The Little Selkie (retail) (23 page)

It was several long seconds before Lady Aisling and her ladies found the strength to face him.

The prince looked much how he had when Dylan had approached him on the beach—so angry that his face was a blank mask. His hazel eyes were uncomfortably empty.

“Your Highness, she—” Lady Aisling stammered.

“I am not interested in your antics, Lady Aisling. Hounding my partner will not make me turn my eye to you. Instead, it makes me concerned. Perhaps there is a need to
publically
announce that I feel you would make an inadequate queen, much less an unsuitable wife,” Prince Callan said, his voice holding the warmth of an icy sea.

Lady Aisling choked on her words, her eyes large with fear.

“I suggest you leave the ball tonight and return to royal-sponsored events when you are certain you have yourself under control. Good evening, Lady Aisling,” Prince Callan said, stepping aside.

Lady Aisling sobbed and ran past Callan. Her friends curtsied and darted inside, careful to keep a distance from her.

Dylan frowned at Callan as he ambled up to her and Cagney.
I had it sorted
, she wrote before she started placing starfish back in the tide pool.

“You threw a starfish,” Cagney said.

Yes.

“You hit Lady Aisling in the
face
! With a starfish!” Cagney said.

Dylan thought for a moment before she replied.
Some people need a starfish in the face. It does them good.

“I don’t think a dozen starfish in the face could fix Lady Aisling.” Callan picked up the poor starfish Dylan had chucked and passed it over.

Dylan brushed the starfish off and gently returned it to its salt bath.
Thank you
.

Cagney, still shocked, turned to Callan. “A starfish, Your Highness. A
starfish
!”

I was kind. I could have used a sea urchin
, Dylan wrote.

Cagney covered her eyes and grumbled.

How did you know what was going on?
Dylan asked Prince Callan.

“Your guards found me and brought me here,” Callan said, indicating the short stocky silhouette standing next to the tall, oxen-shaped silhouette.

Dylan blinked.
Bump-a-Lump?
She wrote.

“Bump-a-Lump?” Cagney blinked, somewhat recovered.

Shortened from Bump and Lump. Besides, they move like one creature anyway
, Dylan wrote.

“A very quiet but smart creature. Come, let’s get you cleaned up. Mother has a charm from a renowned Grandmaster craftmage—Rumpelstiltskin. We can wave it over your clothes to get the juice out,” Prince Callan said.

That is a marvelous charm
.

“It is. She got it for Nessa when the mage last came through Ringsted. Nessa was always spilling and dropping things on her clothes when she was younger. Cagney—are you ready? Dooley isn’t going to take the threat against you well.”

“It has nothing to do with him,” Cagney scowled.

That’s not how he sees it
, Dylan wrote.

“Yes, well, you threw a starfish! In someone’s
face
!” Cagney said.

Does that make me a different class of person?

“It means your reasoning skills are off,” Cagney said.

I believe that would indicate I think even more like Lord Dooley than you do
, Dylan wrote.

“We’re about to find out who is right. Here he comes,” Prince Callan said, looking into the ballroom.

“My pearl!” Dooley said, looking angry for the first time since Dylan had made his acquaintance.

“Why me?”

Hours later, every muscle in Callan’s body was taunt. He narrowed his eyes and tried to think about something—anything—besides the long, lithe woman who was stretched out across a bench, the expensive cloth of her skirts draping over her legs as she leaned into his side.

Callan exhaled deeply. “This was a very bad idea,” he muttered into the chilly night air.

Dylan slept on, unaware of his words, her breathing relaxed and heavy. She moved, sparking awareness in Callan when her warm body shifted. They were alone on the patio as the last of the party goers filed out of the ballroom and the servants began cleaning.

“Don’t you look like you’re having fun.” Dooley chuckled behind him.

Callan almost stooped in relief as his longtime friend strolled onto the empty patio. Dooley was certain to make irritating observations, but at least he would give him something else to think about besides Dylan.

“Don’t even start,” Callan ordered.

“Start what? Pointing out how tortured you must feel right now?” Dooley clasped his hands together and observed them head on, his gaze fastened on the mysterious girl. “It’s just as well the ball is over. The poor thing is tuckered out.” Dooley laughed. “She doesn’t even know what she’s doing to you, does she?”

“She has the personal space of a puppy,” Callan said, pained.

