Chapter Seventeen
Kiela pounded on the door as the storm lashed at her. Behind her, over the water, she heard a crash, and she jumped. She looked over her shoulder and saw the sky had deepened into a purple-red, with streaks of lightning inside it— A magic storm, she thought. Of course. She should have known, given how fast it had swept in.
“Larran!” she called.
He wasn’t going to hear her over the crash of the waves, the crack of the thunder, and the thud of the rain on his roof. She shivered hard.
Shaking the door handle, she shouted again, “Larran! Please, let me in!”
I should have stayed in the bakery. Or with Caz in the cottage. Was he okay? He had to be so worried. And scared. She wiped the rain from her eyes with the back of her hand and then she pounded on the door and shook the handle again.
Kiela heard a roar behind her. She turned—
The storm clouds had twisted into the shape of a sea serpent. Lightning sparked from its eyes and skittered down its rain-slick back. She stared at it, frozen. Her heart pounded hard in her throat, and she was fully aware of how small, how breakable, how utterly fragile she was in the face of that.
Her arm was yanked backward.
She stumbled inside the house. With an oof, she smacked directly into Larran. He wrapped one arm around her and slammed the door shut with the other.
“Uh,” she said.
He was really quite tall. She somehow kept forgetting that. It made her feel like she’d found shelter beneath a strong oak tree. Pressed up against him, she had to tilt her head back to see his face. He was looking down at her, clearly worried. “Kiela?”
It occurred to her that she was making his shirt very wet. Like a startled deer, she sprang backward out of his arms. “Sorry. I . . .”
“What are you doing here? There’s a storm—”
“I didn’t bring you jam,” Kiela burst out.
Why did I say that? Yes, she’d meant to bring jam, but that wasn’t the most important detail or really any kind of explanation for why she was here, soaking wet and shivering.
“You’re soaked again,” he said.
“I don’t mean to make it a habit.” Her teeth chattered together. “May I—”
“Yes, let me find you a shirt.”
She noticed he was blushing. Without another word, he strode into his bedroom. She followed him and watched him lay a shirt on the bed. He carefully didn’t look at her in her wet clothes as he slid past her back into the front room. I must look like a drowned rat.
He closed the door.
She changed quickly and reemerged to hang her wet clothes by his hearth. Outside, the wind had been joined by an eerie howl, as if a wolf pack hunted within the clouds. “Are there storms like this often?”
“Yes. More and more, over the past few years.”
The shutters shook. She wondered if the waves ever reached the house. She decided not to ask about that—it wasn’t as if she had other options. It was stay here, or venture back toward town and hope not to be swept out to sea on the way. Safer to stay here. “It’s the unbalanced magic, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “The emperor’s sorcerers could defuse the storms, if they chose to. Either they haven’t noticed how bad it is because the storms hit too far from where they are, or they simply don’t care.”
The wind shook the shutters as if it wanted to pry them off and reach inside the house.
He got a funny look on his face, his eyes focused on her head. Kiela automatically patted her hair. It was soaked, of course, but—oh, there was something stuck. It felt like a wet ribbon. She pulled it out and dangled a strip of seaweed in the air.
“That kind is edible,” Larran said.
“I carry my own salad,” Kiela said.
He laughed, even though she didn’t think that was particularly funny. He had a nice laugh, warm and furry. Not sure what to do with the piece of seaweed, she dropped it into his kitchen sink and then moved closer to the woodstove. Last time she was here and soaked through, Caz was with her. This time it was just her and Larran. And the storm. “Caz must be so worried,” Kiela said.
“He’ll be okay,” Larran said. “Your cottage is sturdy, and it’s tucked back behind the cove, which offers some protection.”
“How bad do these storms get?” she asked.
He hesitated. “It varies.”
Very bad, she translated.
“But they can be beautiful. Come see.” Beckoning to her, he removed one of the slats covering a smaller window above the larger, shuttered one. “It’s safer not to unblock the whole window, but you can stand on the chair.”
Kiela stepped up onto the chair. As she leaned forward to peer out the slit of window, she wobbled, and he wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her. She tensed.
