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  Aside from a few superficial cuts and bruises, she’d come through the treacherous rocks relatively unscathed. The most difficult trial she faced was navigation. The elements and the sea itself had taken that out of her hands. The difficulty was in letting go. She had always been able to control her destiny, chart her own course. Whether it was right or wrong, the way of it had always been hers to choose. Now, her future had been taken out of her hands. She was no longer able to decide her fate; the gods would do that for her. She would either reach land or perish in the salty sea.

  All that was left was prayer, and it was a long time since she’d asked the Arcan gods for anything. Would they even hear her after so long a silence? She glanced about. All that met her eyes was inky blackness. But for an occasional tuft of white lacework on the distant waves, it was impossible to tell sea from sky, and she saw no land, for it blended with both. All edges were blurred, and for the first time in so long she could scarcely remember, she was afraid.

  Still, divine intervention seemed to be steering her course. At least the first half of her journey had been providential. She had been slated to become a priestess on Shaman’s Isle, until it was destroyed in a similar storm. It would take years to rebuild, and her father couldn’t wait years. He needed the tribute now, and she was his only hope of riches. He had nothing else to sell. The next logical choice was an arranged marriage. Her father was taking her to meet her betrothed when the storm took his life and spared hers. Again, the winds of change had blown her off course. Hoping that there really was such a thing as fate and that the gods designed it, she picked her deities carefully, and prayed.

  “Lord Zaar, god of land masses,” she began breathlessly, for she was tiring, and her grip upon the timber was weakening with each relentless swell, “let my feet once more touch dry ground…if it be your will. Lord Mer, god of the seas, of the bays and all waters, release me from my terror of the deep…if it be your will, or let death be quick and merciful, for…I tire. Lord Mica, god of all…if you have a purpose for me, stay the angry hand of Mer, and let me live to know it….”

  The Arcan Otherworld was populated with many gods. Aloud, Rhiannon had picked the three who might best address her situation, and prayed to the rest in silence, her lips barely moving, for it seemed as if she’d swallowed half the bay. Nearly an hour later, she washed up on a spit of black sand. It stretched to a petrified forest at the edge of steaming marshes, whose bubbling quagmire could be heard belching above the wind and rain. Coughing and spitting out mouthfuls of salt water, she lay in the frothy surf until she caught her breath, then crawled out of the backwash, her sleeping shift in tatters, and staggered toward the shelter of the trees.

  Giving the marshes a wide berth, she stumbled upon a small clearing and what appeared to be a cave formed in a rocky tor. Tall double doors marked the entrance. They were ajar, and she didn’t bother to knock.

  Reeling inside out of the storm, she sagged against the rocky wall to catch her breath. Only then did she call out: “Is anyone here?”

  There was no answer. Relieved, Rhiannon padded along the sparsely torch-lit corridor and let the strange warmth embrace her. The air smelled of honey and sweet flag; the rich, pungent aroma, like incense, rushed at her nostrils, and she breathed it in deeply.

  She called out again, but still no answer came. She ventured deeper into a labyrinth off which rooms were carved in the rock, strangely well appointed with furniture, most likely gifts of the sea from wrecks like her own. This was not the natural cave she’d hoped. It was someone’s home, but whose? She’d seen no sign of life since she crawled out of the sea on the black volcanic strand below.

  Rhiannon shuddered. Everyone knew the archipelago was enchanted. What creature lived in this strange primeval place? She should run and never look back. She would do just that, after the storm, when the dawn cancelled fearsome shadows and made all things real again. But now, no one seemed to be at home, and that played to her sense of curiosity. That such had always been her undoing never crossed her mind. She was safe and warm in a place that smelled of honey and sweet herbs. After what she’d just been through, it felt safe enough…at least to explore.

  One room she entered boasted a fine elevated bed so neatly made it was as if it had never been slept in and a fine teakwood wardrobe. Rhiannon peeked inside. A whiff of the sweet wood ghosted past her nostrils, mingled with the stale sent of disuse. She opened the door wider. Clothes were hung inside, men’s clothes and women’s. Rhiannon walked her fingers through them. Some were very costly, especially the women’s togs. Many were even embellished with threads of gold and silver.

