The serpents feared the sword, and let him pass.
Then speaking aloud the Words he had long studied in his father’s library, Cyne turned himself into a sea-dragon, and dove into the water.
He followed the trunk of the Tree many fathoms down, and his love for Lida and the Words that guarded him made him strong.
At last he came into Rahn’s Hall, and, shedding the sea-dragon form, he held his sword high. He beheld the dead, and Lida among them, weeping for the pain of her torment. He gave a cry, and, springing to her side, he seized her hand and led her to the dais, where Rahn sat enthroned, the Star bright on her finger.
Then Rahn looked upon him and was surprised, for she had seen no living man for many centuries. “What do you do here, son of the dust? You are not among the dead: I see the life that burns still in your eyes. Why have you come to my Hall?”
And Cyne answered, “I come here for the great love I bear this maiden, who was drowned on the eve of our wedding. Release her soul from your Hall and let her return with me—let her still be my bride. She should not yet dwell among the dead.”
And Rahn saw the fire in his eyes and the flame of the sword which the sea could not quench. Never had such a thing been asked of her, and never before had she seen such love in the face of a man.
“Let her return to the light,” said Cyne.
Then Rahn looked into his heart and saw that it was pure, and she almost repented of the murder of Aigir, wishing suddenly for the love he had once borne her. She lifted her hand so the Star blazed brighter. “Take her, son of the dust. It will not matter in the end, when I rule the earth as well as the sea and all mankind are in chains. Take her, and leave my Hall, and return here no more.”
And Cyne rejoiced, and bore Lida up with him to the surface of the sea, setting her within his ship.
Then Lida stirred and woke and lived, and he kissed her under the sky and wept long. They sailed together many months upon the sea, returning at last to Od where they were met with much rejoicing, and were at last wed.
Long and happily they lived beneath the sun, and when they died they died together, and the One who was before the gods gathered them beyond the circles of Endahr, and there they dwell in peace for all eternity. But their children set a watch over the sea, lest Rahn come ever to the shores of the earth and sought to claim it. And they watch still.
It was possible, then.
Dread prickled down her spine and she closed the book, staring blankly into the fire. Could she really hang her entire future on such an absurd story? A sword that burned in the ocean. A man changing into a sea-dragon. A dead bride brought back to life.
But wasn’t that what she wanted for her mother? Wasn’t that what the gods were calling her to do, with their dreams and their mirrors and their ships in hidden coves? She didn’t want to think about Rahn leaving the sea, or that the gods might want her to do something about it. Saving her mother was hopeless enough. She refused to worry about the fate of the whole world as well.
She gnawed on her lip, frustrated, and got up from her chair.
“Talia?”
She wheeled around to see Wen standing in the doorway. His face was white as marble, every freckle standing out in stark relief.
“Wen! What’s wrong?”
For a moment he just stared at her, jaw working but no words coming out. He blinked. Swallowed. “The Baron’s dead,” he said. Then, voice cracking, “My father’s dead.”
“What?” she whispered, reaching out to touch his arm.
“I don’t know what to do. Ahned’s gone to the village for a priest and to send word to Caiden and I—I don’t know what to do.” His face twisted.
“Oh, Wen.” She put her arm around him and he sagged against her, heavy and cold. “Do you want to … do you want to sit with him? Until Ahned comes back?”
He nodded, and they walked together down from the library and into the Baron’s bedchamber, Wen stumbling and dazed, Talia supporting him as much as she could. Flames burned weakly in the hearth, and a pair of heavy drapes were pulled tight over the window, blocking out the winter snow. A lamp glowed, flickering orange over the Baron’s still form.
Wen stared at his dead father, and Talia ached for him.
“He was ill yesterday,” Wen said. “Ahned and I took turns sitting up with him. He was coughing, struggling to breathe, and then he just … he just … stopped.”
“Oh, Wen.”
“I don’t think he ever forgave me for what I told him about the mirror room. About my mother. I always disappointed him, from the moment I was born. I don’t think he ever fell out of love with Caiden’s mother. I don’t think he ever fully loved mine.”
Or me, his unspoken words echoed after him.
Talia blinked back the sudden press of tears and slid her hand into Wen’s. “I’m sure he loved you very much.”
They stood together looking down at the Baron for a long while, as the fire turned to ash and the wind moaned outside the house. Talia didn’t let go of his hand. This time it was her being strong, her being steady. But she stared at the Baron’s gray skin and saw her mother, clothed in death, drowning forever beneath the haunting sea.
Chapter Thirty-Three
THEY CAME BACK FROM THEIR HONEYMOON IN the middle of a blizzard, the horses tugging the carriage through the quickly drifting snow. Wen braved the cold to go out and meet them, while Talia watched from the window.
He unfolded a canopy and held it over his new sister-in-law’s head to shield her from the worst of the snow during the short walk to the house. His shoulders were slumped, his frame weighed down with grief.
As the trio approached the door, Talia hid behind the curve of the stair like a coward.
Wen and Blaive came in first, the new bride’s cheeks flushed and her eyes sparking fire. Caiden followed just after, shaking the snow from his coat and his dark hair, glancing once over his shoulder to shout instructions to Ahned regarding the trunks.
Wen folded the canopy and Blaive shrugged out of her cloak. Lyna took both cloak and canopy and disappeared down the hall.
“You got the message, then,” said Wen, all stiffness and fettered sorrow.
Caiden rubbed a hand over his eyes. He looked exhausted. “Last evening. We came as quickly as we could. We’ll hold the funeral today?”
Wen nodded. “This afternoon.”
Blaive hovered near Caiden, her cheeks pink with delicate worry. “Darling, I’m so sorry.”
He waved her off, rubbing at his forehead.
Darling. Even now, the careless endearment made Talia’s face heat. She should leave her hiding place, offer her condolences. But she just stayed in the shelter of the stair.
“Shall we go and change?” Blaive’s fingers whispered across Caiden’s sleeve.
“You go ahead. I’m fine as I am.”
“But we should wear our mourning whites. Show proper respect to your poor father.”
“Later,” Caiden snapped.