Waterfire Saga, Book Three: Dark Tide: A Deep Blue Novel

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Sera paused here, to let the weight of her words sink in. Then she said, “When I was in Cerulea, I spied on Vallerio and Portia and overheard Portia say that the person who wants to free Abbadon has two of the talismans—Merrow’s and Orfeo’s.”

  “But I thought you had Merrow’s talisman,” Ava countered.

  “I do. Vallerio has what he thinks is Merrow’s blue diamond, but it’s only a fake. I have the real one,” Sera explained. “Orfeo’s talisman is a black pearl that Morsa gave him. I’m praying that the pearl Portia mentioned is also a fake, and hoping that the real one is still where Merrow hid it—in a maelstrom off the coast of Greenland.”

  Astrid laughed harshly. “Good luck trying to get it. That maelstrom? It’s called the Qanikkaaq. It swallows trawlers whole.”

  “I don’t need luck, Astrid. I need you,” Sera said. “I need you to go to the maelstrom, find out if the real pearl’s still inside it, and get it out if it is.”

  Astrid looked trapped. “I told you, Sera…I can’t. I just can’t,” she said.

  Becca knew why. She wished she could tell the others, but she couldn’t. It was for Astrid to do, not her.

  Sera nodded stoically, but her eyes told a different story. Becca saw the desperation in them. The convoca started to weaken. The image blurred. Voices rose as everyone tried to talk at once, then they faded. Becca heard broken pleas, warnings, and good-byes.

  “…anything from Ling, get word to me…”

  “…don’t go alone…”

  “…careful! Those waters…”

  “…love you, merl…”

  And then Sera, Neela, and Ava were gone, and it was just Becca and Astrid again. Astrid rose, angrily slapped her tail fin against the cave’s wall, then swam outside and stared into the darkness.

  Becca joined her. “I’m not going home,” she said. “Not now. I’m going straight to Cape Horn. I’ve got to get that talisman from the Williwaw.” She was quiet for a bit, then added, “You want to help her, too. I know you do. I saw it in your eyes.”

  “I don’t know what I want,” Astrid said miserably.

  “Then it’s a good thing I do,” said Becca.

  She swam back to where she’d been sitting, picked up the object she’d been working on, and handed it to Astrid. In Becca’s clever hands, the whalebone had become a slim, graceful pipe. It had a tapered mouthpiece and several stops.

  Astrid looked at it uncertainly. “It’s beautiful, Becs. It’s more than beautiful—it’s amazing.” She raised her eyes to Becca’s. “But what am I supposed to do with it?”

  Becca smiled. “Make magic.”

  ASTRID EYED THE slender whalebone pipe.

  A few minutes ago, there had been anger in her eyes. Now they were filled with a mixture of hope and fear.

  Becca wasn’t surprised to see those emotions together. She knew that sometimes hope was the scariest feeling of all.

  “Is this some weird Atlantean custom?” Astrid asked. “Giving mer instruments they don’t know how to play?”

  Becca didn’t answer. Instead, she hummed a simple canta prax melody—one of the first taught to mer children. It was a camouflage songspell, used by mer to turn themselves bright green so they could blend in with algae or kelp.

  “I learned that when I was little. Did you? When you could still sing?” she asked.

  Astrid nodded.

  “Try it,” Becca said. “It’s not hard to play.”

  Astrid shrugged. “If it’ll make you happy.”

  She touched the mouthpiece to her lips, placed her fingers over the stops, and sounded a few notes. After a few minutes, she had most of the melody figured out. Taking a deep breath, she played it through, with only a few mistakes.

  “Okay, there it is,” she said, glancing at Becca. “Hey, what’s with you?”

  Becca was grinning from ear to ear. “Look at your arms!” she squealed.

  Astrid did. They’d turned a muddy shade of olive. So had the rest of her body. It wasn’t the bright green of a kelp thicket, but it was a start.

  “Oh, my gods!” she yelped, nearly dropping the pipe. “Did that…did I…”

  “Make magic?” Becca trilled. “Yes!”

  “But I don’t…I can’t…”

  “You do and you can. Remember how jumpy you were at the whalefall? And ever since? You thought you were hearing EisGeists, but it was Sera trying to convoca us. You might have lost your singing voice, but you still have magic in you, Astrid. You just needed a way to get it out.”

