A river enchanted, p.1
A River Enchanted, page 1
A RIVER ENCHANTED
Rebecca Ross
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2022
Copyright © Rebecca Ross LTD 2022
Cover design and illustration by Ali Al Amine © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2022
Rebecca Ross asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008514631
Ebook Edition © December 2021 ISBN: 9780008514662
Version: 2021-12-13
Dedication
TO MY BROTHERS—
CALEB, GABRIEL, AND LUKE,
WHO ALWAYS HAVE THE BEST STORIES
Map
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Part One: A Song for Water
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part Two: A Song for Earth
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part Three: A Song for Wind
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Acknowledgments
Also by Rebecca Ross
About the Publisher
PART ONE
A Song for Water
CHAPTER 1
It was safest to cross the ocean at night, when the moon and stars shone on the water. At least, that’s what Jack had been raised to believe. He wasn’t sure if those old convictions still held true these days.
It was midnight, and he had just arrived at Woe, a fishing village on the northern coast of the mainland. Jack thought the name was fitting as he covered his nose; the place reeked of herring. Iron yard gates were tinged with rust, and the houses sat crooked on stilts, every shutter bolted against the relentless howl of the wind. Even the tavern was closed, its fire banked, its ale casks long since corked. The only movement came from the stray cats lapping up the milk left for them on door stoops, from the bobbing dance of cogs and rowboats in the quay.
This place was dark and quiet with dreams.
Ten years ago, he had made his first and only ocean crossing. From the isle to the mainland, a passage that took two hours if the wind was favorable. He had arrived at this very village, borne over the starlit water by an old sailor. The man had been weathered and wiry from years of wind and sun, undaunted by the thought of approaching the isle in his rowboat.
Jack remembered it well: his first moment stepping onto mainland soil. He had been eleven years old, and his initial impression was that it smelled different here, even in the dead of night. Like damp rope, fish, and woodsmoke. Like a rotting storybook. Even the land beneath his boots had felt strange, as if it grew harder and drier the farther south he traveled.
“Where are the voices in the wind?” he had asked the sailor.
“The folk don’t speak here, lad,” the man had said, shaking his head when he thought Jack wasn’t looking.
It took a few more weeks before Jack learned that children born and raised on the Isle of Cadence were rumored to be half wild and strange themselves. Not many came to the mainland as Jack had done. Far fewer stayed as long as he had.
Even after ten years, it was impossible for Jack to forget that first mainland meal he had partaken of, how dry and terrible it had tasted. The first time he had stepped into the university, awed by its vastness and the music that echoed through its winding corridors. The moment he realized that he was never returning home to the isle.
Jack sighed, and the memories turned to dust. It was late. He had been traveling for a sennight, and now he was here, defying all logic and ready to make the crossing again. He just needed to find the old sailor.
He walked one of the streets, trying to whet his recollection as to where to find the dauntless man who had previously carried him over the water. Cats scattered, and an empty tonic bottle rolled over the mismatched cobbles, seeming to follow him. He finally noticed a door that felt familiar, right on the edge of town. A lantern hung on the porch, casting tepid light over a peeling red door. Yes, there had been a red door, Jack recalled. And a knocker made from brass, shaped like an octopus. This was the fearless sailor’s house.
Jack had once stood in this very place, and he nearly saw his past self—a scrawny, windswept boy, scowling to hide the tears in his eyes.
“Follow me, lad,” the sailor had said after docking his boat, leading Jack up the steps to the red door. It was the dead of night and bitterly cold. Quite the mainland welcome. “You’ll sleep here, and then come morning you’ll take the coach south to the university.”
Jack nodded, but he hadn’t slept that night. He had laid down on the floor of the sailor’s house, wrapped in his plaid, and closed his eyes. All he could think of was the isle. The moon thistles would soon bloom, and he hated his mother for sending him away.
Somehow, he had grown from that agonizing moment, putting down roots in a foreign place. Although truth be told, he still felt scrawny and angry at his mother.
He ascended the rickety porch stairs, hair tangling across his eyes. He was hungry, and his patience was thin, even if he was knocking at midnight. He clanged the brass octopus on the door, again and again. He didn’t relent, not until he heard a curse through the wood, and the sound of locks turning. A man cracked open the door and squinted at him.
“What do you want?”
At once, Jack knew this wasn’t the sailor he sought. This man was too young, although the elements had already carved their influence on his face. A fisherman, most likely, by the smell of oysters, smoke, and cheap ale that spilled from his house.
“I’m looking for a sailor to carry me to Cadence,” said Jack. “One lived here years ago and bore me from the isle to the mainland.”
