Waterfire Saga (4 Book Series) Page 4

  The goblin let out a low whistle. The merman’s eyebrows shot up.

  “It contains something called the Arrow of Judgment, which can tell the innocent from the guilty,” Ling explained. “If I can solve the puzzle, the arrow will point out the spy.”

  “I love puzzles,” the goblin said eagerly. “Let me have a try.”

  He used his long claws to turn the inner spheres but couldn’t make them line up.

  “Give it to me,” the merman said. But he couldn’t crack the puzzle either.

  Ling heaved a worried sigh as he handed the talisman back to her. “I’ve got to get this solved. Can you ask around and find out who’s good with puzzles? Tell them to come to me. Anyone and everyone. Our lives depend on it.”

  The soldiers said they would and moved on. Ling went in the other direction. Before the soldiers got very far, they met another pair on patrol and stopped to talk to them. Sera couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she saw them point toward Ling. The second pair hurried off to catch up with her.

  She’ll have the whole camp talking about the spy and the Arrow of Judgment by breakfast, Sera thought. Goddess Neria, let that be a good thing.

  THE LIQUID SILVER was tensile and bright, almost alive.

  It swirled and lapped around Astrid as she picked herself up off the floor of a long, magnificent hallway.

  How am I going to breathe this stuff? she wondered, panicking. I’ll suffocate!

  She held her breath for as long as she could, then inhaled fearfully. The silver was cold and heavier than seawater, but her lungs accepted it. Relaxing a little, Astrid looked around. The hallway stretched into the silver in both directions, as far as she could see. Its walls were hung with mirrors of all shapes and sizes. Sparkling chandeliers dangled from the ceiling.

  Vitrina moved through the hallway. Some idled in chairs or sat slumped against the walls, heads lolling, bodies limp—like puppets whose strings had been cut.

  “This place gives me the creeps,” Astrid muttered, wishing, as she did a dozen times every day, that Desiderio was with her.

  She missed all her friends, but him most of all, because he’d become more than a friend. The memory of the kiss he gave her right after he saved her from the Qanikkaaq, a murderous maelstrom, still made her catch her breath. Just before he kissed her, he’d told that he wanted to be with her. And she, too surprised to speak, hadn’t said anything. She regretted that now. She would tell him the same, and more. Much more. If she ever made it back to him.

  Astrid was looking up and down the hallway, wondering which way to go, when a voice—oily and sly—spoke from behind her.

  “!olleh, lleW” it purred.

  Astrid whipped around. A man, heavyset and bald, was standing a few feet away. His hands were tucked into the bell-like sleeves of his magenta dressing gown.

  Astrid thrust her sword at him, catching his chin with its point. He lifted his head, placed a fat finger on the sword, and gingerly pushed the blade away.

  “.rittodsnnifloK dirtsA, emocleW”

  “I can’t understand you,” Astrid replied, her sword still raised. She’d deciphered her name—probably because the bloodbind had given her some of Ling’s language ability—but she couldn’t make out the rest of the man’s words.

  “Ah! Pardon me,” said the man, in mer this time. “Not everyone speaks Rursus, do they? Welcome to the Hall of Sighs, Astrid Kolfinnsdottir. I’m Rorrim Drol. I’ve been expecting you.”

  Astrid stiffened. “How do you know my name?”

  “My dear friend Orfeo told me about you. We’ve known each other for years, he and I. We deal in the same”—Rorrim smiled, revealing a mouthful of pointed teeth—“commodities.”

  Astrid tightened her grip on her sword. “Orfeo’s here?” she asked warily. “Where is he?”

  Rorrim steepled his heavily jeweled fingers. “Let’s just say he’s in the neighborhood.”

  “Can you take me to him?”

  “For a price.”

  “I have currensea,” said Astrid, lowering her sword. “How much do you want?”

  Rorrim shook his head. “Trocii, drupes, cowries…they mean nothing to me,” he said. “It’s danklings I want.”

  “What are those?”

  “Your deepest fears,” Rorrim replied. As he spoke, he moved closer to Astrid. She suddenly felt a liquid chill run down her back, then a tearing pain.

  “So strong,” Rorrim said unhappily, his eyes on the dark, squealing creature now pinched between his fingers.