“Sorry,” he said, withdrawing. “I . . .”
“No, it’s okay. Thanks.” She stared down at him. On the chair, she was taller than he was. His eyes looking up at her . . . They were warm brown, flecked with green and amber with a hint of blue and even purple. The more she stared, the more colors she saw, until she realized she was staring and blinked, blushing. She forced herself to look out the window at the storm instead.
The storm held as many colors as Larran’s eyes, all swirling over the sea, purple chasing blue, black streaking through like the inverse of lightning. Shapes formed and then dissipated—the face of a lion that roared so wide its jaw split apart and then re-formed as a bird diving toward the sea. It vanished in a spray of waves that crashed against the rocks.
“Are we safe?” Kiela asked.
She was aware of how close he stood, also looking out at the storm. She felt the heat of his skin, smelled the faint cinnamon scent that she’d come to associate with him, listened to the steadiness of his breath. “Nothing’s safe,” he said.
She had the sense that he wasn’t talking just about the weather, but she didn’t know what he meant. Eadie had mentioned tragedies, plural. Kiela knew he’d lost his mentor in a storm, and she had guessed his parents were gone. She studied him again and wondered what to ask that would make him say what he was thinking. “Will your merhorses be all right out there?”
He looked startled—and pleased—that she’d asked about them. “They’re more suited to this than anyone. See?” He tapped the window, and she bent to follow his finger and see where he was looking. “They dive down to protect themselves from the excess magic.”
Out in the wild waves, the merhorses leapt as if they were dancing with the lightning. They arched their bodies out of the water into the rain, leaping over one another, and then diving deep within the waves the second before purple lightning skittered over the sea. Kiela realized that her cheek was next to Larran’s. If she turned her head just a little . . . if he did . . . Their lips were so close.
She wondered why she was having these thoughts. Because he’d been nice to her? Was that a good enough reason? Or was it the only reason that was good enough? He cared. He’d cared from the very first morning when he’d delivered cinnamon rolls to her doorstep.
If she turned her head . . . If she kissed him . . .
Would he kiss her back?
Or would he pull away?
Would she surprise him, or was he thinking it too? Was he as aware as she was of how close they were, of how sweet he smelled, of how warm he was?
Would he want her to kiss him? Or, worse than pulling away, would he merely tolerate her lips on his because he was kind, and he wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings? He’d be kind, she was sure, no matter what, and she wouldn’t know if he—
Larran pressed closer to the window. “Is that a boat?”
Beside him, Kiela peered out. “Where? I don’t see—” She spotted it, a white craft being tossed like a ball from wave to wave. “Who would be out there in this?”
“Someone foolish,” he said.
“Or desperate.” She thought of how she and Caz had fled Alyssium. “Is it a fishing boat? Someone from Caltrey?” As she said it, she knew it wasn’t. The fisherfolk were all aware of the weather. Bryn had been shocked she hadn’t noticed the clouds—everyone else had known to haul in the boats, board up the windows, and seek shelter.
“Looks smaller. Sleeker. It’s not one of ours.”
Its sails were flapping uselessly against its mast. A wave reached up like an arm and wrapped itself around the hull, and the boat disappeared from view. Kiela gasped. Like that, it was gone. No, wait—it had surfaced again, but it was listing to the side.
Larran pushed away from the window and strode toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Kiela said, nearly a shout.
“They aren’t going to make it to shore. Whoever’s on that ship is going to drown.”
She jumped off the chair. “That doesn’t mean you should join them!”
“I can help.” He grabbed a coat and pulled it on.
“But—” The storm would swallow him! He couldn’t go! “How will you even reach them? The waves! The wind!” And the lightning and the rocks and—“You don’t even know if there’s anyone alive on that boat.”
“I can do this,” Larran said. “I’ve ridden a merhorse in a storm before.”
This was a terrible idea. She didn’t know what to say to make him see that. I can’t stop him. “Let me help. How can I help?”
“You’ve ridden a merhorse once and that was on a perfect day. Stay here.”
