“Come along now!” he called over his shoulder. “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting!”
Astrid was furious at Rorrim, and at herself for listening to him, but she sheathed her sword and hurried after him. She had no choice if she wanted to get to Orfeo.
The mirror lord walked for a long time. For a heavy man, he was surprisingly fast, and Astrid had to work to keep up. The Hall of Sighs grew narrower as they moved down it. There were fewer mirrors, and no vitrina. Chandeliers, spaced far apart now, gave off little light. Dark blooms of corrosion and decay mottled the walls.
Just as Astrid was about to ask how much farther they had to go, they came to a dead end. Against the wall stood a single massive mirror. Its glass was pocked, and its heavy silver frame had tarnished to black. A length of sea silk hung over one corner like a shroud.
“This is the entrance to Shadow Manse,” Rorrim said. “Orfeo’s palace.”
Astrid could see her reflection, and Rorrim’s, in the dark glass. She squared her shoulders, trying to work up the nerve to swim through it.
“He’s waited for this…waited for you, his blood, for four thousand years,” Rorrim said. “Go to him now, child. Let him take your fear away.”
Before Astrid could respond, the mirror lord was gone, walking back down the Hall of Sighs. Astrid turned and watched him grow smaller and smaller, until she couldn’t see him at all. Then she faced the looking glass again—and herself.
Once she swam into Shadow Manse, there was no going back. She would take the black pearl from Orfeo or die trying.
Floating before the mirror, Astrid realized that she was about to confront someone who was far more treacherous than the Qanikkaaq, the Williwaw, the infanta, the Okwa Naholo, or the Abyss. If she swam through this mirror, she would come face-to-face with Orfeo. Orfeo. One of the Six Who Ruled. The greatest mage in history. And she? Well, she could turn herself purple when she meant to turn green. Sometimes. If she tried really hard.
“This is insanity,” she whispered to the glass.
She thought of the other five who’d been summoned to the Iele’s caves—Sera, Ling, Neela, Ava, and Becca. They were her friends, her sisters, bloodbound forever. They were counting on her. They wouldn’t back away from this, no matter how scared they were. And she knew that she couldn’t, either.
Taking a deep breath, Astrid placed her hands on the glass.
SHADOW MANSE looked as if it had been sculpted from darkness.
Black walls and floors, made of polished obsidian, reflected the blue waterfire flickering in silver candelabra. Overhead, Gothic arches supported a high, peaked ceiling.
Astrid, her sword drawn, moved warily through what seemed to be the palace’s great hall. Salt water, not the liquid silver of Vadus, swirled around her now. At the hall’s far end, a table, also made of obsidian, was set with sterling platters and bowls, all containing mouthwatering delicacies. A tall chair with carved arms had been placed at the head of the table. Another stood to its right.
Astrid moved toward the table. As she did, she heard footsteps, slow and measured, coming from behind her.
“How unusual,” a voice said. “Most of my guests come bearing gifts, not swords.”
Astrid spun around. It was Orfeo. He was a human, with legs, but he moved through the water smoothly, and breathed it as easily as if he were breathing air.
“You can put your weapon away,” he said, with an amused half smile. “If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t do it here. My servants have just polished the floor.”
Six feet tall, blond, and powerfully built, he was dressed in his customary black suit. His skin was tanned, weathered by sun and sea. Smoke-tinted glasses obscured his eyes. Astrid’s heart raced as she spotted the black pearl hanging at his neck. A suicidal urge to snatch it from him right then and there rose in her, but she fought it down and put her sword back in its scabbard.
Orfeo circled her, his head cocked like that of an osprey eyeing prey, his hands clasped behind his back. He stopped in front of her, then placed his palm against her chest.
“Whoa!” Astrid said. She tried to back away but faltered, overwhelmed by a sudden loud pounding. It filled her ears, her head, the entire hall.
“That’s the sound of your heart,” Orfeo said. “So brave. So powerful.” He laughed, pleased by the thunderous noise. “Blood calls to blood, child. The blood of the greatest mage that ever lived. My blood.” He removed his hand and the noise stopped.
“Don’t do that again,” Astrid hissed, frightened but trying not to show it.
His touch was repellent, but that’s not what scared her. When he’d placed his hand over her heart, she’d felt something electric and dizzying surge through her veins: power—pure and thrilling.