The Girl Who Chose

by Violet Grace

  Massimo freezes, then backs up in the direction we just came from. I blink, adjusting my eyes to the dimness.

  A lion. Padding out into the square.

  Except this lion has feathered wings the colour of sand tucked into the sides of its muscular body. As it nears, I see that its entire body, even its wings, are made from the same stone as the sporgente. Cold feline eyes stare at me.

  ‘Griffin,’ Massimo whispers to me in alarm, then he breaks into a run. But our path is blocked by the seething horde of sporgente filling the footbridge and scrambling across the railing. It dawns on me that the sporgente aren’t chasing us. They’re herding us.

  Massimo looks at me with terror-filled eyes as the sporgente fill the courtyard, climbing over each other, bounding off the narrow walls of the alley and spilling over the roofs, corralling us back toward the griffin. The smaller sporgente leap onto each other’s shoulders, forming a tower of creatures five or six high in places, blocking the exits. Or, to be more precise, blocking my exits. They close in on me, ignoring the gondolier.

  Massimo takes his opportunity, making a break for a doorway. He gives me a shrug before disappearing from the square.

  Great. He’s abandoning me. Maybe leading me here was his plan all along.

  Hollering and screeching reverberates around the courtyard. I look up and see more sporgente lining the edge of the roofs, pushing and jostling each other.

  The griffin paces slowly, not heading straight for me, but zigzagging, stalking me. A low, guttural growl issues somewhere from deep within its stone body, rising to a roar. Its wings extend fully as it shakes its head like a boxer limbering up for a fight. The noise of the sporgente quietens for a moment, before beginning again.

  ‘Nice kitty,’ I say, flaring my wings as my heart hammers in my chest. Blue sparks flicker at the tips of my fingers. I tried to do the right thing and avoid a diplomatic incident or an inter-realm magical disaster. But these screeching dirtbags are leaving me little choice.

  The sporgente hiss as one, a crowd baying for blood. I calm my breathing, centring myself, preparing the Art.

  The griffin pads forward, its huge stone paws pounding on the ground. Curling back its lips, it bares jagged teeth. Then it leaps towards me in a blur. I release a molten blast straight into the griffin’s heart.

  With a howling roar the griffin explodes, fragments of limestone shattering around the square, colliding with dozens of sporgente and smashing them to pieces. The other sporgente are suddenly silent as the stone and dust from the griffin drop to the ground, reduced to lifeless rubble. They are momentarily immobilised, dumbstruck, as if waiting for further instructions.

  ‘Who wants to be next?’ I call out, spinning around the courtyard.

  From the corner of my eye, I see movement. One of the griffin’s severed paws rattles on the cobblestones like a freshly caught fish thrashing on the line. The sporgente turn as one to watch it. Claws grow from the paw, extending and then retracting back into their sockets. The paw begins to recombine with other nearby rubble, pieces drawn together like magnets. Dust and stone grinds together, scraping and fusing.

  It’s trying to re-form. To reconstitute itself.

  The front legs and half the body of the griffin materialise in front of me. I blast it again, reducing it – and the sporgente behind it – to dust and rubble once more.

  All around me, pieces of sandstone debris twitch and rattle, agitating with life against the cobblestones. Stone grinds together, tiny dust tornadoes swarming around, recombining. I step back, watching in disbelief as other pieces of the griffin’s body meld with sporgente debris and grow into new griffins. In minutes the square is filled with a pride of about fifty fully formed griffins.

  I haven’t defeated it. I’ve multiplied it, fifty times over.

  Time to get out of here.

  I launch, my heart pounding as my wings lift me into the air. The remaining sporgente scurry towards me, clamping onto my legs, biting at my ankles. I kick them off and use the Art to take out others. They squeal and screech as they fall to the ground, shattering. I pump my wings harder, levering myself into the sky.

  The griffins leap after me, beating their thick stone wings as they take flight. I’m caught off guard by how quick and agile they are, given they’re made from stone. Claws slice though my dress and my skin beneath. Blood trickles down my leg as I scoop my wings faster, gaining altitude. But the griffins are just as fast. As I reach the rooftops, I take my chances and release a bolt of blistering blue towards a pack that is closing in fast. Lightning quick, hundreds of sporgente leap from the rooftops in a suicide mission, shielding the griffins from my blaze.