“Aye,” Dooley agreed, leaning against the patio railing. “Ever thought about kissing her while she’s out of it?”

Callan narrowed his eyes. Maybe his friend wouldn’t be a help after all. “I am attempting to be a gentleman.”

“Gentlemen are just patient wolves.”

“You would know that, wouldn’t you? Chasing Cagney takes quite a bit of patience.”

“Ouch,” Dooley said. “Fine, I won’t pull your tail anymore. She is lucky, though. Any lesser man might have taken advantage of her. Maybe Cagney should talk to her about it.”

“I suspect it is some kind of cultural difference. She gives her affection freely—with everyone from my little sister to Cagney,” Callan said.

“Yes. She did well tonight,” Dooley said.

“I’m glad you thought so as well. I was a little worried how she would react to the other nobles after being sheltered by you and Cagney for so long. She seemed to enjoy herself. I underestimated her.” Callan turned his neck so he could look at Dylan, his eyes softening with affection.

“Do you think she could pull off being queen?” Dooley asked.

“I don’t know. Although I trust her, I know so little about who she is,” Callan said.

“She’ll learn. When everything blows over, and Jarlath is tossed in jail, she’ll be fine,” Dooley said.

“I hope you’re right. But I can’t help but feel like we’re running out of time,” Callan said.

“We just have to find proof. Sooner or later, Jarlath will trip up, and his bandit ring will be exposed. Be patient—just like you are with Dylan’s innocence.”

Callan frowned. “I should throw something at you.”

“Please be gentle; I am so fragile,” Dooley said, giving Callan a winning smile.

“I do have a dagger on me.”

“In that case, I think I’ll be leaving. Now. Enjoy your torture,” Dooley said, making a hasty retreat.

Callan didn’t respond; his gaze was captured by Dylan, who was shifting in her sleep.

Chapter 13

Evidence

There’s nothing. Why is there nothing?
Dylan tried to grumble in irritation, but her throat was silent—irritating her further.

Dylan tossed an empty satchel aside and placed her hand on her hips. This was the last room that belonged to Jarlath’s cronies. There
had
to be some speck of proof here. She hadn’t followed Bump and Lump at ungodly hours of the morning to track them back to their rooms and have nothing to show for it!

Already cranky from the lack of sleep—the ball had gone
very
late—Dylan considered kicking a chair to express her rage, but feared the sound might draw soldiers to the room.

While conversing with guests during the previous night’s ball, she had discovered there was another section of the palace. Set behind the stables was another wing built exclusively for soldiers, guards, and grooms. Following Bump and Lump led her to the stretch of rooms reserved for Jarlath’s men.

It had taken every ounce of will she had, but she managed to pretend she felt ill during breakfast. It wasn’t a hard role to play. The late night made Dylan feel like a whale that had just finished migrating. Excuse in hand, Dylan had scrambled into the bathroom, warning Bump and Lump not to enter. She shimmied out the back window and made her way down to their rooms.

It was a brilliant plan, and it had all gone rather well considering her last few plans hadn’t achieved spectacular results.
Except I’m not finding anything!

Dylan
knew
Jarlath was responsible for the bandits. His men were there! He had to be! But no one had so much as a speck of incriminating paper or evidence. She glared at the slobby room, her frustration mounting. Bump and Lump’s rooms had been pristine and clean. These other cronies couldn’t say the same.

Dylan dropped to her stomach, scrunching her nose at a sticky smear on the ground—left over from a dinner or breakfast. She checked under the bed again, this time intending to inspect the frame or even the mattress if she had to.

Laughter sounded in the hallway, and the door rattled.

Dylan slid her whole body under the bed, pulling the blankets down to shield her. The door opened, and three sets of feet entered the room.

“I’m puttin’ the new orders here. Tell Scratch to burn ’em after he gets a look at ’em,” said a voice, rough like sandpaper.

She peeked under the tiny space between the floor and the blanket, but she wasn’t able to see any faces—just dirty boots.

“Be pullin’ out soon, yeah? That sea mage’ll have to move fast before the royals leave,” said another man.

“Probably. Be ready—Tell Oisin and Morri we’re leaving soon,” said Sandpaper Voice.

“Where are they?” asked the last man—his voice crusty like rusted metal.

“Watchin’ that selkie girl. I don’t like it.”

