“See? Best mom in the world.”
Visola smiled and squeezed her daughter’s bony wrist reassuringly. She was startled when she heard the hospital door opening, and her head jerked towards the entrance. She exhaled a sigh of relief when she saw that it was only her husband.
“How are my two favorite ladies?” Vachlan asked as he walked inside and closed the door behind him.
Visola looked to her daughter expectantly, giving her a chance to respond, but Alcyone grew very silent. She turned to Vachlan and spoke on her daughter’s behalf. “I believe she’s improving greatly.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’m also pleased about the special accommodations. How did the plan work, Viso?” Vachlan asked.
“It went swimmingly, Husband.”
“You know you don’t have to go through with—”
“Seducing Landou? It was your idea!”
“I was drinking and rambling out of my ass.”
“Well, you happen to have a brilliant drunken ass.”
He gave her a small smile and began speaking, then paused, looking at Alcyone who had turned away from him. A flash of pain crossed over his expression. “Viso… may I have a word with you?”
“Sure,” she said, understanding that it was awkward to speak in front of Alcyone when she refused to participate. If it was military business, it was best not to cause her additional stress anyway. She hopped off the bed, and moved closer to Vachlan, but for some reason, neither of them moved to exit the room.
Vachlan just lowered his voice a few notches. “Trevain wants me to help him lead a faction to search for Aazuria in the Maldives. The squadrons we sent there earlier this year never returned. I believe that it’s the most likely place that they would hold the queen, but it’s also probably the most heavily guarded stronghold anywhere in the oceans. We can’t use force; we’ll have to sneak in. Emperor Zalcan usually keeps his prisoners in the dungeons below his palace in the coral reefs…”
“Wait, wait, wait. Help him lead? You and Trevain? My husband, and my grandson, leading this attack… both of you?” Visola’s voice was rising in volume and laced with panic. “That’s insane! It’s a suicide mission—I will not permit either of you to go. Unless I come along.”
“You can’t. You have the conference to prepare for.”
“Screw that. What is Trevain thinking? He can’t go to the Maldives. It’s far too dangerous.”
“That didn’t stop you from marching into Zimovia. What kind of example were you setting for the boy?”
“Excuse me? You left me no choice in the matter. My sister’s life was at stake.”
“I wouldn’t have killed her. I was just bluffing.”
“Liar,” Visola muttered. “Anyway, my point is that we can’t let Trevain go…”
“We have to. And I have to go with him, because he’s never been on this type of mission before. We have to give him a chance. How is this any different from what you did?” Vachlan asked.
“It’s different because I lived. It’s different because I’m the big kahuna. No one’s the boss of me, but he’s my grandson, and I’m the boss of him. I’m also the boss of you, husband.”
“I don’t think either of us would agree with you.”
“Then you’d both be wrong. Trevain isn’t going anywhere—he isn’t leaving Adlivun. We haven’t received a ransom note, and Zuri could be anywhere on this whole Sedna-damned planet. I will find her. I swear I will find her. She’s my best friend, and I’d cut off your balls and throw them into the jaws of a crocodile faster than you can say ‘crikey’ if it would get her back.”
“Thanks.”
“But we have to go about this the right way—we have powerful allies now who will help us with their brand spankin’ new technology…”
“Viso, you said yourself that the Americans are doing… what was the exact word you used?”
“Diddlysquat,” she provided promptly, “but after the APEC conference, that will change. We just need to have patience.”
“Since when have you ever had a droplet of patience?” Vachlan asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Since the alternative was losing you and my grandson!” Visola shouted.
“Mama,” Alcyone said nervously from across the room where she had been anxiously listening. “You’re not going to let Trevain…”
Visola immediately regretted shouting. “No way, baby. Shhh, relax—I’m not going to let your boy make any foolish decisions.”