  Three griffins close in on me. I pull both feet up together and kick into the closest one’s belly. My boots scrape against unyielding stone. It roars, catapulting itself up and back, before hitting the ground. I blast the wall of a building in the square, sending brick and mortar and sporgente cascading into the griffins. With the griffins momentarily slowed and distracted by the dust and falling debris, I launch myself skyward again, blasting sporgente as I go. Behind me, the griffins roar furiously.

  I race above the rooftops. Wind flows through my hair and fills my lungs. Adrenaline courses through my veins. I feel part terrified, part free.

  I sense a griffin closing in behind me. I twist away but it connects with me, not enough to do major harm, but enough to knock me off balance and send me tumbling downwards.

  The griffins form a deadly umbrella in the sky above me. Time to choose a battlefield on the ground. Looking down, I spot a footbridge across a canal. I make a three-point landing and stand, ready to re-engage.

  And then I hear the thud of fifty sets of paws landing on both sides of the bridge and down the sides of the canal.

  I’m surrounded.

  I assess my options. Up or down.

  I figure cats don’t like water. And I’m betting that goes double for cats made of stone. I leap into the canal, my wings retracting into my body before I hit the water.

  I resurface and look up to see the griffins marooned on the bridge. They pace along the canal, the rumble of their growls echoing off the cobblestones, but not one of them looks tempted to dip a paw in.

  ‘Giving up so soon?’ I tease.

  I make a couple of even strokes towards the open waters of the lagoon when something brushes my ankle. I stop, treading water, my senses still on heightened alert.

  Nothing.

  I start swimming again, and a fleeting shadow in the water catches my eye.

  The Art leaps to life within me, but before I can see who or what I’m dealing with, something latches onto my ankle.

  It feels like a hand – with an inhumanly strong grip.

  And then I’m yanked down beneath the water.

  I struggle free from the vice-like grip, managing to break through the surface. My head whips around, trying to see what’s beneath me. A silvery shape flits through the canal at impossible speed, leaving a ripple in its wake.

  I need to move. I only manage a few strokes before the hand is on my ankle again, the grip even tighter this time, and I’m pulled under the surface. I thrash, panicking, as the water rushes over my head, filling my nose and mouth. I can just make out Massimo, the gondolier, standing idly at the canal edge, watching.

  The light recedes as I’m dragged down into the gloom. The weight of the water crushes me and the temperature drops rapidly as I’m pulled into what feels like deeper waters. My lungs burn, my eyes sting and my power stirs to life as I try to conjure a transfer spell, but my mind is a confused mess. A blur of seaweed brushes past my face and tangles in my hair. Frantically I twist, trying to free myself from the grip of whatever has me, but I’m so disoriented that I’m no longer sure which way is life and which is death.

  I twist again, and this time the hand releases me. Instinctively, I kick and manage to push myself off the slimy bottom. I kick harder and see the dim light above.

  Breaking the surface,
I cough up a lungful of foul-tasting water. My hand hits what feels like a stone embankment and I lever myself up, scrambling out of the water and rolling onto my side. I hungrily swallow mouthfuls of air between heaving more of the putrid water. Each breath has an overripe, fishy taste.

  The soaking-wet fabric of my gown, now stained with my blood, clings to my torso and legs. I push myself up until I’m sitting, still spluttering the dregs of the canal and gasping for air. I search the pool of water below me for a sign of the creature that attacked me, but there’s nothing. Aside from the occasional drop of water falling from the ceiling and plopping into the water, the surface is as smooth as glass.

  I take in my surroundings. At first I think I’m in an underground cave with its own pocket of air, but it looks more like some sort of sunken temple, crumbling from age and neglect. Just below the water I can see the remains of statues and a broken staircase. The stone embankment I’m sitting on is one of the few parts of the structure that isn’t submerged. And it isn’t just any old stone. It’s marble. I’d guess it’s an altar for worship. The edges of the altar are lined with small indents with little metal claws, the kind you see on rings for holding precious stones. But any jewels that might have been here are now long gone.

