Waterfire Saga, Book Four: Sea Spell: Deep Blue Novel, A

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “I’m Serafina, regina di Miromara. I’m grateful to you for coming. I know your journey was a dangerous one.”

  “Kova,” the Näkki leader said. He nodded at the others. “Julma and Petos.”

  As he spoke, Sera saw that his tongue was black and split at the tip like a snake’s. It unnerved her, but she kept her feelings hidden.

  “Sit with us,” she said, gesturing toward the waterfire.

  Something glinted darkly on the underside of her hand as she did. She glanced at it, and bit back a gasp. Her palm was streaked with blood. She must’ve cut herself without noticing, but how? On her dagger’s hilt? Hastily, she wiped the blood off on her jacket, hoping no one noticed, then joined the Näkki and the Black Fins around the fire.

  Kova settled himself, flanked by Julma and Petos. Ling passed around a box of barnacles and a basket of keel worms. As the Näkki helped themselves, Kova brusquely asked, “What do you need?”

  “Crossbows and spearguns,” Des replied.

  “Quantities?”

  “Five thousand of each. Plus rounds.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday,” said Yazeed.

  Kova nodded, frowning. “It won’t be easy, but I can do it. Give me a week.”

  “Quality. No garbage,” Des said.

  “The crossbows are goblin-made. The spearguns come from a gogg trader. Best in the world,” Kova said. He smiled grimly. “If there’s one thing the goggs are good at, it’s killing.”

  “What about the rounds?” asked Yazeed.

  “Spears are stainless steel. Gogg-made. Arrows are Kobold steel with barbed heads. Hit someone with one of those, he’s not getting up.”

  “How much?” Sera asked.

  “Seventy thousand trocii.”

  She shook her head. “We haven’t got mer currensea, only doubloons.”

  Kova chuckled. “Stolen from Vallerio’s vaults, I hear.”

  “Not stolen, regained,” Sera retorted. “From my vaults.”

  The Black Fins’ only form of barter was the treasure they’d taken from chambers deep inside Cerulea’s royal palace: goggish doubloons, gemstones, silver goblets, gold jewelry.

  “Fifty thousand doubloons, then,” said Kova.

  “Thirty.”

  Kova didn’t reply. He worked a piece of food from his teeth with his thumbnail. “Forty-five,” he said at length. “Final offer.”

  Sera thought about the price he was demanding. Her treasure was dwindling fast. Paying for food and weapons for her troops, purchasing thorny Devil’s Tail vines and other materials to strengthen her camps’ defenses—it all cost a great deal. So did the lava globes she had to buy, for the Kargjord didn’t appear to have a lava seam under it. And this was only the preparation stage. The battle to take back Cerulea from Vallerio, the fight against Abbadon—these were still to come.

  Forty-five thousand doubloons, she finally decided, was a price she was prepared to pay. But there was another, even higher price for these weapons, one she couldn’t bear to pay: lives.

  For a moment, Sera was no longer in the cave with the Näkki; she was back in Cerulea during the attack. She saw her father’s body sinking through the water. Saw the arrow go into her mother’s chest. Heard the screams of innocent mer as they were slaughtered.

  “Sera…” That was Desiderio. She barely heard him.

  Her gaze came to rest on Kova. His palm lay flat against a rock; a thin line of crimson oozed from it. She raised her eyes and saw smears of blood on the box of barnacles Ling had passed around, and more on the basket of worms.

  I didn’t cut myself, she realized. The Näkki have blood on their hands and they leave it on everything they touch.

  “Sera, we need an answer.” That was Yazeed.

  But she couldn’t make the words come. She was immobilized by fear—fear for her people, for the suffering and destruction to come. How could any ruler make the decision to go to war? Even for a just cause? How could she send thousands to their deaths?

  And then she heard another voice—Vrăja’s. Sera was certain that the river witch had been killed by death riders, but she lived on in Sera’s heart.

  Instead of shunning your fear, you must let it speak, Vrăja had told her. It will give you good counsel.

  Sera listened.

  The Näkki peddle death, her fear said. But you must learn to sit with death, and his merchants, if you want to defeat your uncle and destroy the evil in the Southern Sea. How many more will die if you take no action?