  She glanced down at the remains of her shift barely hanging on her body. The skirt was in tatters, and the bodice barely held together by an inch or two of braid at the neckline. Her breasts were practically bare. She fingered a mulberry shift of the finest homespun, and after a moment, snatched it from the wardrobe. Even the most hard-hearted creature couldn’t deny a woman the decency of covering her nakedness, she reasoned. She couldn’t very well go about as she was, with her sex exposed, and her nipples peeking through the threadbare gauze. But it would be a shame to slip such a fine kirtle on over sand and mud splatter from the marshes; perhaps if she could find some water to wash with first…

  Looping the kirtle over her arm, she stepped back over the threshold and continued along the corridor that took her deeper into the cave. Another, larger chamber caught her attention on the opposite side of the hallway and she looked inside. It, too, was well appointed, a sleeping chamber surely, but there was no bed. A strange heart-shaped niche was carved in the rocky wall, with great hollowed-out sections at the top and sides that almost looked like wings. She padded nearer, running her hand along the curious indentations, but try as she would, she could make no sense of it, and left the chamber with a shrug.

  Continuing on, a sudden rush of herb-scented warmth enveloped her. It was drifting along the corridor from deeper in the cave. Drawn to it, Rhiannon followed the wraithlike ribbon of steam obscuring what lay beyond, for the torches set in their rocky brackets stopped here. She was too short to reach one to carry with her, and she almost turned back, fearing to do herself a mischief blundering about in the dark, and would have done just that if the welcoming sound of rippling water music hadn’t changed her mind. Had she found a means to wash the filth of her ordeal from her body? Inching her way along, her hand groping the slimy wall bleeding with dampness, Rhiannon moved with the stealth of a cat, mindful of every cautious step where the corridor spilled into what looked like the perimeter of a sunken pool.

  Once her eyes became accustomed to the dark and rising steam, she found that there was enough reflected light filtering in from the last torch along the corridor for her to define the pool quite well. Her breath caught in her throat. Had the gods answered her prayers? Well, all but one of them, but she wouldn’t complain. Zaar, the god of land masses, had let her reach the isle, and Mer, god of the seas, had not only spared her life, he’d given her the use of a fine, fragrant pool to clean and soothe her aching body; miraculous, indeed, considering her apostasy. What Mica, god of all, had in store for her didn’t signify. Zaar and Mer had blessed her, and if she were to subscribe to the theory of Divine intervention, she had to assume Mica would show her his plan in due time. With that thought to give her confidence, she stripped off her ragged shift and dove into the pool.

  The water felt like silk against her skin, rushing into every crevice, every orifice in her aching body. On the far wall a narrow cascade of falling water spilled into the pool in a froth of lace and spindrift. How soothing it was to listen to. How beautiful it was to watch in the dim glow of reflected light from the distant torches. They gave it an ethereal rose-gold glow tumbling down, and she floated on her back to give herself a better view of the spectacle.

  What looked like a small dish resting upon the marble edge of the pool caught her eye and she backstroked to it. It was a large scallop shell with a cake of soap inside. Rh
iannon lifted it to her nose and inhaled deeply. The soap had an herbal scent, not unlike the honey sweetness she’d smelled when she first entered the cave. It was spotted with flecks of brilliant blue that reminded her of sea holly, and it smelled similar as well. A sea sponge lay beside it, and she took both soap and sponge, and floated on her back again, working up a rich, fragrant lather. It felt so good, as she smoothed it over her throat, over the firm globes of her breasts. When the sponge grazed her nipples, something tugged at her loins. Working the lather into the hardened buds, she moaned as rippling waves of drenching fire spread through her belly and thighs.

  The fragrant steam rising from the mineral-rich water was like an aphrodisiac. She inhaled the moist honey sweetness. How cleansing these mineral salts were after the abrasive sea salt water she’d breathed in earlier. She floated, buoyed gently on the surface of the water, her long hair fanned out wide about her like a cloud of sea grass. Her whole body throbbed like a pulse beat, as the lapping ripples laved her from head to toe. Working in slow, concentric circles, she massaged the thick, rich lather the length of her body, over her belly and thighs, lingering when she reached the tuft of ginger-colored pubic curls shielding her mound.