  An ancient treasure chest lies open at the end of the altar. Standing up, I take a closer look inside the chest and am horrified to see dried blood and traces of flesh staining the faded gold leather lining. I shudder and stumble back, images of human sacrifice flashing through my mind.

  Tarnished copper torches line the walls, throwing flickering light across broken mosaics of goddesses set amongst swirling seas. They remind me of the portrait of Venus in the V&A Museum. Whole sections of the tiles have been removed – chiselled, by the looks of it, as though something of value was deliberately extracted and carted away.

  I look for a way out, but the only exit seems to be the way I came in. And I’m not ready to take my chances in the water again. I inhale a deep, steadying breath and prepare to transfer out of here when a small wave laps against the edge of the altar. It’s followed by a slow stream of tiny bubbles that pop on the surface. I shuffle to the centre of the altar, half curious, half preparing for a fight. I scan the water, but can’t make out anything below except the rubble.

  A slow ripple folds across the surface of the pool, followed by larger bubbles that rise and pop. There’s something down there. And whatever it is, it’s big.

  I stare down, readying the power surging within me.

  A tail breaches the surface, then disappears. Wavelets lap around the cavern, then another tail breaks the surface, fanning out to reveal brilliant, filmy colours, swirled together.

  A moment later four heads rise smoothly from the water.

  Four women.

  Breathtaking.

  Glistening.

  Impossible.

  Mermaids!

  One lifts her body out of the water, so high that I can see where the skin of her torso meets the scales of her tail. She regards me with curiosity. She wears a crown made from sharp spiral shells, tiny fish bones and tarnished silver, covered with chipped gems that have lost their lustre. The other three glide through the water, surrounding me on the altar.

  Long silky locks, a rainbow of scaled tails, ample curves in all the right places; they’re too perfect to be real. Each wears a corset fashioned from ribbons of kelp woven into crisscrossed patterns that resemble armour.

  A mermaid with hair so blonde it’s tinged with green rises up on a tail the colour of tropical sunsets. She leans towards me and sniffs like a curious dog. I hold my ground. Calmer now that my breathing has returned to normal, I realise I’m not scared. I’m somewhere between intrigued and irritated.

  ‘Who are you and why have you brought me here?’ I say.

  ‘Lose the tone, legs. We just saved you from a horde,’ snaps another of the mermaids, this one with pointy features and eyes so large that she reminds me of a seahorse.

  ‘I was doing fine on my own, thanks.’

  ‘No point wasting blood that sweet,’ Seahorse says, poking her tongue towards the cut on my leg, licking her lips.

  ‘I want her eyeballs,’ Green-blonde says.

  ‘I get her heart,’ says the fourth.

  ‘Sisters,’ chides the one with the crown. ‘This is no way to treat our guest.’

  ‘Who are you?’ I demand.

  ‘The more interesting question,’ the leader says, ‘is who are you? You receive the hospitality of the Grigio household, yet you have the tongue and manners of a commoner. And someone thought you dangerous enough to unleash griffins.’ She eyes me like a cat playing with its prey. ‘And, most intriguingly, you were seen by one of our informants besting that same horde with nothing but your hands. There is only one who can channel the Art without an instrument.’

  ‘The halfling queen?’ Seahorse whispers, her thick brown eyebrows rising. She turns to the leader. ‘She’ll fetch a fair price of gold.’

  ‘That’s enough, Rena,’ the leader scolds, before turning back to me. ‘I am Melusina, Queen of Sirena.’

  ‘Sirena?’

  ‘The drowned world, halfling.’ Her voice is mellifluous, like wind chimes in a light breeze.

  She rises further out of the water and slides onto the far edge of the altar. Wavy black hair cascades all the way down her torso to the beginning of a scaly tail that reminds me of a field of wildflowers. Her fin remains in the water, swishing rhythmically.

  ‘How do you know all this about me?’ I challenge.

  ‘The guild keeps us well informed,’ she says. Noticing my clueless look, she adds, ‘The gondoliers.’

  Massimo? He was bringing me to the mermaids?

  ‘Gondoliers are our eyes, ears and legs in the above world,’ Melusina says. ‘And the fathers of our younglings.’

  ‘You have children with human men?’ I blurt.

  ‘Their involvement is kept to a minimum,’ she says drily. ‘Our more enduring needs are met within our school.’

