Waterfire Saga, Book Four: Sea Spell: Deep Blue Novel, A (20 page)

She’d had a fleeting taste of power when Orfeo had allowed her to hold the black pearl, and that taste had sparked a desire for more. She thought of little else now other than how to obtain it.

Her throat was healed, and her voice was growing stronger. She practiced for hours a day, every day, to build it up.

Late at night, she would flop into her bed, exhausted, and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. When the first rays of the sun slanted through the waters into her window, she would rise and hurry back to the conservatory, her newfound craving driving her to learn more, to excel.

There were moments, as she drifted off to sleep, when a voice deep inside her reminded her of her quest.

When will you take the black pearl? Your friends are waiting.

“I’m not ready,” she would whisper. “I need to learn more spells. I need to become stronger. How else can I defeat Orfeo?” If that didn’t quiet the voice, she would softly songcast, swirling the water around in her room, or making the anemones in her bed glow. She couldn’t hear anything else when she was making magic.

As she was doing now.

As the last notes of songspell faded, Astrid heard applause coming from the doorway. She turned around, smiling.

It was Orfeo, leaning against the doorjamb. He’d been listening.

“Magnificent!” he said, walking in. “Even better than yesterday. You’re making astonishing progress.”

Astrid blushed, self-conscious, but pleased, too. Her own father had never praised her so lavishly, even when she was younger and had her singing voice. She had been starved of approval for most of her life and now found that she hungered for Orfeo’s.

It unsettled her, to look to him for praise. He was treacherous and cruel, wasn’t he? Not the sort she should be looking to for encouragement. But she reassured herself that there was no harm in it—not if she intended to turn all that she was learning against him. Which she was. In a few days. A few weeks, at most.

“Thank you,” she said shyly. “But it’s the songspell, not me. It’s
amazing
. It’s from the River Nile and super old.”

Orfeo nodded. “I knew the songcaster who created it: Anuket, goddess of the Nile.”

“Seriously?”
Astrid said. It was amazing to her that Orfeo had known a river goddess.

“Seriously,” Orfeo said, smiling. “Anuket used that spell to push the Nile over its banks. The rich silt left behind by the floods made the land fertile, and the Egyptians prosperous. The spell’s a good one to have in your repertoire.”

“I’ll do it again,” Astrid said. “I didn’t sustain that high C in the fifth measure. Watch me, Orfeo. Listen. Tell me if I get it right.”

Orfeo’s smile broadened into a laugh, one full of pleasure and pride. “I
will
watch you, child, but tomorrow, perhaps. I interrupted you because I have something to give you—something very important. It will further the progress you’re making.”

“You’ve already given me the greatest gift ever: my voice,” Astrid said. “I don’t need anything else.”

“You need an instructor,” Orfeo countered. “You’re teaching yourself songspells, and that’s wonderful, but many of them are meant to be sung only by experienced songcasters. I’m afraid you’ll damage your voice. You need to work on technique and range, and I’ve just the person to help you do it.”

He snapped his fingers and two servants walked through the doorway, escorting a mermaid between them. Astrid had never met her, yet she knew who she was. Every mermaid and merman alive knew who she was.

Thalassa, the legendary canta magus.

T
HALASSA REGARDED ASTRID, then laughed bitterly.

“The late admiral’s daughter, no?” she said, turning to Orfeo. “And your descendant. She must be; she looks exactly like you. She’s the reason I’m here, isn’t she? The reason you’ve kept me alive all this time.”

“That’s correct, Magistra,” Orfeo replied. “She’s Astrid Kolfinnsdottir, and she will be the greatest student you’ve ever taught.”

“We’ll see about that,” Thalassa said with a sniff. Her voice was dismissive, but her eyes were locked on Astrid.

Astrid’s eyes were locked on her, too. As the shock of seeing someone who was supposed to be dead receded, Astrid remembered how Thalassa had insisted on offering her own life to save Sera’s.

Sera had told her the story. She, Neela, and Thalassa had been captured by Traho, and Traho, in the course of interrogating Thalassa, had cut off one of her thumbs. The Praedatori had managed to rescue the three of them, but as they were heading to the safety of the duca’s palace, Traho and his soldiers had caught up with them—undoubtedly on Orfeo’s orders. Thalassa had battled the death riders, allowing Sera and the others to escape. Sera was certain they’d killed her.

Though she was gaunt, gray-faced, and dressed in the remnants of a once-fine gown, Thalassa’s bearing was proud, her voice imperious. Astrid thought she was more regal in her silt-stained tatters than most mermaids were in silks and jewels.

Orfeo watched Thalassa closely. “Ah, Magistra, your curiosity is piqued,” he said. “It appeals to you, doesn’t it? The thought of instructing a talent so great, it’s second only to my own.”

He swam to her, unlocked her manacles, and handed them to a servant. As the canta magus massaged her raw, red wrists, another servant swam into the conservatory, gripping a very small, very scared mermaid by the arm. She couldn’t have been more than seven years old. He shoved her roughly into a chair.

“A small reminder for you to do your best, Thalassa,” Orfeo said. “Your
very
best. Anything less”—he nodded at the child—“and
she
pays the price.”

The child’s eyes widened, a whimper escaped her.

“Oh, I’ll do my
best
, Orfeo,” Thalassa hissed. “Touch one hair on that child’s head and I’ll do my
best
to destroy this godsforsaken palace and everyone in it.”

