Chapter Sixteen Idris
Chapter Sixteen
Idris
When Abram enters the breakfast room, Father springs to his feet and grabs my brother in a tight hug. I haven’t seen Father embrace anyone with so much warmth since we were children—if then. I stand apart, awkward and strangely jealous. True leans against my leg, and his weight is comforting.
Finally, Father stops hugging my brother and holds Abram at arm’s length. His eyes are misty. “You’re well?”
“No worse for it,” Abram answers, smiling. “Kit’s idea worked.”
“What did we promise her this time?” Father asks, glancing toward me at last. “Gold? I’ll double the size of the bag.”
I nod and don’t point out that I doubt Kit did it for the money. She deserves whatever she asks for, anyway. That and more.
Father ushers us both to the sideboard, which is laden with enough food for a feast. Abram eagerly fills a plate and then takes his seat. True crawls under the table to await scraps. I take my chair and close my eyes.
As soon as my head nods, the infuriating clinking noise starts up again. I open my eyes and look around, but, of course, there is no source. Father and Abram talk as if they hear nothing.
“They were fairly hospitable, actually,” Abram is saying. “They never tried over-hard to convince me to eat or drink, and they showed me a place to sleep during the day.”
“Kind of them,” I mutter.
Father ignores me. “Did you learn anything that might help break the curse?”
“No, unfortunately.” Abram casts a curious look at me. “I was never able to speak with the Hidden Queen, but she spoke to Idris last night. Do you remember, Id?”
“Yes. She still doesn’t have her skin.” I pour myself some tea and cut a glance up at my Father. “Do we have it somewhere? Did Mervyn keep it?”
Father frowns. “Skin?”
“In the memory Speir showed you and me, Mervyn has a selkie skin.” I try to recall the details, but I’m only left with a foggy recollection. “He says something about her not honoring the old ways? I think he meant he had stolen her skin, but she would not marry him.”
“Are you sure?” Father asks. “I thought he only bound her with the iron shoes.”
A flare of annoyance blazes in my chest. “Yes, I’m fairly sure. I did see the memory more recently than you.”
“Mervyn had a seal skin,” Abram chips in. “At the end of ‘Mervyn’s Impossible Tasks,’ he shows a fine seal skin to the king. And then, later, they use it as a cloak.”
Father winces. “Regardless, I have never heard anyone in the family mention the selkie skin—even in that story, it’s only called a seal skin. And I certainly haven’t come across any special seal skins around here.”
“Mervyn built this house, didn’t he?” I ask, glancing up at the ceiling. “He might have hidden it somewhere.”
“Does it matter?” Father asks. “Even if you returned the selkie skin, she would still be bound in her shoes.”
“But the gesture might make a difference to her,” Abram says thoughtfully.
My voice comes out tight. “And maybe it’s just the right thing to do—to return it!”
Father frowns at me. “Maybe it’s that sort of thinking that got us into this mess.
” He raises a hand before I can reply. “There’s no reason to explain it to me again.
But if he did keep the skin, we would know.
The tale says it was used as a cloak? Why isn’t it with the treasury or in the archives of Mervyn’s possessions?
” He shakes his head. “I fail to see how searching for something lost long ago is a good use of your energy.”
“I can look for it,” Abram offers, “while you get some rest.”
“How often do I have to say it?” I grind out. “I cannot sleep during the day. When I attempt to lie still, the idleness itself is torture. I might as well do something useful. I should be the one doing it, anyway.”
Abram studies me, and I turn away before I have to see the concern in his eyes. Quietly, he says, “You don’t need to keep trying to do this alone.”
“The last time you tried to help, you got stuck in an enchanted world.” I push back from the table and stand. My feet immediately double their constant, stabbing pain. “Maybe you both should just let me do what I need to.”
I leave the room, True at my heels. This was not the homecoming I’d imagined for Abram—the triumphant reunion of our little family, the settling back into old rhythms. Disappointment stings in my throat, and I’m only more frustrated.
Frustrated with my temper. Frustrated that everything I touch turns to ruin.
Before I leave the hall, I catch a murmur of my name. I pause, listening.
“… kinder to him,” Abram is saying.
“You are young,” Father responds, voice clipped. “The young always see heroism in a martyr, but in time you’ll understand—there is nothing noble in needlessly taking an unjust punishment.”
Whatever Abram replies, I don’t hear it.