  ‘So there are no mermen?’ I ask.

  Rena snorts. ‘Nonsense created by humans who cannot fathom how females could thrive in the absence of males.’

  Melusina silences Rena with a wave of her hand and turns back to me. ‘You are welcome here, daughter of Cordelia.’

  ‘You knew my mother?’

  ‘I knew her well,’ Melusina says. ‘And she would not be pleased that her own flesh and blood is cavorting with House Grigio.’

  I narrow my eyes.

  ‘Your mother was no friend of Grigio scum,’ the mermaid queen says.

  ‘My mother was a childhood friend of Eleonora’s,’ I counter. ‘They even arranged my marriage to Prince Victor.’

  Melusina stares, eyes wide. The others swap looks.

  ‘I told you we should eat her.’ Rena snaps the air in my direction.

  ‘Back off, fish fingers, or I’ll fry you.’ Blue flames flicker at my fingertips at the mere thought of it.

  ‘Enough!’ Melusina snaps. She studies me. ‘You are here to unite your two houses?’

  ‘There will be no wedding,’ I say definitively.

  She appraises me. ‘A wise decision, halfling. What do you know of House Grigio?’ she says, spitting the name.

  ‘Not a lot,’ I reply, struck again by just how much I’ve been kept in the dark. The Chancellor and the Luminaress’s briefings told me everything that didn’t matter and nothing that did. ‘More money than the Exchequer. Royalty.’

  The mermaids flinch at my last word.

  ‘Usurpers, thieves, pirates,’ they hiss.

  Melusina pats the altar beside her. ‘Come. Sit. You have much to learn.’

  I bristle at her tone but I’m curious enough about my mother to acquiesce. Maybe she will know what the Grigios have that my mother needs.

  ‘You are familiar with the Scroll of Sirena?’ Melusina says once I’m seated. I look at her blankly. ‘What about the Goddess Venus?’

  ‘Of co
urse,’ I say, thinking of how my mother’s life force had been trapped in a painting of Venus in the Poynter Room for years. She’d been trying to tell me, but by the time I realised, Damius had hidden her life force somewhere else.

  ‘The Goddess Venus gave the sisters of Sirena a song, which she inscribed on a scroll,’ Melusina explains. ‘The song is the source of our power.’

  ‘So it’s true?’ I say.

  ‘What is true, halfling?’

  ‘You know, mermaids sitting on rocks and lulling people to their deaths with their song.’

  ‘Lies,’ says Melusina with a flick of her hand. ‘Most of what is said about our kind is lies. Throughout the ages we have been called many names – sirens, nereids, water nymphs, fairies of the sea. We are all these things. What we are not are monsters.’

  I raise my eyebrow. ‘A moment ago blondie and her mates were divvying up my body parts.’

  Rena scowls at me, displaying rows of pin-sharp teeth. ‘We only kill people who deserve it.’

  ‘It was men who spread malicious falsehoods about our kind,’ says Melusina. ‘We have used our song to protect ourselves from those who hunt us, not the other way around. With our song, the sisters of Sirena ruled Serenissima and all the seas. We were mistresses, unequalled in our domain. And then came the Great Silencing,’ says Melusina, her eyes searing into me. ‘They came for our elders, anyone who could pass on our song to the next generation. The oceans flowed red with the blood of our mothers and grandmothers, until the link between past and present was finally severed.

  ‘The younglings who survived the slaughter tried to revive the song, but their efforts were in vain. The song of Sirena is now empty words, corrupted by the fallibility of memory.’

  A sad dignity clouds Melusina’s eyes.

  ‘After the Great Silencing, we were reduced to bottom feeders; reviled as vermin by Fae and humans alike.’

  ‘Who did this to you?’ I ask, although I already know the answer.

  ‘Grigio gold funded the Silencing. Before they hunted us, Grigio was a house of no particular standing. They filled the power vacuum and pronounced themselves royalty. When your mother learned of the blood on Grigio hands she appealed to Eleonora to redistribute the wealth, to make amends for past crimes. But her pleas fell on ears that would not listen. The Grigios jealously guarded their wealth and power, and considered any recompense with us a direct threat. Your mother cut ties between the houses.’