1861, Isle of Selbane, in the Hebrides off the west coast of Scotland
Ronan rose from the water in his seal form, letting his body acclimate to the change in air pressure. The late summer air of the afternoon was cool against his fur, though that didn’t bother him. He had enough insulating blubber built up that he didn’t feel the cold anymore. His black eyes gazed across the tiny tan pebbles dotting the white sand of the cave.
Deserted, as usual.
He beached himself on the sandy shore, set down the necklace held carefully between his teeth, and reached down with his head. Using his teeth to grasp the small fasteners under his belly, he unhooked the first catch, then the second. Minutes later, the sealskin fell from his naked body like a furry towel sliding off his back.
He stood in his human form and looked down at the sealskin. Selkies rarely came to shore, but he had a different need than just moving about—the meeting with the siren emissary. The war between Ronan’s selkie clan, Liath Clann, and the sirens had been long, almost two decades, and now news of the latest siren civil war had changed everything. He had to inform his Prince, Lord Prion, who lived in a small home on the western edge of the island.
Reaching down, he took the silky mass of his sealskin in his large hands, marveling as he always did at the oily, glossy texture of the fur. It was a rich gray-brown and dotted with thick lines of scars around the neck from the decades of battle. He folded the sopping, heavy mass of it with care, tucking the flippers and tail flaps underneath the bottom of the pile. He set it on a rock, out of harm’s way, so it wouldn’t get stepped on or washed out with the tide.
This cave was his go-to for changing. Secluded and often empty, he had found it by accident when a storm waylaid his clan years ago. Though they seldom stopped in this area, he felt it was good to have safe harbors dotted along the migratory route between their typical breeding grounds in the south and their cooler grounds north of Scotland.
He moved to the far side of the cave, wincing as his tender feet crunched over the small pebbles in the sand. He didn’t use them much, and the skin was soft. Dodging the large boulders that sat like sentries along the water’s edge, he found the one he was looking for. It was smaller than the rest and sitting close to the rocky wall of the cave. Behind it, wrapped in oilskin to protect them from the weather, he found his stashed bundle of clothes: a thin cotton shirt and drawstring pants. He slipped them over his body, flinching away from the discomforting feeling of the cloth clinging to his wet body. It was different from the feel of his sealskin, more alien. He couldn’t wait to get this meeting over with so he could shuck out of them again and return to the blissful chill of the water.
Despite the tense nature of the siren’s emissary meeting, it had gone better than expected. The newest reigning sirens seemed eager to end the war that had lasted between them and Ronan’s clan for nearly a decade. Though Ronan knew the sirens often fought amongst themselves, the civil war that had brought about the new ruling class came as a surprise to him. The last siren king and queen had mitigated some of that, uniting the unruly siren clans together under one rule. But a week ago, there had been a new uprising and now the siren clan had fresh rulers, rulers who weren’t interested in continuing the war of their predecessors.
But damned if he didn’t distrust the sirens. They were a wily bunch, always haggling for more shares of any deal they’d tried previously to negotiate. They loved words and were known for being silver-tongued, often trying to use language to gain more advantages than the opposing group. He would have to be careful with them, for sure, and keep them from adding any small loopholes to the new treaties they had requested.
As Anchor for his clan, Ronan took his responsibility seriously, excluding all other things. Having taken the Anchors’ Vow, he eschewed all things that might divert his attention from protecting his clan—no mate, no entanglements, no distractions. He’d been an Anchor ever since he was slightly older than a pup; it was his life. And this peace treaty would help secure the safety of his clan for centuries, long after he’d passed on.
He returned to the necklace and picked it up, weighing the feel against his palm. It was a small necklace, made of the thinnest sea grass twined through thin, grey bones bleached by the sun. At the end was a small dark shell, whose cone ridges diminished to a tip the diameter of an eyelash, impossibly small, and symmetrical the whole way around. A flyspeck cerith and a rare one. It was a gift, brought by the siren emissary, a good-faith gesture to show the sirens wanted peace and not war.
He walked to the mouth of the cave and peeked out. One hand reached up to tousle the long hair that fell to his shoulders in wet tangles, another strange feeling for it not to be smooth fur. He felt an itching across his skin, as if unseen eyes were watching him. Yet, when he scanned the tall sea grass for movement, he saw nothing. He turned and glanced behind him, taking in the cave with a critical eye, searching for any sign of disturbance. But the sand lining the cave was too pebbled, and he couldn’t tell if nature or an intruder had disheveled the ground. He cocked his head, preternaturally still as he listened to the surrounding sounds: the whoosh of the sea as the waves spilled over the shoreline, the small tap of water dripping from the roof of the cave ceiling on the boulders, his own heartbeat.
For a moment, it seemed as if there were two heartbeats, an echo that followed his. But it wasn’t an external sound. It was something inside his body, a beat, then an answering reply, a call-and-response. For a few beats he felt the repetition and marveled at the new sensation, the same strong rhythm he’d always known, followed by its ghost. Then the moment passed and all he felt was his own again.
It was a strangeness, something of significance, and he marked it to his memory. It was a portent, an omen, he was sure of it, but of what, he couldn’t decide. He shrugged to himself, feeling the damp hair cling to his shoulders with the movement.
Time would tell, he supposed. He scanned the grassy area outside the cave again, just to be sure, but saw no one about.
Pocketing the necklace, he set out, stepping over the sandy dunes. He headed toward the westernmost tip of the island, which was the farthest from the sea town that lay along the northern shore. As he walked, he felt the tug at the base of his stomach, just behind his navel, of his sealskin. All selkies had a magical tie that allowed them to return to their skins when in human form. It was possession-magic, which all selkies felt as long as their skins were secluded and safe. The feeling only went away when a non-selkie touched the skin, transferring the magical bond of ownership to themselves. But that had never happened to him, and as long as he kept his skin safe, it never would.
He set his jaw grimly, running through the speech he’d rehearsed for Lord Prion on the way to the cave. It would be enough, he told himself. The gift, the treaty. This was good. It would all turn out okay.
If he told himself enough, maybe he’d believe it.