  Astrid looked down at the pipe as if she was holding a moray eel in her hands.

  She’s scared, Becca thought. Scared that she’ll try again and nothing will happen, that this was all a fluke.

  Becca swam to her friend and took her by the shoulders. “Listen to me. Back in the Incantarium, you were brave for all of us. You saved us from Abbadon. I’m asking you to be brave for yourself now.”

  Astrid lifted her eyes to Becca’s. The look in them was heartbreakingly vulnerable.

  “You can do this,” Becca said. She hummed another easy canta prax spell.

  Astrid lifted the pipe to her lips and played the tune after only two tries.

  “Not bad!” Becca cheered. “You were supposed to turn purple, but blue’s good. Keep going!”

  Astrid did. Over the next hour, she turned rocks orange, her hair pink, and put polka dots on a swordfish. She turned Becca’s face bright yellow, her tail silver, and made tentacles sprout from her head.

  “Okay, okay, that’s enough!” Becca finally said. “It’s late. I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  “I’ll stay outside the cave so I don’t disturb you,” Astrid said. “I can’t sleep, Becca. I might never sleep again!” She looked down at the ground, suddenly awkward. “Thank you for this,” she said, with a shy smile. “Thank you so much.”

  Becca waved her thanks away. “It’s nothing.”

  “Becca, you’re so wrong,” Astrid said. “It’s everything.”

  Astrid was so excited, and so agreeable for once, that Becca decided to take a chance. “Will you join us now?” she asked. “Will you try to get the black pearl?”

  Astrid’s smile faded.

  “I know, Astrid,” Becca said in a rush. “You’re scared. Scared you won’t be able to songcast. Scared you’ll put us in danger. But we’re all scared. I’m supposed to be a whiz with waterfire. Sometimes I can call up enough to light up a whole town. Other times, the flames are so tiny they wouldn’t heat a pot of sargasso tea. I wonder all the time if my magic will be there when I need it the most.”

  “Becca, I can’t even turn myself the right shade of green.”

  “Yet,” Becca said.

  Astrid shook her head. She opened her mouth to speak, but Becca cut her off.

  “Don’t say yes, but don’t say no. Can you give me that much?”

  Astrid nodded. “I can.”

  Then she swam outside the cave to practice. Becca put her tools away in her travel case, then burrowed down into the pile of seaweed she’d carried in earlier. She was exhausted.

  As she closed her eyes, the music Astrid was making floated into the cave. Occasional flashes of light or color played against its walls. Becca heard her friend whooping and giggling, but she didn’t mind.

  This is the first time I’ve ever heard Astrid laugh…really laugh, she thought. Happiness. What a lovely sound.

  Becca’s eyes closed. As sleep stole over her, she felt pleased that the first part of her plan had worked—that she’d found a way to help Astrid. If only the second part would work now—if only Astrid would help them.

  Becca drifted off hoping that friendship, some of the most powerful magic there was, had cast its spell over Astrid.

  NOTHING, NO NORTHERN river or arctic flow, felt as cold to Serafina as the gray North Sea. Restive winds howled across its waters, whipping up enormous swells. Storms swept in with savage fury.

  Even here in Scaghaufen, capital of the Meerteufel sea gobl
in tribe, with its hot, sulfurous vents and its bubbling lava pits, the cold went right through her.

  Sera was in the palace of the Meerteufel’s chieftain, Guldemar. The palace was made entirely from slag—the molten waste separated from pure metal when ore was smelted. It loomed up from the seafloor like a black cloud—craggy and misshapen. From its windows, visitors could see the entire goblin city.

  The capital’s fiery heart was a blast furnace fifty feet high that roared day and night. It was shaped like the head of the first Meerteufel chieftain, Kupfernickel. Lava bubbled in his mad eyes. From his snarling mouth flowed a white-hot stream of slag. Foundries dotted the city. They belched steam and sprayed sparks as molten Kobold steel was cast into weapons and armor. In the distance, mines pitted the seafloor, and slag heaps rose like mountains.

