Page 30 of Whispers of the Starlit Sea (Avalore Chronicles #1)

Chapter eighteen

W ith bloodied hands, Sorcha shoved at the rubble blocking the tunnel.

The passageway echoed with the howl of wind behind her and the gurgling rush of water at her feet.

Every crash of thunder shook the stone around her, vibrating through her bones like a warning.

Rain drove in sideways through the narrow opening, and the frequent flashes of lightning lit the passageway in jagged bursts.

Her hand slipped on a stubborn rock, wrenching her finger as she pawed faster at the barrier. She had to get out.

Had to get to Aunt Maeve.

To Arick.

To Father.

Despite her continued calls, she hadn’t heard anyone since Aunt Maeve’s anguished cry. Was she okay? Was everyone else?

More debris tumbled from the pile, bouncing off her legs and feet, adding to the shards that pierced her every time she adjusted her position. She shouted again, no longer knowing whether she was calling for Arick in his tongue or for help from the merfolk in hers.

The tightness in her chest caught her off-guard amid the other aches that consumed her body. “Arick!” she cried again, his name cut off when she couldn’t get her breath to finish it.

Where was he? Why would he have left?

Her fingers bled as she clawed at the rocks holding her prisoner.

Dust from crushed stone clung to her tongue, gritty and sour.

The wet grit bit into her palms, grinding into torn skin with each frantic shove.

The bond had been lessening. He must have gone farther than the boat if it hurt this much. And it was getting worse.

At last the hole was large enough for her to scramble through. Her dress snagged, the skirt ripping, but she barely noticed as she struggled to her feet.

The shore was empty.

No merfolk bobbing in the turbulent waters. No Arick standing tall and strong against the wind. Only the rhythmic boom of waves and the moaning wind threading through the broken rocks.

She stumbled toward the water, following the pull in her heart that always pointed to him.

Lightning cut across the sky, blinding her.

But not before she saw what lay at the edge of the rocks, framed by the crashing waves.

Scrambling, slipping, crawling, Sorcha found herself beside him. At every step, the wind sought to shove her over, and the hungry hands of the waves clawed at her ankles.

He lay so still. Arm reaching for the open sea. Face turned to the water.

A dark streak leaching away from his head and onto the rocks.

He looked more like a statue than a man. Rain slid down his skin in rivulets, pooling in the hollow of his throat. His eyes didn’t flutter. His chest didn’t rise.

“Father!” The word was a sob.

She collapsed over him, her tears mingling with the driving rain.

What had she done?

She sought for a song, anything to heal him, but her sobs stole what breath she had left.

Where was Aunt Maeve? Even though she knew there was no saving her father now, Sorcha cried out for her aunt.

But her aunt was gone, and so was Arick.

The invisible bands around Sorcha’s heart pulled tighter with every breath. He was getting farther away, but where? And why?

She clung to her father’s hand, limp and heavy.

Alone. Abandoned. Strangled by the bond.

Sorcha bowed her head as her tears spilled, letting her sorrow mingle with the rain that washed over her.

The air around her charged, waiting for lightning that never came.

A faint glow pierced the edges of her vision, and beneath the thunder came another sound.

A voice.

Low and rhythmic. Chanting.

Not her aunt. Not Arick.

Sorcha lifted her head, blinking through rain and tears.

A yellow light pulsed in the storm, growing brighter with each word. The waves surged higher. The wind sang a broken harmony.

She turned, holding her arm up to shield from the bright yellow light in her sister’s hand as the mermaid rode high in the waves.

“Rona? What are you doing?”

Rona ignored her, continuing to repeat the rising litany of words, until the light narrowed its glow into a beam that pinned the lighthouse in its path. The wind keened in answer, almost harmonizing. The hair on her arms lifted.

“Rona!” Sorcha called again, forcing the words past her aching lungs. What was this?

“This is beyond you, little sister,” Rona said, voice sharp with contempt. “Stay in your tide pool, where it’s safe.”

Sorcha climbed closer so she wouldn’t have to shout over the storm. “We freed everyone. The storms can stop.”

“Oh, you innocent little guppy. This was never just about them being captured. The humans need to pay.” Rona raised her hand, and the yellow light pulsed as though trying to escape.

“You have to stop this. Fath—” She choked. “Father’s been killed. The storm… More people are going to be hurt.”

Rona sent her a hard look. “The humans killed Father when they took him. Just let me finish this, and I promise they’ll get what they deserve.”

Sorcha flinched like she’d been slapped. “No,” she breathed. “You can’t.”

Arick. He was still out there — one of them , in her sister’s eyes.

Lightning sparked overhead, spearing toward the lighthouse. Thunder cracked. The cliff groaned. Glass exploded as the beam of hope snapped out.

Sorcha staggered, her foot slipping on the slick rocks.

The ground vanished beneath her.

She hit something hard as the world tilted around her and breath jolted from her lungs.

A wall of water crashed down, swallowing her whole.

She clamped her mouth shut, seeking the oxygen from the water as she always had done.

But she had no gills now.

The swells spun her around, pulling her from shore. Her skirts, so warm and fitting as a human, entangled her legs so she couldn’t kick. Up. Where was up? The sea pressed from every side, turning the world inside out.

Her chest burned. She thrashed in the darkness that should have felt like home, but the sea treated her like an outsider. Unable to breathe, unable to swim, she flailed, sinking deeper to where the storm didn’t reach.

