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

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “Becs, dude…it’s a fake-out move!” Yazeed crowed.

  Sera nodded. “Yes, it is.”

  Desiderio steepled his fingers. He rested his chin on them and stared at his sister. Sera had gone against his counsel. Would he still support her decision?

  “Our uncle’s no fool. What makes you think he’ll buy it?” he said at length.

  “Because he thinks I’m a fool,” Sera replied. “And this is just the sort of hotheaded move a fool would make.”

  “Can’t fault you on that logic,” Des said.

  “When the spy in our midst tells Vallerio that we’re heading for Cerulea,” Sera said, “Vallerio will order his troops out of the Atlantic and the Southern Sea, and back into the city to guard it.”

  Ling sat forward in her chair. “Which clears a path straight to Abbadon,” she said excitedly.

  “Exactly,” Sera said. “Any questions?”

  “Yeah, a big one,” said Desiderio. “Earlier tonight, you told us you couldn’t send troops into battle knowing lives would be lost. Now you’re about to order your fighters to the Southern Sea. A lot of them won’t make it back. Why the sudden change of heart?”

  Sera took a deep breath, Des’s question echoing in her mind. There were other questions there, too. So many, and all of them impossible to answer.

  Was love enough? Was it stronger than her uncle’s brutality, his lust for power, his hatred? Was it stronger than fear? Stronger than death?

  Sera knew she’d never find the answers if she didn’t make her move.

  “Because it’s time, Des,” she finally said.

  “Time for what?”

  “Time to play my uncle’s game like a queen, not a pawn.”

  ASTRID STARED AT the gown. It was the most magnificent garment she’d ever seen. Made of black sea silk, it was trimmed with pieces of polished jet at the neckline and hem. The long sleeves ended in points, the waist was nipped, the skirt long and flowing.

  “A gift for you. From the master,” said the servant, as she laid the gown across Astrid’s bed. “He has summoned you to the garden and wishes you to wear it.”

  “Maybe another time,” Astrid said. The gown was beautiful but impractical. Her own clothing would serve her better if she needed to fight. Or escape.

  “But your things are worn and stained,” the servant said, dismayed by Astrid’s refusal.

  “I’m good.”

  The servant shook her head. She started toward Astrid. “You can’t possibly accompany the master in such filthy—”

  Astrid’s hand went to the hilt of her sword. “I said I’m good.”

  The servant stopped dead.

  “He may be your master, but he’s not mine,” Astrid said, a note of warning in her voice. She was not here to make friends.

  “Very well,” the servant said stiffly. “This way, please.”

  She turned and swam out of the room. Astrid followed her.

  She’d eaten a brief meal with Orfeo yesterday, right after she’d arrived at Shadow Manse. During their time together, Astrid had pressed him to tell her why he’d summoned her, but he’d deflected her question.

  “All in good time,” he said. “It’s late, and you’ve traveled far. It’s time for you to rest.” At a wave of his hand, a servant had appeared to take Astrid to her room.

  There she’d sat up in a chair wary and watchful, alert to every noise, until finally, just before dawn, she’d given in to her body’s need for sleep. When she’d awoken, hours later, she’d immediately realized that someone had been in her room: a breakfast tray was resting on a nearby table and the sea-silk gown had been draped across the bed.

  Astrid had jumped out of the chair, furious with herself for letting her guard down. She could’ve been killed in her sleep.

  “But you weren’t,” she’d said to herself. “Seems Orfeo doesn’t want you dead. At least, not yet.”

  She’d eaten breakfast and then the servant had appeared to take her to Orfeo. This time, she would make him tell her why he’d summoned her.

  Astrid looked around as she swam, taking in the silent servants, all dressed in ebony sea flax; the midnight-hued draperies billowing in the current; and the twists and turns of the obsidian passageways.

  A few minutes later, they arrived at a pair of arched doors. The servant opened them, then swept a hand in front of her. Astrid swam through the doorway and into a walled courtyard. The gardens—formal, extensive, and planted entirely in black—matched the rest of the palace.

