The Witch of Torinia Read online

  Lucinda lowered gaze. “My lord. I am yours.” But her mind was suddenly seized by the thought of how Berithas would judge her. Was this man not just a means to an end: the return of the Old Faith? She pushed down her feelings and moved on to the real matter at hand. “The embroidery is but one part of my gift to you.”

  “How so?”

  “First, do you trust me and my powers? What you have seen since you have known me? For me to impart my next gifts you must implicitly trust me, and believe me in all I shall tell you.”

  He folded her hand in his. “Lucinda, I have witnessed your skills. I will trust you in more, yea, with my heart and my fortune in the days ahead.”

  “The rightful king of Valdur should have the symbol and the power of that right with him upon the field of battle. A weapon that no enemy can stand against. I can summon these powers to your side, and I will do so.”

  Ursino’s eyes gleamed. “Can you truly do such a thing?”

  “I can, my lord. And I looked down upon your enemies on the march, as does the eagle in the sky. Something that Maresto could never hope to do, nor the scheming heretics of Livorna. I need but one thing for it to happen.”

  He sat upright. “Name it, my love. I will afford it if it is in my power.”

  Her eyes were now so intense he could not look away from them. For a moment, he felt lost. “Name it,” he repeated, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  “I need your promise. A promise to serve the Lord and Redeemer. And a few drops of your blood upon this piece of cloth. That is all.”

  “A blood sacrifice to the Lord. Is that what you mean?”

  Her eyes widened. “Yes. And to his true servants.”

  He reached to the narrow belt at his waist, studded with gems, and carefully drew his dagger. Lucinda nodded and spread the embroidered cloth upon her knee. Ursino looked at her for a moment before running the tip of the blade deeply across his left palm. Lucinda watched the dark blood pool. The Duke held his hand over the griffons and his lifeblood rained upon it, a spattering of crimson. “I make my promise,” he said softly.

  “Then it is done.” She folded his hand tightly. “When the time is right the old forces of Valdur will rise and stand with you against the enemy.”

  Ursino looked down at his wounded hand, fist clenched. “How will these forces manifest?”

  “You will know when you see them. Let it be a wondrous surprise.”

  His brow furrowed. “Then first Maresto and Livorna. The throne in Perusia will follow. I have already gained assurances from the Duke of Milvorna who may be sending me a little gift of his own.” He nodded to himself and then gave Lucinda a look, a look that said he was searching for reassurance. “I will trust you in these things.”

  “And there is yet one more power I can afford: the Hand of Ursula. Stolen from the Ara by my servants. This will go before your army into battle against any who stand against you.”

  Ursino’s look of surprise subtly changed to one of almost wonder. “The sacred hand of Elded’s disciple. You are indeed sent by the higher powers, and I will capture Maresto as quickly as you have captured my heart.”

  A warm breeze wafted away the faint scent of corruption from the blood-stained griffons before the Duke of Torinia could smell it. And Lucinda della Rovera, former canoness of Saint Dionei, rapidly folded the cloth and tucked it away.

  Twelve

  KNOWING THEY WOULD be parted again soon, their lovemaking was urgent, almost wild. Entwined in passion and ensconced in the great cabin of the Royal Grace, they felt the gentle rise and fall upon the swell as the ship drifted, just beyond sight of shore some twenty miles off the coast of Torinia. Citala had become inured to the stink of the captain’s berth with its miasma of sweat and mildew, yet it was the only privacy that Danamis could afford her while on his ship. She much preferred (as did he) to make love in the bosom of the sea but both knew this was hardly feasible this far out upon the water amid the rolling swells.The cramped confines, the stench, the creaks and groans of the vessel, she forgot all in the arms of this man whom she loved above all else.

  Danamis marvelled at her physique: Citala was lithe yet possessed of incredible strength. In the soft light of the lantern that swung from the beam above them, he traced the sinews of her legs with his hand, feeling the powerful muscles of her thighs, the tightness of her calves; all a delicious blue the colour of pale lavender. Looking into her violet eyes, framed by her strange coarse hair, whiter than white, he was lost to her and more deeply in love than he had ever known.

