A Wilderness of Glass Page 8

  His frown deepened, darkened. He abruptly rolled them, slipping out of Brida so suddenly, she gasped. She still floated in his arms, though now she faced him once more, treading water. “Do you have another mate?”

  Her eyes rounded. Was that jealousy she heard? The idea stunned her. Was she wrong in her earlier translations when he described the habits of the mer? They found mates, but the unions were temporary, the only permanent, long-lasting relationship that of the merfolk to their familial groups led by their aps.

  Brida stroked his arm in a soothing gesture. “I did, once. He died.”

  Compassion softened the pinched lines of his face. He grasped her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing her fingers. His eyes darkened with a remembered sorrow. “I had a mate too, and a child. They died as well.”

  She pressed her palm to his cheek. It seemed Death was no more merciful to the merfolk than it was to humanity. “Losing one is terrible enough. Losing both, an unbearable grief.”

  He gathered her close, and they held each other until his magic faded, and the pool grew colder with every passing moment. When even Ahtin’s body heat couldn’t keep the shivers at bay, he swam with her to the rocky edge and helped her out of the water. She dressed quickly, shaking hands struggling with laces and clasps until she was finally wrapped in her shawl and her damp hair bundled in a kerchief she’d tied around her head to keep her ears warm. She wouldn’t be totally dry until she got home, changed, and buried under her blankets, but it would do for now.

  Once more standing on the other side of the bluff, with retreating tide stroking her feet, and the red edge of dawn just cresting the horizon, Brida blew a kiss to Ahtin. He returned the gesture.

  “Come tomorrow, Brida.” His farewell carried a tone she hadn’t heard before, an unspoken promise, an assurance of deepening emotion. It made her soul dance and her heart clench.

  “I will,” she said. For as long as he and his kinsmen lingered in these waters, she’d return.

  She watched him turn and dive into the waves, a flicker of pearl and smoke that quickly disappeared into the Gray.

  The beach was littered with shells and empty of people as Brida made her way home. She’d gone a little past the tidal pools where Ahtin had stranded himself when a familiar, four-note tune drifted toward her from the sea. She spun around, lifting her skirts to jog in the direction of the sound, drawn by a powerful need to answer its call.

  A merwoman swam toward her, and Brida recognized her as the obvious leader of the group who’d come to rescue Ahtin. If her guess was right, this was the ap of his family.

  The two women, human and mer, met in the shallows. Brida regretted not bringing her flute with her. It made it much easier to communicate with the mer.

  She needn’t have worried. Her mouth fell open, and she gaped at the merwoman when the other told her in perfect, articulate words that any might hear in an Ancilar meeting hall “You are Brida. Ahtin told me about you.”

  If Brida didn’t already possess proof of the fantastical, she’d swear she dreamed this scenario. “Are you his ap?” She did her best to repeat the front-forward sound Ahtin had made when he described the mer matriarchs.

  The merwoman nodded. “And the grandmother of his grandmother. I’m called Edonin in human tongue.”

  Brida marveled at Edonin’s mastery of human speech, wondering who had taught her. Another human? Or another mer taught by a human? Or had she listened to the conversation of sailors and fishermen who sailed the Gray? “I wish I knew the language of the mer as well as you know ours.”

  Edonin’s grave expression didn’t change with Brida’s compliment. Her features, lovely in the way of the mer, grew even more stern the longer she stared at Brida. “You put Ahtin in danger every time you meet him in the cave,” she finally said, the statement more of an accusation.

  Brida stiffened. She didn’t need another to tell her what she already knew. That worry had fractured her sleep and plagued her thoughts during the days when she worked and wondered about him. However, neither she nor Ahtin were children, nor did they need a minder. Despite her irritation, she kept her voice neutral. “I don’t mean to. And is it not dangerous in your world? Even more so? He told me what happened to his mate and child. The sea is no different from the land in that way.”

  The ap slapped her fluke against the water, revealing her own annoyance. “You saved him. I and mine are in your debt. You will always be safe with us in the sea, but Ahtin isn’t yours to keep.”

  “He isn’t my prisoner. His will is his own,” Brida shot back.

  “His will is to be with you. He can’t.” Another fluke slap. “He is merfolk. You are land dweller.”

  Brida had expected this from the moment the conversation started but was still disappointed by its appearance. “And no lesser for it.”

  Edonin’s severe expression suddenly softened with a pity that made Brida’s stomach twist a little. “You haven’t asked what I told you those years ago when I saw you grieving on the shore.”

  Brida wasn’t sure she wanted to know now. “I’ve always wondered,” she said, careful not to reveal too much of her curiosity or her dread.

  Judging by the enigmatic look in her double pupil eyes, the merwoman wasn’t fooled. “I told you ‘Edonin shares your grief, land woman.’ She nodded when Brida’s eyebrows arched in question. “I once loved a land dweller. When he was killed, a part of me died with him. He died because we refused to part, even when we knew no good would come of it.”

  The twisting in Brida’s gut only worsened at the revelation. Edonin’s warning didn’t come from a place of familial intrusion or protection but from old heartbreak that, if the ap’s tone was anything to judge by, still had not healed.

  At Brida’s silence, Edonin continued. “Our mistakes stay with us all our lives. Don’t make the one I did. If not for Ahtin, then for yourself.” She raised a hand. “Farewell, Brida.”

  The merwoman was nearly out of sight when Brida remembered something she had meant to tell Ahtin but forgot. Edonin’s translation of her four-note tune to Brida alarmed her even more now that she knew what they meant. She called out to Edonin, relieved when the merwoman heard and swam back to her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter Six

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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