Colm was astonished at how many of his things his sister was able to fit into his pack. He certainly wouldn’t want for socks, at least. She also pointedly stuck a rolled-up sheaf of parchment and a tightly bound flask of ink into a side pocket. “Don’t ‘accidentally’ lose them, now, or I’ll come after you,” Baylee warned him. Colm rolled his eyes but took the admonishment. “And take your gutting knife. You never know when you’ll need a knife.”

“Tellan will need a knife tomorrow to get the boat untied,” Colm murmured, and a second later, Baylee started to laugh.

“It couldn’t happen to a better man! Let him prove his superiority with that.”

The last thing they added to the pack was Ger’s ashes. “I miss him terribly already,” Baylee said pensively as she tied the whole thing closed. “But I will miss you more.”

“I’ll miss you also,” Colm said, and for a moment, the thought of leaving was almost more daunting than he could stand. He needed a distraction. “Come on, then. Give me one more tune on your flute before I have to go without.”

“I say again: it’s your choice,” Baylee replied, but she went to get her flute regardless.

One tune turned into ten, and even once her repertoire was exhausted, Baylee didn’t leave him. Neither of them slept that night. She and Desandre saw Colm off at the road leading out of Anneslea at dawn the next day. Desandre pressed a small pouch of coins into his hand along with the letter to her aunt, and then kissed him on both cheeks. “Be smart, and be careful. Find good company and let them guide you to Caithmor. And don’t walk the whole way. You’ll ruin your feet.”

“And write,” Baylee said again as she embraced him.

“Yes, mothers.” That got a smile from both of them. He left them like that, smiling silhouettes against the rays of light that crept over the edge of the mountains sheltering Anneslea’s little valley. He turned around once, before the road vanished into the trees, and they were still there. He waved, then continued on.

Colm never glanced back after that.

Chapter Two

It took less than a week for Colm to reach Isealea, the trading town at the foot of the mountain road, and it was by and large a pleasant journey. He had traveled this way before with his father, and Ger Weathercliff was known to many of the people along the way. Colm was easily identifiable thanks to his height, and as such he never spent a night on the ground, welcomed into little homes in familiar villages to share food and warmth, and light to hold back the night.

The last of these benefactors, an old farmer who just went by Raener, walked with Colm into Isealea, promising him an introduction to a caravaneer he knew who was headed for Caithmor. “Fergus is a bit of an odd one,” he confided as they walked along. “Spent too much time in the East, he did. Picked up some of their strange ways, but he’s a good-enough man for all that. Prays to the Four and fears the Two, and that’s what’s really important.”

“I do appreciate your help,” Colm said for probably the fifth time, and the farmer chuckled and slapped him on the shoulder. It felt like being smacked with a shovel.

“No need to get bent out of shape o’er it,” Raener said. “Your dad was a good man, always ready to help another out. He gave me half an hour of his time once and four slipperscales to show for it, enough to feed us for two days. Least I can do is pay his lad the same courtesy.”

Isealea was much larger than Anneslea, with multiple roads heading in and out of it instead of just the one. The town center was filled with a slow, steady train of wagons, horses, carts and mules and the people who drove them, with vendors lining the edges.

“Market day today,” Raener remarked. “A good day to find a group heading to Caithmor. Look for the man whose wagons are pulled by camels, lad.”

“What is a camel?”

The farmer laughed. “Oh Lord of Flame, you don’t know camels? They’re like a bumpy beige horse with a bad attitude, lad…there! Look yonder.”

Colm looked, and at first all he saw were two shaggy humps rising above the crowd. Then the creature raised its long neck, and Colm started with surprise. It had huge, heavy-lidded eyes and a mobile mouth full of teeth that were, frankly, terrifying. “That’s a camel?”

“Aye, lad.”

“Are they meat eaters?”

The farmer scratched at his beard. “Not that I know of. Right big, though, aren’t they?”

“Very,” Colm agreed, letting his companion pull him forward through the crowd a little reluctantly. The closer they got to the camel, the more of them he could see. There was a true caravan of wagons pulled by pairs of the beasts stretched along the east side of the square, each of the wagons somewhere in the process of loading or unloading. Heavy bolts of cloth were being dispersed, making room for local pottery and valuable water-mocker pelts. Much of the space inside was already taken up with furs, and the little room that remained was filling quickly, despite the lamentations of a tremendously round man wearing a set of brown desert robes. A turban wound around his head, and beneath it, bright tufts of copper-red hair protruded like weeds in an otherwise uniform garden.

“For the love of the gods, Marley, can’t you stack those tighter?” he bellowed, arguing with the porter who was loading his closest wagon. “I’ve got five more cases to go in, and at this rate, I’ll have to carry the damn things on my lap! I’ve hardly got enough room for a wench on my lap these days. What will I do with five cases of stoneware?”

“I’ll get ’em in, Fergus, ne’er fear,” the porter said patiently.

“You’d better, my man, or the curses of my wife and the dirges of my poor starving children will be on your head,” Fergus grumbled. He turned and caught sight of the farmer, and his face broke out in a grin. “Ah, I see I’m being hunted! You old scoundrel, what are you doing this far into civilization?” The two men shook hands, with Fergus blatantly staring at Colm. “And who’s this lofty young fellow you have with you, then?”

“Just came in to see you, o’course,” Raener drawled. “This is Colm Weathercliff, the son of a man I knew for many years. He’s lookin’ to get to Caithmor, and I thought you might be the man to take him there.”

“Mother of the Four, what does this look like to you?” Fergus demanded, shaking his heavy hands toward the wagons. “I’ve barely enough room for my own cargo. How can I possibly make room for such a skyscraping interloper?” Colm’s heart sank, but for being a man giving a refusal, Fergus was still surprisingly cheery. “Look at the lad. Probably doesn’t even have a coin to his name to cover the cost of his passage.”

“Actually,” Colm began, but his companion grabbed his arm warningly.

“There’s never enough useful hands when on caravan, are there?” Raener mused. “Much less young, strong ones like this lad’s.”

“The younger they are, the more likely to eat me out of house and home,” Fergus retorted. “I’ve plenty of doughty farm lads lining up for a spot in my caravan. I hardly need any more heavy lifters.”

“This’un’s dad was the best fisherman in all the White Spires,” Raener said, “and from what I hear, Colm can beat ’im at ’is own game. The road keeps close to the river the whole way to Caithmor. Might be nice to break the monotony of dry beef and watery stew with some fresh fish every now and then.”

Fergus’s eyes seemed to brighten, but his expression stayed doubtful. Only now did Colm realize that the two men were bartering, and that Fergus’s refusal had been nothing but an opening gambit in the game. Colm flushed with embarrassment that he hadn’t recognized it sooner, but bartering was a rarity in Anneslea, where you knew every vendor and exactly what each item they had for sale should cost.

“Several of my lads try for fish at the end of each day,” Fergus said. “They fail more often than not. The Slew’s a terrible river for fishing from the shore, too wide and too deep. How do I know he’ll bring in more than just his own supper?”

“How ’bout the first catch of every evening goes to you, and only after that does the young man feed his own self?” Raener suggested.

“A fine thought, in theory, but what if the first catch is a wee minnow, eh? What’s to keep him from handing that off to me to make do with while he goes on to catch a foot-long rock trout on his second try?”

“Well, specify a length, then, ye vast ravener. Four inches.”

“Eight.”

“Five.”

“Six.”

“Done.” The men gripped each other’s forearms, then both looked over at Colm, who knew he was gaping but couldn’t help it. Fergus burst out laughing, his tremendous gut jiggling like a sand-colored pudding. “How do you feel about the price that this cow-loving pile of dung has wrought for you, eh lad?”

“Better a pile of dung than a great blubbery ball of lard and guts,” the farmer said jovially. “And he’s fine with it, aren’t ye, lad?”

“Quite,” Colm said at last when it appeared that they were actually expecting him to speak this time. “Thank you both.”

“Oh, I’ll see you earn your keep on this trip,” Fergus promised him. “Fish and a bit of hauling here and there, and you walk at least half the time, Weathercliff. I won’t have you and your great lanky body tuckering out my camels half a month in, y’hear? Be here tomorrow, five in the morning sharp. Ye’ll beat the cock’s crow or I’ll leave you to run after us on those stork legs of yours. Marley!” he bellowed suddenly. “Great Four, are you lashing those boxes in place? On top of the furs? Do you want them to wreck all my pelts? Idiot!” He bustled past the two of them to harangue his long-suffering porter, and Raener looked on with the air of a man well satisfied.

“So, now you’ve your passage and I’ve done good by your dad,” he said. “I hope your luck is better than your sire’s, lad.”

“As do I.” His companion looked like he was getting ready to leave, and Colm had a sudden thought. “May I buy you dinner, and perhaps trouble you for another favor as well?”

“I wouldn’t say no to dinner,” Raener mused, rubbing a hand over his whiskery white chin thoughtfully. “Though my missus will have my head if I come home smellin’ of ale, so no more than a single tankard, mind. What’s this favor, then?”

“Could you get a letter for my family back to Anneslea for me?”

“Aye, if you write it up quick, lad.”

They found a table in a nearby tavern where Raener seemed to know everyone, and ate cold ham and seed rolls while Raener drank and Colm struggled through his letter to Baylee. In the end, it was disappointingly short, but the best he could manage in a hurry.

Deerest sister

I am in Isealee and vahe fownd a cavar a way to Caithmor. I will be prhaps a month on the rode, but will do my best to rite you. Isealee is small but lowd, and I can olny imagine how Caithmor must eclip sit. I hope all is wel at home.

Your brother,

Colm

He scratched out the last letter of his name with the quill and sighed with relief. It wasn’t perfect, he knew that, but it was as good as he could manage right now. Raener eyed him knowingly. “Never learned my letters, meself,” he confided. “Devilish little things, aren’t they?”

“They don’t come easy to me, true,” Colm said, folding the parchment and then dripping wax from the candle on the table to seal it. He wrote, very carefully, Weathercliff across the front of it, then handed it over to Raener. “Thank you for all your help.”

“Thank you for the meal, lad.” The farmer stood and clapped Colm on the shoulder. “And I think if you wait around a bit, there might be a spot by the fireplace in the back for ye.”

Colm smiled and bid the old man farewell. The cook did let him sleep in the kitchen, and woke him well before dawn. He made his way back to Fergus’s caravan, where he was met by Marley.

“Hisself is still sleepin’,” Marley said quietly. The air around them was misted and still, broken here and there by the vague shadows of people moving through the dark as the drivers roused their camels and sleepy passengers made their way to the wagons. “You’re to be with our own wagon up front, though. Drop your pack in the back, and best tie it down tight if you don’t want it walkin’ away. You’ll start on foot today.”

“Very well.” Colm followed the instructions and then stood off to the side, chafing his chilled arms and wondering when they would begin. The drivers did their work smoothly, a few wagons back a mother shushed a fussy babe, and here and there, young men—probably the “doughty farm boys” that Fergus had referenced—collected into groups, whispering excitedly amongst themselves. Colm considered trying to join some of them, but then thought better of it—he was quiet and awkward at the best of times, and it would be better to learn names and faces when there was actually some sun to see their owners by.

The sky was lightening in the east when a tremendous snort erupted from beneath the first wagon. There followed a raucous coughing, and then Fergus the Caravaneer rolled out from under his wagon, dragging a blanket with him and looking disgruntled. “What?” he asked crossly when he saw Colm staring at him. “Have you never seen a grown man sleep beneath his very own wagon before, then?”

“No,” Colm said honestly. Fergus snorted and heaved himself to his feet as Marley came to him.

“All’s ready,” he said.

“Good. You made room for the missus with the little lady?”

“Shifted a few boxes onto the shoulders of some of the lads from her village. They’ll manage till midday, at least.”

“Good, good. Well.” Fergus clapped his hands together. “I need a piss and a drink, in that order. The moment I’m back, we’re off.” He strode off into the darkness, and Marley watched him go with a smile.

“Crazy old bastard,” he said. “He would’ve been sleeping with his wife if he hadn’t gotten drunk. Called her the wrong name.”

“He has a mistress on the side?”

Marley laughed. “Mistress? No, lad, he’s got other wives! Wives in towns that stretch the length of this land, seven that I’ve met.”

Colm was both horrified and intrigued. The thought of just one wife was enough to send him running to Caithmor, he couldn’t imagine more than that. “And he keeps them all secret from each other?”

“He tries, lad, he tries. Didn’t manage so well this time, though.” Marley shook his head, then walked down the line of wagons, checking in with each of the drivers and the rest of the company. Soon after, Fergus was back, hoisting himself onto his wagon with much grunting and evident effort. A few minutes later, he prodded his camels into motion. The wagon creaked forward, and the procession headed out of Isealea, and Colm stepped beyond the boundaries of his experience with no little trepidation.

Breakfast was a cup of cold, congealed porridge that had clearly been made the night before, the pot passed along from hand to hand until it came back to Fergus, who shoved it at Colm.

“All right, Weathercliff, time to start paying for your place in my company. Go and wash this out.”

“Wash it where?”

“The river, of course! The Wending Slew, the river that makes all these pitiful little towns possible. The river where you’ll be catching our dinner tonight.” Fergus made a show of rubbing his belly. “I favor rock trout, but fortunately for you, I’ll make do with sand sliders or grass eels if that’s all you can find.” He waved a fat hand imperiously. “Go on, then. Clean it and catch up.”

Colm had it on good authority—it came from Desandre, it had to be good—that cold, muddy river water couldn’t compare to hot water and ash, but he wasn’t going to start complaining his first day out. He took the pot, heavy even though it was empty now, and walked as fast as his long legs could manage off the road, through the tall grass beneath the scattered pine trees and to the river.

Colm crouched at the water’s edge and scooped gravel into the basin, then scrubbed at it with his hand. Sticky bits of porridge slowly sloughed away, and he repeated the process twice more, until he could rub his fingers across the inside of the pot without them catching anywhere. He rinsed, then rinsed again, keeping the water as steady and untroubled as he could before he hurried back to the road. The caravan was barely visible in the distance, and Colm practically had to run to catch up. Those camels didn’t look fast, but their long legs kept a steady pace that ate up the distance.

“Ah, here’s the uplander!” one of the other young men called out as Colm passed the wagon at the back. “Done with our dishes yet, miss?” Colm ignored him and kept walking. “You forgot to clean my cup, lass! But I’ll let it go this time.” His friends laughed with him, and Colm blushed and walked faster.

“Here,” Colm said breathlessly when he’d caught up to the front of the caravan again. He thrust the pot at Fergus, who took it easily and set it behind his seat.

“Nicely done,” Fergus complimented him, catching Colm off guard. “But it won’t do for you to run from those lads, Weathercliff. You’ll have to snap back or be eaten by the little bastards.”

“I’ll manage them,” Colm said. Somehow.

“Course you will,” Fergus said affably. “Do you know how to drive a camel, Weathercliff?”

Colm didn’t even know how to ride a mule. “No.”

“Get up here, then, it’s high time you learned.” Fergus scooted over and made room, and once Colm joined him he handed over the leads. Colm spent the rest of the day learning how to coax a camel into doing his bidding—coax them, because, like horses and mules, they could be ornery, and they held a grudge far longer.

“Ah, these camels are my true family,” Fergus said expansively as he chewed on a strip of beef. “I’ve had them since I returned from the Fasach, the desert lands. Wonderful creatures. Feed them and water them, and they’ll take you anywhere. They can handle the icy winds of the mountains just as well as the cloying heat of the swamps, and none but the greatest or most foolhardy of predators will approach them. I lost one to a manticore a few years back, but she’s been the only casualty so far.”

“Where did you see a manticore?” Colm asked. He’d heard of such creatures, but the closest thing to a genuine monster they had in Anneslea was a kelpie that had abandoned the loch not long after his father had settled there.

“It was in the steppes north of the desert lands, in a nasty, rocky expanse of nothing much worth bothering about. Foolish to go there, but the rocks had a few crevices that would help protect my wagons from a sandstorm, so into the rocks we went. I didn’t even see the creature until it was upon us: long, skinny-bodied thing, all ribs and teeth. The tail, though, that worked well enough. Speared one of my camels, and the lovely thing just keeled over, paralyzed. It fell on her like it hadn’t eaten in months, and maybe it hadn’t. Tore great chunks out while she was still alive. It was a brutal death for my poor lass.” Fergus shook his head sadly, reaching one hand up to adjust his turban. “I left right then, of course, sandstorm be damned. That thing was so ravenous, it might not have been satisfied with a single camel, and I couldn’t afford to lose any more.”

Colm had cultivated the art of listening at an early age. It relieved him from having to carry on a conversation, and people tended to enjoy talking about themselves. “What other creatures have you encountered in your travels?” he asked, and spent the rest of a largely pleasant day listening contentedly as Fergus described places so far-flung, they had no name on any map he’d ever seen, the beauty of their women, the cunning of their men and the glory of skies that undulated with sheets of green and blue and purple in the night.

It was almost a disappointment to bring the wagon to a halt, although his rear had grown rather stiff from sitting. Fergus dismounted heavily, shouting for Marley and chatting with the other drivers as he circulated through where he had designated their first camp. Breaking down took a lot of preparation: camels had to be unhitched, watered and left in the grass to feed, the wagons had to be secured and provisions assembled for whatever dinner was going to be that night, while individuals and families tried to find the softest patch of ground to erect their tents on.

By the time Colm had readied his bedroll, not far from the wagon, Fergus was back. “So!” he said merrily. “Some of the lads are off to try their hands at catching some fish. I do recall that you owe me at least a six-incher tonight, and I recommend you do so before those hopeful lads scare off all the possibilities.”

“Of course.” Colm pulled his collapsible rod and tackle from his pack, then headed for the shore of the river. He was surprised when Fergus fell into step beside him. “Oh—don’t you have things to do back at camp?”

“Why, Weathercliff, can’t handle an audience?” Fergus softened his words with a wink. “No, I’m letting Marley handle the meal tonight. He makes a mean stew, practically edible, and if I stayed around, he’d just ask to use my spices. Hang that, I say. People want to salt or season their stew, they can bring their own.”

A moment later, they reached the bank of the Wending Slew, where, sure enough, several yards downstream, the same three young men who had laughed at Colm earlier were casting flies determinedly into the swift current. Colm stifled a laugh, but one of them heard him anyway.

“Oh, here she is,” he said with a grin. “Come to catch dinner for all of us, miss? Or did you come to see it done properly, then?”

Colm wondered for a moment if Fergus would speak up for him, but the fat man just rocked back on his heels and folded his hands over his belly. Fine, then. Colm started to piece his rod together.

“Ooh, what, couldn’t even afford to get it all in one piece, miss?” The men laughed together. Colm gritted his teeth and tried to ignore them. “Not going to have much luck with a broken pole. One hard tug and it’ll come to pieces on you. Tell you what, lass, step back and you can do the cleaning for our fish once we reel ’em in, hmm?”

Colm took one deep breath, then another. He reached out with his hand and let his fingers drift in the current. The water was harder to read here. Not surprising, with three oafs fouling the eddies not ten feet away. After a moment, though, he could feel the slow, smooth tremors that meant a fish was moving nearby. Putting his rod down, Colm rolled his pants up past his knees and stepped into the water. He waded in as deep as he could go without drenching his clothes, hunched over so his fingers slipped below the cool surface, and stilled.

The men were shouting something at him, derisive and uproariously funny if the braying sounds coming from their throats were anything to go by, but Colm barely heard them. All his attention was on the water. It made his skin crawl uncomfortably. Colm had never relished the feel of water on his skin, despite how well he could read it. But he managed to ignore that too, in favor of following the fish with his mind. Closer, closer…a young sand slider, he thought, edging on six inches but possibly not quite there. Another chance wasn’t a sure thing, though, not the way those idiots were churning up the water, and so as soon as he felt it draw close enough, Colm plunged his hand deep down into the mud. He trapped the slider between the silt and his own long fingers, making them a cage, then lifted it out of the water.

Every man there went totally silent.

Colm turned and smiled at Fergus, who watched with wide eyes. “Here is your dinner.” He examined the slimy brown fish. “Just over six inches, I think.” Colm tossed it at Fergus, who caught it awkwardly, almost fumbling it to the ground.

“Aren’t you going to clean it, then, Weathercliff?” Fergus demanded.

“Mmm, no, cleaning wasn’t part of the deal,” Colm said, already scanning the water for a fish of his own.

“Luck!” one of the men shouted. “That was pure luck! How could you possibly have seen a brown fish in brown water with the sun going down?”

“I didn’t see it, I sensed it,” Colm said absently.

“Sensed it? What are you, a fish-man? Sensing your own kind?” the man sneered. He charged into the water beside Colm, fouling it terribly and frightening all the fish away. “Is it some sort of magic you do?” he demanded, grabbing the hand Colm had caught the fish with and glaring at it. The grip hurt, and Colm pulled back, but the young man wouldn’t let go.

“Unhand me,” Colm said coldly.

“Not if you’re some sort of a mage I won’t,” the man replied. “Vile, murderous bastards all of them, who do magic without prayin’ to the Four. So what is it, then?” He stepped closer and squeezed harder. “Are you a fish-man or are you a mage?”

“Farrel, leave him be,” one of the other men called, but Farrel’s grip didn’t waver.

“No!” he shouted back. “We have a right to know if a mage is travelin’ with us! You—” He gasped suddenly, and drew back as the pain of what had just happened reached his brain. Colm had his thin-bladed gutting knife in his hand, the knife he carried tucked away beneath his shirt, so small no one ever thought to look for it. He had drawn it across the back of Farrel’s hand as soon as the man had become distracted, leaving a shallow but long slice in the thin flesh.

“I’m just a man,” Colm said quietly. “There’s no magic in me, just a knack for finding fish. Don’t try to touch me again, or I’ll show you another of my talents.” He stepped out of the water, grabbed his tackle and slid his shoes back on. “I think I’ll pass on dinner tonight,” Colm told Fergus, then headed back for the caravan. He could hear Fergus lambasting the other men as he crossed the road, finally, and that made Colm feel just the slightest bit better.

Colm had resigned himself to a hungry night, but Marley surprised him by bringing him a bowl of stew. “No one in our caravan goes hungry,” he said gruffly. “Fishing went poorly, then?”

“You could say that,” Colm replied, taking the bowl and sipping tentatively. The broth was simple but tasty, and bits of carrot and shredded jerky floated enticingly.

“Don’t let those young’uns get to you,” Marley advised, topping Colm’s bowl off. “Full of dreams they are, but little sense. Caithmor will knock that into ’em, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” Colm agreed. Marley moved on, and Colm sat alone in the twilight, savoring the heat of the bowl against his chilled fingers. He always felt so cold after being in the water. It seemed to take hours for the feeling to dissipate. Once he had finished his meal and rinsed his bowl, he laid his head back against his pack and stared up at the stars, trying not to think too hard about what the other man—Farrel—had said.

Uplanders were a naturally superstitious folk, and they’d suffered terribly under tyrants who’d maintained their dominance through bloody, fearful magic before Tierna Red-Eye had broken the mage lords’ backs with his ruthless campaign. The only people who could practice magic now were priests, and only in service to the Four. Worship of the Two, the dark, unfathomable expanses both above and below, had been banned. Magic was a dirty word, and being accused of using it was a serious allegation.

Colm didn’t know where his ability came from. Ger Weathercliff had been a good fisherman, but he had never had Colm’s knack for sensing the movements of the water, for knowing what moved through the deeps and being able to distinguish the movements of fish from water weeds or roiling currents. Colm thought the knack might come from his mother, but that was one topic of conversation that his father had never, ever discussed, not with him or anyone else. Something terrible must have happened to her, and Colm had never pressed when he saw how much pain it caused his father.

“Whoof!” Colm’s eyes, which had fallen closed with his ruminations, snapped open as Fergus levered himself to the ground in an untidy sprawl next to him. The caravaneer carried an oil lamp and a plate with his freshly cooked fish still steaming on it. “If the gods someday invent a way that man can accomplish all he needs while standing on his own two feet, I’ll be thrilled,” Fergus grunted as he crossed his legs. “It’s the getting up and getting down that bothers me these days. Old, that’s what I’m becoming.”

“What can I do for you?” Colm asked, not too politely, but then he wasn’t feeling extremely polite either.

“All I want is your company and some conversation,” Fergus assured him. “I doubt those lads will be giving you any trouble from here on out. Being shown up is one thing, but accusations of magic are quite another. Too much of that and people will start to talk, and not in a good way.”

“So you’re here to…warn me, then?”

Fergus took a bite of his fish and chewed slowly, savoring it. “Delicious,” he said after he swallowed. “Warn you? Oh, not so much. I warned them, certainly. You…well, no one can help what the gods gift them with, can they? You’re a dowser, Weathercliff, pure and simple.”

“A dowser?” Colm sat up and turned to face Fergus. “I’ve never heard of such a thing before.”

“Aye, ’tis more of a desert term. There are men there who can find water in the middle of a desert, some by going into a trance, some just followin’ their noses. I met a girl, daughter of a blacksmith, who could find ancient starfalls and recover their celestial metal. I’ve even met a man who could see the patterns lizards left on bare stone and find all their little hiding places. A man who feels for fish is no great stretch for me.” Fergus shrugged and ate another bite. “It’s possible you’ve a bit of selkie in you. Your dad came from the coast, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Colm said, intrigued by Fergus’s descriptions. “What’s a selkie?”

“A seal that becomes a woman on shore. Steal her pelt and she’ll make you a good wife, but if she ever finds it again, she’ll leave you and all your children to return to the water. There are plenty of old families along the coast with some selkie in their blood. I reckon you swim like a fish too.”

“I actually don’t know how to swim,” Colm confessed.

“Really?” Fergus looked surprised. “Well, you’d sure and away be good at it if you tried, I’ve no doubt. Anyhow, I’m the last man who would hold your gift against you.” He leaned a little closer. “If I were you, though, I might make it a point of using a rod instead of your bare hands from here on out. Just to ease the simpler minds.”

“I will,” Colm said. He’d already decided not to show off again. He had no facility with it.

“That was a lovely little cut you gave that lad too,” Fergus added gleefully. “Just enough to let him know you meant business, not enough to really hurt him. He and his friends will likely give you a wide berth from here on out.”

As far as Colm was concerned, that was a good thing. He had never made friends easily, and it seemed that this trip wasn’t going to prove any different. Gods knew what he would do once he got to Caithmor. He hoped that Desandre’s aunt Meggyn was a patient woman, for he was likely to be quite the embarrassment until he got the hang of living in the city.

Assuming she lets you stay at all, Colm thought morosely. If that didn’t happen, well…he couldn’t go back to Anneslea. He’d have to try his hand somewhere else and hope his strangeness didn’t make him a complete pariah.

“There’s no need to look so dour, Weathercliff!” Fergus clapped his shoulder companionably, then used it to help lever himself to his feet. Colm’s spine creaked under the added weight. “You’ve done fine for your first day out of the nest. It only gets easier from here, lad.” Fergus bustled back to his wagon, clucking at his camels, and Colm watched him go with a smile. He was right. It was far too soon to write off his journey as a failure. And Farrel had deserved what he got. When Colm bedded down that night, it was with a greater sense of optimism than he’d imagined himself having a few hours earlier.

Chapter Three

The next day was much like the first, and they continued until a week had gone by almost before Colm realized it. He’d taken Fergus’s advice and fished with his pole now, and all but one night, he caught more fish than he and Fergus alone could eat. Sharing his bounty with the rest of the travelers inclined them to be kind, and Farrel and his friends might cast truculent glances his way, but they didn’t bother Colm any longer. Better yet, Fergus had taken it upon himself to pass along the washing-up duties to them, and so Colm was free to enjoy his mornings a little longer. He spent some time in the wagon with Fergus every day, and the big man passed the time by telling Colm wild, extravagant stories that had to be at least half lies, but were thrilling regardless.

“Oh, the Siskanns,” Fergus intoned when Colm asked about the southernmost part of the Muiri empire. “Awful, hot, damp place riddled with swamps and mires. The people now, the folk there are lusty and full of life, Weathercliff, and close to nature in a curious way. Because the Siskanns are a terrible place to live, ye understand. Full of biting insects and scaly water beasts and winds that carry illness with them.

“And the bandits, oh, don’t get me started on the bandits! If the place doesn’t kill you, the bandits will, and they aren’t kindly bandits like you find in the desert, who just take most of your stores and then let you go. No, these lads take your stores, burn your wagons, slaughter your mounts, rape your women and string you upside down over the mires where the nimh-fish lie in wait. Then they watch and laugh as the bloody serpents take shots at you until a lucky one grabs hold of your head and pulls you down into the muck.”

“That sounds atrocious,” Colm said. He had no idea what a swamp serpent looked like, but if it was big enough to drag a man down by latching on to his head, it had to be bad.

“Aye, it is. It pays to hire extra security when you’re dealing down there, no mistake. I’ve lost more than one comrade to the bandits’ wicked ways.” Fergus sighed, looking almost old for a moment. “I’d skip the place entirely were it not for my terrible wanderlust. And the fact that I’ve a wife down there who’d miss me if I were gone for too long.”

“Naturally.”

The rolling foothills soon gave way to heavily cultivated plains, where the towns became larger and the sights more plentiful. Colm sampled foods he’d never tried before, strange chewy meats and bitter greens that somehow tasted delicious when sprinkled with lemon juice. He traded some fish for a paper mask of the Red-Eyed Emperor, and sent it back to Anneslea with his next letter to his sister. On one memorable occasion, he let Fergus and Marley talk him into trying peppery spirits, the liquid of life, they assured him. The small glass of clear liquid had seemed innocuous enough at first, but it burned all the way down his throat and left him gasping for breath. Fergus and Marley thought it was hilarious.

“That put some color in those sharp ivory cheeks!” Fergus crowed. “The red goes lovely with your pretty brown locks, Weathercliff.”

“Careful not to cough too much, though,” Marley added. “Your eyes will become so red, we won’t even be able to see the blue, and I know the girls like blue eyes. Look at the luck this portly bastard has.” He jerked his thumb toward Fergus, who smiled graciously.

“You,” Colm wheezed as soon as he was able, “are both. Utter bastards.”

“Aye, lad, that’s the spirit!” Naturally, they bought him another round. Naturally, Colm drank, and it was easier the second time, and much easier the third. His headache was so wretched in the morning that Fergus took pity on him and let Colm ride in the wagon all day, his cloak pulled tight around his face to hold back the horrid, pitiless sun. He didn’t emerge until full dark had fallen, when Fergus patted his head gently.

“Not everyone is made to handle spirits,” he said, and it sounded like actual compassion in his voice. “I reckon this was a fine learning experience for you, Weathercliff. Now you’ll know what not to do in Caithmor.”

“I will never drink anything again,” Colm groaned.

“Not even plain old water?” Fergus asked, offering up his skin. Colm considered it for a moment, then thrust his hand out with poor grace.

“Give it here.”

The water sloshed uncomfortably in his empty stomach, but after a while, Colm felt well enough to sip some broth, stumble off to the bush that had been designated the latrine and relieve himself, then walk back at a slow, careful pace. After another night of decent sleep, Colm felt almost normal the next day, if more assured than ever that he was never going to drink again.

Five days out from the coast, when a strong westerly wind blew in, a scent like Colm had never known before caught his attention. His body went stiff as he raised his head higher, trying to discover the source of it. Fergus noticed his sudden attention and laughed. “You caught that, then?”

“What is it?” Colm asked, transfixed.

“That’s the sea, lad. When we get closer, you’ll almost taste the salt in the air.”

“The sea.” Colm knew, intellectually, that the sea was a tremendous expanse of water, vaster than the mountain ranges of his home, something that supposedly stretched in such a way that it rivaled the sky for vastness. He felt he had a pretty good picture of it in his mind, that he could accept the existence of that much water just like he understood the concept of the continent he walked across. He just hadn’t thought it would smell so enticing.

“Aye, the sea. Nice, isn’t it?”

“It…yes.”

“Ah, there’s that selkie blood playing up,” Fergus said knowingly. “It captures you, it does. It’ll be like coming home for you, Weathercliff. Just you wait.” Colm didn’t know how he would handle the waiting. As the wind dissipated, the scent faded with it, and he felt his shoulders slump with unexpected disappointment. Colm wanted it back; he wanted more. He didn’t know how he would last five more days without experiencing the sea.

On the third-to-last day out from Caithmor, late at night, Colm was woken up by the sounds of muted cursing. He pushed off his blanket and headed for the noise coming from the direction of the ditch Marley had dug to be the caravan’s latrine earlier that evening.

“Bloody fucking Four-fold damn,” Colm heard Fergus gasp, pain evident in his voice. He couldn’t see the other man, though. “Come on now…up you get, one two, thr—bloody hells!”

“Fergus?” Colm called tentatively.

There was silence for a moment, then, “That you, Weathercliff?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, bah. Well…it could be worse, old man,” the caravaneer said, more to himself than to Colm. “Come over here and help me up, lad.”

“Where are you?”

“Sprawled over this dirty damn ditch, and I’d like to be out of it as soon as possible, so shift your lanky limbs and pull me out, damn it!”

Colm approached a little reluctantly, not enjoying the smell. There was Fergus, fallen onto his hands and knees. His turban had been knocked off and his sand-colored robe was filthy. “What happened?”

“What do you think happened, lout?” Fergus demanded in an angry whisper. “I tripped over my own damn feet and fell into this shit hole and twisted my bloody ankle, and if you don’t get me out of here right now, I’ll have you washing pots morning, noon and night for the rest of the trip!”

Colm overcame his reluctance and reached an arm down to Fergus. The heavy man gripped him tight, and Colm heaved, every muscle in his back and shoulders straining as he levered Fergus out of the ditch. “Bloody hell,” Fergus gasped once he was upright. “This foot’s going to be a nightmare, I can tell.” He shook his head, making his hair flap around strangely. “Help me back to the wagon, lad, then go get me a bucket of water.”

Colm slid Fergus’s arm over his shoulder and helped him hobble along, and as they walked he couldn’t help but notice that Fergus’s hair seemed oddly matted in places. Two long swaths on either side of his head were stuck together, and moved independently of the rest of it. Colm blamed the darkness and his own disbelief for his slowness in recognizing them for what they actually were. “You have ears?” he exclaimed.

“Keep your bloody voice down!” Fergus whispered harshly. “And yes, course I have ears, idiot, everybody has bloody ears.”

“Yes,” Colm said, helping Fergus turn and sit at the back of the wagon, “but yours aren’t human ears.”

Fergus snorted. “Obviously not, very sharp eyes you’ve got there, Weathercliff.”

“They look like…” Colm was a little reluctant to say it, but he had to know. “They look like the ears of an ass.”

“Makes sense, considering that’s what they are. Go on now, fetch me some water,” Fergus said, waving his hand feebly at Colm. “I’ll tell you the rest of it after I don’t stink of piss any longer.”

Colm left him and pulled water from the river, which had widened this far from the mountains, growing slower and shallower. He took a moment to clean his own hands and shoes before returning, grateful that the sky was clear and bright tonight.

Fergus was nude when Colm returned, his round, pale body an earthbound twin to the moon floating above. He still sat on the edge of the wagon and had a cloth and rough-cut soap ready to dip into the water. He cleaned himself quickly and efficiently, dumped the rest of the water over his head, then pulled another robe over his head and belted it firmly around the middle. The asses’ ears twitched and quivered as Fergus dug his fingers into the hair around them, scratching viciously.

“Ahh, gods,” he sighed, “I’ve not had a proper bath for months. I need to get my wife to check me for lice, I shouldn’t itch this way.”

“Are your ears the real reason you wear the turban?” Colm asked softly. “Not just because you’re…” He stopped, not sure how to go on without being offensive.

“Not just because I’m a crazy traveling eccentric who spent too much time being bewitched by the Fesach and copied their strange ways?” Fergus finished. “Got it in one, Weathercliff. Though if my heart could settle anywhere, I would wish it were back in the desert. There’s hidden beauty there the likes of which you’ve got to see to believe, lad.” He sighed heavily. “I suppose you’re wondering about these.”

“Yes, but don’t feel obligated to tell me.”

Fergus shook his head. “You are the strangest damn lark of a lad I’ve ever known, Weathercliff. You could blackmail me with information like this in Caithmor, you know that? The city priests are no friends of anything magical, and these”—Fergus tugged on one ear—“are definitely the result of magic. A curse, to be exact. A curse on greed, and one I knew full well about. I thought I would be the one to escape it, of course.” Fergus shook his head. “Ah, the folly of youth. Do you want to hear the tale, or don’t you?”

“I do,” Colm said. “And I would never blackmail you.” He couldn’t even imagine doing so.

“Good, then you can bind my ankle up nice and tight while I tell you.” Colm ripped the cloth from one of Fergus’s turbans into bandages as the other man spun him a story of an ancient stronghold in the Fasach Steppes, where everything inside the keep was made of gold. The curse was the result of a once-great king’s greed and madness, and it touched everyone who tried to take gold from the ruins.

“The more you took, the more you would change,” Fergus recalled. “The men I was with, they were a hearty lot, convinced of their own immortality. Most of ’em heaped themselves with as much as they could carry, heavy sacks of it, and staggered as fast as they could for the exit. As soon as each man crossed the threshold, though, he changed. Some turned into rabbits, some into pigs. One man turned into a nightingale. I had my own bags, but when I saw what was befalling the men around me, I threw them into the keep. Only one piece stayed with me, a golden circlet I’d stuck around my thick skull. It bought me these ears, and I’m fortunate it stopped with those.”

“So you were the only survivor?” Colm asked.

“Just about. The only other man to survive was the one who’d called us all fools and stayed with the camels. Marley always was a smart one, though.”

“It was Marley?” The porter had never struck Colm as the adventurous sort. “You two have been together that long?”

“Ah, well. Wives come and go, but true friends are worth their weight in gold. I would know,” Fergus added, his voice soft with memory. “It wasn’t a terrible fate for me. I used the gold from the circlet to buy my first wagons and get my start as a caravaneer. Settling down was never an option, y’know.

“There are places in the world that are kind to those of us who’ve been touched by magic, lad, and I’ve seen many of them on my travels. Even tried to make a home in one of ’em,” he said with a sigh, “but my heart’s not the type to rest easy, no matter how well I might fit in. Kind places, but they’re small, well-hidden. No, it could only be the road for me, so I adopted a few mannerisms that make me seem eccentric and kept making my way through the world. Most think me harmless, and I’d like them to continue to do so. Can I count on your silence, Colm Weathercliff?”

“I already said I wouldn’t blackmail you,” Colm told him. “You’re keeping my secret, whatever it may be. I’m pleased to be able to keep yours.” He tied the last bandage off. “It’s swollen, but not too badly. Be easy with it for a while.”

Fergus nodded gratefully. “Aye, I’ll do that. You’re a good lad, Weathercliff, for a bloody great stork. When we get to Caithmor, I’ll make sure you find where you’re looking for, all right? What’s the name of the inn again, the Cove?”

“Yes,” Colm confirmed. “The Cove.” Privately, he wasn’t sure he’d need the help, but it meant something to Fergus to offer it, and he wasn’t going to insult the other man by turning his favor down.

Chapter Four

It turned out that Colm had vastly underestimated the size of Caithmor in his mind. The last night of their journey, they all slept beneath the wagons in the side streets of Bellyn, the city that came before Caithmor on the main road, and as raucous and rowdy as it was, it had nothing on the capitol itself. There was no sea to see, too many buildings and streets crowded with people and horses and occasional filth. The noise was never-ending, a blurry mix of accents all at high volume, and above it all were two tall buildings: the Ardeaglais, the white cathedral dedicated to the Four and their worship, with services running all day and all night, and the other a square stone tower that was part of the castle of the King, Iarra Westward.

The sight of Fergus’s camels was generally greeted with cheers in the merchant quarter, and they settled in and started unloading quickly. Those who’d joined the caravan for the ride made their final farewells and, in some cases, payments to Fergus or Marley before going their ways. Colm stayed and helped them unload the heavy cases of stoneware, the furs and spices and rough iron pendants from the north, and Fergus whirled and wheeled and struck deals right and left, laughing one moment and raging the next as he hobbled around. His energy was a sight to behold, a welcome change from the lethargy that had taken him for a few days after his injury and revelation. Marley had taken Colm aside one afternoon and firmly explained to him exactly what he would do to Colm if he spilled Fergus’s secret.

It had been a slightly frightening experience, and one that also left Colm with a strange longing in his chest. He had never had a friend like that, one who would stand by him and help him through anything, curses and weary miles and whirlwinds of mood that seemed to change at a moment’s notice. Baylee was always on his side, but her presence was a familial one, her fervency in part defined by their blood relationship. She hadn’t chosen him because she hadn’t needed to. Colm thought that it must be nice to be chosen.

Caithmor was divided into districts, loose and sloppy though they were, and once Colm realized that between the merchant’s district and the waterfront were the church grounds and the naval yards, he was more than grateful to wait for an escort. Marley ended up providing this service, since Fergus wasn’t mobile enough to march over the cobbled streets for as long as it would take to get to the Cove, and, as he put it, “Someone has to stay and take care of the camels.”

“It was a pleasure to ride with you, Weathercliff,” Fergus told him, shaking his hand firmly. “Seek me out the next time you need passage somewhere. If I’m not going there myself, I’ll know someone who is. My home is here, just beyond the Golden Lion. It’s where I while the winters away.” He pointed over his shoulder at the closest inn. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get these beasts settled and the wagons squared before I can go visit my lovesick wife.”

Marley rolled his eyes. “Lovesick indeed,” he muttered as he turned and led Colm down a side street. “More like heartsick now that that great idiot is back. Geneve is my least favorite of his wives. She has little tolerance for his presence beyond the money he brings home every trip. Still, she runs his business here in Caithmor and does a good job of it.”

“Why aren’t you married?” Colm asked, nimbly dodging a mule that had decided to stop in the middle of the road for no reason. Its owner cursed it creatively as they walked by.

Marley shrugged. “I never had a mind to marry. Keeping a wife happy takes too much work. Besides, Fergus has always had more than enough appetite for women for the both of us.” He sped up after that, effectively ending Colm’s nascent attempt at conversation. That was fine with Colm. His head was full of his surroundings, trying to make sense of buildings that stretched into the sky, of people wearing colors he’d only seen in nature before, rich blues and purples, reds and oranges so vibrant they could have been snatched from a sunset. The air was both enticing and revolting, smelling simultaneously of sewage and effluvia, hot cooking food and the sea, so close and yet somehow farther than ever, separated from Colm by a never-ending flow of people and animals, merchants and priests and soldiers and sailors.

Eventually, they made their way into the waterside district, where the masts of tall ships jutted into the air like a forest of bobbing, leafless trees. Now Colm could, technically, see the water, but it was dark and filthy and coated with refuse. He felt…disappointed. This was the vaunted sea? This cesspit of humanity, transported from land to water? Marley asked an old man mending a net about the Cove, and they were pointed to a smallish inn at the far side of the long expanse of docks. Marley left him in front of it.

“Best of luck to you,” was all he said before turning around and darting back into the crowd. Colm watched him go and bit back the shameful urge to call out, like a child. He would be fine. He squared his shoulders, retrieved Desandre’s letter from his pack and headed into the inn.

The Cove was a double-level structure, with a large, well-lit taproom below and bedrooms above. It likely couldn’t house more than twenty guests, but far more than that were eating and drinking at the long, communal tables that covered the floor. Girls wearing aprons flitted back and forth, carrying food and drink to the tables, and a man with a tattooed face tended the bar. There was no one Colm could see who looked old enough to be Desandre’s aunt.

“Welcome to the Cove,” a slim young woman said as she sidled up. Her hair was tied back in a kerchief, and her arms were bare and strong. “Here for a meal or here to stay? It’s a busy night, and there’s but one room left, so it’ll be a bit dear, I’m afraid, unless you’ve a mind to share it.”

“Actually, I…” Colm fumbled for his letter. “I’ve a…this is for…I’m looking for Meggyn Searunner.” He handed the girl the thin folded parchment. She took it and looked at it dubiously.

“Bringing her mail?”

“Among other things,” he said, his chest gone taut and breathless.

“Well, I’ll take it to her and see what she says. Meantime, settle yourself at the bar to pass the time.”

“Oh, I don’t drink,” slipped out from Colm’s mouth, and the girl looked at him for a moment before laughing.

“You don’t! Not a priest, are ye?” She looked him up and down speculatively. “You don’t have the look of a priest.”

“I’m not a priest,” Colm assured her. “I just…it doesn’t tend to agree with me.”

“Some small beer,” the girl insisted, leading him over to the bar. There was an empty stool at the end, and she pressed him down into it. “Just some small beer. It’s good for you. Eases your pains after a long day but doesn’t cloud your mind. Vernon!” she called out to the barkeep. “A pint of small beer for…” She looked at him again. “What’s your name?”

“Colm Weathercliff,” he said, giving up on fighting it as the tattooed man set a mug down in front of him with a thunk. He would just drink it…slowly. Very slowly.

“Weathercliff! And here I took you for a country lad.”

“I am a country lad,” Colm told her with a smile. “My father came from the coast, but this is my first time here.”

“Well, welcome,” she said. “I’m Idra. Let me go give this to Mistress Megg and we’ll see what she has to say.” Idra walked around the bar into the back room, and Colm bravely took a sip of his small beer. It was…honestly, it tasted closer to water than alcohol, nothing like the spirits he’d consumed on the road. He took a more generous sip, and Vernon nodded at him approvingly.

“Thank you,” Colm said to him. Vernon knocked once on the table.

Col wondered if this was some sort of Caithmor custom he’d have to get used to. He knocked as well, and Vernon suddenly grinned, then shook his head.

“No, I shouldn’t knock?” Colm asked him. Vernon didn’t say anything. Had Colm somehow offended him?

“He can’t speak back,” Idra said, reappearing at Colm’s side. “Vernon’s mute. Had his tongue cut out a dozen years ago. One knock either means ‘yes’, ‘thank you’ or ‘you’re welcome’ depending on the question. Two knocks means ‘no’ or ‘watch your mouth’, and after that, all the knocks are against foolish heads, so it’s best to keep it to one.” She winked mischievously at Vernon, then said, “Mistress Megg wants to see you. Follow me back.”

Colm set his mug down hastily and followed Idra into the kitchen. Two more women stood at a counter, putting together plates of food when they weren’t moving from oven to skillet to hob, and at the very back of the room, a wizened old woman, hunched and skinny, bent over what smelled like a rum cake as she cut very thin slices of it and laid them on a plate. She looked up as Idra and Colm approached, and her wrinkles stretched wide as she smiled a welcome.

“This is Desandre’s boy, then!” Megg proclaimed, setting the sharp knife she’d been cutting with down and coming around the table. “Colm Weathercliff, look at you! I’ve been hearing about you in letters for years now, but I’d never imagined you would be so tall! And just as handsome as my niece told me.” She pulled Colm down into a tight embrace, and his heart shuddered with pure relief at the warmth of his welcome. “Welcome to Caithmor, welcome to the Cove, welcome!”

“Thank you,” Colm said, his voice a bit husky. Megg let him go, and he cleared his throat and tried again. “Thank you very much. I don’t know exactly what my stepmother said to you in her letter, but—”

“That you’ve your poor dad’s ashes with ye, in need of a proper burial at sea,” Megg broke in, nodding decisively. “Of course he wouldn’t rest easy in some mountain village, not a proper sea-loving lad. We’ll take care of that as soon as we can, my boy. Desandre says you want to try your hand at city life, and I think it a fine idea. There’s always room for another good fisherman here, and she says you’re the best.”

“Thank you,” Colm repeated, a little overwhelmed.

“And ye’ll be stayin’ here at the Cove, o’ course,” she continued. “Back in the family quarters. I’ll put you in with my grandson, Nichol. It’ll be a bit tight for two lads in his room, but it’ll do for the short term.”

“Oh.” Colm’s voice finally caught up to his racing thoughts. “That’s very kind of you. I’ll pay you, naturally.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it!” Megg exclaimed, sounding scandalized. “Pay to stay with your own family, what nonsense! Ye’ll catch me fish and ye’ll help around the inn, and I’ll be glad for the company, Colm. I almost never see Nichol these days, he’s so busy with the Sea Guard.

“Idra,” she said, changing targets, “finish up this cake for me and hand it out to the dinner guests. I’m going to show Colm the family quarters and get him settled for the night. Keep back a plate with some of the chowder and fresh bread for him, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Idra said, moving in to keep cutting the cake. Megg laced her arm through Colm’s and led him out the back door into a small courtyard. The top of her head barely came to the middle of his chest, but her presence seemed much larger than that.

“The stable’s on the other side of that wall there next to the well, and there’s servants quarters set back here for my keepers. It’s just Vernon right now. Idra goes home to her mum after the evening’s done. The family quarters are back here, nice and snug.” She led Colm to a heavy wooden door and pushed it open. A blue-black cat with two tails emerged from the dark and immediately wound itself through their ankles. “Sari! You cheeky little mouser, get out of the way!” To Colm, she said, “Sari was a wedding gift from my husband, and she’s a right bit of luck usually, but she can make a nuisance of herself sometimes.”

“A wedding present?” Colm didn’t know much about cats, but he was pretty sure they weren’t meant to live for as long ago as Megg must have gotten married, even with nine lives.

“Oh, she’s a spirit cat, love. It took a special spell and a lot of help from a priest to manifest her. She’ll last me as long as my own heart beats, though, and be my guardian and friend. She was a very grand present for a new bride, but then my Rory always did believe in grand gestures.” Megg pointed out a smaller door on the ground level of the small, dark building. “The pot’s on that side, and my room’s just back there, so don’t hesitate to come and get me if you need something.”

“Thank you,” Colm said, silently resolving not to bother Megg in her own room unless the inn was burning down.

“You’ll be up here.” Megg led the way up a creaky staircase. It was hard to see where they were going, the light was almost completely gone from the sky outside, and the few windows in this part of the building were tiny. Colm could barely make out the pale smudge of Megg’s hand against the dark wood. She pushed the door open, and suddenly Colm could see again.

The room at the top of the stairs was definitely small. Colm thought if he lay down flat that his head and feet would brush against opposite sides. There was a cot against the right wall, while the left was taken up by a sea chest and a bar set into the wall with clothes hanging from it. A small table next to the cot held a candle and scattered sheets of parchment and ink, and the whole place smelled faintly of mildew.

The ceiling was much higher than Colm had expected, though, and in its apex was a surprisingly large pane of glass that let in the light, and from the looks of it could be swung open in its frame as well. There was a lovely sketch of a tri-master cutting through the waves on the wall above the cot, and a pair of clogs lay abandoned next to the door, slightly muddy and scuffed and looking like they still carried the haste of whoever had abandoned them.

“My grandson tends to fill whatever space he’s given,” Megg said with a resigned air. “But he’ll not mind makin’ room for you. We can make you up a nice cozy pallet along the wall so the lad doesn’t barrel into you when he gets home, and see about getting you something better tomorrow.”

“A pallet is more than enough,” Colm assured her. “No, truly,” he added when she looked dubious, “I’ve been sleeping on the ground for the past month. A soft pallet will feel like bliss.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, but it’ll have to do for now,” Megg decided. “Now, lay your things down and come and eat some supper with me. You can tell me all about how the family fares back home.” She turned and stumped back down the stairs, and Colm followed after slinging his backpack to the floor on the far side of the sea chest, where he wouldn’t trip over it if it was dark.

He spent the rest of the evening sitting at the bar with Megg, who asked that he call her by her name, not title, eating and telling her about life in Anneslea, and listening to her tales in return.

Meggyn had met her husband, Rory Searunner, by chance after a visit to Isealea as a young woman, and her family had been scandalized when she’d uprooted her life and left to go to Caithmor with him. Rory’s mother had been a selkie, and her magic was strong with him. He’d fished the coast for years before old age had taken his sight, and finally last year he’d transformed when life simply became too much for him to bear.

“Only the pure bloods can go back and forth with ease,” Megg said a little sadly as she sipped at her mug. Colm was a little relieved to find her drinking small beer too. Maybe preferring it didn’t make him strange. “My Rory, he always knew he’d likely have but one chance, and he didn’t take it until life on land was too heavy for him. I sometimes see him, when I walk along the beach. He’s a fine figure of a seal now, sleek and fat.”

She’d had two sons, both of whom had died at sea, and only one had given her a grandchild. That was Nichol. “Swims like a fish, that lad,” she said proudly, serving Colm another piece of the rich dark rum cake. “And a better hand with those little racing dinghies than any other boy in the Sea Guard, that’s for sure. He wants to join the navy, but without a commission, it’s hard these days. The navy’s all the rage with the young men, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” Colm replied. He was beginning to think he hadn’t known much of anything before coming down out of the mountains, nothing beyond the turning of seasons, the way the snow looked as it blew across the utter stillness of the frozen loch, the warmth of a fire and the friendly, teasing chatter of his family. A vision of home overwhelmed him for a moment, and the feeling of heartsickness that swelled within his chest made him want to cry. Colm shut his eyes and swallowed hard against the feeling.

“There now, you’re tired, Colm,” Megg said, petting his long fingers with her own weathered palm. “Why don’t you go up to yon room and have a lie down? Wake whenever the spirit moves you in the morning. I’m sure I’ll be up. We’ll make a plan for what to do with your dad’s ashes, all right? I think the sooner we put him to rest, the better.”

“Thank you,” Colm said for what felt like the dozenth time that night, but he’d meant each and every one of them. He stood up and took the candle in a slim brass holder that Megg passed him and headed back outside. It was starting to rain, just a little, and Colm managed to find what had to be the two biggest puddles in the tiny courtyard on his way over to his new quarters. He climbed up to the top room and surveyed the scattered, comfortable bits and pieces of Nichol’s life, and wondered if there were really room up here for him to make a pallet. Surely he’d be stepped on the moment the other man came through the door. The only other options were taking Nichol’s bed or asking Megg for an alternative, neither of which appealed.

Colm moved the sea chest from the wall to the foot of the cot, made enough space next to the bedside table for him to fit his head, then laid out the blankets he’d brought with him, as well as a slightly musty comforter Megg had pushed at him, and made a pallet out of it. He used his cloak for a pillow and pushed his pack under the cot where it would be out of the way, then blew out the candle and laid it aside. The room fell dark again, but the steady beat of the rain against the glass above his head soothed Colm as surely as any lullaby, and he was asleep almost before he realized he was tired.

Chapter Five

Colm dreamed of being on the road again, only this time the road led to a castle of gold, and he didn’t mean to take a piece with him, but it had stuck to his shoe and turned his leg to gold too. For every step he lurched after Fergus and his caravan, the wagons disappeared ever farther in the distance. “Catch up, Weathercliff!” he heard Fergus shout, but it was too late, he was too far back, and now the caravan was gone and Colm was alone in a small dark room, and he didn’t know where he was or what he was doing there, and—

Colm woke up with a little gasp and looked around the small dark room where he lay, and wondered if his dream had just taken a very odd turn. But no, this wasn’t a dream. In the dream, he’d been alone, and now that his heartbeat calmed and he got control of his senses again, Colm realized there was another person in the room with him. He carefully pushed up onto his arms and looked over at the cot. A hand and part of a forearm dangled over the edge of the thin mattress, and a pair of feet had similarly drifted over the end, their toes pressed against the top of the sea chest. All Colm could really make out beneath the shapeless blanket was the thick dark hair that curled against the pillow, and the faint but persistent snoring of a person deeply asleep.

This must be Nichol, then. Colm was a bit impressed that the man had made it into the room and into bed without waking him. He must have been extra cautious. Colm picked himself up off the floor and pushed his nest of blankets up against the wall, then slipped his shoes on and headed downstairs. He used the pot and washed his face, ran his fingers through his hair until he knew it was as good as he was going to get it, then headed across the courtyard into the taproom.

The inn’s main floor was a much quieter place this early in the morning. A woman Colm hadn’t met yet was in the kitchen, stirring up a large pot of porridge. She glanced over at him. “Ye’ll be Colm Weathercliff, then?”

“Yes.” Gods, that porridge smelled delicious.

“Mistress is waiting for you. Take her this.” The woman spooned out a helping of the cereal, then poured fresh milk over the top before dropping in a handful of dried currants. She made a second bowl quickly and stuck spoons in each of them, then handed them both to Colm. “One for you as well.”

“Thanks.” Colm headed out into the taproom, which had about a dozen men and women, mostly laborers from the looks of them, sitting and eating hurriedly. Megg was at a small table near the front window, which she’d opened up and was looking out of pensively. She already had a bowl in front of her, and rolled her eyes when Colm approached with another one.

“I just finished the last portion! Lysse is trying to make me fat,” she complained, taking the bowl from Colm’s hand and setting it aside. “How’d you sleep, Colm?”

“Well enough,” he said honestly. He felt well rested, despite his strange dreams.

“Good, that’s good. I caught Nichol on his way up and told him to be mindful of you, and I’m glad he was. I take it my boy is still sleeping?” She tutted at Colm’s nod. “He’s taking more and more Sea Guard shifts while his friend Jaime is away. I understand that the lad needs something to occupy his time, but he’ll be tired all day after a night like that.”

“What is the Sea Guard?” Colm asked before taking a bite of his own porridge. It was thick and hot and just sweet enough, and he dug in with a hunger he hadn’t realized he possessed until that moment.

“Oh, it’s a fancy name for a group of lads who take turns watching along the cliffs in those few places the King’s watch might miss. They’ve naught seen more than a few unlucky dinghies and a baby kraken or two since they started it up a few years ago, but the coast guard seems to like the help, and so they keep at it. Gets them access to the coast guard’s fleet of smaller craft as well, so that the boys can get comfortable with the feel of them before seeking their commissions. It’s a way for Nichol to play around and get some exposure at the same time, so I don’t say anything against it, although I wish he’d—”

“Grow up and act sensibly?” a new voice interrupted, cheerful and bright despite the early hour. “But then what would you complain about, Gran?” The young man attached to the hair that Colm had seen earlier pulled a third chair over and sprawled against it, a huge grin decorating his face. He had dark brown eyes and equally dark stubble on his oval face, and a snub nose that was still a little red from yesterday’s sun. His appearance was set apart less by the fineness of his features and more by the sheer capacity for emotion that seemed to radiate from every square inch of his face. Just looking at him had Colm smiling reflexively, although when he realized he was doing it, he stopped himself. Just what he needed, to be caught out grinning like an idiot for no reason.

“You’re up early, Nichol,” Megg said with surprise, pushing her second bowl of porridge his way. Nichol took it with a grin and blew away the steam that rose across the top of it.

“I woke up, rolled over and saw that my mysterious new cousin had vanished before I could meet him, and after that I simply couldn’t contain my curiosity,” Nichol said, levering that curiosity directly at Colm. Colm was seized with the impulse to sit up straighter, maybe brush his hair back from his face again, but Nichol didn’t seem bothered by his lack of formality. If anything, his own disheveled appearance invited it. “So you’re Colm Weathercliff, then. How are we related again?”

“We’re not,” Colm said, then immediately felt like smacking himself. “Not blood related,” he clarified. “I’m the odd child out in the Weathercliff brood, I’m afraid.”

“Right,” Nichol said, his dark eyes shining with interest. “I remember that story. Your dad wound up in Anneslea with you and not much else, and Cousin Desandre fell in love with him and persuaded him to stay.”

“I think if there was any persuading to be done, it was on my dad’s part,” Colm interjected. “Not many women would take on a man already caring for a child.”

“Yes, but from what I remember of the letters Cousin Desandre sent us, you were always the perfect child,” Nichol said gleefully. “Practically made my mum weep to read about how you did the washing up and the sweeping and tended to the boat…then when Mum left, it was Gran’s turn to hold you up as my icon.”

“Och, I never did such a thing,” Megg protested.

“You did! You did so! Just last season you asked if I couldn’t bring in more fish like my Cousin Colm so that you would have fewer to buy every day, seeing as how we lived next to the bloody ocean,” Nichol recounted. He ate a bite of porridge and looked Colm over. “And I have to say,” he continued after swallowing, “you’re not helping your woe-is-me case any, mate.” Colm must have looked confused, because Nichol went on to elaborate, “You’re tall and strong and more than a bit of a looker, and you seem utterly calm and composed, and did I mention tall? Because you are, mate, ridiculously so. Can you spare me a few inches, then?” Nichol grinned and shook his head. “I’d expected a sorry little country mouse after what Gran said, and instead we get a mountain lion.”