  Sated, they lay silent, listening to their own breathing. Danamis could see the first light of the day showing through the tiny half-moon windows of the stern. Above them they could hear the stomp of feet and the voices of men as the ship came to life again.

  “We will make Nod’s Rock by mid-morning,” said Danamis quietly, moving strands of hair away from her small round ear. “I will stand well off, that none may guess your destination.”

  She nodded.

  “I know you have much to discuss with your father, difficult things that you must tell him. But I will wait for you at anchor for a day and a night, should you wish to join me again.”

  “In truth, I do not know how he will take to me. To see such a small bundle of myrra. And I’m afraid, afraid for what has happened to the settlement in the time I have been away. My father has never had much of a conscience. I’ve had to be his conscience for him.”

  Danamis shifted his weight and leaned on his elbow. “Fathers. They suffer us and we suffer them. My father beat me near every day when I was a boy. I suppose there would be nothing in that if I’d merited punishment. Most of the time I did not.”

  “We strike our children when correction is needed. Humankind is not alone in that.”

  Danamis laughed lightly. “Justly so. But to turn an hourglass and tell a boy that he will be beaten after it has run its sands out? To submit one’s own flesh and blood to such treatment takes a special cruelty.”

  She stroked his cheek. “Why did he take such a dislike to you?”

  “He already had the son he wanted. And, as I grew into a man, he decided that I was the grit in the oyster that had failed to become the pearl.”

  “To hear such a thing saddens my heart.”

  “Then he goes and makes me think he is dead only to turn up again to rain his disappointment upon me once again.”

  “You are your own man now, my love.”

  Danamis smiled, kissed her and swung his legs out of the berth. “I have to leave now. See what Gregorvero is up to.”

  She let go of his hand and a melancholy washed over her. Danamis dressed quickly and sat on the berth as he pulled on his boots. She knelt, watching him.

  “Come outside when you are ready,” he said. “Your mermen will be looking for you. You can tell them they’re nearly home.”

  “They will know that already, Danamis son of Danamis,” she replied, and for the first time, she now knew that home was a place that might not welcome her return.

  NICOLO DANAMIS WATCHED the solitary pimple on the horizon as it slowly took form: Nod’s Rock. The carrack was making good time with a fair wind on the larboard quarter, the mainsail billowing in full and the spanker on the mizzen straining under its stays. This stretch was the place where he had first carried on the myrra trade with the merfolk; the place where, a year ago, he had nearly been blown apart, drowned, and run-through with a mer spear. The sun was high in the sky, a canopy of azure that met the darker blue of the Sea of Valdur. The deck creaked and popped as it baked in the heat of the day, the smell of pitch growing stronger as the breeze grew warmer. Danamis watched as the two mermen dived over the side and disappeared while the sole Xosian, Master Necalli, watched their progress from starboard. The mermen had done this several times each day, no doubt to cool themselves. He had fed them as best he could, finding that their taste for fresh eels (kept alive in a barrel on the deck) knew no bounds.

  Citala walked the main deck, occ
asionally glancing up at him, yellow silk robe whipping gently in the breeze. She had avoided contact with Necalli as much as she could. She did not trust his motives, and nor did he, but to Danamis’s mind he thought she also chafed at the Xosians and their sense of superiority over the Valdur merfolk. He could not blame her. She had probably never even dreamt that another tribe of mer existed. Now she had to contend with the fact that her people were not alone.

  Danamis turned to Gregorvero, his shipmaster, who stood nearby on the quarterdeck watching the Vendetta as it followed in their wake. “Wishing I’d put you on the caravel instead of this old tub, are you?”

  “They are two very different ladies, captain,” said the master, squinting as he hung onto a stay-line, his face beet red. “And I can appreciate the attributes of both. Bassinio handles her well. Like he’s been captaining caravels for years instead of the Salamander.”

  “You’re being too polite, old friend. I know you want her for yourself. You’re still drooling.”

  “What? And give up this venerable old whore who knows me so well?”