“The selkie girl? You shouldn’t—wench could bring the palace down on us if she weren’t mute,” Sandpaper Voice grunted.

“No, I don’t like Oisin and Morri sticking to her.”

“It’s the boss’s orders,” Rusted Metal said.

“Yeah, but are you sure they ain’t takin’ it too seriously? Last week when the boss was drunk as a skunk ’n wanted to see ’er, they tossed ’im in his room and stood in front of the door for the night.”

“They’re from Sole—whaddya expect? Everyone up there is a bloomin’ knight. Morals, ugh,” Sandpaper Voice said.

“Sole, what a bloomin’ joke,” Rusted Metal said. “Shoulda tried to get assassins from Verglas. Now
those
men woulda had this place trussed up in a week.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on. Boss said to report in at noon,” said Sandpaper Voice.

“You reckon he’ll wake up? Oisin and Morri got in late last night—because of the ball ’n everything,” the second man said as feet thumped across the room and into the hallway.

“We gotta check, or he’ll rage like a bull,” Sandpaper Voice said before the door slammed shut.

Dylan waited another minute in silence to be sure they were gone before she slid out from underneath the bed. A new stack of papers was tossed on a beat up wooden table. She snatched them up and flipped through them.

This is what I’ve been looking for
. Marching orders for Jarlath’s bandits—maps with markings on them that indicated which bandit gangs should camp out on what roads, even a list of caravans and lords to rob. There were supply lists, and a sheet of specific goods and items the bandits were supposed to find.

Dylan stuffed the papers down the front of her dress—stowing them with her purloined dagger. She eased the door open and peeked out in the hallway. No one was there.

She fled the barracks, slipped past the stables, and raced around the corner, aiming for the central palace wing.

Behind her a horse squealed; ahead of her, Dylan saw Bump and Lump speaking with three men.

“Easy, easy. Dylan?”

She turned around to see Callan, mounted on a large, chestnut horse, calming his mount after nearly colliding with her.

“Are you alright? What had you running?” the prince asked.

Dylan glanced back over her shoulder. Bump was staring right at her. Lump stood talking to the other men—probably Jarlath’s lackeys she’d just overheard.

I need to tell someone—without Bump-a-Lump overhearing!
Dylan twisted back to Prince Callan and stared up at him. On a horse.

But it was Callan.
I can trust him, and the royal family should know what’s going on, horse or not.
Dylan crossed the distance between them and scrambled up the mount’s side. The chestnut snorted but held still under Callan’s gentle hand.

“Dylan?” the prince repeated as she slid on behind him.

She nudged the horse, shivering in revulsion as she tried not to think of kelpies.

Callan turned the horse and directed it through the gates, into Easky.

She clung to Callan but peered over her shoulder. Lump was still talking to the men, and Bump was watching her ride off.

Dylan squeezed her arms, tightening her grip on Callan. The prince responded by nudging his horse into an uncomfortable, jarring trot as he steered through the streets of Easky.

When they cleared the last village house and the last stray chicken, Callan’s horse grunted and heaved forward into a canter. The sight and sounds of Easky were swallowed up by forest, and after a little bit, Callan slowed his horse back into a walk.

Dylan tilted her head, listening for the siren song of water as the horse plodded down the dirt road. If she was going to tell Callan, she wanted encouragement. She needed
strong
water.

Finally, she heard it—exactly what she was looking for. She waved her hand, getting Callan to halt his horse, and slipped from the animal’s back.

“Dylan, what’s going on?” Callan asked.

She shook her head and gestured for him to follow her into the woods. They brought the horse in far enough so he would be sheltered from the road by bushes and undergrowth before tying him to a large tree trunk.

Unfettered, Dylan sprang through the woods, moving lightly in spite of her long skirts. Callan kept pace with her, not complaining as they skidded downhill.

Her shoulders eased when she could hear it with her ears and not her sense of magic—the dull roar of a waterfall.

White, frothy water cut a path through slippery, slime covered rock. The air was cooler, and the water wasn’t rapids, but it was too fast for her taste, so she led Callan up the hillside.

When the water flowed lazily over rock plateaus, Dylan left the hillside and splashed into the river. The riverbed was slippery, coated with algae, and the water was cool and crystal clear.

