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  He appeared to struggle with himself, then reluctantly, he held out his arm for her to take. It was a gentlemanly gesture, and she appreciated his acknowledgement of her status, even if she looked like a derelict who had crawled from the gutter.

  His forearm was as hard and thick as an oak limb, and touching his bare flesh caused an odd sensation to curl in a place deep within her belly. She wouldn’t win in a fight with this pirate god. She had to use her wits to elude him, once she’d said her piece.

  “This is the bachelor’s village,” he explained, leading her down still another shell path. “My townhouse is over there.” He nodded to a line of whitewashed houses with red shutters that were broader and less individual than the first ones. “Until you are bound by vows, it is not proper for you to stay there. I will take you to my sister’s home. She is married and will have room for you. The children may drive you insane, but I’m sure she will see that you rest easy.”

  With a muttered curse of apology, he dropped her hand and hastily crossed the town square to a group of adolescents tying cans to the tail of a long-haired goat. With a speed that had Mariel blinking in astonishment, Trystan swung his powerful arm in a broad arc, causing the young men to dodge and tumble like bowling pins to escape a blow. They laughed, unhurt, but made no attempt to leap to their feet and take him on in combat. Instead, they hastily untied the cans and appeared to apologize while he castigated them. Appeased, the golden god hefted the kid under his arm, and scratching the animal beneath the chin, returned to her side.

  Amazed that so large a man, one who apparently carried a heavy weight of responsibility, should care what happened to a small animal, Mariel almost regretted having to betray him. But god or man, he did not listen to her, and she could only give him this one last chance before making her escape. “I followed you for a reason,” she reminded him.

  “You followed me?” The goat nibbled blissfully at the shoulder of his shirt as Trystan appropriated Mariel’s arm again and led her into the forest of exotic plants. Sunlight danced along water droplets on giant leaves that he shook from his hair. Life flourished here, as it did not at home.

  Regarding the loveliness wistfully, Mariel continued. “Yes. Before she died, my mother had a vision of a golden god carrying a sword of justice. She said you would come at a time of deep despair, that you were the savior who would rescue us.”

  “A sword of justice?” he asked in disbelief. He hesitated, then shook his head. “I am a peace abiding man, and Aelynners are foresworn against interfering in your world.”

  She shrugged. “Visions are often metaphors. The sword could mean any weapon of strength. Or your ship.” She’d noted its name—Sword of Destiny. Not the same as justice, but sword was close enough.

  She wanted so badly for it to be enough.

  She glanced at his taut square jaw, but his expression had closed up. She hoped he was still listening. “The last two wheat crops have failed and the one before that was poor. The price of bread has soared beyond the means of all but the wealthy. The rivers froze last winter, raising the cost of transporting coal, taking what was left of our coins. And still we are taxed until what little land we own is lost. My brother-in-law has been elected deputy to carry our complaints to the king, but I have yet to see politics feed the hungry. We need a miracle before we all die. I thought if you were our savior, you might see some way out of our difficulties that I cannot.”

  “I am not a god or a savior,” he said with derision. “The only purpose of our kind is to guard Aelynn and her treasures until the gods decree it otherwise.”

  Fury jammed her thinking. Mariel halted on a forest path that wasn’t quite as exotic as the earlier one, only her interest wasn’t on her surroundings, but on this stubborn man who cared more for goats than people. She removed her hand from his arm to clench the fingers into fists.

  “Then your gods are either dead or blind!” she shouted at him. “People are dying, and you would simply shrug and walk away, even if you knew a means to help them?”

  “I cannot interfere in the affairs of Outsiders,” he repeated. “Too often in the past we have been burned and stoned as witches and chased from your shores by primitive men with narrow minds. We cannot have them following us to the only place where we are safe. Even if Aelynn is well hidden, men have died trying to find her and the wealth they think we possess. Would you wish death on your friends?”