  Ebony sea roses, feathery tube worms, gorgons, seaweeds, corals, and anemones grew on a foundation of night-dark basalt. As Astrid swam through the gardens, looking for Orfeo, onyx eels darted between rocks. Rays glided overhead, as silent as shadows. A dozen anglerfish, light shining from the thin, fleshy stalks protruding from their heads, looked like living lanterns.

  “Here at Shadow Manse, black is the new black,” Astrid said under her breath.

  She found Orfeo stooped by a thatch of seaweed, clipping off fronds. A marshgrass basket was at his feet. His back was to her.

  How do you greet a psycho killer? she wondered, then decided on the standard approach. “Good morning, Orfeo.”

  Orfeo turned, smiling. “Ah, Astrid! Good morning!” he said, straightening. “I trust you slept well?”

  “Well enough,” Astrid said guardedly.

  “Sargassum fusiforme,” he said, holding up a cutting. “Helpful in combating fin rot. One of my bull sharks has a nasty case of it.”

  Astrid was about to ask why he kept bull sharks, one of the ocean’s fiercest predators, then realized she probably didn’t want to know.

  Orfeo tucked the cutting into his basket. “I was a healer once,” he explained. “A long time ago. I set bones. Drew infections from wounds. Cooled fevers. Cured all kinds of diseases. Yet I couldn’t save the one person who meant everything to me.”

  “Orfeo, I need to know why you brought me here.”

  Astrid expected him to try to evade the question again, but he surprised her.

  “Because I want to heal you,” he replied.

  Astrid felt both frightened and compelled by the prospect. “Heal me? How?”

  Orfeo placed his shears in the basket. “Tell me about your voice. Your singing voice. What happened to it?”

  Astrid was surprised again. She hadn’t expected a question in response to her own. “I—I lost it when I was little. Right after Månenhonnør.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “The usual things, I guess. Playing with friends. Dancing. Eating Månenkager,” Astrid replied.

  She realized that Orfeo might not know what those were. “They’re little round, iced cakes,” she explained. “They look like the full moon. The baker drops a silver drupe into the batter, then pours the batter into the molds. Whoever gets the coin in her cake has good luck for the coming year.”

  Orfeo was listening raptly. “Did you get the coin?”

  “No. And I didn’t get any luck, either. Unless you count bad luck,” Astrid said wryly.

  “Did anyone get the coin? Any of the other children you were playing with?” Orfeo pressed.

  Astrid thought back to the festival. She pictured her brother, Ragnar. Her merlfriends. That lumpsucker Tauno.

  “Oddly enough, no,” she finally said. “At least not that I can remember. And I think I would remember. Anyone who gets a coin always makes a big deal out of it.” She wondered why she’d never thought about this before.

  “May I feel your throat?” Orfeo asked. His eyes were hidden, as usual, behind his glasses, but the rest of his face had taken on an intense look.

  “Why do you want to heal me? What do you want in return?” Astrid asked warily. “Maybe you don’t want to heal me. Maybe you want to choke the life out of me instead. Is that the reason I’m here? So you can kill me? Then there will be only five of us left, and your plan to unleash your pet monster will be that much easier.” Her words were blunt. The time for beating around
the coral was over.

  As she spoke, a look of pain sliced across Orfeo’s face. “I would never hurt you, Astrid. Never,” he said. “I only want to help you. Can’t you see that, you foolish mermaid?”

  For a few seconds, Astrid’s defenses slipped. The longing to sing again was so deep, so desperate, that she pushed her fears aside and with a quick nod, gave her assent. A second later, she felt Orfeo’s hands on her throat. She tried not to flinch as his fingers probed the soft area under her jaw, then worked their way down her neck. She felt him press along the right side of her larynx, then the left. She gasped.

  “Painful?” Orfeo asked.

  “Very,” Astrid rasped.

  “Here?” He gently pressed again.

  “Yes!” Astrid cried out, slapping his hand away. She coughed, and a metallic taste filled her mouth.

  “Astrid, listen to me. You need to be very brave, and very still. Can you do that?”

  “Why?”

  “So I can give you your magic back.”

  Astrid looked at him uncertainly.

  “Trust me, child. You have to trust me.”

  Trust you? Are you out of your mind? she was about to shout.