It took a moment for her to get used to it. The Chronos Mountains fed this river from melted snow, giving the water’s magic a different flavor than the salty, immense water of the ocean. It felt less weighty, but sharper—like a faraway sight being brought into focus by a spyglass.

Peering over her shoulder, Dylan listened to the encouraging gurgles and chortles of the water before deciding to climb one level higher. She led Callan up to a miniature waterfall that wasn’t quite as tall as she was. The water folded over layered rock that jutted out—like a fine croissant—making it easy to climb up. Above the little waterfall, there was a several-foot ledge before the river opened up into a deep pool where the crystal water turned sky blue. The waterfall just beyond the deep pool was much bigger, but it gushed with controlled, polite water that was more intent on falling in pretty patterns as opposed to forcing its way through rock—as the falls did in the lower levels.

“I didn’t know these falls existed,” Callan said, looking up at the cascading water.

Here
, she decided. She tied up the fabric of her skirts—today she wore a simple emerald green dress, one Callan had bought for her—before leading Callan over to several smooth rocks. Dylan plopped down on one and motioned for Callan to join her.

Callan—who had stripped off his boots when they first entered the river—tossed them aside and rolled up his breeches. “What’s this about?” he asked, twisting away when she started fishing down the front of her dress for the papers.

She passed the papers over before she untangled her slate and pouch of chalk from her skirts while Callan skimmed the papers.

“These are Jarlath’s?” Callan guessed.

She nodded.
He is responsible for the banditry. His friends are involved as well, but he runs it.

Callan nodded and brought a new paper to the front of the pile.

You aren’t surprised?
she wrote.

“No. We—my father, myself, and others—have suspected it for some time, but we’ve never managed to catch any proof,” Callan said.

So you are aware of the sea witch?

“Who?”

The sea witch. She’s the one responsible for the storms that riddle the coast and the typhoons on Ringsted’s northeast and northwest borders
, she wrote. While Callan read her words, Dylan splashed her feet in the river, taking comfort from the solid strength of the waterfall.

“We thought magic had to be involved, but we hoped we were wrong,” Callan said, his pleasant face smoothed into an expression of apprehension. “It’s just one mage, though?”

Yes.

“She must be powerful. It takes at least two or three weather mages to break through her storms,” Callan said.

She’s not.
Dylan wrote, clutching her chalk so hard she snapped it in half.
She’s supplementing her power with the blood of innocent creatures.

“The baby otter,” Callan said, understanding lighting up the green flecks in his hazel eyes.

One of her victims, yes. She’s slaughtered everything from whales to sea lions. With the excess power, she hides her trail—or my family would have hunted her down long before now.

“Your family isn’t allied with Jarlath, then?” Callan asked.

Dylan raised an eyebrow at him.

Callan raised the papers. “I know, you wouldn’t have brought me these if you were. But why is he your guardian, if that is the case?”

He is not my guardian. He is my captor—as much as I am ashamed to admit to being outsmarted by such a dull, debauched creature. I travel with him because he holds my—he exploits my greatest weakness. My family doesn’t know where I am,
she wrote.

“He’s holding you
captive?
Why didn’t you say something sooner? I will have him thrown in the dungeons,” Callan said, his voice dark as he stood up.

She rolled her eyes and grabbed the sleeve of the prince’s cotton shirt, yanking him back down.
I didn’t tell you, because there is nothing you can do about it. If I displease him, there will be horrible consequences for me—even if you throw him in the dungeon.

Callan studied her. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dylan shook her head.

She could tell him about Jarlath and the sea witch, but she couldn’t break her silence on who she really was. It was a secret that was much bigger than she and her circumstances.

When retrieving these papers, I overheard a conversation between some of Jarlath’s men. They said the sea witch will have to move soon—before you and your father depart for Glenglassera, I think.

“Perhaps they mean to attack us en route,” Callan said.

Dylan shook her head.
The sea witch has no power on land—her magic is tied to the ocean. If she is to use her magic, she must be in the ocean.

“We do follow the shore at several spots in our journey,” Callan said, rubbing his chin.

I will see if I can find out more information, but it took me over a month to secure those papers, and I found them through sheer luck. I cannot promise I will find something more.

“Of course not,” Callan said, brushing her hand with gentle fingers. “I’m a prince. I
do
have trained spies—although most of them are stranded outside of Ringsted due to the storms.”