  He talked nonsense. Mariel could accept that he was no god, but he was certainly a man with strength and possibly knowledge beyond her own. Strength and knowledge he would not share. She started to stalk away, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her back, gazing into her eyes with the intensity she’d noticed earlier. Only this time his irises had returned to a stormy gray, changing colors as hers did. She really had found the people from whom she sprang. Her stomach knotted in fear and anticipation.

  “You are a Crossbreed,” he declared in a tone that implied she was a cockroach. “You are the best we can do to help mankind. You have been raised among them, know their ways, and are accepted there. It is your duty to provide for your friends, not mine.”

  And she had failed that duty. Tears welled, but she would not let them fall. “And so I shall,” she answered defiantly, tearing her arm from his grip. “As soon as I return home.”

  ***

  Trystan thought he should have promised the mermaid anything she wanted, if only she would take the vows so he did not have to kill her. But he still held some hope that Nevan or Waylan could be persuaded into taking her off his hands.

  Except Nevan and Waylan would throw her back into the sea to die upon the rocky reefs. He was the one who had broken the law and brought her to land instead of throwing her back in the ocean. He was beginning to think he’d been bewitched.

  After leaving Mariel and his goat in his sister’s capable hands, Trystan strode back through the forest to find his hardhearted friends. Neither Nevan or Waylan were truly interested in Lissandra or governing the island, nor were they particularly eligible, not as Trystan was. They carried out their duties to Aelynn by sailing to foreign shores to bring back news of the world and any necessary items that the island could not provide.

  He assumed since neither man seemed interested, Mariel was not their destined mate—not as the altar had proved he was. But it wouldn’t hurt either Waylan or Nevan to have a wife in the Outside World since neither of them spent much time on land. And since a man’s wife was forbidden as a mistress, Mariel would be out of his reach.

  Of course, given Mariel’s plea to save her village, Trystan suspected she would nag her husband until he robbed a granary, and that would be only the first of his many chores.

  He didn’t see the necessity of explaining that to his friends.

  “Don’t look to us for help,” Waylan warned the instant Trystan strode into the tavern. “You’re the one who brought her to the Oracle.”

  “She’s one of us, you simpleton.” Feeling torn in so many ways that he couldn’t fit the pieces of himself back together, Trystan ordered one of Aelynn’s fine ales and sank down at the long table with the others. “She swam here. Dylys claims she is a mermaiden.”

  “I’d almost believe that,” Kiernan the Finder mused.

  Of all of them, Kiernan was the next bachelor most eligible for Lissandra’s hand. But he was honest to the point of bluntness, a bad trait for a leader who must exercise the fine art of compromise to keep the peace. Besides, his curiosity led him off the island with increasing regularity. Realizing he was looking for an excuse to foist the mermaid on another of his friends, Trystan returned his attention to the discussion.

  “All that long black silky hair floating like seaweed on the waves…” Kiernan mused, “I can see her as a mermaid. But I believe I distinctly saw toes.”

  Waylan leaned over and hit the heel of his hand to his friend’s temple. “You’re supposed to be seeking a mate for Iason, not looking for toes on mermaids.”

  Before Trystan could argu
e, Waylan turned his scarred cheek toward him again. “And don’t go saddling me with a wife I’ll never see. She may have the abilities of a Crossbreed, but she’s also an Outsider. She’ll want to be with her home and family, but my life is at sea. The same goes for Nevan. We have no other Navigator. We both need amacaras to produce our heirs, not wives to empty our pockets and demand our time. She has no place here, no family, no status, no ability from which we can benefit. If Oscar the Fisherman were about fifty years younger, she might suit him. Throw her back into the sea if you don’t want her.”

  Trystan dug his fingers into his pewter mug and resisted using it to brain his selfish friend. “The Finder should have thrown you back in the sea, if that is your attitude toward all Crossbreeds but yourself. If I throw her into the sea, she will simply swim back the way she came and tell her people how to find us. That’s what would have happened had you found her.”