  Probing beneath the silken V, she found the hardened bud of her female erection and rubbed it until it grew harder still. Working the lather into the tender, sensitive flesh of her nether lips, she stroked the virgin skin beneath until waves that felt like liquid fire arched her back and raised her sex, white with undissolved suds, above the surface of the water.

  The urgency of her arousal was such that it broke the concentration she had summoned to keep her balance floating there, and she sank beneath the water momentarily. Adrenaline surged, and she struggled to rise. When she broke the surface again, gulping and thrashing and brushing her hair back from her face, suds and silken water slid the length of her in random rivulets and sheets of fragrant soapy bubbles. They collected upon her breasts, calling her hands there to sweep them away from her turgid nipples. They had grown so hard she could barely stand the delicious pain of her caress.

  Working her legs scissor fashion to keep herself afloat forced the mineral-rich water and soap suds to flood her vagina, laving her sex until her hips jerked forward, her whole body tensed with unclimaxed sensation. She spread her legs and the water laved her deeper, the heat of it penetrating. All around her, bubbling white water from the little fall at her back nudged her, heightening the achy sensations roaming over her flesh like a thousand anxious fingers, spreading through her sex like ripples in a pond when a pebble disturbs the smooth, still surface.

  Rhiannon sank down in the water and flipped over on her back, smoothing the rest of the silky lather from her breasts and belly. Twirling through the ripples, disturbing rising steam and spindrift, she swam to the fall and floated underneath it, spreading her legs to the pulsating flow crashing down. It beat upon her sex, upon her clitoris as she floated there, calling her hands to her breasts and her fingers to her nipples. Strumming the hard buds, she groaned as the cascade took her, as the creaming froth of falling water found her sexual stream and took her like an overzealous lover.

  The climax was like nothing she had ever experienced before. She’d touched herself in the dark, in the bath, and her touch had brought release, but never this. It was as if she had mated with the waterfall, and it was a passionate lover, indeed.

  The very air around her seemed to sigh as she lay beneath the flow, her legs spread wide, savoring every last shuddering contraction of her release until the orgasm drained her weak and breathless. Once the palpitations began to subside and she could bear no more of the excruciating ecstasy, she swam away from the cascade, for her hard, distended clitoris was swollen, as were her nether lips, and pleasure quickly turned to pain in that tender, virgin flesh.

  Her pale skin rouged with the blush of climax, she swam to the marble edge of the pool and climbed out of the water. Leaving her tattered shift where she’d dropped it, she padded around the perimeter, looking for something to dry herself with. Where there was soap, there had to be towels. She’d traveled halfway around to the waterfall without finding anything, but she did notice a little alcove carved in the jutting rock behind the fall that seemed warm and dry. It was fairly deep, but narrow, a low fissure Nature had provided, scarcely wide enough for her to squeeze through. Stepping inside, her breath caught at the spectacular sight looking through the falling water from behind it. It was like seeing the dimly lit pool of dark water through a beautiful lace curtain, and the sound it made amplified by the acoustics in the cave was soothing to the ear.

  There were no towels here, and she moved on following the edge of the pool almost to the point where she’d begun, when she spied another alcove, where many towels were stored. They seemed to have been woven of spun lemongrass judging from the scent as she lifted one to her nose. A satisfied moan escaped her as the citrus fragrance filled her nostrils; she quickly scooped an armful, snatched the borrowed kirtle she’d left at the edge of the pool earlier, and padded back to the little alcove behind the waterfall. It seemed as good a place to rest as any. If whoever lived in the cave were to return, she would be safer there than if she curled up in the sumptuous bed she’d seen in one of the chambers earlier.