“And just wait? But what if—”
He pulled the door open, and the storm rushed in as if it had been waiting for an invitation. Everything in the house blew. Seashells clattered onto the floor. Lanterns rattled as they shook, and the nearest candle was snuffed out. “Watch for me. Listen for me. I’ll knock—don’t open the door until you hear me knock.”
And then he was gone.
She shut the door and rushed back to the chair by the window. Pressing her face against the glass, she strained to see—there he was, leaning into the wind at a deep tilt as he walked toward the stone jetty. “No, no, this is a terrible, terrible idea,” she murmured.
His arm was flung up to shield his face against the wind. Leaning forward until his entire body was tilted, he fought against the storm, taking step after step. Kiela squeezed her hands into fists. She could imagine how it felt—the rain and the wind pushing against him. Don’t fall, she thought. Please don’t fall. And:
Come back to me.
Three-quarters of the way out onto the rocks, he halted. What’s wrong? She wanted to rush out to him, but she knew that would be a mistake. If she went out there, he’d worry about her, not about himself, and it would make the situation twice as dangerous.
Kiela saw the sea shoot up before him, and she clutched the edge of the window, willing herself not to scream. But the wave didn’t fold over him and sweep him away. Instead, out of the foam burst a merhorse. She saw the mare silhouetted against the stormy sky, her head flung back, her mane flowing like a waterfall.
Larran leaped off the rocks.
The horse-fish twisted in the air, and he grabbed her mane, swinging himself onto her back. She thundered away from the jetty, toward the floundering ship, deeper into the maelstrom. The cloud serpent had been joined by two more, and they fought, snapping their jaws with every crack of thunder, twisting and writhing as they tore one another apart.
Rain smashed into the window, and Kiela flinched back.
When she pressed forward again, she couldn’t see him. “Larran!”
Her voice was instantly swallowed by a crack of thunder so loud that it shook the walls. She felt wetness on her cheeks. Not rain. Tears. She hadn’t noticed when she started crying, but at some point she had. She ignored the tears and searched the sea. Where was—
There.
Carrying Larran, the merhorse leapt out of the waves. They were halfway to the ship. Above, the sky twisted as if it were being strangled. It bled rain.
He reached the ship.
It was listing on its side, water pouring over it. Another wave, and she lost sight of him again. She held her breath, exhaled in a sob, and then held her breath again.
A minute passed.
Another.
She didn’t see him.
He’s drowned. I lost him. And I never —She didn’t know how to end that thought. She didn’t know what she could have had, what they could have had, but whatever could have been had been swallowed by the angry sea and sky.
And then she saw movement, away from the ship: the golden merhorse was swimming through the wild waves with two figures on its back, one riding tall and the other limp. She watched, unable to move, unable to help, unable to do anything but shake and not breathe then breathe again, as they reached the jetty. She watched as Larran climbed off the merhorse and lifted the storm’s victim into his arms. Step by step, he walked over the rocks. His foot slipped once—he caught himself—he continued on, cradling the stranger against him.
He reached the shore.
And he kept going, fighting the wind and the rain.
Kiela rushed to the door and flung it open before he could knock. He stumbled inside. She helped him carry the woman—the survivor was a woman, slight and pale and very cold, with flame-red hair—to his bed. She was breathing, so quietly that Kiela could barely hear her and then only because her breath had a whistle-like hiss.
While Larran secured the door, Kiela pulled the unconscious woman’s wet tunic off and dressed her as quickly as she could in warm layers. Coming back into the bedroom, Larran piled quilts onto her and tucked them around her.
He then shed his own shirt and pants and dressed in dry clothes. He was shaking hard, and she saw a scrape on his calf. Blood, watery from the rain and sea, had flowed down to his ankle. Kiela worked quickly, washing out the wound and then wrapping it with bandages she found in a kitchen drawer.
Neither of them spoke.
He didn’t seem to have the strength left for speaking. She didn’t know what to say. She felt as though a thousand words were jumbled just behind her lips, battling to come out. At last, she said, “I’m glad you didn’t die.”
“Me too,” he said.
They both fell silent again. Outside, the unnatural storm wept and raged.