  Sera raised her eyes to Kova’s and, in a voice heavy with dread, said, “We have a deal.”

  Kova nodded. “My terms are half up front.”

  Sera’s fins flared. She did not take orders from arms-dealing sea scum. “My terms are nothing up front,” she shot back. “When I get my weapons, you get your gold.”

  Kova gave her a long look. “How will you get the goods to the Karg? They’ll be in crates roped to hippokamps. My hippokamps. They aren’t part of the deal.”

  “That’s my worry,” Sera replied.

  Kova snorted. “Yes, it is. That and much more,” he said, rising. Julma and Petos followed his lead. “Give me five days,” he said, thrusting his hand at Sera to seal the deal.

  Sera rose, too, and shook it, her eyes locked on his, her grip firm. Kova released her hand and then the three Näkki pulled their hoods over their heads. Seconds later, they were gone.

  Sera looked down at her palm, knowing what she would see.

  She felt a hand on her back. It was Ling. “It washes off,” she said.

  Sera shook her head. “No, Ling,” she said softly. “It doesn’t.”

  THE CURRENTS of Mørk Dal were deserted, its shops closed, its homes shuttered against the night. The glow from a handful of sputtering lava globes was all that illuminated the sleeping goblin village in the frigid gray waters of the North Sea.

  Astrid Kolfinnsdottir moved silently down the main current, sword drawn, eyes alert for any movement. She was hunting for a mirror.

  There were none in the Kargjord, where she’d left her friends, or in the barren waters that surrounded that wasteland. She’d been swimming south for days. Mørk Dal was the first village she’d come across, the first place where she could find what she needed.

  Orfeo had summoned her. He’d come to her in a mirror, and she knew she would have to go to him the same way. But how? Many of the greatest mages couldn’t travel through mirrors. How was she—a mermaid with no magic, one who couldn’t sing a note—supposed to?

  “This is total insanity,” she whispered. “It’s hopeless. Impossible. Suicidal.” She’d been saying these words a lot lately—ever since she’d met Serafina, Neela, Ling, Ava, and Becca in the Iele’s caves.

  The six mermaids had been called together by the Iele’s leader, Baba Vrăja. She was the one who’d told them about the monster in the Southern Sea and said they were the only ones who could defeat it.

  After they’d left the Iele, they’d learned that Orfeo had been a healer and the most formidable of the Atlantean mages—the Six Who Ruled. Each of the six had a talisman, a magical object that enhanced their powers. Orfeo’s, a flawless emerald, had been given to him by Eveksion, the god of healing.

  Together with his fellow mages, Orfeo had ruled wisely and well and was beloved by his subjects—until his wife, Alma, died. He couldn’t accept her death and had begged Horok, the keeper of the underworld, to return her to him. Horok refused, and Orfeo vowed to take her back. He’d set about creating a monster powerful enough to attack the underworld—Abbadon. Orfeo invoked the death goddess Morsa to aid him in his quest. From her, he gained a new talisman: a flawless black pearl.

  When the other five mages—Merrow, Nyx, Sycorax, Navi, and Pyrrha—discovered what Orfeo was doing, they’d tried to stop him. Enraged, he unleashed his monster against them. In the ensuing battle, Abbadon destroyed Atlantis. As its people fled to the water, Merrow beseeched Neria, the sea goddess, to help them. Neria knit the Atlantea
ns’ legs into tails and gave them the ability to breathe water, saving them.

  Though the five mages fought bravely, they couldn’t kill Abbadon, so they’d driven it into the Carceron, the island’s prison. To open the prison’s lock, they’d needed all six of their talismans. Orfeo refused to surrender his; they’d had to kill him to get it. Once Abbadon was imprisoned, Sycorax, with the help of whales, dragged the Carceron to the Southern Sea.

  Afterward, Merrow hid the talismans in the most dangerous places in the six water realms to make sure that no one could ever use them to free Abbadon. Then she had all historical records of the monster erased. A new story was told, one in which Atlantis was destroyed by natural causes. Over time, Orfeo’s treachery, his monster, and the talismans were forgotten.

  Merrow was sure that she’d done everything necessary to protect her people, but she was wrong.

