Chapter 21 The Cloak of Shifting Tides
Only seasoned slavers should attempt to acquire a dryad. Beautiful but deadly, these tree growing nymphs have been known to trick their lovesick captor into removing their irons only to strangle them with a summoned tree branch or root.
–Excerpt from 'A Slavers Guide to Aurorae', by Crismund Burke
Morning brings hazy dawn light that filters through Elaris’s perpetual mists. Rushing memories of the previous day—my wedding, a certain mistaken kiss—pour through my head, and I feel violated all over again. Cut open and carved down to my deepest parts.
Sitting up, I prepare myself with the worst sort of glare before turning over to where Rhyland should be fast asleep. The spot’s empty, but the top of the quilt is warm, as though only recently vacated.
A small bit of parchment sits on the nightstand near a steaming cup of tea. The scrawl is neat, unfamiliar, but somehow I know it's Rhyland’s even before unfolding it to have a read.
Nymph,
The men and I have gone down to start loading supplies on the ship. Wait at the cottage until we return. Sora made breakfast. Enjoy your tea.
There's no signature, but I suppose not a lot of people refer to me simply as ‘Nymph.’ Annoyed, I crumple the letter in my fist, toss it away, then reach for the tea.
It hints at a splash of cream and smells faintly of bergamot and a hint of citrus.
I take a sip and find that I'm even more annoyed that it's been made just as I like it.
How should he know such an intimate thing about me?
Has he been watching how I prepare my tea here on Elaris?
It's a scoff-worthy thought. He wouldn't care enough.
I take small sips all the way to the dresser where I find the oil’s been whisked away, replaced by a fresh set of clothing.
A small swell of relief hums through me when it's pants and a loose white blouse.
Both fit comfortably over my under clothes.
I pull on a pair of stockings last, chasing them with my sturdy boots that get laced up tight.
I'm not sure I want to look in the mirror. Sora's miracle potion wore off last night and the wine’s taken its toll in the form of that throbbing headache she warned about. A quick glance has me smoothing and braiding my wild hair that's gone pale white again, hoping the tea kicks in quickly.
The delicious smells I've grown accustomed to waft through the dining hall when I enter.
It's deserted but the spread of food waits, clearly already enjoyed but still plentiful.
A clean plate gleams up from my usual spot.
I seize it and reach for crisp slices of bacon, a scoop of fluffed, golden eggs, two crepes drizzled in honey, and a handful of berries.
It's all delicious and chased down with swallows of my second cup of tea. I'm polishing off my last bite when footsteps sound in the front hall. Mòr steps around the corner into the living room, a soft halo of light clinging to her as if the pale dawn outside wasn't ready to let her go just yet.
She gives me a toothy grin when she spots me and quickly moves to claim the seat at my side like someone else will if she doesn't.
“Well, aren't you the glowing bride.” She nips a thick sausage from a platter, taking a tentative bite off the end. Grease drips down her chin, and I think I've eaten too much because the sight curdles my stomach.
“Isn't there some sort of law against making bad jokes this early in the morning?” I inch my plate away and shift in my seat.
She laughs, chewing loudly. “We pride ourselves on bad jokes here. It’s all part of the fun.”
Fun is not how I would describe any part of this experience.
I reach for my tea, if only to have something in my hands so I don’t have to meet her eyes when I speak again.
“Your island….” I start and then take a small sip.
The hot tea should have turned at least lukewarm by now, but I get the sense that isn’t something Mór’s magic permits in Elaris.
Her ageless face grows more serious. “What about it?”
“It heals people, just being here, eating the food, drinking the spirits?” I’m thinking again of Rhyland’s torso…where the bullet should have pierced his skin. Where a mark should have been left behind.
“It heals mortals and nymphs. Are you asking because of the wounds on your back?”
Without meaning to lift them, my fingers find my shoulder blade, grazing the skin beneath the collar of my shirt where I feel the raised scar. An echo of the kepra's claws stokes phantom pains. How did she know about it?
Heat comes to my cheeks. “Well, yes but also Rhyland had a wound—or rather should have had a wound, at least a scar where—” I’m fumbling now. “Does his body heal itself?”
She frowns and her strange gray eyes seem to harden to steel as they scour the room around us.