  Waylan shrugged. “Then we hold her prisoner or sacrifice her to the volcano. Shall we vote with our swords?”

  “You’d reduce my life to a melee?” Trystan asked incredulously, but he was rising to his feet as he said it. Turning his back on any of his comrades would be a show of weakness. Besides, the physical release of action seemed more useful than stewing over the incredible.

  As was their custom, half the men in the room leapt to their feet, producing their swords with zeal at this chance to challenge Trystan’s prowess. Defeating the acknowledged champion would put them in a position of leadership and give them a higher chance of winning the maidens of their choice.

  “To arms!” Nevan cried. “I haven’t had a proper fight in weeks. Let’s say we sacrifice Trystan if he loses.”

  The men tumbled out of the inn into the grassy field, ready to cast their votes with the strength of their swords.

  “He’s a dead man no matter who wins,” Waylan grumbled, clashing the breadth of his blade against the sharp edge of a newcomer, pushing the youngster backward and nipping his tunic belt in one swift movement.

  “This is a damned childish manner of choosing leaders and making decisions,” Trystan grumbled, placing both hands on the hilt of his sword and swinging in an arc, preventing the approach of half the men in the field eager to gain points by besting him.

  “What, you want women to cast a vote?” Raising his sword, Nevan deftly cut the ties securing Kiernan’s breeches. “Or do you just want them to watch?”

  Kiernan grabbed his trews, cursed, and swung wildly to defend the rest of his garments. “Since we only fight about women, that might make more sense.”

  Wielding his sword to fend off Trystan’s thrust, Nevan added, “Which is why the first man naked buys a round for all!”

  “I, for one, am damned tired of tattering perfectly good cloth,” Trystan said in resignation, slicing a belt here and a tunic there in one smooth arc of his weapon. “But if that is your wish, so be it. I’m still the best swordsman here.” Shifting his sword from one hand to the next, he deftly caught the gold braid on Nevan’s shirt with the point and ripped it off.

  With the uncanny agility with which they were born, and the skill practiced during years of growing up together, Trystan’s companions reduced their election to a melee.

  Five

  Mariel waited until shadows lengthened between house and trees before slipping out of the bedchamber she’d been given.

  Trystan’s sister Erithea had hair as golden as his but looked more harried than calm when he’d handed Mariel over to her. Erithea had given her brother a good scold in words Mariel couldn’t understand, then sent the giant on his way with an angry push. But she’d been all smiles and hospitality when she’d turned to her guest. Mariel hoped that meant the lady’s anger was reserved for her stubborn brother.

  She supposed, if she’d been told her brother had to marry a lost waif he’d dragged from the ocean rather than some rich woman who controlled the town, she’d give him a tongue-lashing, too. But she’d solve her hostess’s problem now.

  She had a lifetime’s experience in slipping from shadow to shadow to reach the sea. She always knew in which direction to find it.

  She’d made her life seem simple to her captors, but it had never been any such thing. Had her odd ability to swim beneath the water with the fishes been discovered, only the village’s isolation and the position of her parents would have prevented her from being stoned or worse. And depending on the priest at the time, even her parents might not have been able to save her. If all the people on this island had her odd talent, she could understand their fear of outsiders. The Church and those of her world were not kind to those who were different from themselves.

  She had walked to the sea with her very first baby steps. She’d been herding fish into nets since she was ten—unbeknownst to the fishermen. Even as a child, she’d known her strange skill had given her a duty to others, as her mother’s second sight added to her responsibilities as mayor’s wife. The ability to see visions was apparently acceptable—and even saintly—to the church, as long as the visions did not contradict church doctrine. Swimming underwater like a fish would invoke pagan legends and would not suit current church teachings.

  With the onset of adolescence Mariel had eased her loneliness by learning to communicate with dolphins. Not that she’d found much use for her new knowledge of sea coral or sandbanks or the other things that dolphins knew—or the time to exploit the insight. Her mother had died the year she’d turned thirteen, and her land-bound tasks had multiplied.