  But the words died in her throat, because she found, bewilderingly, that she did trust him. Maybe it was the blood they shared. Maybe it was instinct. Something was telling her that Orfeo meant what he was saying—that he would heal her, if she would let him.

  “Okay,” she said in a quavery voice.

  Orfeo placed his thumbs on either side of her voice box. He took a steadying breath, then squeezed in and up at the same time.

  Astrid screamed. Her body went rigid. She tried to get her breath but couldn’t.

  “Cough, Astrid!” Orfeo commanded.

  But Astrid barely heard him.

  Wrong, I was wrong…oh, gods…he’s killing me! her mind shrieked.

  “Cough, Astrid. Now!” Orfeo shouted.

  Astrid brought up a thick, choking mass, and spat it out.

  “Again!” Orfeo ordered.

  Blood filled Astrid’s mouth. She spat it out, but more came. Orfeo was still shouting, but she couldn’t hear him. She was conscious of nothing but pain.

  It was a trick. Orfeo had lured her here to kill her. She was his enemy, a mermaid who’d vowed to destroy Abbadon, his creation. Why would he ever want to help her?

  Astrid tried to swim away, but she faltered and fell forward. Ebony anemones loomed up at her. Tiny lights bobbed before her eyes. Her hands sank into the soft, deep sea silt.

  The dark waters of Orfeo’s garden swirled around her, closing in.

  And then the world, and everything in it, went black.

  “MEU DEUS, does it ever stink in this swamp!” Ava whispered.

  Baby growled his agreement. He was a few feet ahead of her. Ava could always tell where he was by the noises he made.

  The stench of decay swirled all around them. Ava tried to pass it off as just fallen cypress leaves rotting in the water. But the smell was so strong, it was like a living thing, moving all around her.

  It’s them, the Okwa Naholo, she thought grimly. I’m getting closer.

  The deeper Ava moved into the Spiderlair, the more strongly she could feel them. Ever since her visit to the Iele, and the bloodbind she’d sworn with her friends, her ability to sense things had grown. She could hear a lie in a voice now, no matter how hard the speaker tried to hide it. She could tell an ally from an enemy immediately. It was as if her heart had developed its own vision, one more penetrating than mere eyesight could ever be.

  She’d seen the goodness in Manon Laveau, even though the swamp queen had tried hard to hide it. Ava understood why, though. Life in the swamps was dangerous, and sometimes a mer’s survival depended upon her ability to camouflage herself, her home, and her heart.

  But goodness was not what Ava was sensing now.

  An old farmer named Amos, who lived alone in a shack at the edge of the Spiderlair, had told her about the Okwa Naholo. He’d seen them. Not a full-on look—that would have killed him—but a glimpse out of the corner of his eye.

  Amos had heard the legend that Native American terragoggs told of the Okwa Naholo, and he’d passed it on to Ava.

  Centuries ago, a cruel Choctaw warrior named Nashoba bribed the night god to blanket the earth for half a year. Under the cover of darkness, Nashoba and his followers murdered their chief and enslaved their tribe. When the long night finally lifted, the sun god saw what Nashoba had done. He called upon his brother the wind to bind the murderers’ hands and push them into the swamp, where they drowned. To make sure they could never escape, the wind god whirled together cypress branches, swamp mud, and the bones and teeth of dead things to form giant spiders, and then placed them along the swamp’s banks.

  Okwa Naholo meant white people of the water in Choctaw, Amos had told Ava, and over the centuries, the swamp had rotted away the warriors’ flesh, turning them into skeletons. But under each set of white ribs, a black, bloated heart beat on. It was those hearts, and the memories of the evil deeds they contained, that killed anyone who glimpsed the spirits.

  “Go back, you dang fool child!” Amos had urged Ava. But she wouldn’t, so he’d packed her some food, given her his lucky gator foot, and then sent her on her way.

  That had been a full day ago. Judging by the increasing strength of the horrible stench, Ava figured she was well into the Okwa’s waters now.

  “You ready?” she whispered to Baby.

  After the bloodbind, Ava had received some of Ling’s ability with languages. She’d immediately put her new talent to use by trying to reason with the little piranha, but since the noises Baby made were mostly yips, growls, and barks, it was difficult. He understood Ava, though—when it suited him.

