The Rose of Sarifal by Paulina Claiborne Read Free Book Online Page A

and they could turn away. By that time, Lukas hoped, the skiff would have found its way onto the other side of a narrow spit of land that stretched out from the coast, would have made landfall. Gaspar-shen, he hoped, would have already found it, would have guided them inshore.
    Now the skiff was a hundred yards away, almost out of sight beyond the circle of firelight and the clouds of smoke. Stupidly, Marikke had brought it around to pick him up instead of racing straight for the beach. Lukas could swim this distance, had done it before. Already they’d drifted in enough for him to see the pale line of breakers as they fell on the sand spit. At the limit of his hearing, now that the sails were down, he could hear their rhythmic roar. He could see fire that way, too, torches or flares that spread out in a line as he watched. He waved the skiff off, pointing southward down the beach, and dived.
    The problem with his crew was that even in the best of times, any kind of direct order was worse than useless, even if it was disguised as a suggestion. And in this case, already, he had spoken only of possibilities: This might happen, and so you might have to. Even now, when everything was unspooling as he had predicted in his worst imaginings, still it was possible to misunderstand, or to ignore what was best. And of course none of them had spoken about the nagas.
    Underwater, in the cold dark, he turned away from the skiff and stroked inshore. He would not come up for air, he thought, until he was out of sight. Then they’d have no choice but to do what he wanted.
    From underwater he could still see the glow of the burning boat, now behind him. All sound was gone. The water was colder than he’d hoped. He dived down deep, then turned, disoriented—was that another glow, another source of light below him, or a reflection ofthe fire on the surface? No matter. A long black tendril uncoiled toward him out of the inky dark and seized hold of his ankle—this was bad. Already he could feel a tightness in his chest. Soon he must come up for air.
    He kicked. But the tendril had him now, twisted around his ankle. In the blue-green light that rose up from the sandy bottom, he could see it, thin and whiplike, lined with tentacles. Even in the best and most watertight plans, you had to be prepared for unseen dangers. And these particular plans were nowhere near the best—set a new standard, actually, for stupidity and porousness—oh, well, he thought, kicking as he fumbled for the dagger at his belt. With the hooked blade in his hand he reached back and thought, I hope I don’t cut off my foot.
    It took a moment for his brain, starved for oxygen, to realize what happened next, when he found himself moving inside a nimbus of blue-green light. Gaspar-shen was there. He hadn’t gone ahead to guide the skiff. Or if he had, he’d come back. The patterns on his skin glowed with a cold, wet fire. Water-soul, water-breather, he swept out his own knife and ran the blade along the tentacled leg that curled up from below, then caught Lukas’s arm in his slippery hand and pulled him toward the surface and toward the beach, where the rollers deposited them gently on the dark sand.
    “Where are the others?” gasped Lukas, when he could speak.
    The genasi shook his head. They crouched together on a spit of sand that stretched out from the coast. Onthe other side, across a shallow bay, a bonfire burned, inland on the wider beach. “That’s where we were going to meet,” said Lukas. “Who is that?”
    He knew. Black figures struggled on the shore, silhouettes against the fire. The Savage was fighting there, and Lukas watched the silent flicker of his sword, the branches of red lightning. The Savage was a good swordsman.
    Behind them, flame still flickered on the wreck of the
Sphinx
. Lukas turned his head and watched as it slid softly underwater. To the east, over the black mountains of Gwynneth, the full moon was rising, a bright smear on the