Tempest (6 page)

“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?”