“That would be my father,” the fisherman replied harshly. “And he’s dead, so he can’t take you.” He made to shut the door, but Jack set his foot down, catching the wood.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Can you guide me?”
The man’s bloodshot eyes widened; he hacked up a laugh. “To Cadence? No, no I can’t.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Afraid?” The fisherman’s humor broke like an old rope. “I don’t know where you’ve been the last decade or two, but the clans of the isle are territorial, and they don’t take kindly to any visitors. If you are fool enough to go and visit, you’ll need to send a request with a raven. And then you’ll need to wait for the crossing to be approved by whichever laird you’re seeking to bother. And since the lairds of the isle are on their own time frame … expect to wait a while. Or even better—you can wait for the autumnal equinox, when the next trade happens. In fact, I would recommend you wait until then.”
Wordlessly, Jack withdrew a sheet of folded parchment from his cloak pocket. He handed the letter to the fisherman, who frowned as he glanced over it by lantern light.
Jack had the message memorized. He had read it countless times since it arrived the previous week, interrupting his life in the most profound of ways.
Your presence is required at once for urgent business. Please return to Cadence with your harp upon receipt.
Beneath the languid handwriting was his laird’s signature, and beneath it was the press of Alastair Tamerlaine’s signet ring in wine-dark ink, turning this request into an order.
After a decade with hardly any contact with his clan, Jack had been summoned home.
“A Tamerlaine, are you?” the fisherman said, handing the letter back. Jack belatedly realized the man probably was illiterate but had recognized the crest.
Jack nodded, and the fisherman studied him intently.
He endured the scrutiny, knowing there was nothing extraordinary about his appearance. He was tall and thin, as if he had been underfed for years, built from sharp angles and unyielding pride. His eyes were dark, his ha
“You look like one of us,” the fisherman said.
Jack didn’t know if he should be pleased or offended.
“What’s that on your back?” the fisherman persisted, staring at the one bag Jack was carrying.
“My harp,” Jack replied tersely.
“That explains it then. You came here to be schooled?”
“Indeed. I’m a bard. I was educated at the university in Faldare. Now, will you carry me to the isle?”
“For a price.”
“How much?”
“I don’t want your money. I want a Cadence-forged dirk,” the fisherman said. “I would like a dagger to cut through anything: ropes, nets, scales … my rival’s good fortune.”
Jack wasn’t surprised by his request for an enchanted blade. Such things could only be forged on Cadence, but they were created with a steep price.
“Yes, I can arrange that for you,” Jack said after only a moment of doubt. In the back of his mind, he thought of his mother’s dirk with its silver hilt, and how she kept it sheathed at her side, although Jack had never once seen her use it. But he knew the dagger was enchanted; the glamour was evident when one didn’t look directly upon the weapon. It cast a slight haze, as though firelight had been hammered into the steel.
There was no telling how much his mother had paid Una Carlow to forge it for her. Or how much Una had, in turn, suffered for rendering the blade.
He held out his hand. The fisherman shook it.
“Very well,” the man said. “We’ll leave at daybreak.” He went to shut the door again, but Jack refused to remove his foot.
“We must go now,” he said. “While it’s dark. This is the safest time to make the crossing.”
The fisherman’s eyes bugged. “Are you daft? I wouldn’t cross those waters at night if you paid me a hundred enchanted dirks!”
“You must trust me on this,” Jack answered. “Ravens may carry messages to the lairds by day, and the trade cog may glide on the first of the season, but the best time to cross is at night, when the ocean reflects the moon and the stars.”
When the spirits of the water are easily appeased, Jack added inwardly.
The fisherman gaped. Jack waited—he would stand here all night and all of the next day if he had to—and the fisherman must have sensed it. He relented.
“Very well. For two Cadence dirks, I will carry you across the water tonight. Meet me by my boat in a few minutes. It’s that one, in the berth on the far right.”
Jack glanced over his shoulder to look at the darkened quay. Weak moonlight gleamed on the hulls and masts, and he found the fisherman’s boat, a modest vessel that had once been his father’s. The very boat that had originally carried Jack in his first crossing.
He stepped down the stoop, and the door latched behind him. He momentarily wondered if the fisherman was fooling him, agreeing to simply get Jack off his porch, but Jack walked briskly to the quay in good faith, the wind nearly pushing him down as he strode over the damp road.
He lifted his eyes to the darkness. There was a wavering trail of celestial light on the ocean, the silver path the fisherman needed to follow to reach Cadence. A sickle moon hung in the sky like a smile, surrounded by freckles of stars. It would have been ideal if the moon was full, but Jack couldn’t afford to wait for it to wax.