No one had ever spoken to Colm like that in his entire life. His looks had occasionally been commented on, usually by girls whom he’d never taken seriously, and his father had called him strong or clever when Colm had done something exceptional with the boat, but no one had ever said so much with so little concern for propriety. Nichol just sat there and grinned at him, and after a moment Colm found himself grinning back.

“I’m no lion,” he said, shaking his head.

“Ah, but I don’t hear you denying the rest of it!” Nichol exclaimed.

“For the gods’ sakes, lower your voice a bit, you silly thing,” Megg snapped at him. “It’s not yet gone six in the morning, some people are still sleeping, y’know.”

“Then they are layabouts, Gran,” Nichol declared. “Worthless, shiftless layabouts not worth the skin that covers ’em, sleeping the day away when they should be doing the King’s work. That is what you call such slothful, indolent louts, is it not?”

“Och, I’ll show you a lout, lad!” Megg tapped Nichol firmly upside the head with a gnarled hand, but he just laughed. “Tellin’ such tales about me, honestly.”

“All true,” Nichol said with mock seriousness to Colm, and the interplay was so lively that Colm chuckled before he could stop himself. “And you find my jokes funny! I must adopt you, then. You’ll be the only one in my group of friends who laughs with me anymore.”

“I’d hoped ye could show him about the wharfs today,” Megg told her grandson. For all their bickering and gentle teasing, they were obviously enamored with each other. “If the weather cooperates tonight, I want to take a boat to the cove and lay his dad to rest. D’you think you could get us a boat from the coast guard’s fleet, love?”

“I could probably wrangle us something,” Nichol said.

“Is this not the Cove?” Colm asked, wondering what he’d missed.

“This Cove is named after Gran’s cove,” Nichol explained. “It’s where Grandad changed into a seal, and years ago they say a mermaid washed ashore there. It’s a special place, the cove, and not one that many people outside our family know about.” He laid a hand on Colm’s shoulder. “So it’s only right that your dad should go there, since you’re family,” Nichol said comfortingly.

“I appreciate that,” Colm managed, too focused on the feel of Nichol’s hand through the thin layer of cotton that separated their skin to really care if he was comprehensible. Gods, what was wrong with him? It was like he had never been touched before. He felt his face grow warm and looked away. Nichol let go and continued to eat and tease his grandmother, and Colm was grateful for the respite. Just listening to Nichol, just being at the same table as him, made Colm feel more alive than he had for weeks. Months, perhaps, and yet Colm barely knew him.

“Well then, finish your bowls and head on out to the bathing house, then see what you can do about a boat,” Megg said, and Colm realized he’d missed out on a lot of conversation just then. “And buy some smudge sticks for me while you’re out, and a large sugarglass bowl, and a beeswax votive. We’ll need them tonight.”

The votive and the smudge sticks—Colm thought they might be a kind of incense—were familiar parts of burial rituals under the Four, but a sugarglass bowl? His confusion must have shown, because Nichol said, “It’s a bowl actually made from sugar, we put the ashes and the votive into it and float them out into the water. If the bowl heads out to sea against the current, then you know that the spirit is resting easily. Eventually the sugarglass melts and the ashes sink, and that’s when the spirit fully moves on to the next world.”

“I see.” That was a lot more complicated than tilling the ashes into the deceased’s field.

“Will that be all right?” Megg asked with concern, and on impulse, Colm reached out and took her hand.

“I think that will be perfect,” he assured her, because as he considered it, Colm realized that Honored Gherek might have actually had a good point about his father. Ger Weathercliff had been a reluctant farmer, pouring all his love into the loch, and the priest would never have consented to releasing his ashes there.

“Good, love.” Megg smiled, all her wrinkles moving with her and turning up like smiles of their own. “That’s good.”

They left Megg to her tea and people-watching, and Nichol led the way back through the kitchen, only pausing to drop their bowls in the sink and compliment the cook before striding out into the courtyard. Colm followed in his wake like a bit of flotsam. It was funny to be able to look down at Nichol—Colm had nearly half a head of height on him—and yet still feel smaller by comparison, as though the young man’s body was actually as outsized as his personality.

“Calling it the bathing house might be a bit much,” Nichol said as he took the wooden cover off the top of the well in the corner of the courtyard. “A bathing slab is more accurate, since it’s really just a smooth stone laid out back next to the latrines that’s not quite so much in the public eye, but it’s where you and I get to bathe. Gran has a tub, because if she doesn’t use hot water, she gets chilled straight through to her bones, but it’s too much trouble for the rest of us.” Nichol’s arms strained with the weight of the bucket he drew out of the well, filled to the brim with fresh, icy water. He grabbed at a lump of brown soap that rested beneath the eaves and headed into a small corridor between the stable and the family quarters. The corridor led into an alley that was partitioned into sections, with a stone-lined gutter running the length of them. There were three simple latrines set above the gutter, and a slick slab of rock on the other side.

Nichol put down the bucket and soap and began to remove his clothes. “I’ll pour for you if you help pour for me,” he offered as he stripped, clearly expecting Colm to do the same.

Logically Colm knew that there was nothing exceptional about being nude around another person. It was natural, something that family and friends and even perfect strangers did without hesitation when the situation demanded it. But Colm had never been in a situation where this was normal, and while the thought of seeing Nichol in the nude didn’t make him feel uncomfortable, the idea of his own body laid bare to another’s eyes was mortifying. Colm squeezed his eyes shut and tried desperately to push away his awkwardness, but his mind wouldn’t let him.

“Colm?” Nichol sounded a bit uncertain. “Would it be better if I left? I’m sorry, I didn’t think about—”

“No,” Colm said, sounding gratifyingly normal despite his terrible case of nerves. “It’s nothing. I’ve simply become unused to close quarters after so long on the road.” He opened his eyes and managed to keep them on Nichol’s face instead of wandering across that firm, beautifully muscled body as his heart wanted him to. “Give me just a moment.” Colm forcibly put aside his complicated discomfort and took off his clothes, hanging them next to Nichol’s on the wooden hooks lodged in the stone wall. He tried hard not to think about his nudity, about his fishbelly-pale flesh on knobby long limbs, and picked up the bucket. It was heavier than it looked. “Are you ready, then?”

Nichol, bless him, seemed more than willing to let the moment pass them by. “Aye, ready to say good-bye to my manhood,” he said with a preemptive shiver. “Give it to me.” Colm poured a stream of water over the other man, and the gasp that escaped from Nichol’s lips made Colm’s own throat tighten in sympathy. “Gods, that’s cold,” he bit out, reaching for the soap and scrubbing himself down with ruthless efficiency. Once Nichol was lathered Colm helped him rinse, and then they repeated the process with Colm. The only thing Nichol said was, “Bend down, you great giant,” and that was just light enough that Colm could deal with it. He got dressed with a sense of profound relief, and then Nichol led the way back up to their room to get ready for the day.

“I’m sorry about the mess,” Nichol said as he surveyed their shared quarters. “We can make more room for you, never fear.”

“It’s fine,” Colm assured him, not wanting to be any more bother. “Everything I own is in that pack, and I don’t need more than a place to sleep at night.”

“Aye, but you’re sleeping on the floor, mate,” Nichol pointed out as he shaved his dark stubble away with the help of a bowl of hot water the cook had left for them. “That’s not the sort of thing you should be forced to get used to.”

“There isn’t room for another cot in here, and I don’t mind,” Colm said. He watched Nichol shave and absently ran a hand over his own face. Silky smooth, as ever. Colm’s head of light brown hair was the darkest stuff that grew on him, and even that was so fine it looked like it might float away sometimes. His brows and lashes were nearly nonexistent, making him look unnatural, he thought. Nichol finished and offered Colm the straight blade, and Colm just shook his head.

“Are you ready to face the day, then?” Nichol asked brightly. He wore dark leather trousers, a white linen shirt and had just pulled on a leather vest that laced together up the front. It molded to his form beautifully, setting his slender waist on display and making Colm’s blood heat again. He had never felt so affected by another person, not even another man, although he’d long been aware of his body’s own peculiar preferences. How could he long so much for a connection with someone he’d just met?

“I’m ready,” Colm said, pushing his secret desires aside with more facility now that they were both fully dressed.

“Good! Let’s start with the layout of the docks, so you’ve got a sense of what’s where. Then we’ll see about a boat and the things Gran needs for a funeral service.” Nichol led and Colm followed, and they left behind the sanctuary of the Cove for the increasing bustle of people in the streets.

The air smelled cleaner here than it did deeper in the city, the product of being right next to the water, Colm imagined. He could taste the salt of it on his tongue now, roll it around against the back of his mouth and let the flavor soothe him. There were still the interminable odors of sewage and street food, but the brisk easterly wind diminished them.

“The admirals won’t be pleased by this cross breeze,” Nichol predicted as he moved easily through the crowd, stopping every now and then to point out useful stores to Colm. “They’ve been readying for a push to the Inisfadda for months now. They have to get the whole fleet together there before they can sail on to the Garnet Isles. If they don’t make it before the autumn storms move in, they’ll have to abandon their plans for yet another year.”

The Inisfadda, Colm knew, were the closest islands to the coast of the Muiri Empire, and the only ones currently under the Emperor’s control. The Garnet Isles were technically independent, but the Kingdom of Speir across the sea was making its own bid to expand its reach and rule them. The coming battle would rely heavily on skill and swiftness, which was one reason only the best were being accepted to serve in the navy. It was one of the few topics of conversation Colm’s fellow travelers had discussed on the road that he’d been at all interested in.

“Hekla’s place has the best prices for tackle, and he’s one of the few along this way who’ll deal in small amounts,” Nichol said, interrupting Colm’s reverie as he pointed out a small building nestled tight between two larger ones. “And his wife makes lovely meat pies. They travel well and taste just as good cold as hot. Better than the ones back home, but don’t tell Gran I said that or she’ll skin me alive and hang my pelt over the bar,” he joked, and Colm smiled and shook his head. “Ah, you think I’m kidding, but Gran’s frightfully competitive sometimes. Wait until the summer feastday comes round. You’ll see it then.”

They walked on, dodging around people and moving at a fast clip, and Nichol shared bits of information and gossip on every store and every ship: who owned them, what their business was, whether they were looking for help. “I know you’re a fisherman, but if these waters give you trouble, there’s always demand for a good net mender,” he said, then raised his hand and pointed out past the lines of ships toward the horizon. “Do you see the pillar there? That’s the official entrance to Caithmor’s harbor. No fishing is allowed within its bounds, there’s too much chance for accidents between boats, but it doesn’t take long to sail out past it with a good breeze.”

“I hope I’ll have cause to know that,” Colm said, and Nichol laughed.

“Of course you will! Don’t accept anything that isn’t what you want the most.” That, Colm thought as Nichol pulled them away from the waterfront and toward a large, blocky building a few hundred yards in, sounded like his new cousin’s entire way of life.

“This is the coast guard’s hall,” Nichol continued, walking right up to the wide doors and heading inside. There were thin windows spaced far apart along the walls, the only source of light in the otherwise dark hall except for the lantern hanging above the desk at the far end. “Those of us in the Sea Guard, we report in here once a week, get our schedule and our position, and we make reports here as well if we see anything interesting or suspicious. Which, ahoy the desk!” he proclaimed. “It seems there’s an awful spotted beast been sighted on land, infiltrating this very building!”

“So very clever,” the man—the very young man, Colm realized—sitting behind the desk said with a sneer. He was indeed a very spotty man, his forehead and nose a virulent red broken up with pinkish-white pustules. He had hunched shoulders and lank, dull hair that he was clearly trying to vanish behind. “I suppose being a simple volunteer gives you plenty of time to come up with your little quips. Those of us who are actually in the navy have more important things to spend our effort on.”

“Aye, like cushions for your arses in those nice, comfy chairs,” Nichol said. “Is the quartermaster in yet?”

“Why?” the man asked suspiciously.

“Because I need to speak to him,” Nichol said, enunciating carefully as though he were speaking to an idiot. “It’s about a burial.”

“Go to the Ardeaglais,” the man dismissed. “The priests tend to such matters.”

“This matter concerns a family member. No priest could lay one of our own family to rest better than we could, and I need a boat for it, Alain. Now stop being difficult and let me through to see the quartermaster.”

Colm could see the refusal already shaped in Alain’s lips, and he stepped forward. “Please, sir, it would mean a great deal to us,” he said, keeping his tone quiet and respectful. It was a tone that had gotten Colm through a lot of difficult interactions with the villagers back home, and the man seemed disarmed by it.

“Who beneath the Four are you?” he asked, thrown off his stride.

“Just a son trying to lay his father to rest. Please,” Colm repeated.

“Well…at least you show a proper attitude,” Alain said with a sniff. “I suppose you could see the quartermaster. He’s rather busy, though, so keep it brief.”

Nichol had kept his silence through this part of the exchange, but as soon as permission was granted, he couldn’t hold back any longer. “Lovely, many thanks, don’t work so hard that the boils spread. Come on, Colm.” He ignored Alain’s offended humph and strode off down the hall. Colm caught up with him quickly, his longer legs giving him the advantage.

“Why did you have to go and be polite to that silly bastard?” Nichol asked. “Now he’ll expect it!”

“Why shouldn’t he expect it?” Colm asked. “He’s in a position to help us, and he’s a member of the coast guard besides. That does qualify as a part of the navy, doesn’t it? I thought that was what you aspired to.”

“Well, not to do that!” Nichol exclaimed. “Not to sit on my arse all day and pretend I’ve a real man’s job while all I really do is act as a glorified signpost, telling folks which way to go and when they’re allowed to do so. No, I don’t want to be stuck indoors, or even on a shore-trawler. I want to sail all the way to Speir and beyond, I want to make the ocean my home. I’ll get there too. You’ll see,” he said with a wink as he drew to a stop at the end of the hall.

“This is the warehouse, and that’s the quartermaster’s domain. A fighting force lives and dies on the strength of its supply chain, Gran’s always said, and the strength of the supply chain depends upon the wisdom of the quartermaster. He’s an important man, Roburt Grainger. He doesn’t care overmuch for me, but he’s sweet on Gran, so I think he’ll give us what we need.” Nichol pushed through the double doors and into the warehouse, and Colm followed him, completely bemused.

Men and women were at work inside the space, an airy, blocky building with very high ceilings that were stacked almost to the top with crates. People sorted and organized the nearest pile, mostly casks and lumber, and beyond them all was a short, bald man with half-moon spectacles who took the tags his people brought him, tags that had been affixed to every piece of new inventory, and then made a mark on a stiff piece of parchment in his hands. “Nichol Searunner,” he said without looking up as they drew close. “To what do I owe the dubious pleasure?”

Did anyone in this place actually like Nichol? At least Nichol didn’t seem perturbed by the fact. “Master Grainger, good morning,” Nichol said pleasantly. “My gran sends you her compliments.”

“Does she, indeed?” The quartermaster gazed over the line of his spectacles at Nichol and Colm. “Hardly a common occurrence. That surely means that you want something, Nichol. What is it this time? And if it’s flares, don’t bother. I am never letting you or any of the rest of Jaime’s crew within a hundred feet of ’em again, not after the last debacle.”

“It’s nothing like that,” Nichol assured him. Colm wondered who Jaime was. “We need to borrow a boat. Just a small one, just for tonight. It’s for a burial, a family matter. Gran thought it better not to get the priests involved, and the wharf rats charge so dearly for the use of their little wave skippers,” Nichol wheedled. “Just this once.”

“There’s never any ‘just this once’ with you and the rest of the Sea Guard,” Master Grainger grumbled, but he seemed to be softening to the idea. “I suppose this young man is the newest recruit to buy into your games?”

“Not at all! This is my cousin down from the White Spires, Colm Weathercliff, an entirely respectable young fisherman who only wants to see his dad buried properly,” Nichol said instantly. The description made Colm feel positively dull, but perhaps dull was what was called for here.

“Weathercliff, is it?” Master Grainger squinted at Colm. “Any relation to the Caresfall Weathercliffs?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” Colm replied truthfully. “My father never spoke about his past.”

“Well, I can certainly appreciate leaving such things where they belong. A boat, then?” Master Grainger leveled a firm look at Nichol. “Just for tonight, and to be returned first thing in the morning in perfect condition, d’you hear?”

“Your word is like the sacred gospel of the Four to me,” Nichol said solemnly.

“And your grand proclamations are like buzzing flies to me: irritating and ultimately forgettable,” Master Grainger scoffed as he scratched a few quick words onto one of the abandoned tags, then thrust it at Nichol. “Berth number forty, and if I don’t get those oars back, I will make new ones out of your shoulder blades.”

“My day wouldn’t be complete without your friendly threats of mutilation,” Nichol said, bowing extravagantly. “We must be off, Colm, and not keep the quartermaster from his sacred duties any longer!” He turned and left the warehouse with a skip in his step. After a moment of awkward silence between him and Master Grainger, Colm followed.

“Well, that was fun,” Nichol said with a grin as they headed back out onto the streets. “What shall we do next? Gran’s errands, or would you like to see the view from the lighthouse? I’m sure Reckat’s forgotten all about what happened the last time he let me and my mates up there.”

“You seem to have a reputation,” Colm commented, not judging but not really understanding it either. “Wouldn’t it be better to just be polite to people?”

“Do you remember everyone who is polite to you?” Nichol asked rhetorically as he maneuvered them closer to a street vendor. “I want to be memorable, not polite. They may not overly care for me, but they do know that I’m in the Sea Guard, I take care of the things they give me to use, and I’m determined. That’s better than being thought nice. Here,” he continued before Colm could get a word in edgewise, “you’ve got to try this, it’s delicious.” Nichol passed the girl running the stall a coin, and she handed over four small, oval-shelled creatures. “Sea roaches,” Nichol said with a grin.

Colm bent and looked closer at them, then jolted back as one of them tried to roll into a ball. “Are they still alive?”

“’Course they are,” the girl running the stall exclaimed. “Been sitting in a lovely bucket of salt water all morning, the very first catch of the day.”

“Shouldn’t they be dead before we eat them?” Colm persisted, but his hopes were dashed when both Nichol and the girl shook their heads.

“Ruins the flavor,” the girl said.

“Ruins the texture,” Nichol said.

“How could death ruin the texture of food?” Colm asked. “In my mind, it doesn’t become food until it is dead!”

The girl looked over at Nichol, whose mouth was twitching, and smacked him on the shoulder with her spoon. “I don’t need you givin’ my stall a bad name by bringin’ me country lads who wouldn’t know a delicacy like this if they stepped on it in the street.”

“I’m just breaking him in, Kiara, ow!” Nichol grimaced, rubbing his shoulder pointedly. “And be honest, they do come by the roach bit honestly. Colm’s more likely to have seen somethin’ like this in a dirty outhouse than he is to’ve eaten it.”

Kiara’s face went red with anger, and Colm decided to intervene before the girl tried to beat Nichol to death with her spoon. “I’ll try one,” he told her, stepping a bit in front of Nichol. “But I haven’t any idea of how to get into it.”

“It’s simple,” she told him, mollified by Colm’s new willingness. “Here, give me those,” she snapped at Nichol as she grabbed two of the roaches from his palm. “You just pry up the edge of the shell with the flat of your knife, right down here, and then peel back,” she said, and demonstrated with one of them. “And then you slurp them up.” She tossed the one she’d opened back and seemed to swallow it whole. “They squirm a bit on the way down occasionally,” Kiara added with a smile. “But you get used to it. Here.” She handed Colm her knife. “Now you do it.”

Colm managed to get the bottom of the shell off rather quickly, but once he was faced with the small, pulsing pink body inside the top half of the shell, his courage faltered. It was just momentum that got him to raise it to his lips and let it slide inside, a brief burst of salty succulence on his tongue before it hit the back of his throat and kept going, wriggling just a bit from side to side as it went down.

“Well done!” Nichol congratulated him with a grin, eating the rest of them in quick succession. “Shall we take some for the road?”

“No thank you,” Colm managed, barely keeping himself from bending over the edge of the wharf and returning that poor creature back to the sea. He followed Nichol in silence for another few minutes until the man finally noticed that his quips weren’t getting any reply.

“Colm?” Nichol asked, his brow furrowed as he reached out and touched Colm’s arm. Colm had no idea where they were anymore, he just knew that Nichol was touching him and that he needed to make him understand something.

“Please don’t ask me to do that again,” Colm said, and something in his voice must have intimated just how serious he was, because Nichol didn’t make a joke or brush it off. Instead his grip on Colm’s arm tightened further.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I knew you’d never have had anything like that before, and I thought it would be funny. I didn’t think you would dislike it so much, though. No more, I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh now, don’t thank me for not being a bally ass to you,” Nichol said with a grin, letting Colm go but staying close. “How about we get the things Gran’ll need for the ceremony tonight? We can be back to the inn by the lunch rush. I know she’ll appreciate the help for that.”

The store they ended up at was a little place not far from the cathedral, where men in deep blue cassocks strolled and spoke and blessed the occasional passerby, and the bells rang almost constantly to signify the beginning or end of another service.

“Grandad wanted to put the inn here originally, but Gran convinced him that the bells would be bad for business at a place where you actually want people to get some sleep,” Nichol said as he looked over the shelves, pulling things free. “Smudge sticks for burials, a votive—these ones have a scent that Gran loves—and a sugarglass bowl. Be careful with it,” he cautioned as he handed it over to Colm. “It’s very brittle.”

It looked perfect, smooth and sparkling and not at all tacky under his fingertips like he’d feared. “Amazing,” Colm breathed. Nichol patiently waited for Colm’s fascination to wane a bit before he wrapped the bowl in a piece of thin white cotton cloth, and handed all of it over to the acolyte who ran the store.

“Eight coppers,” she said, and Colm pulled his money out and paid even though Nichol protested that he could take care of it, that it was the least he could do after torturing Colm with his company all morning.

“I enjoy your company,” Colm told him, and that put a smile back on Nichol’s face. They paid, and the acolyte packed everything carefully into paper, tied it with twine and handed it over to Colm.

“Blessings of the Four on thee and thy dead,” she told them somberly.

“I certainly hope so,” Nichol said to her. “We’d best be off, Colm. Gran will think I’ve sold you to slavers or something at this rate.”

“I don’t think they’d take me,” Colm replied as they headed back to the Cove.

“Oh, sure they would. Perhaps they’re desperate to reach some very tall things and have need of a human ladder. Or perhaps they’re looking for a gorgeous ivory idol to carry with them from town to town, inspiring new followers to worship.” Nichol spoke loudly enough that several nearby priests gave him dark looks. “Oops,” he giggled. “Forgot where I was for a moment. All praises to the Four!” he called out toward the men before ducking down an alley and pulling Colm along behind him.

“It’s settled, then,” Nichol said, picking up their conversation as though it hadn’t been interrupted at all. “If I ever lose you and Gran’s about to gut me, I’ll tell her you were stolen by a group of very short, religiously ambiguous slavers with grand ambitions. Sound good?”

“Oh yes, sounds delightful,” Colm said sarcastically. “I’ve always loved the idea of being adored from afar while surrounded by domineering midgets.”

Nichol stopped and turned to face him. “Are you actually…jesting with me?” he asked seriously.

“I…yes?”

“Well done! I didn’t think you were capable of it.” Nichol laughed. “Keep that attitude, and you’ll fit in fine with the rest of the Sea Guard, mate.”

Frankly, if the rest of the Sea Guard was anything like Nichol, Colm didn’t think he’d fit in with them no matter how deliberately abrasive he made himself, but he kept that thought to himself. It was enough that he had Nichol’s company for now.

They returned to the Cove and, as Nichol had predicted, were immediately put to work by Megg. Nichol worked the taproom, passing glasses and plates and making conversation with the clients with equal efficiency, while Colm was set to dishing up chowder in the kitchen. It was simple work that nevertheless passed the time quickly, and then came the washing up and the quick sweep of the floors and last-minute deliveries by the butcher for that evening’s special, and by the time Idra got there to help get things ready for dinner Megg was taking off her apron and hanging it up with a sigh.

“Braised pork ribs and roasted red potatoes tonight, and don’t give ’em more than three apiece unless they pay extra, all right, love?”

“I’ll take care of it, Mistress,” Idra said. “May you have calm seas for your father’s ceremony, Colm,” she told him formally, then got to work seasoning the slabs of ribs laid out on the counter.

“You’ve got everything, then?” Megg asked her grandson once they were all out in the courtyard, freed from the crowd for the moment.

“Right down to the boat, although I’m afraid Master Grainger isn’t too happy with me,” Nichol said.

Megg sighed. “Ye catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, lad.”

“I’m not trying to catch flies, Gran, I’m trying to hitch a ride on the back of a gull,” he told her. “Although some of your rum cake would probably go a long way in soothing Master Grainger’s feelings.”

“I can’t buy your entrance to the navy with cake!” Megg protested, but it was a tired, thin denial. “Though I would if I could,” she added. “Right, then. Let me get my shawl, and we’ll be off.”

Colm frowned in question. “So early? Don’t you still do the burials at twilight here?”

“Aye, but it’ll take some time for us to make it to the cove, and we’ll need a bit for the prayers too. Trust me, love, I’ve done this enough times to know,” Megg soothed him before heading into the family quarters. Her spirit cat followed at her heels.

“I’m going to grab us a bit to eat while we’re out there,” Nichol said. “Why don’t you go and get the ashes and meet me back here?” He vanished back into the kitchen before Colm could say anything, which was perfect, because the reality of his purpose here was just now hitting home with him. This was it, the primary reason for his being in Caithmor: to give his father a proper burial. He didn’t know what he would do with himself once that was done.

Chapter Six

Colm climbed slowly up the stairs to his tiny room and pulled his pack out from beneath the cot. Ger’s ashes were tucked away in the very bottom of it, tightly bound in their linen sack. Colm took it into his hands and pressed it against the tender skin at the base of his throat, imagining for a moment that he could feel heat still within the bag, that it was more than just remains. The priests said it was, and so did Megg, but Colm had never seen any proof of it himself. The few burials he’d attended in Anneslea had been simple things, with nothing mystical about them other than the blessing at the end, just as the last rays of the sun vanished from the sky. He, like everyone, could feel the presence of the gods then, the holy power that the priests commanded that made his spine shiver with fearful reverence.

“Colm? Are you ready?” Nichol shouted up the stairs. Colm was so startled, he almost dropped the ashes, but controlled himself at the last moment.

“Yes…I’m coming,” he shouted back, getting to his feet. He pulled his cloak around his shoulders and headed back down to where Nichol and Megg were waiting for him. Meg was carrying the package from the acolyte’s store, and Nichol had a heavy metal lantern slung over his shoulder.

“Good. Let’s be off, then, boys,” Megg said, leading the way out onto the street. Her little spirit cat followed at her heels. “Which berth, Nichol?”

“Forty.”

“Down at the end, then. That’s good. You lads will have less distance to row.”

“So thoughtful of you, Gran,” Nichol said with a simper, then yelped as her hand found his ear and tweaked it. “Bloody—that hurt!”

“Good! It was meant to!” Megg replied, walking with a long stride that made Nichol rush to keep up with her, while Colm felt right at home. “Honestly, can you take nothing seriously in this life, my boy?”

“I take the Sea Guard very seriously, Gran,” Nichol said, sounding a bit hurt.

“Well, when you take the rest of your life as seriously as you do the thought of gettin’ into the navy, you’ll finally be an adult.”

“I’d rather not, thanks,” Nichol said with a cheeky wink at Colm. “It sounds too dull to keep me happy.”

“That may be,” Megg agreed, but she wasn’t smiling now. “Come on, boys, put some leg into it.”

Once they finally got to the right section of the docks, they handed their note to the officer responsible for guarding the boats. He inspected it with a squint. “I’m not so sure…that could be Master Grainger’s signature, but there’s no official stamp.”

“He didn’t have his stamp book with him, but it’s from him, trust me!” Nichol entreated. “Just a little rowboat, mate, and we’ll bring it right back.”

“I don’t know…”

“Tobin, are you suggesting that I’m not worthy of your trust?” Megg interjected, crossing her arms and looking as imposing as a little old woman could. “What would your own gran have to say about such a thing, I wonder?”

It was hard to tell in the early evening light, but Colm thought that the officer went a bit pale. “Oh, Missus Searunner, don’t do that to me.”

“Then don’t call me a liar and let us borrow this one little boat for the evening.”

The officer crumbled after another moment’s hesitation. “Fine.” He went back to his shack and brought them a small burning taper to light the lantern with. “But mind that you bring back both the oars,” he added as they walked past. Nichol shook his head.

“Honestly, it was one time, just one, and I carved them new ones. Better ones!”

“The folks you wrong always have a longer memory than you’d like,” Megg said absently as she sought out berth number forty. All the navy’s boats at this end of the docks were small ones, closely protected by the jutting sea wall that signified the northern edge of the more cosmopolitan part of Caithmor. There was plenty of city beyond it, but very little of it was accessible by sea. Caithmor was built on the only decent port on the coast for over a hundred miles in either direction. The rest of it was rocky cliffs, settled here and there by villages that could manage with a small fleet, but nothing else even remotely as large as the capitol.

“Come on then, lads,” she said, “help me clear it.” They pulled off the tarred canvas that covered the four-man rowboat, rolled it up and set it aside. Nichol got to work on the ropes while Colm helped Megg down into the boat, and handed her their packages. After a moment, he handed over the bag of ashes as well. It hurt a bit to let go of it, but once Colm managed to set it in Megg’s wizened palm, he felt a sense of relief.

“Thank you, love,” Megg said with a gentle smile. “All done, Nichol?”

“Yes, Gran,” he said, pausing only to affix the lantern to the prow of the boat before he hopped down inside. “Shall we share the hard labor portion of the evening, then?” he asked Colm.

“Certainly.” It only took them a few moments to find a rhythm, and Megg took hold of the tiller and steered them around the larger boats and out along the dark-stoned sea wall, thick and imposing, until they rounded the edge of it and broke into open water.

“Keep it up, lads, you’ve about an hour of this to look forward to,” Megg informed them. Nichol groaned good-naturedly but Colm just sighed, feeling a strange sense of peace as the water surrounded them. The salt air and the gentle breeze combined to make him feel a bit like he was in a dream, and Colm shut his eyes and just rowed for a while, trusting in Megg to keep them from crashing into the cliffs as he basked in the sense of peace he felt.

“Selkie blood for sure,” Megg said with a chuckle. “The sea is in your bones, Colm Weathercliff.” In that moment, Colm felt like he could believe her.

They rowed steadily, coasting over low waves that sent them bobbing up and down. Megg sat and steered and cradled the supplies in her free arm, and it wasn’t too long before she guided them in toward the cliffs. “Ye’ll have to duck your head down in a moment, love,” she told Colm. “We’ve got to get under a little ledge here.” Colm ducked down, and a moment later, they passed through.

“See?” Nichol said quietly as they kept rowing. “It’s not all fun and games being a giant, is it?” He smiled, but it was a soft thing, not the perpetual grin he seemed to carry with him everywhere. The light was softer in here too, somehow hazy, and the water was much clearer, not churned as it was by the waves and the wind beyond the rocks. Farther back in the cove—although it seemed to be as much a cave as a cove, almost—was a tiny gravel beach. Before long, they’d rowed up to it, and Nichol leapt out and pulled the boat ashore. Colm joined him and helped Megg out, Sari nestled in her arms, then looked around.

The light filtered in through a narrow crack at the top of the cliff, no more than two or three feet wide. It spread out from the surface to create roughly a bowl shape, with the beach along the back of it. Blue moss glistened on the craggy granite surface, long tendrils of it dripping moisture down to the water below like slow-moving tears. Tufts of dark green algae emerged from the surface of the sea every now and then, and the pebbles of the beach crunched gently under Colm’s feet.

“How did you even find this place?” he asked, the stillness of it affecting him as much as it seemed to Nichol, and keeping his voice down.

“It used to belong to the selkies,” Megg said as she took the lamp and set it against the back wall of the beach. “My husband’s father lived in a village close to these cliffs, and he heard the selkies playing below and watched them transform on this very beach. It took him months to work up his nerve, but one night he climbed down from the cliff top and stole one of the selkies’ pelts. He climbed back out again, and the next day a beautiful young woman came to his village and declared herself his wife. They had three children together before she found her pelt again, and my Rory was the last of them. She left them when he was only three, but he saw her many times in his youth, though she and her family have long since abandoned this place now.” Megg smiled a little sadly. “I think she came to meet him, when Rory made his own return to the sea.” She shook her head, then brightened. “Now, my loves, let’s get things ready. The sun will be down before we know it.”

Megg used the lamp to light both of the smudge sticks before blowing it out to preserve what was left of the oil. She handed one stick to each of them. “Use them to cleanse the air,” she instructed them. “Just use the basic symbol.”

The basic symbol for the Four, the gods worshipped by the whole of the Muiri Empire, was an elongated X, with brief pauses at each of the endpoints. The gods, each associated with a cardinal direction, were the guardians of the elements, and through them the masters of the entire world. That, at least, was what the priests taught. Colm had always been interested in the other Two, those who guarded the places that were made of no element at all except space, above and below, but worshipping their power was forbidden. The worst mages, those who had caused the most egregious casualties during the war, hadn’t been the mages who worshipped fire or water, air or earth. It had been the ones who had worshipped the deepness of the abyss, or the lofty darkness of the night, who had been able to kill scores of men with no warning, nothing but a sweeping wave of shadow.

Now definitely wasn’t the time to be thinking of such things. Colm made the simple X through the air, watching the smoke dissipate almost as fast as it appeared. The smell of cedar oil almost overwhelmed the other ingredients, drifting hints of sage and lavender and sailor’s tobacco. It smelled different from what the priest had used back in Anneslea, which Colm supposed was part of the point. This seaside scent was more suited to his father’s spirit.

“Well done, lads, bring them back now,” Megg said after a bit, and they returned the sticks to her. Megg set them on the edges of the sugarglass bowl, then poured Ger’s ashes into it. On top of them, she set the votive, which she lit after blowing the edge of a smudge stick to a glowing point. The smell of lavender joined the rest of the miasma, familiar and soothing. Sari extended her nose toward it, bowing her head low in a movement strangely like a benediction, before she backed away from the water’s edge.

“May the Four look with favor on the spirit of our departed kin, Ger Weathercliff,” Megg intoned, but there was still love in her voice, not impersonal like with the priests. “May they welcome him back to their fold, may they give him the comfort that he has earned after his time toiling in this world. May his spirit find the peace of the water, the strength of the earth, the gentleness of the air and the warmth of the fire. Bless him, and take him back into your loving embrace until such time as his soul is ready to return again.”

Megg leaned forward and set the sugarglass bowl down in the shallows, and the four of them watched it float there, unmoving, for a long moment. After a while, Colm thought that perhaps it had been a mistake, perhaps this wasn’t what his father’s spirit would have wanted for its remains, but no sooner had he had the thought than the bowl began to move, drifting outward as though the tide was going out instead of coming in. Colm watched it go and unexpectedly felt his breath catch in his throat. The little light of the votive intersected with the light of the setting sun, floating beneath the rocks of the cove before it headed out into the ocean.

“There he goes, there’s a lad,” Megg said gently. “Go on, Ger Weathercliff, go on to your next life. All’s well done here. We’ll look after your boy.” She wrapped a comforting arm around Colm’s waist. After a moment, Nichol’s arm crept over his shoulders, and for the first time since the night before he left Anneslea, Colm was able to let his tears fall, not worrying that someone might judge him for it.

The light of the votive rose and fell with little eddies, and just before it passed beyond the edge of the cove, it suddenly went out. “There he goes,” Megg sighed. “Home again, and glad of it I’m sure.” She leaned up and kissed Colm’s cheek. “You did well to bring him here, my love. Don’t be sad for him. He’s where he needs to be now.”

“I know,” Colm whispered, and then on impulse kissed Megg’s forehead. He could barely see her smile in the fast-encroaching dark, but it was there.

“I’ll relight the lantern,” Nichol said, pulling his flint and steel from his pocket.

“Thank you, love,” Megg said distractedly, sitting up straighter and then grimacing. “Oh, these old knees of mine… Colm, be a dear and help me to stand, won’t you?” Colm got up and brushed the gravel from his knees, then offered his arm to Megg. She pushed up from the ground and was almost vertical again when she suddenly froze. “Oh.”

“What is it?” Colm asked, worried by the sudden tension that had frozen Megg in place.

“Oh, my darling,” she said, not paying Colm any notice now. “My darling, you’re here.” At her feet, Sari meowed loudly, her two tails twisting against each other until they were practically knotted together.

“Who’s here?” Colm asked. Was Megg having some sort of episode? “Do you need to sit back down?”

“No,” Nichol said quickly, his voice excited. “No, it’s my grandad! It’s him, look!” Colm looked where Nichol was pointing and, after a moment, saw a pair of glowing eyes in the water. The rest of the creature was too dark to make out.

“Are you sure?”

“I would always know him,” Megg said, throaty with emotion. “And Sari knows him. Rory, come here! Don’t be shy now, darling, come here to me.” The eyes grew larger, and a moment later, the sleek dark body of a seal crawled up onto the little beach, its whiskers wiggling with excitement. Megg reached out, and the seal let her touch its head, turning to nuzzle against her palm.

“My love, it’s been too long,” Megg said, and laughed. “Ahh! Be careful, those tickle! You are still a rascal, aren’t you?”

“Hi, Grandad,” Nichol said, bending over next to Megg. The seal let him caress his head as well. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Darling, this is Desandre’s eldest,” Megg added, motioning toward Colm. “His father came from these parts. Tell me, do you think he might have some selkie blood in him?” She looked up at Colm and winked.

The seal barked, and Colm obligingly held out his hand. The seal came closer, sniffed him once, twice—

It suddenly hurtled itself back into the water, barking like mad. Colm slapped his hands over his ears against the noisy echo, and even Megg looked taken aback. “Rory!” she scolded, but the seal didn’t stop barking. “Oh, by the Four,” Megg snapped, her happy reunion spoiled. “Whatever it is, you’re making a cyclone out of a wee squall! Honestly.” She turned to her grandson. “Why isn’t the lantern lit yet?”

“I got distracted,” he defended himself.

“Well, get it done now! Colm, love,” she took one of Colm’s limp hands. “Don’t pay that old fool any heed. I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but it’s likely nothing to do with you.”

“It doesn’t seem that way,” Colm said. His mind was working overtime on what it could be about him that Rory Searunner had found so distasteful.

“It could be as simple as you being in a place he considers ‘sacred’,” she said disgustedly, having to raise her voice to be heard over the barking. “Avast, ye old fool, give it a rest, for the love of the Four!” Megg shouted at him. Surprisingly, the seal quieted immediately. “That’s better,” Megg muttered, and a moment later, she actually smiled when Nichol got the lamp relit. “There we are! Now we can go home.”

The ride back to Caithmor wasn’t nearly as nice as the ride out had been. The boat was filled with a strained silence, and even with Colm’s poor night vision, he could see the seal following beside them, keeping its glowing eyes unceasingly on him. They returned the boat, oars and all, and made their way back to the inn, where Colm begged off eating any supper—“Really, what I had this afternoon was plenty, thank you”—and retreated to his place on the floor of Nichol’s room. He clutched at the folded bag that had held the ashes and stared up at the skylight and the velvety darkness of the night, and wondered what he would do now. Perhaps he didn’t belong here after all. Colm had done what he’d come to do. Perhaps he should leave before his presence became burdensome for Megg, who now had reason to doubt him. He couldn’t go back to Anneslea, no, but there were other options, other places.

Colm was so involved in his own thoughts that he didn’t even notice Nichol come up the stairs until he sat down on the cot, the swollen wood of it protesting with a creak. “Colm?” Nichol asked hesitantly. Lit by candlelight, his face softened even further, youthful and tender. Colm didn’t think he had ever looked like that himself. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Colm said, and Nichol snorted.

“You’re lying,” he replied. “Not that I blame you, that was right strange out there, but you don’t have to lie to me. It’s all right if you’re not fine.”

“Okay,” Colm said irritably, just wishing for a moment that he could be alone, “I’m not fine.”

“I didn’t think so,” Nichol said, perfectly calm. “Is it because of Grandad? Because Gran’s right, sometimes he’s just a crabby old bastard, even as a seal. You shouldn’t let him get to you too much.”

Colm sat upright, not wanting to continue this conversation on his back. Even sitting on the floor, his head was almost as high as Nichol’s on the cot. “It’s not just that,” he confessed. “Although that didn’t help. I suppose it’s that…well, I’ve done what I came here to do. I have no real reason to remain in Caithmor any longer, and I can’t go home, I just…I can’t.” He braced himself for an interrogation, but Nichol nodded.

“Because it would feel wrong, like walking backward when all you want is to be running forward.”

“Something like that.”

“I understand. S’how I feel about the navy. I’ve seen those ships, those great ships, I’ve seen how fast they fly and heard the stories of the men who man them, and I have to have it for myself,” Nichol confided. “I love Gran, and I’ve always helped her run the Cove, but it’s not the life I picture for myself, you know? There’s no adventure in waiting tables and clearing plates.”

“I don’t need adventure, I need a home,” Colm told Nichol, letting his desperation show through. Nichol looked surprised.

“I thought Gran already spoke to you about that. This can be your home, Colm. Gran would never throw you out, and she already likes you better than me. It will be perfect, actually. She’ll have family to stay by her side once I’ve gone abroad. I’ll feel better that way, certainly.”

Colm didn’t like to think about Nichol leaving. He’d only known him for a day, and already Colm felt more alive for the other man’s presence. “I don’t want to intrude,” he said. “I feel it’s taken me hardly any time at all to turn your life upside down.”

“Living means you get jostled about a bit,” Nichol grinned. “I don’t mind it. You’re good company, Colm Weathercliff, don’t let anyone tell you differently. I’m honored to share what little room I have with you.”

“You’re remarkable…” Colm really wanted to stop with just remarkable, but he forced himself to finish. “Remarkably strange.”

“And you are not the first person to tell me that,” Nichol said agreeably. “Now, no more fretting. You’re as good as home, mate, just accept it. Gran and I aren’t going to let you go at this point.”

It felt so wonderful to be wanted, genuinely wanted. “Thank you.”

“Yes, I’m so magnanimous, me. Got someone to help me work the inn, bring in a daily catch and who’ll doubtless let me bother the hell out of him when I’m bored. I think I’m getting the better end of this deal, Colm.” He blew out the candle and lay back on the bed. “And we’ll get a real bed sorted out, I promise.”

“I’m fine,” Colm said, and this time he really meant it.

“So you are,” Nichol replied sleepily, rolling over onto his side. “So you are.”

Chapter Seven

His first full week in Caithmor was one of the best of Colm’s life. In the mornings, he woke up before Nichol, always before Nichol, who could keep snoring through almost anything. Colm would take advantage of his solitude to bathe alone, although the memory of that one time with Nichol struck him each morning with fresh desire that he had no interest in confronting. He would grab a bowl of porridge from the kitchen, or occasionally a slice of honey loaf drenched with butter if the cook was in the mood to be fancy, and then spent the earliest part of the day out front with Megg, quiet and content in each other’s company.

That peace lasted until Nichol joined them, damp from bathing and still half-asleep. He would kiss Megg’s cheek, then playfully kiss Colm’s before flopping down in a chair and downing an entire pot of black tea. Megg laughed and Colm ducked his head and did his best to brush the casual affection off, but it came too readily and too often to completely ignore.

For the first few days after the burial, Colm kept to the inn, helping Megg as best he could and trying not to be in the way the rest of the time. Nichol took more shifts with the Sea Guard and always came back full of tales, most of which were undoubtedly pure fiction, but they were interesting anyway.

On the third day Nichol saw Colm laboring over a letter to Baylee during a lull in customers and offered his assistance in writing her. “I’ve always been good with a nib,” he said, reaching for Colm’s quill and grimacing when he saw the dullness of the point. “Well, no wonder you’re having trouble. This is ridiculous. Give me your knife.” He sharpened the quill, looked over the half-written letter, rife with misspellings and crossed-out words, and then looked straight back at Colm. “What’s next?”

Nichol’s help made composing a letter a pleasant task for the first time Colm could remember. He sent a small collection of shells along, something Kels would enjoy, and included a note from Megg for Desandre before closing it all up. They found a caravan heading toward the mountains that would get it as far as Isealea, to be handed off to Raener there, who would ensure that it got to Anneslea.

“You told your mum that you’d be working as a fisherman here,” Nichol said as they walked back from the merchant district, a little poorer after negotiating a fare for the delivery. Colm nodded and unconsciously hefted the remaining coins in his pouch, estimating how long they would last. Megg was more generous than he deserved, giving him food and lodging for a bit of labor, but even with her help, he would need to purchase warmer clothes before the summer was over, and his boots were almost worn through the sole.

“So that means you don’t want to join the Sea Guard?” Nichol asked, but it was more of a statement than a question.

“I don’t think it’s the right fit for me,” Colm said, then elaborated when Nichol still looked a bit morose. “You’re using it as a means of preparation for naval service, and I’ve never dreamed of such a thing for myself. I’m happy working as a fisherman, or I would be if I could find a boat that would take me out,” he added. “I can fish from the sea wall, but that won’t bring in enough to save Megg having to buy more at the market.”

“I’d been hoping you might change your mind,” Nichol confessed with a little smile as they got back to the waterfront. “Go and have an adventure with me, you know. It would be more fun if you were there.”

Colm smiled back and, greatly daring, wrapped his arm around Nichol’s shoulders for a moment. “I don’t think I’m intended for a life of adventure,” he told his friend. “But I can’t wait to hear all about yours, someday. I’m sure you’ll have magnificent tales to tell.”

“I shall,” Nichol agreed, then sighed and squared his shoulders. “Well, I guess we’d better find you a job, then. Come on, I know some people we can ask to start.”

Nichol did know some of the big boat fishermen, but unfortunately none of the ones he knew were willing to do him any favors. “Oh come on!” he protested when the third boat turned them away. “Palmer, you’ve been moaning for weeks about needing better help aboard, and Colm’s perfect for the job. Why won’t you take him?”

“Don’t know him, do I?” Palmer, the boat owner, replied before spitting a bit of shell into the water. He was eating a handful of sea roaches, but unlike how Nichol and Kiara had deftly peeled them apart, Palmer tossed them directly into his mouth and spit out the inedible chunks. “Not going to let some country bumpkin I’ve never even met before onto my boat.”

“But you know me, and I’m vouching for him!” Nichol insisted.

“Your word doesn’t do me any good, lad. I only agreed to meet with you because you run with Jaime Windlove, and it pays to stay on a Windlove’s good side.” He spat a final gob of chitin into the water and brushed the back of his hand across his mouth. There were still bits of shell caught in his beard, but Colm didn’t feel like pointing it out. “Give your mate my best, eh?” Then he strode off down the street, leaving Nichol fuming and Colm convinced that he needed to try something new.

“Don’t worry about it,” Colm told Nichol, catching his sleeve when it looked like he might go after Palmer to keep arguing. “I’ve the feeling I’ll do better on a smaller boat, anyhow. I can’t really get a feel for where the fish are unless I can touch the water, after all.”

“You can really feel them?” Colm had passed on his odd ability the day before, and Nichol had accepted it without qualm, but it seemed that even he would take some convincing.

“I can, but the day’s almost gone. I’ll show you tomorrow, after we find a fisherman with a smaller boat who might need a hand.”

In the end, it was Megg who ended up finding Colm a job. When she heard about their unsuccessful day, she tutted and shook her head. “Those big boats are drivin’ the littler fishermen out of business. The less they catch, the less they can afford to pay for help. You’ve got an advantage there, Colm, since you’d be able to wait until the fish sold to get your wage if you wanted to work that way.”

“That would be fine,” Colm told her.

“You know who’s been bellyachin’ about needing a second body on his boat? Lew Gullfoot.” She motioned toward the wiry man sitting at the bar, looking grim and drinking with determination. “He’s not had any help since his own grandson joined the army last year, and his back’s been bothering him something terrible, hauling on those heavy nets. Let’s go talk to ’im.”

Lew Gullfoot reeked of alcohol and fish guts, but he was sober enough to know what Megg was getting at when she sat down next to him and explained things.

“I can’t be takin’ the time to train him,” he snapped warningly, glaring over at Colm with his pale, rheumy eyes like Colm had suggested such a thing. “No layabouts on my boat, I warn ye.”

“I can do the work,” Colm assured him. He knew the basics of rigging, and he had always been a quick study on the water.

“Used gillnets before, have ye?”

“Yes.”

“Hmph.” Lew drained another tankard, his third since Colm had been watching, and waved his hand. “Fine, I suppose we can give you a try. Tomorrow morning, at the Serpent’s Tail. That’s my boat,” he added fiercely, like someone might try to deny it. “Before dawn. Have to start early if we’re to get ahead of the schooners.”

“Where is it docked?” Colm asked.

“Where’s it docked?” Lew bristled. “It’s docked exactly where I left it, of course!”

Megg sighed. “You’re drunk, Gullfoot. Vernon,” she said to the barkeep, “no more for Lew here, he’s had enough.” Vernon knocked on the wooden counter once in acknowledgment. “I know where he’s docked. I’ll show you in the morning, Colm,” she told him.

Later, once the kitchen was closing down and the guests who were staying the night had all gone to bed, Megg held Colm back from his sleep for a moment. “Lew’s not the easiest man to work with,” she told him, her voice serious, “and he’s more often drunk than not, but he’s got a decent boat and used to be respected around here. People will buy his catch, and when they do, you’ll have your independence, love. I know it’s been on your mind,” she added, forestalling Colm’s immediate rebuttal. “Even though I’m willing to pay you to help me here if that’s what you need, it’s better you do something that speaks to your heart. Lew’s a means of gettin’ there.”

“I do appreciate everything you’ve done for me—”

“By the Four, love, if you were any more appreciative I wouldn’t be able to move beneath the weight of all those thanks,” Megg interrupted. “This is a temporary solution for you, but I know you’ll make the most of it. Once you’ve your own reputation established and some money saved, you can get your own boat and work for no one but yourself.” She winked at him. “Sounds good, eh?”

“It sounds lovely,” Colm said, and kissed Megg’s cheek. It astonished Colm how fast the practice of sharing affection felt more natural for him. He had never been this free with it in Anneslea, not even with Baylee.

“I’m glad to hear it, love. Now, off to sleep with you. We’ll get a real bed worked out soon,” she added with a frown.

“I’m really not bothered being on the floor,” he said.

“At least use Nichol’s cot. He’ll be gone half the night on his watch.”

“Perhaps,” Colm replied, but he already knew he wouldn’t. Nichol was gone now, but he’d come stumbling upstairs in the wee hours of the morning, cold and exhausted, and Colm wasn’t going to keep him from his bed after working so hard.

He did think about it, though. Sleeping on Nichol’s cot. Sharing it, actually. That night, Colm took a moment—just a moment—to lie down on Nichol’s blankets, to let his head rest against Nichol’s pillow. It smelled of the harsh brown soap they used for bathing, and of sweat and the sea, and a little bit of something that Colm could only identify as Nichol, something warm and soothing. He inhaled deeply, letting the scent fill his lungs, and felt his cock stir between his legs.

Colm hadn’t found release since the last week out on the caravan, and that had been furtive and hasty, in the darkness not far from the river where the sound of the water could cover any noise. Other people hadn’t bothered to be so discreet. The man who Colm had cut had been noisy and unpracticed with his left hand, but no less determined to get off every single night. Couples had made love under blankets or in the backs of wagons, quieter but still noticeable, and every time Colm had turned away and done his best not to listen in. He’d never felt those urges as strongly as most men his age, and the more he could ignore them, the better, he felt.

Nichol, though…something about Nichol put Colm’s body on alert. His formerly docile cock now flared to hardness at the most innocent of touches, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to advertise his attraction for all the world to see. When Colm saw Nichol, when he felt him, when he smelled him, he wanted to take him, he wanted to be taken. That of course was impossible, but right now…well, right now he could have this, with himself. Surely there was nothing wrong with it.

He loosened the knot holding his trousers up and pushed them and the thin, short breeches beneath down past his hips. The cool air felt like a caress against the too-hot skin of his cock, and when Colm wrapped a hand around himself, his breath caught at the solid, burning heat of it. Had it always felt like this, so urgent, so fierce? Had it ever felt like this before?

Colm stroked himself from the base up, slow and mindful of every slide of flesh against flesh. He had very little hair below, and when he looked down at himself and saw the pale wand of flesh jutting out from between his fingers, he moaned softly. What if it was someone else’s hand on him? What if it was Nichol?

Colm shut his eyes and turned his face so that the side of it rested against the pillow, and he breathed in that heady scent again. How would Nichol get him off? Quickly, the way Colm was used to, stroking hard and fast until he spent in the other man’s fist? Or slow, taking the time to run his fingers over every vein, every ridge and wrinkle and curve of flesh. Colm slowed down and touched himself lightly, just with his fingertips, and the sensation was enough to nearly set him keening. It felt so good, like he was something precious. Would he spill like this, Nichol helping him paint his own skin? Or would Nichol do something else?

Would he use his mouth?

If the fingertips were lips…facile, delicate lips that smiled so readily, and hid brilliant white teeth…if those lips trailed along the length of his cock, gentle but eager, a tongue darting out to taste… Colm licked his own fingertips and reapplied them to the head of his cock, smearing the dampness that had already collected there, spreading it along the swollen skin. Kissing lips, attached to a hungry mouth that finally opened wide and took him inside, surrounded his cock with wet heat and pressure and all of it Nichol—

“Ahh-hhh,” Colm moaned, just barely remembering to keep it quiet as he came into a scrap of sackcloth. His hips bucked up, his bare ass rubbing obscenely against Nichol’s blanket, the very spot where Nichol would lie later tonight… Gods, it felt so good to let go, so good…

Reality reasserted itself too soon for Colm’s fantasies, but as much as he would have loved to have fallen asleep right then and there, he couldn’t. The last thing he wanted was Nichol finding out that Colm had used his sleeping space to masturbate, and that meant returning to his pallet on the floor. Colm wiped his hand off, catching the last few errant drops, then folded the cloth and put it away before pulling his clothes back on. He’d wash it in the morning, and Nichol would never know.

Chapter Eight

Colm and Megg left the Cove before the morning mist had lifted. She’d packed food and drink for him, and handed it over with an admonishment not to share it with Lew Gullfoot. “He’s a grown man. He can take care of himself,” she told Colm as they walked. “Don’t let him bully you, love, and don’t let him make you do all the work. He may be getting on in years, but Lew’s still more than a decade younger than me, and I put in plenty of time in my kitchen. He’ll grouse and groan at you, but he’s really—”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine, Megg.”

“I suppose,” she fretted. “Just don’t let me catch you doing something ridiculous like falling into the water and drowning, because if you do, I will certainly never forgive you!”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Colm said with a serious face, but she saw the jest behind it and punched him lightly in the shoulder.

“Och, mocking an old woman. You’ve spent too much time with Nichol, you have.”

“I enjoy his company.”

“Make the most of it while you’ve got it, love. Nichol tends to become scarce when his mate Jaime is in town. There!” she said, pointing ahead and changing the subject from what Colm really wanted to hear about. “There’s the Serpent’s Tail. She’s not a looker,” Megg added, obviously sensing Colm’s doubt when he saw it, “I grant you that, but she’s a solid little sloop, and easy enough for two men to handle.”

Not a looker was correct. The hull of the Serpent’s Tail was so covered with barnacles, they looked almost like armor, and the sails attached to the single mast were tatty and patched. The ropes seemed solid enough, but then using a frayed rope out on the water was just asking for trouble. A bundle of nets, obviously not well cared for if their current tangled state was any indication, took up most of the bow. Lew was there, squinting at them like he was surprised they’d actually shown up. Maybe he thought he’d imagined the conversation.

“Good morn, Master Gullfoot,” Megg said pleasantly. “Ready to cast off, then?”

“Aye, ready. Been ready and waiting,” he groused. “Not very prompt, this lad of yours.”

“Oh?” Megg’s eyebrows went up. “Did I somehow miss the dawn? Has it come and gone already?”

“No…”

“Then quit your complaining, you old oaf!” she scolded him. “And take good care of my lad here, or I’ll ban you from the bar.”

“If your lad follows my orders right quick, he’ll do just fine,” Lew retorted. “Into the boat with ye, boy.”

“Be careful,” Megg murmured before she let him go. “I’ll see you later, love.”

“You certainly will,” Colm agreed. He stepped up easily into the boat, set his pack on the ground and got to work untying the knots that kept the sails furled. Megg watched for a moment, then left, vanishing into the mist.

If Colm had held out any hope that spending time with Lew would be anything like spending time with Fergus, he was proven wrong that morning. Lew communicated in grunts, only speaking to chide Colm when he did something wrong or moved too slow. They sailed slowly out beyond the bay with only the headsail raised, but once they got to open water, Colm raised the mainsail and Lew turned them so that the breeze sent them cutting forward with a swiftness that surprised Colm.

This, this was what he loved about sailing. The freedom of gliding over the water, smooth and untroubled and leaving no trace… There was nothing like it. On the loch back home, he could only head in one direction for ten minutes if the day was blustery before having to tack, or risk running aground on the far shore. Here Colm felt like they could go on forever and never run out of new seas to explore.

They sailed for about half an hour before Lew instructed Colm to lower the sails. Colm frowned. “Here? Are you sure?”

Lew sighed the sigh of a man much put-upon. “I’ve been sailing these waters for longer than you’ve been alive, boy, I know where to find the fish.”

Colm reached down and placed his hand in the water, jerking back a little when he realized it felt…warm. Oddly warm, the way the water of the loch never had. He put his hand back in and focused on the sensations, ignoring Lew’s huff about Colm being a half-wit. The rocking of the boat, the few waves brought about by the morning breeze…no fish. He frowned, wondering if his ability didn’t work here.

No, wait…there were fish, but they were deep. Far too deep for the short little gillnets that Lew had onboard. “The fish are too low,” he said, pulling his hand free of the water and shaking it off. The remaining droplets felt like tiny rays of sunshine, focused tightly on the bits of skin to which they clung.

“And how do ye figure that, boy?”

“I can tell,” Colm said, watching Lew’s face carefully as he revealed his ability. “I can feel the movement of fish in the water, and there aren’t any here that we could reach.”

“Open water’s the best place to get the big ’uns,” Lew said slowly, looking like he didn’t want to believe Colm but doubtless feeling the pinch of small catches of late.

“Not with what you have here. The nets won’t go deep enough. Let me move us somewhere more appropriate.”

Lew snorted. “More appropriate. Water’s water, boy, and the fish are fickle. They go where they please and might as well turn up here as anywhere. They have many times before.”

“That was before the bigger ships started fishing these same waters, wasn’t it?” Colm asked and felt vindicated when Lew looked away. “The fish have learned caution. They’re deeper and harder to reach here. They may rise as the day wears on, true, but in the meantime we’ll waste time that could be spent filling our nets.”

“Opinionated young bugger, aren’t you?” Lew accused, then pulled his cap over his face. “Do what you want. Just don’t expect any help from me.”

“I would never,” Colm murmured as he went about raising the sails again. He sailed the boat carefully, alternating between tweaking the rigging and letting his hand trail through the water as he steered them closer in to shore. Lew glanced at him from under the brim of his cap every now and then, checking and trying not to let on that he was.

Eventually Colm found a bit of water with a decent population of fish—not a type he recognized, but there was much he had to learn about the sea. He pulled down the sails and tied them up, then got to work on the drift nets. The tangles weren’t so bad, although clearly it had been an age since the things had been tended to: great rents split them in places, and gobbets of flesh and scale stuck clean through the rope here and there. Half the glass floats were compromised, either completely broken or cracked and flooded, but the lower line’s lead-cored rope was still solid. Hopefully the damn thing wouldn’t sink the moment it hit the water.