  “Did that…that thing come out of me?” Astrid asked, horrified.

  “Yes,” Rorrim sighed. “But it’s so small, it’s barely enough for a snack.”

  Astrid backed away from him. “Touch me again, and you’ll lose those fingers,” she growled, hefting her sword.

  Rorrim popped the small, squealing dankling into his mouth, then swallowed it. “There’s not much you fear, is there?” he asked her, his eyes searching hers. “Only one thing, really, and he can remove it, if you let him.”

  “There’s nothing I fear,” Astrid blustered. “Definitely not you and your weird mirror world.”

  Rorrim smiled knowingly. “Not true. Not true at all,” he said, wagging a finger at her.

  Then he spoke, but not in his voice.

  “Who wants a mermaid without magic?” he said, mimicking her father’s voice.

  “She’s a freaky freakin’ freak!” That was Tauno, a bully from back home.

  And then: “Where are you going, Astrid? To your friends? Do you really think it will be any different with them?” Those words were spoken in Orfeo’s voice. A cold dread gripped Astrid at the sound of them.

  “You fear those voices are right, Astrid, though you tell yourself otherwise,” Rorrim said, in his own voice now.

  Astrid felt painfully exposed, as if the mirror lord could see deep inside her. “N-no, you’re wrong,” she stammered. “I don’t believe them anymore. I—”

  She gasped at a sudden sharp pain in her back. Rorrim, cunning and quick, had gotten behind her and torn another dankling from her spine.

  “Oh, this is much better! So plump and juicy!” he said, greedily gobbling it.

  Astrid swiped at him with her sword, but he ducked the blade and beetled off down the hallway, still smacking his lips.

  “Come along now!” he called over his shoulder. “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting!”

  Astrid was furious at Rorrim, and at herself for listening to him, but she sheathed her sword and hurried after him. She had no choice if she wanted to get to Orfeo.

  The mirror lord walked for a long time. For a heavy man, he was surprisingly fast, and Astrid had to work to keep up. The Hall of Sighs grew narrower as they moved down it. There were fewer mirrors, and no vitrina. Chandeliers, spaced far apart now, gave off little light. Dark blooms of corrosion and decay mottled the walls.

  Just as Astrid was about to ask how much farther they had to go, they came to a dead end. Against the wall stood a single massive mirror. Its glass was pocked, and its heavy silver frame had tarnished to black. A length of sea silk hung over one corner like a shroud.

  “This is the entrance to Shadow Manse,” Rorrim said. “Orfeo’s palace.”

  Astrid could see her reflection, and Rorrim’s, in the dark glass. She squared her shoulders, trying to work up the nerve to swim through it.

  “He’s waited for this…waited for you, his blood, for four thousand years,” Rorrim said. “Go to him now, child. Let him take your fear away.”

  Before Astrid could respond, the mirror lord was gone, walking back down the Hall of Sighs. Astrid turned and watched him grow smaller and smaller, until she couldn’t see him at all. Then she faced the looking glass again—and herself.

  Once she swam into Shadow Manse, there was no going back. She would take the black pearl from Orfeo or die trying.

  Floating before the mirror, Astrid realized that she was about to confront someone who was far more treacherous than t
he Qanikkaaq, the Williwaw, the infanta, the Okwa Naholo, or the Abyss. If she swam through this mirror, she would come face-to-face with Orfeo. Orfeo. One of the Six Who Ruled. The greatest mage in history. And she? Well, she could turn herself purple when she meant to turn green. Sometimes. If she tried really hard.

  “This is insanity,” she whispered to the glass.

  She thought of the other five who’d been summoned to the Iele’s caves—Sera, Ling, Neela, Ava, and Becca. They were her friends, her sisters, bloodbound forever. They were counting on her. They wouldn’t back away from this, no matter how scared they were. And she knew that she couldn’t, either.

  Taking a deep breath, Astrid placed her hands on the glass.

  SHADOW MANSE looked as if it had been sculpted from darkness.

  Black walls and floors, made of polished obsidian, reflected the blue waterfire flickering in silver candelabra. Overhead, Gothic arches supported a high, peaked ceiling.