  Danamis laughed. “Drop us a sea anchor with a spar and some canvas when we’re about half a league out from the Rock. The bottom is too deep for our cable unless we’re on the ledge.”

  Bassinio shot him a look full of hurt. “You think I forgot that already?”

  Danamis winked and headed to the stairs. Halting short of Nod’s Rock was not just to safeguard the location of Citala’s home, it was also to give Royal Grace a measure of protection. With Atalapah riled about the lack of myrra and threatening to bring out his warriors, he felt it better to keep his distance. He reached the broad main deck of the carrack and saw that Necalli had manoeuvred Citala into a corner at the foc’sle bulkhead, engaging her in conversation. He worked his way around the mainmast and one of the three great cannon lashed to the starboard side, all the while keeping an eye on the mermaid. She was holding her own at least. As he reached the two, the trilling sound of mer speech came to his ears, strange as always and in this case heated.

  “Master Necalli, may I join you?”

  The Xosian turned and his wide mouth opened in a grin. “Admiral, Citala and I were just talking of her home in these waters.”

  Danamis gave a cautious nod. “That is a subject we speak little of—for reasons of secrecy. I am sure you will honour that.”

  “He is mer,” replied Citala. “Unlike your folk he can easily guess where my people dwell.”

  “I understand the need to protect Citala’s tribe from the kingdom of Valdur. I will of course keep your confidence.” Necalli folded his hands into his long robe. “Would that I could visit though...”

  Citala snorted. “I do not think you could hold your breath long enough to make the journey.”

  Necalli gave a low laugh in reply. “I may not be as soft as you believe. My people are no strangers to the sea despite what we have built.”

  Citala shrugged. “Maybe so. But why would merfolk need ships to cross the sea? Danamis tells me you build great wooden vessels as do men.”

  “Such vessels are more practical for hauling goods between our islands than swimming with them under the surface. Surely you can see the benefit of that?”

  “Hmm. Not good enough to survive the voyage to Valdur though, it would seem.”

  Necalli stiffened. “It does not become you to talk of the deaths of my people. It was a storm that could have carried away any ship no matter its size or construction.”

  Citala seemed to lose some of her steeliness. “I am sorry. It was wrong of me to say those words.”

  “You do not like me very much, I know that. But you should know that Lord Valerian has told me much of the unhappy history of this land. I admire your people for surviving in it these many years. I would only see you prosper in future.”

  “And your advice?” Danamis demanded.

  Necalli tilted his head slightly. “I am in no position to give advice to the princess. But since you ask...” He turned again to Citala. “I would say your colony on the shore is ill-advised. You belong with your people—our people.”

  “We are one with Valdur,” Citala said. “We were once and will be again.”

  “Citala, those days are gone. They cannot be brought back to a land that has changed. If your people have a future it is on your little island over there... or in Atlcali.”

  She took step back at his words. “What are you saying?”

  “That you would be welcome in my lands in the far west beyond the great ocean.”

  “That is a bold offer, Master Necalli,” said Danamis before Citala could reply. “Bold to assume you can even return yourself.”

  “You underestimate your father’s determination, captain. And mine.”

  “That would be an impossible journey for an entire people to undertake,” said Citala.

  “Over time, Citala, nothing would be impossible,” replied Necalli. “A great migration could be undertaken. You have already taken the first step yourself, in Palestro. You have merely chosen the wrong place.”

  Danamis moved to the railing, his eyes on Nod’s Rock. “You have spent far too little time here, Master Necalli, to know the peoples of Valdur. We may surprise you.”

  “Perhaps, Captain Danamis, perhaps. But I know my king would welcome a return of Valdur merfolk to our land. Someday.”

  Danamis turned to Citala. “You will be able to leave within the hour. My men have sewn up the myrra into some sailcloth for you. Are you ready?”

  She smiled at him briefly, gave a small nod, and touched his forearm as she brushed past along the rail. She called out across the water to the two mermen that swam effortlessly in line with the ship. They soon returned and clambered up over the side. As always, the sailors gave them a respectable wide berth as they went about their business, while the soldiers who were on deck grinned and continued their polishing of blades and helms.

