Tempest (17 page)

“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.