  Safely inside behind the cascade, she dried herself and slipped on the kirtle. It fitted her as if it had been made to order. Then arranging the rest of the towels to cushion her on the floor, she curled up in the warm, fragrant womb of her waterfall lover and drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  4

  The storm raged on all day before the wind finally died, and it was on the verge of a spent and breathless twilight that Gideon returned to the cave exhausted. He and the other guardians had done what they always do in such emergencies. They’d worked tirelessly to carry the stranded to safety, rescue those who could be saved, and reverence the dead consigned to the deep on their passage to the afterlife.

  Gideon felt not a little responsible for the many ships the sirens’ songs had run aground. If he hadn’t been responsible for Muriel’s rage, the casualties might have been lighter. Would there be no end to the burdens weighing upon his soul? Would he never cease causing them? If he hadn’t in all the eons he’d been thus cursed, it didn’t bode well.

  Standing on the threshold, he examined the double teakwood doors. He distinctly remembered leaving them ajar when he went to the strand to assess the storm. He’d worried about that. Could the wind have closed them? Not likely. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe he’d closed them after all. He’d been out of sorts over the incident with Muriel at the time. He entered with a shrug. He was alone on the Dark Isle. It must have been the wind.

  The moment he crossed the threshold and closed the doors behind him, Gideon felt a tremor in the atmosphere. Something was…different…out of balance. Both his sensory and extrasensory perceptions flagged caution, yet everything seemed as it should be, as he prowled through the chambers. The musical sound of the waterfall called to him, and he followed it to the pool. The rippling breast of the water looked inviting. It beckoned like sultry black satin in the misty semidarkness, but he was too exhausted to take up the invitation. Exhaustion always heightened arousal, and he was too tormented to go through that again now.

  Something under his feet nearly tripped him up as he was turning to go. Bending, he snatched up what looked like a pile of rags. At closer inspection, he saw that it was some sort of women’s shift. Giving a start, Gideon glanced about but saw nothing. His night vision was infallible, still he strode back through the corridor and snatched the torch from its bracket. Holding it high, he returned to the pool, his narrowed eyes snapping around the perimeter. Nothing untoward met them, only the waterfall, and the pool of satiny black water, with steam from the mineral spring ghosting over the surface.

  Gideon raised the torn garment to his nose and breathed in deeply. It smelled of sweet clover, and he stood for a long moment, staring into the pool, as if he expected its owner to
rise up out of the water. But she did not, and he strode back the way he’d come, taking the shift with him.

  Storming into one chamber after another, he searched every one and found them empty. But someone had been there—a woman. He wasn’t alone on the island. He had left the door ajar, and she must have entered. But who was she? Where did she come from, and where was she now? Could she be a refugee from the storm? She must be.

  Bolting out into the bleak semidarkness, Gideon took flight. There wasn’t much shelter aside from the cave on the Dark Isle. Nothing but rubble too shallow to conceal anyone remained of his original keep after the watchers demolished it eons ago. The petrified forest that hemmed the strand offered the only place someone might hide, and he made a pass over it heading for the strand, for he had decided to start from there.

  The black volcanic sand at the water’s edge was littered with wreckage, none of it human, though he flew the length of it and back before combing the forest itself. But there was no sign that anyone had been there. The evening tide had come in and foreshortened the beach, obliterating any footprints that might have been amongst the assorted debris.

  It was full dark when he abandoned the search. Nothing living moved on the Isle of Darkness. Aside from the sighing, crashing thunder of the waves beating upon the shoreline, all was still. Perplexed, Gideon returned to the cave. He would search again in the morning. If there was someone abroad on the isle, they could go nowhere without a vessel, and he threw the bolt on the double doors, made another search of the rooms without success, and went to his sleeping chamber.

  Unfurling what was left of the shift, he examined it in the light of a rush candle in its hanging bracket beside his sleeping alcove. Whomever it belonged to was small in stature, and slender, young as well, for it was of a style worn by maidens. He raised it to his nose again and breathed in clover. Something urgent stirred in his loins, and he dropped it on the little table alongside as if it were hot coals, wiping his hands on his naked thighs, half expecting a watcher’s lightning bolt to find him even there, in his private sleeping chamber, the only refuge he had from the diabolical winged watchers of the gods.