On the Isle of Sound and Wonder (10 page)

Twice she stopped and floated on her back to rest, breathing with forced slowness as the cries of the gulls followed her, and wondered if the man was already dead, the process utterly a waste of her energy. If she wasn’t careful, she could tire out completely before she got back to the beach, with or without the body in tow.

Have to try.

Mira gathered herself and kicked out again, taking a slower pace now, and falling into a more comfortable rhythm. The gulls mocked her progress, a few of them growing so bold as to swoop lower past her kicking legs and peck lazily at the body on the raft. She did her best to ignore them, kicking steadily, breathing in rhythm with her swimming.

Stupid birds,
she thought, but it worried her that they hadn’t given up on the body—maybe they could sense something she couldn’t. If he were dead, she would have to find somewhere to bury him. Where was that wooden spade she’d built? Had she left it in her father’s cave, or was it hidden somewhere else on the island?

The birds squawked closer now, and one even landed on the body as she pushed the raft toward land. It landed on the man, hopping from his back to his shoulder, pecking inquisitively at the cloth of his shirt and strands of his hair. Mira struggled to keep up her pace, prepping a splash with her right arm, but suddenly the bird’s beak connected with something and the man came alive, gasping in pain and coughing wildly.

Mira stopped swimming as the gull cried out in protest and flew off, flapping its wide wings lazily. The man continued coughing, trying to catch his breath and push himself upright.

“No!” Mira cried, salt water flowing into her mouth. “No, stop! Stop it! You’ll tip over!”

The young man seemed too weak to actually sit up all the way, but he craned his head around, gagging, and looked for the source of her voice, his eyes wild and glazed.

“Stop, just lie down, we’re almost there,” Mira cried, kicking out with her legs again, swimming harder. The young man groaned, disoriented, probably sick from the salt water and dehydration.

A few minutes later, Mira reached the shallows and leapt shakily to her feet. Her legs felt like jelly, but she couldn’t rest yet—she bent and scooped him up under the shoulders, swinging the young man upward, and hefted him onto the sand. He was still conscious, but seemed completely delirious and exhausted, his breathing shallow and weak. Mira dragged him up the beach a little and laid him on his back, her long braid dripping water down her body.

“Stay awake,” she commanded. “Keep your eyes open. You’re going to be all right.” She knelt beside him and saw that he had several shallow cuts on his chest and arms, but there was nothing to indicate he had been seriously injured, other than perhaps a mild concussion and the exhaustion of being at sea in the sun for a while. His eyes rolled up to look at her blearily.

 “Your stomach is full of water,” she told him as he gaped up at her. “You have to cough harder. Turn over,” she said, and grasped him by the arms, rolling him to one side and hitting him firmly between the shoulders.

He coughed hard and, in another moment, had vomited a good amount of water onto the sand beside him. He groaned, holding his stomach with one arm.

The man threw up once more, though there was less this time, and it was mixed with bile. Mira held his shoulders firmly as he shuddered, exhausted from the efforts, and only when she thought he had finished did she let him lie on his back again to catch his breath. He lay with his eyes closed, his breathing labored. Her mind raced; he’d need a coconut, for hydration, and some fruit and nuts for sustenance. . . .

His eyes opened dazedly, and he lifted a weak hand to shade himself from the sunlight. Mira sat on the sand beside him, peering down into his face, her long braid hanging over her shoulder and brushing his chest. She frowned, studying his glazed expression.

“You need to rest,” she told him. “We need to get you into the shade. I can—”

“Are you a mermaid?”

The young man’s voice startled her into silence, and Mira stared in surprise at him for several moments, speechless. It was her first conversation with a stranger since the day she and her father came to the island and met Karaburan. Her heart fluttered strangely in her chest. His voice was like a bird call she had never heard before, and she almost didn’t answer.

“I’m—no.” She cleared her throat, her own breath short from the effort of his rescue. “I’m not a mermaid.”

“Why . . .” he trailed off, his eyes sliding shut for a moment before reopening. “Why are you naked?”

Mira went red-hot, and her mind blanked. She stared down at him, her voice as empty as a hollow shell washed up without its crab.

“You saved me,” murmured the young man, and then he slipped into unconsciousness.

Mira let out her breath slowly, grateful that she did not have to answer him. Her limbs trembled as she tried to catch her breath, shell-shocked by the realization that she had rescued this stranger from the sea. She looked about, seeing no sign of her father or the monster. She would have to hide this castaway. If Dante found him—or Karaburan—there was no telling what either of them might do. Strangers had never been here before, and if she got caught harboring one, she was certain her father would punish her severely.

Mira slid her arms under the stranger’s armpits again and dragged him further up into the shade of the tree line. The first order of business was to hide him somewhere safe. Then, put clothes on and retrieve the trunks. After that. . . .

Mira swallowed as she shifted his weight in her arms.
After that,
she thought,
find out who this boy is, and make sure my father doesn’t find out he survived.

Bastiano Civitelli leaned back against the trunk of the tall, broad-leafed palm tree and looked down at the man lying next to him. The duke, Torsione Fiorente, was still unconscious, but his coloring was not too bad, and Bastiano had hope that he would wake soon. It had been a few hours since he awoke on the white sandy beach with the waves lapping at his feet, the unconscious Tor beside him. Bastiano had pulled him up the beach into the shade, where the sand was comfortably cooler, and the breeze off the water was reassuring and gentle.

His stomach growled softly, and he could feel the yearning for food and water growing and moving outward from his belly to his every limb and muscle. He watched the sleeping duke breathe, and fretted in silence.

He must have rescued me,
thought Bastiano. The king’s brother had come to with the duke’s arm across his shoulders, which indicated as clear as day that his own life had been recovered by the duke’s superior swimming abilities.
And now, he pays the price with his own health.

