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    Consigned to the Sea
    Consigned to the Sea
    Consigned to the Sea
    Ebook123 pages1 hour

    Consigned to the Sea

    By Danielle Ackley-McPhail

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    About this ebook

    ’Tis Said We All Return to Whence We Began…

    Is it any wonder then why so many are drawn to the sea? Throughout the history of Man the crash of the waves has been a siren song…a promise…a curse. Above the waves is a challenge that makes or breaks many a man or woman. Below is another world both magical and menacin

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPaper Phoenix Press
    Release dateDec 16, 2016
    ISBN9781942990536
    Consigned to the Sea
    Author

    Danielle Ackley-McPhail

    Award-winning author, editor, and publisher Danielle Ackley-McPhail has worked both sides of the publishing industry for many years. In 2014 she formed her own publishing house, eSpec Books (www.especbooks.com). Her published works include six novels, eight solo collections, and three non-fiction writers’ guides. She is the senior editor of the Bad-Ass Faeries anthology series, Gaslight & Grimm, Side of Good/Side of Evil, After Punk, and Footprints in the Stars. Her short stories have been included in numerous other anthologies and collections.

    Read more from Danielle Ackley Mc Phail

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      Book preview

      Consigned to the Sea - Danielle Ackley-McPhail

      Introduction

      There’s something hypnotic about the sea: the waves, moving rhythmically over a surface that is alternately dark and bright, whispering long after midnight and singing in the midday sun. You never know what is lurking just under the surface, or traveling on the swells, but you can taste the salt and the magic in the air.

      In the same way that the sea lulls you, brings you into its embrace, and drags you beneath the waves, good stories can wrap their words around you, drowning you in images and filling your senses. When you find good stories about the sea, you’ve found gold.

      And that’s what this collection is: sea-gold, full of magic and promise. Dani (I get to call her that, since I’ve had the pleasure of editing two stories of hers) has gathered together four tales of the sea that sparkle with magic. Selkies, dragons, mermaids, and pirates stalk through these pages, dragging you along with them.

      In the Runes and By Silent Spell Caught are from her Tales of the Last Celdraig series, speaking of Camriel, the daughter of the last dragon of the world, who has been sent to collect the dragon eggs from the men who would use them as spellstones. This use unwittingly (or perhaps not) kills the dragonlings inside, and Camriel will stop at nothing to save them. Her mission may be in jeopardy, but help will come from a most unlikely ally.

      Consigned to the Sea looks at the dark side of sea magic, and the myth of the selkie, as the unnamed narrator deals with pirates bent on destroying her and her young daughter. This is not a tale for the faint of heart, but trust me, it’s worth it. And considering I’m a pirate, that’s saying something—I was rooting for the mother, not the pirate captain.

      And To Reach for Distant Shores explores the fascination that those who live in the sea have with us, and with the things they cannot experience, or explain. One mermaid’s ardent wish to understand what she sees in the sky brings her into a situation that she could not have imagined.

      Each of these stories will bring you into a world that you couldn’t have realized existed, and all of them are bound by the sea. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

      —Val Griswold-Ford

      author of the Dark Horseman series and editor of Rum and Runstones and Spells and Swashbucklers

      On In the Runes

      I like my fantasy worlds to be familiar and yet also a bit unique. Sort of like tasting a stew made of familiar things but with unique spices. In the Runes met my expectation. I found this story quite clever, and thoroughly enjoyed the hints of a bigger world as well.

      — Brenda Cooper

      author of the Ruby’s Song series

      In the Runes

      A Tale of the Last Celdraig

      The waves pummeled the shore as the longboat went to ground. The sharp bite of salt—with a fainter hint of decay from flotsam—flavored the air and the timbers creaked as they left the cradle of the sea to settle on land. Three men remained sitting while the rest of the mates scrambled to pull the vessel more firmly onto the beach. The scrape of sand against salt-soaked wood accompanied their low grunts and the moon cast their soft shadows across the shore like the writhing ghosts of great hunched beasts.

      You will wait here, Morrow, until we reach halfway to the trees, then follow, ordered Captain Tulo, the man with the short braid of dark brown hair trailing down his neck. Do not come within fifteen feet of us with your mumbling or I will cut your tongue from your head.

      Morrow nodded but did not flinch as the two men moved off, the mate, Cragg, with a spade over his shoulder, and the captain clutching a burlap sack the size of a small ham. The runecaster did not even stand until they’d traveled halfway across the prescribed expanse. The moment they passed it he set off, keeping both pace and distance, his lips moving in a barely heard invocation, his expression serene despite the recent threat.

      The captain did not mean it, surely. Morrow was good, but he was useless without his tongue; his runecasting required him to vocalize, which was better than most, who must sketch the marks on air, water, or even paper, to work the ’cast. Very few had the skill or the strength to do so purely with the mind. Or, more accurately perhaps, the focus for it. Yes, Morrow had no illusions: he was better than most, but not all. And any of their kind were rare. He considered himself safe from the captain, though, mostly because he was not stupid. He held a raw gemstone, roughly the size and shape of a small lime; he was knowledgeable enough of his craft that only the jewel in his hand would be imprinted by his ’casting.

      Letting the tug of his magic flowing into the stone soothe him, the runecaster followed Captain Tulo and Cragg, the only other sailor trusted with the secret of the runestones. Technically he was first mate, but the captain was stingy with his power and none aboard the Devil’s Get held any rank that they did not earn—and keep—amongst themselves. Morrow had only to think of the razor-sharp collar about his own neck to be reminded of the captain’s ruthlessness. The runes holding the edge from his flesh were placed there—clearly—by another, as Morrow would not have enslaved himself. They could be spoken away by Tulo at any time, from any distance. Someday Morrow would find his way past the binding, until then he behaved as the model runecaster.

      Ahead he noticed the others slowing and adjusted his steps accordingly, all the while murmuring the runes that imprinted their path into the stone. Once he completed the spell, the captain—or anyone else given the trigger word—would have the means to find the future treasure they buried this night.

      The breeze ruffled Morrow’s hair and sandy soil shifted beneath his feet as he followed the pirates. A sudden chittering high in the palm fronds to his left made him jump, but he took care to keep his voice steady and constant as he spoke the runes. With his hindbrain he readied his defense, should more than monkeys or song birds come down from the trees. Of all the spells he knew, this was the strongest and the most closely guarded; passed down to him by his granddame, known by none but those counted as a part of his family. He dared think that ’casting would protect him from even god or devil, were they small enough. Spell in place but for the speaking, Morrow brought his attention back to his task.

      Ahead, the captain and first mate stopped, the latter lowering the spade. Morrow ended his runecasting well before the distance the captain dictated, the path to the clearing complete and a reversing end-rune added, binding the return path to mirror the way in. The stone was now spelled to lead to and from this spot for as long as the strength of the rune lasted, though looking around, he could not imagine why anyone would do so. It was pretty enough, but what was the likelihood there would be much of a harvest here? Yet the captain claimed the place was regularly used by rune-witches from a nearby island. Maybe, maybe not. It scarcely mattered to Morrow. The pirates would bury their cache of stones and any spell worked in their vicinity would be captured in the closest runestone at the moment of its casting, with the witches none the wiser that they hadn’t merely misspoken the spell, as sometimes happened. They would leave this clearing ignorant of the theft.

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