“When you took your vows yesterday, the words were sealed with magick—and something else. A law as old as time. When you enter into a union of this kind with an immortal, you are no longer able to raise a hand against him, as he cannot raise a hand against you. An old law to prevent trickery and murder amongst the godly families. ”
I almost choke on my tea. No one had mentioned that part of the arrangement. But also her implication that I’m planning to harm Rhyland in some way takes me aback, too.
“That’s not why—I’m not planning to hurt him. I only ask because, well—” I don’t think my cheeks could get any warmer. “Back in that coastal city that captain, Searle, he used the ring Ire and in my fury I—”
“Shot my brother. Yes, I know. What about it?”
My brow furrows. A moment ago she looked ready to kill at the thought of me ‘raising a hand’ to her brother, but now speaks so casually about me shooting him? Mór is a wonder. A puzzle I don’t think can be solved.
I clear my throat, sit taller on the bench. “Last night during the cleansing ceremony, I didn’t see any sign that a bullet had ever struck him. I just wanted…I guess I was just curious about why it didn’t leave a trace.”
A small smirk claims the corner of her thin lips. “Ah. That is Ireus’ doing. He was furious with my brother of course when he cast him from Skoyr, but fatherly love does not evaporate so readily. No mortal blade or weapon can kill Talon; it is by monster, demigod, or Ireus’ own will that he falls.”
Almost instantly thoughts of the night the kepra attacked spring to my mind. The creatures drew his blood—monsters. They could have killed him but he fought so hard, up until he exploded in golden sunlight.
“Then why bother adding a binding vow, if I cannot kill him anyway?”
Mòr huffs, finishing the last bite of her sausage before stealing the tea from my hands for a sip of her own.
“If you’d explored him more readily last night, you would have found a scar on his upper shoulder in the shape of your handprint.
It seems Ireus has lumped you in with the monsters, half-nymph; your powers were detrimental to my brother.
Now even if you managed your flame on purpose it couldn’t harm him. ”
An incredulous laugh rips itself from my lips. “So all of this, the marriage, the ceremony? All so I couldn’t hurt him with magick I can’t properly summon?” Is he that terrified of me? I want to add, maybe out of spite, but my teeth grind down around the words. Keeping them for another day.
“One perk of many. Now, enough talk and lazing around. We have packing to do and when Rhyland returns, I’ll give you your wedding gift.”
Within the hour, Mòr has trunks loaded down with more supplies to be carried to the ship.
Two are dedicated to clothing alone—tailored blouses and trousers.
Evening dresses. Gowns fit for grand halls, not the likes of a pirate ship, but she swears there’ll come a time when I need them, so I don’t refuse, thinking that perhaps Rowan might enjoy playing dress up.
Aside from the clothing, she’s packed blankets, books, cured meats and cheeses, fine wines, salted tree nuts, with jars of honey and other preserves made from the island’s fruits.
Crewmen carry them off to be stored on the Nightingale, and I assume the chests are the gifts Mór spoke of when she stops me outside of her cottage. From the look of it, she’s hiding something behind her back.
Rhyland appears over the sandy dunes, windblown. His midnight blue eyes assess us as he draws nearer and frowns.
“What’s that look, Mòr?” he asks once he’s close enough to be heard over the howling breeze.
Today her irises are bright—a gray as pale as the dawn that glimmers with anticipation. “I have your wedding present here.” From behind her back she withdraws shimmering material that slips through her fingers like water.
I swallow, dreading another gown, but ready to plaster on a smile and mutter thanks if only to avoid offending a goddess. But when Rhyland’s eyes widen at the sight of it and he reaches to take it from her with a sort of reverence about him, my interest piques.
“Saevar breyting,” he murmurs, sounding on the edge of breathlessness. For my benefit he turns to me, translating. “It’s the cloak of shifting tides. I thought it was lost a long time ago when Ireus ended what was left of House Aethelmaer.”
House Aethelmaer, the Sea line. From what little I know of the gods, they were at war with House Sól—Rhyland’s family—for generations before Ireus finally found a way to obliterate them, hunting the members of their hierarchy down one by one.
A warning, no doubt, to the other godly families of what would happen should they step out of line.
“Many lost things wash up on my shores.” Mòr turns to me, taking the cloak from his hands to spread over my shoulders. “This cloak’s been woven from the sea itself. It’s best known for its ability to protect the wearer should they find themselves in trouble. Keep it close while you sail.”