“But you have to,” Vachlan said with a frown. “He’s becoming volatile and unstable, Viso. I almost think that it would be safer to let Trevain attack the Clan of Zalcan head on than to let him stew in his own guilt and anger. You’ve seen it—he’s becoming a danger to himself and everyone around him. We have to let him do what he can to try and get his wife back, or he’s going to implode. I swear I will keep an eye on him—I won’t let him go it alone.”
“No,” Visola said quietly. “As your general, I forbid you both.”
“Dearest, he’s the king…”
“You said it yourself—his decision-making is compromised,” Visola’s eyes were hard and her voice was stern. “It seems that I may have to declare martial law.”
“You can’t insult him like that. He needs time to grow into his authority. He’s doing the best that he can, and I support his plan. I will be happy to organize and command…”
“Vachlan,” Visola said, her voice shaking a little. “Please. Can’t Major Mardöll do it?”
“But…” Vachlan hesitated, with an argument on the tip of his tongue about the men requiring firm leadership. There were a dozen reasons he should be the one to lead the men—primarily that he knew the kingdom of the Clan of Zalcan better than anyone in Adlivun. Secondly, he had great experience leading small factions on mercenary-like missions. But when he saw the fear in Visola’s eyes, he instantly relented. “Sure. I’ll ask her to take over the mission.”
Visola breathed a sigh of relief. “Excellent. Thank you.” She was trying her best to be professional, but as usual, the general and the woman in her were at odds with each other. She was quite positive that if Vachlan left her side again, he would never return. It was how they had been separated before—both of them had been leading various armies on their individual missions, and in the time apart, King Kyrosed had used rumors and hearsay to turn them against each other.
Visola turned back to the bed to see Alcyone staring down at her hands. The elderly woman was nervously wringing the blanket between her wizened fingers. It occurred to Visola that both Trevain and Vachlan were headstrong men who would be challenging to completely control. They were family after all, and she would not expect any less from them. She would not have grown to love her grandson nearly as much as she had if he had been a doormat. Also, he probably would not have existed to begin with if Vachlan had not been the Destroyer of Kingdoms; as much the polar opposite of a pushover as she could find on the planet. She admired such qualities in men.
If this pair managed to do something stupid and get themselves into trouble, as men often did… anything could happen. And if, Sedna forbid, something happened to Vachlan, then he would die without ever having been spoken to by his daughter. Visola’s eyes narrowed in displeasure at the thought. Yes, perhaps Vachlan deserved Alcyone’s cold shoulder, but he did not deserve to die without ever being acknowledged by his firstborn and only child. Visola approached her daughter’s bedside and gave her a pleading look.
“Sweetie,” she said. “Your dad’s been a giant fuck-up, but won’t you at least look him in the eyes and say a few words to him? I genuinely believe that he’s trying to fix things. He’s going to help us get Zuri back.”
Alcyone shook her head in refusal. To Visola, it really did feel like Alcyone was still a child sometimes. A child trapped in the body of an ancient woman.
“Alcie, baby,” Visola coaxed. “Please soften up. You’ve got your mom and dad standing here in the same room with you—how often has that hap
pened in the past two hundred years? It hasn’t. And it may not happen again. Something could happen to either of us in the near future. Vachlan could be gone again tomorrow, and you would never…”
“I promised you that I wouldn’t let that happen again,” Vachlan reminded her firmly. “From this point on, nothing in creation has the power to keep us from being in the same room more often.”
“I don’t believe it,” Visola said. She reached out and placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “That’s why I think you should talk to him, Alcie. Your dad’s a solar eclipse, a blue moon, and an icy comet all wrapped up into one. He is here briefly, but something will surely take him away from us soon. You should say hello, Alcie. Just say hello to him.”
“No, mama,” Alcyone said, staring at the window curtains. “I prefer not to fraternize with fickle cosmic events. It’s a personal choice, but I’m an adult, so I am entitled to make it. I have lived for over two hundred years without a trace of him, and I will continue just the same.”
