Page 30 of Nyall

“It’s a synthetic version. No whale-killers were harmed in the making.” She eyed the short spear he carried, the business end of which sported effective-looking barbs. “Are you out hunting that man-eating shark today? I haven’t seen any since I got here.”

“I confess, I wished escape the palace and made such my excuse. My true purpose, ’twas speaking with you.” He gestured toward some flat-topped rocks, where she sat down with him. “My garrison commander tells me you wish visit our settlement. You’re a fine diver for a mortal, and ’twould be an honor to welcome you, only I reckon ’tisnae the ideal time for such a visit.”

“Because I’m a woman who is fertile and attractive,” she guessed, “and you’re in short supply of those.”

“Ever, I fear,” he admitted. “The last two ladies that ring you wear brought here refused join us. That I fear created much resentment, and fueled some stupit acts by our younger males, who now suffer for their idiocy. I also lost my heir as a result. Might I ask you wait on your visit until we’ve eased tensions with the clan, and remembered again our manners?”

“Sure, I understand.” He was obviously in a tough place, so she added, “Please let Jamaran know I appreciate him asking for me.”

“Aye, for the lad’s beside himself of late. I ken, for I hear every thought in his head.” Merrick gave her a sideways look. “He’s utterly besotted with you, but doesnae wish intrude on you and Captain Nyall.”

His affection for the commander seemed obvious to her. She liked this king, too.

“Seems like that’s never going to happen, either.” She glanced down as some tiny fish swarmed around her ankles. “The laird’s wife mentioned you and your people have superhuman powers. Is there any way you can use them to return me to my time?”

“’Tisnae within our abilities. My apologies.” He nodded toward the barrier hemming the bay. “If you wish leave the island, I may take you once I’ve dispelled your memories of Caladh. That may remove your remembrance of your life in the future as well, so ’tisnae ideal.”

“Lark told me. I agree, it sucks.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “How about a place for me to live that isn’t Dun Ard? I don’t need much, just a basic shelter, maybe on one of those little islands near your settlement.”

His brows rose. “That the clan may provide you. Over time a few castaways resided on the bay’s islets. Indeed, some of their dwellings yet stand. I’ll wager with some work you may render one fit for living.”

Interesting that no one had mentioned that to her before now. What else were the MacMar keeping from her?

“Would you be all right if I did move into one of those places?” Caroline asked. “As in, would me living there cause any problems for you?”

“If the laird agrees, I’d make plain to my people that no Selseus shall plague you there.” Merrick glanced back at the stronghold. “I’ve never liked the clan’s stone dwellings, but the stronghold, ’twould likely prove more comfortable than abiding alone.”

“Unless you hate crowds, sharing your meals with hundreds of men, and never having any privacy,” she told him. “Or you’re me.”

The king nodded, his expression growing thoughtful. “I ken a place that may suit you. Permit me speak with Connal on such, and mayhap we may reach an agreement.”

Caroline fell into a routine, spending her mornings gathering for Brochan and her afternoons exploring the shore and watching the fishermen from a nearby village bringing in their catch. The clan’s vassals all seemed wary of her, which she attributed to her wet suit, which resembled the Finfolk’s seamless hide garments. With a little patience she was able to talk to some of the younger men, who got over their shyness once they realized she was mortal like them. When she learned how they trawled the shallows she offered to help free their nets when they became caught or tangled.

Her efforts paid off when the fishermen told her where she might find the largest beds of abalone, near an islet on the east side of the bay.

After collecting and delivering oysters for the clan’s cook, Caroline took a large sack she’d asked Lark to make with a cross-body strap and returned to the bay. Although it was getting late, she had only to swim a short distance from shore to reach the abalone beds, which lay in just ten feet of water.

She already knew what to look for, as abalone resembled moss-covered stones and had a distinctive row of holes on the edges of their shells. The holes, which were actually pores, were what the sea snails that lived in the shells used to expel the water they breathed. These abalone looked to be twice the size of those she’d seen in the future, but she’d already learned that everything here grew to jumbo sizes. Many chefs in her time prized the tough meat of the abalone, especially for use in Asian dishes. Commercially it was most often harvested for the thick nacre interior of its shell, which had a rainbow luster unmatched by any other shellfish.

She can make buttons for everyone on the island from these.

Since Lark only wanted a few shells first so she could see if twelfth-century tools would carve them, Caroline swam over the bed until she spotted a mound of empty shells left behind by sea stars and other predators. She then went up to the surface to take a few breaths before she dove down again, opening her collection bag as she headed for the pile. Selecting the largest and thickest shells, she took a half-dozen and then noticed a long line of pinkish-white bubbles in the silt between two big mounds of coral.

Not bubbles, pearls.

One of the aquatics must have dropped them, and since the fishermen had told her how valuable pearls were to the Finfolk she wondered how they’d been missed. If nothing else she might be able to use them as barter, so she swam over and picked up the necklace. The pearls looked perfectly matched in size, about three times bigger than her earrings, and all had the same pale blush color to them. It seemed caught on something under the silt, judging by the resistance, so she gave it a gentle tug.

Something fell on her like a blanket made of seaweed. When she tried to flip over and get it off it stuck to her as if it had been coated in adhesive, adhering to her wet suit in a dozen places. She then tried to surface, but the seaweed blanket had been anchored, and held her tethered to the bottom.

What the hell?

Somehow she’d blundered into some kind of kelp tangle, Caroline guessed. She needed to slowly work her way out of it, although as she inspected the rubbery stuff she saw that it had been crudely woven, and a thick, gluey slime applied to all the surfaces. It wasn’t a tangle; it had been made like a net—and she could see the rope of pearls now dangling from one edge.

This was set up to catch me.

She pulled out her dive knife, peering down to see where she could cut the net loose; once she untethered it she could float to the surface for air. Her lungs began to burn as she sliced and chopped at the kelp, but she ignored the discomfort. She knew she could hold her breath longer than most salvagers, thanks to all the snorkeling she’d done as a sponge diver. The problem was the way the trap had been constructed, and her limited range of motion while being wrapped up in it.

She could very well drown here, in ten feet of water.