Every sound was muffled, warped. The roar of the waves became a low, pulsing thrum in her ears. Her hair tangled in her face. Her skirts twisted tighter. Salt stung her eyes.

Then a pale shape appeared out of the gloom.

She blinked, unsure whether she should trust whatever it was.

Struggling to stay upright, she waited as the shape became a mer.

The Watcher she had rescued swam near, holding out a bundle of algae.

She took the rubbery bladderwrack, pressing the bulbous end to her mouth and sucking the precious air.

Using his hands, he framed the question: “Human or mer?”

“Mer. But human bound,” she signed back.

He nodded slowly, then reached for the end of the strands of algae. She held on tightly as he swam toward the surface. Even though she couldn’t kick, she moved her hips just like she had as a mer and helped propel herself.

The Watcher stayed close until she pulled herself up onto the pillars of stone, gasping. Her limbs trembled as she rolled free of the water.

Then he crossed his fist over his heart, nodded once, and slipped back into the dark.

She pushed herself up on one elbow to scan the vacant shore. Rona had vanished, and her father lay still on the rocks above the lapping waves. Sorcha collapsed to the ground, barely noting that the moon once more lit the shore.

And Arick was still beyond the magic’s reach.

A rick hauled himself into the rowboat as the mermaid held it steady. There was something familiar about her, though he knew they had never met. A fire in her eyes reminded him of Sorcha. She gave him a slight nod, then sank beneath the surf.

The oars were still stowed in the hull, and he lifted them into the oarlocks. His muscles ached as he rowed; he struggled for breath with every stroke.

But the pain drove him onward. He wasn’t a fool. As much as she tried to hide it, any time he and Sorcha were separated and the pain arrived, it was much worse for her than him.

The sea fought him for every boat length. His arms shook with every pull, yet the ache in his chest drove him back to Sorcha. Magic or love — he needed to be with her.

Although the distance wasn’t far, the tide and wind were against him. Waves washed over him, soaking him again and again. He shivered uncontrollably.

The lightning fizzled out first, leaving the sea in darkness.

The beacon atop the tower was out, the cupola a broken silhouette against the brightening sky.

Thunder faded over the distant hills, and he breathed in relief.

Being on open water in a storm was a frightening proposition.

The rain stopped, and the wind stopped pushing him toward the open harbor, but the stillness was unsettling.

He dug deep, and after a few minutes of hard rowing, the bottom of the boat scraped the shore.

With a reluctant glance at the waves, he stepped out.

The water sloshed over the top of his boots, adding to the damp already there.

Glancing around, he took stock of where he was, surprised to see the shapes of the town looming nearby.

He could fight his way across the rocks back to Sorcha, but cutting through the castle would be faster.

He staggered toward the cliff door, hand digging into his chest as if he could rip out the bands trapped there.

The entry was unguarded, but his pounding was quickly answered by the guard sheltering inside.

“Apologies, sir. I should have stayed out there.”

“No, you were right to seek shelter,” Arick reassured him, already moving past.

“Yes, sir. I’ll go back out now that it’s calmed down.”

Arick hurried through the castle halls, leaving a trail of wet footprints in his wake.

The pain accompanied him, and it gave him an odd comfort.

Surely if Sorcha were dead, the magic wouldn’t be drawing them back together.

He slipped past the guardroom where several of the king’s men were gathered around the roaring fire, speaking in low voices and casting frequent glances at the narrow window.

He reached the tower and pulled open the door and stopped.

MacIsaac stood there, just as surprised as Arick, until a sneer took over his face. “You fool,” MacIsaac hissed. “You’ve doomed us all.” An odd sound, almost like a giggle, came from the tower below.

“What are you talking about?” Arick didn’t want to deal with the dour man. He wanted to get back to the shore to find Sorcha.

“The storms will only get worse, thanks to you.”

“Much worse!” came an odd echo.

Arick pulled himself upright. “Freeing them was the right thing to do.”

“Maybe for you and that soft-headed little prince, as neither of you can see what isn’t right in front of your eyes. But I was protecting this city.”

“How was starting a war with mer — who have magic — protecting anyone?”

“Because while we had prisoners under the tower, they tempered their attacks.” His words were punctuated by a shriek of wind through the narrow embrasures.

Arick struggled to concentrate on MacIsaac’s words around the aching pull. “Why? What does the tower have to do with it?” A deep creak echoed through the spiral stairwell, as if the tower knew they were speaking of it.

“The mirror holds the key!” The voice was high and eager, coming from the shadows behind MacIsaac. A stooped figure shuffled into the light — the odd little man from the caverns, all twitchy fingers and darting eyes. He had recovered, then, from the sleep spell Sorcha’s father had placed upon him.

Arick hesitated, his brow furrowing. “The mirror that’s part of the beacon? How is that a key?” He had so many questions, but none of them were bringing him back to Sorcha.

MacIsaac glared at the mouse-like man before addressing Arick once more. “ That is none of your conc—”

“Magic in the mosaic!” He giggled again, rubbing his hands over his face as though smoothing whiskers.

“The mosaic…” So not the lighthouse. But what did the oddly shaped piece of glass in the middle of the terrace floor have to do with the storms? “Why not just give it to the mer if they want it so desperately?”

“Fool. It’s held in by magic. And only magic can remove it.”

“The storms are caused by magic,” Arick said slowly, the truth settling like cold iron in his chest.

“Yes,” MacIsaac said grimly. “And now that they don’t have to protect their own…”

He stepped aside, nodding toward the window. “They’ll destroy the tower to take it.”