Chapter 17 A Sea Witch’s Offer #2
“We’ll wait outside,” Briggs rumbles, and grabs each twin by the scruff of their necks like pups to haul out the door with Cyprian smirking behind. Reave follows, shooting a lingering look at Sora as he goes.
I stiffen, and wonder if I should slip off too but Sora’s voice interrupts the thought. “Follow me. Bring her.” She turns and is prowling down the clean swept floors before Rhyland and I have a chance to do little more than glance at each other.
With his calloused hand, he gestures forward. “After you.”
Now you want to be a gentleman? The accusation is thick behind my lips but I swallow it down.
I try and fail to hide my limp as we follow her through the short hall, its shelves lined with pale creamy sea-shells and smooth driftwood sculptures, to a room just as airy and light as the first. A living area, the windows are cast open wide to let in a salty breeze that ruffles the long, tan curtains.
I stare down at the floors peppered with hand-woven rugs and a splay of soft cushions.
The transition to the dining hall is subtle, only marked by a shifting of light and the sanded hickory table draped with a white cloth.
It’s leaden with heavy trays of fruits, cheese and ripe olives.
Breads baked golden, embedded with tree nuts, and some loafs braided into intricate shapes and patterns.
Next to the tray an olpe vase rests, filled to the brim with rich, fragrant oil.
A stone hearth carved into the far wall glows with embers that remind me of watchful eyes.
“Help yourselves.” Sora places two cups and plates in front of us, then fetches a chous of wine to fill our glasses with the deep red liquid.
“I will get your hostess.” When she turns, the hem of her white dress flares enticingly.
She disappears through an archway where I catch sight of the kitchen, a haven of gleaming copper pots and pans suspended above a rough-hewn wooden counter.
Everything beyond that remains a mystery, but I have a feeling the house is bigger than it looked on the outside.
My leg almost gives out before I plop onto the long table bench.
Where in the four realms do I know her from?
Pondering, I reach for the goblet of wine, but Rhyland catches my wrist. His touch is always a shock I don’t expect, even though I’ve met with it so many times now. He lets go almost as quickly as he grabbed me but the echo of it is still there, like lingering fire that could burn down to the bone.
“Just be careful. The wine is sweet as it is strong.” He lets me go, sitting much more gracefully in the seat next to mine. He reaches for and scoops my injured leg up so it's propped across his lap before untying the boot to slip off.
I redden and almost roll my eyes, remembering the nights after a long day's work in Helgate where I joined the other hirelings in the pub house. When they were buying, I’d drunk more than a few of them under the table and still managed to find my way safely back to bed in the Slags.
And then back to work before the sun broke the sky.
“I think I’ll be alright.” For good measure, I use the other hand to pluck a hunk of cheese and fat olive off the tray, biting into them for a savory combination before chasing it down with a swallow of wine. He’s right, it is sweet. I could easily drain the whole cup if I had a mind to.
An awkward silence settles over the room as I pick at the trays and sip wine, enjoying the flavors of exotic fruit that explode in my mouth.
Savoring the way the fresh bread, coated in warm oil, almost melts over my tongue.
After Rhyland’s done inspecting the bruised skin, he stares stoically out the window, where I notice the rear landscape is quite different than the rocky path we followed.
Here tall grasses sway over dunes of sand.
Gray-ish white birds flap between trees that are alive and heavy with the very fruit I suspect is on this table.
When a subtle shift moves through the air, I note the way Rhyland’s shoulders and jaw tighten and crane my neck for the doorway.
A woman steps through, far younger and more plain than I was expecting.
Her hair is a dull black that settles in waves to frame her round face, threaded with peeking gray feathers, not unlike the ones from the birds I just glimpsed.
Tan freckles sprinkle the majority of the skin there, framing a set of eyes as misty as the fog that surrounds the island.
She wears a simple white button down tucked into deep brown trousers with tan sandals adorning dirt stained feet.
Not exactly the sea witch I was expecting.
Rhyland doesn’t turn to her, but she moves easily to lower into the seat next to him and then snags a handful of berries from the pile, popping one into her mouth. “I was wondering when you two were going to show up.” Her eyes flit between us and she winks at me.
At this, Rhyland’s fingers tense around my calf.