  “Remember to swim low,” she instructed him. “Get into the cypress roots as fast as you can, and whatever you do, mano, don’t look at them. They’re coming. Hurry!”

  Baby circled Ava twice, nipped her ear—a sign of affection—and sped off.

  “Great Neria, protect him,” Ava whispered.

  The Okwa Naholo wouldn’t be able to see the little fish—that was something. Baby was invisible. At least, Ava hoped he was. Since she couldn’t see, she couldn’t be certain. She’d given him the transparensea pebble that Vrăja had given her. “Hold it in your mouth,” she’d advised him. He’d promptly swallowed it. Sighing, she’d cast the spell and hoped for the best.

  Invisibility would help him, and so would his own bad vision. Piranhas’ eyes, Ava knew, were on the sides of their heads—which meant they could not see what was directly in front of them. That blind spot would keep him safe from any Okwa Naholo approaching head-on. Eventually, though, the spirits would surround her. Hopefully, Baby would be in the cypress roots by then and out of harm’s way. Once he’d found what she’d told him to look for, he’d have to close his eyes and navigate back to her by sound. That wouldn’t be too difficult, because piranhas had excellent hearing.

  As soon as Baby was gone, Ava felt it—a wave of despair so strong, it made her sick. As nausea roiled in her stomach, she heard a voice.

  “Are you lost, mermaid?” it asked.

  The voice was kindly, but Ava sensed darkness under the sympathetic tone. It was the voice you heard on a deserted current when you’d swum too far or taken a wrong turn. When it was too late to turn back. To swim away. To scream for help.

  Show no fear, Ava told herself, turning to the thing that had spoken.

  “You are so sweet for asking, amigo!” she trilled, pressing a hand to her chest. “I am lost. I’ve had a lovely little swim through the swamp, but now I’m trying to make my way back to the Gulf and I must’ve gone the wrong way, because here I am! But now you’ve come along. I mean, am I lucky or what?”

  Ava was babbling madly. She needed to keep talking to give Baby time to find Nyx’s talisman. That was their plan.

  Ava would distract the Okwa Naholo, and Baby would search for the ruby
ring. Merrow had given the talisman to these spirits to make sure no one else could ever lay hands on it. No doubt the Okwa had hidden it well, but the deft little fish was perfectly suited to darting in and out of the twining cypress roots.

  “Perhaps I, too, can help you find your way,” another voice offered.

  “That would be awesome, mano!” Ava said. The stench of decay was so powerful now it nearly made her gag.

  Come on, Baby! she silently urged the piranha. Where are you?

  “I have a map here, but I think you’re going to need to take off your sunglasses to read it,” a third voice said silkily.

  Ava feigned regret. “Sorry, querida, but that won’t do me any good. I can’t see your map. I’m blind as a barnacle. Perhaps you could, um…tell me the right direction?”

  Where on earth is Baby? she wondered frantically. What if he doesn’t find the ring?

  The temperature of the swamp water dropped again. The Okwa were angry. Ava could feel it. They kept talking, and though their words were still polite, their voices had an edge. More of them came. They moved closer to her. She started to lose her nerve, then remembered that their hands were bound.

  As she burbled on, another deeper wave of despair hit her. It was followed by a jolt of panic. A wash of desperation. An avalanche of fear. She didn’t know where these feeling were coming from. As she struggled to cope with them, her words trailed away, and she started to see images in her mind. One was of a terragogg running away. Another was of a woman begging on her knees. A third showed a man screaming.

  Ava’s breath caught as she realized that she was feeling exactly what Nashoba’s victims had felt and seen—right before he’d killed them. The Okwa Naholo couldn’t kill her through her eyes, so they were using her heart.

  “Is there something wrong?” one of them asked, with sugary concern. “You’ve suddenly turned so pale!”

  Ava couldn’t speak. The visions grew worse. It seemed as if she was witnessing the deaths of every one of Nashoba’s victims. Keening with grief, she sank slowly through the water. The thick ooze on the bottom of the swamp clutched at her. She no longer cared about the ring. She didn’t care if she lived or died. She only wanted the suffering to stop. She didn’t want to feel the victims’ pain and terror. She didn’t want to feel anything.