  Because Orfeo had found a way to cheat death. The other mages only thought they had killed him. He’d secreted his soul in Morsa’s black pearl, then bided his time, for centuries, until a fish found the pearl and swallowed it. When a fisherman caught the creature and cleaned it, he discovered the pearl. A Viking chieftain bought the pearl from him, and as the chieftain held it, Orfeo’s soul flowed into his body, taking it over. Alive again, Orfeo began to hunt for the other talismans, eager to unleash his monster.

  Orfeo had vowed to take Alma back from Horok, if it took him all eternity. Astrid knew that he was now close to honoring that vow.

  The vicious Vallerio was working to conquer all the mer realms and unite their militaries in the service of Orfeo’s quest. With this immense army, and the fearsome Abbadon, Orfeo would finally be able to launch his attack on the underworld. He recognized that the gods themselves would fight him, and that the battle might wreak havoc on not only the underworld, but also the water and land realms. But none of that concerned Orfeo. Once reunited with his wife, he would begin the world anew with whatever was left. The only obstacles in his path were six young mermaids.

  Why have you summoned us? Serafina had asked Vrăja. Why not emperors or admirals or commanders with their soldiers? Why not the waters’ most powerful mages?

  Vrăja had told them that they were the worlds’ most powerful mages; each was a descendant of the Six Who Ruled, and their ancestors’ magic lived on inside them.

  Astrid was Orfeo’s descendant. She hadn’t believed the river witch. It was amazing. It was impossible. It was a total joke.

  Orfeo was the most powerful mage the world had ever seen. Ever. And Astrid? She couldn’t even cast a basic camo spell without the whalebone pipe Becca had made for her. She’d been able to make magic years ago, when she was a small child, but she’d lost her magic shortly after celebrating at Månenhonnør, her realm’s moon festival.

  And now she was attempting to find the powerful, immortal Orfeo and take the black pearl from him so that she and the others could combine all the talismans once more, unlock the Carceron, and kill Abbadon. Her. Astrid Kolfinnsdottir. A mermaid with no magic.

  “Total insanity,” she whispered again. But she had to do it. She had to find Orfeo, and she had to get the black pearl. She was the only one who could.

  Astrid kept moving through Mørk Dal, her eyes sweeping left to right. She swam past a shopwindow containing jars of wrinkled terragogg ears, candied sea cucumbers, and spiced krill; another displayed weapons fashioned from fine Kobold steel; a third had an array of lava globes. She needed a hairdresser’s shop, a jeweler, or a tailor—someplace with a mirror—but she didn’t see one.

  A few minutes later, she reached the end of the main current, where the shops gave way to houses. A narrow side current with a few more shops on it snaked off to the right. One store had a sign above its window: SELWIG’S SHIPWRECK SALVAGE.

  Astrid sped to it. Salvagers, goblin and mer, combed shipwrecks for valuable objects. They almost always had mirrors for sale. She pressed her nose to the window, cupping her eyes. The shop was dark, but a nearby lava globe, mounted on a pole, threw off enough light for her to see its contents: crystal goblets, brass lanterns, a croquet set…and a mirror!

  Glancing around to make sure no one else was nearby, Astrid slid her sword back into its sheath at her hip and drew a dagger from inside her parka. She inserted the blade into the door’s lock, twisted it sharply, then yanked it upward. The tumblers shot back, and the door swung open. She put her dagger away and swam inside. As she closed the door behind her, she cast another wary glance at the current. The last thing she needed was to get arrested.

  Threading her way past piles of sailcloth, plastic coolers, and coils of nylon rope, Astrid approached the mirror. It was oval and quite large, with a gold frame. In it, she could see her reflection: her braided hair, as pale as moonlight; her ice-blue eyes; her strong black-and-white tail.

  “How do I do this?” she asked herself.

  She remembered her whalebone pipe. Maybe it would help. But as she was reaching for it, she stopped. Camo spells were all she knew how to cast. And even if she had known the songspell for mirror travel, she’d never be able to pull it off. Her magic was too weak.

  She thought back to the time Orfeo had come to her in a mirror at Tanner’s Deeps. He’d held his hand up to the glass and she’d held hers up, too, and for a second, she’d felt as if she was sinking into silver. She pressed a palm against the mirror now. Nothing happened. She pushed harder. Still nothing. Frustrated, she tried one last time.