He didn’t know why his laird had summoned him home, but he sensed it wasn’t for a joyous reunion.
It felt as if he had waited an hour before he saw a firefly of lantern light approaching. The fisherman walked hunched against the wind, a waxed overmantle shielding him, his face trapped in a scowl.
“You had better be good to your word, bard,” he said. “I want two Cadence dirks for all of this trouble.”
“Yes, well, you know where to find me if I’m not,” Jack said, brusquely.
The fisherman glared at him, one eye bigger than the other. Then, conceding, he nodded at his boat, saying, “Climb aboard.”
And Jack took his first step off the mainland.
The ocean was rough at first.
Jack gripped the boat’s gunwale, his stomach churning as the vessel rose and fell in a precarious dance. The waves rolled, but the brawny fisherman cut through them, rowing the two of them farther out to sea. He followed the trail of moonlight as Jack suggested, and soon the ocean became gentler. The wind continued to howl, but it was still the wind of the mainland, carrying nothing but cold salt in its breath.
Jack glanced over his shoulder, watching the lanterns of Woe turn to tiny flecks of light, his eyes smarting, and he knew they were about to enter the isle’s waters. He could sense it as if Cadence had a gaze, finding him in the darkness, fixating on him.
“A body washed to shore a month ago,” the fisherman said, breaking Jack’s reverie. “Gave us all a bit of fright in Woe.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A Breccan, by the woad tattoos on his bloated skin. His blue plaid arrived shortly after him.” The man paused in his speech, but he continued to row, the paddles dipping into the water in a mesmerizing rhythm. “A slit throat. I suppose it was the work of one of your clansmen, who then dumped the misfortunate soul in the ocean. To let us clean up the mess when the tides brought the corpse to our shores.”
Jack was silent as he stared at the fisherman, but a shiver chased his bones. Even after all these years away, the sound of his enemy’s name sent a spear of dread through him.
“Perhaps one of his own did it to him,” Jack said. “The Breccans are known for their bloodthirsty ways.”
The fisherman chuckled. “Should I dare to believe a Tamerlaine is unbiased?”
Jack could have told him stories of raids. How the Breccans often crossed the clan line and stole from the Tamerlaines during the winter months. They plundered and wounded; they pillaged without remorse, and Jack felt his hatred rise like smoke as he remembered being a young boy riddled by the fear of them.
“How did the feud begin, bard?” the fisherman pressed on. “Do any of you even remember why you hate each other, or do you simply follow the path your ancestors set for you?”
Jack sighed. He just wanted a swift, quiet passage over the water. But he knew the story. It was an old, blood-soaked saga that shifted like the constellations, depending on who did the retelling—the east or the west, the Tamerlaines or the Breccans.
He mulled over it. The current of the water gentled, and the hiss of the wind fell to a coaxing whisper. Even the moon hung lower, keen for him to share the legend. The fisherman sensed it as well. He was quiet, rowing at a slower pace, waiting for Jack to give the story breath.
“Before the clans, there were the folk,” Jack began. “The earth, the air, the water, and the fire. They gave life and balance to Cadence. But soon the spirits grew lonely and weary of hearing their own voices, of seeing their own faces. The northern wind blew a ship off course and it crashed on the rocks of the isle. Amid the flotsam was a fierce and arrogant clan, the Breccans, who had been seeking a new land to claim.
“Not long after that, the southern wind blew a ship off course, and it found the isle. They were the Tamerlaine clan, and they too established a home on Cadence. The island was balanced between them, with the Breccans in the west and the Tamerlaines in the east. And the spirits blessed the work of their hands.
“In the beginning, it was peaceful. But soon, the two clans began to have more and more altercations and scuffles with each other, until whispers of war began to haunt the air. Joan Tamerlaine, the Laird of the East, hoped she could stave off conflict by uniting the isle as one. She would agree to marriage with the Breccan laird as long as peace was upheld and empathy was encouraged between the clans, in spite of their differences. When Fingal Breccan beheld her beauty, he decided that he, too, wanted harmony. ‘Come and be my wife,’ he said, ‘and let our two clans join as one.’
“Joan married him and lived with Fingal in the west, but as the days passed Fingal continued to delay on formally reaching a peace agreement. Joan soon learned that the ways of the Breccans were rigid and cruel, and she couldn’t adapt to them. Disheartened by the bloodshed, she strove to share the customs of the east, in hopes that they might also find a place in the west, granting goodness to the clan. But Fingal became angry with her desires, thinking she would only weaken the west, and he refused to see Tamerlaine ways celebrated.