Colm laid the nets out himself, having to do some tricky maneuvering of the boat to get them all placed right. “Why not just strip and swim them out?” Lew asked grumpily after a particularly tight turn that had forced him to shift himself from his repose.

“I don’t know how,” Colm replied, checking his lines. None of the nets had sunk out of sight yet, so that was good. He left his hand in the water and felt the water’s vibration as it moved past the nets, felt the fish, which had been a bit frightened by the movement, begin to reclaim their space.

Lew laughed. “What? A strapping boy like you can’t swim? What kind of place did you come from, where that sort of foolishness is encouraged?”

“A high mountain village where the water is just a step above ice,” Colm said.

“Oh…aye, there’s that, then.” Lew resettled and pulled his cap down again. “Let me know when you’re ready to head back to more populated waters, and if we come up empty for the day, it’s on your head. Nothing shared is still nothing.”

“I’ll let you know when our nets are full,” Colm replied. Lew huffed and rolled onto his side, and Colm shut his eyes and lost himself in the rhythm of the sea and all the creatures that moved within it.

The fish were easy to identify, flitting about the algae blooms, whole schools moving in perfect synchronicity. Farther out, Colm could feel the movement of other boats, even some ships—they had to be, the waves were so large. And deep, deep down in the water where the light vanished completely, a creature moved sluggishly against the bottom, stirring silt and sending smaller beasts fleeing with every slow twitch. Colm didn’t know what it was, but it intrigued and frightened him at the same time.

Despite his care, their nets were quiet for most of the morning. Colm began to worry, quietly and to himself, that perhaps Lew was right, and despite his ability he didn’t have the proper knowledge of the sea to predict how its creatures would move. Then, fortuitously, a larger boat moved into distant view, one that dragged its nets along behind it, churning up the water and sending the warier fish fleeing. Many of them fled straight toward their little boat, and Colm smiled as a gratifying number of them were caught in their nets. When the floats began to bob in earnest, Colm began to reel them in.

Lew jumped and flailed as the first full net was hauled aboard, filled with flopping, shimmering silver-and-violet fish, each between a foot and a foot and a half. Much smaller and they slipped through the nets, any larger and they couldn’t fit their heads through in the first place. “Bloody Two,” he swore, looking wide-eyed at the squirming bottom of the boat. “Dancers! These are diving dancers! What—” He looked at Colm with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. “How did you know where to find dancers?”

“I didn’t know what kind they were,” Colm said, straining to haul the next net in. “I just knew where they were.”

“Diving dancers. These sell for a pretty penny, let me tell you—although, not that pretty,” Lew backtracked, perhaps realizing for the first time since Colm had boarded his boat that he was going to be making money off this. “’Tis their season, after all…the market’ll be fair flooded with them. Still, I’ll do the best I can…” His voice trailed off as Colm dropped the second net’s catch into the boat, a squirming silver mirror at their feet. “Beautiful,” Lew murmured, and in that Colm could certainly agree.

“They are.” The third net wasn’t so full, but there were a few stragglers in it, and overall the numbers were quite gratifying, especially since the sun hadn’t even passed the midpoint in the sky yet. One of them slipped free at the end, and Colm grabbed for it, then jerked back as a sharp little mouth snatched it out of the air, ripping into the fish. Bright eyes stared defiantly at him, and Colm realized it was the selkie. He’d been so preoccupied with bringing in the catch that Colm hadn’t even noticed him. The seal finished his stolen meal and barked once, then dove out of sight. Fortunately, Lew was still too preoccupied with their catch to pay any attention to the strange exchange.

“We should get them back before they begin to spoil. Do you want to sail, or free them from the nets?”

“What?” Lew’s head snapped up, breaking through his reverie. “This is my boat, boy!” he exclaimed, trying for angry but too pleased to pull it off. “I’ll sail ’er, you worry about the fish.”

“Fine,” Colm said mildly. As long as the man did something, Colm didn’t care what it was. He left the running of the Serpent’s Tail to Lew and spent the hour’s journey back emptying the nets, rolling them up to keep them untangled and mentally tracking what he’d need to do to put them right again. The fish were cool and sleek, with fat silver bodies and a violet line of color expanding down their sides until it blossomed like a flower to encompass their whole tails.

They returned to the berth and settled in smoothly, Lew’s enthusiasm making for much defter handling than he’d shown that morning. “Right, then,” he said, tying up the boat. “I’ll take care of the catch. Meet me here tomorrow morn and I’ll see you get your cut, and we’ll head out again.”

“I think it’s better if I help you with the catch now,” Colm told him.

Lew frowned fiercely. “Are you doubtin’ my word now, boy? Are you accusing me of being a cheat?”

“Not at all.” Of course he was, but Colm knew how to play this. He was naïve in many ways, but not when it came to his trade. “I’m new to this city, and I’ve much to learn. The proper price for fish is one of those things. Aunt Megg has given me a good idea of what we should get for a fresh catch,” and Lew blanched gratifyingly, “but I’d appreciate the opportunity to learn from you as well.”

“…Fine.”

In the end, it was good that Colm was there to help as well. It took two full wheelbarrows to get their catch to market. Lew knew exactly where he was going. He rolled his barrow straight up to a large, elaborate market stall where a man holding a cleaver was chopping the heads off three fresh eels and handing them to a customer. He looked over at Lew and grinned as they set down the barrows.

“Did you decide to pack it in early today, Gullfoot?”

“Not at all.” Lew motioned to the barrow. The man looked over the edge of his stall and his eyes went wide.

“Dancers! It’s early yet for them to be coming through. Where in the god’s name did you find so many of ’em?”

“Och, there’s a trick to it,” Lew boasted. “I can’t be sharing it with the likes of you, though. D’ye want the catch, then?”

“I may…” The fishmonger came around and hefted a few of the fish, examining their clean eyes and the suppleness of their bodies. “Aye, I think I could take all of these. How many do you have?”

“Eighty-seven,” Colm offered when Lew hesitated.

“Who’re you, then?” the man asked.

“He’s my apprentice,” Lew cut in. “A green mountain lad who don’t know wet from dry. I’m showin’ him the ways of the sea.”

“Well, green or not, this lad may be your good luck charm,” the fishmonger told Lew, then reached out to shake Colm’s hand. “I’m Carroll Lightsail.”

“Colm Weathercliff.”

“Oh?” His expression brightened for a moment. “Of the Caresfall Weathercliffs?”

“I don’t rightly know,” Colm said.

“Ah, well. You must have the touch, lad, because this old man hasn’t brought me a catch like this since his grandson buggered off and joined the army.”

“Don’t mention that traitor to me,” Lew grumbled. “Are you going to take these fish off my hands, then? Plenty of other fishmongers along the docks who’d pay plenty for a catch like this.”

Carroll raised his hands peaceably. “I’ll take ’em, I’ll take ’em. Help me get ’em onto the scale.”

In the end, they brought in a little over two hundred and fifty pounds worth of fish. Carroll was attracting attention with the first ones he laid out before he’d even finished paying Lew and Colm, and he was in a good mood because of it.

“Come to me first,” he exhorted them as he counted silver and copper coins into Lew’s hand. “You get a catch like that, and I’ll take it, count on it.”

“Dancers?” a passing woman exclaimed, heading over to take a closer look. “Did I hear that you have dancers here? Already?”

“Lovely and fresh, pulled from the sea this very morning,” Carroll said, turning into a salesman again and ignoring them. They drove the barrows back down to the Serpent’s Tail, Lew almost cackling with glee the whole way there.

“Lovely,” he chuckled. “Just lovely. Oh, that bastard said I’d never bring in a good load again. Who’s paying me now! Well done, lad,” he said magnanimously to Colm. “Let’s work that magic again tomorrow, eh? You’ll bring in plenty of silver for your aunt.”

“It’s not magic,” Colm cautioned, remembering what Fergus had said about the dangers of such accusations. “It’s just a knack.”

“Knack, spell, whatever. Here y’are.” He handed Colm two silver coins and pocketed the rest. “I’ll see you tomorrow, same as today.” He turned to leave and Colm caught him by the sleeve.

“Not until you’ve given me my fair share.”

“It’s my boat,” Lew snapped. “You wouldn’t have caught any fish at all without it.”

“And you wouldn’t have caught any without me,” Colm reminded him. “I found the fish, I set the nets, and I hauled and prepared the catch. You slept, for the most part.”

“I can do as I want on my own boat!”

“Indeed you can. And I can find another boat to work on where I have more help,” Colm replied. “As well as better equipment. We could have caught more today if they hadn’t been slipping through the holes in your nets.”

Lew looked dumbstruck. “That catch was plenty large!”

“And it could have been even better.” Colm held out his hand. “Now, do you want to treat fairly with me and keep making money, or do you want to end this partnership now? Because I may be many things, but apprentice isn’t one of them, and neither is a fool.” At least not in this.

Lew scowled. “You’ve got that old woman’s cutthroat ways. Greed is frowned upon by the gods.”

“Exactly,” Colm agreed. He held his hand out, and after a moment, Lew slapped two more silver coins and four coppers into it.

“Fine. But you’d best be able to repeat it, boy, or I’ll have you off my boat faster’n you can wink!” He turned and headed down the street in a huff, and Colm stared down at the money in his hand.

In one day, he’d made as much as Desandre had been able to save for him over a span of months. Back in Anneslea, he could have new boots made, two complete new outfits, and still have money left over to completely replace the rigging on the boat. Undoubtedly, the money wouldn’t go as far here, but for a first day, it seemed pretty good.

Colm stopped at a cobbler’s shop on the way back to the Cove, one of the dozens of places Nichol had pointed out to him as they’d blazed by earlier this week with a brief, “There’s a good place if you need new shoes.” He walked in and was ushered onto a stool, where he got his feet measured by a little woman with hands like iron, callused from years of working needles through leather.

“I’ll have something for you at the beginning of next week,” she promised him. “One silver in advance, and another when the work’s done.”

Boots certainly were more dear here, but Colm figured he could afford it. He gave her a silver, which she bit to be sure of. “Thanks, lad,” she said with a smile. “Where can I send word if they’re done before you come back?”

“I’m staying at the Cove,” he told her, putting his old boots back on. “Meggyn Searunner is my aunt.” Well, close enough.

“You’re Megg’s newcomer! She’s been talking about you,” the woman exclaimed. “Colm Weathercliff, yes?”

“That’s me.”

“Well, nice to put a face to a name. And such a fair face,” she added slyly, making him blush. “Do tell Megg that Rosie says hello.”

“I will,” Colm promised. He rose to his feet, grabbed the bag that Megg had packed for him that morning—still full as he’d had no time to eat—and headed back to the inn.

The lunch crowd was in full force as he walked in, and Colm put his things away, then went back into the kitchen to help Megg, who was carving up loaves of dark, rich bread.

“Colm! That was a short day,” she noted, beginning to frown. “Did something go wrong? Was Lew drunker than I thought? That man, I should never have sent you out with such a lush—”

“The day went better than I expected,” Colm said reassuringly. He washed his hands in the basin in the corner and joined her at the table. “We’re already finished. We got lucky with a school of dancers.”

“Dancers? It’s early yet for them. Congratulations, love!” she said. “What a good way to start your work here. But next time bring some back for me, I can cook them up and offer them as a specialty.”

“I’ll do that,” he promised her before taking up another loaf and helping her fill the bread baskets.

Nichol had a day watch with the Sea Guard, and when he learned of Colm’s success upon his return, he laughed and said, “Wonderful! If I can’t work my way into the navy, then you can buy me a commission once you’re wealthy.”

Megg smacked his arm, but all Colm said was “I would if I could.” He meant it too. Most of all, he wanted for the people in his life to be happy, and for Nichol that meant getting into the navy, even though it would necessarily take him away from Colm.

That night as they got ready for bed, Nichol regaled Colm about the excitement that day, which was that the largest of the ships of war were returning to port after finishing training exercises in the Inisfadda islands. They would drop off all unnecessary personnel, stock up on supplies and men and head back out to sea to make the first moves aimed at gaining a foothold on the Garnet Isles.

“That means Jaime will be back soon,” Nichol said, his excitement plain. “Jaime Windlove—you heard the fisherman mention him the other day, remember? His uncle is a captain and lets him accompany the ship on peacetime maneuvers to learn his way around the ship, but Jaime hasn’t yet gotten the call for official training. It’s only a matter of time before he’s awarded his commission, though, and when he does, he’ll be allowed to recommend another for service as well. And that will be me. It has to be me,” Nichol added a bit more softly. “Someone’s got to be there to look after Jaime. You think I’m a menace? I’ve got nothing on him.” Nichol sounded very admiring of the fact. “I hope you like him. I want you to like him. You’re my two best mates.”

“I’m sure I’ll like him,” Colm said, but inside, he wasn’t at all sure of that. He would try, but Colm knew that he wasn’t a very likeable person himself, too quiet and insular to ever be popular. It was more likely that Jaime would dislike Colm and Colm in turn wouldn’t see him much, so his liking or not liking the other man was irrelevant. Except to Nichol, it seemed. Colm held on to the fact that Nichol had just called him one of his best mates, and rolled over to go to sleep.

“Colm,” Nichol said hesitantly a moment later.

“Hmm?”

“Did you…” He sighed. “Just, sleep well, all right?”

“You too,” Colm murmured. He was exhausted from the morning’s work, and too tired to let his curiosity over what Nichol had been about to say keep him from nodding off.

Chapter Nine

Twelve days later, Colm finally met Jaime Windlove, fresh off the ship after three months at sea with his uncle. He burst through the front door of the Cove that evening like a sudden typhoon, calling raucously for food and drink and appropriating the window table with an ease of expectation that surprised Colm.

Even more surprising was the fact that the two men sitting there gave the table up without a word, just nodding to the young man and his entourage as they got up, one of them tipping his hat and murmuring, “Welcome back, Master Windlove.” The young man inclined his head briefly before ignoring the other man altogether, yelling for Nichol.

“I know you’re here somewhere, you bonny bastard,” he laughed, and his laugh was glorious, the same sort of bright, infectious sound that Nichol had, only deeper, more grown. Nichol was eighteen, two years younger than Colm, and his youth still clung to him with tenacity, softening the lines of his face and the cut of his muscles. Jaime Windlove was either older or taking great pains to appear that way, because his strawberry-blond hair was slicked back and tied in a queue at the nape of his neck, and he wore a fine woolen half-cloak around his shoulders, draped to accentuate their broadness. He looked like a military officer, a figure of authority, and obviously, his authority wasn’t all imagined.

Colm, who was helping at the bar that evening, turned to Vernon and asked softly, “That’s Jaime Windlove?” just to confirm. Vernon knocked once, then began filling tankards for them. None of the small beer for this group either. Vernon poured from the cask of dark brown ale, the finest drink in the inn, and to each added a shot of the vile peppery spirits that Colm disliked so much.

A moment later, Nichol burst out of the kitchen, heading straight for Jaime with a shout of glee. Jaime stood to meet him, and they embraced, laughing and clapping each other on the back. “When did you get in?” Nichol demanded. “I’ve been looking for you every day. I thought you must have fallen over the side!”

“What kind of clumsy oaf do you take me for, then?” Jaime replied with a grin. “No, I persuaded my uncle to send me back on the last of them, the Peregrine, so I could spend as much time as possible with the fleet. I got to know the captain rather well, and if all goes well, I’ll have a berth with his crew by the end of the summer.”

“Will you?” Nichol breathed. “That’s fantastic. Jaime…Jaime, who…”

“As though you even need to ask,” Jaime teased. “Now sit, tell me all the things I’ve missed since I’ve been gone. These boys didn’t have much of interest to report.” He gestured to the other two young men, dressed nicely but not with quite the sense of style that Jaime displayed. Neither of the men looked particularly pleased to be there, but they put on a decent face for Nichol.

“Aye, we’ve not seen each other outside changing shifts for the Sea Guard,” Nichol said. “Although there’s almost as little to report dockside as there is in Blake and Ollie’s posh part of town,” he added with a little smile. “The seas have been sadly calm, not a thing amiss, nothing big breaking the water apart from a pod of whales. Oh! I do have a new friend to introduce. Colm!” he called toward the bar. “Come and meet Jaime and the lads!”

Vernon tapped the tray that the four full tankards rested on meaningfully, and Colm brought it with him as he made his way through the press to Jaime’s table. Tonight the taproom was packed, and Colm was grateful that his height allowed him to avoid any bumps and jostles against the tray he carried.

“What?” Jaime said as Colm drew close. “Your friend is the new barman?”

“This is my cousin, Colm Weathercliff,” Nichol explained, taking the tankards from the tray and distributing them around the table.

“Of the Caresfall Weathercliffs?”

“No,” Colm said. He was getting tired of that meaningless comparison.

“He just arrived from the mountains, and he’s already getting a reputation as the best fisherman on these docks,” Nichol boasted, bumping Colm’s hip with his.

“Wait,” Blake said, squinting for a moment as he looked at Colm. “Are you the one who’s been bringing in catches of diving dancers for the past few weeks?” Colm nodded, a bit uneasy at the sudden scrutiny. “My father mentioned you. He says Gullfoot’s lucky to have you. That old drunk’s been living high since you started with him.”

“A fisherman,” Jaime said, a little smile playing around his lips. “Well, that is a fine thing to be. Welcome to Caithmor, Colm Weathercliff.” He said it with a certain gravitas, as though he were speaking for all the city when he welcomed Colm in. Perhaps he felt he was.

“Thank you,” Colm said politely, shaking Jaime’s hand. His palm bore few signs of extensive rope work or ship handling, but perhaps his uncle hadn’t wanted to put him to work when he was there in an unofficial capacity. “I’ve heard much about you.”

“Have you, then?” Jaime smirked at Nichol. “Don’t believe a word this one tells you. It’s all lies.”

“Aye, especially the parts about you being dashing and heroic,” Nichol retorted, and the four of them laughed. Colm picked up the tray and turned to go.

“No, wait!” Nichol caught him by the arm. “Stay a moment. You’ve barely been introduced.”

“Clearly, he’s got work to do,” Ollie drawled.

“Aye, picking up your slack,” Jaime said. Nichol looked momentarily stricken.

“Oh, I left Gran in the kitchen—”

“I’ll take care of it,” Colm told him. “Stay. Vernon doesn’t really need me at the bar. I can work in the back. I’ll have food brought out presently.”

“Thank you,” Nichol said sincerely, and that made it worth it for Colm.

As he headed back into the kitchen, Colm heard Jaime remark, “He’s a strange, sallow creature, isn’t he, Nicky? Be honest, how do you get on with him?” Colm was thankfully out of earshot before he could hear Nichol’s reply.

“Jaime’s back, then,” Megg said as soon as she caught sight of Colm. He nodded. “Well, Nichol will be happy. Are they eating?”

“Yes. There are three of them,” Colm added, and he was surprised when Megg snorted suddenly.

“Of course there are. Jaime was a good child—his mama grew up just down the way from here, and a truly lovely lass she was—but he’s not had to work for much in his life, I’m afraid. Those other boys who tag along behind them, they’re the sons of merchants, from fairly well-off families. They didn’t bother to set foot in here all spring, didn’t give a whit for how Nichol was faring beyond getting him to cover their shifts in the Sea Guard, and now that Jaime’s back, they’ve returned to my inn, expecting to eat my food and drink my ale for free.”

“They don’t pay to eat here?” Colm asked with a frown.

“Oh, Jaime’s father settles up the tab at the end of every month. Karlson Windlove is a magistrate, and he’s a fair man, I’ll give him that.” Megg pressed her lips tightly shut, as though actively keeping herself from saying any more, and Colm didn’t press. He just took over Nichol’s carving station, laying slices of roast duck on the rows of plates spread out before him. Idra and the other servers grabbed them up almost faster than Colm could prepare them, and the next few hours were blurs of activity, too busy to allow much time to think.

That night, Colm went to sleep alone, which didn’t surprise him, but he was surprised to be woken up by Nichol for the first time when the younger man ran into Colm’s feet as he staggered into the room in the dark hours of the morning.

“Sorry!” he apologized, his voice too loud to be called a whisper but obviously trying for that. “I’m sorry, shit, did I break your foot?”

“Not even close,” Colm said, sitting up so he could get a better look at Nichol. He was leaning against the door and swaying forward, looking just moments from falling down altogether. “Don’t move,” Colm cautioned him, pushing off his blanket and getting to his feet. “Let me help you.”

“You don’ need to,” Nichol informed him, the slur of his words belying their meaning. “’M fine.”

“You’re drunk,” Colm said, bending so that he could get an arm beneath Nichol’s shoulders and help him to his cot. He sat him down, and Nichol looked at Colm blearily, then laughed.

“You look pretty in this light.”

Colm chuckled as he bent and got to work untying Nichol’s boots. “You mean I look best in darkness?”

“There’s light here,” Nichol informed him. “’S moonlight, it’s…’s romantic, right? Blake and Ollie say the girls think it’s romantic. They talk to them about moonlight and starlight and, and…what…oh, candlelight! That’s romantic too.”

“And what kind of light does Jaime favor?” Colm asked as he put the boots beneath the cot. Gods, they were filthy. Nichol would have to clean them tomorrow.

Nichol grinned. “Daylight shining on white sails and blue seas, he says. The girls don’t find that as…as romantic. But he doesn’t care.”

“I suppose he doesn’t have to work hard to impress girls,” Colm said, pushing Nichol back onto the thin mattress. He lay down easily enough but forgot to lift up his legs and, leaving them dangling over the side, was a knotted muscle waiting to happen, so Colm picked them up for him, resettling them with ease.

“Doesn’t work at it at all,” Nichol said, his voice breaking at the end as he yawned widely. “He thinks ships are more beautiful than girls…” He yawned again.

“Rest,” Colm told him, settling back down on his pallet.

“I can’t. I have to ask you something,” Nichol said seriously, rolling onto his side so that he could look at Colm. “It’s important.”

“Ask me, then.”

“Did you like him?”

There was no need to specify who Nichol was referring to. “He seems to be a good friend to you,” Colm said, almost honestly. “I like that about him.”

Nichol frowned. “But you don’t like him?”

“I don’t really know him yet.”

“But you will,” Nichol said confidently. “And when you do, you’ll like him. Just as he’ll like you.” Which meant that Jaime didn’t like Colm yet either, but that was no surprise. If Nichol was waiting for that day, Colm had a feeling he’d be disappointed.

Fortunately, no reply seemed necessary, since Nichol fell asleep between one instant and the next. Colm lay on his blankets for a while, trying to recover the last few hours he’d hoped to have before getting up to work, but it was no use. When he was drunk, Nichol snored terribly, and after a while, Colm got himself together and left.

Despite his early arrival at the Serpent’s Tail, Lew beat him to it. Or perhaps he’d never left it. The man was laid out on his nets, another drunkard in the night. Colm rolled his eyes. He’d yet to notice anything good that came from being intoxicated, especially when a useless stupor ended up being the result.

Well, he’d head out anyway. There was no sense in wasting time, and Lew would probably just sleep through it. Colm untied the boat and unfurled the headsail, and the little bit of nighttime breeze fluttering over the docks pulled them gently from their berth and out to sea.

It wasn’t as cool out as Colm had been expecting. Spring was giving way to summer, and it showed. The seas were lively, those types of fish that favored warmer waters making their way up the coast, while those that preferred it cool were slow to leave. Colm let them continue on at a slow pace for a while, watching the sky over the cliffs surrounding Caithmor become navy, then purple, then the silvery-gold that heralded the dawn. His hand lay forgotten in the water as he watched the brilliant display, until a sharp pair of teeth nipped at it.

“Ouch!” He pulled his hand back and glared at the seal, which barked at him. “That was uncalled for,” Colm told it, resisting the urge to snap right back. The seal had come to bother him almost every day he’d been on the water, stealing fish from the net and chewing through lines here and there. It didn’t do enough damage to hurt their trade, really, just enough to leave Colm feeling harried, which today of all days he didn’t need. He scrunched his face up tight and controlled a sudden, inexplicable urge to scream.

“Wossa matter w’ye, eh?”

Colm’s eyes shot open to see Lew, leaning back on his hands but sitting upright and peering at him. “Nothing,” he said.

“On the water already, are we?” Lew grumbled. “Can’t leave a man to sleep it off alone…”

“Not when you’re sleeping interrupts our business.”

“All business, all the time,” Lew said, as though making money weren’t the sole reason he let Colm onto his boat in the first place. “’S’no way to live, boy. Now shove over. I have to piss.” He heaved himself to his feet and came over to brace himself against the tiller, which Colm gladly gave up in favor of more distance from the smells of booze and Lew’s unwashed body.

“Ahh, that’s better,” Lew grunted once he was done. He felt around for the canteen of water he always kept on board—one of his sole wise precautions, in Colm’s opinion—and drank deeply. “My mouth was foul as a week-old fish left in the sun,” he said, then settled down at the tiller. “Now. Where’re we headed today, boy?”

Colm evaluated the quivers of the sea, the knots of movement and the flow of the current. “There’s a lot of activity farther north,” he remarked. “Another hour’s worth of sailing or so, and we should be in the midst of it.”

“Oh no,” Lew said with a vehemence that surprised Colm. “No, no, boy. Another hour north and we’ll be too close to Cairn Rock, and you won’t get me within a seabird’s sight of that cursed place.”

“What’s wrong with Cairn Rock?” Colm asked, but Lew just shook his head.

“Pick another way,” he said grimly. After a moment, Colm pointed northwest instead, far enough, of course, from whatever Lew seemed to fear that he accepted it. They didn’t speak again, not until they’d found a good spot and set the nets, angling the lowered mainsail to give them some shade from the now-vibrant sun.

“I suppose you should know,” Lew said at last, breaking his silence. “So that you don’t head out there by accident and get your fool self killed. Even those as don’t believe the tales still won’t be caught in the waters close to Cairn Rock.”

“What tales?” Colm asked.

“Dark ones, boy. Cairn Rock’s carried that name for centuries, and it’s because the place means death. No one knows it better than I.” Lew stared down at his hands, rubbing them together compulsively. “I used to be in the coast guard. ’Twas smaller back then, under the old king. Not the fat, bloated thing it’s become now.

“Our boat was sent up the coast,” he continued, managing not to get sidetracked as Colm had half suspected he would. “There were reports of fishermen vanishing, boats disappearing, that kind of thing. Our captain suspected pirates. Cairn Rock had a bad reputation back then, but it had been years since anything had happened round there. So we went to see what we could see. She was a fine boat, that one. Mary’s Mercy, named for some admiral’s wife. Two masts, her timbers strong and true. She could weather the worst squalls with hardly a rope out of place.

“The sea was churned up when we got there, debris scattered all over the water. I could see bodies floating on the surface, and we figured the good thing to do was to collect ’em so they could be burned properly. Three of my mates got down into the lifeboat and rowed out to fetch them. They’d barely touched the first one when we saw it.”

“Saw what?” Colm prompted when Lew seemed to freeze. “What did you see?”

“A great dark shape beneath the water,” Lew murmured, his eyes distant with the past. “It loomed up like a sudden wave, just a coil of it, with tremendous spines along the back. It looped right over the lifeboat and crushed it, and the lads as well. They were pulled under before they had a chance to get more than a single scream off. We had harpoons on the deck, but none of those newfangled cannons that make war so miserable now.

“We fired on the creature, and the lines stuck, but then it must have dove down, for it pulled us so hard that the Mercy tipped over and spilled us all into the sea. Those of us who were uninjured and could swim made it to the surface, but many of the men were lost then. And it still wasn’t done with us. The serpent, for beneath the water I could see now that it was a serpent, stretching down into the depths past my ken, lifted its tail from the water and smashed it down onto the boat, turning ’er into naught but kindling. One of her spars floated my way, and I grabbed on to it and held on for my life. The water was so unsettled that I couldn’t tell which way was up and which was down. I heard the few men who were left screaming, and I knew that this was the end for me.” Lew’s voice drifted off, and he sat in silence, staring down at his knotted hands.

“What happened next?” Colm asked. He couldn’t let Lew leave it like that. “How did you survive?”

“By havin’ the best bad bloody luck in the world,” Lew said darkly. “All of us had drifted in close to Cairn Rock by then. Too close, though I didn’t know it. One moment I was waiting to be pulled down into the depths by the serpent, and the next I was surrounded by mer, streaming by me as they swam out to do battle with the rival for their territory. Didn’t give me a second glance, but if they had, I’d have been gone for sure.”

“What is a mer?”

“A creature made by the Two to plague us. They’ve the tail of a fish instead of legs, but the arms and chest of a man. The heads, though, the heads are all wrong.” Lew held up a hand and gesticulated around his face. “No hair, just a fin from nose to nape, and their jaws are too wide and full of teeth that could tear your arm right off your body. Got gills along their neck, like a fish. Terrible, terrible beasts. A group of ’em is termed a rending by those who know, but even just one is more trouble than a man can take.

“They’re the worst creatures in the sea, and even worse than you’d imagine, because the females are beautiful in a way. Look much more like us, and they use themselves as lures, they do, to get men to abandon their reason, and then the males set on them and tear them to bits.”

“Why didn’t they kill you?” Colm asked.

Lew snorted. “Disappointed, are ye? They just didn’t have time to bother with me, boy. Serpents and mer, they both feed along this coast, or they did for many a year. They compete for food and a safe haven, and the serpent had come too close. The water, it turned purple with blood. I kept my wits about me long enough to paddle my broken spar down the coast until I found a beach to land meself at. Fifty-two men, and I was the only survivor.”

He reached out and patted the single slender mast. “I kept the spar, turned it into the spine of this boat. It helps to remind me that every day I’m here, that’s one more day than I ever thought I’d have. I reckon the Four have forgotten about me, let me slip through the cracks, and I can live with that. I’d rather not be seen,” he muttered, then shut his eyes resolutely and turned onto his side. “Enough, now. Let me know when the nets are full, boy.”

The nets took a while to fill, but not so with Colm’s imagination. Mer? Sea serpents? It made a certain amount of sense, Colm reasoned. If there were people who could turn from seals into women and back again, then the idea of half-fish, half-human beings was at least plausible. It was the first he’d heard of them, though, and Colm had spent a fair few evenings listening to drunken stories from behind the bar at this point. Sea serpents, those he’d heard mentioned. He could even picture them, much larger versions of the eels that fishmongers sold at market. Kraken, those were just the larger cousins of octopi, even Nichol had seen one of those. But fish people?

It reminded Colm of what Farrel the farm boy had called him on the road. It seemed too ridiculous to be true. According to the priests, humanity had been formed by the Four, a concentrated effort toward perfection, and they were meant to be unique among all the creatures of the world. Selkies were technically an abomination, Colm had learned, a fusion of humanity and magic that harkened back to the bad days, although not one that many people made a fuss about anymore. Mer, if they existed, were probably classified the same way. How could anything else look so like them that it lured men to their deaths?

Colm knew his own ignorance was deep. He’d lived a sheltered life in Anneslea, and his education had been tightly contained by the village priest, limited to essentials of reading and writing, history and religion. The few tales his father had told were misty things, dimmed by time and grief. But Fergus had spoken of manticores and curses, and he had the ears to prove at least half of it. Ignorance didn’t sit well with Colm, and he decided he would ask Megg, and perhaps Nichol, if they knew anything about mer or sea serpents as well.

They had a good catch of lionsmane perch by midmorning, about as big as a dancer but without their vibrant colors. Lionsmane perch were a good fish for soups and stews, though, and their elaborate fins were used by the fancier establishments in the city as a special garnish for some dishes. Colm hauled in the nets and set about freeing the fish while Lew sailed them back to the harbor, the silence between them deep and seemingly untouchable. Lew wasn’t going to say any more, and Colm wasn’t going to press.

They sold most of their catch to Carroll, who was happy to receive it, and split ways right after. Colm headed back to the Cove and gave Megg the dozen fish he’d held back for her, accepted her kiss of thanks and set to work cleaning them for her. His sharp little knife cut smoothly through firm bellies, and it didn’t take him long to turn the fish into fillets that Megg chopped up and put in her nightly chowder.

“Those’ll be a right treat for our guests tonight,” she told him, taking the delicate fins Colm had carefully cut away and examining them in the light. “And these are so lovely and thin! I think I’ll pickle them. They’ll be a nice little indulgence in the winter.” They worked together to clean them and get them packed in brine, and finally Megg sent the last of the jars down to the cellar and wiped her brow.

“You’re quiet today,” she commented after a moment. “Did you have a bad time with Lew?”

“No, not really. He told me some things, though, that I…I don’t know. I can hardly find it in my mind to believe him.”

“What tall tales has that man been spinning?” Megg asked.

“He told me that long ago, he served in the coast guard, and that his boat was destroyed by a sea serpent.”

“Ah, that.” Megg nodded after a moment. “I remember when that happened. Word of it came down to the city not long after the boat was destroyed. Some people claimed it must have been a waterspout, that our water was too shallow to support a serpent of that size, but enough people have seen them over the years that Lew likely remembers it right.”

Colm felt inexplicably relieved. “Then there really are sea serpents?”

“Oh yes, love. But most of them stick to open water, far out into the sea, and they don’t surface very often. They eat whales, I’m told, and fight with kraken in the deeps. Bad-tempered beasts, it seems.”

“And mer? Do they exist as well?”

Megg pursed her lips. “That’s a more difficult thing to know. Everyone has a tale about serpents, but Lew is the only man I’ve ever met to speak of mer, and he’s also a drunk and a liar. But I seem to recall something, some story… Oh goodness, I’m losing my mind and my memory, love! Nichol would know.”

“I’ll ask him later,” Colm told her.

Colm didn’t get the chance to do the asking, though. Otherwise, he certainly wouldn’t have asked Nichol when he was accompanied by the rest of the Sea Guard. He only even figured out they were there at all by the sudden burst of laughter that reached back into the kitchen. “What, really? Send him out, Mistress, we’ll set him straight.”

Megg came back looking a bit annoyed. “Do keep in mind that they’re all well into their cups, love,” she advised him as she bent over the cauldron to stir the chowder. “Anything they attempt to say with authority is suspect.”

Colm went out into the taproom, where he was immediately waved over by Nichol. “It’s a good job you’re so tall, otherwise I’d never pick you out in a crowd,” Jaime said jovially, then winced when Nichol punched his shoulder.

“Don’t be an ass,” Nichol chided him. “Colm, sit. Ollie, get your dirty feet off the extra chair, you savage.” Ollie scowled but took his boots down from the seat, and Colm sat gingerly at the edge of it. “So Gullfoot finally told you about his epic battle with a sea serpent, did he?” Nichol asked.

“It seemed less like a battle and more like a massacre,” Colm said, and the four men laughed, even though there was nothing funny about it. “Was his recollection mistaken, then?”

“Not in that,” Jaime said. “Enough folk saw evidence of the serpent that we’re pretty sure it was there, and the ruin of the boat was certainly no illusion. If it wasn’t a serpent, it would have had to have been a waterspout out of a clear blue sky, but there’ve been no accounts of a creature that large along the coast since then. But the mermaids? He really got you convinced about mermaids?” Jaime scoffed, then took a long drink. “Half-fishy women pretty enough to tempt a man to drown himself? It’s ridiculous. Nothing but a fairy tale.”

“No it’s not,” Blake spoke up suddenly, to everyone’s surprise. “The Roving Spectacular’s got part of one in a jar. I saw it last year when they came through. A whole head. It looked pretty close to human, I’d say.”

“That spectacular is nothing but a traveling tramp show that preys on the gullible and spendthrift,” Jaime said firmly. “It’s probably nothing but a human head that’s been doctored to look like a fabled mermaid.”

“If they were gonna doctor it, wouldn’t they have tried to make it look better?” Blake argued. “Because this is a manky head, mate. The face is regular enough, but the teeth are like little knives, and there’s no hair on it, just a fin-thing.”

“If they made it look too nice, people wouldn’t believe it,” Jaime told him. “People like to be scared by such things.”

“There is a story about one, though,” Nichol said, obviously trying to ease the growing tension between his friends. “It’s an old story, but I remember my grandad telling it to me a few times. It was about a mermaid who fell in love with a man, and she prayed to the gods to let her join him on land. They said they would grant her prayer, only on the condition that if she ever changed her mind, she would have to cut out his heart and bathe in his blood in order to return to the sea. She agreed to the terms, became human and they married, but as much as she loved him, her heart still longed for the sea.”

“This is selkies, Nicky—” Jaime began, but Nichol stopped him.

“Look, I know stories about selkies, and this wasn’t one of them,” he snapped. “There’s no lore about selkies and blood, only pelts. At the end of the story the woman had to choose between her love for her husband and her yearning for home.”

“What did she choose?” Ollie asked, looking vaguely interested for once.

“According to the tale, she chose to return to the sea.” Nichol’s demeanor was grave and unsmiling, as if such an ending was a personal affront to him. “She lay with her husband until he fell asleep, and then she took a knife and plunged it through his chest. She carved out his heart, carried it to the shore and emptied its contents over her legs, and she became a mermaid again.”

“As I said, a fairy tale,” Jaime said firmly. “Or at best an act of black magic, which is nothing that any of us should be discussing. Lew Gullfoot is just another washed-up old fisherman trying to relive his glory days by playing on a wide-eyed foreigner. No offense meant,” he added in passing to Colm.

“He’s not a foreigner,” Nichol frowned. “Colm is family.”

“Aye, but it’s not as though he’s grown up in Caithmor, is it?” Jaime pointed out. “And you said yourself that he’s the bastard of a man who wasn’t even your blood relative, so—”

“That’s not what I said!” Nichol shouted, and by then Colm had had enough. He stood up, consciously using his height to his advantage for once.

“Thank you for the education,” Colm said dryly, then turned and left the taproom. He heard furtive whispering behind him but didn’t bother to look back, just kept moving until he was through the kitchen, through the courtyard and all the way upstairs in his room. Their room. The room he shared with Nichol, who was one of his only friends. Not so good a friend as Colm had hoped, but he could deal with that. He had dealt with things like that for his whole life. He just needed a moment alone.

Colm was denied the time he wanted to collect himself, because not a minute had passed before he heard the quick tread of Nichol coming up the stairs. “Colm?” he called from the landing.

Colm didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure what would come out of his mouth if he tried. The silence didn’t stop Nichol, but he at least had the decency to knock before coming into the room. He looked worried. “Colm, don’t listen to Jaime, especially not when he’s been drinking. It turns him into even more of a prick than usual.” When Colm still didn’t say anything, Nichol shifted on his feet. “I didn’t say that about you. I told him about your father, of course, but I never called you a bastard. I wouldn’t.”

“You don’t have to go to any special lengths to defend me,” Colm said, hoping his voice was as calm as he was desperately trying for. “I understand that I’m not a part of your group. I wouldn’t want to be, honestly,” he added.

“Wait, what are you talking about?” Nichol demanded. “I mean, yes, I can see why you wouldn’t want to spend much time with the lads when they’re really just complete idiots, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t my friend, Colm. You and I, we’re friends.”

“Why?” Colm asked. “What is it that makes us friends? Is it your sense of duty? Because if it is, I happily relieve you of any responsibility for me. I can make my own way here now, although I appreciate the help you gave me in the beginning.”

“Of course it’s not a, a bloody duty,” Nichol spluttered. “You’re my friend because you’re kind, and you’re interesting, and you can do things that none of those idiots can do. You’re like a pool of calm in my life, and you listen to me prattle on and on, and you laugh at my jokes and, Colm, of course you’re my friend. Aren’t I yours?”

“Of course you are,” Colm said immediately. “You’re my only friend here, and one of only a few I’ve ever had.” He supposed Fergus and Marley counted as friends, even now. “Megg is wonderful, but it’s different with her. I suppose that makes me very inexperienced at being a friend, compared to you. I’m sorry if I’m doing something wrong,” he sighed, spreading his hands helplessly. He saw what might be compassion but was more likely pity in Nichol’s face and looked away.

“Colm. Colm.” Nichol reached out and took his hands. “You’re a great friend. Those lads, I can laugh and jest with them, but it’s different. Even with Jaime, it’s different. With you, I can actually speak about things that have some meaning beyond the navy, or girls, or a life at sea. With them, we’re at our best when we’re all looking to the future, and to the lives we hope to have. With you, I feel like I can be happy right now, in the present. That’s a rare thing.” Nichol let go and stepped back a bit, rolling his shoulders and regaining the bit of his composure he’d let go of for that speech.

Colm, for once, knew exactly what to do. “Are you going back out with them tonight?”

“Nah, think I’ll leave them to it.” Nichol grinned widely. “Care to see the city by moonlight?”

“I’ve seen it already, usually at some ungodly hour of the morning,” Colm reminded him.

“Yeah, but you haven’t had a view. Wait a moment.” Nichol grasped his trunk and moved it up onto the cot, which creaked ominously. “Don’t worry, it won’t collapse! Hasn’t yet, at any rate.” He stood up on the cot, then onto the trunk and raised his arms until his hands touched the skylight. He unlatched it and swung it down into the room, then grasped the edges of the frame.

“I expect you to catch me if I fall,” Nichol warned playfully, then hauled himself up and through the ceiling in a single swift movement. He pulled his legs out, then looked down at Colm. “Come on, your turn. It should be even easier for you, you’re so damn tall.”

“You want me to join you on the roof?” Colm asked skeptically. “Why the roof?”

“Where better to get a view of the city from than somewhere high? Come on, you can’t be afraid of heights. You grew up in the White Spires.”

“That doesn’t mean I like heights,” Colm said, but he already knew he was going to do it. Nichol had left his friends behind for Colm tonight, and Colm wasn’t going to repay that by balking. He made his way onto the trunk, which swayed dangerously for a moment beneath him before he got his hands on the ceiling.

“Perfect, now up and out,” Nichol encouraged. After a few false starts, Colm finally got his body to move the way it needed to. He got stuck for a moment as his legs tried to fumble their way through the rather small hole, but Nichol grabbed beneath his arms and helped haul him the rest of the way up. “Well done,” he said, his teeth gleaming like silver in the moonlight. “Stand up, take a proper look!”

Colm got to his feet and turned in a slow circle. The Cove was taller than many of the buildings surrounding it, and he had a good view of the rooftops that stretched as far as his eye could follow to the east, into the heart of Caithmor. There was the tall square tower of the royal family, long pennants fluttering at each corner. Not far from there were the spires of the Ardeaglais, glowing with more than the light of the moon as the prayers of the faithful powered the ceremonies of the priests. There were a few other large buildings in sight, none of them as beautiful. Colm thought he could pick out the warehouse where Nichol had bullied his way into getting them a boat.

In the other direction, there were the ships, and at this height, Colm could just see beyond the masts and out to the sea beyond them, glittering like it was trying to shame the stars with its brilliance. Colm stood silent and staring, and after a moment, Nichol stepped close to him, their shoulders bumping as they looked out at the water.

“That’s where I’ll be someday,” Nichol said softly.

“So you shall.” Colm knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Nichol’s life would be inextricably tied to the sea. Whether it would happen thanks to the largesse of Jaime Windlove, that Colm wasn’t so sure about, but he’d never say as much to Nichol. He just let the moment of confirmation stretch out, comfort given and received, until finally Nichol sighed with satisfaction.

“So. Shall we go house-jumping, then?”

“House-jumping?”

“Yeah, jumping from the roof of one place to the next.” Nichol must have seen enough of Colm’s shocked expression to understand, because he laughed. “It’s not that hard, really. I got all the way to the northern gate once when I was twelve. Almost slipped and broke my neck on a slick bit of roofing, but only the once.”

“I’d really, really rather not,” Colm said, and Nichol gave in gracefully.

“Then we won’t. But it’s too nice a night to go in yet. Mind if we stay here for a while, make ourselves a bit more comfortable?”

Colm looked down at the slanted roof beneath their feet and raised an eyebrow. “How do you propose we go about it?”

They ended up with Colm straddling the spine of the roof, one leg on either side, with Nichol lying with his head on Colm’s thigh and his feet propped against the gutter at the edge. It wasn’t perfectly comfortable, but at that moment, Colm wouldn’t have traded the weight of Nichol’s head on his thigh, or the drowsy, happy look on his face, for anything in the world.

“We still have to teach you to swim,” Nichol murmured, his eyes turned out toward the sea, always toward the sea. “There’s this terrific freedom to it… I imagine that fish and birds have an awful lot in common, in their own elements. And I’m sure you’ll pick it right up.”

“We’ll get to it,” Colm agreed, but honestly, he was in no hurry to learn to swim. As appealing as the water was to him, he still didn’t like the idea of immersing himself in it completely.

They spent another quiet, perfect hour out on the roof before Colm had to grab Nichol to keep him from sliding down the roof as he dozed off. After getting back inside, rearranging the room and settling down into his blankets, Colm reflected that he’d never imagined the evening could have turned into something so pleasant after the conversation in the taproom. That Nichol thought those things about him, and that he’d actually had the nerve to say it all… It gave Colm one of the warmest feelings he’d ever experienced. He hoped he was worthy of it, when all was said and done.

Chapter Ten

Colm hadn’t thought his good mood could be much compounded, but the next day, the first letter from his family found its way to the Cove. Though he’d been in Caithmor for almost a month, it still wasn’t quite long enough for his letters from the city to have made it home, so Baylee must have sent this one while he was still on the road.

Even better, Nichol had declined to go out with the rest of the Sea Guard that morning, instead spending the time helping Megg with the baking and waiting impatiently for Colm to get in from fishing. Once Colm came back, after a profitable but mostly silent day on the water with a Lew Gullfoot who seemed to feel he’d said too much the day before, Nichol was on him in an instant.

“You’ve news from home!” he said enthusiastically, handing the letter over with a flourish. “And you musn’t disappear to read it. You have to share anything interesting with us. It took everything I had to keep Gran from opening it before you got back, so—”

“You terrible lad!” Megg came out of the kitchen and swatted at Nichol’s head with a spoon, to the amusement of the regulars who were finishing their lunches. “I did no such thing! You’re the one with the sticky fingers who couldn’t leave the letter be.”

“You wound me,” Nichol exclaimed as he pressed one hand to his chest and feigned a brief swoon. “You cut me to my heart! I may never recover, Gran.”

“I will wound you if you don’t stop saying such things about me,” she warned him, but she was smiling when she turned to Colm. “I would like to know anything Desandre has to say, though, as long as you’re comfortable sharing it.”

“More than comfortable,” Colm said, handing the letter back to Nichol. “I have as much trouble reading as writing, so if you leave it to me, we could be here all day. You can read it aloud to all of us.”

“Then we’d better get some privacy. Idra, dear,” Megg called out. “I’ll be back soon. Mind the loaves for me, will you?”

“Of course, Mistress,” the girl said briskly as she grabbed a tray from the bar full of tankards.

“Lovely.” Megg took off her apron and led the way back to her own little room, getting tea for the three of them and making Colm grab some bread and smoked rock trout on the way, since, as she put it, “I know you gave that old man most of your breakfast, and the gods know you’ve not bothered to remember lunch yet today.”

“It’s how I keep my girlish figure,” Colm told her solemnly as they sat down in Megg’s apartment. Hers was two rooms to their one, the bedroom and a tiny sitting room with four chairs and a low table.

“Girlish figure, indeed!” she scoffed, but settled back and poured the tea into three fine porcelain cups, much nicer than the mugs she stocked for the inn. “Go on, then, Nichol, tell us all the news.”

Nichol broke the wax, unfolded the letter and cleared his throat dramatically.

“My dearest brother,” he began, affecting a high, feminine voice that sounded nothing like Baylee, but made Colm laugh. “By the time you get this, I hope you are well situated in Caithmor. It must be so exciting, to live in such a tremendous place. Do take care not to let people cheat you, and make sure you keep your feet dry. I didn’t knit you all those socks just for you to forget about them and run around with damp toes.

“Is she your sister or your mother?” Nichol broke character to ask.

“It’s good advice,” Megg said firmly. “If you took half as much care with your own feet, my lad, you might never have been troubled by that infection that made all your nails turn green last year.”

Nichol blushed faster than Colm had ever seen him color up before. “Moving right along,” he muttered, and continued in his own voice this time. “I hope you have many more things to tell me in your next letter. The last one you sent was far too short. Have you found Aunt Megg? Is Nichol the hellion she describes in her own letters? Oh Gran, really.”

“I also called you a delight,” Megg assured him, sipping her tea. It was a dark citrus-and-spice blend, Megg’s favorite, and Colm enjoyed the naturally sweet flavor of it. Nichol completely ignored his own cup.

“Between you and Colm, they’ll think I’m the Two incarnate,” Nichol muttered.

“I told them you were immensely helpful,” Colm offered after swallowing a bite of bread.

“Lovely. I’m a helpful hellion.”

“Less pouting, more reading,” Megg said, and Nichol rolled his eyes but got back to it.

“Merdith and Tellan are insufferable as usual. He can’t catch a quarter of what you used to, and claims to all who’ll listen that you left the rigging in such a state that he couldn’t unravel it for days. Wait, is that true, Colm?”

“Possibly,” Colm allowed with a little smile.

“Ha!” Nichol turned to his grandmother. “And you call me a hellion!”

“All young men are hellions to some extent,” Megg said. “Although I’m sure this Tellan deserved it.”

“She gives you the benefit of a doubt,” Nichol said with mock disgust. “You’ve stolen my gran’s affections right out from beneath me.”

“I’ve plenty of affection to go around. Now read, lad.”

“Merdith is expecting a child now, and she calls for Mama to help her around the house day and night. She’s barely far enough along to tell, though, and hardly sick at all. If having a child turns you into a useless lump, then I will certainly never have one myself. I will run away and join you in Caithmor before that.

“Kels misses you almost as much as I do, I think. He sleeps in your bed now, and he is determined to master the boat. Tellan can’t exactly tell him to leave, so Kels spends much of the time that he isn’t in school driving Tellan mad. It’s great fun to watch. Oh, I like this cousin.” Nichol grinned.

“The thought of the two of you ever meeting terrifies me,” Colm said. Nichol shook his head.

“No, we’d have you to keep us straight. We might run you ragged, though,” Nichol warned, then kept going. “Thank you for the mask. Kels has stolen it, and I fear I’ll never get it back, so you must send me another one. And it has been two whole weeks since your last letter. You promised me one a week, don’t forget. I never do.

“Mama misses you, but she almost never speaks of you, or Papa. Life here is busy, so I suppose she doesn’t want to dwell on sad things that might weigh her down. I don’t mind dwelling on you, though. I hope you are well and happy. Your loving sister, Baylee.”

“Well, that’s all pretty good news,” Megg said encouragingly. “A baby on the way is always exciting.”

“Babies are dull, Gran.”

“Babies are anything but dull,” she said with a little shiver. “My babies were right little terrors, and you made them seem like little lambs by comparison.”

“I live to keep your heart strong, Gran,” Nichol said earnestly. “Everything I do is designed to make you tougher, to give you the greatest longevity possible. You’ll outlive everyone at this rate.”

Megg smiled, but it looked a bit melancholy to Colm. “I certainly hope not, love.”

There was a knock at the door. “Mistress?” Idra called. “Young Master Windlove’s here, and he’s asking to speak with the lads. What shall I tell him?”

“We’re coming!” Nichol answered for Megg, bounding to his feet and handing the letter over to Colm. “I reckon he’s here to apologize,” he said, throwing open the door. “And where do you get off calling me a lad?” he demanded of Idra, who looked unimpressed. “You’re only one year older than me! Not even that!”

“You’re lucky I don’t call you a little boy,” Idra said archly before sweeping back off to the kitchen.

“Wench,” Nichol muttered, quiet enough that Colm was sure that Megg hadn’t heard it. “Come on, Colm.” He strode out of the sitting room. After a glance at Megg, who looked lost in her thoughts, Colm followed, tucking the letter away beneath his shirt.

It was a quiet time in the Cove, that odd time between the midday and evening meals when only the dedicated drinkers were still around. By the time Colm got to the taproom, Nichol and Jaime were sitting together at the table by the window, but Jaime noticed as soon as Colm entered and stood up. He started speaking before Colm even got to them.

“I’m sorry for what I said about you,” Jaime said, a bit stiffly, but it sounded genuine enough. “Nichol never described you in such a fashion and neither should I.” He held out his hand. “Will you pardon my poor manners?”

“Of course,” Colm replied automatically, taking Jaime’s hand and gripping his wrist tight for a moment before releasing him. Part of him wanted to hold on to the anger that he barely recognized, but a gesture like this on the part of Jaime deserved his acceptance, for Nichol’s sake if nothing else.

“That sounded painful, mate,” Nichol chuckled, and Jaime glared down at him, but it was a halfhearted thing.

“Are you over your snit now?” Jaime asked. “Will you come sailing with us tonight? I’ve got two of the cutters reserved for a race out to the pillar and back, and I’d rather have you on my team than Ollie or Blake.” He glanced over at Colm and bit his lip. “I don’t mean to deliberately exclude you,” he added. “It’s just that the coast guard’s cutters are meant to be sailed by two men at the most, and with Nichol, we’ll have just the right number.”

“It’s fine,” Colm told him, and it really was.

“Thank you.” Their gazes met, and in that moment, Colm knew exactly what Jaime thought of him, and what they were getting into. Nichol was the flame to which both of them fluttered, and Jaime’s confidence in being the favorite recipient of that warmth had been shaken yesterday. This was his version of sharing, a truly gracious effort, and Colm wasn’t going to spurn it just to make trouble for Jaime, no matter how much he would prefer to spend more days and nights as the sole focus of Nichol’s attentions.

And if Nichol didn’t notice, so much the better.

“You’d better go,” Colm encouraged them. That was all it took for Jaime to be out the door.

“Aye, but don’t think I’m going to forget that we need to write Baylee back, and soon, or she really might hunt you down,” Nichol said, standing and walking to the door, but backward so he could keep facing Colm as he went. “Get Gullfoot to give you a day off every now and then, by the Four, and then you can come sailing with us one of these days.”

“I’ll try,” Colm said, although he really wouldn’t. In a way, the mornings he spent with Lew in a state of silence and sensation and hard labor were bright spots in his day, filled with simple activities that he could do so well by now that his mind was left delightfully adrift. “You should hurry, before Jaime gets tired of waiting and chooses Ollie or Blake after all.”

“He won’t do that,” Nichol said confidently. “I’m his favorite.” Nevertheless, he turned and rushed out into the late-afternoon sun, and Colm watched him go and thought to himself, of course you are.

* * * * *

Caithmor became disgustingly hot during the months of summer. In Anneslea, summer had been the season of comfortable warmth, the time of the year when you could wear only one layer of clothes most days, and the dragonflies were so thick in the air that if you stood still for long enough, they would inevitably come to sit on your hand or hair to sunbathe. Summer was a season of celebration in Anneslea, culminating in a harvest festival and dance that often led to numerous spur-of-the-moment marriages, and a general feeling of contentment abounded despite the enormous amount of work that had to happen as well.

Summer in Caithmor was nothing like that. The heat settled down in the city and stayed, and became a bubbling stew of stench and illness. More traders were bringing their wares in, determined to beat the colder weather they’d run into as they crawled like ants back out across the continent. The navy was powering ahead with preparations to mount an assault on the Garnet Isles before the typhoons of autumn came. That meant the docks, which had the briefest respite from the heat thanks to the sea wind, were now inundated with sailors and soldiers whose ships were being resupplied. Fights broke out over the smallest things, and even Vernon started keeping a wooden cudgel beneath the bar, which he used to subdue the more insistent brawlers in the crowd.

Colm had never been more grateful that he had a job that took him out into the water, although even there his privacy was diminishing. Someone had spread the word about his luck with the fish, and now the Serpent’s Tail was habitually followed by other boats as it made its way out to sea, the captains trying to learn his secrets and cash in on his good fortune.

Sometimes Colm could lose them, and when he couldn’t, he was able at least to ignore them. Occasionally it cut into their catch a bit, but as long as the other boats kept a reasonable distance, and they generally did, he didn’t care so much. Lew wasn’t nearly so sanguine about it.

“If they’d wanted you, they should’ve taken you when they had the chance,” he grumbled one morning, staring balefully at a trawler about a hundred yards away. “You’re my luck, not theirs.”

“You didn’t care to take me either, in the beginning,” Colm reminded him, feeling the nets quiver as a school of blue bass tried to make their way through. Blue bass were generally too big for these nets, but they usually caught a few of them, enough to make it worthwhile. The fish were prized for the hearty flavor of their meat and the brilliance of their scales, which some artisans used to make dreamspinners.

“Aye, but I came round, didn’t I? Whatever magic method you have is none of their business.”

“It’s not magic,” Colm reminded Lew for the hundredth time. It was tiresome, but on this point he felt he couldn’t compromise. The city was easier on the subject of magic than Anneslea had been, but not by much. One could speak of it without too much trouble, but to refer to its use nowadays outside of the church was frowned upon, and accusations still carried weight with the courts. “It’s just a knack.”

“A knack,” Lew scoffed. “Knacks are a man predictin’ rain because of the pain in his knees, or a gambler who wins more than he loses at dice. Knacks aren’t reliable day after day after bloody day, boy, not like this. This is true Weathercliff luck, for all you deny you’re of that bloodline.” He leaned over and patted Colm’s knee. “But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Not like I want to share you, eh?”

Weathercliff luck? Colm had never heard of it, but he wasn’t about to ask either. “It’s really not magic,” he said again, more forcefully, but Lew just shrugged and returned to grumbling about the trawler.

If the mornings were more stressful than they used to be, the afternoons were less so now that Colm and Jaime had made a tacit peace over Nichol. The group of young men spent almost every day on the water thanks to Jaime’s father’s influence, honing their sailing skills. Colm went out with them once, sharing a cutter with Nichol as they raced Jaime’s boat for the pillar. He had never sailed so fast in his life, the hull cutting through the water like it wasn’t even there. The boat heeled so low that Colm had cried out, convinced they were going to go in, but Nichol had just laughed and pointed to the upslope side of the boat.

“Stand over there, counterbalance us!” he’d called, and Colm had done so. They’d won the race with almost a minute to spare, which Jaime had good-naturedly blamed on Ollie carrying too many extra pounds.

“I’d rather be a pig’s belly than a bean stalk,” Ollie had retorted, and his words hadn’t felt like an assault. Colm had laughed with the rest of them, and the ease that grew between him and the others was obviously a great relief for Nichol.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” he asked one night, his arm dangling over the edge of his cot as his fingers drew idle patterns on the floor. Colm watched Nichol’s hand move, and felt shamefully jealous of the floorboards. “All of us as friends. I knew it would be.”

“I’m glad to know them,” Colm replied.

“I am too. That you know them, I mean. But what will you do when we’re gone, Colm?” Nichol’s bright eyes seem to flare in the candlelight as he looked down at Colm, tantalizing like a flash of scales in dark water. “Jaime should get his commission at the end of the summer, and I’ll go away with him to train on the Inisfadda. Ollie and Blake are both on the list to join up as regulars with the coast guard, and when they do, they’ll be sequestered for months while they learn the regulations and duties.”

“When you’re gone,” Colm said, speaking carefully to avoid letting too many of his real feelings show through, “I’ll still have Megg, and Idra and Vernon, and perhaps even Baylee before too long.” Her last letter had been one of woe, fighting back against Honored Gherick’s contention that, at sixteen, it was time for her to marry. She had written of joining him in Caithmor, and Colm had been quick to encourage her. “I’ll miss you, of course.” Colm swallowed. “Terribly, but you’ll be back to visit us here.”

“Perhaps I’ll go away and come back to you tied down to a wife and babe,” Nichol suggested, sounding not thrilled but rather resigned.

“I don’t think you will,” Colm replied. He paused and considered for a moment before adding, “I don’t think that will ever be my life, and I prefer it that way.” He looked up and found Nichol staring at him. “Does that bother you?”

Nichol’s lips split in a grin. “Not at all, mate.”

Colm didn’t know exactly how little that bothered Nichol until one day a few weeks later, when he’d taken the boat out several hours earlier than usual to try to catch moon discs. Moon discs weren’t a fish at all, but some sort of enormous jelly that emerged from the depths for only a single week every year, coming close to the surface under the light of the full moon to breed. For moon discs, breeding meant releasing their milky seed into the shallow water, turning it completely opaque.