I stomp up the stairs and go to tend my wounds.
Am I not your son? I think as I angrily pull off my shoes and get a cloth for the open sores.
Didn’t you teach me the duty that’s driven me to this?
If I had had a different father, a different family, perhaps I wouldn’t be the me that felt this way. The me who chose sacrifice.
If Mervyn had never stolen a skin he had no right to, there wouldn’t be a price that had to be paid at all. There would have never been suffering that required justice.
I send the servants to draw a bath and set out my own change of clothes. True, sensing that a wash is imminent for someone, slinks away to hide behind my bed. In my current mood, I barely find it funny.
Kit’s question during our dance rises in my mind: Why do you think you need to be punished?
I thought I was doing this just through selflessness, through a sense of right—but maybe she and Father are correct. Maybe there is a selfish part of me that wants to be broken.
Once I’m clean, I dress in fresh clothes and turn my attention to the places Mervyn might have hidden a selkie skin.
In the stories I grew up on, the selkie skin was often tucked in the space between rafters and roof or hidden under a loose flagstone in the floor.
Sometimes it was buried under a tree or in a field.
If Mervyn hid it outside, I have little chance of ever recovering it. Better to focus my search on the manor.
Unfortunately, Father is right about one thing—I’ve never happened upon anything in my home that looked like a seal skin. And in my younger teens I made a habit of scrambling into every nook I could find. If I didn’t stumble across a secret hiding place then, it must be extremely well-hidden.
I start by questioning the servants. The oldest in our service would know where something would most likely be hidden.
Though they look at me askance as I describe the glossy fur I’m looking for, I’m directed to the attic—an obvious choice—and the kitchen, the only part of the house that hasn’t had the floors replaced in the past twenty years.
For hours, I examine the ceilings, looking for gaps and poking my hand into every one I discover.
I find only dust and dirt every time. More hours are spent in the kitchen, ignoring the cook’s glances while I stomp around, listening for flagstones that might be loose.
One tilts under my weight, and eagerly I dig it out of the ground, but underneath there’s only the building’s foundations.
The whole time I search, the clinking echoes in my head.
I keep seeing shadows in the corners of my eyes—a cat, or True, or a child who vanishes when I turn to look. The lack of sleep is driving me mad.
Finally, with nothing to show for my effort, I retreat to the library.
I expect Abram to be there, but from the snores in his adjoining room I take it he’s still sleeping off the night’s adventure.
I turn my attention to the shelves. If memory serves, Mervyn kept a series of journals during his time as king.
I pull them down—three in all—and sit to flip through them.
The words blur in front of me. Most are to do with landowners, crop reports, progress on construction in Stromwell. Various personal scribbles are in the margins.
In the stories they now call Adelaida the “pirate princess.” She has been a good queen. Perhaps not as remarkable as my first choice. But suitable …
By the second volume, my gaze just slides across the pages. But I keep turning, telling myself that if I see something helpful I’ll know it.
Male goosander spotted near Glett. Brilliant black feathers. Rare to see one these days …
Adelaida found out about the trophy. Not sure how. Rather put out with me …
Could he be speaking of the selkie skin? Could that be “the trophy”? I am suddenly alert.
The Coastal Jewel is blooming early this year. Bodes well for a warm summer …
Adelaida still upset. Will need to find a new hiding place …
This could be helpful—if only he’d mention where …
About midway through, I open to a sketch of a map. It shows the southeast region of Skyare, with careful attention paid to the coast. I stare blankly for nearly a minute before my mind registers what I’m looking at.
Mervyn’s notes point out natural harbors. Doodles of ships are scattered across the ocean. And in one cove, near Mager Head, he’s sketched a seal. A circle is drawn round the sketch, twice.
I’m on my feet immediately, startling True from his resting spot. I hurry past him and down the stairs, not bothering to wake Abram. I scribble a hasty note to leave on the dining table: Gone to the Mager.
The sun tilts toward the west by the time I moor my yole at the cove. I hop over the side and drag it farther onto the shore, holding it steady while True splashes out beside me. He goes off sniffing the seaweed, and I take a moment to get my bearings.
The cove is enormous—almost a bay. Small rocks turn into larger boulders near the cliffs, which tower higher than our cathedral’s tallest spire.
Red soil and gray stone blend together, and caves loom taller than my manor house.
I’ve almost certainly explored this part of Skyare before, but it was long ago.