Forgotten Sea

4

Th e s k y wa s pe w t e r a n d pa l e g o l d , t h e s u n just breaking through the clouds to shimmer on the surface of the western sea.

Lucy Hunter sat alone in the inner bailey of Caer Subai, listening to the splash of the fountain and the restless murmur of the ocean outside the wal s. After seven years, the work of rebuilding the selkie stronghold of Sanctuary was nearly complete. The towers rose tal and strong, wreathed in mists and magic. The scent of apple blossoms blew from the hil s, mingling with the wild brine of the sea and the rich perfume of her garden.

Roses rioted everywhere, cascading pinks and bold reds, bright yel ows and starry whites gleaming like constel ations against the thick, dark foliage.

Her hands clenched in her lap. Not everything on the island was barren.

“You are up early.” A deep voice disturbed her reverie.

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V i r g i n i a K a n t r a

She turned her head.

A man stood in the shadow of the castle wal , watching her with eyes the color of rain. Tal , broad, and handsome, his hair blue-black like a mussel shel . Conn ap Llyr, prince of the merfolk, lord of the sea. Even now, the sight of him had the power to steal her breath and stir her heart.

“Or couldn’t you sleep?” he asked.

She turned away, unwil ing to burden him with her growing sense of failure. “I had a dream.”

His deerhound, Madagh, left his side to thrust a cold nose against her colder fingers. She stroked the dog’s gray, bearded muzzle. It was easy to take comfort from the dog.

“You could have woken me.” Conn’s voice was too measured for reproach.

She stiffened anyway. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

In recent months—since the Thing She Didn’t Think About had happened—he had withdrawn further and further into his duties, burying his own grief in the demands of rulership.

Once he would have taken her in his arms, this selkie male who did not touch except as a prelude to sex or a fight.

Now he stood cool and immovable as a statue, separated by his natural reserve and her unspoken resentment.

“You are my consort.” His tone was patient, control ed.

“My mate. What concerns you concerns me. Tel me.”

She gripped her hands together in her lap. “I dreamed I heard a child crying.”

Something moved in his eyes, like water surging under the ice. “Lucy . . .”

“Not a baby,” she said hastily. “A boy. A lost boy.”

The wind sighed through the garden, releasing the scent of the roses. The bush he had given her threw petals like drops of blood upon the grass.

F o r g o t t e n s e a 51

“You are upset,” Conn said careful y. “Such dreams are natural.”

“It’s not that,” she said impatiently. She couldn’t stand to think about that. She could not bear any more of his wel meant reassurances. “This boy was lost, Conn. Like Iestyn.”

“Iestyn is not a boy any longer. He’s been gone for seven years. They al are gone.”

“I feel responsible.”

Conn’s face set in familiar, formidable lines. “It was my decision to send them away. My failure to keep them safe.”

“You sent them away because of me. Because I didn’t stay and protect Sanctuary.”

“You saved your brothers and their wives and children.

You made the better choice for the future of our people.”

She was grasping desperately at straws. At hope. At control. “But suppose they’re stil out there somewhere?

Iestyn and the others.”

“They would have found their way home by now.”

“Unless they can’t. Maybe my dream was a . . . a message.

A sending.”

Conn was silent.

“Is it possible you are focusing on one loss to the exclusion of another?” he asked at last.

“You think I’m making things up,” she said bitterly.

“Lucy.” His voice was no less urgent for being gentle.

“You are stil the targair inghean.”

Her heart burned. Her throat ached. Locked in her grief, she did not, could not, answer.