Visola turned to Vachlan, and the two shared the universal look of parental helplessness. Visola felt torn between the need to respect her daughter’s wishes and protect her from future harm, and the yearning to mend her family.
Vachlan cleared his throat before speaking. “I know that it didn’t seem to matter the first thousand times—but I do regret my actions. Alcyone, it’s the greatest shame of my life that I was weak enough to lose faith in your mother. I wish I could change everything, but I can’t. All I can do is be here for you now—and believe me; I’m going to be here for you. Every single day, I’m going to bother you annoyingly until you deem me worthy. And then I’ll be here for every day after that.” Vachlan’s voice was resolute and determined as it filled the hospital room, and neither Alcyone nor Visola doubted that he would pursue this goal. He smiled down at his stubborn daughter’s turned cheek.
“The time is coming soon when you’re going to have to give up this grudge, Alcyone. I know that both you and your mother are too kind to let me grovel before you forever—and trust me, I will keep groveling. I’m your father, and I know that blood is precious to you. We need to have a chance to be a family together.”
Alcyone rolled her eyes at the curtains skeptically.
“Come, Visola,” Vachlan said, gently touching his wife’s wrist. “We need to discuss our plans for the APEC meeting.”
Chapter 5: The Silent Siren
Trevain swam through the network of caves, occasionally looking down at his map. His eyes were not as well-adjusted to the darkness as the long-time citizens of Adlivun. This was not usually an impediment as most of Adlivun was brightly lit, often with stylish chandeliers or candelabras, but this time, his destination happened to be in a remote part of the country where he had never traveled. It was far from the metropolitan caverns, and even farther from the glacier palace. He had been swimming for an hour, and just as one would when driving out into the country, he began to see more and more evidence of wildlife.
The way one might be nervous of hitting a deer on a highway on a dark night, Trevain was cautious about encountering large beasts. There might be squids or octopi. There might be anything. He knew that some of the children in Adlivun kept small octopi as pets, and insisted that they were far more intelligent and fun to play with than dogs. They could open jars and solve puzzles. Still, he was not sure he wanted to have a personal encounter with a massive wild octopus on its own turf.
Sionna had given him directions to the lagoon where Elandria had holed herself up. Everyone was concerned about the way that Elandria had withdrawn from society after Aazuria’s disappearance. At first she had just remained in her room in the ice palace, but seeking even more solitude, she had made something of a small pilgrimage out to the furthest reaches of Adlivun. There she had remained for weeks, with her only company being the sea cows and their caretakers. She had abandoned her life with almost nun-like asceticism.
After making the trip to visit her, Sionna had become even more worried about Elandria’s state of mind. She had personally requested that Trevain try and speak with her. Trevain was not sure why his great-aunt thought he could make any kind of difference, but he knew it was his duty to try. Elandria was his family now—she was his responsibility. Without Aazuria around to take care of the quiet woman, he should be the one to assume this role. He continued swimming through the tunnels until he reached a dead end. He looked around, and saw that there was nowhere to go but up—he was somewhat disoriented.
He swam upwards until he came to the surface of the underground spring. He reached up and grasped the jagged rocks to pull himself out of the water. When he was standing on hard ground, he wiped the lingering droplets away from his face and eyes, and scanned the area for the tunnel indicated on the map. When he found it, he continued forth purposefully, ignoring the chill in the air now that he was no longer submerged in the water which naturally warmed by geothermal heat. The tunnel was narrow and he had to shuffle sideways to move through the opening. He was halfway through the passage when the sound reached him. A vibrating, operatic hymn was echoing as it skimmed against the cave walls, barely reaching his ears with a faint caress.
As he advanced, the melody grew louder and more distinct. He swallowed when he was finally able to discern the words. The combination of the poignant notes of the ballad and its profound lyrics arrested him. He reached out and placed a hand on the wall, and he could almost feel the rocks pulsating in reaction to the music. It seemed impossible that one solitary human voice could be so powerful. The song thrust ghosts of Aazuria’s smile and embrace back at him with staggering force.
