The Little Selkie (retail) (4 page)

Once every six of Dylan’s meals, someone would throw a bucket of fish scales, guts, and carcasses at the kelpie. It was given water even less often—which explained why it looked especially hideous, even for a kelpie.

The undisturbed time gave her time to think and recall the sea witch’s words.

What did she mean by ‘End it this summer’? End what?
She’s keeping the storms up and supplementing her power through sacrifices of sea life. But as long as one kept away from the storms, there would be no impact, unless…

Dylan eyed the water horse as she adjusted herself into a more comfortable position.
Unless there is a human aspect to this as well. Why else would she have non-magical allies? That Jarlath fellow—the sea witch’s chum. He’s the ringleader of something
.

She tapped her fingers on stone.
Perhaps I was too hasty in having my voice sealed. But who knew what atrocities the sea witch would have tried to make me commit. Still, there is something to all of this…I just haven’t heard the whole story. Yet.

The door opened, and Jarlath swaggered in, accompanied by a tall, twiggy man. Dylan raised her eyebrows at him as he walked through the stone room and stopped in front of the bars that corralled her.

“By my best horse—you are deuced exotic,” Jarlath said, shaking his head. “Summon a seamstress,” Jarlath said, turning to his companion.

“But my lord. The lady mage Ys—”

“I know what she said, and I don’t give a cow’s rump. This selkie is in my charge, and if I say I want to take her to the Summer Palace, then I will take her to the Summer Palace.”

“My lord, is that wise? She could escape!”

“She won’t escape. I’ll have someone guard her. Besides, I have her pelt, don’t I? And it’s not like she can tell anyone what’s happening,” Jarlath said. He released great hee-haws of laughter.

Dylan’s heart buoyed to see that she wasn’t the only stupid one on land. With great luck, Jarlath’s stupidity would lead him to make a mistake, and Dylan
could
snag her pelt.

“Now sail off and go summon that seamstress. If we want to make the festival, the dress will need to be finished in two days,” Jarlath said.

“Yes, my lord,” the twiggy man sighed before he left the room, closing the door behind him.

“What do you think of my treasury, eh? I’m a collector of magical artifacts. You’re a perfect addition, but it’s a shame to keep you locked up here when I could show you off.” Jarlath grinned.

Yes, he is an idiot
, Dylan surmised.
Even for a lander.

“Phew—do you smell. Although living with this beastie probably hasn’t made you smell any sweeter.” Jarlath turned to admire his half-dead water horse. “Maimed three men when we caught him. Deadly creature. But look, the fight is all out of him, just like it’s out of you. That’s the best way to beat magic, you know. Deprive it. ’Course you already went and deprived yourself, but still,” Jarlath chattered.

Dylan crossed her legs at the ankles and stared at her jailer.
I wonder if I could bite him through the bars
…

“So, I’ve decided to take you out to a little human party—a gatherin’,” Jarlath said with a slick, oily smile. “The royalty have arrived. They’re opening the Summer Palace for the season, which means parties and celebrations every week for the next month. We’ll be attending their arrival festival. That’ll be something to tell all your selkie sisters, eh? If you see ’em again. ’Course you prolly won’t—unless they’re dead,” Jarlath said.

In that moment, Dylan felt Jarlath was a little less hateful than the sea witch.
He’s so thick-headed, he gives me hope
. If he was to be her keeper, she would have an easier time snagging her pelt. Jarlath lacked the sea witch’s cunning, and he certainly had no magic to speak of, or he wouldn’t keep a
kelpie
in his home.

“A seamstress’ll come down here and measure you for a few dresses so you’ll look presentable. The Summer Palace ain’t far from here—two or three hours by carriage. We’ll ride out for the festival, spend the night, and be back the following day. No one will be the wiser, and
all
of Ringsted will see you.” Jarlath’s face shone with self-satisfaction. “But there’s gonna be some ground rules.” He walked to the door and left the room for a moment. He reappeared bearing an armload.

When Dylan saw what he had, she lunged at him through the bars, straining to reach him.

“Ah-ah! Not so fast, little fish,” Jarlath laughed, staying just out of reach as he unrolled the fuzzy, leathery looking pelt.

“This is yours, ain’t it?” He held Dylan’s pelt so it dangled. “My mage friend tells me that a hole or tear in this would mean you’d be human for the rest of your life.”

The sea witch is
no
mage!
She snarled internally as she watched Jarlath with hate and unease.

“This is the deal. If you cause any trouble—try to tell someone what you are, say—I will rip this pelt from the nose to the flipper. You’ll be a land-bound selkie, dried up even worse than my beastie.” Jarlath gestured over his shoulder at the kelpie and rolled up her pelt. “And don’t think I won’t do it. ’Cuz I’m ruthless, little fish.” He slipped a hunting knife from his belt and scraped the fuzz on Dylan’s pelt.

Every muscle in her body was taut. Her heart pounded so loudly she could barely hear Jarlath, but panic howled in her at the sight of the dagger brushing so close to her pelt.

“To make sure you’re behaving, two of my men will be guarding you. Oisin, Morri! Get in here!”

The door swung open, and two men trod into the treasury. The first, a short, stocky man with a square face and a flat, broken nose, had a flat-ish, bald head so shiny, she wondered if light could bounce off it. He was thick and muscled, scrappy. The second man, as tall as the first was short, was just as thick and swarthy. He had to walk with his chest thrust out so his arms—the size of Dylan’s thighs—could hang at his sides. His bushy black hair stuck out in every direction so his head resembled a sea urchin. A similarly textured black beard hid most of his face and his short, thick neck.