  That’s when the woman’s face, pale and disembodied, floated into view.

  “HOLY SILT!” Astrid yelped, darting backward.

  She crashed into a heavy wooden deck chair, toppled over it, and fell against a shelf of cruise ship kitchenware. The shelf broke. Pots, pans, and pitchers came tumbling down. The noise was deafening.

  I’ve just woken the entire village, Astrid thought as a mixing bowl bounced off her skull.

  The head was still there. It was peering at Astrid from inside the mirror. As she watched, a neck appeared underneath it, then a body.

  “It’s only a vitrina,” she whispered when her heartbeat returned to something like normal. Vapid and vain, vitrina were the souls of terragoggs who’d spent too much time gazing into mirrors when they were alive.

  The ghost had poked her head around the mirror’s frame, but now she walked fully into the glass. She wore a wasp-waisted dress, flat shoes, and pearls. Her hair was swept up in a sleek twist.

  “Are you trying to come in?” she asked as a scowling Astrid extricated herself from the avalanche.

  “Yes, I am,” Astrid said, rubbing her bruised tail. “How did you do it?”

  “I wanted to be the prettiest girl in Paris,” the vitrina said. “And I told the mirror. Over and over again. What do you want? To be the prettiest mermaid in the sea?”

  “Um, not exactly,” Astrid replied.

  A noise coming from the current made her freeze. Her eyes went to the door, but no one was there. She placed her palm on the mirror again.

  The vitrina clapped her hands. “Oh, I know! You want to be the prettiest mermaid in all the seas!”

  “How did you guess?” Astrid said sarcastically, growing impatient with this bubblehead.

  “All you have to do is tell the mirror,” said the vitrina encouragingly.

  Astrid knew it was dangerous to state her desires. Orfeo was in that liquid-silver world somewhere, and he might hear. But what choice did she have?

  Her hand still on the glass, she closed her eyes. “I want the black pearl,” she said.

  Nothing happened, but she heard the noise again: a voice, outside on the current. Astrid swam to the window, careful to stay in the shadows, and peered out. A Feuerkumpel goblin was walking toward the shop. She could see his topknot of black hair. Lava burn scars pitted his face. He had nostrils but no nose, sharp teeth, and transparent eyes. His body was covered by hard, bony black plates. He was cursing loudly.

  Maybe he’s a town guard or the shop owner, Astrid thought. He m
ust’ve heard the racket she’d made and was coming to investigate. She raced back to the mirror and tried again to go through the glass, fear plucking at her nerves.

  “I want Abbadon dead.”

  The vitrina crossed her arms. She gave Astrid a skeptical look. “Are you telling the mirror what you really want?”

  Astrid gritted her teeth. “I want Orfeo dead. I want Rylka to pay for murdering my father. I want Portia and Vallerio out of Ondalina. I want my brother and mother to be safe.”

  But again, nothing happened. And the goblin was coming closer.

  It’s no use, Astrid thought, panicking. Whatever little bit of magic I still have isn’t strong enough to get me through the glass.

  She heard a shout. And then two more. Whoever was out there was bringing friends. She had to get out of here before they caught her.

  She was just about to look for a back door when the vitrina said, “Wait!”

  Astrid, frantic now, turned to her.

  “You’re not being honest. Until you are, the mirror won’t let you in. Admit it—you want to be the prettiest mermaid in every sea, ocean, bay, river, lake, pond, stream, creek, waterfall, and puddle,” the vitrina said, wagging her finger. “Who doesn’t want to be the prettiest? For goodness’ sake, mermaid, just say what you want!”

  Astrid tried one last time. Putting both hands on the glass, she closed her eyes. “I want…” she started to say, searching for the right words.

  And then, sudden and unbidden, they came. From the deepest part of her heart.

  “I want my magic back.”

  An instant later, she was tumbling headfirst through the mirror.

  “AND THEN the ship hit the rocks and broke into a million pieces!” trilled the mermaid Laktara.

  She threw her head back and laughed. The sound was musical and beguiling, every bit as beguiling as her beautiful face, her green eyes, and the thick auburn tresses that cascaded down her back.

  “Tell me the rest of the story, Tara!” Lucia Volnero called out from her dressing room, where she was changing into a gown.