The tune drew him forward, but it also repelled him. He fought the urge to turn around and swim away. The harmony was so achingly sweet that it seized various organs in his torso with pain and longing. He could not bear to be reminded of Aazuria this vividly. There was no force more powerful than music when it came to stirring up sorrow. He had been barely hanging on by a thread, and now he felt that his thread had been shredded.
He was plummeting. Trevain was plummeting into a dark, unreachable place. He leaned back against the rocks, angry at himself for what felt like inaction, even though he knew that he had been doing his best to search for Aazuria. He needed to do more. He needed to be ten times more productive, but his anger engulfed him until it was paralyzing. He should turn around and swim back to the city. He was in no condition to confront Elandria now. His anger defeated his natural inclinations to be kind and patient. His self-discipline was wavering; the aria was shattering the thin layer of crystalline glass that had protectively surrounded his soul.
While he had been dealing with the military on land, and becoming more and more frustrated every day, Elandria had been dealing with her grief in a completely different way. She had been pouring her woe into her art. It occurred to him for the first time that he had also missed Elandria. She had been hiding away like a princess in a tower.
Without his permission, his feet began moving again, shuffling his body through the passage. It was surely the song beckoning him, and he could not escape its magnetism. When he exited the tunnel, he rounded a corner and found himself pausing in midstride. His eyes were met by a shadowy scene that he could not have envisioned.
Even more magical than Elandria’s voice was the dreamlike landscape before him. The young woman reclined on a rock in the center of a glistening lagoon. She was facing away from him, so she could not see that he had entered. Her song masked his footsteps. He saw her chest expand with her deep breaths, and watched as she seemed to use her entire body to propel the song forth. So this was the type of voice which had inspired the myths about sirens. Her art was far past professional, as one could imagine after over five centuries of practice.
Many in Adlivun liked to spread rumors about the origin of Elandria’s talent, as jealous onlookers often will. Many liked to say that she used her gift for ill gain, for it was irrefutable that a voice like that could bring any man to his knees. But n
one of this was true. Her voice was the purest sound Trevain had ever heard; purer than the trill of any songbird, even purer than the wind. In addition to the time spent honing her talent, Elandria had used an unusually rigorous training regimen. She had confined herself to singing only in the water for long periods of time. The constant strain to make the sound intelligible, and then to make it sound passably good, had increased her power and control over her vocal chords to almost supernatural proportions.
It was also said that she remained quiet all the time to preserve her singing voice. People scoffed about how Elandria thought she was above the common task of speaking. In Trevain’s opinion, as he watched her shoulders sway in verification that the heavenly magic was actually created by her body, perhaps she was. He could see small waves stirring around her. Ripples seemed to concentrate around her toes, which barely dipped into the water. For a foolish moment, he wondered whether she was some kind of witch who was causing the waves to move by virtue of her voice alone, but then as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he realized that there were massive creatures dancing just under the surface of the lake.
The long train of her white gown was curling about her ankles as one particular beast nudged her toes fondly. She seemed unfazed by the size of the sea cows, and instead seemed to enjoy the way they worshipped her. There was warmth in the atmosphere—there was an interesting dynamic of family between Elandria and the manatees.
Her slim silhouette, viewed from behind, made him swallow back a lump of nostalgia. Her resemblance to Aazuria was uncanny—the women had similar figures and coloring. Elandria was a bit smaller than his wife, with far less muscle tone, but from this distance and angle, the only telltale difference between the sisters was Elandria’s long white braid. Trevain logically knew that it was not Aazuria who lounged on the rock, but his emotions and his body seemed to be reacting to the sight without his consent. His heart longed to rejoice at seeing his wife again, so seeing a woman who was nearly her spitting image was almost good enough. Well, he thought to himself, they do say that a drowning man will clutch at straws.
Sacred Breath Series (Books 1-4) Page 64
