‘And how long might that last?’
‘How long have you waited here for someone to rescue you from your binding? Your time with me will be but the blink of an eye,’ I lie blithely for I don’t know when or if I shall ever find Blackwater. I pull the long knife from my belt, wait until the kelpie nods his assent.
He stands still, trusting. He’s a full head taller even than me and must bend down so I can better reach. I slip the blade between his hide and the bridle and slice at the leather. It’s soaked and hard to cut, so I must saw with all my strength but be careful not to slip and cut his flesh.
At last, it’s done and the kelpie stamps his hooves, pulls away sharply and begins to dance, tossing his head and moving sinuous as a seal in the water. I keep hold of the bridle, which feels disgusting and stinks.
‘None of that when I’m on your back,’ I say and the kelpie’s caper comes to an end.
The wide, wide smile, the teeth, so bright and so numerous, catch the afternoon sun. He paces towards me, and suddenly the sound of his steps is terribly loud, or so it seems. He stops just in front of me; I will not run nor turn my back. He’s only promised not to eat me, not to not kill me. I change my grip on the knife, spread my feet so I’m standing solidly. He throws one hand out to the side, then the other, and sweeps into the most elaborate bow yet, with flourishes, and a dancing of his hooves.
‘My gratitude, salt daughter. I swore you no harm and my word is my bond.’ He rises. ‘I promised you a boon, also.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘Would you have something now? Or later?’
‘How will I get it later?’
He nods towards the bridle in my hand. ‘Keep that. Take it to a stream or river, wherever you are, and shake it beneath the surface. I will hear you and I will come.’
‘Do you know anything of a place called Blackwater?’
He tilts his enormous head, considering. ‘I have not heard of it, I swear. Neither from my meals nor from any whisper in the water.’
I feel unaccountably disappointed. ‘Then I will take this’ – I hold up the bridle and it jingles wetly – ‘and I shall call you when I have need.’
‘And I shall come, salt daughter. For the moment, let us get well away from this place, I’ve tarried here far too long. Follow the road. There is a town called Lelant’s Bridge where you will find – unsurprisingly – a bridge to cross this river.’
‘This? Now?’ I hold up my poor horse’s bridle for I know there’s often an order to such things, to how they work, whether they bind or make slaves.
‘One moment.’
The kelpie steps back a little, shakes, shudders, and shivers. His outline goes soft as water, then he’s solid and four-legged, as empathically black as my nameless mount was nondescript grey. He paws the ground, rolls his eyes, prances foolishly and makes me laugh. He’s much larger and handsomer than Aidan’s stallion and I’m childishly pleased about this.
I slip the bridle over his huge head; soon the blanket and saddle are in place. Resting my forehead against his and stroking his velvety nose I whisper, ‘I swear I shall release you as soon as I am able.’
20
We travel an hour past dusk – the kelpie seems to have boundless energy, but whether that’s a standard state of affairs or merely because of his enthusiasm for escaping I’m unsure. When it’s simply too dark to see, we make camp. Or rather, I make camp while he grazes. I ask if he’ll retake his shape, but he shakes his head at me and continues to chew on the grass; presumably in his shifted form he’s quite happy with this sort of sustenance. I eat the last of my food, but am not too worried; Lelant’s Bridge is on my horizon. I’ll restock, perhaps ask questions. Perhaps I’m far enough from Aidan’s reach – if he’s even bothering to pursue me, perhaps I’m not as important as I think I am – and it doesn’t matter at all. No one will care what I ask or report it to anyone else.
Perhaps I’m free and do not know it.
How will I ever know?
I can still smell the wet reek of the kelpie’s bridle on my hands, though the thing itself is in the bottom of my duffel and I washed my hands in the river (so cautiously that the kelpie eyed me curiously). What I wouldn’t give for a proper bath, hot water, a lot of soap and suds and glorious floral-scented oils for my skin. I fall asleep soon after my meal.
When I wake it’s to the sensation of a rough wet tongue on my cheek and forehead, and breath that smells almost as bad as a corpsewight three days in the sun. I protest and push at a furry snout. I sit and focus: there’s a wolf with blue eyes and the broadest grin sitting across from me, behind the veil of the smouldering fire. It’s still dark. The beast looks young but there’s no sense of menace about it, tongue hanging out, panting, friendly as a dog and looking quite pleased with itself. Then it picks at its teeth with a paw that is now a hand, now a paw. The kelpie-horse is nearby, eyes the wolf with boredom then wanders a little further off. I’d like to think that if there was any danger he’d leap to my defence, but who really knows? I notice on the ground in front of me three wildflowers, pink and red and white.
Though magic’s being repressed in most places, it doesn’t stop things like mer, kelpies, rusalky, trolls and nixies,