  When the glass had turned, Gregorvero hollered for all sail to be dropped and for the sea anchor to be let out from a port on the stern transom. The Royal Grace slowed to a crawl. Vendetta furled sail too, in reply, and after a few minutes launched a small longboat ferrying Bassinio over so he could meet with Danamis. Citala stood by the starboard rail near the sterncastle. She had shed her robe and now wore only her tapua braes and a dagger belt about her waist. Her mermen companions bore their spears and between them held a large canvas bundle trailing a length of sisal rope. Citala looked out across the main deck and up to the quarter deck that towered over her. The men of the carrack had stopped to watch, many giving a bow of respect to her as she prepared to take her leave. She knew many by name now, these rough men who once had ogled her but now treated her as almost one of them. She could see the sadness in Danamis’s face as he watched her, an awkward, forced smile on his lips. Necalli stood at his side, expressionless.

  “I am ready, Danamis son of Danamis,” she said. “Until we meet again, God keep you well.” She raised her voice loudly. “And God keep all the men of this good ship!” This was met with a rolling cheer and she smiled broadly, white teeth flashing.

  “Fare you well, Citala,” said Danamis tenderly. “I will keep station here... if you should change your mind.”

  She nodded, finding it hard to prevent herself from embracing him. A voice entered her head. Faint, but clearly not her own. A male voice, reaching out to her: Good fortune, Citala. Necalli. We will meet again. I hope as friends.

  It was gone in an instant. Flustered, she barked an order to the mer warriors who hefted the myrra sack up over the railings. She had thought only she-mer could communicate by thought. Necalli had gently interrogated the merfolk of Valdur for months in his wanderings about Palestro. It was conceivable he had learned of the she-mer gift. But that a merman could possess this too? She suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable to this creature who was one of her own kind yet somehow not. Without looking to Danamis she bounded up onto the railing and dived headfirst over the side. The blast of cool water enlive
ned her and she kicked hard, down into the depths, her mer guards following close by, the precious sack of myrra bobbing along behind.

  TWO DAYS PASSED. Danamis watched as the morning sun rose. His men were restless, the ships having drifted lazily upon the gentle sea too long for most of their liking. She wasn’t coming back. Whatever had happened with her father, she had either decided to stay or was even now making her way back to the colony at Palestro. Danamis swiped his hand across his short black beard and yelled for Gregorvero.

  “Weigh the sea anchor! Raise all sail!”

  Gregorvero waddled over from across the other side of the quarterdeck. “Aye, been waiting for that order. Wind’s fallen off a bit this morning so she’ll be slow. What course?”

  “Resume the course for Perusia,” replied Danamis, glumness barely concealed.

  They hung out every sheet of canvas they had but the wind barely filled the sails, leaving them twitching and rippling like the back of a flea-infested cur. By mid-afternoon they had made little progress at probably no more than three knots. Danamis paced, his thoughts already on what lay ahead in Perusia. He wanted to help Cressida in any way he could but deep in his heart he knew his father was probably right. His presence might add fuel to the fire of the succession crisis, his arrival seen more as an exercise of control over the widowed queen and his bastard son—if indeed he was his blood. If Cressida had lost control of the council and the confidence of the city, he was facing the prospect of evacuating her and the prince from Perusia, with all that such an action would imply. Abdication.

  The men of the foc’sle had rigged a striped canvas tilt to shield them from the beating sun, as he had up on the quarterdeck. Vendetta, being rigged fore-and-aft, made better speed in the becalmed seas. Danamis had waved her ahead, to take the lead. Slowly, the distance widened between the two vessels. He could see she was making an effort to slow; her foresail was shortened, leaving just her mainsail and mizzen to fill with the warm but mean wind. The afternoon dragged on. Sailors mended, archers rosined bows and fixed fletchings, swordsmen oiled their weapons, and all found what shade they could. A wispy column of smoke rose from the deck grating and Danamis knew the cook was starting his fire for another fish stew.