Despite their strange, bulky bodies, moon discs reacted with surprising agility to disruptions, and they could sink back down into the depths well before most fishermen came close to catching them. Additionally, they stung with agonizing precision if grabbed the wrong way, and so despite the fact that they were in very high demand, the actual catch was usually small.

Lew hadn’t joined him on this trip. He despised the jellies, found them too dangerous and difficult, and so Colm hunted them down on his own. He rigged a net to the end of a pole and used it to scoop the jellies up from below, instead of dealing with the tentacles that projected from their tops and sides. Colm still had to leave his hand in the water to sense their locations, though, and after catching five of them, the thread-like brush of a stinging tentacle against his skin had him pulling it back fast.

The burn spread from his fingertips through his hand and all the way down to his elbow. Colm hissed with pain, clutched his hand to his chest and rocked back and forth for a while, trying to get a handle on the agonizing sensation. It hadn’t been more than a brush, the barest whisper of contact. Surely that would make the pain diminish more quickly.

If anything, it just got worse. Colm couldn’t even keep a hold on the tiller, he was so helpless to the tremors that racked him. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to keep breathing and ignored everything else as the boat rocked gently in the waves.

Eventually the Serpent’s Tail drifted out of the pod of moon discs, and Colm rinsed his quivering hand in saltwater as soon as he knew it was safe. That helped enough to let him turn the boat back to Caithmor, but by the time he managed to get the thing docked again, his hand was throbbing incessantly.

Rather than load them up himself, he sent a local boy running for Carroll Lightsail. The fishmonger and two of his helpers showed up half an hour later, all of them wearing odd outfits that completely covered them with leather and tarred canvas, from the base of their neck to the tops of their feet and all the way down their arms.

“Oh lad, had to learn this one the hard way, did you?” he clucked as he looked from the enormous moon discs in the bottom of the boat to Colm, who stood close by clutching his injured hand. “Liam, give him the paste.”

“Show me your hand,” one of the men said as the other two climbed into the boat and got to work shearing the tentacles off the jellies. They dropped the writhing strands carefully over the sides of the boat, keeping them as far from themselves as possible.

Liam poured a white powder on the affected area of Colm’s arm and doused it with seawater. It foamed up, and with the foam came blessed relief. Colm sighed and let his eyes fall shut as most of the pain evaporated. Liam scraped his arm clean, then repeated the cure twice more until the pain was almost completely gone. The skin was still red and swollen, though.

“Keep it cool, keep it dry,” Carroll advised Colm as he hoisted the last of the moon discs into the barrow he’d brought with him. “You should feel better by tomorrow. It happens to all of us, mate, no shame in it. The littlest of those stings can reduce a man to tears, so I’d say you did well overall. And these discs are right beauties, they are,” he added admiringly. “Not even the king himself has had this beast gracing his table yet this year, from what I’ve heard, and it’s said to be one of his favorites. Perhaps we’ll be the end of his drought, eh?” He smiled wide and looked like he wanted to clap Colm on the shoulder, but refrained since his leather-covered hands were still coated with jelly muck. “Come by tomorrow once you’re well, and I’ll pay you for them then. Fair price, I swear it by the Four.” He crossed the X in front of his face.

“That’s fine,” Colm said. Really, he didn’t care if he got cheated at this point. He just wanted to be in bed. He was tired, and still racked with occasional shivers, and his hand felt completely useless. All he wanted right now was to lie down on his blankets and sleep through the rest of his recovery.

Colm avoided the front door of the Cove, instead heading directly into the courtyard and to the back. Megg would want to mother him, and usually that was fine, but right now, Colm didn’t think he could bear it. He climbed slowly up the stairs to his room, and it didn’t even register that his door was closed until he heard the heavy thud of a body hitting it from the other side.

Colm’s first instinct was to open the door. It had to be Nichol inside, and it sounded as though he’d just collapsed. Then he heard the low laugh that turned too quickly into a groan, and recognized the voice that made it, and Colm’s reaching hand froze in place. Jaime was in there with Nichol, and they…

“Fuck, yes, suck me,” Jaime moaned. “Gods, your mouth…Nicky…”

There was a faint pop, and then Colm heard Nichol growl, in a tone he’d never heard before, “Don’t call me Nicky.” His voice was low and hoarse and utterly seductive, and Colm felt the blood rush to his cock so quickly it left him dizzy. He leaned against the side of the hall, squeezed his eyes shut and wondered if he could make it back down the stairs without giving himself away. He shouldn’t be hearing this. It was private, something just for Nichol and Jaime. To listen in seemed wrong, but the way it made Colm feel, the way his pulse thundered in his ears and his cock throbbed with sudden, desperate need, was too powerful to resist.

“Is it better if I tell you how pretty you are on your knees, Nichol?” Jaime teased him, his words broken here and there with gasps. “Your mouth, ah, gods, your mouth looks so perfect around my dick…fuck, you always take me so deep, like that, yes, like that, don’t…don’t stop, Nichol, don’t stop…ahh, fuck, fuck…” Jaime’s words dissolved into frantic whimpers, and Colm envisioned the scene in the room, picturing long fingers wrapped up in Nichol’s dark curls, working his head back and forth as that beautiful mouth took the length of that long, leaking cock. Colm pictured Nichol’s eyes opening and staring upward, capturing his gaze, dark and smoldering and wanting, oh gods, the idea that Nichol wanted him…

Jaime came faster than Colm did, but that was hardly surprising. He had the allure of the man himself at his feet, and not just the illusion. Jaime came with a long moan, and Colm twitched helplessly in the hallway, not wanting to open his eyes and break the vision with reality but not quite there yet, not quite.

“Now me,” Nichol said a moment later. Jaime just laughed, and then there was a flurry of activity that seemed to end with Jaime falling onto the cot, and Nichol climbing on after him.

“You’re at my mercy now,” Nichol murmured, almost too faint to be heard through the door. “I could have you any way I pleased, and you would have to simply accept me.”

“What of me do you want, then?” Jaime asked breathlessly, and Nichol laughed.

“To stop up that unstoppable mouth of yours, I think,” he announced, and then the cot creaked again. Colm pictured Nichol getting to his knees and straddling Jaime’s chest, bracing himself with one hand while the other cupped his lover’s jaw as he thrust his cock into the other man’s mouth, as he rocked over him and used him for his pleasure, and the image was so compelling that Colm suddenly came, completely untouched. He bit back the urge to groan and had to lean into the wall to keep himself from doubling over completely as the vision of Nichol, locking gazes with him as he filled Colm’s mouth with his length, sent pulses of ecstasy through his groin.

By the time he shakily came back to his senses Colm worried that they might be done, but the rhythmic squeaks of the cot reassured him. Wonderful, now he could make his escape and wash away his shame in peace. He turned and made his way down the stairs with as much discretion as he could manage.

Pulling water was a challenge with only one un-stung hand, but Colm managed, and hustled behind the inn to clean off before he could be seen. He stripped down to his drawers, then peeled them off carefully, trying not to spread the mess of his release. His cock was still half-erect, and so sensitive when he touched it that Colm gasped. The normally pale skin was almost blood red, and the white smears of come looked like pearls against the heated flesh. He stroked the head, carefully, and shuddered at the sensation. It made him want more. He hadn’t had enough yet, wasn’t anywhere close to satisfied. Colm mentally weighed his options for a moment, glanced down at the cold bucket of well water at his feet, and made up his mind.

Gods, it hurt to grab himself the way he did now, not gently or tenderly but vicious and tight, as though Colm were punishing himself for his earlier pleasure. In reality, it just hardened him faster, forcing tired tissues to swell again, and the ache in his balls as he handled himself roughly just drove Colm to increase the pace of his hand on his cock, stroking the length of it over and over as he leaned against the cool stone wall and fucked his fist. It was awkward and painful and raw, and no better than he deserved after eavesdropping on Nichol and Jaime. Fuck, that had been the best thing he’d ever heard in his life and the only thing that could have made it better was him with Nichol, him feeling the press of Nichol’s knees against his shoulders and the head of his cock against the back of his throat and even, even, oh, him rolling over and baring himself, offering his hole up like a whore and Nichol taking him there too, driving inside just as hot and desperate as he felt right now—

The volume was less this time, and the pleasure of Colm’s release was almost overshadowed by the tingling ache that accompanied it, but today was a day that was made for pain. Colm locked his knees out to keep himself upright and gingerly let go of his cock, which felt chafed and sore and looked in about the same shape.

Colm rinsed off, letting the water cool him down and trying to avoid getting his injured hand wet. He cleaned the drawers, then redressed in his clothes, wincing a little at the way the wool rubbed against his groin. Gods, he needed to lie down.

He collected his things and made his way back upstairs, relieved to find the door open and the room vacated. The air still smelled faintly of sex, but Colm was too tired now even to feel jealous. He hung the drawers up to dry, stripped nude again with a sigh of relief and lay down under his softest blanket. He was asleep in moments.

Chapter Eleven

The amount of silver Colm got for his troubles over the moon discs was worth the price of the sting, Megg’s subsequent fussing after he woke up later that afternoon and Lew’s complaints over the creatures being butchered right there in the boat. According to a jubilant Carroll, the head of the king’s own kitchens had come down to view the catch for herself and purchased the lot of them. This made Carroll the envy of all other fishmongers and set tongues to wagging over his exclusive deal with the Serpent’s Tail, and how unfair it was that Lew and Colm managed to do as well as they did yet didn’t spread the largesse around to the rest of them.

It would have all been fine, most likely, a case of envy quickly forgotten in the wake of new gossip, if it hadn’t been for Lew’s mouth. Colm split the money for the jellies with him. That was the deal, even when Lew had absolutely no hand in doing the work. It was a princely sum and inspired Lew to spend it on some of the finest spirits he could find, in a tavern that catered to members of the clergy and high-ranking military officers.

It wasn’t that Lew hadn’t drunkenly ranted about Colm’s knack before. He had simply never done so in front of the clergy. They, unlike the dock workers and fishermen and sailors, weren’t so quick to brush Lew’s claims aside.

The consequence for Colm was that on the morning that marked his three-month anniversary in Caithmor, he’d no sooner set foot inside the Serpent’s Tail than two men, members of the city watch judging by their uniforms, walked over to his berth. They carried thick oak cudgels much like Vernon’s in their belts, and their expressions were stern. One of them stepped forward.

“Are you Colm Weathercliff?” he asked.

“I am,” Colm said, looking hesitantly between the two of them. “What can I do for you?”

“By the authority of King Iarra and the Church of the Blessed Four, you are to come with us for questioning in the matter of an illegal use of magic.”

Illegal use of… Colm wanted to smack himself on the head. Even more, he wanted to smack Lew on the head. “Did Lew Gullfoot send you to speak to me?” he asked as he stepped out of the boat. The men flanked him immediately, each one grabbing an arm.

“Accusations have been made about you that need to be verified,” the watchman said. Verified, Colm thought with a distracted sort of panic, not proven false.

“Where are we going?”

“To those who can question you properly.”

“Wait, I have to tell my aunt,” Colm said. The men kept him moving, down the cobblestones and toward the more populated part of the docks. People he knew were looking at him now, and the expressions on their faces ranged from shocked to curious to smugly satisfied. “Wait, please! I need to tell my aunt, she runs the Cove, the inn, it won’t take but a moment—”

“Your family will be informed of your arrest later,” the watchman said. “The magistrate may ask them to testify on your behalf at your trial.”

“Trial, what trial?” Colm exclaimed. “I’ve done nothing wrong, I don’t work magic! Please, listen to—”

The watchman stopped in his tracks and yanked Colm around to face him. “You keep up with this ruckus, my lad,” he snarled, the professional distance in his voice completely given way to menace, “and I’ll arrange for a stop that’s not your aunt’s inn but will surely shut you up better before we make our way to the Ardeaglais. Understand me?”

“Yes,” Colm whispered, so frightened that he could barely force his numb lips to speak. The watchman nodded, and the two of them marched him on and on, until the cathedral took shape through the press of the streets.

Why the cathedral? Why not the chambers of a magistrate in the King’s Hall of Justice? Colm wanted to ask but didn’t dare, and the men hustled him past the milling worshippers and staring priests outside the enormous vaulted prayer room, and into a small stone hallway that was so narrow one of the men had to walk behind him instead of beside. At the end of the hallway was a staircase leading down, where the air was cool instead of hot, but stank of mold.

At the bottom of the stairs was a small round vestibule lit by a smoky torch, with three separate doors leading out from it. Two of them were bolted shut, but one was open, and it was into that room that Colm was pushed, hard enough to send him sprawling, by the watchman.

“This is where you stay until Honored Srain has time to deal with you,” the watchman said, closing the door and sliding the bolt closed. There was only a small metal grate to let in light. Otherwise, the door was solid iron, and there were no windows this deep underground.

The two men left, and Colm was so scared, he almost called out to them not to leave him here alone, actually opened his mouth to do so, but the words stuck in his dry throat, leaving him coughing and incoherent. The watchmen were gone by then, and Colm stood stock-still in the small square of flickering light that he was allowed, and tried to remember to breathe as spots floated across his vision. Panic. This had to be what panic felt like.

You won’t be here long, he told himself, trying to muster some belief in it. They wouldn’t leave you here forever. Megg and Nichol will be looking for you. They’ll hear of it. They’ll do something. Jaime’s father is a magistrate; surely he can help. Because truly, magic? From Colm? He didn’t even like the feeling it sent through his head when Honored Gherick had blessed him back in Anneslea. There was no way he could tolerate using magic, especially not for something as ridiculously simple as fishing.

The torch seemed to be guttering. The light flicked and flared in one moment, then practically vanished in the next. Colm stared at it with a sense of desperation, willing it silently not to go out. He didn’t realize he was biting his lip until the flare almost extinguished, and the sudden pain broke through his paralysis. A trickle of warm blood crawled down his chin, but Colm ignored it, focused on the torch. No, stay, stay…but at last there was nothing left to burn. The light went out, the cell was submerged in darkness, and in that moment, Colm felt it as a physical thing, as thick as water and just as likely to drown him.

Colm forced a breath through his lungs, then another, cold and damp and dark, and he shut his eyes. With his eyes shut, it was easier to pretend that he wasn’t standing in a pool of blackness so complete he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. From one of the other cells, Colm heard the rattle of a chain and a low, rich burst of laughter. “It doesn’t get any better, boy,” a voice said, far too coherent to be real in this hellish place. That was the end of what Colm could take. His lungs froze, his legs collapsed, and Colm’s conscious mind simply set, like the blazing sun entering the water. Doused, out, done.

Colm didn’t notice the reappearance of the light, or the opening of his cell door. He didn’t notice anything until a warm hand touched his face, reigniting his thoughts enough to stir him to open his eyes.

A priest stood above him, his heavy jowls wobbling as he straightened up. “There you are. Had you already given over to despair? Honestly, you were here but four short hours, Colm Weathercliff.” The priest sat down on a padded stool that had been placed in the entryway of his cell. Strong, bright torchlight shone from behind him, turning the priest into a silhouette. A guard stood several feet behind him.

“Sit up,” the priest instructed. Colm pushed himself to a sitting position, half his face feeling rough and chilled after prolonged contact with the floor. He didn’t even remember falling. “There, that looks more comfortable. You must be thirsty.” He handed over a pewter chalice filled with water, and Colm drank until it was empty. The priest extended his hand, and Colm passed the chalice back to him.

“Well, now. I hope that together, you and I will be able to get to the heart of this matter quickly,” the priest said. His voice was kind. “I am Honored Srain, the chief inquisitor for our glorious Ardeaglais and the Holy Four in this great city. I find the truth, Colm Weathercliff, the truths that men and women, and even children, try to hide from the sight of the gods. The use of magic for anything other than worship is a vile, savage practice, and I can see that you are no savage.” He folded his hands in his lap and leaned forward slightly. “But there are those who say you do things beyond a normal man’s abilities. That you seek to enrich yourself by using vile, illegal magic at the expense of your comrades. And that would be a truly savage thing to do. So tell me, Colm Weathercliff. Are you a savage?”

“No,” Colm whispered, then said more firmly, “No.”

“Then tell me how you, a newcomer to this city and the ways of the sea, can out-fish the rest of your entire industry. You seem to know where to be for the best, the rarest of catches. How do you do it?”

“It’s not magic,” Colm said. “I don’t know any magic. The fishing, I simply have a knack for it.”

“A knack,” Honored Srain said tonelessly. “A knack, you say. Where did you learn this knack? Does using it require you to speak words, to offer up invocations?”

“Not at all,” Colm replied. “I was born with the ability, as far as I know. I’ve always been able to sense the fish.”

“Just fish?”

“Everything on the water,” Colm clarified. “The movements of boats, the swell of the waves… It doesn’t extend indefinitely, but it works for a ways out. All I do is put my hand in the water and concentrate.”

“That is quite the knack, my son,” Honored Srain said. “Very helpful, I’m sure. And precisely as your master Lew Gullfoot has described what you do, although he himself called it magic.”

“It isn’t—”

“I’m more inclined to believe you, though,” Honored Srain broke in smoothly. “A fine young man like you, trying to live his life and make money for his family. Not an old drunk pickling his brains with spirits. Tell me, what does your father do?”

“While he lived he was a farmer, and a fisherman.”

“But not from here.”

“Originally, I think, from here,” Colm said cautiously. “But he raised me in the mountains beyond Isealea.”

“And your mother?”

Colm swallowed. “I never knew her. He never spoke of her.”

“Interesting,” Honored Srain said. “Did she leave you, then?”

“She died.” Colm’s father had never said that, specifically, but Colm knew it had to be true.

“And you know nothing about her? Not her name, not her origins…nothing?”

“No.”

“Shame. That might have sped things up. Still, your account matches your aunt’s.” Honored Srain smiled gently. “You’re an honest young man, Colm Weathercliff.”

Colm straightened up anxiously. “You’ve spoken with Megg?”

“Naturally. She’s very concerned about you. But as long as you’re not hiding anything from me, you have nothing to fear. Now.” Honored Srain rubbed his hands together. “There is a test we can do, a simple test, to detect whether or not you’ve used magic. Some mages have ways of getting around this test, but I don’t think you’re as duplicitous as that.” A blue spark began to play across his palms, spreading like a storm down his fingers. “If all goes well, you’ll feel nothing more than a tingle. Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.” Colm kept his eyes on Honored Srain as his glowing blue hands reached for his face. He had nothing to hide. The priest’s fingers made contact with Colm’s temples—

Lightning spiked through his head, turning his vision white and throwing him backwards. Colm felt himself convulse but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He felt the hardness of the stone and the way it scraped his skin, he heard Honored Srain shouting at the guard, but all he knew was white heat and pain like a thousand moon disc stings rendering his body rigid and helpless.

Freezing-cold water splashed against his face, snapping Colm out of the cycle of rapid-fire tension and release. He spluttered and gasped, then felt a hard hand twist his face upward.

“It seems that you’re a liar after all, Colm Weathercliff,” the priest said grimly. “I shall pry the truth from you, though.” He pressed his fingers into the fresh welt on the side of Colm’s head. “What kind of magic do you do?”

“I d-d-don’t, I don’t know any m-magic,” Colm managed. Honored Srain scowled, and the blue glow began to creep over his free hand again.

“Let us try this again,” he said. “And think carefully about your next answer while you’re writhing on the floor.” He touched the base of Colm’s neck, and the pain shattered his vocal cords, made his neck stretch so tight that Colm felt sure that the bones would snap before he could recover.

More water splashed down, quelling the pain but bringing him back into Honored Srain’s focus. “What kind of magic do you do?”

More pain, this time curling his fingers into claws.

“Where did you learn to do magic?”

Right in the center of his stomach this time, making his guts clench and cramp uncontrollably. Colm vomited the water he’d drunk onto the floor.

“Who is your master in magic?”

The touch to the soles of his feet was somehow the most agonizing yet, needles set on fire and shoved deep, too deep to draw out. Colm screamed and screamed, unable to press them to the cool wall to relieve the burn because the pressure was too excruciating to bear. Finally, it came to an end, and Honored Srain shook his head.

“This will go on for as long as I feel it takes for you to tell me the truth, Colm Weathercliff. Your protestations of innocence… They’re meaningless in the face of such obvious proof, do you understand? This spell wouldn’t hurt you if you were what you say. Confess, and let it ease the pain of your soul and body. Tell me about your magic.”

“Please,” Colm sobbed, too exhausted to do more than curl in on himself as he spoke. “Please, I’m not lying. I have no magic, I don’t know any magic. I’ve always been able to do it, I can’t control it… Please, please stop.”

Honored Srain frowned. “I thought we had progressed past this, Colm. I’ll give you a few minutes to think, and then we begin again.” He left, and the door shut behind him. Colm lay on his back and tried desperately to regain his breath, to convince his body that it wasn’t actually seared down to the bone, no matter how much it felt that way.

The hours passed in a painful pattern: Honored Srain asked questions, Colm answered them the only way he knew how, and each time he paid for it with a fresh touch of agony. Eventually he was given a break, just enough time to wonder if perhaps it was over at last, if maybe the priest would do him a favor and release him, or even if they’d just move onto a different type of torture that didn’t make his bones feel like they’d been turned to molten glass.

Colm felt ashamed at his weakness, at how frail his spirit was to bow under the pressure so fast, but to him, it felt as though decades had already passed. Pain, protestations, questions…no time to sleep, no food, no water except what was thrown on him… By the time Honored Srain actually did call an end to the interrogation, Colm was so out of his head that he didn’t even realize it at first.

“Astonishing,” Honored Srain said, almost to himself. “You must be a partial, and you didn’t even know it. That’s the only explanation that doesn’t hinge on your possessing a more diabolical intelligence than I can credit you with, Colm. I’ll have water and fresh clothes brought to you, and then you’ll be taken to the King’s Hall of Justice for your sentencing.”

Sentencing? What? “What…”

“You were doing magic, Colm Weathercliff, whether you knew it or not. That is an offense in this city, and you must pay the price for that.” Honored Srain got to his feet and sighed. “It’s a shame we had to go through all this, but the truth will out, even if it’s a truth we don’t yet realize.” He reached out to touch Colm’s head, and Colm instinctively jerked it out of the way before he could make contact. “It’s just a blessing, my son,” Honored Srain said gently, and he spoke the words and made the sign against Colm’s forehead, and the terrible thudding of Colm’s headache seemed to lessen a little.

“There, the Four still smile upon you. That’s well, Colm Weathercliff.” Honored Srain left the cell, and left the door open too, but Colm was still too exhausted to even think about standing.

The priest didn’t come back, but the watchman did. He stripped Colm with efficiency and poured another bucket of water over him to wash off the worst of the filth, then sat him down on the stool that had been left behind and helped him pull on a new pair of trousers and a jerkin, neither of them particularly soft or well made, but at least they were dry. He shoved Colm’s feet back into his boots, and turned him toward the stairs. “March, boy.”

“Have fun having a future,” the voice from one of the cells said petulantly, and the watchman turned around and clanged his truncheon loudly against the door.

“That’s enough out of you,” he snapped, and then took hold of Colm’s arm and half pushed, half carried him up the stairs.

The light, even in the stone hallway, was bright enough to hurt Colm’s eyes. His legs felt as weak as minnows, and he dreaded the thought of going out into the crowds again and being seen this way.

Apparently, the clergy dreaded the idea as well, because instead of being led through the streets, he was ushered into a closed coach, something Colm had never been inside before. The seats were padded and covered with leather, and the coach’s windows were covered by velvet drapes. Honored Srain was already there, and he looked critically on Colm as the watchman pushed him inside.

“You still look rather frightful, my son.” Colm didn’t say anything back, just stared at the floor as the coach rolled into motion. The priest sighed. “Haj, you couldn’t take the time to brush his hair back from his face or lace up the boots?”

“I didn’t want us to be late for the magistrate, sir,” the watchman—Haj—said, but he bent himself to the task of jerking the boots closed and tying the laces. Honored Srain reached for Colm’s face again, and Colm finally pushed himself to act.

“I can do that,” he said hoarsely, and used his fingers to comb his hair back from his face. It was just beginning to dry, and still fairly malleable. He tucked the front strands behind his ears and tried to hide the shaking of his hands.

“Better,” Honored Srain said approvingly. “Although it does reveal some of the rather unfortunate injuries you sustained during our quest for knowledge, but I don’t suppose it can be helped. Better you look like you took a bad tumble than like some madman who can’t be bothered to take proper care of himself.” The priest seemed to be waiting for Colm to say something.

“Thank…” He wet his lips. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome, my son.” Honored Srain looked away, then seemed to think better of it. “Once we’re in the magistrate’s quarters, don’t speak unless you’re told to,” he said. “And don’t move until you’ve been directed to do so. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” They were simple enough directions. Colm felt that even he should be able to handle them.

The ride to the King’s Hall of Justice wasn’t long, and Colm was whisked away there just as quick and sure as he’d been at the cathedral. They entered a long, tall corridor of sandstone with doors on the left-hand side, and at the next to last door, Honored Srain knocked. “Enter,” a voice called out from within, and they did so.

The room was larger inside than Colm had imagined, or would have imagined if he’d had the presence of mind to be wondering about it. There was a tall desk against one wall, a chair with leg shackles in the corner of that same wall, and a series of benches stretching back into the room, each one filled with people. Some of them Colm recognized, like Lew and Carroll and the owner of the trawler that had turned Colm away in the beginning. Most of them were people he’d never seen before, though. In the very front row were Megg and Nichol, and Megg shot to her feet as soon as he came in the door.

“What is this?” she demanded angrily even as tears filled her eyes. “It wasn’t enough to snatch the lad up off the street like a thief, you had to beat him as well?”

“Keep your silence, Mistress Searunner, or you’ll be taken out of this chamber,” the man behind the desk said. He wore an ornate blue-and-gold robe and was flanked by two more guards, and it didn’t take more than a moment for Colm to see the family resemblance between this man and Jaime Windlove, his fair, handsome son. This, then, was Magistrate Windlove, the man everyone wanted to be on the good side of.

“Gran, sit,” Nichol pleaded. Hearing their voices almost made Colm’s knees buckle, but he managed to keep himself upright. He couldn’t look straight at them. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his composure.

“You finished with him in good time,” the magistrate commended the priest.

“Only thirty hours’ worth of interrogation, barely worth my presence,” Honored Srain agreed. “But with cases that involve accusations of magic, it pays to be careful.”

“Will he need the shackles?”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Magistrate. He’s shown no violent tendencies at all. Still, it wouldn’t do for him to run about and make a scene once the witnesses come in.” Honored Srain looked at Colm. “Do you think you need the shackles to keep you calm, my son?”

“No, sir,” Colm said quietly.

“Very good.”

Haj led Colm over to the chair and pushed him against it until he sat down, his joints aching. Everything ached.

“Today, we have heard testimony for and against the accused, Colm Weathercliff, in the matter of the illegal use of magic to increase his catch,” Magistrate Windlove said tersely. He looked tired, and Colm wondered how long this court had been in session without him. “Circumstantial evidence leads me to believe magic has been involved, although not necessarily deliberately. Honored Srain, what are your findings in the matter?”

“Colm Weathercliff is an exceptionally truthful young man,” Honored Srain said, and if Colm hadn’t been so exhausted and cowed, he would have laughed at the irony of it. “What he didn’t realize until the Four showed him the truth is that he is a partial.” A few people in the crowd gasped, but mostly there was a murmur of general acknowledgment.

“Partially what apart from human I don’t know, and it doesn’t really matter,” Honored Srain continued. “Men cannot help what their forebears have wrought upon them. His ability is entirely unconscious, but it does afford him an unfair advantage in his trade.”

“Thank you, Honored Srain.” Magistrate Windlove looked over at Colm. “Colm Weathercliff, your punishment for the illegal use of magic is that, in order to keep you from unduly enriching yourself at the expense of your fellows, you are forbidden to practice the trade of fisherman at sea, as well as a fine of ten silvers for taking up the court’s time with this matter.”

Colm’s mind reeled. The silvers he had, if only just from saving his money, but what was he supposed to do with himself if he wasn’t a fisherman? The water was where he felt at peace, the only place he was comfortable in his own skin. What would he do without it?

“Ridiculous!” Megg said, standing up with her hands on her hips. Nichol tried to ease her down again, but she wouldn’t have it.

“I take it you want to speak again, Mistress,” Magistrate Windlove said. “If that’s the case, then you’ll ask my permission, and politely, before continuing.”

“May I speak freely, Magistrate?” Megg asked with chilling precision.

“You may, but briefly. This day has dragged on for all of us.”

Megg took a deep breath, then began. “My nephew Colm is guilty of nothing but being good at his trade. He may be a partial, but if each of us traces our lineage back far enough, who isn’t? My own husband was a partial, and our love was no less strong because of it.”

“He left you for the sea!” a man in the back shouted. “What’s that say about the strength of his devotion, eh?”

“He left me because he was dying and it was the only way he could live!” Megg retorted even as the magistrate called for order. “I would rather he live on in the sea than be returned to it as ash. The point is, Colm has never done anyone here wrong, not with his words or actions. He worked a small boat that took a small catch, and the sea is plenty large for everyone here. Moreover,” she continued, “when accusations fed by drink and jealousy are given consideration they don’t deserve, well, I must say that I fear for the state of justice in Caithmor, Master Windlove.”

“That’s Magistrate Windlove, Mistress,” he corrected her with a frown. “Are you finished, then?”

“Aye, I suppose I am,” she said, sounding just as tired as the magistrate now.

“The sentence stands. Although, the next man in this group who comes to me with tales of woe, know that I’ll hold you personally responsible for paying the fees of whatever trial you provoke,” Magistrate Windlove added, glaring around the room. “Is that understood?”

“Aye,” came the chorus of voices, some chastened, others edged with triumph.

“Then leave this place in peace.”

“The blessings of the Four upon all of you,” Honored Srain added.

As soon as the magistrate stood up, signaling the sentencing was officially over, Megg and Nichol were off the bench and by Colm’s side.

“Oh, love,” Megg sighed, the tears coming back now. “Look at you, look at your beautiful face.” She gently touched the edge of the welt on his temple, and Colm’s breath hitched with pain.

“Bastards, the lot of ’em,” Nichol growled, looking over his shoulder at Lew, who was slinking out of the room. “They only spoke against you today because they lost the chance to have you work on their own ships and saw a chance to remove the competition. That damn fool Lew gave you up without a fight, not a word of defense or to say he was wrong. He never deserved you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Colm said.

“It does matter—”

“But can we speak of it another day?” he begged. Colm wasn’t above begging, not right now, not to his own family. “I’m so tired, all I want is to lie down and sleep.”

“Of course you do,” Megg said, her voice full of tender solicitousness. “Let’s get you home, love. Back to the Cove, safe and sound. And don’t worry about the fine. I’ll get it out of Lew if I have to beat him black and blue with my ladle. It’s his fault you’re in this to begin with.”

“No, it’s not,” Colm sighed. “Not really. It’s my own fault.”

“You can’t help the way you’re made,” Nichol said with a frown.

“But I could have helped what I did with myself,” Colm replied, his nerves desperately frayed and his throat aching from the effort it took not to cry. He needed to get out of here. “Please, I’m so tired.”

“Home, then,” Megg said, stroking her gnarled hand through Colm’s hair. It was the only part of him that didn’t seem to hurt. “Home, and sleep.”

The walk back to the Cove felt entirely too long, as if someone had picked it up and moved it another mile down the docks. Nichol slung Colm’s arm over his shoulder and Colm didn’t resist, despite knowing it made him look weak. Megg glared at everyone who so much as glanced at them, keeping all comers at bay until they were finally back at the inn.

“Take my bed for now,” Megg told Colm as he and Nichol stumbled across the courtyard, legs shaking with exertion. “It’s cleaner than Nichol’s, I imagine, and you won’t have to go up all those damn stairs.”

“I can’t—”

“Just for tonight,” she said gently. “Just until you’ve caught your breath again, love.” She and Nichol helped lay him down on the bed, a real bed, not just a cot, and she poured him a glass of water from the pitcher she kept on the stand next to the wall. Colm drank it carefully, forcing himself to swallow despite his instinctive revulsion. He’d had more than enough water for now.

“We should treat your wounds, Colm.”

“They’re fine,” he said.

“They don’t look fine,” Nichol huffed. “They look like burns.”

“I can barely feel them anymore.” That at least was true. Colm was so fatigued that he could barely keep his own eyes open, much less be bothered by the crusty, weeping pieces of flesh that dotted his body.

“Just a salve, then,” Nichol said in a tone of compromise. “To take the pain away and keep the redness down.” His fingers twitched with the need to do something, and Colm sighed and gave in.

“Very well.”

“Lovely! And I’ll be back later, bring you some soup, all right?” Megg said. “The kit’s at the back of my sea chest, Nichol.”

“I know, Gran.”

Megg leaned in and gingerly kissed Colm’s cheek, then left the bedroom. The whole place smelled like her, like warm food and dry lavender and salt. Colm closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. His muscles ached from being locked into position, and his head was spinning.

The sudden sensation of something cold against his temple made Colm’s eyes fly open again as he jerked back.

“I’m sorry,” Nichol murmured as he daubed more of the salve onto the wound. “I should have warned you before I touched you.” He finished with that one and got to work on the one at the base of Colm’s neck. “Where else?”

“Help me get this shirt off.” This shirt that Colm wanted to burn, just like these awful, itchy trousers. Nichol did, and his breath caught audibly in his throat once it was off.

“Oh, Colm…”

“Keep going, before I fall asleep,” Colm mumbled, not joking. Nichol started on Colm’s ribs, then did his stomach, handling him with tenderness and barely restrained anger. Eventually Colm let his head sag onto Nichol’s shoulder, too heavy to hold up. Before he could stop himself, before he even realized he’d need to, Colm was asleep.

He woke up a few times, once when Megg brought soup that he did his best to eat, and again later, restless and thirsty, when his eyes opened to a completely dark room. Colm’s breaths came fast and shallow and desperate, and he clawed off the blanket Megg had draped over him and staggered to the door that led to the sitting room, where there was the thinnest sliver of light coming through.

Megg looked up from where she was whittling on a piece of driftwood Colm had brought back for her a few weeks ago, Sari perched on the footstool next to her. “What’s wrong, love?” she asked, not at all looking distressed at seeing him in nothing but his thin drawers.

“I don’t—it’s the darkness,” he said helplessly. “It was so dark down there, except when the priest came. I’m sorry, it shouldn’t bother me so much, but it does.”

“Of course it does,” Megg said, looking a bit chagrined. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think to leave you a candle. Would you like one for the room? Or I could leave the door between us open, so you can have the light from the lantern in here.”

“That would be good,” Colm admitted.

“Then it’s settled, love. Now, back to bed with you.” She didn’t get up and try to help him, didn’t even glance over again, and Colm appreciated the sense of independence it imparted, even if it was an illusion. He got back in bed, wincing a bit at the rub of the sheets, and fell asleep with the image of Megg in the smoky light, a guardian between him and the rest of the world, and Sari purring a comforting melody by her feet.

Chapter Twelve

It was no surprise that Colm was ostracized after the truth about him made the rounds. Fishing might have been out of the question, but no one wanted to deal with him in the shops or the market either. A few would do business with him, but even Carroll Lightsail had reluctantly turned his back on Colm.

“I can’t be seen with you,” the fishmonger hissed the one time Colm tried to approach him to buy a basket of clams. “You’ve done enough damage to my reputation, lad. I’m sorry, but I can’t be associated with a partial.”

Right, a partial. A partial what Colm still didn’t know for sure, and honestly he didn’t care to find out. The sea taunted him, deep and sweet and unapproachable, and Colm spent the first few weeks after his brief imprisonment voluntarily shut back in the Cove’s kitchen, crimping crusts and cutting bread and being as useful as he could be, since he wasn’t bringing in any money now.

The money was an issue, Colm knew. In the end, Megg had squeezed half the fee out of Lew, mostly by threatening him to within an inch of his life, and Colm had paid the other half. The rest of his savings was slowly spent on keeping the inn afloat when their business suddenly dried up, even the regulars shunning it for other establishments.

Megg was certain it would blow over. “They knew my man had selkie blood flowing through his veins, and they came regardless because he was a fine man, as good or better than the best of ’em. They’ll be back, love. You’ll see.” She used the downtime to teach him to carve soft bits of wood and tell him stories of other partials, ancestors in the bloodlines of their neighbors and even of their king.

“It’s said the great-great-great-grandmother of our Iarra was a gorgon,” Megg relayed one day as they sat at the table by the window, carving out a pair of spoons. Colm’s went crooked a few minutes in, but he persisted. “That’s why the line has such fearsome vision. Iarra’s father was said to be able to still a man with a glance, and of course, Tierna had those famous red eyes. So even our royals can’t claim to carry nothing but human blood in them.”

Megg was right. Eventually the regulars filtered back in, and after a month had passed, it was as if Colm had never caused a problem, and new gossip had taken over the streets. As long as he kept to himself, Colm was mostly left alone.

It was harder on Nichol. The young man wavered between disenchanted anger on Colm’s behalf and a childish wish that things could be just as they had been before. He directed some of his anger at Jaime, who didn’t enjoy being blamed for a decision his father had made, and their relationship became strained in a way that Colm didn’t like.

It wasn’t that Colm enjoyed seeing the two of them together, necessarily. That just reminded him of things he couldn’t have. But it was clear that Nichol was unhappy, and there was no way Colm could ease that pain. Colm didn’t realize just how unhappy Nichol and Jaime were, though, until he heard them fighting.

It was the end of the summer, and the autumn storms were beginning to settle in, meaning that if there was a strike to be made against the Garnet Isles, it had to be soon. The fleet was due to leave for the Inisfadda in less than a week. Jaime was about to be awarded his commission, as well as his choice of a suitable sailor to join up with him. For months, that sailor was going to be Nichol. It was a given, a certainty between them, and despite the anger they both carried, it hadn’t seemed like enough to break that faith.

“Blake?” Nichol exclaimed as Colm was passing through the courtyard, and the sheer incomprehension in Nichol’s voice caused him to pause. “How can you possibly take Blake with you? He’s slow to respond to the tiller, he can’t remember how to raise a sail on a cutter, much less a larger ship, and he bloody well gets seasick!”

“He’ll learn to be better at the other things, and he’ll get over the seasickness once he’s out on the water enough,” Jaime said stiffly.

“But—but why? We’ve planned this for years, I don’t understand. Jaime—I know it’s been hard lately, and some of that’s my fault and I’m sorry for it, but you can’t just leave me here in Caithmor, not like this! Please, Jaime—”

“It’s not just what happened with your cousin,” Jaime blurted out. “It’s you too, Nichol. You’re a partial. Watered down, sure enough, but your granddad was half-selkie and all in Caithmor know it. The King’s restricting his commissions to those who are pure, and I won’t jeopardize mine by bringing you along with me. I can’t, Nichol, don’t you understand? I just can’t do it.”

“I’m not like my granddad! Or like Colm!” Nichol insisted. “I can’t transform or feel things in the water. All I do well is sail boats and swim! Those are hardly magical tasks! You’ve known this about me forever. Why are you so bothered now?” He paused for a moment. “It’s your father, isn’t it? He was responsible for Colm’s sentencing. He heard what my Gran said. He’s making you do this.”

“Nicky—”

“Don’t let him make this decision for you,” Nichol begged. “You’ll get the commission without his help. You’ve already got it! You need me to be there, to have your back. That was always the plan, wasn’t it? We’d see the world together, a life of adventure! Don’t let your father keep that from happening, Jaime, please.”

There was a long pause, and then—“I’m sorry,” Jaime said, and he really did sound bereft. “Nicky, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry!” Nichol shouted. “Just, don’t—Jaime, I’ll sail you for it.”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll sail you for it. You need me with you, you need me to help you, and you know it. I’m the best sailor in the Sea Guard.”

“I’m just as good as you are,” Jaime snapped. “I don’t need your assistance to keep my place.”

“You think not? You think you’ll rise as far or as fast with Blake at your side instead of me? Wealthy young men like you are expected to bring someone competent with them to keep their heads above the water,” Nichol said, and his tone made Colm cringe. It was fierce and unkind, and Colm knew that Nichol would regret saying such things when his hurt had died down, but it was too late for that now.

“Fine,” Jaime said at last, just as haughty as the wealthy young man Nichol had accused him of being. “I’ll get permission to use the cutters and meet you at the docks. Out to the pillar and back, and I’m taking Blake as my second. I might as well get more practice working with him, since we’ll be together at sea.”

The silence was filled with unsaid words, hurt and longing. Colm didn’t need to see them to know that both of them were overwrought, and he stepped back out of sight as Jaime emerged from the family quarters at a brisk pace, his back stiff, eyes glued firmly forward. Nichol came out a moment later and watched him go, his expression a strange mix of furious and longing.

“Don’t do it,” Colm said, emerging from the shadows.

“Gods!” Nichol jumped a foot in the air as he whirled around. “You just about scared the life out of me, Colm!”

“Don’t sail tonight,” Colm said again, casting a weather eye at the sky. He couldn’t feel the movement of the air like he could the water, but it didn’t take a mage to tell that a storm was moving in. “The water’s going to be too rough for small boats.”

Nichol’s face fell back into angry lines. “Oh, so now you’re a soothsayer as well as a dowser, then? You can tell the future by the flights of birds, perhaps? Or is it by examining the guts of a fish?”

“Nichol, just look at the sky! Feel the fierceness of the wind, see the color of the clouds, and you’ll know it as well.”

“I don’t want to know it!” Nichol shouted. “I want to go to sea! I won’t be kept here just because people are afraid of you!” He ran out of the courtyard into the street, leaving Colm gaping after his departure.

Idra came out to join him. “What was that?” she asked.

“Nichol’s upset with me,” Colm told her.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, he’s upset with everyone these days, even Mistress Megg. He shouted at her yesterday after she tried to comfort him when Master Windlove didn’t stop by.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Colm felt himself start to get angry as well. “He did what?” It was one thing for Nichol to be mad at Colm and Jaime and the complicated, often perplexing ways of the navy, and quite another for him to take his frustrations out on his grandmother.

“Yelled right at her and stormed out of the taproom. In front of guests, no less.” She shook her head. “I hope he does get into the navy. It will give his poor gran a break.”

“He’s off to race for the chance now.”

“What, a boat race? In this weather?” Idra looked incredulous. “But it’s about to storm!”

“I know.” And it was nearly dusk, the sun lighting up the farthest edge of the horizon, where there were no clouds to dim its rays. Boiling forward from there were heavy gray clouds gone black at their centers, and pinpricks of rain were already beginning to fall. “Oh, hell.” Colm took off after Nichol at a jog, counting on his longer legs to let him catch up in a hurry.

He hadn’t counted on the way the wind picked up. It blew in intermittent gusts, knocking over the stands of vendors who were too slow packing up and spreading apples, fish kebabs and, in one memorable instance, a slew of wiggling sea roaches across the cobblestones. Colm tried to step around them, but he couldn’t dodge them all, and the crunch of their shells against the soles of his boots made him wince.

He also hadn’t counted on Jaime being able to get the boats as quickly as he had. By the time Colm reached the naval docks, the cutters were both already sailing beyond the rest of the boats into deeper water. On a good day, it would take them half an hour to round the pillar and back. With the winds the way they were now, it might take them much less than that, or they might not return at all.

The boat on the right was already heeled so far to the side that she almost tipped, and it took some quick maneuvering by her pilot to get her upright again. “Damn it,” Colm muttered, brushing water from his face as he watched their white sails grow ever smaller.

“Boy!” the officer who’d let them take the boats out yelled suddenly. Colm recognized him from when they’d borrowed the rowboat for his father’s funeral. “What are you doing here? You’ve no place on these docks!”

“It’s Tobin, right?” Colm asked him. “Listen, I need you to get help. Those boats are going to be in trouble in a moment.”

“Those lads have plenty of experience in the cutters,” Tobin said doubtfully. “How do I know you? Are you—wait, you’re that partial, aren’t you! The one who uses magic on fish! You’re not welcome here. Best shove off while I’ll let you.”

“You don’t understand, they’re not going to make it!” Colm replied, having to shout to be heard over the wind.

“Magicked that out of the air, did you?”

“For the gods’ sake!” Colm shouted irritably, then turned and sprawled out at the edge of the dock, close enough that he could bend down and touch the water.

“Hey! None of that here!” Tobin shouted, but Colm ignored him as he tried to get a clear sense of what he was feeling. It was odd to be touching the sea like this after a month of celibacy. He’d been in Caithmor for just over a season, and he already missed the sea like a lost limb.

So many boats, boats, waves…moving boats out on the water…there they were, driving toward the pillar. They shook and listed uneasily, too light to ride out the water’s surges.

Colm was suddenly hauled up by the back of his tunic. “None of your vile magic here, or I’ll have you jailed!” Tobin shouted. “Away with you!” He shoved Colm back toward the street.

“You must send a boat out after them!” Colm repeated. “A bigger one that can withstand the waves, to pick them up if they capsize. They’re in danger. Ring the bell, man!” He indicated the enormous bronze bell at the edge of the docks, set aside in its own little cupola and meant to be rung to alarm the coast guard when a ship was in danger. There were others inside the strings of lighthouses along the way, but the weather was so poor and the cutters hadn’t been using lanterns, probably relying on getting back before the last of the light vanished.

“For the last time, leave or I’ll have you arrested,” Tobin warned.

Colm groaned with frustration and walked away without any sense of where he was going. This was ridiculous. Nichol knew it was ridiculous, Jaime knew it was a poor idea, and yet there they were out on the water. The surf kicked up enormous sprays at the edge of the docks, mixing rain and seawater in a brackish mist that permeated his hair and clothes, making Colm’s body just as miserable as his mind. He needed a boat, and he needed one now.

Of course, there was one boat he could go after… It was scarcely larger than the slender cutters that Nichol and Jaime were struggling with right now, but the Serpent’s Tail was the boat that Colm knew the best, and the only one he could reliably get his hands on. He tore off down the street, slipping here and there on the cobblestones but doing his best to keep a steady pace.

The Serpent’s Tail looked even rougher than Colm remembered it, the mast more splintered at the base, and one of the sails flopped partially open against the bottom of the boat. Colm leapt inside and pulled the sail back, ready to attach it and hoist it up—

“Augh!” Lew rolled over on the deck, reaching blindly for the sail. Colm stared, dumbstruck, at his old partner for a moment before he kept going. “Boy? What’re you doing here?” Lew asked blearily. “’N where’s my blanket?”

“You’re sleeping in your boat today of all days?” Colm asked distractedly as he routed lines and got the headsail in place.

“Can’t go back to the house. There’s no money left to rent a room… Wait, what’re you doing here? Didn’t I already ask that?”

“You did,” Colm said, unlashing the boat from the dock. The wind tried to punch it to the side, but he kept tight control on the freedom he allowed the sails, and after a moment of fine-tuning, the boat leapt forward. Lew fell forward onto his hands with the abruptness of the movement, then started swearing.

“By the Four, what’s got into you? You aren’t allowed to fish any longer, and even if you were, this isn’t the weather for it, you fool!”

“There are boats heading for the pillar that are going to be in trouble,” Colm said, brushing his fingers in the water. Too confused, still too many boats around him… He needed to get farther out.

“Trouble?” Lew scoffed. “Only a fool would take out a boat in this squall, so what does that make you, Colm Weathercliff?”

“You’re more than welcome to swim back to shore,” Colm snapped, tired of listening to the old man who’d contributed greatly to ruining his dreams. “Do it while you can still see it.” He pointed back at the rapidly diminishing dock.

Lew looked out at the water, then back at Colm. “I’ve got to say, if this is your way of taking retribution, lad, it’s comin’ rather late.”

“It isn’t,” Colm said, gritting his teeth a bit as he strained to control the mainsail and the tiller at once. Gods, this breeze was stiff, and unpredictable. Too much tension in the sails and he’d lose control of the boat and capsize them when the wind hesitated next, too little and the storm would spin them around and have its way with them. “I told you, there’s going to be a boat in trouble near the pillar.”

“If there were a boat in trouble, the bell would be ringing,” Lew said. Just then, the throaty toll of the bronze bell began. Lew stared at Colm with an expression of utter resignation. “I’ll just light the lantern, then, boy. Don’t want to get lost ourselves out there.”

“Do that.”

Once it was clear there was a purpose to be had, Lew adjusted rapidly. He took over the lines controlling the sails with the skill of an old mariner who’d been through more storms that he could remember, and Colm took the tiller and felt the movement of the water. He felt for the cutters, somewhere out near the pillar, a steady thud of water pressure that Colm could identify fast.

One of the boats had made the turn, but the other had capsized. The first was heading back for the fallen one, but…no, it was tacking too sharply. It wouldn’t be able to stay upright. “Damn it,” Colm muttered. They were still a ways out, perhaps a thousand yards… The Serpent’s Tail thudded across the waves with little grace, but just enough skill to stay upright. The trick would be keeping it that way when they needed to fish men out of the sea.

In the distance, back on the docks, Colm could see lanterns coming to life as more boats readied to launch a rescue effort. They were bigger, better prepared, but too far away. Colm could feel the bodies in the water now, thrashing like pike caught in a net, fighting against the pull of the sea. Two—no, there went the other boat, three men, four. Something else too, something small. Colm was still too far away to tell in this mess.

“We have to tack left!” Colm called to Lew, who rolled his eyes at the direction but nodded his understanding. It was a small adjustment but still took preparation and a bit of luck in this weather. It should take them right beside the first boat, though, and that would be a start. “Now!” He swung the tiller, and Lew released the mainsail, ducking as the boom swung around with a snapping crack as it fell into place on the other side.

After a few more minutes, Colm could not only feel, he could see one of the overturned cutters, the one that had successfully made it around the pillar. The boat was upside down and swamped, well on its way to sinking, but Colm could see one man lying on top of it, and another clinging to the narrow bowsprit at the front end of the boat. A smaller creature nosed at that one, pushing at it and barking its head off.

“Rory,” Colm breathed. If that was Rory, then the man in the water had to be Nichol. The selkie wouldn’t care so much about anyone else. “Let the sheets out!” Colm yelled, and a moment later, the sails were flapping fiercely, useless for propulsion. The Serpent’s Tail coasted in next to the fallen boat, and Colm reached for Nichol. “Get in!”

“Take Ollie first,” Nichol got out around choking coughs as sea water poured over his head. “He’s unconscious. He hit his head when we went over!”

Lew was closer, and in this Colm didn’t have to ask. No sailor would leave another to drown. Lew grabbed the younger man and hauled him aboard, while Colm kept his hand extended for Nichol. “Now you.”

Nichol abandoned the bowsprit and pushed off for Colm’s arm. A wave drove him under the water less than a foot from the Serpent, but the selkie grabbed the back of Nichol’s collar with his teeth and jerked his grandson back to the surface and within reach of Colm’s hand. Their palms connected with a wet smack, and Colm pulled Nichol up beside him.

Nichol was shaking hard, and Colm could smell blood on him somewhere, beneath all the salt. Nichol was cold but Colm felt warm, almost hot with every fresh wave that spilled over the bow. His limbs tingled with some inexplicable, uncomfortable need, making him feel like if he could just claw deep enough at his skin, something extraordinary would emerge.

“We have to reach the other boat!” Nichol said through his chattering teeth, and Colm snapped back to the present, pushing his strange feelings away. “Jaime and Blake, they went down almost five minutes ago, I couldn’t reach them in time—Colm, please—”

“We’re going,” Colm assured him. He could see the other cutter, also capsized but on its side rather than its belly. Nichol and Ollie’s own boat was just now sinking out of sight, and Colm tightened the sails and sailed right over the cutter’s remains.

Finding the other men wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t good either. Jaime was half-drowned and insensible when they pulled him aboard, his right arm very clearly broken, and Blake, stoic, solid Blake who never knew when to shut his mouth…he was very clearly dead. His body had tangled in the rigging, likely thrown there when the boat first went down, and the angle of the mast had been just far enough under the water to keep a dazed, wounded man from being able to claw his way to the surface.

“Oh no,” Nichol said, seeing the body and reaching to free it before Colm could help him. “No, no, Blake…Blake!” He worked to pull his waterlogged friend aboard and couldn’t manage it by himself. “Help me…Colm! Help!”

“I’ve got the tiller,” Lew muttered, and Colm reached out and grabbed Blake’s legs. Together they managed to drag him into the Serpent’s Tail, and as soon as Jaime saw him, he leaned over him, his eyes crazed.

“I heard him,” Jaime croaked, his hands grasping at Blake’s tunic helplessly. “I could hear him screaming under the water, calling out for help… I couldn’t reach him, I tried, my arm slipped and I almost… I couldn’t…”

“Jaime.” Nichol reached for him, but Jaime drew back with a hiss of pain, leaving Nichol’s outstretched hand empty. Ollie just lolled with the waves, unconscious and better for it.

“Boy!” Lew yelled, distracting Colm from the hopeless pageant unfolding in front of him. “We need to get ourselves back to shore before we tip over as well! This squall’s not done yet. Leave ’em for now.”

Colm didn’t want to leave Nichol, not when he was so obviously upset, but Colm knew that right now there was nothing he could do to make Nichol feel any better. He went back to the tiller and they prepared to jibe, bringing the back of the boat through the wind. It was a risky maneuver but the fastest way to get them turned around, and between the two of them, they managed it. The Serpent’s Tail sailed toward the flotilla of lanterns headed their way, the boat full of five men and a corpse, and overflowing with the shock and grief that accompanied such an awful thing.

Chapter Thirteen

There was a funeral for Blake, paid for by the navy that had let the young men—mere boys, Master Grainger had said derisively upon learning their fate—use their cutters to race that night. Blake Ramshead was cremated and cast into the waves, and his mother wept and his father cursed, and both Jaime and Nichol were now pariahs, although Jaime more so. It was his influence, after all, that had gotten them the cutters in the first place.

One week after the disastrous race, Jaime left with the fleet, taking sour, stubborn Ollie Vanesray as his second. Colm knew Nichol had reached out to Jaime, over and over again, seeking forgiveness or perhaps just mutual sympathy, maybe even a shred of the intimacy that had made them so content together, but Nichol was spurned every time. Now that Jaime was gone, with no hope of ever seeing him again in any way that wouldn’t hurt, Nichol turned despondent. He became listless, staying in their room for days on end, lying on the cot and sleeping, or just staring at the ceiling or walls.

Megg couldn’t raise his spirits, and the gods knew she’d tried. She cooked his favorite dishes; she encouraged him to rise in the mornings. She even forced him occasionally to help in the kitchen or tend bar with Vernon, who at least never asked questions. Nothing worked. Two weeks after the race, Nichol still lay for hours staring at nothing, the self-loathing permeating the room so thickly that Colm could barely stand to enter it sometimes.

But he did stand it. Colm knew how it felt when things changed abruptly for the worst, and even if his treatment at the hands of Honored Srain paled in comparison to losing a friend because of a foolish bet, the pain seemed similar. It gutted you and left you unsure of who and what you were, and Nichol was caught in the throes of uncertainty as well as grief, mourning for the future he would never have as well as his broken relationships.

At the end of the second week, Colm lay down on his pallet and spent five minutes listening to Nichol try to control his breathing, to lessen the strength of the sobs that were trying to break free from his chest. Colm had managed to pretend they didn’t exist every painful night before, and one more was just too much.

He rolled to his knees and clambered over to the cot. “Move over,” Colm said.

“Wh-what?” Nichol asked, his voice thick and wet.

“Move over. I’m tired of sleeping on the floor.”

“You’re…what?”

“You’ve been promising me a bed for months, and it’s never appeared. I’m claiming this one for tonight.”

“Oh. Right.” Nichol began to get out of the bed.

“No, idiot,” Colm said, not without affection but still trying to keep it nonchalant. “Stay. We’ll share it.” It was a tight fit for two men, one of whom was decidedly too long for the cot, but it gave him an excuse to pull Nichol into his arms, and it was only a moment after that before Nichol relaxed, letting himself be held for the first time since the accident.

“Colm…” It was the first time he’d said Colm’s name in all that time.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for coming after us.” Dark, wet eyes met Colm’s own pale irises, brutally honest. “I think we would all have died if you hadn’t.”

“Rory would have saved you.”

“Grandad!” Nichol choked out a laugh. “I can’t believe he was there. I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised, though. He followed you often enough, didn’t he?” Colm had relayed a few of the instances when Rory had tagged along, although he’d downplayed the harassment he’d endured.

“He always keeps an eye on you, I think,” Colm told Nichol. “He loves you.”

Nichol’s eyes closed. “Gods, he shouldn’t. I’m… It was all my fault.”

“Not really.”

“How can you say that?” Nichol asked, anguished. “The race was my idea, all mine. I made Jaime and the others do it—”

“Jaime got the boats. The others agreed. The officer on watch didn’t stop you, even though he should have. That’s not all on you.”

“I should never have done it, regardless. You told me not to do it. How can you be this way with me now, after I said such terrible things to you?” Nichol demanded. “After I made such terrible decisions?”

“You’ve yet to do anything I can’t forgive you for,” Colm replied. “I’m just treating you the same way you’ve treated me from the first.”

“Like…like a friend?”

“Like someone I love,” Colm replied honestly, and Nichol could take that however he chose to. Even if it was nothing but a platonic love on Nichol’s side, Colm knew that the love was there, and if he returned it tenfold, well…that was his business.

“I won’t curse you, or renounce you, or leave you,” Colm continued. He hadn’t intended to say all this when he began this little experiment, but while Colm was reserved, he at least wasn’t so much a coward that he could ignore the opportunity to help Nichol and assuage his own conscience at the same time. “And I won’t force you into doing anything you don’t want to do, but I am tired of seeing you suffer alone, and I’m tired of sleeping on the floor, so this seemed like the best solution for both problems.”

“I…you…” Nichol seemed to have run out of words.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Colm said, and let his eyes fall shut. “I just wanted you to know.”

“Oh.” They lay still and silent for long minutes, and Colm was almost asleep by the time Nichol slid one of his own arms carefully around Colm’s waist, pulling their chests flush. Nichol was short enough that his head tucked nicely under Colm’s chin, and Colm resettled without a second thought, enjoying the warmth and appreciating the fact that his body was behaving itself perfectly despite the close contact.

If his shirt got a little damp from tears in the night, well, Colm found the salt water soothing.

The next morning, Nichol seemed a little abashed but better. He came down to breakfast with Colm, prompting an exclamation from his grandmother and an extra-large bowl of porridge from the cook as the three of them took their seats by the window. Sari even leapt up to settle into Nichol’s lap, an affectionate move she usually reserved for her mistress.

“You seem better today, love,” Megg said as she poured them each a cup of tea.

“I am better,” Nichol replied. Some of the deep sorrow was gone from his eyes, and if he was still somber, at least he was mobile. “I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult, Gran.”

“Everyone’s entitled to a little time to themselves when the water gets deeper than expected, love. I didn’t speak for three days when your granddad changed, and I even knew he was still alive!” Megg shook her head. “You can never predict how you’ll feel from one day to the next at times like this. All you can do is keep trying.”

“I suppose. Or be with someone who tries for you,” Nichol added, glancing at Colm.

“That’s what family does, my dear,” Megg said, looking between the two of them beneficently. “Lends a hand. And that’s what you’ll do today for me, my lads! Colm, you go and get me some sand sweepers at the market, and I’ll make a lovely fry-up for this afternoon. Nichol, you’ll help me in the back.”

Nichol opened his mouth briefly, then shut it again. His first instinct had probably been to beg off the kitchen work in favor of going out, but apparently the thought of it was still daunting. He acquiesced without another word.

Ironically, the race led to a turning point for Colm. Everyone had a soft spot for a man who risked his own life to save a sailor, and the people on the streets were looking at him again, greeting him and treating him the same as they used to. Even Carroll seemed willing to sell fish to him now, and handed over two fat, wide-mouthed sand sweepers when Colm inquired, free of charge.

“Ollie is my cousin’s eldest,” he said by way of explanation when Colm protested. “He’s always been a bit thick, but he’s got a good heart and courage. I hope he’ll be a bit smarter after that blasted race, now he’s made his way into the navy.”

“I hope so also,” Colm replied, polite but distant. “Thank you for the fish.”