He wanted to reach out and smooth back the dark, salt-curled hair from Torsione’s brow. Part of him feared that Tor wouldn’t make it, and that he would remain alone on this stretch of beach, with no one and nothing to show for the effort made to save his life.

Bastiano’s arms prickled with goose pimples, the breeze turning cooler as the afternoon wore on. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, or how long the duke would remain so. He thought about getting to his feet, taking a walk up or down the beach, or up the dunes toward the forest that bloomed several hundred yards away. It appeared that they were on an island—one populated by birds and plentiful trees, but no men. It was unnervingly beautiful here, and Bastiano was grateful for the shade provided by the trees.

If I’m this hungry,
Bastiano thought, hearing his stomach growl again,
poor Tor must be starving. Dehydrated, for sure.

But if Torsione woke while he was gone looking for food, Bastiano would not be able to forgive himself. So he sat still and watched the waves, followed the sun as it moved across the pale blue sky, and waited.

My brother is dead
, Bastiano thought occasionally, numbly.
And my nephew. And the others . . . all the others. There is no one here but me and Tor.
He shook his head, breathed his lungs full of clear, clean air, and closed his eyes against the bright world.
Once Tor wakes up, he’ll know what to do. After all, he’s the adventurer.

Bastiano dozed, with his head bowed and his eyes shut, and waited for the duke to rouse from his waterlogged sleep.

* * *

Aurael did not know what to make of the two men at first. The airy spirit had pulled them from the ocean and laid them on the sand together, since they had been arm in arm as they sank below the waves when he found them. Now, one dozed with his back against a tree, and the other slept soundlessly beside him on the sand. There was something unspoken between them, something unique about the way the upright one kept startling awake to check on the darker, prone fellow.

Aurael did not understand the complexity of most human interactions—something he’d admitted countless times in the past. But he found himself all the more interested in watching these two men for the fact that he’d been trapped on this godsforsaken spit of land with only Dante to really talk to, Karaburan to play with, and Mira to watch from afar.

Ah, Mira
, he thought, and wondered if she knew yet about the castaways. Aurael had already strewn several other survivors about the other beaches of the isle, spreading them out so that few would be within range of the others; but he had yet to uncover the Neapolishan king from the murky depths.

More importantly, Aurael began to wonder about Karaburan. Had the unloved, ungainly thing found the two men washed up near his hovel in the rocks? Aurael pursed his lips.
If so, there may be some sport in it.
His thoughts danced at the prospect. After all the years of carefully bending Karaburan’s mind to his wills and whims, this now might prove even more entertaining than any jest he’d ever devised. The castaways would serve as pawns, and Karaburan he would capture as an opposing knight on the chess field in a gulling so foolish that it made him laugh aloud. His tinkling, shattering laugh echoed up the beach, waking the sitting man enough to make him look about in fear and bewilderment.

Aurael stood from his perch, knowing that the men would not see him, and stretched himself in the warm sun. Then, letting the breeze dissolve his semi-corporeal form into wind, he started his flight across the isle to find Karaburan and plant the seeds of insurrection, chuckling all the way.

* * *

Bastiano’s heart pounded; he was certain he’d heard someone laugh. It had been a strange laugh, an eerie sound, but he was absolutely sure he’d heard it. He swallowed, his mouth dry, as he looked about and saw no one.

Did I dream it?
he wondered.
Is the sun making my mind play tricks on me? Gods, I’m thirsty
. He put a hand to his eyes, which watered in the bright light of afternoon, and closed them again.

The duke stirred audibly, and Bastiano’s eyes flew open. He turned and looked down at Torsione, whose eyelids fluttered and finally opened.

“Bas?” The duke coughed, his voice as dry as salt flats in the desert.

“Torsione,” breathed Bastiano, tears springing to his eyes in relief. He exhaled the tension he’d been holding in his chest and shoulders and shook his head. “You’re awake, you’re all right, thank the gods,” he stammered, his hands shaking as he reached down and touched the duke’s arm.

Torsione tried to move and winced at the pain. “What happened? What’s wrong?” he grunted as he tried to sit up. “Where are we?”

Bastiano shifted obligingly, helping Torsione to sit up with his back against the tree. “An island, I think. I’ve only been up for a little while,” he lied. The duke gritted his teeth against some pain that bloomed and faded as he settled against the palm tree. “You weren’t out long. You saved me, Torsione. You pulled me out of the water, and passed out. I’d be dead if it weren’t for you. In fact, I was worried for a little while there that you would die, but you’re fine, you’re all right.” His smile brightened, his eyes flitting over the duke’s form.

Torsione sat still for a moment, with his eyes closed. “Are we . . .” he swallowed. He opened his eyes, pale blue with dazed disbelief. “Are we the only ones, Bas?”

Bastiano hesitated, but nodded a little after a moment. “I think so. I have not seen anyone else,” he said, and paused again. “Nor heard any sign of them,” he lied. The strange laugh from a few moments ago still jangled in his mind, but now he was sure it had just been a hallucination. He would have seen sign of any other survivors by now, he was quite sure.

Torsione blinked, his breathing shaky, and looked out at the ocean spread before them.
It may as well be the surface of the moon
, Bastiano worried.
We are lost here.

“Have any of our belongings washed up? The cargo?” Torsione put a hand to his head. “What happened to the ship?”

“I—” Bastiano felt helpless. “I don’t know.”

He thought carefully. He had woken up on the beach beside Tor, but before that—before everything had gone black—he thought he remembered trying to swim, the ship splintering in the water all around them with showers of sparks and burning and smoke. The darkness of the night swallowed them all, and the ship, too.