  Astrid, her sword drawn, moved warily through what seemed to be the palace’s great hall. Salt water, not the liquid silver of Vadus, swirled around her now. At the hall’s far end, a table, also made of obsidian, was set with sterling platters and bowls, all containing mouthwatering delicacies. A tall chair with carved arms had been placed at the head of the table. Another stood to its right.

  Astrid moved toward the table. As she did, she heard footsteps, slow and measured, coming from behind her.

  “How unusual,” a voice said. “Most of my guests come bearing gifts, not swords.”

  Astrid spun around. It was Orfeo. He was a human, with legs, but he moved through the water smoothly, and breathed it as easily as if he were breathing air.

  “You can put your weapon away,” he said, with an amused half smile. “If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t do it here. My servants have just polished the floor.”

  Six feet tall, blond, and powerfully built, he was dressed in his customary black suit. His skin was tanned, weathered by sun and sea. Smoke-tinted glasses obscured his eyes. Astrid’s heart raced as she spotted the black pearl hanging at his neck. A suicidal urge to snatch it from him right then and there rose in her, but she fought it down and put her sword back in its scabbard.

  Orfeo circled her, his head cocked like that of an osprey eyeing prey, his hands clasped behind his back. He stopped in front of her, then placed his palm against her chest.

  “Whoa!” Astrid said. She tried to back away but faltered, overwhelmed by a sudden loud pounding. It filled her ears, her head, the entire hall.

  “That’s the sound of your heart,” Orfeo said. “So brave. So powerful.” He laughed, pleased by the thunderous noise. “Blood calls to blood, child. The blood of the greatest mage that ever lived. My blood.” He removed his hand and the noise stopped.

  “Don’t do that again,” Astrid hissed, frightened but trying not to show it.

  His touch was repellent, but that’s not what scared her. When he’d placed his hand over her heart, she’d felt something electric and dizzying surge through her veins: power—pure and thrilling.

  “You must be tired. Hungry, too,” Orfeo said. “Come, my servants have set a table for us.”

  Astrid shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you summoned me, why I’m here,” she said. She was pretty sure she knew, but she wanted to hear it from him.

  Orfeo tilted his head again, regarding her. “They are one and the same—the reason I called you, the reason you came. Deep down, you know what that reason is. Deep down, we all know our heart’s truest desire.”

  He offered her his hand. When she didn’t take it, he turned and walked away.

  Astrid’s fear paralyzed her. She looked at Orfeo, walking away, then at the mirror that led back to Vadus.

  “Who are you afraid of?” Orfeo called over his shoulder. “Me? Or yourself?”

  With a last, desperate glance at the mirror, Astrid shored up her courage and swam after him.

  NEELA, DISTURBED BY a noise in the barracks, opened her bleary eyes. A tail, pearly beige with patches of brown, was hanging in front of her face.

  “Go to sleep, Becca,” she grumbled, swatting it away. “It’s not even light out yet!”

  Becca was sitting on the bunk above her, getting dressed. “I can’t. There’s too much to do,” she whispered.

  “The work crews won’t be up for another two hours. Go. Back. To. Bed.”

  “I need to get a head start,” Becca said, swimming down from her bunk. “After we search the northwest quadrant for lava, I have to review plans for the new barracks and the school, and then inspect work on the infirmary. After that, the weapons need to be inventoried.”

  As Becca spoke, she spied a small tail flopping over the side of a nearby bunk. It belonged to a little mermaid named Coco, who tended to toss in her sleep. Becca gently eased Coco’s tail back into her bed, then smoothed a strand of hair out of her face.

  Neela blinked at Becca. “Why are you doing this all yourself? Why aren’t you delegating some of the work?”

  “I am delegating. I’m just, uh, checking in.”

  “Like every ten minutes. Which isn’t delegating. You’ve got to ease up, Becs, or you’ll work yourself to death.”

  “Hey! Trying to sleep here!” Ling griped. She’d only gone to bed a few hours ago herself. Becca had woken briefly when Ling had come in. She could have sworn Ling was carrying Sycorax’s puzzle ball. Could that be?

  “Sorry!” Becca whispered to Ling. “Later!” she mouthed to Neela.