Carroll sighed. “Now don’t be like that, lad. What happened before, that was business, and necessary. No one could be seen with you after you were arrested. It was simple self-preservation, nothing personal.”

Colm understood why Carroll thought that way. “It felt personal,” he said at last, leaving no easy way out for the man in front of him. “Excuse me.”

Carroll tried again. “Come back tomorrow. I’ll have fresh eel ready for you then.”

“Perhaps.” Well, it was a good start.

Everyone seemed to be making an effort. Even Lew was back to fishing during the day and drinking in the Cove at night. He and Colm mostly avoided each other, but there was none of the old wariness in the air between them now. Business was booming for the inn, and the warmth of the fire and the bodies and the laughter made the Cove a merry place to be as the weather outside worsened.

The strangest thing—or perhaps it had been inevitable, Colm wasn’t really sure—was that he and Nichol kept sharing the cot. It really was tiny with both of them crammed on there, and Colm started wearing socks to sleep in because his feet always protruded beyond the blankets, and they kept their clothes on so there was really nothing illicit about it. It shouldn’t have meant anything special to him, but…Nichol really seemed to like it. He would push and pull at Colm until he had him the way he wanted him, then stretch out on top of the right side of his body like Colm’s very own, incredibly oversized spirit cat. He purred too, and shifted in his sleep and still snored, and very occasionally drooled, but Colm accepted it all without complaint.

He knew a lot of it was because Nichol felt more isolated now, and it was the truth. His friends were gone, the Sea Guard was a thing of the past, and all he had were Colm and Megg and the workers at the inn. In such a void Colm naturally commanded a bigger part of Nichol’s attentions and affections. It wasn’t so much because of Colm’s own merits as Nichol’s own need for touch, for companionship, for closeness. If sometimes one or both of them woke up hard, their erection pressed firm and eager to whatever body part was closest, well, they got pretty good at ignoring that.

Eventually, though, ignorance was no longer acceptable to Nichol.

It was a month after they first started sharing the cot when it happened. The harvest festival had come and gone, the city had emptied of the hordes of merchants that had beset it, as well as the sailors, and the streets were practically walkable again. The painful pressure on Nichol’s heart had eased somewhat as Blake’s death moved further into memory, and he was more sociable now, greeting patrons and taking short walks along the docks—not so far as to reach the naval yards, but down to the sea wall and back. Colm would often walk with him, usually in silence, and Nichol would stay close beside him, close enough that their elbows or shoulders touched as they moved. He’d look up at Colm and smile a little, and Colm would smile back, happy that Nichol was finally becoming content again.

It surprised Colm some when, far down the docks where no one was there to see them, Nichol reached out and took his hand. Took it, resolutely laced their fingers together, and then looked up at Colm with only slightly nervous eyes.

Colm just smiled again, not really understanding it but not about to say no. He liked the touch, liked it more than he could say, and they walked all the way down the sea wall and back like that, scrambling over boulders and slipping on rocks and holding on to each other the whole time, until Nichol was actually laughing again, for the first time in all of that long month. Colm knew he was a part of that joy, the reason for it, and he felt warmth and pride and love, oh gods, such love for Nichol in that moment.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Nichol said once he’d caught his breath. “I don’t know if I’ve told you that before.”

“Of course you have.”

Nichol rolled his eyes. “But not in clear words, have I? None of this ‘actions are more important than words’ bit you keep going with. I mean, it works for you, but personally I have to say something to know that I mean it.”

Colm shrugged. “I don’t need to hear a truth in order to understand it. If it’s evident in what a person does, then I know better than they could ever assure me.”

“You know, it’s a good thing you don’t seem to fancy girls,” Nichol said plainly, “because that sort of attitude would likely irritate them to no end.”

“I suppose I’m fortunate, then,” Colm said. Nichol finally let go of Colm’s hand and put his own back in his pocket.

“I suppose you are. Now come one, we’d best get back to help before Gran throws us out for being idle wastrels.”

“I can’t imagine what you’d have to do to get Megg to actually throw you out,” Colm commented as they walked along.

“Aye, well, it’s something we can make into a joke because we both know what a lie it is,” Nichol said with a half smile. “My dad died at sea when I was just a lad and my mother passed of a fever not long after.” Colm’s ears perked up a bit. It was rare that Nichol revealed anything new of his childhood. “My mother’s parents wanted to take me and raise me, but I’d been with Gran since I was born, right here at the inn. The family quarters used to be bigger, back when Granddad was alive. I didn’t want to go, but the magistrate gave them the rights to me, and so off I went into the butcher’s district.”

Colm wrinkled his nose. If there was one spot in the city that stank worse than the docks, it was the butcher’s district. All of Caithmor’s slaughtering and tanning went on there, and during the summer, the smell had been so repugnant that enterprising street urchins had made a fortune selling small bouquets of posies to people who had to do business there, to help block the miasma of excrement and death.

“I hated it there. Ran away as soon as I could, straight back to Gran. They’d come for me, haul me back by my hair sometimes, and every time they did, I waited until their guard was down and I left again. After a year of this, they finally kicked me out, and Gran took me right back. She told me there would always be a place for me with her, and I’ve been trying to prove her wrong ever since.” He quirked a smile. “But not too hard.”

“What was your mother like?” Colm asked.

“She was fair, like you, only with more red,” Nichol said. They were getting closer to the Cove, and about time. The darkness was starting earlier and earlier as the days slowly grew shorter. “She was proud of her red. Said it made her more like the king, that she was the king of our house. She told my father once that he could be the queen. She even tied a bonnet to his head.” Nichol laughed. “He was good about it. He danced her around the room and then called me his court jester. He said I had to be a midget I was so small, and was I any good at being funny? I was five at the time. I thought he was hilarious.”

“You favor him in more than your looks,” Colm said as they walked into the courtyard and toward the kitchen.

“I could do worse,” Nichol replied with utterly false modesty. Idra pounced on them the moment they stepped indoors, putting them both to work.

Later that night as they lay together on the cot, Nichol’s head resting against Colm’s shoulder, Nichol whispered, “Do you ever wish you’d known her? Your own mother, I mean?”

“Not often,” Colm replied, perfectly honest. “I had a mother in Desandre. I didn’t pine for another. I can look at myself and see the things that she left within me: the color of my eyes and skin, this ridiculous height. She must have been taller than my father. I wonder about her occasionally, but I never go much beyond that.”

“You do well to favor her,” Nichol told him, and Colm snorted gently. “I mean it.” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I think we might be lucky, to be the way we are. No parents to be disappointed by us when we don’t meet their expectations, whether it’s in what we choose to do or who we’ve grown to be. Gran accepts me, even when she doesn’t like my choices.”

“It’s possible,” Colm replied. “Although it’s equally possible that we don’t realize how unlucky we are. I don’t know if I’m fulfilling what my father might have wanted for me, but I came down to Caithmor at Desandre’s insistence. She recognized things in me that I’d barely begun to come to terms with myself, and she pointed me in this direction. And I’m very fortunate that she did.” He said the last bit looking squarely at Nichol, expecting him to smile and settle in, go to sleep and continue to ignore the tension that ebbed and flowed between them, comforting but vague.

Nichol didn’t smile. He didn’t look away either, or say anything at all. He just turned his face up and pressed his mouth to Colm’s, a soft, sweet touch of lips that became Colm’s first real kiss. Neither of them closed their eyes, Nichol perhaps because he wanted to see how Colm took it, and Colm because he didn’t want to miss a moment of it, not anything, not the way Nichol’s eyes darkened or how they darted between Colm’s mouth and eyes. It felt like exactly what he’d wanted, without even being sure of exactly what that was.

Nichol finally pulled back and licked his lips. “I think,” he said slowly, “that I might be the fortunate one. Is this all right?” he added fast on the heels of his compliment. “Because I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, you mustn’t let me do that to you, and I know that you would if you thought it was something I wanted, and it is, but I don’t if you don’t. Am I making any sense at all?”

“Very little,” Colm chuckled. “But that’s fine. I understand you anyway, and yes.”

“Yes to what part?”

This, this was why words were useless. They could spend hours hashing out who felt what at which moment and why, when really all Colm needed to do was close the gap between them again and take his second kiss straight from Nichol’s lips, even better and more satisfying than the first. “All of it,” he said when they separated.

“Oh good,” Nichol breathed. “I was hoping you would say that.” He rolled until he was fully on top of Colm, framed his head with his hands and kissed him hard, the gentleness of their early intimacy forgotten as the heat between them continued to build. Colm spread his thighs apart, and Nichol slotted between them with ease, his hips moving back and forth in an unconscious rhythm as he pulled back, licked the seam of Colm’s lips, then nipped them only to dive back in a moment later, openmouthed and eager. Colm let him in, let him all the way in, until their tongues danced and his hips finally began to catch on to the beat that was teasing them.

Nichol was hard and Colm grew along with him, until they were hard together. “Every morning,” Nichol said between kisses, “when I feel you against me, I’ve wanted to do this.”

“Every morning?” Colm gasped as the friction between them increased. He moved his hands down to Nichol’s hips and pulled him even closer, his usually elusive orgasm feeding on the heat between them and building faster than it ever had before.

“Well, perhaps not every morning,” Nichol said around a groan. “Some mornings I’ve wanted to do this instead.” He reached one of his hands inside of Colm’s drawers, wrapping hot fingers around Colm’s erection and stroking him roughly. Colm stifled the sharp noise that tried to escape his throat and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back for just a little longer.

“Come for me,” Nichol whispered in his ear. His breaths were hot gusts filled with words that set Colm’s brain on fire. “I’ve got you, finally, I’ve wanted you, and you feel so good, come for me, Colm, come now.” And his body, overwhelmed with pressure and pleasure, came at Nichol’s command. He spurted into Nichol’s hand, wet and slick and copious, so long that he saw black spots circle in his vision by the time his body finally quit.

Colm was barely aware of Nichol letting go of him and thrusting his cock into his own hand, wet with Colm’s release. He knew when Nichol came, though, the heightened tension reaching a peak and suddenly collapsing, like a bubble that had been popped.

Nichol sprawled across Colm like he belonged there, like there was no separation between their bodies in his mind and therefore should be no separation in reality. They were sweaty and sticky and undoubtedly smelled, but Colm didn’t care about any of that. They stayed that way, pleasured and weary and content, until Nichol said, “Shall I move, then?”

Colm wrapped his long arms around Nichol’s back and held him even closer, and Nichol giggled. “Understood. I take it you enjoyed it?”

“I think that would be an understatement,” Colm told him. “I’ve—I’ve wanted this. More than I can say.” More than I should say. Now was probably not the time to mention he’d listened in on Nichol and Jaime.

“But not so much that you would say anything.”

“What would’ve been the point? You had Jaime and plans that revolved around him—sailing, fighting, adventure. I didn’t want to disrupt that, even if I could have.”

Nichol lifted his head to look Colm in the eye. “You don’t think much of doing things for yourself, do you?”

“I do think of myself,” Colm said, shifting a little so he didn’t have to meet Nichol’s stare. It felt too knowing. “Just, within reason, that’s all.”

“Within reason. Hmm.” Nichol slid up Colm’s body and kissed him again. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re with me now. I feel perfectly comfortable thinking wildly unreasonable things about you. I’ll share them if you’re particularly good.”

“How good is good?” Colm murmured against Nichol’s mouth, the brief touch enough to begin winding the coil of desire within him tight again.

“I’ll show you,” Nichol replied, and then the words stopped and the only sounds were cut-off exclamations of pleasure and the subtle sound of flesh against flesh as they rutted against each other, hips tight together, until they both came again.

They fell asleep exhausted and woke up stuck together, and Nichol laughed at Colm’s disgusted expression as they peeled themselves apart.

“A hazard of the fun,” he said, shrugging a shirt over his shoulders. “It’ll clean up fast. Come on.”

It was the first time they’d bathed together since Colm’s first full day in the city, and the fact that he had leave to enjoy himself now helped to make it much more pleasurable. Colm still didn’t think he was much to look at, but having permission to look at Nichol was lovely. Touching him was even better, and if the water had been just a bit warmer, or the wind had been a bit calmer, they would have gotten off again right there, against the dark stones of the house with the smells of lye soap and rain and a tinge of acridity from the nearby latrines all mingling in the air. Instead, they washed each other, quickly, and headed inside to the kitchens.

If Megg had an idea of what was going on between them, she gave no indication of it, greeting them as usual, handing over food and sitting down with them for breakfast. “How did you lads sleep?”

“Very well.” Nichol grinned. “Honestly, I must have been exhausted. I could barely lift my head from my pillow.”

“Fine,” Colm replied for his part, feeling himself blush but resolutely not looking in Nichol’s direction.

“Fine, hmm?” Megg looked at him more closely and frowned. “I don’t know, love, you look a bit tuckered out to me. Is that a bruise on your collarbone?” Colm’s hand flew up to cover the mark he’d almost forgotten Nichol gave him as Megg continued. “It’s that floor that’s doing it to you, no doubt. We’ve really got to get you a bed. I know I keep saying it, but it’s true. We could even get a carpenter in here if you want, have him reopen one of the old rooms that used to be connected to the family quarters. The inn won’t suffer much for the loss of a single bed, and that way you’d have your own place.”

“No!” Colm and Nichol both exclaimed. They glanced briefly at each other before Colm continued, “Really, I’m perfectly happy where I am. You don’t need to rearrange everything for me.”

“And we’re trading off on the cot now,” Nichol added. “To make things fair.”

Now here, here came a smile to be nervous about: small, coupled with dark, sparkling eyes and a head tilt that made Colm wonder what was going through Megg’s head, and how much of it was correct. But she just said, “Well, that’s lovely of you, lads. I’m glad you’ve worked things out so well. Now finish eating so I can put you to work on the roof. Some of the shingles have blown clear off, and three of the bedrooms are leaking.” Colm and Nichol gratefully followed her directions and made their escape.

Chapter Fourteen

The season was decidedly autumnal now. The waves rolled more heavily, the air had a bone-chilling bite to it that Colm recognized from the cold seasons in Anneslea, and the traffic in and out of the city was almost entirely local. Those who had come to stay, did stay. Those who meant to leave, had left. Occasionally a courier vessel was sent back from the fleet, bringing news of Iarra’s attempts at conquest on the Garnet Isles. They’d achieved a foothold on the northernmost island, exactly where they needed to have it in order to freely move ships and shift troops, but the Queen of the Garnet Isles, Magdeline O’Clare, had formed an alliance with the King of Speir across the sea, who provided troops and weapons for her cities while her own small fleet harried the larger, less wieldy Muiri ships.

“The poor woman’s caught between two hungry serpents, and I’m afraid her kingdom will be eaten in the end regardless of whom she allies with,” Megg said sadly when Nichol brought in the report. “Iarra is playing this hard, not leaving himself an easy way to retreat. Why else fight a winter war?” The king’s use of tactics in his conquests was a continual source of debate in Caithmor. There were plenty of people who admired his all-or-nothing tactics, but plenty more who had family out there in his navy, the men and boys who were toiling to take control of an island that most of them didn’t really care about.

“Ah, well,” Megg said, shaking her head. “There’s no sense in fretting over it, I suppose. Was there any personal post for you, Nichol?” The undertone of her voice was clearly asking about Jaime, but for the first time in a long time, it didn’t seem to bother Nichol.

“Nothing else,” he said easily. “Anything here at the inn? You’re due for a letter, aren’t you?” he asked Colm.

“I’m overdue,” Colm replied, and the fact that he was bothered him. He did his best to be timely with his own messages, but Baylee was as orderly as the tides, one letter coming regularly every week. It had been close to two now, and still nothing.

“I’m sure everything is fine,” Megg said. “Probably just a problem on the road, or it might have been lost. Without the traders moving about the country, letters are harder to come by. We’ll be lucky to get one a month, and likely none at all when winter hits.”

Colm knew, intellectually, that Megg was being perfectly logical. It didn’t make him feel much better in the moment, though, especially not the thought of losing contact with his family for an entire season. He hadn’t thought about it… He hadn’t considered that at all, and as much as he knew the separation had been necessary, it wasn’t one he relished.

“You could have one of the priests send a message for you,” Nichol added, using his I’m-trying-to-cheer-you-up voice. “When they pass prayers, it’s supposed to be fairly reliable. It certainly is for Iarra. There’s no way he’s not in contact with his admirals or his regent back here in Caithmor. That’s the most practical magic they’re allowed to do these days.”

“Passing a prayer is expensive,” Colm replied regretfully. “Even if mine got to them, they’d never be able to afford to send one back to me. I’ll keep it in mind, though. It’s always good to have a last resort.”

“And I’ll do my best to keep your mind occupied,” Nichol smirked.

Nichol’s best was positively transportive, the kind of experience that threatened to keep Colm in a euphoric stupor if he wasn’t careful. It had to be obvious to Nichol that Colm had no experience being intimate with another person. Every time they touched, he checked Nichol’s face, unable to fight the part of him that had to make sure Nichol knew who he was, and that he was okay with Colm doing this, having this leeway. Nichol never flinched back, never looked dubious, was never anything except gentle and giving. It was a bit of a surprise considering the little Colm knew about how he and Jaime had gone at each other. Perhaps he wanted to differentiate his lovers further in his mind. Colm wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t going to object. Not yet, anyway.

The first time Nichol used his mouth on Colm, he came almost immediately. It would have been embarrassing if he’d had time to think about it once the aftershocks of his orgasm had faded away, but Nichol didn’t give him the time. He crawled back up Colm’s body—they were lying on the cot, having gotten much more used to its impractical size—and kissed him hard, openmouthed and tongues touching, and Colm tasted the salt-bitterness of his own spend, and he wanted more. “You,” he’d growled, his voice lower than he’d thought it possible to go, “need to let me do that to you.”

“You liked it that much, then?” Nichol had asked, cheeky as ever. He wasn’t grinning once Colm had flipped him over onto his back with nothing but the speed of their movement to keep him from falling off as they switched.

“You really,” Colm said, kissing Nichol’s throat. “Really,” he kissed down the center of his chest, “really need to let me do that to you.”

“All right,” Nichol had murmured, and then his head tilted back and his throat worked in agonized silence as Colm licked the head of Nichol’s cock, taking the pooling liquid onto his tongue and rolling it around. He’d had tastes before, little dots here and there he’d wiped away with his lips, but this was different. This was decadent.

Colm knew without a doubt that simple was the way to go. He’d never had his mouth on another man’s cock, and he didn’t want to choke or bite or do something else to break the momentum. He used his hand to grip the base, and Nichol’s silent moan turned audible for a moment, and that gave Colm a warm feeling from the nape of his neck all the way down to the base of his spine. He knew Nichol liked his hands, and he used that fascination to the greatest effect he could, restricting his mouth to the top third of Nichol’s length, sucking him and licking him and finally bobbing his head in rhythm with the motion of his hand.

Nichol’s breath began to catch, a sign Colm was beginning to recognize as heralding his orgasm, and when he came, Colm caught every drop of it on his tongue so he could understand the flavor, so he could contrast it, so he would know something more about Nichol and Nichol alone. It was sweeter than Colm had expected, the bitterness just an aftertaste but still with salt, rich and musky and warm. Colm finally swallowed and looked up, and saw Nichol staring at him with something like wonder on his face.

“You’re brilliant at that. That can’t be the first time you’ve done it.”

“You know it is.”

“I assumed, but…the first time Jaime came in my mouth, I pulled off and spit it out on the floor.”

“I like the way you taste,” Colm assured him, licking the very tip of Nichol’s spent cock and enjoying the way it made the other man shudder. “And as soon possible, I want to taste you again.” And Colm did, once more that night and again in the morning.

It wasn’t all work and sex between them now. There were still times Nichol needed to be alone, and even times when Colm would carefully avoid him in order to seek his own solitude. Most of the time, though, if they had a moment but not the freedom to disappear to their room, they would go out onto the sea wall or, as the wind became fiercer and snow began to mix with the constant falling rain when winter changed to autumn, explore different places throughout Caithmor.

Colm had been too busy and Nichol too distracted to worry about seeing many of the city’s sights during the summer, and autumn had been a time of grief and slow healing. Winter, with its bitter winds and early evenings and the warm, beckoning glows of lanterns and fires, was the time for experiencing what could be seen of the insides of the city.

They visited the Ardeaglais only once, after Megg recommended Nichol take Colm to see the stained-glass sculptures inside the vaulted ceiling of the cathedral. They were supposed to resemble earthly manifestations of the Four, and Colm had to admit they were beautiful, even as his lungs ceased to work properly as soon as they stepped into the interior.

Each of the four points held a statue, placed to catch the light just right as the sun passed through the sky. In the corner closest to the door was a man, his body as black as onyx but his hair and hands brilliant burst of red and orange. His opposite was a blue-skinned woman in robes of cerulean, flowing down her body like a waterfall. The other side held an umber man with fists like boulders, his stance wide and steady. His contrast was a pale woman who looked like she was flying, barely held up by the swirls of white curling around her like wisps of cloud. They had names, but Colm didn’t know them. Those names were powerful, and the prevue of priests. Collectively, they were the Four, and that was how they were worshipped.

The statues were gorgeous, or at least had the potential to be in the right light, but at the moment, Colm was too concerned by the sparks flashing in front of his eyes to be too in awe of the architecture. He heard Nichol ask him a question, ask it again in a concerned voice, but Colm couldn’t force himself to speak. His whole body ached for light and space and the sky, but his limbs were frozen, and in his mind he saw Honored Srain reaching for him, and the cold splash of water on his limbs, and that strange voice in the other cell… Gods, was that man still suffering down below?

The next thing Colm knew, he was bent in two outside the Ardeaglais, and his back ached from where Nichol had pounded on him to restart his breaths. He felt Nichol’s hand raise in preparation of thudding down again, and he forestalled him with a gasped out, “No! I’m fine, no more.”

“This is not fine,” Nichol protested, the worry in his tone clear as tide pools on a calm day. “This is probably the opposite of fine, Colm. What—oh gods, it’s because of what those bastards did to you when you were here, isn’t it?” He glared back at the cathedral. “I shouldn’t have brought you here, I should have used my head—I’m sorry.”

“Nichol,” Colm breathed, finally able to straighten up. He tried to take a deep breath and was pleased when his ribs barely twinged. “We didn’t know this would happen. It really is fine. I’m all right, just…let’s not do it again.”

“I can safely say that I’d rather walk through fire than go inside there again,” Nichol said vehemently as they headed back toward the Cove. “So there are no fears over that.”

Apart from his bad reaction to being in the Ardeaglais again, Colm enjoyed their trips around the city. They went to the red light district once, mostly so that Nichol could laugh at Colm’s incessant blushing, but it didn’t go any further than looking, despite some rather bawdy offers called out to either or both of them as they walked by the establishments. They also visited the Arboretum, the small part of the palace grounds that was open to the public.

Apparently the priests’ prohibition on the use of magic for anything other than religious purposes didn’t extend to the king, because the air inside the stone walls that marked the Arboretum’s entrance was warm and humid, and the trees were tall and spindly, their branches braided together into a solid canopy high above that sang with birdsong and animal calls. The grass was positively virid, and everything glittered with dew that just seemed too bright to be real.

“It’s good to be the king,” Nichol murmured as they walked around, admiring the trees from a distance. Guards were posted every ten paces to keep visitors from taking liberties, and they were all very well armed and very ill-tempered.

“It seems to be,” Colm agreed. “Back here, at least.” The last report from the courier ships fit for public consumption had included the destruction of the Albatross, one of the larger ships of the Muiri navy. Over five hundred men had been lost with it. People muttered darkly behind their hands and grumbled into their tankards, but the king persisted in his dream of conquest, and none of the ships came home. “Jaime’s probably all right,” he added. “He’s likely working in the supply ships from Inisfadda, not on the front lines.”

“I don’t care,” Nichol replied, too quickly. “I’m not worried about him, really.”

Colm knew it was a lie. Nichol was a better friend than he’d ever hoped for, and a better lover than Colm had ever imagined having, but Colm could tell when his thoughts were far away, even when they were together. Jaime Windlove was a constant shadow at the back of Nichol’s mind, along with the body of Blake, and no matter how well he appeared to be now, he never forgot. Jaime, it seemed, never forgave, though, and never sent a letter back despite Nichol writing several to him.

They visited the dancing halls, they visited bars—although Colm rarely drank, and Nichol tended to match him when they were out together—and they even visited Fergus at the Golden Lion, where he tended to be after his wife kicked him out in the morning. Colm had met with him several times over the months, but this was Nichol’s first introduction to the man. For once, Colm was pleased to be the one offering up a surprise.

“There he is! There’s my stork, flying in on this wintry breeze!” Fergus called out from the table in the corner as Colm stepped inside. “Well, Weathercliff, what do you think of our seaside winters, hmm? Cold enough for you?”

“Not at all, it’s perfectly mild,” Colm replied, provoking a laugh from the other man. “You forget I come from the White Spires. As long as I can still feel my fingers and toes, I’m warm.”

“Oh you braw, tough lad. And who’s this with you?” Fergus brushed a rogue tuft of hair out of his face and peered at Nichol. “This is your cousin, I take it? What was it, pickle, freckle…?”

“Nichol,” Marley said dryly as he plunked two tankards down on the table, then looked at Colm. “Are you joining us for a drink?”

“Of course they are! Steal some chairs, lads, sit, sit! Marley, they’ll need—”

“I know what they need,” Marley said with an eye roll. “Just sit there and try not to think too hard, all right?” He turned and headed back to the bar, and Colm grabbed two extra chairs and pulled them up to the table.

They sat, and Fergus continued, “Aye, Nichol Searunner. I know of your gran’s inn, and have once even sampled the delight that is her fish pie. Too far for me to walk there nowadays, sadly, or I’d sample more of it, but”—he pinched his gut with a grin—“perhaps it’s for the best that I don’t, eh?”

“Her pie’s a danger to us all,” Nichol agreed. “So you’re the one who brought Colm down from the Spires! How was he on the road? He’s told me nothing about the trip except that it was long.”

“He’s a modest lad,” Fergus said, patting Colm on the shoulder as he lifted his tankard. He took a tremendous draught, belched loudly and set the drink down with a satisfied thump. “He kept me in fresh fish almost every day. Some of the others too, and didn’t take an insult from any man. Sliced some wretched farm lad’s hand clear through with his little knife when the oaf threatened him.”

Nichol’s eyes brightened. “Really?”

“No!” Colm exclaimed, forestalling any more dubious praise from Fergus. “It was hardly more than a scratch!”

“Aye, but it could have been much worse,” Fergus said. “He’s a deft hand with that knife of his and no mistake. Good with the camels, good with the people… If only Weathercliff could hold his drink, he’d be the perfect man.”

“Perhaps we should help him with that,” Nichol suggested. “Practice can help in that regard.”

“I like the way you think, Pickle.”

“Will you two stop talking about me as though I’m not here?” Colm snapped.

“He’s just sensitive,” Nichol said, casting a sly glance at Colm. “Tell me more about his incredible prowess.”

“I think we’ve heard quite enough on that subject,” Marley said, returning just in time to save Colm from more embarrassment. “And on your own,” he added, deflating Fergus’s next breath. “How’s the fishing, Colm?”

It was a shock to realize that Colm hadn’t spoken with them since before he was barred from the sea. “Nonexistent,” he said, and that led into a conversation that ended with both Fergus and Marley disgusted, and Fergus despairing of the fact that he hadn’t known about this sooner.

“I should have been at that farce of a trial,” he said. “I’d have set those damn fools straight.”

“Perhaps its better you weren’t, all things considered,” Marley said with a pointed look at Fergus’s turban. Fergus subsided with a grumble, and Marley changed the subject.

“If you’ve enough idle time to waste it visiting two old men—”

“Speak for yourself, man, I’m in my prime—”

“You might consider visiting the Spectacular,” Marley finished.

Nichol perked up. “It’s back? I haven’t heard anything about it!”

“Been back for a few weeks now, but Caithmor isn’t letting them inside the city this time. The Roving Spectacular used to set up in the fairground used for the spring and summer markets,” Marley said for Colm’s benefit, “but this year, the regent’s declared that space off-limits to them. He’s a very religious man, the regent, more so than King Iarra. The priests have always had a problem with the Spectacular, but now that the king is gone, they’re pressing their hand.”

“What exactly is the Spectacular?” Colm asked. “I remember Blake mentioned it once.”

Nichol’s face fell for a moment. “Right. Yeah, he loved it. He always dragged us there every year. It’s a carnival: a traveling show and circus. They’ve got amazing acts, and fortune tellers and caged beasts, and a house of horrors! That was always Blake’s favorite part,” he added sadly.

“The priests don’t like ’em because of the ‘dubious legal nature’ of some of their acts,” Fergus said. “Too close to magic for the likes of the stalwart champions of the Four. They’ve wintered here every year for the past twenty, though, and they’re popular enough that people would complain if they were refused a place here entirely.”

“We should go,” Nichol told Colm. “I bet you’d love it, it’s so strange. I know how you love new, strange things,” he grinned.

“It’s good that you find yourself so amusing,” Colm told him. “Really, at least one person in the room will always appreciate your sparkling wit.”

“Oh, don’t be too shy to admit that that one person is you, love,” Nichol teased him, then froze. Colm stiffened up as well, although he wasn’t really worried, not in this company. It was more because Nichol had never called him that before, never called him anything other than his given name, and certainly not an affectionate diminutive. “Um.” He glanced over at Fergus and Marley, who were looking on in amusement. “I mean…you know, we’re family in a way, and…”

“Have you ever heard of a manticore, lad?” Fergus asked, graciously ignoring the moment of awkwardness. Nichol shook his head, and Fergus launched into the story of losing a camel to the beast when they were sheltering from the sandstorm in the Fasach deserts.

It was interesting to hear it again, and even more interesting for Colm to watch Nichol’s reaction to the story, the longing in his face as he listened to Fergus’s adventures. Nichol was built for action, and Colm worried that he would waste away here if he stood still much longer, with no goal to drive him forward. It was that need for activity that drove them around the city day after day, and each day, Nichol seemed a little more wild-eyed, not less.

They were back at the Cove in time to help with the dinner rush, and that night, Nichol pressed Colm down onto the cot and straddled his shoulders, filling Colm’s mouth with his cock and being louder than usual, louder than he should, but Colm took it all, took him in and sucked hard, and relished every drop as Nichol spent. It didn’t take long. Something about the day had keyed him up. He touched Colm roughly that night, stroking him and talking to him the whole time.

“I never know how much there is to you… I thought you frail once, yet you’ve walked across the continent. I thought you meek, yet you risked your life to save me from a storm. I thought you passive, and yet now I know you’ve cut a man who dared to grab you… Gods, Colm, how much more is there for me to learn about you?” he panted in Colm’s ear, rubbing his thumb roughly over the head of Colm’s cock. “How much is still hidden? Tell me something I don’t know about you yet…”

“I heard you once,” Colm said before he could rethink it. “You and Jaime, in here together.”

Nichol’s hand stopped suddenly. “What?”

“I heard you,” Colm persisted, biting his lip with frustration at the sudden stillness. “I heard you push him against the door, I heard him talk to you, call you Nicky. I heard him come in your mouth, and then you pushed him down on the cot. I left then—I had to go clean up, I’d already come in my drawers without anything, not even a touch, I was a—a mess, oh…” Nichol’s hand was moving again now, slow but building in pressure.

“What else?” Nichol asked, his voice gone guttural in a way it hadn’t with Colm before, like his control wasn’t all there. It was the way he used to sound with Jaime, and Colm tried not to be jealous and aroused by that, but it was far too late to think about protecting his foolish heart anymore.

“I—I went downstairs, out back, to clean up… I was still half-hard, and when I took my clothes off and touched myself and thought about you—gods, Nichol, ahh—”

“Thought about me how?” Nichol demanded, rubbing his stiffening prick against Colm’s thigh as he whipped his hand over Colm’s erection. It was too warm, too much, but perfect. “How, Colm, how did you have me? How did I have you?”

“What you just did—here, on my shoul-shoulders, ah, with your cock in my mouth…and then, then me on my back and you, Nichol, you were inside me, you were filling me, fucking me—fuck—” The memory, coupled with Nichol pressed so close to him now, working him over so rough and so intimate, was the end of Colm’s meager resistance. He groaned loudly, partly with pain and partly with incredible pleasure, and came hard enough to spatter his throat and collarbones.

“Colm,” Nichol hissed, letting him go and using both hands to lever his body up against his lover’s. Colm opened his legs and let Nichol rest between them, pulled his knees back and trembled with the sensation of the slick head of Nichol’s cock sliding against his hole as he rutted fiercely. Gods, yes, Colm wanted that…

Nichol reached a hand down and held his cock steady as he pressed in once, twice, rhythmic and deliberate and gods, every nerve Colm had was on fire and he felt like he couldn’t catch his breath, and the tight bud of his entrance gave a little more with each slippery push until it was open just enough, just enough that the tip entered him, stretching him painfully but so good—

Nichol came like that, pressed that little ways inside Colm’s body, just enough to spill his warmth into Colm. He was shaking by the end of it, and fell back as his arms gave out. Colm felt a little bereft at the sudden loss, but he reached out and pulled Nichol in close, tight against his chest as he wrapped his mind around the sensation of something foreign inside him. It had been just for a moment, but all that did was stoke the urge to feel more.

Nichol moved a hand clumsy with fatigue down between them, and gently pressed his fingertip to Colm’s hole. It was sticky with his come, and when he pressed a bit harder, more oozed out onto his fingers. He finally pressed all the way inside with one, and both of them sighed with satisfaction.

“I’ve never done that before,” Nichol murmured, lips pressed to Colm’s chest. “Never went so far with Jaime. I thought about it, but…it wasn’t right, with him. I want to, though.” He kissed Colm’s nipple, then sucked until it peaked. “I want to do that with you.”

“I want you to,” Colm acknowledged.

“Mmm, but not tonight,” Nichol groaned, fumbling for the damp rag that they’d gotten in the habit of leaving by the cot each night. “Tonight, I am completely spent.” He wiped Colm down, taking special care between his buttocks and thighs, then did himself. “I can’t believe you listened to us,” he said as he rearranged himself on top of Colm. “I wish I had known before.”

“You didn’t need to know I was pining over you back then,” Colm said, running his fingers through Nichol’s wild hair. “It’s enough that you know now, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Nichol agreed. “Colm…you know that I…” His voice broke, and he took a deep breath. “You know that I care for you, don’t you? Deeply. It doesn’t surprise you anymore, does it?”

“No,” Colm said. “Not at all.” And then, because he didn’t say it as often as he wanted to, he added, “I love you.”

“I know,” Nichol whispered.

Chapter Fifteen

The day that followed was in all ways surprising and new, and it started with a letter. A surprise letter, because there hadn’t been one for over a month, and Colm had been convinced that the time of no news from home had finally come, the weather too thick and harsh to support the passing of messages. But a courier brought one to them anyway, and Colm grasped it with eager hands as he thanked the man and gave him a few copper coins for his trouble. Then he turned it immediately over to Nichol, because while his reading ability was slowly improving, he was in no mood to take the time to sound everything out when he had a better way right here, smiling at him over a bowl of chowder at lunchtime.

“One from Anneslea?” Megg asked. “That’s surprising!”

“It is,” Colm agreed. “Nichol…”

“You can’t wait for me to finish my chowder first?” Nichol said teasingly. “Really? Are you that desperate? Because I have to say, I’m positively exhausted, and I need to eat to restore my energy…”

“Exhausted? After working in the kitchen all morning?” Megg reached out and pressed a hand to her grandson’s forehead. “Perhaps you’re coming down with something.”

“Gran! I’m fine, it was just…” Nichol sighed and put down his spoon. “Fine, I’ll read it now.” He opened the letter and shook it out.

“My dearest brother,” he began in his trilling falsetto. “I can only hope that this letter reaches you. I have no one to turn to now except for you, even though I know there is nothing you can do…” Nichol dropped the voice and continued in a more serious manner, his cheer fading. “The winter has barely begun and already it is taking a terrible toll. Anneslea has burned the bodies of three young families who died of sickness so far this season, and many others have lost spouses or children. Even Merdith’s babe has passed. Sam was only a week old, too small and too ill to survive at this time of year, but his loss has been devastating for her and Tellan.

“Honored Gherick believes that Anneslea is being punished by the Four. He says we are too tolerant of licentiousness and weak morals. We are required to attend church every evening for fear of being ostracized by our neighbors, and every night he has a new rant to frighten us with. His latest trial for the faithful is that those of us who are of age submit to arranged marriages to help replenish the stock of the faithful, and I am now old enough to be one of those marriages.”

“Ridiculous!” Megg exclaimed. “That sort of thing hasn’t been done since my own mother was a girl, not even in the rural villages.”

“Keep reading,” Colm urged Nichol. He cleared his throat and went on.

“Mama has done her best to argue against it, she tries anew every morning, but Honored Gherick says that she is blinded by selfishness. Merdith and Tellan agree, and won’t speak to us anymore. I do not know yet who my intended is to be, but I do know that I don’t care for any of the boys in the village enough to want to marry them.

“I think it’s a very good thing that you left when you did. Honored Gherick has banned Hamm from the village—you remember Hamm? He is the hunchback, the wood carver. He is leaving tonight, and I’m going to try to get this letter to him before he leaves. Honored Gherick calls Hamm a sign of the disapproval of the Four. I think, if you had stayed, he would have thought the same about you. I fear the future you might have had, and the one I am being pressed into.

“The marriages are to occur on the first day of spring, but I won’t be here to see it. As soon as the pass clears, I will travel to Isealea, and from there I will do whatever I have to to get to Caithmor. It is likely we won’t converse again until then. Please do not pass a prayer to us. I fear Honored Gherick getting a hint of my plans. Have faith in me, and don’t worry. We will meet again at the Cove, and I shall rejoice to finally be with you again. I miss you terribly, as does Mama. She is stuck here, but I at least might be free.

“All my love, your sister, Baylee.”

Their table was silent for a long moment. Colm reached for the letter and Nichol gave it over, and Colm traced the letters of his sister’s name, the only one apart from his that he could easily recognize on sight.

“It does no good to fret,” Megg said finally, pushing back from the table. “We won’t know anything more until the spring anyhow, so the best course of action is to be patient, wait and see. Baylee’s a smart girl. She’ll figure things out. Anneslea will recover. The Four certainly have better things to do than curse a village because it harbors artisans and fishermen!” Her piece said, Megg strode off to the kitchen.

Logically, Colm knew Megg was right, that there was no way to know what was happening, no way to affect it and therefore no reason to worry about it, but that didn’t help. He could picture it all too clearly in his mind’s eye, and despite how they’d never gotten along, he felt terrible for Merdith. It had to be so painful to lose her babe.

“Colm.” Nichol’s hand on his shoulder snapped him out of it. “Are you all right?”

“No,” he said honestly. “But Megg’s right, there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“Nothing but—”

“Lads!” Megg shouted from the kitchen door. “I need your help in here!”

“Work,” they finished together.

The work wasn’t as effective at relieving Colm’s mind as he’d hoped, however. Neither was the orgasm Nichol skillfully brought him to that evening. Not even the act of reciprocation could completely divert his mind from the pains of his family. Colm lay awake long after Nichol had fallen asleep, holding his lover close while his mind careened through all the awful things that might be happening back in Anneslea.

What if Baylee was married against her will after all? What if Desandre or Kels took sick, what if Merdith couldn’t carry another baby? What if Honored Gherick was somehow right, and the Four had turned their grace from Anneslea? Colm knew it was impossible to know if he could have helped at all with his presence. The mere fact that he was in Caithmor now hinted very firmly at no. But it hurt not to be there with them, supporting and comforting them.

Colm went about his work in a fugue of sorts for the next few days, oblivious to the point where Megg actually lost her temper with him and sent him away from the kitchen when he let an entire batch of bread burn in the ovens that morning. Nichol came after him once the disaster was averted and found him sitting at the very end of the sea wall, drenched with the salty mist and chilled from the bitter wind, and not even realizing it until the warmth of Nichol’s hand on his cheek made him start.

He was even more surprised when Nichol sat down next to him, huddling close to share what little heat could radiate from them. “You can’t stop thinking about it, can you?” he yelled over the wind.

Colm shook his head. Nichol reached out and brushed his pale wet hair back from his eyes. “We’ve got to find a distraction for you, then.”

Was he saying what Colm thought he was saying? While the thought was tempting, his mind and body just hadn’t been very responsive over the last few days. “Nichol…I’m afraid—”

“Not me,” Nichol corrected with a little smile. “Something completely different.”

“What?”

Nichol stood up and held out his hand. “Come and I’ll show you.”

Colm let Nichol pull him to his feet, and as was their habit when alone this far out, they twined their fingers together as they began to slip-slide their way back to the city.

Only this time they didn’t stay in the city. Nichol took Colm down side streets and back alleys until they reached a small gate in the northern wall of Caithmor. He led him through the gate and down the road, and in the distance, Colm could see luridly colored banners flying, strung up on poles and flapping with joyful disdain for the awful weather. Beneath the banners was a small city of tents and wagons, all just as colorful and defiantly bright. The walls of Caithmor seemed gloomy and dark by comparison.

“It’s the Roving Spectacular!” Nichol said with a grin as they got closer. “They’re the largest traveling show in the empire! I meant to take you earlier, but the time never seemed quite right.” The closer they got, the clearer the picture became, and Colm could see now that the wagons that made up the makeshift walls of this place, circled up to keep people from entering wherever they wanted. On the side of each wagon was painted a small, stylized blue eye, wide and lidless.

“What are those for?” Colm asked, pointing at the eyes.

“Ah, those are a warning not to pass without paying,” Nichol said. “If you do, then the eye will see your crime and bad luck will follow you. Or at least that’s what they say. It’s only superstition, but that’s part of the reason that the priests are so annoyed by this place.”

“What will we see here?” Colm asked as they lined up with the other eager city dwellers at the makeshift entrance to the spectacle, really nothing but a few lines of ragged ribbon strung up and several large, strong men standing there to make sure people paid before entering.

“Everything!” Nichol promised. When it was their turn, he handed the girl a silver coin and she bit down on it, then smiled and tied a length of red thread around each of their wrists.

“Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen,” she said, sounding coquettish even though she probably couldn’t be more than fourteen. “If I were you, I’d head to the Pinnacle. The acrobats will be going on any moment.”

“Which is the Pinnacle?” Nichol asked.

“It’s the tallest tent, darling,” she purred, letting her kohl-dark eyelashes flutter. Colm didn’t know whether to be repulsed or amused. She looked too much like his little sister for such a thing to be remotely alluring. “You can’t miss it.”

The paths were muddy and slick from so many feet crossing over them. Colm estimated there were at least twenty wagons here, and there was no shortage of brightly dressed performers, food vendors and merchants all calling out to them, trying to lure people in closer. A group of musicians were set up on a small wooden platform off on one side, blowing out a bawdy tune with their flutes and horns. Several people in vibrant frocks with colored faces danced with each other in front of it, moving with exaggerated steps and flounces, their faces painted to make them look like dolls. Colm slowed down a bit, tempted to linger, but let Nichol urge him onward.

They kept to the path and made it to the Pinnacle, a red-and-blue-striped tent in the very center of the Spectacular. Inside of it, near the back of the tent, was a circle of low torches which a young boy was running around lighting now. There was only standing room, but Colm found he was taller than almost everyone else there and could see just fine. Nichol wasn’t so lucky and hopped up and down several times before swearing.

“Would you like to climb up on my shoulders?” Colm teased him, feeling lighter than he had in almost a week.

He didn’t expect to see Nichol’s eyes narrow as though he were really considering the proposition. “Not your shoulders, your back,” he said at last. “Bend down and be ready to grab my legs.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“You offered,” Nichol reminded him with a grin. “Come on, don’t you love me? Isn’t giving me a lift up included in your definition of love?”

“Using my love against me,” Colm sighed even as he bent down. “I see now that the thrill is gone.” Nichol slid up against his back, wrapped his arms around Colm’s shoulders and jumped up, tightening his legs around Colm’s waist.

“I think that we’re nowhere near sounding out the deeps of what thrills us together,” Nichol whispered in his ear. He was half-hard against Colm’s back, and he wiggled his hips suggestively. Colm bit his lip to hold back a groan, before fortunately both of them were distracted by the entrance of the ringmaster.

He was a tall man, almost as tall as Colm, and broad like a barrel through his shoulders and chest. He had a pitch-black beard, full and flowing halfway down his chest, and he wore a floppy crimson hat with a long feather the color of flame protruding from the top of it. His red velvet breeches and doublet were an old style, elegant enough for a lord but fairly ill fitting. It didn’t matter. His voice was what captivated people, and when he spoke, it was like hearing a thunderclap.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Rogues and roustabouts, women and wenches, and all you little urchins out there! Welcome to the Roving Spectacular, the greatest and most magnificent, most stunning and most breathtaking show in the whole of the empire—nay, the world!” He threw up his hands, and cheers roared out from the press of spectators.

“I, Regar Brighteyes, have gathered the death-defying, the awe-inspiring, the most miraculous of performers during my travels and brought them together here to shock and amaze you! You will see the exotic, the mysterious, and the magical—simple tricks only there, so as to please the Four, but they will nevertheless captivate you,” he assured the skeptical as he made the X of the Four in front of his chest.

“Prepare yourselves, all you wide-eyed walkers in the wild, and steady your hands and your hearts, because this first act is a vision of skill, a performance to captivate the eyes and the mind. The Bellari clan, a family of acrobats trained practically from birth to twist and bend, will astonish and astound even the most hardened souls amongst you. Prepare yourselves, and welcome to the ring…the Bellari!” He turned and bowed all at once, sweeping his cap off and snapping his fingers. Instantly, the ring of torches flared, causing a ripple through the crowd as the first few rows leaned back so they wouldn’t catch on fire. By the time people’s eyes had adjusted and the flames had fallen, the ringmaster was gone, and the acrobats were entering.

The men catapulted in leaps and bounds out of the back of the tent, flipping backwards over each other, their bodies crossing at such high speeds that it seemed impossible they wouldn’t hit each other, and yet they didn’t. They wore body-hugging outfits of bright gold that glinted in the light of the torches, the only source of light within the darkened interior of the tent.

There were women as well, strong, incredibly flexible girls who went from walking upright to upside down without missing a step, as though their limbs were the spokes of a wheel. Their outfits were sparkling silver, and as the men hoisted them into the air and threw them, turning tight somersaults over and over, from one side of the ring to the other, they looked like falling stars, or the wavering reflection of the moon on a wild sea. They looked beautiful and rare, and Colm was utterly captivated. It shouldn’t have been possible for him to have noticed the small hand that touched his belt, deftly slipping his slender coin purse out from beneath his tunic, especially not with his hands full of Nichol, but he did.

Colm grabbed for the hand in the dark, losing his grip on Nichol’s leg and making him squawk. Colm saw the light at the nearest edge of the tent as the little thief ran, and he put Nichol the rest of the way down, answering his questions with nothing more than a “I’ll be just a moment, wait!” before running out into the dirty gray light of the day.

There were people everywhere outside, some trying to push their way into the Pinnacle to see the show, others milling about talking with friends, others stepping steadfastly on their way to whatever had caught their eye next. Colm scanned the crowd rapidly, looking everywhere for someone who was running—there! A child, glancing back and looking surprised for just a moment before he took off again. Colm gave chase, his long legs eating up the distance between them despite the child’s much better knowledge of the little lanes of the Spectacular.

Colm darted around a man holding an enormous spotted beast on a leash, which snapped idly at him as he raced by, doing his best to keep the child in sight. They were moving away from the central tents now, into the outskirts which were more wagon than tent, where the only people plying a trade were selling space in their bed. The child ducked and dodged, far more agile than Colm in the narrow spaces, and after a few more yards, Colm knew he wasn’t going to reach the thief before he managed to slip away.

As it turned out, someone else reached for the child instead. The boy was darting full speed ahead one moment and the next he was falling over a carefully placed stick, perfectly smooth and painted in black-and-red stripes. The boy hit the ground hard, knocking the breath out of him, and before he could get up and run again, a slender hand had wrapped around his wrist and hauled him upright.

“What have we here?” the man attached to the hand asked, coming out from behind the wagon he’d been leaning against and shaking the boy lightly. Colm stopped a few feet away from them, trying to catch his breath. “Ah, you’ve been thieving again…” the man leaned in and sniffed, “Kalo, isn’t it? How do you think your mama would feel about you thieving in this crowd and being poor enough at it to prompt a chase?” He nodded his head back at Colm.

“She wouldna like it,” Kalo the budding thief mumbled.

“No, she bloody well wouldna,” the strange man agreed. “Whatever you took, toss it to him.”

Kalo unclenched his fist and threw Colm’s purse back at him. Colm caught it and checked—every copper piece was still there. The man listened to him jingle the purse and shook his head despairingly.

“You’d risk your freedom for so little reward? Kalo, you truly are hopeless at this. Go back to firewalking with the rest of your family and leave the thieving to those who can actually get away with it.” He let go of the boy’s arm, and Kalo ran off as if Colm were still chasing him. “Ah, to be young and foolish again,” the man said sarcastically, then turned to Colm. “And who do we have here?”

“Colm Weathercliff,” Colm said automatically even though his mind was a thousand leagues away, trying to take in the picture that this man made. He looked like he had a few years on Colm: he was a bit shorter, a bit thinner, with hair the color of cast iron that hung down past his shoulders. He wore a white linen shirt with a short vest in riotous colors over the top, and black leather breeches that clung to his frame as if they had been painted on. His fingernails were painted crimson, matching the strip of cloth that was tied tight around his eyes. His toenails were crimson too, and as out of place as his bare feet on this cold, muddy ground. He held the red-and-black-striped cane loosely in one hand, and it took all of this put together for Colm to finally realize that the beautiful man must be blind.

“Weathercliff,” the man said, rolling the name around in his mouth like he was tasting it. “A famous name in these parts.”

“Not one of the Caresfall Weathercliffs,” Colm said, a bit tiredly.

“No? Are you sure? Because you haven’t lived here long, have you? I daresay there are plenty of things you don’t know yet about yourself or the name you hold.”

“How do you know that?” Colm asked.

“You don’t have the sound of a native of Caithmor, Colm Weathercliff. More like the high mountains, but not so far that you abuse your ‘r’s like a northerner…probably not far from Isealea, I’d expect.”

“That’s amazing,” Colm said, impressed despite himself.

“I’ve been living on the road my whole life. I’ve learned a thing or two in that time.” The man tilted his head in consideration. “You should let me read your future.”

“Is that what you are? A fortune teller?”

“Not at all,” the man replied. “If you want card tricks and crystal balls, Amielda does a lovely business closer to the Pinnacle. No, I’m not as much fun as her, Colm Weathercliff. I read the futures that are brought to my doorstep, as you have been. It’s Fate. There’s nothing to be done for it. Call me a seer, if you must call me anything. So, what do you say?” He smiled winsomely. His teeth were a little crooked but surprisingly white. “Will you sit with me awhile, or do I have to run in order to get you to tempt Fate?”

“I’d like to know your name first,” Colm said, a bit surprised that he was actually considering it. He knew Nichol would be looking for him, and he’d like to see some more of the show, but…this felt like something special. Perhaps there was an element of destiny to it, as the man claimed.

“My name? How very polite of you.” The man bowed with a flourish, sweeping his cane out to the side, which somehow managed to avoid the laundry lines and wagon walls. “Kiaran Brighteyes, most ironically at your service. Now.” He straightened up and gestured at the wagon he’d been leaning against. “Do you mind if we take this somewhere more comfortable? I didn’t have time to put my boots on before that little scamp ran by, and I’m afraid I’m rather colder than is comfortable.”

“Of course,” Colm said, and found himself following Kiaran around the edge of the wagon, up a small set of removable steps and into a tiny little foyer with a glowing brazier in the center, his view of the rest of the wagon blocked off by thick, tatty curtains that smelled like smoke and incense.

“They keep the cold from sinking too deep into the rest of my little home,” Kiaran said, sitting down and crossing his legs elegantly. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” Colm sat with nowhere near the same grace, rubbing his hands over the brazier to warm them up a bit.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Kiaran asked as he pushed his cane away beneath one of the curtains. “It heats the place rather well. Now then, Colm. I know you don’t have much time, so why don’t you give me your hand, and I’ll find out what Fate wants me to see so badly?”

“You’re very certain about all this, aren’t you?” Colm asked, pushing his sleeve up even as he felt a frisson of—excitement? fear?—curl up his spine.

Kiaran smiled crookedly. “If you’d grown up the way I had, you wouldn’t question it either. Now. Hand.” Colm extended his hand, and Kiaran took it confidently. His fingers were surprisingly soft and warm.

“Anneslea. I was rather close, wasn’t I,” he murmured. “You’ve scarcely kicked the mountain snow from your boots yet, have you?” Smoke floated up out of the brazier, sweet and heady. Colm closed his eyes to keep them from stinging.

“What an interesting talent you have, Colm Weathercliff. And how desperate they are to keep you from using it.” Kiaran laughed briefly. “I know that feeling all too well. And here, oh, a sweet new lover… What a passion that is, how delightful it must be. A bit illicit, and not something I would have considered of you immediately.”

Colm pulled back on his hand reflexively, his eyes flying open, but Kiaran was already making tutting, soothing sounds. “No, no, I don’t judge. Some loves are simply meant to be, and this might be one of them. There’s nothing you or I or the Four or even the Two can do to fight the pull, so acceptance is always the best path in the end. He’s a bonny lad.” He tilted his head again, his fingertips smoothing over and over the palm of Colm’s hand.

“Why would that…no, it can’t be.” He shook his head and pressed harder, his absent smile turning into a focused frown. “How…no. No. Not good enough, I have to see it to be sure.” Kiaran reached up to his face and pulled down the blindfold. Colm started with surprise when he saw the pure white irises of Kiaran’s eyes, then felt his surprise give way to complete shock when the white drained out of them, leaving behind celadon circles pricked with brown, staring at Colm with matching astonishment.

“You’re not blind,” Colm said, his voice rising at the end as if to question the validity of what he’d just seen.

“It only leaves me at times like this,” Kiaran replied, squeezing his eyes shut and then opening them again, the astonishment still on his face. “When I’m seeing a great truth. Amazing…I never thought I would get the chance to both ruin and save the same person, especially not… Colm Weathercliff, do you have any idea what you will become?”

“You say that like I won’t be myself.” Even as Colm spoke, he saw the white cloud over Kiaran’s eyes again, and after a moment, Kiaran sighed and dropped his chin. “What will I be? What are you trying to say?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t happen,” Kiaran replied, not as casually as before. His hands shook slightly as he retied the crimson blindfold across his face. “Not in the way Fate has planned, and let me be the first to assure you that only bad things happen when we go changing the course of Fate. The first option is almost always the best.”

“You can’t just leave me wondering,” Colm protested. Had Kiaran seen something about his sister? Was Colm going to do something that would land him in the Ardeaglais again?

“Ah, but I’m a performer! It’s our business to leave people wondering.” Kiaran smiled broadly and indicated the stairs. “Your friend is looking for you. I suggest you go and put his mind at ease. You’ll see him on the far side of the Pinnacle.”

“Please,” Colm said. He reached out and touched the back of Kiaran’s hand, which surprised the other man into freezing. “Please tell me what you saw. I can’t go without knowing more.”

“I’m afraid,” Kiaran said in an equally soft voice, “that you’ll have to. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Colm Weathercliff. Be assured that someday I won’t.” Kiaran pulled back and indicated the stairs again. “Go on, then.”

Colm could have pressed it further, but he wasn’t the sort of man who would resort to threats for almost any reason, and he sensed that even if he tried, he wouldn’t get anything more from the seer. He left the warmth of the wagon, not at all surprised when the entrance shut behind him. Colm shook his head to clear it of the smoke that lingered in his nose and eyes, then looked around for the spire of the Pinnacle. When he saw it, he headed in that direction, one hand tight around his money pouch.

Nichol was exactly where Kiaran had said he would be, around the back of the enormous tent with his neck craned back, searching for Colm. When he saw him, Nichol’s face broke out in a huge relieved smile, and he sprinted the rest of the distance between then.

“What happened to you?” he demanded, settling his hands on Colm’s shoulders. The touch steadied him, and just looking at Nichol made Colm feel better. “One moment, I’ve the best view in the crowd; the next, my perch is flying away without me.”

“A boy stole my money pouch,” Colm explained. “I went after him.”

“I bet he was long gone.”

Feeling a little smug, Colm lifted the pouch up and jingled it. “Not quite.” He enjoyed the look of surprised pleasure on Nichol’s face for a moment before continuing, “Although it wasn’t really my doing. Someone else actually caught the boy, and he told me some very interesting things.”

“What sort of things?”

They walked around while Colm relayed what had happened with Kiaran: the things he’d said, how his eyes had changed, even the fact that he’d known where Nichol was going to be. Nichol listened to all Colm’s impressions and lingering concern, and then immediately set about trying to make it better.

“You said there was smoke,” Nichol noted. “It’s possible he’d laced it with something to make you suggestible, something to change the way you perceived things. Plenty of fortune tellers use tricks like that to make themselves seem more omniscient. He might have been talking about how he likes to tickle himself with feathers, and it could still come off as mystical to you.”

“I don’t think it was like that,” Colm replied, but not with complete certainty.

“Maybe he had a knack, like you do. Maybe he really could tell a few things about you, but mostly it was just…just insinuating something big and then telling you to leave, right? And he didn’t charge you?”

“No.”

“It was a teaser, then. Something to capture your attention, something for you to dwell on until you’re driven crazy with having to know more, and that’s when he charges you in silver instead of time.” Nichol shrugged. “As for how he knew where I was…well, have you seen this place? Everyone is close to the Pinnacle. It didn’t matter what he said, you’d have found me nearby.” He glanced at Colm. “Does that help at all?”

“It does,” Colm told him, not entirely convinced, but how could he make Nichol believe without taking him there himself? And Colm didn’t want to do that.

“Look, here!” Nichol pulled him to a large, dark-blue tent with a sign above it that had no words, just a painting of a skeleton in a top hat, bony arms spread to welcome them inside. “It’s the House of Horrors! There are all sorts of strange things inside here. You’ve got to see them with me.” Nichol surged ahead, and Colm followed in his wake.

Inside the tent, the light was hazy, just clear enough so that they could make out the shapes of things but not enough to see a great amount of detail. A man with skinny legs and a round, enormous belly sat on a stool just to the left of the entrance, the fingers of one hand wrapped around a flask, the others stroking his gut soothingly. He looked up at them and said, “Four coppers to see it all.” Colm opened his purse and pulled out the money, which he took quickly. “Keep those hands to yourself, gents,” he added before turning his attention to the next person seeking entrance.

“Come on,” Nichol said, leading the way. “They have a glass tank here with a grundylow in it. It’s brilliant.”

The House of Horrors was packed with people, and making their way through it took time. Tables were set up here and there, with cages and jars lining them, all chained down and all containing strange and exotic creatures that Colm could barely make out in the faint light. Each one also had a label, which Nichol read off helpfully.

“A marsh-faerie corpse,” he said as they examined the withered little husk in the cage. “Fire-bellied toads,” the next cage read, and after that, “A unicorn skull.”

“Why must everything be dead?” Colm asked, feeling a bit sick to his stomach.

“It’s probably hard to keep them alive, even if they could catch them that way,” Nichol said absently as he looked at the next few jars. “I imagine they eat all sorts of different things, and the Roving Spectacular travels all over the continent, so they’d pass out of each creature’s territory in—oh, here, here’s the mermaid head Blake talked about! You remember?”

Colm did remember that, Blake so insistent and Jaime so dismissive. It had been a moment that had cemented Blake in his mind as a real person and not just another follower of Jaime Windlove. Colm leaned in and peered at the jar.

That there was a head inside of it was certain. The neck had been poorly severed, leaving dangling tendrils of flesh and sinew to pool in the bottom of the jar. The mouth was propped open, leaving its teeth on display. The canines were sharp, as Lew had recounted, but the rest of the teeth were normal enough. Gills flared open on the sides of the neck, and the face…well, the face itself was a wreck, partially decomposed and hard to make out. The eyes themselves were completely gone, but a few decorative spines protruded from the sides of the face, and there had once been something like hair on that head, although most of it had been chopped away, probably to keep it from obscuring the features.