This is who he is,
Astrid thought, unable to look away from the frightened child.
He’s vicious and cruel, and he’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants.

Yes, that’s who he is,
said the voice inside her.
But who are you, Astrid? His creature now, or your own?

Thalassa turned her back on Orfeo and circled Astrid, her eyes shrewd and appraising. A second later, a tiny bubble popped in Astrid’s ear. As it did, she heard Thalassa’s voice whispering to her. “You are the last hope of all the waters in the world, child, and of every living thing in them. Remember that.”

Aloud, Thalassa said, “I heard you working on an old Egyptian songspell as I was coming down the hallway. Your voice is very good. It has the potential to be excellent, but you must learn nuance and expression. We shall start with the breath. It’s all wrong.”

Astrid tore her eyes away from the child and regarded Thalassa. “I’m
breathing
wrong?” she said skeptically.

“Entirely,” Thalassa replied. She turned her head and gave Orfeo a withering look. “You’re excused. Have tea brought,” she said to him, as if he were nothing more than a kitchen boy.

Then she placed a hand on Astrid’s chest. “Right now, your breath is here.” She tapped the top of her rib cage. “Good songcasters breathe from here,” she added, patting Astrid’s belly.

Orfeo chuckled. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist,” he said. “You love a good voice even more than you hate me.”

Then he left the conservatory, barking at his servants to fetch the magistra tea.

Astrid watched him go. Thalassa was talking to her, but she barely heard the canta magus.

It was the
other
voice she heard, the one deep inside, whose words were echoing in her head.

Who are you, Astrid?

Who are you?

“H
OLD STILL, WILL YOU?” Neela mumbled crossly through a mouthful of pins.

“Aren’t you done
yet
?” Sera asked, huffing with impatience. “It’s only a uniform.”

She’d been floating in the same place for over an hour now in the headquarters cave, while Neela fitted a new jacket and a long, flowing skirt on her, endlessly nipping, tucking, and pinning the fabric.

Neela took the pins out of her mouth. “It’s not
only
a uniform; it’s
your
uniform. Need I remind you that you’re the leader of the Black Fin resistance, and that you need to inspire twenty thousand troops tomorrow morning? It would help if you didn’t look like a skavvener.”

Desiderio, seated at the big stone table cleaning his crossbow, snorted with laughter.

Sera scowled, not at all happy to be compared to the ragged, bony sea elves.

“Thanks a lot, Neels,” she said. “I didn’t realize I
did
look like a skavvener.”

“You’ve been wearing a borrowed jacket ever since your own disappeared. The cuffs are frayed. The collar, too.” She swam back a few strokes. “Turn, please,” she said.

Sera did as she was told.

Hands on her hips, Neela appraised her work, then gave a nod. “Totally invincible. If I do say so myself.”

“Done?” Sera asked.

“Done,” Neela said, helping her out of the garments.

“I can’t
believe
it’s tomorrow,” Sera said, putting the borrowed jacket back on over her tunic. “We’re heading for the Southern Sea
tomorrow
.”

The soldiers had all been provided with uniforms and weapons. Wagons carrying ammunition, food, and medicine had been packed. The refugees who were too young, too old, or too frail to fight would stay safely behind. The forge was silent now. Those who could sleep were doing so. Those who couldn’t were gathered around waterfires, cleaning weapons or polishing helmets.

Tomorrow morning, Sera would tell them the truth—that they were going to the Southern Sea, not Cerulea, and why. It was finally happening. She was heading off to fulfill the quest Vrăja had given her. She was about to launch the endgame in her bid to destroy Abbadon.

Sera thought back to the days before the river witch had come to her in her dreams, before her uncle had attacked Cerulea, before her world had been torn apart. It seemed as if a thousand years had passed since then. She was a different person now. Older. Wiser. Harder.

A hundred worries ran through her head now. A hundred details. A hundred questions.

“Are you
sure
we have enough bandages?” she asked.

“Becca packed an entire wagonful,” Neela replied.

“Tents?”

“Loaded and ready to go,” said Des.

Her deeper worries were written on her face. Des saw them. He stopped cleaning his weapon and said, “What’s really bothering you?”

“Mahdi,” Sera admitted. He was still in Cerulea, still in the palace.

“We’re pulling him out soon,” Des said. “He’ll be safe and sound, and waiting for us at the Straits of Gibraltar, just as we planned.”

Sera nodded and tried to smile, but her gestures didn’t convince her brother.

“What else?” he asked.

“Ava,” Sera said. “Astrid.”

“We would have heard something if Ava had been captured,” Neela assured her. “Vallerio’s thugs would have brought her back to Cerulea. Mahdi would’ve found out and gotten word to us.”

“What if something
else
happened?” Sera said anxiously. “What if the Okwa Naholo got her? What if she’s…she’s—”

“Dead?” Neela finished. “We’d know. We’re bloodbound. We’d feel it. Same goes for Astrid.”

“You’re right,” Sera said, her worst fears allayed. For now.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” Neela suggested.

“Good idea,” Sera said. “But what about you?”

“I’ll come in a bit. I’ve still got a little sewing to do.”

Sera swam to her friend and kissed her good night. “Thank you, by the way,” she said. “I
love
my new uniform. I really do.” She smiled mischievously and said, “You can give my old one to the skavveners.”

“Even
they
wouldn’t touch it,” Neela said.