One Salt Sea
Page 95
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, voice sharp.
“I understand.”
The worst of it was, he probably did. As King of Cats, he’d buried more subjects than I could imagine losing. And that didn’t make a damn bit of difference. Connor was going to sleep for longer than I’d been alive, and no apologies were going to change that. Nothing ever was.
We walked in silence, the pixies periodically darting ahead to keep lighting our way. Tybalt and I stopped almost at the same time, both turning toward the same door.
“Do you smell that?” I asked.
“There,” he said.
“What?” asked Quentin.
“It smells like . . . wet stone and eucalyptus.” I stepped closer to the door. A new note introduced itself underneath the others: blood. My eyes widened. “Dean’s in here.”
Quentin frowned. “How do you know?”
“I can smell him.” I was going to have to ask the Luidaeg what this new level of sensitivity meant—and whether it was going to go away. It was a lot easier to cope with the smell of blood when it didn’t bring a person’s entire history with it. “Okay. Both of you, stay behind me.”
I opened the door, revealing a small room with a stone floor and stained wooden walls. Dean’s memories were right: it smelled like something had died in here, a very long time ago. I didn’t want to guess at what it might have been. At least the scent of blood was covering up the worst of the decay.
The source of the blood was huddled in a corner of the room, clearly feigning sleep. He had his body turned so that his back was to the door. I knew that trick; we used to use it on Devin. If they can’t see your face, they can’t tell that you’re crying.
“Hi,” I said, moving about halfway into the room before crouching down and resting my elbows on my knees. “Dean, right? I’m Toby Daye. These are my friends, Tybalt and Quentin. We’re here to rescue you.”
Dean didn’t move.
“Your parents sent me,” I said. “They’re really worried about you. Helmi’s really worried about you, too. She thinks it’s her fault you were kidnapped.” Dean didn’t say anything, but he shifted, changing positions very slightly. That was a good sign. He was listening, waiting for us to prove that we were who we said we were. “We don’t have Cephali here on the land, so I thought she was a little funny-looking at first. All those tentacles.” He shifted again, still not saying anything. I decided to try another tack: “You know that wheelchair your mother uses when she wants to go on land without having legs? Well, I rode it—and her—down a large hill to get away from a bunch of Goblin archers who were trying to hit us with elf-shot.”
That worked. Dean lifted his head, turning to stare at us with wide, baffled eyes. “You’re really here,” he said, in a voice that was rusty from disuse. “I can’t be dreaming you. My dreams make more sense than this.”
“I get that a lot,” I said. “You don’t have to be scared anymore.”
Dean looked from Quentin to me and back, still huddled in his corner, looking utterly unconvinced. “Where’s Peter?”
“We’re going to go find him now that we’ve found you.” A bright orange pixie zipped into the room, ringing excitedly as it circled my head. “. . . actually, I think one of our friends just found him for us. Tybalt?”
“On my way,” he said. He bowed to Dean, said, “It is a pleasure to see you safe,” and followed the pixie out of the room.
“What are we waiting for?” Dean scrambled to his feet, almost toppling over before he caught his balance again. He kept his hands balled into fists, probably to both hide and protect the stump of his severed finger. “Let’s go get my brother!”
I smiled. “Yeah. That sounds like a good idea.”
We had to walk slowly as we made our way down the hall; Dean wasn’t willing to be assisted, but he wasn’t steady enough on his feet to move at a normal pace. Quentin walked behind him, trying not to look like he was there to catch Dean if he fell. He was a damn good squire. Probably better than I deserved.
We were barely halfway down the hall when a joyful, unfamiliar voice called, “Dean! Dean, I’m here!”
Dean perked up, life coming back into his eyes. “Peter?”
For a moment, it looked like he was going to bolt. I put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. He looked at me with bewilderment, and I shook my head. “Don’t run. They’ll be here in a moment.”
Tybalt proved me right by walking out of the dimness up ahead, carrying a dark-haired boy with a slate gray fishtail where legs would more customarily have been. He was as dirty and thin-looking as Dean, but he was rocking up and down in his excitement, flukes slapping rhythmically against Tybalt’s side. Tybalt was doing his best to bear up stoically, but amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“Peter!” Dean did break into a run when he saw his brother. This time, I didn’t try to stop him. There were enough of us that someone would catch him if he fell. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
“They threatened a lot. They didn’t give me much water—just enough so my scales wouldn’t start cracking.” Peter stilled his thrashing as he leaned down to put his arms around his older brother’s shoulders. “They said they’d kill you if I was bad.”
Tybalt’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t say anything. Quentin was less restrained. “We should wake Raysel up so we can beat her up some more.”
“I’m a bad influence on you,” I said. “No one is waking anyone up just to beat on them. Peter?” The younger of the Lorden boys raised his head. He had his father’s eyes. “I’m Toby. Your parents sent me to find you. Can you have legs?”
“No,” he said mournfully. “I haven’t had any saltwater in days.”
“That’s okay. Tybalt?”
“I will gladly carry him as far as is needed.”
“Then let’s go tell your parents that you’re okay.” I forced myself to smile as I led the way back to the door connecting to the room where we’d left the Luidaeg with my now-human little girl. Peter babbled the whole time, holding tight to his brother’s hand.
Gillian was still on the floor when we stepped back into the main room. The Luidaeg, on the other hand, was pacing, her eyes back to pseudo-human brown. She turned at the sound of our footsteps, a smile splitting her face. “You found them!”