  Sera was waiting to be admitted to Guldemar’s stateroom. She and her retinue of twenty Black Fins had assembled with ten chests, each filled with gold, silver, and jewels.

  The Black Fins were in serious trouble. They’d managed to steal plenty of treasure, and to hide it well, but they’d enraged Vallerio and he’d vowed to kill every last one of them. His forces were moving ever closer to their hideout, making it almost impossible to leave it. Two Black Fins had been captured while trying to gather food. The youngest fighter, a mermaid named Coco, had witnessed it and raced back to headquarters to tell Sera, but there was nothing anyone could do. When the captives had refused to give up any information, even under torture, Vallerio had had them executed. It was only a matter of time until the Black Fins’ hideout was discovered, and they needed to be long gone when it was.

  Sera wished she could go to the new Duca di Venezia for help, but word had it the palazzo was deserted and the Duca nowhere to be found. She’d sent envoys carrying requests for safe haven to the elder of Qin, the president of Atlantica, and the queen of the Freshwaters—the leaders of every free realm except Ondalina. With tensions running high between Kolfinn and Vallerio, she’d thought it too dangerous.

  The envoys had returned empty-handed. The leaders—stunned by Vallerio’s invasion of Matali—were playing their cards carefully. They’d been told Serafina was dead, the envoys reported. She would need to prove her identity. Meetings would have to be held. They needed time. But Sera didn’t have time. Desperate, she’d decided to seek help from the fractious Meerteufel.

  Yazeed swam to her side now. “Nervous?” he asked her.

  “Very,” she admitted.

  “Who do the Kobold hate?” he asked.

  Sera laughed darkly. “Everyone.”

  “Who do they hate the most?”

  “Each other,” she replied.

  “Exactly. And the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Remember that, Sera.”

  Sera nodded, grateful, as always, for Yazeed’s counsel.

  The Kobold goblins, once a single people, had splintered into several tribes thousands of years ago, and had feuded over lava seams and ore deposits ever since. Many members of the Feuerkumpel tribe were in Cerulea, serving as mercenaries in her uncle’s army. The Feuerkumpel and the Meerteufel despised each other. Sera planned to take advantage of that fact now.

  Sera heard the sound of footsteps, so alien to mer ears, and then doors to the stateroom swung open. Standing in the entry-way was a short, stocky goblin. Like all other sea goblins, he had transparent eyes, holes for nostrils, and gills on his neck, but Meerteufel goblins had two features that distinguished them from other tribes: black-lipped mouths, and horns. One pair of horns curved up from the goblin’s temples, the other sprouted downward from his jaw. Sera recognized him. He was Stickstoff, head of the Meerteufel’s military.

  “Hövdingen tar emot nu!” he barked.

  Sera understood him. The Chieftain will see you now!

  Her hand automatically went to her ring—Mahdi’s ring. Touching it made her feel like he was near, and that gave her strength. She took a deep breath and led her fighters into the stateroom. Her back was straight, her head was high. She wore no silty camo fatigues now; she’d come before the Meerteufel dressed as the queen she was in a shimmering blue sea-silk gown and long, high-necked black coat. A choker of pearls and sapphires circled her neck. A crown of pure gold adorned her head.

  The goblins did not need to know that Neela had made the dress and coat out of draperies she’d found in an abandoned mansion, or that the jewels had been snatched during the Black Fins’ raid on Miromara’s treasury vaults.

  They didn’t need to know that Sera, and her Black Fins, were in constant fear for their lives. That they were weak, exhausted, and desperate. That these negotiations were their last hope.

  Sera was doing what generations of reginas before her had done in times of peril—she was bluffing.

  Sera hadn’t had the luxury of learning how to rule during peacetime. This was war, and she had to learn fast, while hungry and dirty and scared. Her mother had often told her that ruling was like playing chess, and that she must play the board, not the piece. The last few months had taught Sera the meaning of her mother’s words: ruling was a game of moves and countermoves, of feints and ripostes. One had to anticipate her opponent, and think several moves ahead. Sera was now playing a game of life and death. And she was playing to win.

  “Approach…regina,” snarled a goblin voice in Mermish.