The gaping, empty eye sockets still seemed to glare, accusing every person who looked at the head of blasphemy, keeping the creature within from the proper burial that its own people might have given to it. Colm stood up quickly, not wanting to see any more. “Is the grundylow close?” he asked Nichol, because if it wasn’t, they were getting out of this place, this traveling desecrator of the dead.

“It should be just back here,” Nichol promised. They made their way along the path, denoted with hanging netting that obscured the view beyond the queue, until they turned the final corner and came into the part of the tent that housed the grundylow in its tank.

The tank was large, taller than Colm and equally as wide. It was filled with murky water, and within the depths of the water was a creature… It was hard to make out, but it seemed to have the lower body of an octopus and the torso of a child, with extra-long arms and an inhuman, fishy face. It swept from side to side in the tank, gnashing its teeth at the admiring crowd and occasionally splashing them with foul water.

“It’s just like I remember,” Nichol said excitedly. “Come on, let’s get closer.”

They hadn’t taken more than two steps before the grundylow looked their way and shrieked. It swept all its tentacles at the top of the tank, sending a massive spray of water over the edge, then curled up at the back of the tank in a ball, covering its body as best it could with a few water weeds.

The tent emptied in moments, the people driven out by the filthy water seeping across the ground. Colm was inexpressibly grateful to be outside again, even though it had begun to rain. He lifted his face to the sky and inhaled deeply.

“Well,” Nichol said, stamping his feet to clear a bit of the mud from them. “That wasn’t exactly what I was expecting.”

“Nor me,” Colm said on his exhale. It was starting to get dark. “Do you mind if we go?”

“Do you feel sufficiently distracted yet?” Nichol asked.

“Distracted from what?” Colm replied, enjoying the way his answer made Nichol laugh. “Fairly distracted, yes,” he added.

“Fairly! I take him to the greatest spectacular in the world, and he finds it ‘fairly distracting’!” Nichol threw up his hands in an elaborate why, gods, why? gesture. “You can be a hard man to please, do you know that?”

Colm slid a little closer, letting his hands creep beneath the edge of Nichol’s cloak to rest against his waist. “I think I’m a rather easy man to please, actually.”

“Really?” Nichol shifted closer as well. “Because I was thinking we might try a new way, tonight—of pleasing you, that is. Of pleasing us both.”

Colm knew what he was referring to, and just the thought of it made his cock begin to ache with anticipation. “Then I think we should get back to the Cove as soon as possible.” They set out at a rapid pace, leaving the chaos of the Spectacular behind. “Besides, Megg will want us to help with dinner,” he added, and Nichol groaned.

“I didn’t need that reminder,” he scolded Colm as the city gate slowly came into focus.

Honestly, Colm wished he hadn’t had to remember it himself. The night felt interminable, with the Cove completely packed with both diners and those who had taken rooms, and all of them seemed to need something extraordinary. He was sent out to buy fresh soap, oil for lanterns and a dozen new blankets for the rooms, and by the time the crowd had diminished, Nichol was nowhere to be seen, and Colm felt tired to his bones. His mind a bit of a mess, he left Megg with a kiss good night and climbed slowly up to their room, wondering if perhaps Nichol were already asleep on their cot.

Nichol was there, but he wasn’t asleep. The room had been transformed, the cot pushed on its side against the far wall and all the blankets, including a number that should have been in the inn itself, were spread out on the floor, a soft, inviting nest. There were two candles instead of one, both lit, and the air smelled faintly sweet. Nichol was on his knees smoothing out a pillow with one hand, and he looked over at Colm with an expression caught between excitement and embarrassment. “I thought the cot would be too small for…and it’s cold, so I had to use extra blankets for the floor.”

“You’re the reason she sent me to buy new ones?” Colm asked, toeing his boots off and setting them by the door.

“I might be,” Nichol allowed with a faint smile. “But it will be worth it to be on something soft and warm, right?”

“It will be worth it simply because I’m with you,” Colm told him.

He was surprised by how quickly Nichol leapt to his feet, how tight the grip he had on Colm was as he kissed him desperately.

“You don’t know…when you say those things…how can you say such things?” Nichol demanded, dominating Colm’s mouth with his own. The fire that had been banked all evening flared to a sudden brilliance in Colm’s chest, and he pulled Nichol even closer and ground against him, eager for more.

“Clothes,” Nichol muttered. “Get them off. Fast.” They both stripped, and before he knew it, Colm was on his back on the blankets, Nichol leaning over him and kissing him like the only breath he could use was one that passed from Colm’s lips to his.

Colm felt incredibly aware of their nudity, perhaps because they were in a place where they could actually spread themselves out instead of tucking in tight, perhaps because of what they were trying to do. The light from the candles softened the curves of Nichol’s body, turning every movement into a harmony of golden skin and shadows. If it could make Nichol look so glorious, Colm could only hope it did something close to that for him.

“Beautiful,” Nichol murmured against his lips. “Perfect. Gods, I want you so much.”

“You can have me,” Colm replied between kisses. “I want that. I want you.” The memory of them coming so close had fueled his fantasies for the past few days, and Colm was ready to go further. “Did you find…”

“Yes,” Nichol said, reaching above Colm’s head and dipping his fingers in a shallow bowl. “It’s almond oil. It should work to ease the way.” As delicious as what they’d done last time had been, Colm was still grateful they hadn’t continued, because even that little bit of penetration had left him feeling raw. “Shall I touch you, then?”

“Yes,” Colm said, and then he couldn’t speak at all, because Nichol’s slick, sweet-smelling hand stroked a line across his perineum, where the skin was tender and soft and so close to where Colm wanted Nichol to be. Oil slid from Nichol’s fingertips down the crevice of Colm’s thighs until it caught on the tight, delicate folds of his entrance. The tip of Nichol’s middle finger brushed him lightly, and Colm knew that if he wasn’t careful, he was going to come far too soon. He gripped his cock tightly around the base and squeezed.

“No,” Nichol said, his voice a throaty murmur in Colm’s ear, “don’t do that. Let me take my time with you. You’ll get there again.” He lowered his mouth to the tip of Colm’s cock and sucked it inside, all the while rubbing over and over Colm’s hole, pressing and retracting with the oil easing his slow incursion.

It was a fiery paradise, it was a terrible bliss. So much sensation all at once, new and strange and welcome and familiar all blending together, and it left Colm feeling like his own skin was too tight, like he needed to burst free of it somehow. He let go of his cock and let Nichol work him over, gave himself over to his lover’s desires and in no time, hardly anything at all, he planted his feet on the floor and arched into Nichol’s mouth, coming so hard he forgot to breathe.

When Colm regained his senses, he realized two things: one, Nichol had somehow worked two fingers inside of him while he was busy orgasming, and two, that whatever they were pressing against felt really, really good. Colm was almost too sensitive but not quite, just enough to keep him riding the edge of his pleasure instead of falling over into either pain or giving in to languor.

“You like this?” Nichol asked quietly, and Colm hummed his assent. “What does it feel like?”

“Strange,” Colm said honestly. “Intimate. Good, it feels good.”

“Not painful?”

“Not at all,” Colm assured him. It really wasn’t, not even when Nichol slid a third finger in next to the other two. It stretched him, and the stretch carried a bit of a burn, but even that Colm was learning to enjoy. “It’s good,” Colm repeated, shutting his eyes and bearing down a bit on the fingers within him, tightening around them and smiling when he made Nichol gasp. “It will be even better when it’s you.”

“Do you think this is enough?” The desperation in Nichol’s voice was plain, and Colm knew he had to be as hard as stone.

“I think so. Try.”

Nichol lifted his head and slowly pulled his fingers free. Colm felt odd without them inside. One moment, he’d verged on too full, but now he just felt hollow. Nichol scooped up more oil and rubbed it over his cock, bright red and as hard as Colm had ever seen it. Colm couldn’t resist reaching out and touching it, coiling his fingers around it and squeezing just to see what would happen.

What happened was Nichol grabbing his wrist and stilling his hand as he let out a keen. “It’s too much,” he whispered harshly. “I want to be inside you before…”

“Fine.” Colm kissed his lover, and some of the tension eased out of his shoulders and back. “That’s fine. Here, let me turn.” Face-to-face would be nice, but Colm wasn’t sure he had the flexibility for that, and they both wanted the first time to go well. He got onto his hands and knees and waited, breathless, for a touch.

Nichol smoothed his hands over Colm’s hips, down the knobby length of his spine and back. One finger dipped inside, testing again, and Colm grimaced and pushed back hard, because one finger was nowhere near enough. Nichol pressed a fast kiss to the small of his back, then moved forward, until their legs were tight against each other’s and Nichol’s cock pressed insistently at Colm’s entrance. The oil made the first inch easy, until Colm’s body caught on to the strangeness, the newness of what was happening to it, and tightened.

“’S fine,” Nichol murmured, bringing his hand around to lightly stroke Colm’s cock, still half-soft and not yet recovered. “Breathe, Colm.” The touch helped somewhat, a welcome distraction from the burn, and the reminder helped more. Colm sucked in one deep breath, then another, and his muscles unconsciously relaxed. Nichol slid forward, slow but persistent, until finally they were completely flush, their bodies locked together.

“Oh gods,” Nichol sighed. “You’re…it’s…Colm, tell me you’re all right. Tell me I can move again.”

“Go,” Colm said, because his body was adapting with surprising speed, and he felt…not perfectly ready, but certainly impatient. “Go, go!” And Nichol went.

It was still slow, but the movement made things feel better. Warmer. Colm shut his eyes and focused on that feeling of warmth, of fullness and the sheer fact that Nichol was in him, moving with him and around him. He spread his knees a bit, trying to find—

“Oh!” There it was, that spot, that place that had felt so good before. It was even better now, not as sensitive as it had been right after his orgasm. Colm canted his hips back and lowered his head, and Nichol’s chuckle was positively filthy.

“Have we found it, then?” he asked breathlessly, moving a bit faster.

“Yesss.” They certainly had, and it felt like lightning in his blood, coursing through the channels of his body and readying for a strike.

“Perfect. I want…gods, I want you to…do you think you can come? Like this?” Nichol’s fingers dug into the sides of Colm’s hips as he started to thrust in earnest.

“Don’t know,” Colm replied, equally breathless. He swayed with Nichol’s movements for a moment, then began to push back on his own. The harder and faster they moved, the more favorably his body seemed to respond. The gentleness of the past few months was stripped away, and all that was left was the desperate urge for more, faster, harder. “Nichol…”

“I’m…this…” The more inarticulate Nichol became, the closer he was to finishing. Colm let him chase his own pleasure as he reached one hand down and fisted his own cock, working his tight hand across the head with a flurry of motion. Their movement became faster, faster, so much so that Colm thought he might lose his balance and collapse, but then Nichol groaned gutturally, pressed as far inside Colm as he could get and came. Colm felt it, the delicious warm wetness of it inside, and his cock swelled in his hand, so close.

Nichol, once he caught his breath, didn’t stop moving, thank the gods. He stayed inside, moving slower now, incrementally softening but still hard enough to press that spot, and that, plus the feel of his spend leaking out of Colm’s hole around Nichol’s cock, was enough to make Colm come. He lowered his head and muffled the wild noise that tore from his throat against a pillow as he pulsed over his fist, a lesser but gut-wrenching flow that left him as weak as a minnow afterwards.

Nichol finally pulled back, gentle at last, and Colm fell facedown onto the blankets, completely oblivious to the spots of damp beneath him. Nichol joined him after a moment, plastering himself to Colm’s side and peppering what he could reach of his face with kisses.

Gradually, their breathing rates calmed down enough that they could speak again. “Are you all right?” Nichol asked.

“Mmm, you could say that,” Colm mused, feeling utterly satisfied. “It wouldn’t do the state I’m in justice, though.”

“I’m that good, am I?” Nichol said, and they both laughed a little.

“I think it’s more that I am,” Colm jested, and was taken aback when Nichol didn’t keep laughing, just smiled and said, “I agree.”

Was it as good as you imagined it would be, Colm wanted to ask. Was it better than with Jaime? But he couldn’t quite bring himself to be that overtly jealous of Nichol. “Do you really?”

“Yes,” Nichol replied with gratifying quickness. “I think you’re amazing.” He leaned in and kissed the top of Colm’s head, then added, “And sticky, probably, and perhaps a little uncomfortable. So I should do something about that.” And he did, cleaning both of them up with water and a rag set well aside from the action.

Eventually, the blankets and the two of them were as clean as they were going to get, the candles were blown out, and they huddled together in the middle of the pile, sharing the pillow like always even though there was plenty of room to spread out. Nichol fell asleep first, snoring gently, and Colm looked down at him and thought to himself, if I could keep this life, I would. Or even just be with him, however the rest turns out. That would be enough for me.

Perhaps, even, it might be enough for Nichol.

Chapter Sixteen

Winter dragged its claws through Caithmor relentlessly, bringing sleet, snow and even an ice storm. The days passed with agonizing slowness, not only due to the tiresome repetition of the routine at the Cove but also for intensely personal reasons. No more letters from Colm’s sister came, and with every day that passed, Colm wondered more and more if she was all right.

He worried she would run too early and get caught and brought back, or run and get lost in the mountains and fall from a trail, or be buried beneath a drift. He worried she wouldn’t run soon enough and would instead be trapped into a marriage she didn’t want. He worried silently but incessantly, and only hard labor or a night with Nichol could clear his mind.

With Nichol, the moods were less plain. He would be fine for days, for weeks, a brightly burning fire around which the rest of them could flutter to warm their own spirits. Then something might happen—word from the fleet, none of which was good, or an incident that reminded him of Jaime or Blake or Ollie—or nothing might happen, and he would still rise in a gray mood, disinclined to smile or to put up with the company of others. On those days, Nichol left the Cove before breakfast, and Colm learned that sometimes it was better not to go after him. Sometimes they both needed solitude, and Colm wasn’t going to press his luck by rendering himself unwelcome.

Every evening, though, Nichol came back, and even if he was still silent and withdrawn, he slept nestled against Colm. If he was ready to let go of his mood, it was even better, and more often than not, their nights together began with hands and lips and tender kisses, thrusts and squirms and halting gasps as they took each other apart in their quest for pleasure.

When the poor weather finally broke, two weeks before the start of spring, Nichol’s mood took an abrupt turn for the better. “Sunshine on the sea!” he exclaimed, running over to the taproom window and staring out at the sky, which was clear of clouds for once. “How fantastic! It’s past time. I thought the sun had decided to hide in the mountains forever.”

“They should be so lucky,” Colm said absently, already thinking on his sister. “More likely the snow is still a foot deep and the loch frozen over.”

“We should go out in it.”

Colm looked curiously at Nichol. “We go out in it every day.”

“No, I mean we should go out in the water. Sunshine on the water, Colm! Surely you want to feel that!”

Colm wondered when Nichol had lost his mind. “It’s likely to be just a shade above freezing still, no matter how bright the sun shines today.”

“Nonsense, it’ll be perfect for it.”

“Are you ill, perhaps?” Colm imitated Megg and pressed a hand to Nichol’s forehead. “Has a fever taken you that I somehow failed to notice?”

Nichol batted his hand away. “No, and no. I just… Look, it’s the sun, Colm! Don’t you want to…to be a part of it? And besides, you haven’t learned how to swim yet,” he added in what he clearly thought was a logical tone.

“You want to teach me to swim in that? Today, really?”

And then Nichol made that face, that terrible face that he kept locked away, to be used only when he wanted something. It was a pitiable face, blended with just enough pouty beauty that Colm, Megg and most of the people who worked at the Cove had difficulty saying no to it. “Oh gods, fine,” Colm said, downing the last of his tepid tea.

Nichol laughed. “You won’t regret it! Or, you know, you might, but I certainly won’t.”

Megg was less than amused. “I thought you outgrew this, Nichol! You can’t be draggin’ him out into the surf when he’s never even wet his toes before! What if he’s washed away?”

“What if he turns into a seal?” Nichol retorted. “What if that happens and he swims in circles around me? Not that I expect it to,” he added quickly. “It can only happen if you’re a full half, and Grandad only became a seal at the end of his human life because the line between magic and man weakens then. You’re fine, you’re healthy, you wouldn’t… Don’t become a seal, Colm,” he finished with a frown.

“I don’t think that would happen,” Colm said, although he was briefly reminded of the warm feeling of what should be cold water, the way it made him itch sometimes, like his skin was too small. Still, he felt far more like a man, and a somewhat irritated one, than anything magical. But now Nichol was looking like he regretted bringing it up, his early happiness gone, and Colm hated to see that. “And I should certainly learn to swim.”

“Right! Of course you should. You see, Gran?” He turned to Megg and grinned. “Today is a day for an adventure, even Colm agrees.”

“He agrees with everything you say, and every path you lead him down,” Megg declared, but she sent them on their way a bundle of hot bread, spare clothes and an admonishment to “not be seen, for the gods’ sake!”

“It’s sweet that she worries about our reputations,” Colm commented as they walked toward the sea wall. It was still fairly early, but the water was surprisingly still. There was a bite in the air but nothing like the cold of earlier in the week, and he felt his own heart lighten considerably just by being outside in the sun.

“She worries for your reputation,” Nichol corrected cheekily. “I’m afraid mine is all done in. The boy with the bad luck, that’s me.” It didn’t seem to bother him too much today, but Colm still didn’t want his mind to go too far down that path.

“Not so bad these days,” Colm said, and Nichol bumped their shoulders together.

“Perhaps not,” he agreed. “I used to do this with them, you know. Jaime and the others. On the first nice day, we’d head out here and strip to our skin and jump in the water. It’ll be bloody cold, but there’s something about it that just feels right, like a ritual of spring. At least it did for us.”

Nichol kept up a steady stream of chatter as they neared the sea wall. There were the remnants of old docks on the inland side of the piled-up boulders, shattered planks of wood that nevertheless provided them with something to climb down onto, rather than just jumping headfirst into the water. They’d sat just above them before, but now Nichol was stripping down to his skin, not bothering to wait for Colm, not waiting for anything. He handed his clothes to Colm and shivered a little in the breeze.

“It’s the anticipation,” he said when he saw Colm noticing, “not cold.” Then he looked down at himself and reassessed. “Never mind, it’s absolutely the cold. Otherwise, it wouldn’t look like that, and don’t laugh!”

“I’m sorry,” Colm choked back, trying to contain himself. “I know, I know how it looks, Nichol, I’m not…not judging…” He smothered his giggles in Nichol’s shirt.

“Git,” Nichol complained. “Why do I put up with you? All right, so…maybe I should have explained some about swimming before I went and got naked…”

“It can’t be that hard,” Colm said reasonably. “Children do it. Animals do it.”

“It isn’t hard, really, I just… Thrashing around isn’t good. Look, just stay next to the logs when you get in and hold on, and we’ll work on it from there, okay? Start with floating, although the gods know that will be difficult for you, you’ve no spare flesh to buoy you up.”

Before Colm could reply to that, Nichol had turned and stepped down onto the nearest log, which sank a bit under his weight. “Oh lord,” he muttered, “that’s brisk.”

“Just think of the sunshine,” Colm told him. “You’ll be fine.”

“You think of the sunshine,” Nichol replied, but he was still smiling, even if it was a little rueful. “Oh, I hope there are no urchin attached to these…all right, I’m going to do it.” His muscles tensed, but he didn’t move. “I really am this time.”

“I’ll just sit down and wait for the mood to come upon you, then,” Colm said, not bothering to hide his playful sarcasm.

“Oh, wait until it’s your turn. You won’t be so bloody cheeky then,” Nichol warned him. “Far less high and mighty when you’re the one worrying about keeping your—” The log under his feet suddenly rolled, pitching him forward, and Nichol was thrown into the water with a yell, limbs akimbo.

“Nichol?” Colm set the clothes aside and leaned forward, looking for pale skin and dark hair. He didn’t see anything, and reached out to dip his fingers into the water for the first time since stealing Lew’s boat. “Nichol!” What if he’d hit his head, what if he were injured—

A wet hand emerged from the water and grabbed Colm’s wrist just an inch before he touched the surface. “Ha!” Nichol exclaimed, coughing a few times. “Well, that was unexpected.” The grin he sent Colm was wide and guileless. “You should come in. It’s…quite lovely once you acclimate a bit.”

“You can’t even keep a straight face when you lie,” Colm accused him, but he shook off Nichol’s grip and started to remove his clothes.

“On the contrary, I am an excellent liar. I’ve just never seen any need to do so with you,” Nichol said, swimming a few paces back and then forward again. The waves were fairly gentle, but he still rose and fell with little rhythm as they battled the odd currents bouncing from the rocks. “Be careful when you come in, all right? Go slow, not like I did.”

“It didn’t look like you had much of a choice,” Colm said, taking off his boots and drawing down his trousers and drawers. Nichol watched his unveiling with interest.

Gods, it might be sunny, but no matter what Nichol said, it was still cold. Colm resigned himself to a rather uncomfortable first swimming lesson, then bent down and lowered himself to the submerged piece of dock.

“Be careful, parts of it are rotten,” Nichol said, laying his hand on Colm’s calf as soon as it came within reach. Colm’s foot slipped, and he laughed. “And there’s sea grass on everything, did I mention that? Bit slick, that stuff.”

“You are incredibly unamusing sometimes,” Colm told his lover, setting his second foot down more carefully. It was the first time he’d dipped his feet into sea water, and they felt…odd. Warm. Apparently, he acclimated faster than Nichol did.

“Good, now…down farther.” Colm braced against the rocks and sat down, gasping slightly at the cold, which rapidly turned to heat.

“Nichol…”

“Are you nervous? Don’t be nervous,” Nichol said, pressing a kiss to the top of Colm’s thigh. “I’ll be right here. I’ll keep you safe.”

This didn’t feel like nerves. This felt like nothing Colm had ever experienced before. He’d been soaked to the bone with rain, washed in well water and drenched with the sea, but never submerged in it. His whole lower half was itching. “Nichol, I don’t—”

“Too late for don’t!” Nichol shouted gleefully, and grabbed his arm and pulled Colm down into the water next to him. It closed over his head and, for a brief moment, Colm panicked.

Then there was no more thought for panicking.

The first thing he noticed when he surfaced was the warmth all over his body, a comfortable temperature, like an early summer’s day. That comfort rapidly faded in the wake of the furious, excruciating itch that was crawling across his body. Colm began to hyperventilate, clawing at the logs in an effort to pull himself free of the water.

“Colm?” Nichol said, and there was no mischievous joy in his tone now, only concern. “Colm, what—”

“Out,” Colm gasped, “out of the water, get me out of the—” Pain overwhelmed his voice, and he screamed once, thin and barely audible, before his legs began to thrash uncontrollably.

Colm lost all sense of his surroundings. It was as if his body belonged to someone else; he had no control over it. His legs melted like wax, limbs reforming and snapping into alien new shapes. His back arched uncontrollably, forcing his neck to extend. Colm could feel when the slits opened to either side of his throat, feathery things that suddenly turned the salty death filling his lungs into something he could handle, something that felt thicker than air but just as crucial to his well-being. Points of pain erupted along his shoulders and head, and with vision that seemed somehow improved, sharpened beyond what he’d ever known before, Colm could see bits and pieces of his pale, sodden locks floating around his face before they drifted away, unmoored from his head.

After another seemingly endless moment of agony, all the tethers of pain suddenly coiled in on themselves, vanishing into the pit of Colm’s stomach. He felt…not good, but whole. Like he’d been breaking and someone had come along and glued him back together, but in a different shape. Colm swished his tail, then boggled over the fact that he had a tail to swish, and not legs. A tail with fins…not a seal like Nichol had thought, then.

Nichol. Oh gods, Nichol. Colm looked around frantically and saw pale, motionless legs below the water. He closed the distance awkwardly, not yet sure how to control his new appendage, and surfaced next to his lover, who was clinging to the nearest rotten log, his eyes wide with shock and pain. Colm opened his mouth to speak, but all that emerged from his throat was a rough, snapping vibration.

“Oh, Colm,” Nichol whispered, one hand pressed to his side. It was only then that Colm tasted the blood in the water, and saw the ragged edge of a slender, barbed spine protruding from between Nichol’s ribs. “No, Colm, oh no.”

“Nichol,” Colm tried to say, but his new voice wouldn’t cooperate. It was just snaps, ending with a hiss that made Colm wince. He pressed his tongue to his teeth and felt their new, sharp edges, felt his feathery gills flutter in the breeze—it seemed so much harder to get air now, even though it was going down into his lungs. They simply couldn’t cope with it as well. It felt too dry, abrasive inside of him. Colm ducked his head under again, felt the water brush past his gills and renew him, then surfaced again.

“Colm…” Nichol grasped for him, releasing the log, and sank immediately. Colm tried desperately to assess where the rest of the damnable spines he carried were, then went after Nichol, gripping him under his arms and twisting his tail awkwardly to get them both to the surface again.

Nichol’s eyes were closed, and Colm realized after a moment that he could feel the vibration of Nichol’s heartbeat, and that it was getting slower. He reached down to Nichol’s side and pulled the spine out. It was a small thing, but clearly it was doing more damage than was evident from the size of the wound. Colm had to get Nichol back to the Cove. Meg would know what to do.

But how would he? How could Colm move Nichol when he could barely move himself in this strange new form? And why, why had it happened? If water was the catalyst for his transformation, then perhaps air would turn him back again.

Colm pushed Nichol up onto the dock, making sure his head was out of the water, before heaving himself up onto the rocks. He was longer now, the tail protruding far past where his feet would have stopped, but his arms felt stronger. Colm dragged his new body out of the water, coiling his tail in close, and stared up at the blue sky, willing for it to change him back. Please…please… All he got was light-headed, though, the air rasping uncomfortably through his chest until he couldn’t hold himself up any more, and fell back into the water.

The sea revived him like before, and Colm gnashed his sharp new teeth with frustration. What was he to do? How could he get Nichol back to where someone could care for him?

Swimming was the only answer, but it would be difficult. There was no choice, though. It was either face difficulty or face utter failure, and that end result didn’t bear thinking about. He could do this. How hard could swimming be when you were shaped like a fish?

To his dismay, Colm found out that it was incredibly hard. He had no experience in the water, didn’t understand how to keep himself afloat without thrashing, and thrashing about dunked Nichol’s head under the water. It was exhausting, dragging him along the surface, fighting for every foot of distance they achieved, and all the while Nichol grew colder and colder, his heartbeat slowing ever further, his lungs growing still.

Colm had to persist, though. Nichol was all that mattered now.

Once they reached the regular docks, it got better. Colm could pull himself from boat to boat, using his newfound arm strength to propel them through the water as he fought on. Past the Serpent’s Tail, oh, he longed to stop right here, but Lew wouldn’t be aboard; few fishermen went out these days. He had to go farther.

Colm made it to within a hundred yards of the Cove without being seen. The water was disgusting this close to the city, filthy with sewage and waste that made his gills feel clogged, but he had to get Nichol onto the quay. As soon as he was close enough to try to push him up, Colm let himself surface. He had a full-body sense of where things were in the water now, but that ability didn’t extend to land.

An instant after Colm’s head breeched the water, someone screamed. One scream led to more, and Colm didn’t know exactly what they were seeing when they looked at him, but it had to be frightful. Monster… He couldn’t think about himself right now. He didn’t have the time. He had to take care of Nichol.

Colm slung Nichol up onto the cobblestones of the quay, as gently as he could given his poor positioning. Nichol was still breathing, and his heart was still beating, but just barely. Colm wanted to scream himself, to scream and get Nichol help, but his voice… The last thing he needed was to make a noise that would frighten the people around him even more.

Apparently, the sight of him was more than enough to inspire violence, at least. A broken brick suddenly crashed into Colm’s shoulder, knocking him back into the water. He surfaced angrily, the yell that he instinctively tried to make coming out as vicious clicks and hissing. Colm couldn’t leave yet. He had to make sure Nichol was taken care of—

Another brick hit him in the chest as he tried the lever himself up. The one after that knocked his head, and Colm fell back into the water, utterly dazed. He smelled—no, tasted—his own blood in the water, and his new body’s instincts kicked in, his tail writhing weakly in an attempt to get him away from the source of his pain.

Oars splashed down into the water beside him and above him, and as Colm’s head cleared, he saw the sharp edge of one come scything down at an angle, and just managed to dodge it. Swimming still felt awkward, but it was a lot easier without Nichol in his arms, and Colm slid deeper into the water, out of sight, and headed away from the oily, clinging refuse of the docks.

His new, unburdened body was full of energy, a seemingly boundless stamina that Colm had never experienced before. While Colm’s mind wanted to stop, to process and understand what had happened, his body fought it for control and won. With no Nichol to care for, Colm’s blood risen and pumping fast, it would be so easy to go back and grab one of those people from the dock, drag them down into the water and tear—

No. Colm instinctively shied away from the violence of that thought. He had to get away from people, away from temptation. His tail, strong and muscular and powerful, propelled him forward. He could feel the fish scatter as they detected his presence. He could feel the glide of boats on the surface of the water, feel larger, darker creatures moving farther out in the deeper parts of the water, where the sea wall fell away. Sharks—the thought of confronting one filled his new brain with a vicious thrill of expectation, and so Colm deliberately steered back into the shallows. He swam past the sea wall, away from Caithmor, away from everything he knew… Nothing touched him, nothing disturbed him. If he could just swim like this, on and on and on forever, Colm thought he might be all right.

What was this, though? This thing that was coming up on him, small but fast, harrying him. It nipped at his tail, and Colm rounded on it in a fury, teeth bared and ready to bite. The small thing darted away, then back in again, too nimble to catch. It teased and bit and infuriated Colm into following it, until they were in such shallow water that he could feel the sand scrape against his belly as he fought to stay beneath the surface. There was a single shaft of light ahead, shining down from the top of the cove… Rocks, the entrance, and there was the little beach. Colm was inside the cove, the Searunner’s cove. He hadn’t been here since his father’s funeral, he didn’t even remember how to—oh gods, Rory!

The anger and bloodlust broke and shattered in Colm’s mind, the shards washing away with each new beat of his heart. Rory had found him and brought him here, to a place of safety, and Colm had tried to kill him in exchange.

The reality of what had happened to him suddenly fell on Colm like a tidal wave. For the first time since his change—gods, could it really have been just an hour ago, perhaps less?—he looked at himself. His hands, always long-fingered, were now webbed, and his nails had become harder and sharper. The skin of his stomach and the bottoms of his arms were a mottled bluish white, the color of a frozen corpse. By contrast, the scales over his tail and climbing up his back had a dark iridescence to them, like the shell of an abalone. His shoulders and spine bristled with more of those thin, venomous filaments, and his head…

Colm pulled himself up onto the beach, ignoring his growing need for oxygen as he waited for the water to settle enough that he could see himself. His reflection wavered in the ripples and the faint light, but it was enough. Just one glance was enough.

His hair was gone, all gone, the top of his head covered in scales. Small spines, striped blue and green and white, feathered back from his temples, and the dorsal fin that he’d felt between his shoulders had a crest that extended all the way up the back of his head. Colm turned his head and watched the crest flare with distress as his lungs began to burn. His gills, three long slits that had been red before but were rapidly becoming a pale pink, fluttered uselessly. Only his eyes were the same, such a pale, icy blue that they were practically colorless.

Fins. Gills. The teeth of a predator. Colm knew the secret of his birth now. He knew the reason his father had run as fast as he could from his home. Ger Weathercliff had made a monster, and the only safe place for them was far away from the treacherous, changeable sea.

Colm might have killed Nichol, without even realizing it. Nichol might lie dead right now. Colm might have been too late despite how hard he tried, despite everything…

Colm screamed, an ululating hiss that echoed off the walls of the cove and up into the sky, a fierce, hideous sound that would have chilled the blood of a mariner. He screamed until the spots swimming in front of his eyes became nothing but overwhelming dark, and he slumped limply down into the water. It was just deep enough here to reach his gills, and little by little, it revived Colm.

He didn’t want to be revived. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be this thing that might have killed his lover. Colm rolled over onto his back in the shallows, oblivious to the discomfort of mashing his fins against the sand, and stared up at the thin sliver of sky. His face breached the water, just his face, and Colm stared at the sky and felt the tremors of his grief rack his frame, all the worse because he found he couldn’t cry. He wanted to, his soul was desperate to prove its human loyalty with tears, but nothing came. There was nothing.

Actually…there was something. It wasn’t a touch, it was barely even a ripple, but when Rory settled down in the shallows not far from Colm, Colm could feel him. He felt the selkie’s even breaths, and the steady beat of his heart. He felt the subvocal grunt Rory made as he settled deeper into his place, and all of it together was just enough to keep Colm from trying to rip out his own eyes. Because he wasn’t alone, and he couldn’t bear the thought of not knowing what Nichol’s fate would be. He had to cope with this transformation somehow, to bear it long enough to discover the truth. But that didn’t mean he would let himself enjoy it.

Colm and Rory lay in the sand together until the light faded from the sky, and stars came out and the stillness of the cove was slowly overcome by harder winds and bigger waves. When the tide finally covered him completely with dark, silty water, it felt like being buried. Colm closed his eyes and let the sensation carry him into an uneasy sleep.

Chapter Seventeen

Colm barely moved for two days. He stayed where he was and let the tides flow in and out around him, always just deep enough to get water to his gills but shallow enough to leave part of his body free of the water. His new skin didn’t care for the air. It dried him out, made him feel chill and brittle, but the feeling of comfort wasn’t something that he had a right to anymore.

Colm’s mind turned in circles, always coming back to Nichol and whether or not he was still alive. He knew, he knew that what he was doing was a poor way to deal with his grief and guilt, that if he were serious about finding out what had happened to Nichol he should be moving, scouting, getting as close as he could without giving himself away and listening to the gossip at the docks, but he felt too sluggish to move. It was easier to lie here and stare at the sky, and let the gnawing grip of hunger distract him from the chaos in his mind.

Colm’s lassitude lasted up until a fish slapped him in the face. He started, accidentally gulping a breath of air before he remembered not to, and ducked his head beneath the water to refresh himself before he turned to confront Rory, who had the wriggling fish caught firmly between his teeth. The seal twisted around and smacked the fish’s head against Colm’s again.

“Little beast,” Colm tried to say, but stopped halfway through when it emerged as nothing but a hiss. Rory huffed, then went to smack him again. Colm caught the fish before it could land, wrapping his long fingers around the slippery body and holding tight. He could feel the blood pulsing fast and frightened under the scaly skin, and it made him feel…famished.

He inspected the fish. A lionsmane perch, a fairly small one, hardly more than a mouthful…but no, gods no, Colm didn’t eat fish live! He couldn’t even pry a sea roach from its shell without blanching. No.

Colm let the fish go. Rory barked irritably, darted after it and recaptured it, then brought it back to Colm.

Colm shook his head. Rory glared at him.

How could he make him understand, when he couldn’t speak? Colm thought for a moment, then spread one of his webbed hands out beneath the water and made it quaver, very faintly, mimicking the fish’s own quivering. Then he shook his head again.

If seals could roll their eyes, Rory would have. As it was, he flipped the fish up into the air, then snapped its head off on the way down. The severed body splashed down into the water, convulsing and spilling blood but very clearly no longer alive. Rory barked again.

The scent was delicious. Red soaked the water that washed around Colm’s head, and it tasted just as wonderful as it smelled. His sense of hunger got the better of him and Colm grabbed the fish and bit into its soft underbelly before his conscious mind could stop him. Soft…sweet…the meat was rich and dark in places, pungent and tainted in others, but Colm ate it all with relish.

He ate until there was nothing left but bloodstains drifting away in the shallow waves. Rory disappeared for a few minutes, then returned with another fish, this one already decapitated. He pushed it at Colm’s face, and this time Colm took it and ate without complaining. It would have been harder to bear if the fish had tasted raw or unappetizing, but it just tasted like food. Like delicious, necessary food. Colm’s sense of taste had changed just as much as his physical form, and a part of him felt bitter about the fact that the food he now had to eat wasn’t a hardship for him. Nothing should come easily after what he’d done.

Rory now seemed to devote himself to helping Colm as much as he’d once gone out of his way to harass him. It took plenty of nipping and tugging, but he finally managed to pull Colm down into deeper, richer waters toward the entrance to the cove. The darkness beneath the water was no problem. In fact, it seemed like Colm could see farther with his new eyes than he ever could above the water. Perhaps it was because his knack was a constant now, always surrounding him, telling him what was going on around him. Colm floated in the blurry delineation between water vaguely warmed by the sun and the deeper, colder currents and let his senses stretch out deliberately, seeking for the first time since he’d delivered Nichol back to the docks.

Caithmor itself was easy to orient on, a constant turbulence as the waves broke against the enormous rocks that supported the city’s seaside edge. That turbulence was increased by the movement of boats and the way that schools of fish steered clear of the area. Colm could almost tell what type of fish they were simply by the way the schools moved together, and he easily sensed where the lionsmane perch Rory had brought him were milling, still a bit disturbed by the selkie’s intrusion.

To breathe underwater, to look around and sense so much more than he ever had before in his life… Once upon a time, this would have been a gift to Colm. If he had come here and never met Nichol, if he’d known his family was well and safe, if Colm had simply taken a moment to step into the sea before he grew so attached to life on land, this could have been glorious. It was a simple, brutal explanation for all his differences, for his mother’s disappearance, his father’s fear, for why Honored Srain’s spell of magic detection hurt him so badly. It explained all the things Colm never quite learned to do right, all the parts of being human he never quite mastered. Colm wasn’t human. He wasn’t even as close as Rory, who had lived a long life with a loving family before letting himself change. He was half mer, and he couldn’t ignore that, even if he didn’t understand how such a thing could come about.

Colm never should have existed, but he did. And now he had to continue to exist until he knew what had happened to Nichol. Colm shut his eyes as he was suddenly racked by a whole-body shudder.

Rory swam nearby, keeping his distance for a while before his patience apparently began to run out. He circled closer and closer, finally swimming a path around Colm’s head until their eyes met again. He pressed his muzzle against Colm’s nose, then turned and swam toward the school of perch. When Colm didn’t follow fast enough, Rory turned around and nipped at the broad fin at the base of Colm’s tail.

I understand, Colm thought, no longer bothering with attempting to speak but holding his hands out placatingly. He swam after Rory, amazed at how quickly he could cover distance now. He outpaced the selkie before they reached the fish, but quickly learned upon arriving that he didn’t have nearly the same dexterity that Rory did. The selkie’s seal form was short and sleek and could turn in a flash, whereas Colm was too long and awkward to turn fast enough. In the time it took him to catch a single perch, Rory had caught and eaten three. The selkie swam over lazily and snapped the head off the one that struggled in Colm’s long grasp, looking pleased with himself. Colm ate and tried to be grateful.

As the sea grew darker with the setting of the sun, Rory led the way back to the cove, very adamantly prodding Colm up until he was in the shallows again. Colm lay down carefully on the sand and Rory snugged up next to him, not afraid of Colm’s spines piercing his thick, tough skin. Colm let his face break the surface and stared up at the stars, glittering like the distant lights of a celestial city. The air was dry and cold, and Colm could hear the harshness of the wind rolling across the cliffs above him, but for all that he was learning to exist in this new world, it was the one he looked at now that he still yearned for.

Tomorrow, he would go back to Caithmor. Tomorrow he’d try to find out about Nichol.

* * * * *

Getting back to the city was simple enough. Colm avoided everything that could have crossed his path with a graceful fluidity that he would never have attributed to himself at the beginning. Working to keep up with Rory had been good for that, at least. Forcing himself to push farther into the dark, greasy waters of Caithmor’s harbor was hard, but Colm still made himself do it. He slid along the keels of the boats like a shadow, surfaced beneath the docks closest to the Cove, and settled in to listen.

His ears picked up sound differently now, and everything above the water felt muffled and dull. Not to mention he couldn’t keep his head out in the air for too long without becoming faint. It was bothersome, but that hardship was nothing compared to his feverish curiosity. Colm spent the busiest part of the day patiently straining with his ears and grudgingly replenishing his breath, but he didn’t learn anything other than the fact that his appearance had been enough to cause quite a commotion. He heard Nichol mentioned twice by name, but there was nothing definitive about his status, only the fact that—

“Poor lad laid out like that on the stones, pale as death,” Kiara the sea-roach vendor sighed. “His gran is beside herself, what with poor Nichol, and then the nephew gone missing like that.”

“Do y’reckon they had a falling-out?” another girl asked—Colm didn’t get her name; he had to duck back under the water. “Maybe Nichol killed ’im and left ’im out for the mer, only the mer came for Nichol as well.”

“Nichol wouldn’t have killed that boy, any more than my own sister would kill me,” Kiara said staunchly. “They were the best of friends, even when Windlove and his lads were still hanging about. Nichol’d never do anything hurtful to him.”

“It’s the mer part I don’t understand,” the other girl confessed, ignoring Kiara’s protestation. “If the mer got the other one, then what was it doing bringing Nichol back here?”

“How would I know?” Kiara asked, exasperated, then ignored the girl altogether in favor of a customer. It was the closest Colm got all day to hearing something of worth, but not close enough. He stayed and waited all through the long day, watching the shells of eviscerated sea roaches fall down through the cracks in the planks above him and listening until his head felt full of sand and his gills coated with grease.

In the end, it took Rory appearing and nipping at his tail for Colm to snap out of the fog of his day and swim back to the actual cove. The fog stayed with him, though, and it wasn’t until Rory smacked him with another headless fish that Colm realized it was because he was hungry. He took the meal and inclined his head gratefully, and when Rory bumped him next time, it was gentle, and without teeth.

Colm’s head felt raw after exposure to the air all day, and that night he left his face underwater for the first time. He still stared up at the stars for as long as he could, but they were indistinguishable from the sky under the wavering surface. No answers yet, nothing useful. Colm would try again.

Rory seemed to dislike the water close to the city, and Colm couldn’t blame him. The selkie left the cove every morning with Colm but went his own way once they reached the sea wall. Colm wove his way beneath the boats, dodging offal and anchors, and took his position beneath the dock to listen for anything new.

For three more long days, there was nothing. There was no word of Nichol or Megg, and the only other things of faint interest were the tales of services at the Ardeaglais, the number of parishioners vastly increased since so many had caught sight of Colm. There was a panic at the thought of mer stalking the docks of Caithmor, and on the fourth day, a group of priests led a vast congregation down to the edge of the water, where they used the prayers of the faithful to help lay a spell of protection across the entirety of the harbor.

Colm, who had fled as soon as he identified the voice of Honored Srain, was barely touched by the change in the water as he swam out past Caithmor’s pillar, but he felt its aftereffects quite clearly. All the creatures that clung close to the rocky sea shelf beneath the city were scalded, as though the water had turned boiling hot. Those who couldn’t swim deep enough or far enough in time died and floated to the surface in droves.

Unfortunately for the priests, they hadn’t accounted for the need for specificity. The spell they cast targeted inhuman creatures, which included the land-loving fish that schooled in the harbor. The bodies that surfaced went to waste, the meat of the fish puckered and the skin broken by boils. Colm had tried one, thinking it would save him the trouble of killing something else to eat, but the flesh was gritty and ashen on his tongue, and he spat out his mouthful in disgust.

Needless to say, the spell was lifted by the next morning. The only creature other than fish that it had killed was a selkie—not Rory, a young one that Colm hadn’t recognized. After its pelt sloughed off, its childlike human body was pushed ashore by its grieving kin. Colm watched the somber affair from a great distance. The other selkies were wary, despite the fact that he and Rory shared a space at night, and he couldn’t blame them for fearing him. The child’s body was gone by the next dawn.

A full two weeks after Colm’s transformation, things had quieted down in Caithmor. The fish die-off had diminished the people’s fervor, and things seemed to be slowly going back to normal. Colm didn’t hear anything new about Nichol, no word on his health and only occasional mentions of Megg, but still he swam to the docks and listened every day. He had to know for sure. He had to be certain that Nichol was well again. Not happy, Colm imagined that Nichol was probably devastated, and likely to stay that way for a long time. He had trusted Colm, and in return, Colm’s body had betrayed both of them, leaving Nichol more alone than ever before, if he’d even survived.

You couldn’t have known. That was the only thought that gave Colm a hint of solace during the long, dry days of listening and the too-short times of dreaming beneath the waves. There was no way he could have known what he was, not a hint from his father to go on and everyone saying that his mix would be selkie, it was always selkie along the coast. Nothing to be ashamed of, for the most part. Safe, if occasionally heartbreaking. Selkies were not monstrous, not like what had emerged from the salty sea and pierced Nichol with its poisonous spine.

Colm hadn’t known, and neither had Nichol, and in his clearest moments, when he wasn’t hungry or pained or terribly sad, Colm could see the truth in that. Most of the time, though, objectivity was beyond him. All he could feel was remorse, all he knew was what he’d done, all he could hope for was Nichol’s life. Beyond that, Colm didn’t let himself consider anything for very long.

He spent so much time at the docks that he almost missed Megg’s visit to the Cove. It was close to sunset by the time he swam back there, and when he felt the gentle slap-slap of waves against a little boat, Colm slowed his pace, stopping in the deep shadows beneath the cliff on the far side of the cavern. He lifted his head out of the water and heard Megg’s voice, saw her crouched on the little beach with Sari by her side and two men he didn’t recognize standing a few respectful paces behind. Rory sat by her feet, for once completely focused on someone other than Colm.

“There’s naught else to be done,” Megg was saying. Her voice was thready and worn, tired in a way that Colm had never heard from his aunt before. It had the sound of hopelessness in it, and Colm’s heart clenched in his chest as he realized why she sounded that way. “Nichol won’t speak to me. He won’t speak to anyone, poor lad. Not since he first woke up. Lost him, he said. ‘I lost him, Gran.’ Then he wept, and he didn’t stop, not for days. He only got back on his feet a few days ago, and since then, I’ve barely seen him. He haunts the sea wall where they went to swim, just stares at the water like he expects Colm to reappear.” Megg sighed heavily.

“I thought he was like you.” Colm could hear her fingers scritch-scratching along Rory’s back. “A selkie, love. With what Colm could do, with his little strange ways on the water, how he knew things, I thought he had to be like you. But if he was a selkie, Nichol wouldn’t have been hurt, would he? I thought we’d lose him for sure those first few days, with both a healer and a priest working on him. And then all that talk of mer… It must have gotten Colm. It must have been terrible. Poor lad, it must have been—” Her voice cut off on a sob, and Colm took advantage of the lull to dip his head below the water and breathe.

He couldn’t show himself to Megg. Not like this, not with other people here. They would be afraid. They would lash out. No, Colm couldn’t do anything but listen, and wish with all his heart that he could heal the pain in Megg’s voice. I’m alive, he wanted to say. I’m right here! Monstrous, but here.

Colm surfaced quietly in time to hear, “—wouldn’t come, but it has to be done. Colm deserves the rites, and he was as much a child of the sea as any ever born in Caithmor. Gods love him, for I surely did.” Colm watched Megg make the sign of the Four in the air with a sweet-smelling smudge stick. She set a clear bowl into the water, set a little package inside it, then added a lit candle to the top of that. After a moment, Megg pushed it away from the shore.

The sugarglass bowl hovered there at the edge of the water, and for a moment, Colm was sure that it wouldn’t move. How could it? He was still alive. As soon as Megg began the prayers, though, it started to drift out into the water.

“May…may the Four look with favor on the spirit of our departed kin, Colm Weathercliff,” Megg said, her voice wavering with grief. “May they welcome him back to their fold. May they give him the comfort that he has earned after his time toiling in this world.” Colm stared, captivated, at the little light, which seemed to be getting brighter. “May his spirit find the peace of the water, the strength of the earth, the gentleness of the air and the warmth of the fire. Bless him, and take him back into your loving embrace until such time as his spirit is ready to return again.”

In the sudden silence, Colm snapped out of his stupor and realized that the light looked brighter because it was getting closer to him. The burial bowl, filled with whatever offering of his Megg could muster since she didn’t have his ashes, was heading straight for his dark, secluded corner of the cove. If the light touched him, it would give away his presence, illuminating the horror of his new reality. Colm suddenly couldn’t bear to spend one more moment in the harsh dry air, and he ducked down into the water. Maybe it would pass him by. Maybe it would go out to sea…

The bowl stopped just above him, hovering there for almost a minute before the sugar finally melted through. The light snuffed out as the remnants of the bowl sank, and Colm reached out with trembling fingers and grabbed Megg’s offering to the gods, the things that she felt represented him best.

Some of it was ashes after all, burnt pieces of clothing or papers, perhaps. Probably a letter from his sister, a memento of someone else’s love for him. There was a fish hook, and a broken glass float from one of Lew’s nets. There was a bit of food, as well. Colm felt the flaky texture of Megg’s pastry dissolve to nothing between his fingertips. The last two items were the nub of the candle, its fire totally extinguished, and—

Oh. His knife. Colm caught the little gutting knife by the blade, and winced when it dug too hard into the webbing on his hand, leaving a sluggishly bleeding cut. He’d kept it sharp, the perfect tool for his life on land. Now Colm was a living weapon. He had no need for the help of steel, not with his teeth and spines. But he wanted it. It was all he had left of his father, all he had left of his humanity.

Colm despised his new body, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t indulged his curiosity about it. There were pockets between the spines in places, valleys in the grooves of his scales and fins. Colm lifted his tail up and slid the knife into one of those deep, rough grooves, where his skin was too fibrous to be easily cut, and the knife was wedged so tight that it wouldn’t be easily lost. He could barely make out the glint of its tip in the vanishing light of the sun. Now he would have it with him, until it finally rusted away.

Colm was so absorbed in his own melancholy he barely noticed the movement of the boat above his head, the oars slicing through the water as Megg and her hired hands left the cove. Rory went with them, swimming around the boat like a sentinel, baring his teeth at Colm when he made a move to follow.

Fine, then. Rory wanted to be alone. After seeing evidence of the pain he’d put Megg through, Colm couldn’t blame the selkie for needing to be apart from him.

Colm swam over to the beach and lay back on the sand, staring up at the sliver of darkening sky over his head. The moon would cross that gash in the cliff at some point tonight. Soon it would fill with stars, and Colm would be able to imagine that he was looking through the skylight in his room, lying in bed with Nichol’s arms twined around him, instead of the clammy grip of the sea grass that held him now. Nichol, oh, Nichol… If there were any way to spare him the pain he was going through now, any way at all, Colm would take it. Perhaps he could see him, meet him at the sea wall and show Nichol that he was still here, still alive. Would that comfort Nichol? Or would it make everything worse?

At the very least, Colm had to see him. He would watch from a distance, assess the situation tomorrow. If it seemed like his presence might help, and there was no one else around, then he would reveal himself.

With that thought, the first hopeful one Colm had consciously felt since his transformation, he closed his eyes and let himself drift away into sleep. When he woke up tomorrow, things would be better.

Chapter Eighteen

It wasn’t the gradual heat of the rising sun or the friendly press of Rory’s body against Colm’s that woke him when it happened. Instead of a slow drift out of slumber, Colm snapped awake with a gasp and instinctively turned to swim into deeper water, only realizing at the last moment that he couldn’t even manage to turn. He could only flail in place. He pressed right and left with his tail, slashed with his claws and bit, hard, at the ropes he suddenly found himself tangled in, only to almost break a fang on the leaded core of the net that covered him. He had been netted…but how? Where had such a thing even come from?

“Hold him down, lads, hold him steady!” a man’s voice yelled from above. “Don’t let him slip away to sea. Hold him tight! Draw the lines together and prepare to hoist our prize up.”

Prize? Men. Colm felt their presence now—not in the water, but from the beach. They had dropped in from above him like spiders, and the more he struggled in the nets, the tighter his captors managed to draw it around him. Frantic, Colm ripped a handful of spines from his back and thrust them through the net toward the men.

“Back, back!” one of them yelled, and they moved away, but not before Colm tagged one of them. The man fell to the side with a curse and the weight of the net began to lift. Colm dug into the sand with his free hand, searching for the edge of the trap. If he could hold them off just long enough, if he could find it and lift it…

Blows rained down on Colm’s back from the men’s quirts, short, slender whips that sliced through his skin like knives. Colm rolled away from one only to be faced with another, but the smell of his own blood only drove him to fight harder. He screamed, his voice hideous in the dry, disgusting air, and shoveled at the sand faster when the men winced and reared back, desperate to find the edge, so close, he knew he was close.

A flail cracked across his face, hitting just above his eye, and Colm fell back into a momentary stupor. “Now, lads, now!” They moved in again, and this time, Colm didn’t have the strength to struggle. He was light-headed from his exertions and time spent out of the water, and his whole body burned with pain. The men closed the net around him and hooked it onto a rope that led up through the hole in the rock above. They hoisted Colm out of the cove and up, dragging his battered body against the sharp stone of the crevice without care. His gills fluttered weakly and his mouth worked soundlessly, with no force to spare now for frightening his captors. Colm was done in. He was finished.

His body cleared the stone and was towed across the ground for a few more feet before coming to a stop. “Lookit that,” someone marveled, prodding him with a foot. “Right proper beastie, he is. He’ll draw ’em in, Regar, no mistake. People’ll come from miles away to see a living fish-man.”

“He might not be a living fish-man for much longer if you don’t get him into the tank,” another voice chimed in sardonically. “It would be a shame to have gotten rid of the grundylow only to off his successor before he could make us any money.”

“I’m not touchin’ ’im,” the first man declared. “You hear the yellin’ down there? Be lucky if all the lads survived, and I already got filthy today draggin’ old Grundy from the tank and cleanin’ it out for this one. I don’t fancy doin’ it all over now.”

“One half-dead fish-man won’t put you on your back, Kith,” a new voice said. This one was louder, with a deeper register that seemed familiar somehow. “But I will, if you lot don’t get the thing into the tank before it suffocates. You—Nyle, y’said? Help Kith get the creature into the tank.”

Two pairs of hands, uncomfortably hot on Colm’s skin, took hold of him beneath his armpits, one of the few places he could be grabbed safely, and started to haul him forward. Colm flipped his tail sluggishly, trying to muster the energy for something more, but he couldn’t turn his neck far enough to bite, and his vision was beginning to blur. Perversely, Colm hoped that the tank was far away, far enough that it would be too late by the time they got there. He didn’t want them to get any use out of him. Colm might be a monster, but at least he had been his own monster before this. Let him die, then, and let that teach them to grope for what they couldn’t have.

His vision went gray, then black, his hearing fuzzy, and for a brief, beautiful moment, Colm was sure it was too late. He was going to die, and it would serve them right. But no, Colm’s rotten luck wouldn’t be denied. His captors lifted him high and managed to shove him over a smooth, cool edge and into fresh salt water, and despite himself, the darkness began to clear.

He could hear their voices, muted thanks to the water but still clear enough to make out. “He’s comin’ round,” the voice that was Kith said. Colm blinked his eyes open, but the sun had set by now, and he couldn’t make out any details of the man’s face. “Got a shiner comin’ up.” He turned his head and called out, “You lads did a number on the merchandise! The fish-man’s bloody all over! Got his blood on me too, and phew, that’s rank, that is.”

“You weren’t down there wrestlin’ him into the net now, were ya?” another man snarled, striking the tank with the side of his fist. The sound reverberated through the glass. “Nasty buggering fuck, this thing is, absolutely vicious. It stuck Farval with one of its ruddy spines, now he’s havin’ trouble breathin’.”

“That’s only going to get worse,” the sarcastic voice said as he touched the tank lightly with one hand. “I did tell you to be careful, Wes.”

“You didn’t say nothin’ about poisoned spines, Kiaran,” Wes said, and his voice quivered with barely restrained fury. “Not a bloody thing, yet you knew everything else there was to know about this fish-man, right down to where ’e’d be and when. Couldn’t have used your second sight to see that he’d be a danger to us?”

“I assumed you knew he’d be a danger to you,” Kiaran replied, and Colm shrank back a little from the edge of the tank when he realized who was speaking. Kiaran, with second sight, someone who knew things he shouldn’t have been able to know… It was the man from the Spectacular, the one who had said he would ruin Colm, the one who had talked about Fate. Was this what he’d seen, then, Colm’s transformation? How had he known where to find him?

“You’ve heard the stories. You’ve seen the head in the House of Horrors. Why would you ever think a mer was anything other than deadly?” Kiaran tapped his fingers against the glass. “It’s not my fault you didn’t take precautions.”

“You listen to me now, you filthy little—”

“That’s enough of that now,” the deep voice interjected. If Kiaran Brighteyes was here, if these were men of the Roving Spectacular, then that voice had to belong to Regar Brighteyes, the ringmaster. He looked different through the distortion of water and glass, but as he got closer, Colm could make out the size of him, so broad and tall, and knew he was right. “We’ve got to be clear of Caithmor by dawn, and that means we finish packing up tonight. Wes, take Farval ahead to the healer, see if there’s anything that can be done for him.” The casual dismissal sent Wes scurrying.

“You sure the beast’ll perk up?” Regar demanded of Kiaran.

“He’ll be fine,” Kiaran soothed. “This is the new star attraction of the Roving Spectacular. I actually Saw it, Father. Provided Kith takes better care with him than he did with the grundylow, the mer should last for quite a while.”

“Oy, I cleaned the tank, made sure Grundy had food,” Kith protested, rubbing one hand over his familiar swollen belly.

“You only cleaned the tank once Grundy started trying to jump out of it,” Regar said. He stepped close to the tank and lifted his hands to the rim where glass met the metal grate over the top, pressing in hard. Heat suddenly welled up where he touched, and Colm shied back as best he was able.

Regar circled the tank, the strange heat following him, and Colm did his best to watch this new source of potential pain. “You have to take care of your creatures if you want them to remain beautiful, and this one is wicked beautiful right now. If it becomes ugly and foul, we’ll lose money. I don’t care how many spells you have to use, you keep it alive and fresh.” Finally, he pulled his hands away, looking satisfied. “Y’hear me, man?”

“Yessir,” Kith said reluctantly.

“Good. I’m taking the lads ahead to help with the breakdown. You and Nyle take the easy route down the cliffs with the cart. If I find out that you’ve broken this tank, I’ll break every bone in your body.” With that casual declaration of violence, Regar walked away, shouting for his men at the top of his lungs.

Grundylow… That had to be the strange scent in the water, permeating it even though its previous occupant was gone now. It smelled a bit sharp, like freshly ground ink. Beneath the sharpness was something mustier, flat and strange. Colm slowly turned his face to the bottom of the tank and pressed his nose to it, inhaled carefully.

The faint scent made him want to retch, and he knew with a sudden certainty that it had to be despair. After so long living in captivity, long enough that the creature had been driven to attempting suicide, its despair had sunk into the very foundation of the tank. Colm hoped they’d killed the poor creature quickly.

“Regar didn’t waste no time binding this’n in,” Kith muttered as he inspected the metal grate covering the top of the tank. “And now, to keep it all t’gether.” He pressed both of his hands to the surface of the tank, then muttered an incantation under his breath. A moment later he pulled back, looking satisfied.

“What was that?” the other man—Nyle—asked, pulling his hood tighter around his face. The wind had kicked up, and while it might be spring now, the air was still more than cold enough to chill to the bone.

“Ah, just a little charm to keep the water in, lad,” Kith replied, putting up the gate on the back of the sturdy, low-slung wagon the tank rested on. “Where we’re goin’, there won’t be a chance to change it out, so the more of it we can keep in there, the better. He can thrash around all he likes now, but the water won’t leave the tank. Learned that lesson when Old Grundy almost splashed himself dry a few years ago.”

“I see.” Nyle stepped closer to the tank. “What else do you need to do to make him comfortable?”

“Comfortable,” Kith scoffed. “You’ve got some odd ideas, lad. It’s not our job to keep the beast comfortable. It’s our job to keep ’im alive. Feed him, keep him in water, clean the tank whenever the scum starts to stick to the surface, maybe rile him up a bit when it’s time for a show—that’s our work. Think you’re up for it? Kiaran vouched for you, but if you can’t handle the job—”

“I can handle it,” Nyle said harshly. “Why would I have shown you the way here if I didn’t think I could do this?”