  Mariel reached the edge of the forest without being seen. As she’d left, she had heard her hostess scolding her children in the kitchen and assumed they’d sat down to dinner. Her belly was empty again, but she’d lived with that feeling for so long now, she scarcely noticed.

  Her biggest problem at the moment was avoiding the island’s inhabitants. She was surrounded by the sea. All paths would ultimately lead to water, and the cloudy peak of the volcano gave her a sense of direction. She had to choose her way carefully if she didn’t want to end up walking through the village. Or wind up at the temple with the old woman. She wasn’t eager to repeat that terror-inducing experience.

  She attuned her ears to the pounding of the incoming tide against the shore and sought the most direct path. How big could the island be?

  The forest of ferns and broad-leafed trees ended abruptly, and she emerged into an open field where golden wheat rippled, ready for harvest. Potato vines circled among the rows of grain, and she wondered how they harvested entwined crops. She would have liked to have asked. Two crops from one field would be beneficial to the farmers, but this field might be the result of a magic peculiar to the island.

  She’d never thought of her ability to swim as magic. She still didn’t. So why did the notion pop into her mind with regard to Trystan and his friends? His kind. Hadn’t he said that earlier? As if the people on this island were different from the rest of mankind.

  Her mother, Marie-Jean, had said Mariel’s grandfather was a seafaring man who had married Mariel’s grandmother and sailed away, returning once a year until Marie-Jean was nearly grown. Was this the land he’d sailed to? Her mysterious grandfather had left his small family wealthy enough to make her mother an eligible prospect for a nobleman’s younger son.

  If that was sorcery, the world could use a little more of it.

  Leaving the field behind, Mariel entered the exotic forest she’d traipsed with Trystan to reach the bachelor village. She hoped to skirt past the populated area. Tucking a multi-petaled white flower behind her ear just to have the scent with her, she turned toward the ocean again.

  It was a pity her grandfather had never returned to see how his family fared after Marie-Jean married. Perhaps he could have helped them from these sad straits. If he was the source of Mariel’s unusual ability, could he have lived here, on this island?

  She’d like to ask a thousand questions. She had a feeling everyone on Aelynn was enchanted in some way.

  Despite the Breton legends
of Sirens and other fey creatures, and her mother’s oddities, Mariel had never met anyone else with strange abilities like hers. Had the legendary city of Ys not drowned but been swept away to this perfect island?

  As much as she wanted to know more, Mariel knew she had to return home. Maman had made her promise to look after her sister.

  Mariel halted when she arrived at the edge of the clearing where she’d first awakened on the strange, spongy bed. The incense still called to her, allowing her to locate the altar through the screen of flowering shrubbery. This was obviously not a public temple.

  Standing stones formed a circular barrier around a narrow altar that she knew was made of some substance other than the granite around it. The flame still burned—probably the source of the incense. She’d seen menhirs scattered through the fields of home and often wondered about the people who had the superhuman strength to place them there.

  The intoxicating fragrances of the clearing reminded her too forcefully of unwanted physical desires. Her woman’s place tingled and ached, and her womb tightened expectantly. She had never understood what drove women to procreate, until now. Since she could not swim if swollen with child, and had no intention of bearing a child who might be feared or despised by all she knew, she had always known she had no right to indulge in those feelings.

  In fact, she must resist them.

  Slipping back into the trees, Mariel worked her way around the glade, following the sound of the ocean, this time, with regret. She would have liked to have explored this new world—and discovered what it meant to be touched by a man like Trystan.

  But he would kill her if she stayed, so there wasn’t much future in it.

  ***

  Dripping with sweat and bleeding from shallow cuts, Trystan defended his position with all the frustration and rage of this day. Finally, he caught his sword tip in the shoulder seam of Waylan’s tunic and reduced it to thread. Swinging his blade in a broad arc, he realized he was the last man standing, the one still clothed. A strip of his trousers clung to his hips.