  It belonged to Guldemar. He was sitting on his throne, which was shaped like a giant sea serpent. Its coiled lower body was the throne’s seat, a pair of fins the arms. Its horrible, thick neck stretched up above Guldemar, and its fanged head hung over him like a canopy. Sera knew this was Hafgufa, the kraken. According to ancient North Sea legends, the Meerteufel chieftains could call the creature forth from its lair, deep under the seabed, in times of great trouble.

  Fanned out on either side of Guldemar were prominent members of his court: Nok, his wife; Pelf, the keeper of his treasury; and Nörgler, his foreign minister. Stickstoff took his place with them. They regarded the Black Fins with a mixture of suspicion and contempt.

  Sera swam to the throne and curtsied deeply to the fearsome leader.

  “Greetings, most dread chieftain,” she said, rising. “You have my gratitude for welcoming me, Miromara’s true regina, and my court, into your presence.”

  Guldemar chuckled derisively. “Fine clothing and flowery words do not a regina make,” he said. “Another sits on the throne of Miromara now and demands that all sovereign realms recognize her as ruler. Some say she has a legitimate claim. She, too, is a daughter of the blood—a Merrovingian and your cousin. Your uncle has told the world that Regina Isabella and her unfortunate daughter are dead.”

  Sera’s blood boiled. How could he even suggest that Lucia’s claim was legitimate?

  “Lucia Volnero is the daughter of a son, Guldemar. The ruler of Miromara must not only be a daughter of the blood, but a daughter of a daughter.”

  “Unless—as I believe the law states—there isn’t one,” Stickstoff interjected.

  Sera turned to him, eyes blazing. “But there is,” she said. “She’s right before you, and she plans to retake her throne.”

  Guldemar flapped a hand at her. “My sources tell me that the Black Fins are few in number. You have little food or currensea. Your uncle’s soldiers hunt for you day and night. You fight bravely, but how long can you keep fighting?”

  “Not long,” Sera admitted. “That’s why I’ve come. To propose an alliance.”

  Guldemar laughed raucously. His court followed suit. “And why would the Meerteufel wish to ally themselves with you? You have no palace, no throne. You are poor, and the Kobold do not work for free.”

  Serafina smiled. She had expected this. “As long as one is bold, one is never poor,” she said. She nodded at her Black Fins. They swam to her, placed the chests on the floor, and then—at her command—opened them.

  Scaghaufen was rich in iron, copper, and nickel, but it lacked precious metals. The Meerteufel adored silver and gold, and they especially loved jewelry. />
  Guldemar’s eyes lit up with greed as they roved over the treasure, then became sly. “You offer me what I can take,” he said, nodding at the fierce goblin soldiers standing at attention all around the room. “What’s to stop me from ordering them to kill you and your Black Fins and help myself to these chests?”

  “Nothing,” Sera said. “But if you do, you won’t get the rest of my payment—twenty more chests, all as full of treasure as these, delivered to you the day we advance on Cerulea.” She paused to let her words sink in, then said, “My offer is a good one, Guldemar.”

  He held up a hand and inspected his filthy claws. “A good one for you, perhaps.” He sniffed.

  “No, for you,” Sera shot back, fed up with his coyness. “While you play games, your enemies the Feuerkumpel, fueled by my uncle’s gold and arrogance, talk openly of attacking your people when they return to the North Sea. They want your lava seams, your furnaces and foundries.”

  Guldemar lowered his hand. His eyes met Sera’s. Though he tried to hide it, she could see worry flicker in them.

  “Help me now,” she urged him, “and when I take back my throne, not only will I give you the treasure I promised, but as Neria is my witness, I will declare war on the Feuerkumpel traitors. The world will see what becomes of those who betray Miromara.”

  “And when your uncle obliterates you—which is the more likely scenario—what then?” asked Stickstoff.

  “The Meerteufel still get the twenty chests of treasure.”

  Guldemar stood up. He walked to one of the chests, scooped a handful of gold coins out if it, then let them fall through his fingers. He picked up a silver goblet, studded with gems, and admired it.

  “We will give you troops,” he finally said, tossing the goblet back.

  Sera’s heart leapt, but she kept her face impassive. “How many?” she asked.

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Thirty.”

  “Twenty. That’s my final offer,” Guldemar said. “Each will be armed with a crossbow and battle-ax.”