“I understand.”
The worst of it was, he probably did. As King of Cats, he’d buried more subjects than I could imagine losing. And that didn’t make a damn bit of difference. Connor was going to sleep for longer than I’d been alive, and no apologies were going to change that. Nothing ever was.
We walked in silence, the pixies periodically darting ahead to keep lighting our way. Tybalt and I stopped almost at the same time, both turning toward the same door.
“Do you smell that?” I asked.
“There,” he said.
“What?” asked Quentin.
“It smells like . . . wet stone and eucalyptus.” I stepped closer to the door. A new note introduced itself underneath the others: blood. My eyes widened. “Dean’s in here.”
Quentin frowned. “How do you know?”
“I can smell him.” I was going to have to ask the Luidaeg what this new level of sensitivity meant—and whether it was going to go away. It was a lot easier to cope with the smell of blood when it didn’t bring a person’s entire history with it. “Okay. Both of you, stay behind me.”
I opened the door, revealing a small room with a stone floor and stained wooden walls. Dean’s memories were right: it smelled like something had died in here, a very long time ago. I didn’t want to guess at what it might have been. At least the scent of blood was covering up the worst of the decay.
The source of the blood was huddled in a corner of the room, clearly feigning sleep. He had his body turned so that his back was to the door. I knew that trick; we used to use it on Devin. If they can’t see your face, they can’t tell that you’re crying.
“Hi,” I said, moving about halfway into the room before crouching down and resting my elbows on my knees. “Dean, right? I’m Toby Daye. These are my friends, Tybalt and Quentin. We’re here to rescue you.”
Dean didn’t move.
“Your parents sent me,” I said. “They’re really worried about you. Helmi’s really worried about you, too. She thinks it’s her fault you were kidnapped.” Dean didn’t say anything, but he shifted, changing positions very slightly. That was a good sign. He was listening, waiting for us to prove that we were who we said we were. “We don’t have Cephali here on the land, so I thought she was a little funny-looking at first. All those tentacles.” He shifted again, still not saying anything. I decided to try another tack: “You know that wheelchair your mother uses when she wants to go on land without having legs? Well, I rode it—and her—down a large hill to get away from a bunch of Goblin archers who were trying to hit us with elf-shot.”
That worked. Dean lifted his head, turning to stare at us with wide, baffled eyes. “You’re really here,” he said, in a voice that was rusty from disuse. “I can’t be dreaming you. My dreams make more sense than this.”
“I get that a lot,” I said. “You don’t have to be scared anymore.”
Dean looked from Quentin to me and back, still huddled in his corner, looking utterly unconvinced. “Where’s Peter?”
“We’re going to go find him now that we’ve found you.” A bright orange pixie zipped into the room, ringing excitedly as it circled my head. “. . . actually, I think one of our friends just found him for us. Tybalt?”
“On my way,” he said. He bowed to Dean, said, “It is a pleasure to see you safe,” and followed the pixie out of the room.
“What are we waiting for?” Dean scrambled to his feet, almost toppling over before he caught his balance again. He kept his hands balled into fists, probably to both hide and protect the stump of his severed finger. “Let’s go get my brother!”
I smiled. “Yeah. That sounds like a good idea.”
We had to walk slowly as we made our way down the hall; Dean wasn’t willing to be assisted, but he wasn’t steady enough on his feet to move at a normal pace. Quentin walked behind him, trying not to look like he was there to catch Dean if he fell. He was a damn good squire. Probably better than I deserved.
We were barely halfway down the hall when a joyful, unfamiliar voice called, “Dean! Dean, I’m here!”
Dean perked up, life coming back into his eyes. “Peter?”
For a moment, it looked like he was going to bolt. I put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. He looked at me with bewilderment, and I shook my head. “Don’t run. They’ll be here in a moment.”
Tybalt proved me right by walking out of the dimness up ahead, carrying a dark-haired boy with a slate gray fishtail where legs would more customarily have been. He was as dirty and thin-looking as Dean, but he was rocking up and down in his excitement, flukes slapping rhythmically against Tybalt’s side. Tybalt was doing his best to bear up stoically, but amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“Peter!” Dean did break into a run when he saw his brother. This time, I didn’t try to stop him. There were enough of us that someone would catch him if he fell. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
“They threatened a lot. They didn’t give me much water—just enough so my scales wouldn’t start cracking.” Peter stilled his thrashing as he leaned down to put his arms around his older brother’s shoulders. “They said they’d kill you if I was bad.”
Tybalt’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t say anything. Quentin was less restrained. “We should wake Raysel up so we can beat her up some more.”
“I’m a bad influence on you,” I said. “No one is waking anyone up just to beat on them. Peter?” The younger of the Lorden boys raised his head. He had his father’s eyes. “I’m Toby. Your parents sent me to find you. Can you have legs?”
“No,” he said mournfully. “I haven’t had any saltwater in days.”
“That’s okay. Tybalt?”
“I will gladly carry him as far as is needed.”
“Then let’s go tell your parents that you’re okay.” I forced myself to smile as I led the way back to the door connecting to the room where we’d left the Luidaeg with my now-human little girl. Peter babbled the whole time, holding tight to his brother’s hand.
Gillian was still on the floor when we stepped back into the main room. The Luidaeg, on the other hand, was pacing, her eyes back to pseudo-human brown. She turned at the sound of our footsteps, a smile splitting her face. “You found them!”
