Page 12 of Nyall

Jamaran swam after Merrick, who led him to a small uninhabited islet bordering the deeper side of the bay. There he waded out of the water, and went into the brush from the shore. As he cleared the water from his gills to follow the king, he wondered what was now happening to Caroline Parish, and if Nyall had been able to calm and reassure her. He wanted badly to go and find out for himself.

Merrick stopped at a run-down cottage that had once belonged to a reclusive mortal fisherman, now long dead. He unlatched the front door and stepped inside, which confused Jamaran for a moment. The king disliked entering landwalker dwellings and generally avoided doing so. When he entered the home, however, he saw the inside of the dwelling appeared as neat and clean as if the mortal yet lived there, with furnishings that appeared new.

“Old Dugles and I sometimes played draughts together here,” Merrick said as he opened the window to let in the sunlight. “He turned hermit after his wife and bairn died during birthing. He lived until ninety-five, as I recall.”

“’Tis a tidy place,” Jamaran said. “Why come you here now?”

“’Tis become a refuge of sorts.” Merrick touched the wall beside the window, which took on a violet and gold shimmer. “Connal had MacLeir make the place habitable again. I’ve used my power to shield the cottage. What we say while inside, no one may overhear.”

That the king would trouble himself to do so much meant nothing good. “You reckon ’tis a rebellion brewing, then.”

Suddenly a man came out of an adjoining room. Jamaran drew his blade and darted in front of Merrick. He then relaxed and put away his weapon when he saw it was Connal MacMar.

“Take your ease, lad,” the laird told him. “Your king and I meet here of late so we may speak of matters we dinnae want overheard by the clan or your people.” He placed a torn bundle of gray and white on the rickety old table. “Shaw found this washed ashore last night on the north side.”

Jamaran frowned as he picked up the tattered hide and spread it out. The garment, styled for a Selseus female, bore maker marks he recognized.

“Freja wore this the day she vanished.” He turned it over to see faint mottling around the long tears in the center—blood trace from grievous wounds—which bore mute testimony to what had happened to her. “You reckon ’twas the white-mouth, my king?”

Merrick touched the hide, which shimmered for a moment. “Whoever slew Freja used power as well as the beast. Duxor had a hand in her end, I’ll wager.”

Connal nodded his agreement. “We need find the traitor before any more die.”

“I shall double the search parties and sweep every hiding place in the sound from here to the mainland.” The king pinched the bridge of his nose. “’Tis likely he’s moving about each day so he may avoid discovery.”

A thought occurred to Jamaran. “Mayhap we might enlist the aid of the other warm-bloods in the sea? They might spot Duxor and his beast during their daily travels, and can report to us on where he hides.”

“The whale-killers ken everything that happens outside the barrier,” Merrick said, nodding. “I shall parlay with their matriarch. She seems fond of me.”

“We’ve another matter we must settle.” The laird eyed Jamaran. “You and Nyall both rescued Mistress Parish this morn. Had you done so alone, the claim, ’twould seem clearly yours.” He regarded the king. “Only Nyall played his part, and the lady wears Joana’s ring.”

For a moment Jamaran almost spoke his thoughts, until he saw how Merrick tensed. The truce between the MacMar Clan and the Selseus guaranteed Merrick and his people first claim to any female of bearing years they rescued from the island’s waters. That advantage had always been vital, as the Selseus could only sire sons, and were compelled to transform mortal females to serve as their mates. The imbalance between the genders remained a constant problem. Yet since both he and Nyall had rescued Caroline at the same time, and she had been brought to Caladh by a powerful enchanted ring belonging to the laird’s first wife, the situation gave the clan equal claim.

Since the Selseus had not been able to claim the last two females to arrive in their waters, that had created a rift between them and the MacMar. That had also stirred up the younger males, who had attempted to take Lark Ambrose by force. The end result had forced Merrick to disown his heir, Bered, who had goaded the young males. The king had also banned the lads directly involved from taking a mate for a centurial. Since he had yet to name the new heir, or propose a solution to the lack of females, tensions remained perilously high among the Selseus.

“In all matters, what my king commands, so shall I do,” Jamaran finally said. “Yet I should like a moment alone to speak with Mistress Parish, if you would permit such, my lord.”

Connal sighed. “Aye, you’ve earned the right. Only ken she’ll likely refuse any offer you make now, lad. ’Twould seem a man in her time attempted drown her.”

“Waiting while the lady calms and recovers seems the wisest course,” Merrick said, while in Jamaran’s mind he thought If she wants you, I shallnae rest until she’s yours.

The king had always been very fond of him, Jamaran knew. They shared a unique bond that no one among the Selseus or MacMar had ever completely fathomed. Because he had saved Merrick’s life, the king used the power he should have wielded to create a queen to instead transform and revive Jamaran from drowning. He also knew that one act of mercy had deprived Merrick of the chance to wed and sire a son, as Selseus law restricted each male to transform a mortal only once.

In the end he would always be the only family Merrick had.

“Mayhap we should turn our attention to Freja and Duxor for now,” Jamaran finally said. “If the traitor’s using the white-mouth to hunt and kill our people, we must find where he’s hiding.”

Nyall listened to the last of his patroller’s reports before he dismissed the men from the garrison common room. Shaw then entered and handed him an apple before dropping down in the iron-clad chair reserved solely for his use.

“We need discuss your dark beauty, Captain,” the chieftain said.

“She’s no’ mine, and I’ve duties awaiting my attention.” He tossed the fruit back. The last thing he wanted was to talk about Caroline with Shaw, who had never met a female he couldn’t seduce with one grin. “Visit the infirmary. Mayhap Duncan shall wish gossip with you while he poultices your face.”

“Och, you wound me near as much as the lady.” The chieftain touched the now-fading bruise on his jaw where Caroline had struck him. “Never I reckoned a cold bastart like you should claim her—or do you mean save her for that pale-eyed fish friend of yours?”

He met Shaw’s gaze, and saw something in his eyes he didn’t like. “Shall I tell Fletcher and the laird of the promise I made you, or simply keep my word and end you now?”

A rich laugh burst from the chieftain.