  As Neela burrowed into the seaweed of her bunk, Becca twisted her red hair up, then pushed a twig of polished coral through the twist to hold it in place. She buttoned her jacket around her neck. It was cold in the Kargjord. Then she picked up her clipboard, which she kept in a small cubby in the barracks’ rock wall, and quietly left.

  The waters outside were dark, but Becca cast an illuminata songspell, and whirled some moonbeams together. The light did little to penetrate the murk, but at least it kept her from swimming into the boulders that dotted the Black Fins’ camp. She was on her way to the tool storehouse.

  The lack of proper light only reinforced Becca’s determination to find a lava seam—as quickly as possible. Sera was spending a fortune on importing lava globes from Scaghaufen, the Meerteufel goblins’ capital city. If a seam could be located, that money could go toward buying more food or medical supplies. Lava was crucial to the functioning of the camp. It was needed for heating and cooking as well as lighting. Seams ran under the rest of the goblin realms, and Becca was certain they’d find one under the Karg, too.

  As she approached the storehouse, a figure loomed out of the darkness—a goblin, armed and armored. Becca recognized her.

  “Hey, Mulmig. How’d tonight’s patrol go?” she asked.

  “We spotted some skavveners two leagues north of the camp. We gave chase, but they got away.”

  “How many?” Becca asked, her brow creased with worry.

  “A dozen. Really nasty-looking. They had a lot of loot with them, and what looked like somebody else’s hippokamps.”

  “Two leagues is too close,” Becca said grimly.

  Skavveners were bad news. Hunched, bony sea elves, they pillaged battlefields and disaster sites. Red-eyed and long-clawed, they wore their stringy hair loose and dressed in their victims’ stolen clothing, often not waiting until they were dead to yank it off them.

  Becca knew Sera wouldn’t be happy when she heard about the skavveners. They stalked the feeble, sick, and injured. Sera wouldn’t want Vallerio’s spy to tell him that the elves had been seen near the Black Fins’ camp. He’d take it as a sign of weakness. Which it was.

  “And what about you? Are you ending one day, or starting the next?” Mulmig asked.

  Becca laughed and told Mulmig her plans for today.

  “You’ve got everything under control, Becs. As always,” Mulmig said admiringly when Becca had finished. “But you look tired. You need more sleep. You work too hard.�
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  Becca shook her head. “I don’t work hard enough. We still don’t have a source of lava, and it’s hurting us. The skavveners sense it. That’s why they’re lurking.”

  “I’ll help you hunt for a seam later, but right now I need some sleep,” Mulmig said. “See you.”

  As Mulmig headed to her barracks, Becca continued on her way to the storehouse, with the goblin’s words echoing in her ears. You’ve got everything under control, Becs. As always. Becca knew that Mulmig meant it as a compliment, but it didn’t make her feel good. It made her feel like a fraud.

  Becca took her responsibilities very seriously, but there was another reason she worked herself so hard, though she didn’t like to admit it: a human named Marco. If she filled every minute of every day with work and then fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep, there was no time left to think about him, and miss him.

  Marco and his sister, Elisabetta, had rescued Becca after she’d been attacked by the Williwaw, a vengeful wind spirit from whom Becca had taken a talisman—a gold coin that had belonged to Pyrrha, one of the mages of Atlantis.

  Marco was the current duca di Venezia, an ancient title conferred on his ancestor by Merrow, the first leader of the mer. The duca’s duty was to protect the mer, and he fulfilled it with the help of the Praedatori, an ancient brotherhood of mermen, and the Wave Warriors, terragoggs who were dedicated to safeguarding the seas.

  Together with Elisabetta, Marco had scooped Becca out of rough waters and taken her to the safety of the Kargjord. They’d stitched up her wounds and helped her recover. The stitches had come out, but scars—some deep—remained. Because during the days she’d spent with Marco and Elisabetta, she’d done a very foolish thing: she’d fallen in love.

  Marco was gorgeous, with soulful brown eyes and a warm smile, and he was as dedicated to the defense of the earth’s waters as any mer, but Becca knew that a relationship between them was impossible. Such a love was taboo to the mer, who were distrustful of humans. And even if it wasn’t, Marco couldn’t live in her world, and she couldn’t live in his.