Read Children of the Sea 01 - Sea Witch for Free Online Page A
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weeks.
She had been wrong. Even the smooth fabric against her skin failed to soothe the itch inside her.
She did not belong here, in the court of the sea king’s son, where considerations of pair bonds and politics lurked behind every smile and ambushed every conversation. She did not seek another mate. She did not care about court intrigue. Better to have stayed in the isolation of the sea, in the independence of her own territory.
Hurry back, the man had said.
The thought disturbed her.
She turned from the window.
No rug covered the smoothly fitted flagstones under her feet. No fire burned beneath the massive mantle. The chandelier suspended from the beamed and painted ceiling held no candles. Unlike the children of the earth, selkies did not mine or make, grow or spin. Caer Subai was
38
furnished with the salvage of centuries of wrecks: Viking gold and Cornish iron, silk hangings from France and wooden chests from Spain.
The platters and goblets on the table were all of gold, and the high stone walls were covered with tapestry scenes of the Creation: a stylized wave, the dark, the deep, a dove, their bright silks preserved by the magic that seeped from the ancient stones like mist and lay like shadows in the corners of the room.
The children of the sea did not interfere with the ships that traveled over their ocean. But everything that fell beneath the waves was forfeit, human lives and human possessions both. Selkies plucked mortals from the wreckage when it pleased them, delivering the survivors safe to shore.
Whatever else pleased them, they brought here, or stored in sea caves in their own territories.
On past visits, Margred had delighted in the treasures of Caer Subai.
Her gaze rested on the fireplace, fancifully carved with sea monsters and mermaids, its whimsical design a testament to the artistry of its maker . . .
and the odd humor of the prince. But now everything seemed faded.
Spoiled. Tarnished. Flat. She should return to the sea.
No . The thought formed like a fog, unsubstantial and enveloping.
She should go back to the man . Caleb .
Footsteps sounded on the tower stairs. “Margred?”
She shivered at the deep-timbred voice. It almost sounded like . . .
“Are you alone?” A tall, male form appeared in the arched doorway.
He was dressed in rough fisherman’s clothing, canvas pants and a shirt, that did nothing to disguise his extraordinary beauty.
Dylan .
The younger selkie had claimed a territory adjoining hers a score of years ago. She tolerated him because of his youth and bitter humor. Well, and because he was very good to look at, in a fierce and fine-honed way.
Once she had even considered . . .
She half smiled and shook her head. He took himself too seriously to suit her.
39
He had spoken in English, so she answered in the same tongue. “As you see.”
Dylan crossed the tower room, leaning his elbows on the window ledge beside her. Posing, she thought.
The wind ruffled his dark hair. “Perhaps you are alone too much,” he said.
She shot him an amused look. “Do you speak for yourself? Or the prince?”
“Conn is concerned for you, of course.”
“I don’t see why.”
“He wants you to be happy here.”
“He wants me to whelp selkie babies, you mean.”
“The prince is disturbed by the decline in our numbers,” Dylan said in a careful tone. “At last count there were fewer than two thousand of our people left.”
Margred arched her eyebrows. “At last count? Does Conn really believe the king and the others living beneath the wave”—the polite term for those selkies who rarely or never took human form—“would present themselves for his census?”
“You can’t deny there are fewer of us born each year.”
She did not deny anything. Her inability to bear her mate a child had been a source of real, if secret, grief to her four or five
She had been wrong. Even the smooth fabric against her skin failed to soothe the itch inside her.
She did not belong here, in the court of the sea king’s son, where considerations of pair bonds and politics lurked behind every smile and ambushed every conversation. She did not seek another mate. She did not care about court intrigue. Better to have stayed in the isolation of the sea, in the independence of her own territory.
Hurry back, the man had said.
The thought disturbed her.
She turned from the window.
No rug covered the smoothly fitted flagstones under her feet. No fire burned beneath the massive mantle. The chandelier suspended from the beamed and painted ceiling held no candles. Unlike the children of the earth, selkies did not mine or make, grow or spin. Caer Subai was
38
furnished with the salvage of centuries of wrecks: Viking gold and Cornish iron, silk hangings from France and wooden chests from Spain.
The platters and goblets on the table were all of gold, and the high stone walls were covered with tapestry scenes of the Creation: a stylized wave, the dark, the deep, a dove, their bright silks preserved by the magic that seeped from the ancient stones like mist and lay like shadows in the corners of the room.
The children of the sea did not interfere with the ships that traveled over their ocean. But everything that fell beneath the waves was forfeit, human lives and human possessions both. Selkies plucked mortals from the wreckage when it pleased them, delivering the survivors safe to shore.
Whatever else pleased them, they brought here, or stored in sea caves in their own territories.
On past visits, Margred had delighted in the treasures of Caer Subai.
Her gaze rested on the fireplace, fancifully carved with sea monsters and mermaids, its whimsical design a testament to the artistry of its maker . . .
and the odd humor of the prince. But now everything seemed faded.
Spoiled. Tarnished. Flat. She should return to the sea.
No . The thought formed like a fog, unsubstantial and enveloping.
She should go back to the man . Caleb .
Footsteps sounded on the tower stairs. “Margred?”
She shivered at the deep-timbred voice. It almost sounded like . . .
“Are you alone?” A tall, male form appeared in the arched doorway.
He was dressed in rough fisherman’s clothing, canvas pants and a shirt, that did nothing to disguise his extraordinary beauty.
Dylan .
The younger selkie had claimed a territory adjoining hers a score of years ago. She tolerated him because of his youth and bitter humor. Well, and because he was very good to look at, in a fierce and fine-honed way.
Once she had even considered . . .
She half smiled and shook her head. He took himself too seriously to suit her.
39
He had spoken in English, so she answered in the same tongue. “As you see.”
Dylan crossed the tower room, leaning his elbows on the window ledge beside her. Posing, she thought.
The wind ruffled his dark hair. “Perhaps you are alone too much,” he said.
She shot him an amused look. “Do you speak for yourself? Or the prince?”
“Conn is concerned for you, of course.”
“I don’t see why.”
“He wants you to be happy here.”
“He wants me to whelp selkie babies, you mean.”
“The prince is disturbed by the decline in our numbers,” Dylan said in a careful tone. “At last count there were fewer than two thousand of our people left.”
Margred arched her eyebrows. “At last count? Does Conn really believe the king and the others living beneath the wave”—the polite term for those selkies who rarely or never took human form—“would present themselves for his census?”
“You can’t deny there are fewer of us born each year.”
She did not deny anything. Her inability to bear her mate a child had been a source of real, if secret, grief to her four or five
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