“Lots of reasons a man might want to get out of town, lad. You wouldn’t be the first criminal that’s come to the Spectacular looking for a place to lay low. Regar don’t turn them away, ’specially if they can pay.” Kith spit off to the side. “Got to say, a live mer is a hell of a payment.”

“There’s no one to come after me,” Nyle said, his voice as hard as stone. “No law, no girl got up in the family way. I just can’t be here anymore, and this seemed as good a way to find a new path as any. And he”—a pale hand indicated Colm—“might as well be what pays my way, since I’ve nothing else to offer but the strength of my back.”

“The Spectacular will get plenty of use out of that back o’ yours when we next set up,” Kith said, clapping Nyle on the shoulder. “Come now, I’ll show you how to drive this cart. It’s mules for us .They’re the only beasts can get this bloody heavy thing over the ruts, but they’re stubborn as they come. There’s a trick to makin’ ’em move, though…” The voices faded a bit as the two men circled around to the front of the wagon, and a moment later, they jolted forward along the narrow, rocky trail, leaving Colm alone again.

He couldn’t stretch out in the tank, not even halfway. His tail coiled around the glass wall until it almost doubled back on itself, and he curled his battered arms beneath his face to cushion it a bit as the wagon jolted over bumps and ruts. Colm had never thought of sand as soft until now, when he compared where he was to what he’d had. At least Rory hadn’t been there for this. He would have been captured or killed for sure. Thank the Four Megg had come tonight. Thank the Four Colm had been alone in the cove. Just like he was alone now.

Colm turned his face against his arms and resisted the impulse to keen. Nothing was sacred; nothing was constant. He had gone from a man to a mer to a carnival attraction in the space of a month. Was this to be his new life? Would he languish in a cage for years like the grundylow, until his desperation drove him to try to kill himself? How would he, without the freedom even to move, much less go anywhere?

Colm covered his face with his tail. Perhaps he could strangle himself with it. Perhaps he could stab himself through the eye with one of his own spines, perhaps that would do it. His skin was too tough for them to penetrate most places, but the eye, his gills…those were tender. If he pushed deep enough, he might find release. It would be painful, but it might be an end, a real end.

Colm adjusted his head a bit, draping a fin across his shoulders as he curled in even tighter. He was bruised and beaten all over, but the blood had stopped flowing, and already things seemed to be healing. This body recovered so quickly… Would a spine be able to do enough damage to him fast enough? Colm grimaced as his whole body shivered, coiling even tighter—except where it couldn’t. There was a stiff spot just above his tail, not exactly painful, but rigid. Colm palpated it gently, then slid his hand into the pocket.

His knife… Gods, he had his knife! He had forgotten it in the trauma of his strange burial at sea and subsequent capture, but here it was, in his hands. The steel was harder than his spines, short but sharp. This, he could save himself with this. He could do it. It didn’t cut through the thick scales of his tail, but surely it would penetrate the more delicate skin at his wrists, or across his neck.

You give up so quickly, he thought to himself. It was true. Colm knew now, in his heart, that he was a coward. He could handle hardship, but not hopelessness, and his spirit turned to hopelessness so quickly these days. Colm had barely lasted a day inside the Ardeaglais before he began to wish for death. How much longer had the prisoner in the cell beside him languished there? He had been lost before Rory rescued him from the anguish of loneliness and the fear that he’d killed Nichol. And now he was captured and caged, and being carted off to begin what was likely to be a short and infamous life as a sideshow in the Roving Spectacular. But he had survived all those other things… Who was to say that he might not survive this as well?

Colm remembered what Kiaran had told him in the quiet of his wagon, awe in his voice. “I never thought I would get the chance to both ruin and save the same person… I’m sorry to disappoint you, Colm Weathercliff. Be assured that one day, I won’t.” This was the time of ruination, this was the fathoms-deep version of the disappointment Colm had felt that day, when Kiaran had given him no answers beyond an admonition not to bargain with Fate. But saving him, surely that was still in the future. There might be a way. There had to be one, didn’t there? Didn’t Fate have more planned for Colm than this?

It was too soon to do something drastic. These men didn’t know he had a knife; they didn’t know that Colm had options. He would wait and see, just for a while. He could be patient for a little longer. Perhaps he was finally due a miracle, after the hardship and hatred and fear. Perhaps he was deluding himself, but maybe that was just another way of having faith.

At least Rory was alive. At least Colm had seen Megg one last time and heard her speak of Nichol. It didn’t sound as though Nichol was well, but at least he was alive. That knowledge was a blessing in and of itself, and Colm twisted and turned until he was face up again, staring blurrily up at the grate above him. He couldn’t make out the stars, but the moonlight was bright enough to filter down through the holes in the metal grate like celestial fingers, the gentlest of touches. He could almost imagine he was back in the Cove, with Rory curled close in place of his tail and the dry breeze of the air across his face. It was a small bit of comfort amid the chaos in his mind and heart, and Colm stared up into the light for as long as he could before sleep finally pulled him back down into the swells of his nightmares.

Chapter Nineteen

Shockingly, Colm slept. Not only slept, but dreamed sweeter dreams than he’d ever had after he’d changed shape. They were incoherent, as so many of his dreams were, a mishmash of people and places brought together in his mind. This time it was his family back in Anneslea, even Merdith, only they were all sitting around the long kitchen table at the Cove in Caithmor, and Megg was feeding them fish pie. When Colm looked to his right, he saw his sister Baylee, and when he looked to his left, he saw Nichol, who beamed at him. “You’re delicious,” Nichol said confessionally.

“What?”

“Your body, it’s delicious.” Colm looked down the table and saw everyone was eating pieces of his mer tail. It didn’t hurt, and as more of it was eaten away, Colm thought he could see the tops of his knees jutting up through the mess.

Nichol leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry. We won’t stop until you’re back.”

“You don’t have to,” Colm told him. He could see there was still a long way to go, and even Nichol would get full at some point.

“I want to,” Nichol said. This time when he kissed Colm, it was on the mouth. His lips tasted like salt. “I’ll never stop.”

The dream felt strangely realistic, so realistic that when Colm opened his eyes he was genuinely surprised to see his tail beside his head. He looked at it blurrily, then out at the glass. He saw Nichol staring back at him, and smiled at him. “You’re here,” he tried to say, but the words came out as a hiss. That more than anything broke the spell, and Colm reared back, banging his back against the side of the tank and thrashing his tail wildly.

“No, don’t,” Nichol begged, and Colm could hear his voice, really hear it, even muted as it was. “Please, calm down, it’s all right! Colm!”

Colm settled almost despite himself, unable to resist Nichol now, like always. He wasn’t calm, though. He couldn’t be calm, not when Nichol was standing right here in the pale light of dawn, in the broken-down camp of the Roving Spectacular, wearing a ratty cloak and looking like death warmed over. His curls were lank and greasy, his skin was sallow, and the bones of his face were starker than ever, the sweet curves Colm was used to seeing carved away by sickness and grief.

“There, that’s better,” Nichol said, looking relieved. He laid his hands flat on the side of the tank, as if he was reaching for Colm. “Soft, love, softly now.” His forehead touched the glass as well, and finally his lips. “Colm,” he whispered, and Colm couldn’t hear Nichol, but he recognized the shape of his name on those lips. “Colm. You’re alive.” His eyes squeezed shut, and it was still more dark than light outside, but Colm could see the faint stains of tears running down Nichol’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

Why should he be sorry? There was no reason for it. Colm moved a little closer to the glass and knocked twice, very gently. No.

“Yes,” Nichol said, but there were the edges of a smile there. Colm knocked twice again. “Yes, you bastard, yes. I can’t stop being sorry just because you tell me not to.”

No.

“Colm.” Nichol opened his eyes, and when he saw how close Colm was, he didn’t start or jump back. He just smiled, helplessly. “I’m sorry I took you swimming, and I’m sorry I pulled you in. I should have left it alone, I know that, but Colm… Gods, I thought I would never see you again. You are the finest sight I’ve ever seen, even like this, even as you are. I’ve missed you, you can’t know how much.”

Colm pressed his own face close to the glass, taking in as much of Nichol as he could, getting as close as was possible. He knocked on the glass once. Yes.

“Colm…” Nichol closed his eyes and leaned against the glass. His chin quivered, but he firmed himself and murmured, “They knew you were out there. The Roving Spectacular, they knew. The blind man, Kiaran, he came to me two days ago and told me what had happened to you, that you were alive and that…that the only way I could be with you was if I helped them. They were searching for you anyway, but if I led them to the cove, his father would allow me a place with them so that I could travel with you. I don’t know how he knew, Colm, but he described his vision to me and it fit the cove perfectly, and I knew they would find it, and I couldn’t bear—I couldn’t bear for them to take you from me. I couldn’t bear it, Colm.” When Nichol opened his eyes again, he looked at Colm grimly.

“I gave you up to them. It was the only thing I could think to do. They were going to go after you that night, and there was no way for me to get there to warn you first, not with Gran watching me like a hawk. She asked me if I wanted to attend your burial, and I thought maybe it was my chance, but there was no way of knowing if you would be there, and the rovers were already on the move. I had to join them, or risk losing you.”

It made a twisted sort of sense. Colm wasn’t sure what his reaction would have been if Nichol had joined Megg for the ceremony. Part elation, part despair, most likely. Would he have stayed to listen if Nichol had shouted for him, acted mad, caused a fuss? Perhaps not. Not when he didn’t feel he had the option of being a comfort. Coward, coward, his mind hissed at him.

Colm wanted to say that he understood. He wanted to wrap Nichol’s warm hands in his clammy ones and kiss them, so carefully, and say that it wasn’t Nichol’s fault. They were together. That was infinitely better than being apart.

“I asked Kiaran not to go after you,” Nichol said, and even through the muffling glass Colm could hear the desperation in his words. “I begged him to leave you be, told him I would do anything, but he said that he had to. That to do otherwise would only make things worse for you. I don’t know how much worse they could be,” Nichol admitted. “But I am glad that we’re together. I have to be glad for that. I won’t leave you again, no matter what happens.”

Colm wished he was giving enough to tell Nichol no, that his sacrifice wasn’t necessary, but he wasn’t that good a creature. Yes.

“Yes,” Nichol agreed, followed by a weak chuckle. “Yes.” A sudden sound, indistinct to Colm, made Nichol’s head whip around. “Aye,” he said, louder now.

“—mer survived the night, then,” Kith said, walking up to the tank. “How’s the damage to the beast?”

“It doesn’t look too bad,” Nichol said with a shrug. “Hard to say when it’s barely light out, but he’s mostly blue and purple anyway. Who’s to say what’s a bruise and what isn’t?”

“True.” Kith smiled with satisfaction. “Your job’s t’help me with the upkeep of all the things in the House of Horrors, but this’n especially. Keep it docile, keep it fed. There’s a fresh bucket of sea roaches stowed in the lead wagon to give it. Old Grundy loved ’em. Let me know when things get nasty in there, and I’ll work the cleansing spell—unless you’ve got a talent for that?” He asked it very casually, as though admitting you did magic wasn’t enough to get you pilloried or worse by the priests.

“No, I’ve no talent for it,” Nichol said after a moment.

“Pity. Gives me a headache like nothin’ else.” He shrugged. “You’d best grab something to eat before we leave. We tend to travel back roads and countryside instead of the highways, so if there’s aught you need from the city, best get it now before we’re gone.”

“I have everything I need,” Nichol said with perfect sincerity. “Thank you, Kith.”

“Ah, I’m glad enough to have a helper who won’t wet himself at the sight of these creatures, Nyle. Bad luck, some of the rovers call them, bad luck to be messing with beasts like this. The gods don’t like it, apparently.” He spit off to the side in a display of casual contempt. “But they bring in the money, and this one’s a special treat.”

“That he is,” Nichol agreed. “When are we leaving?”

Kith smiled crookedly. “As soon as our leader can rouse his lazy arse and get Kiaran in the front. His son picks our path.”

“Kiaran?” Nichol asked confusedly. “But he’s blind.”

“He sees trouble clear enough, though. Trouble and opportunity. Won’t be commanded by none but his dad, though, so Regar has to be up for us to be off. Won’t be long now, though. Won’t be long.”

* * * * *

The first day passed in an ignorant blur for Colm. With Kith keeping Nichol busy learning how to care for the wagons that contained the various bits and pieces of the House of Horrors, there was no one else brave enough to get close to his tank. It was partially covered by a tarred cloth so that the only light that came in was at the very bottom of the vessel. The water actually began to warm, with the sun soaking into the dark cloth that covered most of the tank, and Colm spared a thought for how uncomfortable he could count on becoming if he was still here by midsummer.

That was months away, though. Something had to give before then. Something would change. Colm curled up on the gritty floor and fanned his face with his tail, stirring the water up so it didn’t become too stale. From time to time, he reached for the knife he had tucked away, just to reassure himself with its comforting presence. He debated telling Nichol about it, but eventually decided not to. It would be a hard thing to explain when he had no words to speak with, and he didn’t want Nichol to ask him for it. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to give it up.

Colm did learn a few things on his own that day. One, the road they were on was definitely not one of the great roads that crisscrossed the Muiri Empire, like the pleasantly busy route he’d traveled on his way to the city. This road was rough and uneven, and more than once he heard Kith swear as they went over a bump that rattled the wagon, whose wooden bed creaked ominously under the tank each time.

Two, the Roving Spectacular’s caravan didn’t stop for a midday meal, but Kith did take a moment to throw a handful of sea roaches into Colm’s tank at one point. Colm hadn’t eaten them since he’d been human, and he expected to feel the same deep revulsion now that he’d felt then, but from the moment they hit the water and their scent spread, he was ravenous. They were still alive, and now it was a treat to feel them writhe in his mouth, their slick juices tart and fresh when he bit into them. This living prey was what Colm had been denying himself back in the Cove, and for a moment, he hated his own reluctance to embrace this new self.

Then he glanced up and saw Nichol staring at him, wide-eyed with surprise, while Kith nodded and laughed appreciatively. “Thought it’d like those,” he said. “It’s a killer, look at those teeth. The food probably don’t taste right any other way.”

Colm wanted to shrink from both of their looks, Kith’s approval and Nichol’s shock. He settled for turning away, his appetite suddenly diminished, and Kith slapped the side of the tank and headed back around to the front of the wagon. When Colm looked back, Nichol was gone as well.

The last thing Colm learned their first day out was this: his presence in the Roving Spectacular was not universally loved. Once the caravan settled for the evening, Colm’s tarp was pulled away. He looked first for Nichol and was relieved to find him close by, but his expression was anything but easy. A few feet away, Kith was caught up in an argument with a man Colm recognized from his capture, and they were yelling at each other loudly enough that he could hear everything they had to say.

“Farval’s dead, and I’m not leaving ’fore I make this beast pay for his death! ’Twas his poison that did ’im in.”

“This is the Spectacular’s newest grand exhibit, and if you break it, Regar’ll break you, fool,” Kith shouted back.

“Regar should never have listened to his git about this one. It’ll bring ill luck on the caravan, mark my words,” the man—Colm recognized Wes at this volume—insisted. “Now’s the best time to get rid of it, before news that we ’ave it spreads.”

“I did tell him to be careful,” a new voice said. All three of the men turned to face Kiaran, who walked up to the wagon with his striped cane held out in front of him, feeling for impediments. “I told all of you that.”

“Your caution wasn’t good enough,” Wes spat. “You didn’t say anything about poison.”

“I didn’t know about the poison. But honestly, man, how specific do I have to be in order for you and your men to keep away from the sharpest, pointiest parts of the creature?” Kiaran demanded. “One would think all it would take was a pair of eyes and a sense of self-preservation. The mer looks like a man-killer. In fact,” he continued blithely, “that’s how it’s going to be billed. Regar’s already agreed, popularizing it with a reputation like that will be brilliant. All we need is the right setup.”

Wes was almost apoplectically red. “You…you wouldn’t dare…you wouldn’t use Farval’s death like that. Y’can’t…”

“By the gods, no,” Kiaran scoffed. “Farval will get his rites and rituals like any other man. But look at that.” He waved toward the tank. “What do you see?”

“What do you see?” Wes asked, reaching out and ripping the blindfold from Kiaran’s eyes before Kith or Nichol could stop him. “What does your sorcery tell you now?”

Milky blankness was all that met Wes’s furious glare. “Nothing,” Kiaran said. “Obviously. It comes and it goes, you know that. Now, if you’ve satisfied your curiosity.” He gestured toward Colm again. “What do you see?”

“My new attraction,” Kith offered hesitantly as he tapped his thumbs nervously against his belly, the copper chain around his neck jiggling along with the movement.

“A foul and murderous beast,” Wes snapped.

“A mer,” Nichol said tonelessly, but he didn’t move away from the tank.

“The second is the most compelling description, don’t you think? The show,” Kiaran said reverently, “is everything. The lambs come wanting to be fleeced, and the easier we make it, the better. Give this creature the proper atmosphere and they’ll pay twice, three times what they did to see Grundy. Hardly anyone knows what a Grundylow is, anyway. A mer, though… A few warning signs, a few words of caution at the front of the tent before they come in, and then, when they get in to see it…” Kiaran’s voice dropped, and all three men leaned in, captivated despite themselves. Colm strained to hear, not quite willing to lay his head against the glass. He didn’t want to give away his understanding unless he had to.

“Bones,” Kiaran said. “A layer of bones across the base of the tank. It doesn’t matter where they come from, man or dog or fish—what matters is that when the lambs look in at this mer, they aren’t just looking at another exotic beast. They’re looking at the evidence of its foul hunger, and it will make them afraid and excited. That fear will bring them back over and over again.”

“Y’want to lay down a layer of…bones?” Kith sounded disapproving. “They’ll muck the water something terrible, they will.”

“Boil them before they go in, and they’ll be fine,” Kiaran replied. “Think of the bones as a tribute to Farval,” he said to Wes. “A sign of the sacrifice that went to capturing the creature in the first place. Talk to my father about suitable recompense for the loss of your brother. I’m sure he’s got something in mind.”

“I’ll do that,” Wes said, but his voice had lost the hardness and threat it had carried before now. He seemed nearly placated, which astonished Colm, given that the man had been seconds away from starting a brawl just a few minutes earlier. He stuffed Kiaran’s sash back in his hand and stomped off.

Kiaran retied the blindfold and turned to Nichol. “How’re you settling in, Nyle?”

“He’ll do fine as an assistant,” Kith put in, eager to have something positive to say. “No fear in this lad, it seems, not when it comes to this beast.”

“I’m fine,” Nichol said, staring straight at Kiaran’s face as if the man could actually see him. “Better off here than where I was.”

“I do believe that,” Kiaran said. “Kith, if you’re confident in your protégé, perhaps you wouldn’t mind leaving him to mind your wagons while you help me find my father. We can discuss the exhibit as we go.”

“Aye, Kiaran.” Kith took the younger man by the elbow and led him away, and a moment later, Nichol sat down on the edge of the wagon next to the tank and leaned into it slightly. It was dusk, and while Colm could tell that there were people moving around across the fallow field the rovers had stopped in, they were indistinct.

“There must be something we don’t know yet,” Nichol murmured, his lips touching the side of the tank. “Something we don’t understand. He wouldn’t have come to me only to leave us hopeless.” Nichol looked into the tank at Colm. “Do you see? There’s a piece missing, but we’ll learn it. We’ll survive. You’ll survive, I swear.”

There, at last, was the fervency that Colm had been missing, the spark of life in Nichol that had been overshadowed by guilt and grief. There was the fire, and Colm smiled, careful to keep his lips closed over his sharp teeth, and knocked once on the glass.

Yes.

Chapter Twenty

The next three days were a blur of bumps and rocks and near misses, and Colm wasn’t the only one to feel the pain of it. Kith complained mightily to Nichol and whoever else would listen, going on and on about his aching guts and the hard seat and how this new route was doing him no good.

“Blasted seer, turning us away from the main roads,” Kith muttered to Nichol as he tossed a handful of sea roaches through the tank’s grate. “Says there’s flooding coming down from the Spires. It’s washed out the roads leading down from the mountains and sent the early caravans scurrying to the coastal road. This is faster, according to he. Faster.” Kith winced and arched his back. “P’raps, but it’s worse on my damn bones.”

“I suppose he knows what he’s doing,” Nichol offered as he prepared some wood for a fire. “You’ve relied on him for a long time, haven’t you?”

“Oh aye, aye. Born afflicted by magic, that one. Most parents would have thrown away a babe with such a clear disability, but Regar is a powerful sorcerer in his own right and he knew his son’s potential. That boy was speaking spells before he could walk properly, I hear, but he hasn’t got his father’s gift for that. The prophesying, though… That’s always right. Always. Kiaran doesn’t always have kind words to say, but you learn soon enough to listen to ’im when he turns them on you.”

“Has he ever seen into your future?” Nichol asked. The fire was burning now, just a fragile little flame, but Nichol was tending it carefully and coaxing it higher. The log it was built from was split into quarters, with each piece stood up on end to face the others. The tinder was on the ground in the center of it all, and the heat was channeled up the splits as it burned from the inside out, funneling the warmth into the pot that Nichol had laid on top of it.

“Once,” Kith said, sitting down with a grace that belied his purported pain. “A few years back, I met a woman in a town just outside the Siskanns—that’s them marshes, the great bogs. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, long dark hair, breasts as big as melons, and could she ever cook… She cooked for me every day, and it was divine. Settled this stomach of mine like nothing but drink’s ever managed to.” He patted his ever-present bulge, incongruous beside the skinniness of his legs and arms. “The Spectacular was stopped there for two weeks, and by the end of it I knew I wanted to marry ’er. I was going to ask, but Kiaran caught me that evening, and he took off his blindfold and he said to me, ‘Find out what she looks like at night before you choose to spend the rest of your life with her.’

“An’ I thought about it for a moment, and I realized that it was maybe a bit strange that she’d never let me stay past sundown. So I went back to her home that evening, quiet like, and I watched her leave the house for the nearest waterway, and I followed. It was a dangerous place. I could see the nimh-fish from the shore, big’uns, snapping their jaws in the air. I was going to call out to her, but she…” Kith shook his head.

“She crouched down on all fours at the edge of the water, and the next thing I know, she’s sliding into the water on a scaly belly. Part nimh, she was—not completely changed, I could still see her feet and hands, but her skin and face…” Kith shuddered. “Made me wonder what kind of meat she’d been feedin’ me when I came courting.”

“Part nimh-fish,” Nichol mused. “It makes one wonder how that happened. I mean, aren’t they… They’re a kind of serpent, aren’t they? Could they somehow couple with a human?”

“Sometimes it’s a curse that does it,” Kith said. “Has to be a strong one to affect an unborn child like that, but I knew a sorcerer who claimed he’d been paid to do it once. The babe died before it could be born, though, took the mother with it. Dark business.” Kith shrugged and poured a skin of water and some dried vegetables into the pot.

“How is it you’re all so unconcerned by magic?” Nichol asked quietly. “Its use is completely restricted in Caithmor if you’re not a priest.”

“Restricted, true,” Kith said with a shrug. “That don’t mean it never happens. Magic’s in all of us, Nyle, more in some, less in some, but there. Why would the gods give us gifts if they didn’t want us to use them?”

“But then we’d have terrible wars,” Nichol protested. “Thousands of people died before. Whole cities were destroyed.”

Kith shook his head tiredly. “We ’ave terrible wars now. You think it’s any less horrible for someone to die by a sword rather than a spell? People are always going to die, boy. War is the way of man, more than peace, more even than love. We fight for what we can get, and we fight to hold it. My whole village was wiped out by our Emperor’s father as he worked his way along the northern coastline. Rounded us up, set our houses on fire. Some of us were fast enough to get away, but not most.”

“I’m sorry,” Nichol murmured.

“I survived, though what I had to give up to do so…” Kith shuddered. “Found my way, though it weren’t easy.” He leaned back against the edge of the wagon and tossed Nichol the spoon. “Keep stirring that. Don’t let it stick to the pot.” Kith turned his face and looked up at Colm. Colm looked back, still and silent, and after a moment, Kith shuddered and looked away.

“Makes my flesh crawl,” he muttered. “The way it looks at us. Like it’s thinkin’ of how much it’d like to rip our throats out. Got a glimmer of intelligence in its eyes, it does. Probably a fearsome hunter in the open water.”

“Probably,” Nichol agreed. He stirred the pot, then asked, “Are there many of you here who can do magic, then?”

“A fair few. Not going to be a problem for you, is it?”

“Not at all,” Nichol replied. “I’m just curious, I suppose. There’s a lot I don’t know about magic. Do people use it in their acts?”

“Not usually. It takes energy, magic does. You hafta be fit to make any use of it at all. Regar’s the strongest sorcerer in the Spectacular by far these days, but his gift is in working charms on objects, like he did with the mesh there.” Kith waved a hand at the tank. “He spells things to make ’em more useful. Swords that never dull, clothes that don’t wear out, metal that can bind to glass. Kiaran’s got his prophecy, some of the acrobats can do tricks that make ’em stronger, more balanced, that sort of thing. Plenty of people who work magic find it best to keep moving, otherwise the local priests hunt ’em down. Some of ’em find a place with us.

“There was one who traveled with us for a time, oh, almost ten years past now. He was a great favorite of Regar’s, was his lover for a time, I think. Powerful, that man was. He could farsee.”

“Farsee? Is that some kind of prophecy?”

“No, it’s literally what it sounds like, Nyle. He could use his power to see any place he’d ever been before, and he’d traveled all over the world, even to the Garnet Isles. He could tell you what was happening, who was doing what… Saw it all clear as day. A great gift, that man had.”

“What happened to him?” Nichol asked.

“Oh, here it gets a bit sad. He and Regar had a falling out over something, and Regar turned him out of the Spectacular. Not a day later, he was picked up by the priests and hauled off to the capital. None’s seen him since. Kiaran was broken up about it back then, but he was a high-strung child. Anything could make that lad cry. He’s toughened up quite a bit since then.” Kith kicked his legs out straight and sighed. “Life does that to you.”

“So it does,” Nichol agreed, and he glanced at Colm before going back to stirring his and Kith’s dinner.

* * * * *

The Roving Spectacular made its next semi-permanent camp a week later in the city of Devanon, halfway between the sea and the mountains. It wasn’t a usual stop for them, and the small city was more than happy to permit the entertainers to set up and put on a show for a few weeks. Colm had half a day of watching the tent city go up around him, poles extended and erected with breathtaking speed, covered with colorful banners and holding up familiar sights. The red-and-blue enormity that was the Pinnacle took shape in the middle of their camp, and everywhere there were signs with the lidless blue eye, always watching. It had more meaning for Colm now that he knew there really was someone who could see him, and the arc of his future, and act on it.

The tents for the House of Horrors were built around Colm’s tank. The cart was covered to look like a platform, and the dirty brown-and-gray cloth that Kith claimed was deliberately so, to make the exhibits more disturbing, was strung up overhead, dimming the bright light of the sun and making it almost impossible for Colm to look out. His vision wasn’t very good, especially in the dark. The ability to sense every movement around him had made up for that lack while he was at sea, but now Colm just felt blind and hemmed in.

Being showered with bones didn’t help matters. Regar didn’t care what Kith did to make Colm look more fierce, apparently, but he wasn’t about to undo the magic he’d used on the grate to make it easier for Kith to stick the bones in, so Kith had broken them up with an axe and dropped them in bits and shards into the tank. Colm curled against the far surface and felt the bones fall to the floor, all the little eddies and perturbations that the pieces made as they fell serving to distract him, at least. Some of the bones were clean, but others were still…somewhat gooey, flavored with the meat of whatever animal they’d come from. It made Colm’s stomach curl in on itself with hunger. He’d had nothing but increasingly listless sea roaches to eat ever since they’d left Caithmor, and he was terribly hungry.

“Ah, well,” Kith said after he finally stopped pushing bones into the tank, enough that there was a sharp, thin layer across the floor. “It’s better than nothing. I’ve got half a skeleton around here somewhere, I’ll prop that against the outside and give ’em somethin’ else to look at. Nyle!” he called to Nichol, who was doing his best to stitch up some of the larger rents in the cloth above their heads.

“Aye?”

“There’s half a man in one of these trunks. Pick ’im out when you’re settin’ up the tables for the curiosities. I want ’im set up next to this beast.”

“I will,” Nichol said. He glanced over Kith’s shoulder, and his eyes widened for a moment before he recovered himself. “Kith, why don’t you go and get some fresh air? This stuff’s still damp from Caithmor, and it’s full of mold now. That’s no good for your lungs. I’ll finish things in here.”

Kith looked somewhere between eager and doubtful, one hand already reaching for where he kept his flask. “You sure you can do it?”

“I’ve visited your House of Horrors before,” Nichol said soothingly. “I remember how it goes. Go on, get some air. This is what you’re bringing me along for, isn’t it? Let me do some of the hard labor for a bit.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Kith said. “I’ll be back later.” He left the gloom of the tent, and a few moments later, Kiaran appeared.

“You two seem to be settling in nicely,” he said with a smirk, then fell back as Nichol grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him hard against the tank.

“Settling in?” Nichol hissed. “Settling in to putting Colm on display in front of a bunch of gawking buffoons, and you call it a good thing?”

“Be careful how you refer to our livelihood,” Kiaran cautioned, holding on to Nichol’s closed fists but not pushing them away. “You were both among those gawking buffoons not so long ago. You didn’t think twice about the creature in the tank then, did you?”

“Colm is not just some creature,” Nichol said, but the anger was already being replaced by weariness. Nichol didn’t have it in him to maintain a state of rage, and he sheepishly let go of Kiaran a moment later. “I apologize for that. I’m not myself right now.”

“I understand. Neither of you are.” Kiaran turned and looked into the tank, vaguely toward Colm’s face. “Are you all right?”

Colm nodded, and then, for good measure, knocked once.

“A single knock means yes, or sometimes thank you,” Nichol offered. “Two knocks is a no.”

“That’s clever.”

“The man who tends bar at my grandmother’s inn is mute. It’s his system, and it’s simple enough.”

“Perhaps we can learn to communicate more with it. It must be difficult not to be able to say everything you want to say,” he said to Colm. “You still understand me perfectly, though?”

Colm knocked once.

“Brilliant. We’ll work something out. Now that you’ve freed Kith from spending his days minding the House of Horrors, I daresay he’ll spend most of his time in Devanon’s drinking establishments and whorehouses. I’ve set my wagon up not far from here, so we should be able to speak often.”

“To what purpose?” Nichol demanded. “Unless you’ve found a way to free Colm from this shape, that is. We’re too far from the coast to dare getting him out now.”

“He couldn’t get out anyway yet,” Kiaran said. “Not while my father’s spell still holds. The metal is too tightly bound to the glass, and the grate won’t come off unless that bond is loosened.”

“How are we to accomplish that?” Nichol asked.

“With the bones. My father’s magic works well on things that are man-made, things that have already been shaped by other hands, but it works very poorly on raw materials. He can make a sword sharp enough to cut the very air, but he can’t draw the iron out of rocks. He can preserve a pair of shoes to last forever, but he can’t tan leather. He can join a glass tank and a metal grate”—Kiaran gestured toward the top of Colm’s cage—“but they are two objects that have no natural affinity for each other. The magic of that bond can be weakened, with a bit of effort. Look at the joints on the inside, Colm,” he said. “Feel for the gaps.”

Colm floated up to the top of the tank and ran his fingers along the edges of the metal. It felt solid enough, but not quite perfect. On a hunch, he rapped his knuckles sharply against the metal, then felt the tremor spread around the tank. There were, indeed, small imperfections here and there in the bond between the glass and the metal, so small they were nearly invisible.

“The bones shall be your lever,” Kiaran explained. “Fill those spaces with slivers, and they’ll help to weaken the magic. When it is weak enough, we’ll simply be able to lift the grate off the top. That’ll be the first problem solved.”

“I don’t understand you,” Nichol said wonderingly. “Not at all. You aided in Colm’s capture, yet you brought me along to look after him. You’re helping us to facilitate his escape, yet it’s your own father who cast the spell to keep him here. What are you after? Truly?”

“I always see my visions through,” Kiaran replied. “I tried to change the future once, just once, and it wreaked havoc on my life. I have no desire to anger the gods by ignoring their warnings another time.” He smiled suddenly. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t nudge them a bit to get me closer to what I want.”

“And what is that?”

“Nothing you need to bother yourself with,” Kiaran said. “You two will be gone by that time. You’d best get back to work, Nyle. Kith is an indolent man, but he won’t hesitate to beat you if you don’t get the work done.”

“I know,” Nichol said glumly, but returned to unpacking the trunks after a final glance at Colm.

Kiaran turned to the tank and leaned into it. His face seemed to follow Colm’s despite the blindfold over his eyes. “And you,” he said, “must be prepared to give them a show. No cowering in the back. You must be worth every drop of blood that was shed to claim you, or none of my workings will save you in the end.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The Roving Spectacular’s first show was the next day, and Colm soon discovered that it was much less amusing being one of the exhibits than it had been simply watching them. The people of Devanon reacted with awe and fear upon seeing him, and Colm hated seeing the little children dart behind their parent or sibling as soon as they laid eyes on him. Several of the folks who came through screamed, and one actually fainted, which led to Nichol having to carry the lady out of the tent. Naturally, that only piqued people’s interest, and the flow of gawkers stayed steady from morning till night.

Colm, remembering Kiaran’s admonishment, didn’t let himself settle in the bottom of the tank no matter how mortified he felt inside. He stirred up the bones with his tail, he crept in tight circles around the perimeter of the glass, he pressed his long webbed fingers to the surface and drew his face close. He never opened his mouth, though. There was a line for Colm between making his audience uncomfortable and making himself uncomfortable, and baring his sharp teeth to them crossed that line.

Outside, Colm could vaguely hear music, the drums and horns that he remembered from his own visit in Caithmor, and the laughter of the people who listened to it. He remembered the jesters and the players, and the man with the hump-backed spotted cat on its metal lead, daring people to put their heads between its massive jaws. It had all seemed so thrilling, even the House of Horrors to a certain extent. Not anymore.

Nichol did surprisingly well in his new role as a rover. He affected a loose and confident air, smiled easily and charmed people into believing he’d been at this ever since he could walk. He offered up a dozen different stories for how he’d come to the profession, none of them even remotely close to the real thing, but each one had been believable enough to garner him sympathy, jealousy and admiration, sometimes all at once.

Colm knew Nichol. He knew how he thought and how he felt. Colm knew that even though Nichol would probably never admit it, probably didn’t realize it himself, there was a part of him that was greatly satisfied to be having an adventure, even one as ugly as this. Nichol’s sole goal for years had been a commission with the navy, and without that goal and the friends that came with it, he’d been lost. He might not be at sea now, but he was traveling and experiencing a new side of life, and the worry that had plagued him, that Colm was dead, had been assuaged.

These small sources of comfort were all that kept Colm going some days, when the crowds were less afraid and more disgusted, when someone actually threw a clod of mud at the tank and was jerked out of the House of Horrors by an angry Nichol. Fear, anger, even fascination were emotions that Colm had had quite enough of.

By the second week, the only thing Colm looked forward to were the nights, when Kith went off to drown in booze and women and Nichol lit a lantern, and they sat together and Nichol talked about his day, about another act or sometimes about nothing at all as Colm quietly, carefully worked tiny slivers of bone into the crevices between metal and glass. When he ran out of the tiniest slivers, he made more of his own, scraping the bigger bones with his sharp, hard teeth until shards broke off.

Colm had expected Nichol to be disgusted by it at first, but Colm was rapidly coming to the conclusion that nothing he could do would disgust Nichol. Nothing drove him away, and he was the one to badger Kith into doing the spell that cleaned the water once a week, so Colm didn’t have to float in too much of his own filth. Colm was sure that Nichol’s devotion to him was motivated as much out of misplaced guilt as true affection, but he wasn’t going to reject it no matter what the source of the constancy was. It was such a terrible relief not to be alone. First Rory, now Nichol… Colm didn’t know how he’d gotten lucky enough to earn such loyalty from his family, but he felt every bit of his luck every time he saw Nichol smile, or heard him laugh.

There was only one night when Colm found himself without Nichol’s company. Nichol, or Nyle as they all knew him, was a young man running from his past. It made sense to all the other young men that he would want to drown his sorrows, and to put his peers off every night with excuses had the potential to make them wary. When he couldn’t delay any longer, Nichol went with them, finding a way to let Colm know that he was going to be reluctantly gone before he left the tent to Kith’s surveillance for the evening.

Colm was sorry to see him go, but he didn’t want to be selfish. Despite Nichol’s protestations to the contrary, Colm knew Nichol couldn’t be blamed for his transformation. He deserved a chance to relax, to be with other people, real people, who could speak to him and touch him and make him feel welcome. Colm watched him leave, and then spent the rest of the evening pretending not to watch Kith, who was already stumbling drunk.

The more he drank, the easier he got with himself, less self-conscious about the turmoil of his belly. He sat down a few feet from the tank and hoisted his flask over and over as he stroked his stomach, murmuring to it so softly that Colm couldn’t hear what he was saying. He was almost treating it the same way Colm remembered Desandre doing, talking to her own stomach when she was carrying children, only no pregnancy that Colm had ever seen led to such permanent distension. It was one more mystery in the layers of mysteries that surrounded the Roving Spectacular. Colm’s true form might be one of the biggest secrets, but it was far from the only one among the rovers.

By the time Nichol got back that night, Kith had left, gone to refill his flask and staying gone. Nichol pushed back his hood and stepped close to the tank, shuttering the lantern he carried so that it only let out the tiniest sliver of light. Colm could just see the bridge of his nose, and the soft skin of his cheeks where his dark beard hadn’t quite grown in. “Don’t think I’ll be doing that again,” Nichol said quietly, leaning his forehead against the tank. Dark curls tumbled forward, and Colm wished he could touch them. He could barely remember the feel of their silk between his fingers. He clenched his clawed hands tightly and focused on listening.

“Wes leads the other men into all sorts of mischief, with his money as a lure. He had plenty of ideas about things to do to you, but I…persuaded him it would be a bad idea.” He grinned and ducked his head down, and now the light caught on the edge of his eyes, one of which was swelling up.

Colm keened very, very softly, and reached instinctively for Nichol’s face. “Don’t fuss,” Nichol chided him. “He’s worse off, and he won’t be trying anything. That’s the important bit. Couldn’t have him ‘buggerin’ up me livelihood,’” he added sarcastically. “It’s all right. Now I’ve got a reason to avoid them, and I’d rather be here with you anyway.”

Colm was genuinely surprised by the earnestness in Nichol’s voice. He knew that Nichol had come along on this awful adventure to be with him, because he felt guilty and—yes—because he loved him, but Nichol’s preference for his company, when Colm could barely even communicate, still astonished him.

“Shall I tell you what idiot things they confessed to doing outside of Caithmor?” Nichol asked, settling down on the wagon next to Colm.

Yes.

Nichol smiled for him, and spoke, and Colm listened as raptly as he ever had.

Things stayed manageable up until the very last day of the Roving Spectacular’s stay in Devanon. The rovers would be breaking down camp the next day, and some of them had already started. Nichol had been called away by Kith to help with something, and so when Colm’s heart broke all over again, there was no one to witness it who understood this time.

The crowd was just a trickle, probably because it was a cold spring day out judging from the mud that decked their boots and hems. Colm swam his tight, cramped circles and swayed, and tried not to let on how ungodly bored he was with the whole thing. Why couldn’t it be nightfall? He was almost a third of the way done with the grate, and he could feel the spell that bound it on weakening, feel it in the way the cracks widened, minute but definite progress. He circled lazily and glanced out at the people watching him and saw a thin girl in a familiar woolen hat push her way to the front—

No. Oh no. It couldn’t be. It was impossible. Colm plastered himself to the glass, scaring some of the watchers back. “Baylee,” he tried to say, but all that came out was his usual hiss.

“Gods, it sounds awful,” one of the other young women said, drawing back even farther. “Told you it was a horror, Lee. Come on, let’s go.” Baylee didn’t move, though. She stared wide-eyed at the tank, and Colm stared right back, achingly desperate to know more.

What was she doing in Devanon? How had she gotten here, and why? She looked at him so intently—did some part of her recognize him? Could she help him? Colm spread his hands and kept his lips closed so his teeth wouldn’t scare her. He reached out as best he could, imploring, so close to his dearest sister he could almost feel the warmth of her arms.

“You were right, Glena,” Baylee said after a moment. “It is rather horrible, isn’t it?”

“I told you, din’t I? Had to look for yourself, and now we’ll be late gettin’ back to the caravan. C’mon, Lee.” Glena took Baylee by the hand and led her toward the exit, and Colm—

He couldn’t just watch her leave. It was like watching his own execution. “No,” he tried to yell. “No!” The few other spectators left in a hurry, disturbed by the noise despite how the water muted it. Baylee’s friend hustled her through the doorway, and his sister cast a final glance back before vanishing from Colm’s sight.

“No!”

That one was loud enough to make Colm’s head hurt. The vibrations of his noise bounced back at him from the smooth glass walls, and he covered his ear holes with his hands and curled into a heap on the bottom of the tank, more miserable now than he’d been when he’d first been put in here.

“What did they do to you?” he heard Nichol shout as he ran back into the tent. “What did they do? What happened?”

“What happened?” That was Kith, who sounded more engaged now than he’d been since they first came to Devanon. “Y’should ask the people who were watching, not the mer. It can’t speak like a man.” His voice turned speculative. “Why do you expect it to?”

“I don’t,” Nichol blustered, but Kith wasn’t buying it.

“I think perhaps you are. Is there some trick going on here that I don’t know about? Do you have some magic after all, Nyle? Can ye speak to beasts?”

“I don’t have any magic,” Nichol insisted. “I just got worried, that’s all. I’ve never heard him make that sound before.”

Lies, lies. Nichol had heard that sound the last time Colm’s heart broke, but he couldn’t exactly tell that to Kith. Colm knew he was being worrisome, that he was putting Nichol in a bad spot, but he couldn’t quite muster the willpower to turn over and act like everything was all right. Baylee had left home, left Anneslea, and her path had somehow led her…here? Why not through Isealea, why not down the main roads? Was she being taken care of, did she have money, did she have a plan? These weren’t questions that Colm had the answer to, but they plagued his mind now, all the worries he’d harbored since he first learned that she would do anything to escape being forced into marriage.

Not that there was anything he could do. He was impotent, useless. She didn’t even know who he was, and how could she? Baylee remembered a tall, fair man, with brown hair and a gentle voice. Not a mer. Not a monster. It was probably for the best. He couldn’t speak to her even if she’d known him, and had no means of reassuring her, not when he and Nichol didn’t know what they were doing themselves.

“Colm.”

He turned his head farther into the floor.

“Colm.” Nichol’s voice was soft but insistent. “Kith’s gone now. I think it’ll be all right. Colm, look at me.” He didn’t move. “Please, love, please look at me. Let me know what happened.”

Colm wanted to. He wanted to comfort Nichol’s fears and receive comfort in return, but it was too much right now. The pain was still too close, the cacophony of his own changed voice still rang too loudly in his own head. He pressed a hand back to rest against the tank, palm flat, and he felt the faint vibration of Nichol’s own hand coming to rest on the other side of the glass. Nichol didn’t ask again, but he stayed put for a few minutes, until Colm could just barely feel the warmth of Nichol’s hand seeping through, before he was called away to begin packing things up. No one else would be venturing into the House of Horrors today.

Not until much later, not until it was dark outside and Kith had drowned his suspicions in rotgut and most of the Spectacular was sleeping, did Colm finally make an effort to reassure Nichol. He ate the fish that Nichol offered him—freshly caught; he must have bargained hard for it—and met his eyes in the bright moonlight, and tried not to let his sadness overcome him again.

Nichol pressed his face to the glass, close enough that Colm could feel the vibration of his voice. “Tell me what happened,” he murmured. “Did you see something upsetting?”

Colm knocked on the glass once.

“Was it a thing?”

Two knocks.

“A person, then?”

Yes.

“Did they say something that hurt you?”

Colm shook his head in frustration. Yes, her words had hurt, but not for the reason Nichol was assuming. He could handle the imprecations. He had heard every epithet under the sun.

“This is the wrong direction, isn’t it?” Nichol said. “Did this person remind you of someone you know?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. Colm knocked, not in rapid succession, but in an effort to get his point across. Nichol looked surprised, and considered him for a moment.

“Was this actually someone you know?”

Yes.

“Oh gods, Colm.” Nichol’s compassion was swift and fierce, and Colm let it soothe his frayed emotions. “I’m so sorry. Someone from Caithmor?”

No.

“No?” Nichol’s brow furrowed. “Someone from…Anneslea?”

Yes.

“What a strange thing,” Nichol marveled. “The floods have pushed the mountain travelers away from the direct road of out Isealea, so a lot of them are coming through Devanon, but still…what a chance. Was it a man?”

No.

“A woman? Why would a woman be travelling—oh.” Comprehension dawned like a rising star, and Colm hung his head. “Your sister…your sister. It was Baylee?”

Yes.

“The priest must have tried to make her go through with the marriage,” Nichol said. “That’s the only reason I can think of that she’d try to get out of the mountains during the winter, with no way to let us know she was coming. If we’d known…we could have gone to get her. Met her along the road, eased her way. We might have stayed away from the coast.” His voice grew bitter. “We might have stayed out of the water.”

Colm turned his head sideways and pressed his cheek against the glass, feeling every constraint of his silence like a weight in his heart. It was painful not to be able to reach out to Baylee, even if it had probably been for the best, but he hated leaving Nichol feeling like anything about this damnable situation was his fault. Colm had never appreciated the soothing power of the spoken word more than when it was taken away from him. He stroked the glass with his hand.

“Are you trying to make me feel better?” Nichol asked, with a hint of his old wry humor. “You are unbelievable. I should be making you feel better, not the other way around, and all I can do is moan and cry.”

No.

“No, I know I do. And I know I need to be more careful too.” He cast his gaze toward the wagon where Kith slumbered on. “I can’t give them a reason to look more closely at you, especially not now. There’s nowhere for you to go yet, no escape. We need to get to the coast road, and I can’t move this tank without the wagon. There are too many people here to get it done without someone catching on. But I swear to you, I’ll find a way. We’ll find a way.”

Not for the first time, Colm was able to take a grain of comfort from Kiaran’s words: “I will ruin you, but I’ll save you too.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Roving Spectacular’s normal course of travel would have had it wind down the coast of the Muiri Empire, sticking close to the water that was the lifeblood of commerce and conquest. That would have kept them close to the sea, to unending salt water and the potential for freedom. It would have afforded them some chance, even if it was slight, for Colm to get free.

The spring floods changed the Spectacular’s course. Kiaran made suggestions, but it was Regar who made the ultimate choice and he kept them inland, in the low hills where the ground was stronger, away from washouts and flood plains and anything else that might slow down his caravan. When Kiaran objected and was overruled, he came to them. Nichol was a reluctantly sympathetic ear, and Colm had latched on to Kiaran’s presence like a lucky talisman.

“How can you prophesy things that you know will come to pass, when your own father doesn’t listen to your advice?” Nichol asked one night. Kith was with them, sadly. He’d stuck closer ever since that final day in Devanon, despite his drink-addled memory of Nichol’s interaction with Colm in the House of Horrors.

“Most of the time it isn’t a real problem,” Kiaran said, blowing on a skewer of meat to cool it. “I get feelings, impressions of the best way to go, but my interpretation isn’t always correct, as my father loves to point out to me.”

“Like the time you led us into a damn lightning storm,” Kith muttered from behind his jar of ale. His stomach was growling so loud even Colm could hear it. “Had to hunker down beneath our wagons for an entire day to ride that out.”

“And I still maintain something worse would have happened if we’d taken the other path,” Kiaran said. “But that wasn’t one of my shining moments, no. Sometimes there’s no perfect solution. Sometimes you have to live out something bad in order to get to something better.”

“What if there isn’t something better to go back to?” Nichol asked quietly.

Kith laughed. “Missing your woman, Nyle? What, she leave you for a sailor back in Caithmor?”

“Something like that,” Nichol said, because it was worse to stonewall Kith than to give him enough information to think he understood.

“If there’s no hope at all, I rarely see anything,” Kiaran said around a mouthful of meat. “My talent’s way of protecting me, perhaps. It would be too sad to see nothing but hopelessness all day long.”

“’S’ a rare gift, that. Deathspeaking,” Kith put in. “My village had a deathspeaker, but he killed himself when I was a lad. The king’s forces came in not long after that,” he added morosely. “Can’t even find my village any longer. The forest has swallowed what was left of it.”

“The emperors have left behind too many empty villages, empty towns,” Kiaran said bitterly. “They’re too powerful not to be positively reeking with magic, and yet their priests beat back anyone who would lay claim to their own small piece of it.”

“They use magic more freely across the sea,” Nichol offered. “The priests loved to make it the subject of their sermons in Caithmor. Our Emperor is not just a conqueror; apparently, he’s a bringer of peace and truth in the face of foreign savagery.” Nichol rolled his eyes derisively.

“You don’t sound full of love for your religion,” Kith said. “Strange for a city boy.”

“I love the gods,” Nichol replied. “I just don’t love their messengers. I’ve seen the results of how they like to extract the truth, and it sickened me.”

“Well,” Kiaran said lightly, “I don’t know about you gentlemen, but I look forward to seeing if any of us are struck dead in the next few days. Divine retribution for such language is a tricky thing. Say a prayer tonight, Nyle.”

“If a plague takes us, we’ll know who to blame,” Kith added with a grunting chuckle. Nichol didn’t say anything, and soon after, the men separated and went to their rest. Colm spent the rest of the night quietly awake as he worked with his shards of bone, loosened the Ringmaster’s spell, and thought prayers to the Four in his mind until dawn broke over the horizon.

The Roving Spectacular stopped in the town of Lewel two weeks later. Lewel was fifty miles yet from the sea, but built right at the edge of the vast network of brackish swamps known as the Siskanns. The Siskanns had been one of the last places to fall to the Red-Eyed Emperor’s conquering forces. The mountains had been challenging, but the Emperor had known how to approach them, how to root the mages out of their stony fortresses with overwhelming force. The swamplands were different, a land of inconstant terrain and a people less engaged by fighting and more interested in fleeing the invaders. The largest towns were taken and eventually brought under the Emperor’s control, but there were rumored to still be places out there in the swamps that no Muiri boot had ever touched.

Lewel was their first stop in the wet and muggy wilds, normally a place that welcomed new attractions to distract the inhabitants from the growing numbers of biting insects that unfroze with the warmer weather. This time, though, the Roving Spectacular was only in place for a week before trouble forced them to move on. A young woman in town claimed she was assaulted by a rover, and the local priest latched on to her story and declared her debasement a sign from the gods that sheltering such a group would invite ruin upon them.

“Unholy magic twists the mind and heart!” he yelled, his voice amplified by the wind so that it projected across the entire town and into the field where the rovers had set up. “You cannot think to remain pure without the protection of the Four! Renounce these blasphemers and their vile amusements!”

The growing mob inside the town might have set upon them if the weather hadn’t gone bad that afternoon, dark clouds rolling in and turning the sky black well before nightfall. The Roving Spectacular packed in a hurry and set out along another road, every man, woman and child drenched to the bone.

That night, as the Rovers made a miserable camp, there was a meeting. Nyle wasn’t invited and spent the time huddled on the cart next to Colm’s tank, shivering in the wind but too stubborn to move beneath where he would get more shelter. “I never get any time alone with you lately,” he told Colm with the ghost of a smile when Colm objected. “Don’t push me away now.”

Colm tapped his clawed fingertips in a crescendo across the glass, taptaptap. It was his way of saying “idiot,” and made Nichol roll his eyes. “I would be just as wet beneath the cart,” he said. “The rain has stopped, and I can stand a bit of wind. I was a member of the Sea Guard, remember?”

Yes.

“Well, then. Stop fretting.”

Nichol’s admonition was followed quickly by Kiaran’s arrival, and one look at his face had Colm’s worry rising again. “What is it?” Nichol asked.

“It’s that idiot Wes,” Kiaran said angrily, using his cane to find the edge of the wagon and sit down. “He admitted to Regar that he raped that girl. He says he thought she was a prostitute, thought she was offering it to him but playing hard to get. He’s gotten used to getting what he wants this past month, now he’s got money to throw around thanks to the payment Father gave him after Farval’s death. She couldn’t be bought, so he decided to simply take.” Kiaran’s mouth twisted like he was going to spit. “Filthy pig. He doesn’t even work an act, he’s only here to help set up and break down. He’s got no value beyond that.”

“It sounds as though he’ll get his just comeuppance, then,” Nichol said. “Regar will force him out after this. What use does he have for someone who ostracizes entire communities and puts the Spectacular at risk?”

“You might be surprised at how understanding Father can be of those who make asses of themselves,” Kiaran said hollowly. He took off his blindfold and wrung it out in his hands, his white eyes staring into space. “Wes is a hotheaded fool, but he’s got a bit of a following among the other hands. Everyone who was part of the mer’s capture has been wary of our ways ever since, and Wes keeps them firmly on his side by spending his bloody coin on keeping them happy. I’m afraid of what’s going to happen next. I can’t see it clearly anymore. Father isn’t listening to me right now.”

“You said that Colm would be saved!” Nichol protested. “You told me—”

“And I meant it!” Kiaran hissed, trying to stay quiet. “Your presence here will save him, but that doesn’t mean that anyone else will be safe! Or even that you yourself will survive whatever comes next. I can’t see how it all comes together,” he said more quietly. “The bits and pieces of the future that come to me, they’re woven together in my mind like a tapestry. I can’t separate them all. I wish I could.” He turned to the tank, staring a foot to the left of Colm’s face. “Have you been working hard at the mesh?”

Yes, Colm knocked.

“I can shift it now,” Nichol murmured. “Just a little bit, but it moved.”

“Be careful to secure it going over bumpy roads, we don’t want to give the game away too soon,” Kiaran warned. “But that’s good. That’s very good. It could be important soon.”

* * * * *

The next morning was a dismal one for the Rovers. Regar Brighteyes roused his unhappy troupe and set them down a muddy path, their wagons creaking and groaning as the mules strained to pull their weight through the deep tracks.

“Soon we’ll be back to the big leagues, my lads and lasses,” Regar called out as he rode back and forth along the train, knowing full well how low his people’s morale was. “Back to easy roads and cities that can’t wait to throw their money at us.”

“Why not head there right now?” Kith moaned from his place behind the wagon. Theirs was the heaviest of the entire train, and after almost getting mired in mud once already this morning, they’d decided the only way to keep it moving was for both of them to push from behind, while one of the Bellari acrobats took the reins and handled the mules up front. The exertion wasn’t treating Kith well, though. His skin, always a little sallow, was positively gray, and from where he rested his head on the bottom of the tank, Colm could see the fabric covering his belly writhe and twist with the movements beneath it. He paused to drink every few minutes, not water but alcohol, always alcohol. Nichol was clearly worried about him but trying not to show it. Kith always responded badly when someone inquired after his health.

“Get the back wheel up!” the acrobat shouted back at them. “The mules can’t strain any harder!”

Both men lowered their heads and set themselves to the task. “He must have a reason for it,” Nichol said, grunting as he laid his shoulder to the corner of the wagon and pushed with all his might. “Otherwise—” The wagon popped forward all of a sudden, sending both men sprawling down into the mud.

Kith snarled as he picked himself up. “Bloody furious Two, that bastard had better have a reason for this fuckery.”

If he did, Regar wasn’t making it well known. The Roving Spectacular toiled its way across fields that rapidly gave way to marshes, tiny roads overwhelmed by the sheer number of vehicles in their entourage until the last ones were practically swimming in mud. The farther they went, the wetter the path became.

“We’ll never make another day of this,” Nichol said tiredly when they halted for a break at midday. “It’s too hard. We have to get back to the main roads.”

“What use is Kiaran if he can’t scry a better way for us?” Kith muttered under his breath before he took a pull on his flask.

Kiaran, it turned out, had already had this talk with his father. He found them that night, after the entire camp had turned in early for an exhausted, disconsolate rest. No inns here to trawl for a fresh brew and pretty maids. Even the laborers, most used to hard work, forewent their usual evening meeting in exchange for their bedrolls.

Kiaran was the only one moving about, finding his way across the scattered camp with the help of his long, thin cane. Kith was already asleep by the time he joined them, exhausted by the day’s efforts, but it didn’t seem to matter to Kiaran. Nichol motioned for him to sit down next to the fire, and Colm realized that for Kiaran, Nichol was possibly his first friend for years. And for Nichol, social, gregarious Nichol, this connection was a good thing.

It didn’t hurt that Colm’s own curiosities were assuaged by Kiaran’s visits.

“We face an ill choice no matter what way we go,” Kiaran said after Nichol asked. He sounded unusually grim. “Along the main road, that would take us toward the coast, Imperial cavalry are heading this way. Prayers passed between Lewel’s priest and the Ardeaglais have convinced the regent that the Roving Spectacular is an agent of the Two, and an evil in the land. Thanks to Wes and my father’s own stubborn refusal to hand him over to the townsfolk for justice, we must avoid that road at all costs.

“This sends us deeper into the rural areas, where the roads are less traveled. Unfortunately, they’re also less protected, and bandits are a common occurrence in these parts. There’s a town about ten miles east of here that is our goal tomorrow. If we can make it there, we may be safe for a time. If they let us stay. If they’re not in league with a group of bandits themselves.” Kiaran shrugged. “I told my father as much and let him pick our path, and this is what he decided on.”

“Does he not ever try to argue with you about the options you present to him?” Nichol asked. “When they are so dark, especially?”

“He used to. He would beat me, he would threaten me, he would do everything in his power to change my sight. I would even let him, sometimes.” Kiaran chuckled bitterly. “But he learned, along with me. You can’t escape your fate. Sometimes the best you can do is choose the path of lesser evils. Either way, keep your eyes open for your opportunity,” he added. “Chaos is your friend.”

“But we’re not close enough to the ocean,” Nichol protested. “Can a mer even survive in fresh water?”

“The water isn’t fresh,” Kiaran assured him. “Neither is it salt, but if nimh-fish can swim out to sea and return to the inlets here without issue, then perhaps Colm can as well.”

Perhaps, maybe, if, then… So many things needed to fall into place. The top of the cage was well loosened now, the shards of bone doing their job and diminishing the magical bond between metal and glass. One good push, Colm thought, if he thrust hard off the bottom of the tank… With one good push, he could be free. Free to fall onto the ground and writhe about until he asphyxiated, or free to plunge into water that made his skin crawl and killed him more slowly, or…

He had to stop thinking about it, or he’d never rest. Colm shifted in the tank, drawing Kiaran’s attention. “You’re awake, then?” he said softly, getting to his feet and finding the side of the tank with his hand. On a whim, Colm reached out and touched his own hand to it, the way he would with Nichol. Kiaran smiled.

“No matter what happens next, Colm Weathercliff, remember that you’re more than you seem. You’ve bridged a gap between two different worlds and two very different peoples. You have both of their weaknesses, but also both of their strengths. I would never have wished this fate on you, but I’ll never be sorry I met you either.” He turned and headed back out into the camp, as subtle using his cane as a passing zephyr, and both Colm and Nichol watched him go with tired bemusement.

“I wonder what he meant by all that,” Nichol said.

The next day started off well enough. The clouds that had threatened rain were gone, leaving clear skies in their place, and the ground was a little drier. Kith had fought hard to get his wagon moved to the front of the train and Regar had listened, so they managed to avoid the deep ruts that had gotten them into so much trouble yesterday. Regar kept up his running encouragements, letting some of the children take turns riding behind him on his horse, lending a hand here and there with pushing the wagons. Staring back through the sliver of tank that wasn’t covered by the dark oilcloth Kith had draped over the top, Colm saw firsthand all the charisma that he remembered from the show he and Nichol had attended in Caithmor. Regar was a strong leader when he tried to be, and his son was just like him in so many ways. Mysterious, compelling…easy to listen to. Easy to believe.