After staring at them long enough, Dylan realized they were the men that held her back after she launched herself at the sea witch.

“Oisin and Morri will be your…
guards
, little fish.” To her relief, Jarlath put his dagger away. “They’ll stick to you like your seal skin. Make a single misstep, an’ they’ll tell me, ending your career as a seal shifter.”

“Sea lion,” the bigger fellow grunted.

“Whatever. Do we have an understanding?” Jarlath asked, folding his arms across his chest.

Dylan kept her gaze locked on her pelt as she nodded.

“Excellent. Get her out—the seamstress will show any minute. Keep an eye on her,” Jarlath said. He tossed her pelt over his shoulder and strode from the room.

Dylan’s bigger guard fumbled with a key and then swung her door open. She pushed herself against the rock wall at the back of her cell as he and the shorter man took up posts by the treasury door. After a minute passed and they didn’t move, she crept from her jail like a cautious fish leaving a reef. If they’d let her explore, she’d make the most of it. She kept her eyes on her guards and slunk up and down the aisles formed between stacks of treasures.

I need a weapon or a tool. Something I could use later. But how do I get it when they watch me like predators?

When the guards moved again she froze. They opened the door to allow a thin, nervous-looking woman inside.

The woman, at least a head shorter than Dylan, looked her over for a few minutes with wide eyes. She eventually started measuring her, wrapping a knotted rope around her waist, up and down her arms and legs, and around her chest.

The seamstress came and went several times—returning with various fabrics—and took the big guard with her to carry things. The smaller guard remained behind. Whenever they were alone he tossed a dagger between his hands. His liquid, practiced gestures kept Dylan rooted to the ground where the seamstress had left her.

When the seamstress was there she held bolts of fabrics against Dylan’s tall body, struggling to find one that had enough material. As the measuring dragged on, Dylan began to shed her caution, swapping it for anger with Jarlath.

You beat magic by depriving it, do you?
She curled her hands into fists and glared at her bare feet.
You’ll never beat me. Though I love my sea lion body, I can survive without it. I will see this through. I will figure out what you and the sea witch are doing, and I will stop you
.

The door opened, and the seamstress stuck her head inside long enough to whisper to the short guard.

He glanced at Dylan before he left the room, shutting the door behind him. Lest she get any ideas with both guards outside, there was a distinct thud as a latch settled in place over the door.

Dylan lurched into motion, searching through the piles of trinkets that Jarlath deemed treasure. She made her way to the swords gleaming with magic. Was there a dagger nearby?

She spotted two beneath the rim of a glimmering shield. The first dagger almost made her wretch. It was made of black metal and reeked of curses and black magic. Jarlath was an idiot for owning it, much less keeping it out in the open like this. Dylan used the shield to nudge it aside so she could snag the second.

The dagger was dull, and she didn’t know how to sharpen it. While the selkies had weaponry, most of Dylan’s responsibilities in terms of fighting and protection hinged on her powerful water-channeling abilities.
But a dull dagger is better than no dagger
. She snatched up the unornamented weapon, scurried across the treasury room, and darted into her barred-off prison. Hiding the dagger under her cot, she prayed no one would search her little room for weapons.

The seamstress and the guards weren’t back, so Dylan turned her vengeful eye on the dried-out water horse. Before she knew what she was doing, she picked up her bucket of fresh water and stalked across the treasury.

The kelpie’s curdled-milk-eyes moved to focus on Dylan, although it did not lift its head.
You are a twisted creature
.
But you are being held by a monster, and if you get a chance, I hope you snap his arm off
.

She didn’t give herself a moment to rethink her plan—knowing that if she did, she would talk herself out of it. Dylan tossed her bucket of water on the kelpie, splashing its face, neck, and side. She hugged the bucket to her chest and darted backwards.

The kelpie didn’t move for several moments. Finally its ears lifted, and it blinked its sunken eyes as its skin soaked up the water like a sponge.

Dylan heard a female voice outside the door, and she ran to place her bucket inside her cell. Then she lunged towards the spot she had stood when the short guard left. She had just enough time to fix her belt and toss her wild hair over her shoulder before the door swung open, and the seamstress and guards trooped inside.

The kelpie acted no different the rest of the day, but Dylan wasn’t fooled. Water horses were cunning creatures.

That evening, Dylan’s guards escorted her up to a bedroom in stony silence, evicting her from her cell in the treasury. She managed to smuggle her dagger up, carrying it in a blanket she insisted on holding. It was just as well she hadn’t carried it on her person, for the servants shoved Dylan into a lukewarm bath of suds and kept her there for what felt like hours.

They finally let her out, only to hold her captive in her room, bored and famished, until the following day when the seamstress appeared with a dress and a looking glass.

The seamstress bundled her into a new, clean shirt styled similarly to the one she already wore, although this one was much shorter, and the sleeves were long and droopy. The seamstress then stuffed her into a sleeveless gown that was a saffron color before placing the mirror in front of her. The finished look included a pair of black buckled shoes that made Dylan’s feet sweat and itch.

She didn’t know much about human fashion, but she suspected the orange-yellow color was not very complimentary. Although it looked well enough on her bronzed, sun-kissed skin, it made her hair appear more coppery than normal. Her hair was dark brown but was sun-bleached, so the top layer of her hair was gold or (if one was being uncharitable) orange. Her hair, kinked in tight curls like dry seaweed, fell just below her shoulder blades in a wild mess. Dylan’s eyes—which were sea glass green with swirls of ocean blue—looked odd against the orange of her gown.