He’d been so still since we sat down that even the small movement is jarring, and I feel myself shift back in surprise, leg slipping from his lap before he snags it up into place again.
“Wondering or dreading? I can’t imagine you are eager to see me after the way things went in Ethirya.
I know that Norne’s whispers are carried to you on the night wind—how news follows your tides. ”
Norne of House Hvískra. The god of whispers, said to spread messages across the whole of Hlódyn.
She pulls back, wiping the stain of berry juice from her chin. “It’s my understanding you found exactly what you were looking for there, little brother.”
Brother? My mind reels, grappling with the word while trying to keep a straight face. Failing, I instead reach for my cup to hide my mouth with a long swig.
“Enough of the games, Mòr. You told me it would be there and it wasn’t.”
“Says you.”
I almost choke on the wine and my cough draws both of their attention to me, red faced and gasping. Rhyland reaches over, as if to pat me on the back, but I lean away from him, wishing I could slide to the very end of the long bench. .
“Mòr as in the goddess? Creator of magick, nymphs, seer of prophecy?” I gape.
“Well.” She leans an elbow into the table and subtly slides Rhyland’s untouched wine toward the spot in front of her. “Not so much anymore, but once, yes. I was that and more.” She laughs a little at her own irony and takes a deep drink.
“Now it’s goddess of drinking and bad advice,” Rhyland snaps, snatching the goblet from her fingers.
“Hey!” she frowns, and for a moment I think she may wrestle him for it, until Sora appears with another glass, filling it to the brim and handing it to her. I muse to myself that she must be familiar with their behavior, being so prepared.
“It wasn’t bad advice. You found exactly what you needed there.” Her eyes flash to me, a smile in them.
Rhyland frowns. “I found nothing and lost two good men.”
“May they rest in Nekane’s fiery embrace and pass peacefully into Dáinnheim.”
“I think we need to speak about a lot, soon.” His churning midnight blue gaze is dark as a stormy sky when it flits to me. “Alone.”
“Well, I think a good meal is in order. Sora tells me your men are hungry.” She looks to the maiden, her face more bright and animated now.
“Collect the men, would you? I’ll gather dinner while my brother works on healing that nasty bit of work.
” She peeks into his lap down at my ankle.
“A seaweed wrap and sun crystal tonic should do the trick. And the food will do the rest.”
Rhyland utters the deepest sigh I’ve ever heard from him and runs a hand through his dark hair, ruffling it.
So much for all the talk of taking the Sea Witch’s head. I smirk to myself but secretly, I’m thankful he isn’t the god of mind-reading, or I might not have mine for much longer.
Soon the dining hall is warm and loud. The small party of men we brought ashore have settled in as easily as anywhere, passing eager conversation and helping themselves to the spread of food Mòr and her maiden set out.
A fat, roasted bird of some sort that Mòr called a Quyln, native to her island, is paired with seasoned greens, heaps of potatoes, more olives and cheese, and bread pulled straight from the oven, fluffing like clouds when I pull it apart in my hands.
The smells are overwhelming, and despite stuffing myself once already I load my plate down and scarcely bother with a fork. The pirates don’t, so why should I?
The bird meat is as succulent as Mòr claimed, and I lick the grease from my fingers, ignoring the looks Rhyland gives me.
By the time dusk falls the men are far into their cups—even Briggs, whose deep laugh echoes through the cottage, is drunk off the malted sea-weed whisky Mòr pulled out after our dessert of warm figs and honey.
Sora and Reave sit close, sharing a cup and picking leftovers off each other’s plates.
Only Rhyland is clear-eyed. It’s a wonder if he ever lets loose, but he’s distracted in deep, quiet conversation with his sister.
Her cheeks are flushed with the pomegranate wine—a heat that matches the one clinging to my own face.
I mutter something about needing to pee to the twin next to me.
He only nods and goes back to laughing over something Cyprian said.
I stop in the hall to test my ankle, finding that the pain has receded to the dullest ache since Rhyland coated and wrapped it up.
The sound of my footsteps keeps me company as I tiptoe toward the front door that’s still slung wide open, the enticing smell of wildflowers and rain pouring in.
A cooling wind picks up, lifting my hair off my shoulders.