It had occurred to Colm more than once during these long, dull days when he had nothing to do but sway in a mire of dirty water and tiny bones, that Kiaran could be lying. Or, if not lying, at least being very selective with the truths he presented. He seemed to have a genuine respect for his own capability and what it meant, but that didn’t mean he was completely above bending things to suit his own interests. He seemed to want to help Colm, but visions or no, he had been responsible for Colm’s capture in the first place. He might be playing a game that no one else could see the board for, and no one, not even his indomitable father, would know better.

Speaking of his father… “On, my lads and lasses, on!” Regar shouted, and on they went, not even stopping to eat lunch. “On to Framel, on to a night of warm fires and good foo—”

His voice was cut off suddenly, and the momentary silence soon echoed with screams. “Attack!” Kith yelled suddenly. “We’re under attack!”

Attack…bandits? As if in answer, the tank suddenly shuddered with a heavy scraping sound, and the cloth that covered him was jerked away by the heavy tip of the arrow that scored a scratch across the top of the tank as it flew by. Colm started at the sound and immediately looked to Nichol. The caravan had halted behind them, people falling into disarray as the bandits—Colm couldn’t see them yet—shot more arrows into the crowd.

“Go!” Regar yelled from close by. Colm saw him stride into view, coming straight at their wagon as he exhorted the others to move. “Put your back into it, Nyle,” he snarled at Nichol before turning to Kith. “You’ve got to release them.”

Kith went even grayer. “I can’t—they’re too settled right now.”

“Drowning the one useful thing about you in drink, you useless coward!” Regar grabbed Kith and pressed his back to the tank. The glass began to heat, and Colm drew back. “Release them, or I’ll stick you here by your own chain and leave you for these rogues to use as target practice.”

“I—I can’t, Regar, they won’t all—”

“Target practice it is, then,” Regar said, and he tightened his grip around Kith’s neck and forced the copper links of his necklace flush to the glass. The metal rings started to melt into the glass surface, bonding like the grate had to the top.

“No! No!” Kith struggled for a moment, his hands clawing fruitlessly at his neck, but Regar didn’t make a move to release him, just glowered fiercely as more arrows came close. A moment later, Kith’s whole body seemed to bow with force, arching him away from the tank. Nichol drew back, staring in grotesque astonishment at what was happening to Kith.

He seemed to vibrate for a moment, a faint buzzing that Colm could feel in the water, before Kith suddenly disgorged a torrent of white, sluglike shapes onto the ground in front of himself. Nichol staggered away from the tank, putting distance between himself and the creatures, but Regar stayed, his stern eyes fixed on the little beasts as they stretched and unfurled dragonfly-like wings that fluttered and dried quickly as they lifted themselves up out of the dirt.

“Set them on the bandits,” Regar commanded. Kith obeyed with a groan, and a moment later the slip-thin hatchlings—whatever they might be—flew up into the air, their translucent wings beating incessantly and their spiked tails curled in tight. They fluttered off away from the wagon, and a minute later, the arrows stopped falling.

“Get the wounded into carts and move!” Regar yelled at the rovers, who scrambled to obey.

“Down now…” Kith choked, his whole body slumped so that his neck held almost all his weight. “Let me down, damn you.”

“Not yet,” Regar snapped. “Not until you recall the little demons safely to your guts. Drive on, Aramin!” He left them, evading Kith’s grasping fingers and leaving Nichol alone, utterly stunned.

“Move us, lad,” Kith managed. “Four damn that Regar, get us moving or I’m as good as dead. If I die, so do we all, ’cause I’m the only thing keeping those little beasts in check right now.”

“I… All right.” The front of the cart shuddered as the mules strained, and Nichol leaned in and began to push again. They started slowly but picked up speed, going as fast as possible with Kith having to stagger backwards, forcing his fingers between the necklace and his skin so he didn’t choke to death on the metal.

This went on for another fifteen minutes or so before the first arrow came arcing back at them, this time headed straight for Kith. It struck the tank just above his head, scraping the glass again but not penetrating.

“I’ll kill Regar, I’ll kill th’ bastard!” Kith gasped. “On, on! We must be gettin’ close!”

“I can see a bridge,” Nichol confirmed. “And rooftops beyond it. We’ll make it there.”

The enormous spotted cat and his handler raced by them, as did others who didn’t have wagons full of their livelihoods to concern themselves with. Wes was one of them, and he grinned nastily as he passed them. “Sticking by your prize, then?” he sneered at Kith. “Ye’ll get what you deserve.”

Five paces on, the wagon fell into another rut. The one just behind them barely stopped in time to avoid causing a collision. Its driver, one of the musicians, didn’t even bother to swear at them, just jumped out of his cart, helped two of his family out and ran on.

Nichol pushed hard at the wagon, but it wouldn’t move. He glanced around the cart again, then back. “The driver’s gone. We’re still twenty feet from the bridge.”

“Better run for it then, lad,” Kith managed. “Get far enough away, and even my beasts won’t come after you.”

“No, I can’t leave you two,” Nichol insisted.

“A fish-man an’ a horror who bargained with the Two? Ye bloody well can!”

“I—”

Another arrow struck the tank, this one square on, cracking the glass and driving the shaft through the front wall. Water began to gush out of the hole, and the splintered shaft drifted down to the floor as Nichol yelled, “Colm! Are you all right?”

Colm knocked once, but his noise was overshadowed by Kith’s sudden epiphany. “You can talk to it? Ye really can talk to beasts? Nyle,” and now he grabbed at Nichol’s hand with new fervor, “You have to talk these monsters out of me. The drink only quells them for so long and I can’t hold them anymore. I never shoulda prayed to the Two for help, but it was the only way to stay alive back then!”

“No, it’s not all animals, just Colm,” Nichol insisted. He pushed as hard as he could at the wagon, straining until veins bulged across his temples, but there was nothing, not even a tremor. “We can’t move on. We’re stuck here.” He stared at Colm, eyes wide and frenzied, but there was an inexplicable grin on his face.

“Time to go. I’ll get you to the water.”

Colm didn’t need to be told again. He thrust up against the mesh, which bowed under the first blow but didn’t quite dislodge. Water spilled all over Kith and Nichol, arrows split the air, but Colm struck again, hard, and this time the mesh sprang off. Colm gripped the top of the tank, took a final deep breath, then pulled himself over the side.

“What in the name of the Four are you playing at?” Kith demanded, eyes wide with shock as Colm slithered down onto the ground. “What the—”

“I’ll be back to help you,” Nichol said, getting one arm beneath Colm’s shoulder, his hand unerringly avoiding the spines. Colm tried not to thrash, more desperate for Nichol’s touch than he was to breathe. Warm, calloused hands that held him close… If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Colm would have begged for stillness, just so he could appreciate the first touch of his lover’s hands in months. “I’ll be back, I just have to…” He started to drag Colm forward, hunched beneath his weight and the drag of his tail on the ground.

Colm helped as best he could, coiling his tail beneath him and pushing forward with it, but he was already so tired. He’d been pent up for so long, his muscles hardly remembered how to work. There was the bridge. He could smell the water that seemed almost but not quite right. Bodies lay on the road, bodies they skirted around. The spotted cat was there, whining and tugging futilely at her fallen master’s collar. She didn’t spare them a second glance as they struggled by, but the next corpse wasn’t quite a corpse yet.

Wes clutched one hand to his chest, where an arrow had gone straight through his rib cage and out his back. He was bleeding from his mouth far too heavily to live for long, but as soon as he saw them, his face twisted with fury. “Monster,” he coughed. “Servants of the Two, I should have…I…” He lunged for them, and Nichol jerked them to the side, away from Wes’s grip, but Colm slipped from his grasp and hit the ground hard. Stars flitted in front of his eyes, blurring the awful world into something more bearable as he began to lose consciousness. Wes’s hand found them again, a terribly strong grip for someone who was dying, and Nichol couldn’t pull away from it and hold on to Colm at the same time.

A brightly striped cane came down on Wes’s arm, and he released them with a groan. Kiaran crouched down on the ground next to him, his eyes uncovered and completely clear for once. “Move! Now!” he snapped at Nichol.

“But Kith…”

“I’ll go back for him. You two get into the water! This is the only chance you’ll get!” Kiaran stood up and ran back toward the mired cart and its broken cargo, and Nichol turned back to Colm, looping his limp arms around Nichol’s neck.

“Hold tight to me.”

All that was real now to Colm was Nichol, his desperate hold, the slow progress of their bodies as Nichol scraped and clawed their way across the ground. The smell of water got stronger, close, so close. Almost there, and Colm could feel the edge of the bridge against his side as they finally reached it, and with a final push, they were over it.

Holding desperately to each other, they plunged into the water below.

Chapter Twenty-Three

He could breathe. It was difficult and slow and astonishing, and Colm might have wondered about it more if he didn’t feel Nichol’s grip on him slipping, Nichol starting to push up and away as he strove for the surface. Colm got his hands under Nichol’s arms and used his tail to drive them up—his tail, Gods, he could stretch it out again, use it properly for the first time in months—

They broke the surface of the warm, murky water, and Nichol gasped and began to cough. It was loud, too loud this close to the bridge they’d fallen from, and Colm gripped the back of Nichol’s shirt and carefully pulled him away from the site of their initial dunking. If someone had seen them—

There was a shout from the shore, followed by the whistling sound of another arrow slicing through air and into the water not two feet away. Bandits, Colm reminded himself, not that you’d need to be a bandit to want to kill me. He pulled Nichol close and swam faster, but they were still too visible for safety, and there were no trees or rocks to hide in here.

“Colm,” Nichol croaked. “Dive.”

Colm shook his head.

“I can hold on, it’ll be all right,” Nichol said, his bright brown eyes wide with fear, and something else Colm couldn’t quite put a name to. “Go, now! Dive!”

Colm trusted Nichol to hold on to him, and dove under the water.

He couldn’t go very deep. The water went down no more than three meters, but it was so cloudy and dense that they were invisible to their pursuers after just a few feet. That didn’t prevent more arrows from going into the water, but only a few of them came close enough to feel their ripples before their speed fell away to nothing. Colm swam, surprised to find that he didn’t need to rely on his eyes to pick his way through. His sense for where things were worked as well as ever, even though this water wasn’t nearly as hospitable as the clean salt of the ocean. The salt was there, but it was diluted, not giving him the buoyancy and ease that he was used to feeling. This water felt…thick. Slow. As if Colm was working as hard as he could for every breath and it still wasn’t quite enough, especially given how hard he had to swim to move both himself and Nichol through the water. Nichol…Nichol!

Colm brought them up again, and Nichol’s hands spasmed where they gripped Colm as he inhaled, fast and frantic. At least they were out of sight of the bridge, although not far enough that Colm considered them safe. He could hear men shouting, women screaming, and he hoped that Kiaran was safe. He had told Regar not to go this way, and the ringmaster had refused his insight. At the same time, he had promised that Colm would be free, and now, astonishingly, he was, along with Nichol. If there was one ability that Colm wouldn’t care to trade his awful transformation for, it might well be the curse of prophecy that Kiaran bore.

“Farther,” Nichol murmured once he’d caught his breath again. “Farther, it’s fine, I’m fine.” Only he wasn’t fine. Colm could tell by the way he held one arm close to his body instead of wrapping it around Nichol for better purchase. Oh gods, had Colm…had he pierced him?

Colm whined, one of the few soft sounds he could make, and reached for Nichol’s arm. Nichol jerked away reflexively, then began to babble as Colm ducked his head. “No, no, it isn’t you—is that what you think? No, you didn’t do anything to me, Colm, and I’m not afraid to feel your touch. No, it’s just…” His smile was wobbly but there, as good an effort as it seemed Nichol could make right now. “One of the arrows scratched my shoulder, is all. ’Tis just a wee thing, bad enough to sting but nothing more.”

It was true that Colm couldn’t detect a lot of blood, and that was a scent he was ruefully well attuned to. But clearly the wound did more than sting. Colm ducked his head under the water to take a labored breath, then lifted it again. This water was warm but it wasn’t clean, not good for an open wound. He needed to get Nichol to shore, where he could find someone to tend to him.

Nichol frowned when he felt Colm start to move them toward the distant, soggy shoreline. “Not yet,” he said. “We have to get farther from those bandits, not to mention the rovers that remain, before we can even think about putting in on dry land. Regar’s sure to want you back if he’s survived the attack, and Kiaran only promised us one chance. We’re close to the sea, I’m sure of it. You can taste it in this, can’t you?” He touched the surface of the water with one hand. “It shouldn’t take too long to swim there. Once we’re on the coast and you’re safe, then we can worry about me.”

Colm hissed with frustration, wanting to bare his teeth but knowing that wasn’t going to help anything. Nichol, frustrating creature that he was, just chuckled weakly. “I know exactly how you feel,” he murmured. “I’ve felt that way from the moment I saw you locked away in that tank. At least now I can touch you.” He framed Colm’s face with his warm, human hands, his thumbs rubbing circles over Nichol’s scaly cheeks and chin. “Thank the Four I can touch you at last.”

Colm wanted to press closer to him, to feel more of Nichol’s welcoming warmth against him, but he had to duck his head down again to catch his breath.

“We should go,” Nichol said when he surfaced. “As far as we can while there’s still light. Tomorrow, you’ll see. We’ll reach the sea before you know it.”

If Nichol was so sure, then perhaps they would. Colm nodded, and began to swim again, this time leaving Nichol’s head above the water so they wouldn’t have to worry about sharing an element. If he saw trouble above, Nichol would let Colm know. Otherwise, he would swim as fast as he could push himself, for as long as Nichol let him. The current helped, swift enough that the distance flew as the sky darkened, sweeping both of them through the water so quickly at times that Colm worried he’d lose Nichol if he didn’t find a float for him.

They spent all night in the swamp, Nichol perched on top of a grassy, floating hummock that had been occupied by a few black-feathered birds that had let them know just how disgruntled they were to be displaced. It was barely big enough for Nichol to sit on, and sank alarmingly under his weight, but most of his body was above the water. Colm curled his tail around the thick clump of roots on the bottom of the little island and alternated breathing and lifting his head out of the water to keep Nichol company. The water felt warm to Colm but Nichol was shivering, his hands rubbing along the tattered fabric covering his clammy arms.

If Colm had had body heat to share, he would have, but he knew better. Instead, he left his hand on Nichol’s ankle, enough to reassure both of them that the other was still there.

It had been so long since Colm had touched anyone that the sensation was almost like a drug now. Nichol’s ankle was underwater, and when he held it in the right place, Colm could feel the blood move beneath Nichol’s fragile skin, sluggish with cold but still moving to the dogged beat of his heart. Colm remembered the feeling of that heartbeat beneath his head, the gentlest and most reassuring lullaby he’d ever heard. Holding it like this wasn’t the same, but it was close enough to soothe him somewhat. Nichol’s voice, unobscured by water and glass, did the rest of the job.

Colm was tired, but Nichol kept talking, needing the company, and so he lifted his head up and listened as best he could.

“Did Gran or I ever tell you about the Caresfall Weathercliffs?” Nichol asked, still chafing his arms and shivering with every fresh breeze. The current moved them slowly southward, tugging the hummock along. Colm didn’t interfere, just let them move. The more it drifted, the less he’d have to swim in the morning.

“Their family was famous once. The Weathercliffs were friends of Tierna Red-Eyes’s father, and he gave them the land north of Caithmor and let them found a town there. Caresfall, because people’s cares fell away when a Weathercliff was around. They had a power, a famous power—it was luck. Weathercliffs were luckier than anyone else in the kingdom. No matter what they laid their hand to, they had success with it. Some people called them witches, some worried that they made dark sacrifices to the Two in order to keep their luck so strong, but the Emperor was willing to ignore it as long as he had a Weathercliff in his army, commanding his troops.”

Well, that hadn’t lasted. Colm traced a trail along the bone of Nichol’s ankle, a questioning gesture, before letting his head drift down so he could breathe for a minute. It was like being in the harbor again, gunk in his gills, clogging them up. He lifted his head and found that Nichol was already talking.

“—refused to join Tierna in his northern campaign. No one knows exactly why they fell out, but when they did, it was brutal. The Emperor halted his northern expansion and dedicated himself to the eradication of Caresfall. Just a tiny little village on the cliff face, and they managed to hold off his troops for weeks and weeks. The land fell away beneath the soldiers’ feet, freak storms drove them back, and fever spread through the troops. Some of the family escaped before the town fell, but eventually their luck was overwhelmed by sheer numbers. The village was burned to the ground, and Berran Weathercliff was dragged before Tierna. The Emperor had him cut to pieces and cast into the sea, and the legend of the Caresfall Weathercliffs’ luck died with him.”

Nichol looked down at him. “But some of the family did survive. I don’t think your father would ever have laid claim to that name if he didn’t have reason to. Do you think some of the luck survived with them?”

Colm huffed, and used his free hand to indicate himself. Nichol shook his head.

“No, I know, I mean, I know that this is a terrible thing, but Colm…you’re with me. After every terrible thing that’s happened, you’re here, with me, and that’s amazing to me. That we’re both alive, how far we’ve come… It’s not impossible, is it, that there could be some luck at work?” He reached out and stroked a finger across the bridge of Colm’s nose, then cupped his cheek. “What do you think happened when the magic that made you blended with the luck in your blood? Perhaps this is what Kiaran was talking about yesterday. Perhaps something wonderful is waiting for you.”

Colm shut his eyes hard, unable to look at Nichol for a moment. They were lost in a swamp hundreds of miles from home, hunted and bloody and profoundly separate, and yet Nichol could see a light for them. He always looked for light. Colm turned his face and pressed a closemouthed kiss to Nichol’s palm, and this time when Nichol shivered, it wasn’t from the cold.

Colm drifted into sleep while the hummock floated farther south. When he opened his eyes again, the sky was pale with early morning light, and he could smell distant smoke. Charcoal smoke, deliberate, which meant a settlement had to be nearby. They were close to shore, so at least Nichol would be on solid ground again soon.

It wasn’t the smell that woke him up, however. Colm didn’t realize what had, until he felt it course through the water again, a low, swishing reverberation that was growing louder and louder. It wasn’t the sound of oars, or the hull of a boat cutting through the water. This was uneven, organic…and fast.

Colm jolted into movement, letting go of Nichol’s damp, tacky hand and dropping fully into the water, seeking the direction of the disturbance. It pulsed forward from the deeper side of the swamp, upstream, but not afraid of shallower waters. Colm could hear Nichol’s exclamation, him calling Colm’s name, but there was no time to reassure him, not when he had to—

Fasterfasterfaster—Colm dove to the side, away from Nichol, as the massive scaled body of the nimh-fish hurtled past, its long jaws nearly grazing his shoulder. Colm had heard tales of the nimh fish, of their voracity and fierceness, how their skins were prized as heirlooms because successfully killing one was such a rare occurrence.

The nimh-fish had jaws as long as Colm’s arm, studded with sharp teeth all the way down, and four stubby fins on the side of its body that, in concert with its tail, could propel it to incredible speeds. Its hide was heavily scaled, which made it harder for the creature to turn in close quarters, as evidenced by its slow, ponderous turn back toward him, but Colm couldn’t rely on his speed to save him for long. He was already exhausted, the brackish water taxing his lungs, and he had Nichol to look after. He needed to get Nichol to shore, and he needed to hold off the nimh-fish long enough to do that.

Nothing else really mattered.

Colm backed away, swimming in loops and circles, hoping that the creature felt the eddies the same way that he did. It seemed to, pressing forward and snapping, thrashing its heavy head side to side as it sought to catch whatever it could reach in its jaws. Colm wound his sinuous body in circles, looping over and under the nimh-fish until he’d doubled back to Nichol’s drifting hummock and gave it a mighty shove, pushing it farther into the sluggish current.

“Colm!” Nichol shouted—had been shouting, probably; he sounded hoarse, although that might have been due to thirst. “What is it?”

Colm knew Nichol didn’t really expect him to answer, but even if he had, he couldn’t have taken the time. He couldn’t stay close and put Nichol in greater danger. Colm swam away, thrusting his tail back and forth, appealing to the larger predator the only way he knew how. It would be enough.

It worked, at first. The nimh-fish regrouped and came at Colm again, full of furious energy, and Colm dodged and swam and came close to getting caught, but never quite close enough. He led the nimh-fish farther away, downstream where the water was shallower, where the big brute had more trouble moving about, and for a few moments, it looked like that would be enough. It was tiring, it would give up, slink back to deeper waters and wait for easier prey.

It found evidence of that prey in the water. The nimh-fish stopped suddenly, and Colm was close enough to see its large nostrils flare in the murk. He teased it with his tail, almost brushing the creature’s face with it, but the nimh-fish ponderously turned and headed back upstream. Colm was dumbfounded for a long moment before he realized what he was scenting. Blood in the water. Nichol’s blood, from where the arrow had cut into his shoulder, slipping sticky down his hand and into the water below. Nichol’s blood was enough to draw a predator, and the nimh-fish was big enough that it could drag the entire hummock into the water, and Nichol with it. Colm couldn’t let that happen.

The water was a little better here, saltier—they had to be getting close to the sea. Or maybe it was just the thought of losing Nichol that spurred Colm to greater efforts, able to ignore the burn of fatigue in his body, the pain of overusing muscles that had gone so long without use. Colm swam after the nimh-fish and reached it just as it contorted to bash its head against the floating grass.

Colm grabbed it by the scaly tail and pulled, hard, taking much of the force out of the fish’s blow. Still, enough of it hit the tussock that it rocked dangerously, spilling Nichol’s lower half into the water before he was able to scramble back onto it. “Colm!” he screamed, and the fear and anguish in his voice lent Colm a fury he didn’t know he possessed. Forced from one element to another, driven out of one home and then stolen from the new, pitiful life he’d made for himself, and now, so close to saving Nichol, they were to be thwarted? No. It was impossible. Colm was speed and rage and death, and this creature simply didn’t know it yet.

Colm screeched, the sound carrying through the gloom and making the nimh-fish impulsively curl in on itself. He ripped a handful of spines out of the top of his head and crawled up the creature’s body, trying desperately to pierce its skin with them. It was too tough, though, too leathery. The spines bent and broke against its skin, piercing Colm’s hands a few times as he pushed too hard, too desperately. He went for the nimh-fish’s eyes but by then it had figured him out, stopped trying to get a handle on him and began to roll, sinking down to the bottom of the swamp and rubbing both of them through the silty mud in an effort to throw Colm off.

The silt made it impossible to breathe, filthy on his gills and in his mouth. Colm couldn’t let go yet, though—the nimh-fish would simply follow him up to the surface and go after Nichol again. He needed something, anything that would distract it long enough to—

He had something. Something he’d forgotten about, something that cut at the skin binding it to Colm’s body even now. He reached down to the flap at the base of his tail and grabbed the knife, pitted with rust now but still stronger than anything else in the water with them. He groped for the back of the nimh-fish’s head, seeking the spiny ridges above its eyes—there. The thick lids were protectively shut, but it didn’t matter. The knife was sharp enough to go straight through into the bulging black orb beneath, and when it did, the nimh-fish’s thrashes turned from deliberate to reactionary, and even more violent.

Colm left the knife where it was and pushed away, his vision darkening. He felt light-headed, cast adrift like a bloated moon disc. He had to move, though, he was still too close to the nimh-fish for safety, and he had to get to Nichol. The tang of his blood still lingered in the water, even obscured as it was by the great predator’s ichor. Colm slowly swam up near the surface of the water, reaching for the light of the sun—it was out now, visible, and he could see the outline of Nichol’s head, dark curls…soft curls… Colm reached for them.

A warm hand closed around his wrist and brought him the rest of the way up. Being in the air didn’t help his breathing, but Nichol’s swift hands against his neck did, clearing away the embedded muck before he unceremoniously dunked Colm’s head underwater again. A few deep inhalations and his vision cleared, and Colm reached out and grabbed the hummock’s dangling roots and began to tug at the little island, laboriously towing it toward shore. Once Nichol was safe, then things would be all right. Colm could duck and dodge his way around the pouncing, jagged teeth of the nimh-fish until it tired and gave up.

But shore felt so far away, and he could feel the tremors in the water smoothing out a bit as the predator got a handle on its pain. It moved in a twisting side-to-side pattern, coming his way, its vision failing it but its sense of smell still perfectly able to detect where its bleeding prey was. Colm glanced up and looked ahead. He could see what he thought was the shore, plants lifting out of the water and growing tall, but there were little channels like that all over the place, and he had to be sure. Just a bit farther now, just a dozen more meters…

They wouldn’t make it. Colm dropped the roots and prepared to distract the nimh-fish again, darting to the side and reaching out with his hand to scrape along the beast’s side as it went by. He scored it, digging in and prying a few scales free, but the nimh-fish ignored him completely, focused now on its prize. It dove forward until it was directly under the hummock, then smashed its great head up into the base of it, thrashing from side to side and tearing roots and grass apart. The little island broke into pieces, and in the frenzy, Nichol was dislodged from it and fell, with a scream of fear, into the water.

Panic flooded Colm’s veins. There was no time now for distraction, there was only time to try and get between Nichol and the nimh-fish. He swam around it and got to Nichol first, wrapping him carefully in his arms and racing for the shore. The nimh-fish, which had been nosing around the dregs of the island, felt them go and immediately gave chase. It surged forward and forced Colm to jerk to the side, so slow now, weighed down with his precious cargo. He moved forward in bursts, barely dodging each successive strike but getting closer and closer to the shore. He could feel it now, solid and heartening, a sound place for Nichol, who gasped for breath whenever they briefly surfaced. So close. Colm swished his tale to the right, the left, evading strikes and moving forward all at once, and they were close enough now that he could see the rising ground, close enough that Nichol might be able to stand—

A thousand needles sank into the very end of his tail, shearing off the very tip of one of Colm’s two back fins. He keened, shrill and shrieking with pain, and barely heard Nichol’s yells over his own agony. He tried to pull away but couldn’t. His tail wasn’t working anymore, quivering out of control. He felt the nimh-fish move closer as it sought out a tastier morsel. Colm wanted to tell Nichol to go, wanted to push him away, but he didn’t even have the strength for that, and now they would die here in the shallows together because of his failure.

Nichol pulled Colm over until his back faced the creature, which nosed in and then backed out in a hurry. The spines, yes, it didn’t like those, but they didn’t really hurt it either. It came in again, a bit slower, more cautiously, and this time—

Nichol lunged one arm over the rounded point of Colm’s shoulder and grabbed the hilt of the knife, which still protruded from the nimh-fish’s eye. He jerked it free, and fresh ichor stained the water as the wound oozed anew. The nimh-fish began to thrash again, newly traumatized, and Colm felt Nichol heave on his body, dragging him through the water until reeds tickled his sides and his head lay partially exposed where it rested on the muddy ground. Land. Nichol had pulled them to land.

The nimh-fish seemed to give them up as a lost cause after another few moments, more consumed by its pain than by the chance of a meal, and it swam away tossing its head and gnashing its jaws. Colm felt Nichol’s hands on him, gently turning him, cleaning his gills again and searching down his body for the wound. He was gentle when he found it, but nothing could be gentle enough. Colm shrank from Nichol’s touch as his blood relentlessly spilled into the muck. This was it, then. He couldn’t swim; there was no way to transport him. This was his end, but not Nichol’s. That was…all right. That was probably the best fate he could hope to imagine for them at this point.

“Help me!” Nichol shouted, at whom Colm couldn’t tell. “Help us! Please, you have to help us! Colm—” He looked down at Colm frantically, cupping his face with hands stained by both his blood and Colm’s. “No, I won’t let you go now. We’ve come so far, there must be something I can do. Kiaran swore to me there was a way for us. He would not leave us hopeless! You can’t die!” He rubbed his thumbs in gentle circles beneath Colm’s eyes, staring at him. Colm stared back, lost in the golden, glistening brown of Nichol’s loving stare. If this was the last thing he would ever see, he was lucky.

I love you, he mouthed, and he knew that Nichol understood him when his breath hitched, then emerged as a moan. I’m sorry.

“No, no, no.” Nichol cast his eyes up frantically, as though praying. “No, there must be a way. You’re a man turned into a merman. You have the luck of the Weathercliffs in your veins. There’s magic inside you, Colm, magic that might save you, but how? The only story I know ended with blood and death…” His trembling voice trailed off for a moment, but when he spoke again, it was with new determination.

“If magic could make you, then magic can save you. I can’t cut out my own heart, but I can give you my blood.” He reached over and picked something up out of the mud—it was the knife he’d pulled from the nimh-fish’s eye. Colm started to struggle, cursing his own weakness when he realized what Nichol was going to do. “Don’t worry,” Nichol added faux-cheerfully. “I’m sure I’ve got enough for both of us.”

He laid the blade against the crease of his elbow, took a deep breath, then pressed the edge deep into his pale skin. He drew it down the length of his arm, wincing and biting his lip, and stopped only just above his wrist. Colm would have cried out with the pain of watching it if he’d had the strength. His own wound felt like nothing compared to the agony of watching Nichol hurting himself, on Colm’s behalf.

“It will work,” Nichol said, chanting it over and over. “The Four willing, it will work.” He leaned over Colm, letting his blood drip from his fingers into the palm of his other hand, catching as much as he could before tipping it to Colm’s mouth. “Drink it,” he urged. “Drink.” Colm swallowed reflexively, simultaneously enjoying and repulsed by the bright red bounty. It felt odd going down, strangely soothing, and a moment later, his breathing felt easier. Much easier. He looked up at Nichol and licked his lips, then started when he realized that his teeth, a moment ago so sharp, were once again gently rounded.

“It is working!” Nichol crowed. “I knew it would. It had to! Let me get the rest of you, quick.” He collected more of his blood and smeared it over Colm’s face, and scales peeled off in his hand, revealing smooth skin underneath. Colm’s gills fluttered closed and vanished back into his neck, and once he rolled over, his spines met the same fate, falling away into the mud as Nichol carefully worked his blood into Colm’s back and arms. He caressed Colm’s buttocks, his hips and groin, and both of them let out a sigh of relief as his genitals reemerged from the protective flap they had been hidden under.

“Just the legs now,” Nichol said with a grin, which faltered as he saw the ruin of Colm’s fin. “Oh, gods. I hope…Colm…no, don’t try to speak,” he added when Colm cleared his throat. It took far more effort than he’d expected. “Whatever it is, we will face it together.”

Warm, slick hands revealed more and more of Colm’s other body: his pallid thighs, knobby knees and long calves. One foot was whole and hale, but the other—Nichol dripped his blood onto the wound, too fearful to touch it, and as Colm’s foot reemerged, it became clear that he wouldn’t be recovering all of his toes. The bulk of the foot was intact, though, and while the wound was ragged, the magic had mostly left it healed. He might have to relearn how to walk, but even that was a blessing.

“Is that all of you?” Nichol asked, his words starting to slur a bit. “Did I get all of you? Because I’m afraid…love, I’m afraid I forgot that you’re a bit taller than me.”

“Nn…ni…Nichol.” It was the word Colm had wanted to say the most for the length of his sea change, and Nichol looked up at him and brightened on hearing it, his white lips pulling into a grin.

“Colm.” He tried to crawl back up Colm’s body, but ended up falling forward, and would have gone face-first into the muddy shallows if Colm hadn’t caught him.

“Nichol,” Colm said again, feeling rather more frantic with it now. “We have to stop your bleeding.”

“Nooo,” Nichol crooned, staring up at Colm like he was looking into the face of a god. “You can have my blood. Take it all, so it makes you well. I have to make you well, that’s how our story goes. You saved me. Now I must save you.”

“Now I must save you again, before you die of blood loss,” Colm said. He turned toward the shore, twisting in the tattered wreckage of his other body. He could see people moving slowly closer, cautious but drawn by their spectacle. “Help me!” he called out. “Please!” They came closer, and Colm tried to push up to his knees, but Nichol’s weight and the unfamiliarity of his own limbs kept him down. “Please!”

Eventually a young woman came forward, a knife held at the ready with one hand. Colm shook his head desperately. “We won’t hurt you, I promise. We need your help, please,” he begged. Nichol’s eyes were shut, and he moaned as his head lolled in Colm’s arms. “Please!”

The woman stopped a few feet away and looked intently at Colm, inspecting the sloughed-off blue and gray sheath beneath him before focusing on his eyes. After almost a minute of silence, she grinned. Colm started when he saw how wide her lips stretched, and how sharp her incisors were.

“We will help you.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

The people of the little village that Colm and Nichol had foundered upon were, it turned out, very much like him. Over half of them had the wide, mobile jaws and sharp teeth of the water serpents they paid homage to, their way of worship still strong despite the Empire’s prohibition on anything other than official priests and official services. They were partials, but with much better control of their gifts than Colm. They were also incredibly kind, once they realized what had happened.

“The world is already hard on us,” the woman who had first approached them, called Meea, said after she’d settled them both in a hut. It was small, but infinitely bigger than the tank Colm had become so horribly accustomed to. “We should not make it any harder for each other. This village is your refuge now, for as long as you want to stay.”

They had clean blankets, fresh water, fruit and spicy cooked fish to eat. There was a roof over their heads to keep the rain off and thin nets coated with tree sap over the windows, to catch and repel biting insects. They were together, and Colm cradled Nichol’s head in his lap as Nichol slept, deeply but not dangerously. It was all he could do not to break down into tears. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know what we would have done without you.”

“The Four would have provided,” Meea told him confidently. “They must love you very much, to guide you to our home. The gods know that we nimh-folk care for our own. How could we turn away a cousin?”

Colm had lost his voice then, unable to deny her allegation of favoritism but unable to wholeheartedly embrace it either. He had bowed his head, let her cup his hands with her own for a moment, and then she had left them alone. Colm stared down at Nichol, so pale and vulnerable, so amazing and alive, and for the first time in his life contemplated that there really had to be more to his story than he knew. How else could they still be together?

It took Nichol over a week of recovery before he could stand up without feeling faint, and during that time, Colm gave the spines that he’d left behind as gifts for the nimh-folk who took care of them. The spines were still venomous, although they seemed not to affect him even now, and pretty enough to be very popular additions to the fishing spears that the younger villagers used. In turn, they gave him and Nichol a place with them, with none of the disgust he could have expected once they realized—and they had to realize—how close they actually were.

Learning to be human once more was difficult. Balancing on his mutilated foot was a challenge, and when an older man offered Colm the use of his walking stick, he accepted it gratefully. He wasn’t weak, per se, but trying to balance felt odd, and his vision was still not quite correct in his left eye. It was the one place where Nichol’s blood hadn’t touched, and so while Colm could eat normal food, speak like a man, and was growing out his hair again, his eyesight was still a bit rounded, like looking through the bottom of a glass bowl. It didn’t bother him, although Nichol berated himself for missing it.

“Stupid,” he muttered, cupping Colm’s cheeks and turning his face a little. “I should have remembered. I can’t believe I got everything but that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Colm said.

“But it does! I meant to make you perfect again, and if our hosts are to be believed, then that was our only chance.” The magic Colm carried, apparently, was a fickle creature, all or nothing. The village sage told him that he would probably be safe in the water now, that the curse had run its course, but Colm wasn’t willing to risk it. Nichol frowned. “Maybe I could try again…”

“Absolutely not,” Colm insisted. “I’m done with watching you bleed. I’ll not have you do it again. I can see just fine.”

“They’re different colors,” Nichol said. “Did you know? Your right eye is a stormy gray again, but the left is paler, the pupil bigger.”

“Does it bother you?”

Nichol’s smile was a little twisted but genuine. “Only because it’s a reminder of my failure. Come here.” He tugged on Colm’s arm. “Lie with me.” Nichol was still too ill to do anything other than sleep and eat, but whenever he was awake, he wanted Colm close to him. It suited Colm quite well, actually—he thought he might never get enough of touching Nichol, no glass between them, no ocean to separate them. He settled down on the bed, careful not to bump Nichol’s arm, and let his lover rearrange him to his satisfaction. He ended up with Nichol’s head on his shoulder, his injured arm tucked gently against Colm’s side.

“You have a strange way of counting failure,” Colm said once they were aligned. “Who could have guessed three months ago that we would ever have this again? I thought we were separated forever.”

“So did I.” They had already talked over the transformation, how Nichol couldn’t have known what would happen, how it was inevitable that Colm would be submerged at some point, living and working in Caithmor. The guilt Nichol still carried inside him was something that probably only time would diminish, and so Colm held him and kissed him and loved him with everything he had and was patient.

Nichol’s lips pressed slightly chilly kisses against Colm’s collarbone. “What will we do now?”

Ah, the future. That was the one thing they hadn’t talked about yet, and honestly, Colm hadn’t been eager to. The past was done, and he was content in the present. He didn’t want to think about tomorrow or next week or next year. But he couldn’t hide from it, not when Nichol was asking. “What do you want to do?”

Nichol chuckled. “That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one that matters,” Colm replied. “Truly. I can’t go back to Anneslea, and I’m not sure how we would return to Caithmor, since I’m presumed dead by everyone who knew me. Apart from that, all I want is to be with you. Perhaps you could write,” he suggested after a moment, “and see if my sister made it to the Cove. She’s all I really worry about now.” The village they were sheltering in had only sporadic, and very careful, contact with the larger world, but they’d already been assured that letters could be sent if they needed. Special traders and caravaneers that catered to the secret places across the empire stopped by every now and then, and Meea expected one to arrive within the next few weeks.

“I can write,” Nichol agreed. “I want to know how Gran is doing, of course, and learn whether she’s had any news of the fleet. But where shall I write from? Here? This is a friendly place, but it’s a bit hot for my blood, and we would stand out in any nearby town. Not that I think the Spectacular has wasted any more time looking for us. They’ve likely got plenty of their own problems now, but it’s risky.”

“Meea says she knows someone who can help us travel elsewhere,” Colm said. “Someone with experience dealing with my kind, it seems. She says he should be by any time.”

“You look human,” Nichol insisted, not for the first time. “You look perfect. There’s nothing amiss in your appearance except the addition of the walking stick. A broad-brimmed hat will shade your face, if it’s the eye you worry about.”

“I think sometimes that you love me too well,” Colm said. He meant it to be light, but Nichol didn’t take it that way.

“I think sometimes it is astonishing that you love me at all when I’ve been such a prat,” he said, his lips a terse line. “I know, I know—I’m not doubting you. How could I, after you saved me over and over again?” Colm didn’t say anything, just tilted Nichol’s face up and kissed his mouth, softening his tension, soliciting a response until Nichol was sweet and relaxed against him, leaning into every embrace.

“Well then, there is one option,” Nichol said once he’d caught his breath. “Travel to a new town, a new city. We could run an inn, if we put our backs into it. You could cook—”

“I would make a terrible cook,” Colm protested, but Nichol swallowed his objection with a kiss and a grin.

“I would be the bartender, we could hire a few comely lasses to wait the tables, and our guests could sleep in august company above their own mounts in the stables, on a bed of straw as soft as cotton.”

“This sounds like an inn destined for failure,” Colm said dryly.

“Nonsense, we could sell it as a challenge. And anyway, if we were close enough to the main highways, we would have traffic regardless.”

“I suppose. Or,” Colm said, warming to the discussion, “we could find a lake where I could fish without worrying, and you could lead the local militia against marauders.”

“Or,” Nichol countered, “we could hire kidnappers to spirit away Gran and Baylee, bring them with us to our new home, get them to run the inn while you fished and I led the militia, and live happily ever after.”

“Megg would kill us,” Colm said.

“True. She would never leave the Cove, not while Granddad is still around.” Nichol sounded a little put out that their fantasy had been so thoroughly derailed.

“Whatever happens,” Colm told him, “we’ll weather it together.”

“We’ll have to,” Nichol chuckled. “For I won’t get very far without you.”

It could have been fate, or the will of the gods, or the last vestige of the luck in Colm’s blood coming to aid them, but the man that Meea had spoken of, the trader who arrived the following week that knew how to handle people like them, was a very familiar face.

“Weathercliff!” Fergus shouted at them from across the village’s small market square. One of the men had gone to escort his wagons in earlier: apparently, the path to the village changed with every new flooding season, old paths drowning and new ones growing strong. It was one of the things that served to keep them happily isolated. “By the gods, lad, I should have known! What other long, pale, fish-loving bastard would be crazy enough to bloody swim from Caithmor to the Siskanns!

“Oh, I’ve heard all about it,” he snapped, pushing his bulk past their laughing hosts and marching over to Colm. “These folks couldn’t wait to tell me about their odd guests, and it didn’t take much for me to put it all together. Well, stand up, lad! Let me look at you!”

Colm stood up, still using his walking stick, and winced when Fergus put his hands on his hips. “You’re limping now? And growin’ in your hair again—what happened to that? And you!” He saw Nichol and turned to rage at him, flapping his hand at the bandage still wrapping Nichol’s arm. “What in the gods’ name possessed you to carve yourself up like a festival ham, Pickle? You’re lucky to be alive! Marley was right, I should never have bothered with you two in the first place, the things you’ve done to my nerves.” He huffed, stepped forward and pulled Colm into a rough embrace. “You are a plague on my conscience, lad, someone that I’ll worry about for the rest of my life lest I take care of things, eh?”

“Can you take care of things?” Colm asked sheepishly.

“Would I even bring it up if I couldn’t?” Fergus demanded. “But that’s talk for later times. Right now I’ve got wagons to unload and camels to delouse and a hundred other things waiting to get done, all because you two had to go and distract me from my duties. Marley!”

“What?” the other man yelled back from where he was unloading the first wagon. It was a smaller train this time, only two wagons and the pair of them to work them. The two were packed to overflowing, though, vast mushroom-shaped loads held together with burlap and twine almost, but not quite, falling over the sides.

“Have you found the bitterroot yet?”

“Does it look,” Marley grunted as he loosened a lashing, “like I’ve found the bloody bitterroot yet?”

“When you do bring some to me, I need it for these ridiculous lads.”

“The faster you get your fat arse over here to help me, the sooner it’ll be found!”

“We can help you unload,” Nichol offered quickly. “And you can tell us more of Caithmor!”

Fergus snorted. “You look barely capable of keeping your feet. What makes you think that—bloody Two, Marley!” He hustled back to the wagon just in time to catch a bale of pale blue cotton fabric that was tumbling toward the ground. “You’re useless, old man,” he muttered, but neither of them turned Colm’s and Nichol’s help away after that, or Meea’s and her sister’s.

It took time to unload the cargo and disperse the special orders that some of the nimh-folk were waiting for, but by the end of the afternoon, things were back in order, one of the wagons empty and the other repacked more efficiently. Fergus accepted an invitation to the sage’s house for the evening meal, but Marley went with Colm and Nichol, bringing along a package of bitterroot for them to chew. It would diminish their pain, they were told, and sure enough, one sliver dulled the sharp throb in Colm’s foot to a barely there ache.

“I needed a break from that oaf anyhow,” he said gruffly as he sat down in one of the chairs they’d been provided with. “He’s been a bit of a wreck this trip, let me tell you.”

“Why is that?” Colm asked around the pulpy root.

“Uncertain times, lad. King Iarra was supposed to be back to the city this spring, but he can’t afford to leave the Garnet Isles without a firm hand. That leaves the regent in charge, and apparently, he’s decided it’s time for a magic purge. Anywhere a priest passes on tales, there’ll be a representative of the Ardeaglais there to investigate, with soldiers too.”

“That was why the Roving Spectacular couldn’t keep to the main roads,” Nichol said, almost spilling the plate of bread in his haste to speak. “Their ringmaster was afraid of arrest or worse.”

“Aye, and worse is happening.” Marley shook his head. “I don’t worry for us so much. Fergus is well-known along these routes, and he can keep his curse hidden away. But they’re rounding up people on sheer suspicion, anyone who looks different, anyone who acts a bit strange. Caithmor’s enacted strict regulations about regular worship attendance that’s got the working class in a bit of an uproar, but the regent won’t back down.” Marley looked at them seriously. “You won’t be able to go back there.”

Colm and Nichol exchanged a glance. “We thought as much,” Nichol said. “But what will we do?”

“What, the Siskanns aren’t to your liking?” Markey asked sarcastically. “You’re a fisherman, aren’t you?”

Colm sighed. “We had a…hard time getting here. It’s a friendly place, but I don’t think we want to stay here unless there’s no other option.”

“That’s the thing about Fergus.” Marley took a piece of fluffy bread and bit into it with a bit of a smile. “He’s always thinking of other options.”

Marley and Fergus took over the floor of the hut that Colm and Nichol had been provided that night. Nichol slept like the dead, and Marley, after doing the bulk of the unloading that day, was also too weary to keep his eyes open after the sunset.

Colm started in the bed next to Nichol, but he felt restless. This was a good place, a relatively safe place, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to love it yet. The method of his arrival, no matter that it had ended positively, still weighed on him too much to disregard.

He saw Fergus stand and head outside, and a moment later, carefully untangled himself from Nichol’s close embrace and went out to join him. Fergus didn’t look back, just walked on toward the wagon that held his supplies. Most of the nimh-folk were in their homes, but there were still hot ashes in the brazier in the center of town. By the time Colm caught up with his friend, Fergus was lighting a thick, wide candle off one of the tiny orange coals still surviving among its dead.

“The scent helps drive the insects off,” Fergus explained quietly as he set the candle down on the edge of the cart and heaved himself up onto it. It rocked gently under his weight, and when he gestured for Colm to sit beside him, it felt almost nostalgic.

“So, lad.” Fergus rubbed his hands together briskly, although they couldn’t be cold. “You’ve had a right time of it since we last met, it seems.”

That was one way of putting it. “That’s true,” Colm agreed. And then, because he had to know: “Have you heard anything of the Roving Spectacular?”

“The bastards who caged you?” Fergus had already been told of Colm’s transformation, and how it had not been into the selkie he’d always assumed it would be. “Why’re you interested in them?”

Colm sighed. “One of them was kind to me, and another wasn’t…he wasn’t unkind.” Colm had no idea what Kith’s tale was, but he’d seemed to be just as much a pawn of fate as Colm, in his own way.

“Disbanded, far as I know. There were some rumors on the road, something about bandits and a village riot. The regent’s riders went looking for them, but as far as I know, they never found anything.” Fergus shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter. An outfit like the rovers always finds a way to carry on, even if it’s only for the next incarnation. People like us, we survive. Through conquest and fire and plague, we find ways to live. Much as the Ardeaglais would like to be shed of us, someone will always find his way through.”

Colm thought of Kiaran then, how even blind he’d seemed to see more clearly than most of the people around him. Surely he could disguise himself so that he could travel and find whatever it was—or whoever—he was looking for. “So you just go on, then?”

“That’s my way, always has been. Doesn’t mean it has to suit everyone.” He gestured around them at the village. “These people have been here for longer than I have, that’s for sure. No king’s managed to rout them yet, and I doubt one ever will. You’d be safe here, if you wanted to be.”

“I know.” Just those two words were enough explanation for Fergus.

“Bloody weather, isn’t it?” he confided. “Can’t stand so much damn water in the air. Give me a sandstorm over this Two-blasted dampness any day, that’s what I say. Of course, leave me in the desert for too long and I start to wish for snow. Lay me down in the snow and I’ll be begging for rain before day’s end.” Fergus chuckled. “I’ve a changeable nature.”

“I don’t,” Colm said. “I just want a place I can call home.”

“Well then.” They looked at each other for a long moment. “I think I might know a place. You and your lad would have to travel with me for a time, but by the end of the journey you’d have a place to make a new home in. There’s a village on the eastern side of the White Spires that’s friendly. Plenty of that snow I yearn for, and extra rooms for you two when Marley and I aren’t there. It’s the one town I rest my head in through the year where I’ve no wife, so there’s no need to worry about disrupting anyone’s household.

“It’s rather hard to find,” Fergus added, “like all these places. But it could be good to you, to both of you, if you can wait the half a year it’ll take to get there. You can get your strength back, see a bit more of the world.” He tilted his head at Colm. “What d’ye say, Weathercliff?”

Colm thought about Nichol, always steadfast, willing to stay with him no matter what. He thought of how good it had felt to have a place to lay his head that he could really lay claim to, and how glorious it would be to have one with Nichol. A place that might accept his strangeness, and their bond. He thought about seasons on the road with Fergus and Marley, days of work and stories and nights rolled up beside Nichol beneath a wagon, alone together for all that they might be surrounded by a caravan full of others.

“I say yes.”

Epilogue

“It shall not leak,” Nichol declared, staring pensively up at the roof while Colm checked on the fish pie that was cooking in the small iron oven. Snow had just started falling in Faoilea, a storm that had been predicted by Marley and spurred Nichol to finally nail down the last of the new tiles. Fergus and Marley had left yesterday, the nip in the air just beginning to bite, and Colm and Nichol had spent all their time since clearing away the refuse that came when a house was left empty for a long time.

Faoilea was a tiny hamlet, smaller even than Anneslea, on the opposite side of the White Spires as Colm’s former home. As promised, it had been nearly impossible to find. Fergus had hemmed and hawed for almost an hour thinking they’d missed the turn before Marley had finally steered them right, and even then it had been a tight fit for the wagons. The trail skirted boulders and a rocky scree field and gave the camels a hard time, but in the end, they made it to Faoilea, where Fergus was welcomed by the village elder, a man with slate-blue skin and a white beard.

“What is he?” Nichol had breathed next to Colm as he watched the pair greet each other.

“Old’s what he is,” Marley had said quietly. “He’s the founder of this village, and he’s never looked any different to me in twenty years of coming here. Part giant, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.” Nichol looked like he wanted to ask, but Colm had persuaded him not to, at least not until they’d had a chance to make a good first impression.

Apparently Fergus’s word carried some weight, however, for they were welcomed into Faoilea kindly. Liyall, the elder, seemed particularly pleased. “It’s about time someone settled in that old place,” he told them over dinner that night, rock goat cooked in a mushroom stew. “When I gave it to you, I didn’t mean for you to let it founder,” he chided Fergus, who shrugged helplessly. “But at least you’ve brought us someone to fill it while we wait for you to give up your wandering ways. Tell me of yourself, Colm Weathercliff.”

“I…” What did he mean? What he was, what kind of magic he had? Nichol’s hand found his under the table, linking their fingers together, and he drew strength from the connection. “I was a fisherman. I was changed by the sea,” Colm said at last. “And Nichol changed me back, but not without cost. I can’t go back to where I’ve been.”

“This is a good place to be,” Liyall said. “Despite our Fergus not being able to stay longer than a week or so. And Nichol Searunner, would you stay as well?”

“I’m staying with Colm,” Nichol said quickly. “Wherever he leads me.”

Liyall had smiled. “Then I think you’ll both do well here.”

And they had. Having a house that they could call their own, even one as decrepit as Fergus’s, gave them both a sense of purpose. Occupation beyond repairs would come with time, Liyall assured them. For now, they needed to batten down their hatches against the coming winter.

“No leaks. I’m sure of it,” Nichol said again, even though he didn’t sound completely sure.

“I’ll take your word for it.” Colm had never learned to care for heights, and his gait was still a trifle uneven due to his amputation, so he’d left the climbing to Nichol and contented himself to work inside the house. They hadn’t given the inhabitants of Faoilea, only about a hundred in total, enough warning of their coming to provide much in the way of fuel stores. That meant that for this winter, at least, they would be sleeping beside the stove to make the most of its warmth. Both of them had spent enough time with Megg to fare well enough with cooking simple meals, and Fergus had left a ridiculous amount of supplies for them: pots and pans, dishes, soap, spices, traveler’s fare that lasted and lasted in the cool air.

In the spring, they would open up more of the house, patch more of the roof. In the spring, they would make spaces for others in this place. But for now…

Colm leaned back and reached for Nichol as he started to walk by, catching the hem of his pants and reeling him back. Nichol laughed and let himself be caught, pulled down onto the bedroll next to Colm and tucked in close to his side. His nose was cold, and Colm shivered as Nichol buried it against his neck.

“Alone at last,” Nichol teased, and Colm still couldn’t get enough of seeing that easy grin on his lover’s face again. Nichol had never quite lost all his spirit, but it had taken months of travel and several adventures for him to get back to his gleeful former self. Their time on the road had done him good, a way to fulfill his sense of adventure without the accompanying grief of traveling with the rovers. Marley had reluctantly taught him the basics with a saber, and after six months of daily practice, Nichol had become competent enough with it to help protect the caravan against a half-hearted group of malcontents in one town on the edge of the Fasach Steppes. He’d walked away beaming with a cut on his leg and a boast on his lips. He had been riveting.

Colm turned and brushed his face against Nichol’s curls. Colm’s hair had grown out again and Nichol had a habit of running his hands through it every chance he could get, but he kept it trimmed short. Nichol’s, on the other hand, was almost long enough to bind behind his neck, and Colm loved the feel of those soft strands against his body.

A fact that Nichol knew and took advantage of. “Our dinner won’t be ready for hours,” he said slyly. “I’ve a thought for how we could pass the time.”

Colm smiled. “You have that thought quite often.”

“What can I say? I find you irresistible.” It was utterly true, odd eye and mangled foot and all. Colm never had to look far for affection, because Nichol was always there, ready to lavish him with love. Colm was his heart’s only outlet, and he would never dream of refusing such a gift.

“How fortunate that the feeling is mutual,” Colm said, and Nichol laughed and rolled him over onto his back, as close to the stove as they could get without touching it.

“Then you’ll give yourself to me?” He kissed Colm lingeringly. “Let me touch you? And you can be as loud as you want, you can yell the house down and there’s no one to care…”

“You,” Colm paused to catch his breath as Nichol stroked him over the fabric of his trousers, “are the one who makes all the noise.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Nichol pointed out. “I know you’ve a voice in there that’s just dying to be heard.”

He might be correct, but right now… Colm got his arms around Nichol’s waist and rolled them again. “I’d rather hear yours,” he said before nipping at Nichol’s lower lip. Nichol leaned up into the embrace, already breathing harder.

“Gods, yes,” he murmured fervently. “Anything, anything you want.”

Colm wanted…everything. For now, though, he would content himself with a taste. He slid down Nichol’s body, lifting his shirt and kissing the taut skin of his belly as he untied Nichol’s trousers. Nichol helped push them down, eager, and Colm rewarded him by not teasing, just licking a path over the trail of hair that crept down his abdomen until the head of Nichol’s cock was in reach, rosy and already slick. Colm wrapped his lips around it, and Nichol groaned.

“Oh…gods, you, Colm…mmm…”

It was a good start, but they could do better. Colm stroked Nichol’s hip and inner thigh as he swallowed and licked, teasing his lover until all Nichol could say was his name, over and over again. Finally he let his hand join his mouth and stroked Nichol’s cock as he sucked, hard, desperate to collect everything his lover had to give against his tongue.

“No, no, wait wait wait, Colm, wait…” Colm didn’t want to pull back, but he obeyed the gentle tug of Nichol’s hands.

“What is it?” he asked hoarsely, unable to let go completely of Nichol’s cock, so red and swollen and ready.

In response, Nichol pulled him around, shifting Colm until he was facing the other way, kneeling above Nichol bemusedly as he pushed Colm’s clothes out of the way. “Come with me,” Nichol said just before he enveloped Colm’s erection in warm, wet heat.

They hadn’t done this before, tending to each other like this at the same time. It felt so good that Colm had a hard time concentrating on the task at hand, but he didn’t have to do much at this point. A few more strokes from him had Nichol tensing and arching his back, breathing hard around Colm’s cock as he came. He didn’t stop, though, kept working Colm through his own orgasm, pulling and pressing and finally, as one finger just began to penetrate him, Colm came as well, groaning Nichol’s name as he spent himself.

They curled around each other afterward, Colm barely having the presence of mind to cover them with a blanket to keep the chill off now that they were naked. Colm closed his eyes and didn’t try to fight the pleasant languor that felt so heavy now. He could go to sleep. The pie would still take some time to finish cooking, and he’d smell it if it stayed in too long. Sleep sounded perfect.

“What do you think Gran will do when she gets our letter?”

Or he could talk to Nichol. “I think she’ll sit down at her table with Sari on her lap and read it a dozen times, just to make sure it says what she thinks it says.”

Nichol relaxed a little. “Do you think she’ll be angry?”

Colm kissed Nichol’s forehead. “Why would she be angry?”

“Because I left her. I just…left her.”

Colm remembered the quaver in Megg’s voice back at the cove when she spoke to her selkie husband about Nichol and how poorly he was doing. “I think she’ll be happy to know that you’re alive and well,” Colm said at last. “She might be a bit upset you didn’t tell her what you were going to do, but she loves you too much to let that affect her joy.”

“And at least she has Baylee now.”

Colm shut his eyes. “I hope so.”

“If your sister is resourceful enough to make it as far as Devanon, then I’ve no doubt that she made it to Caithmor. She’ll be a comfort to Gran.”

“She’ll be furious that I’m not there.” Colm could see the expression on his sister’s face now, her mouth working with silent rage, eyebrows furrowed. It was a look she’d inherited from their father. “And sad.”

“Well, that’s what your letter’s meant to allay,” Nichol said easily. “They’ll be all right, the two of them.” He yawned and edged a little closer to Colm until they touched from thigh to chest.

“I think they will,” Colm agreed.

I think we all will.

About the Author

Cari Z was a bookworm as a child and remains one to this day. In an effort to combat her antisocial reading behavior, she did all sorts of crazy things, from competitive gymnastics to alligator wresting (who even knew that was legal!) to finally joining the Peace Corps, which promptly sent her and her husband to the wilds of West Africa, stuck them in a hut, and said, “See ya!” She also started writing then, because what else are you going to do for entertainment with no electricity? She writes award-winning LGBTQ fiction featuring aliens, supervillains, soothsayers and even normal people sometimes.

Contact & Media Info:

website: www.cari-z.net
blog: carizerotica.blogspot.com
twitter: @author_cariz

Facebook: www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100008212125132

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Tempest

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When the sun goes down, their passion awakens…and so do their nightmares.

Somnus, Book 1

Centuries ago, a man with Bryn Llewelyn’s dreamwalking ability would have been a shaman or a priest. In this time, he’s merely exhausted, strung out on too much caffeine and too little sleep.

Sleep means descent into Somnus—an alternate reality constructed of the combined dreaming consciousness of ordinary humans. A place he’d rather avoid. Trouble is, his powers don’t include the ability to go without sleep indefinitely. At some point his eyes close…and his nightmare begins.

As a teen, the treatment that cured Laszlo Grimm’s sleep disorder stole his dreams—and his ability to feel emotion. Petrified of needing more “treatment”, he clings to familiar rituals and habits. But lately his nightly terror has returned, and when he meets Bryn in the real world, the man seems hauntingly familiar. Not only that, Bryn awakens feelings in Laszlo for the first time in years…

Slowly Bryn and Laszlo realize they are both unknowing pawns in a plan of unspeakable evil. And that their powerful attraction could release the destinies locked within them—or be the instrument of their doom.

Warning: Contains the stuff of your lustiest dreams—and most frightening nightmares. You may want to read with a candle at the ready…just in case the lights go out.

It takes a con to expose a con. But this con could strip their secrets bare.

Framed for his twin sister’s murder, Sebastian Swift has been kept drugged in a mental institution since age thirteen, aware of only one horrible fact—every night in his dreams, he drowns.

After a freak storm frees him, Sebastian learns the truth. His guardian, Emrys, has been siphoning off his inherited magical power over the waters of Cantre’r Gwaelod—one gruesome vial at a time. And the man’s bastard son, Macsen, has been raised in his place. Determined to find his twin’s killer, Sebastian assumes her identity.

Macsen Finch isn’t about to give up his guise as the young earl—and not just because of the fortune. His cousin’s return from the dead threatens Macsen’s own efforts to undermine his father’s evil plan. Yet he can’t deny his inexplicable attraction to the imposter.

Acting on their mutual desire puts them both at the mercy of a madman’s wrath. To stop Emrys from stealing his power, Sebastian will have to learn how to use it—and whom he can trust.

Warning: May contain copious exchange of fluids, men in corsets, and dirty dancing. Apply liberally before bedtime.

eBooks are not transferable.

They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

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Tempest

Copyright © 2016 by Cari Z

ISBN: 978-1-61923-338-6

Edited by Linda Ingmanson

Cover by Kanaxa

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: April 2016
www.samhainpublishing.com

Table of Contents

- Dedication
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Epilogue
- About the Author
- Look for these titles by Cari Z