“You’ve already given me the greatest gift ever: my voice,” Astrid said. “I don’t need anything else.”
“You need an instructor,” Orfeo countered. “You’re teaching yourself songspells, and that’s wonderful, but many of them are meant to be sung only by experienced songcasters. I’m afraid you’ll damage your voice. You need to work on technique and range, and I’ve just the person to help you do it.”
He snapped his fingers and two servants walked through the doorway, escorting a mermaid between them. Astrid had never met her, yet she knew who she was. Every mermaid and merman alive knew who she was.
Thalassa, the legendary canta magus.
THALASSA REGARDED ASTRID, then laughed bitterly.
“The late admiral’s daughter, no?” she said, turning to Orfeo. “And your descendant. She must be; she looks exactly like you. She’s the reason I’m here, isn’t she? The reason you’ve kept me alive all this time.”
“That’s correct, Magistra,” Orfeo replied. “She’s Astrid Kolfinnsdottir, and she will be the greatest student you’ve ever taught.”
“We’ll see about that,” Thalassa said with a sniff. Her voice was dismissive, but her eyes were locked on Astrid.
Astrid’s eyes were locked on her, too. As the shock of seeing someone who was supposed to be dead receded, Astrid remembered how Thalassa had insisted on offering her own life to save Sera’s.
Sera had told her the story. She, Neela, and Thalassa had been captured by Traho, and Traho, in the course of interrogating Thalassa, had cut off one of her thumbs. The Praedatori had managed to rescue the three of them, but as they were heading to the safety of the duca’s palace, Traho and his soldiers had caught up with them—undoubtedly on Orfeo’s orders. Thalassa had battled the death riders, allowing Sera and the others to escape. Sera was certain they’d killed her.
Though she was gaunt, gray-faced, and dressed in the remnants of a once-fine gown, Thalassa’s bearing was proud, her voice imperious. Astrid thought she was more regal in her silt-stained tatters than most mermaids were in silks and jewels.
Orfeo watched Thalassa closely. “Ah, Magistra, your curiosity is piqued,” he said. “It appeals to you, doesn’t it? The thought of instructing a talent so great, it’s second only to my own.”
He swam to her, unlocked her manacles, and handed them to a servant. As the canta magus massaged her raw, red wrists, another servant swam into the conservatory, gripping a very small, very scared mermaid by the arm. She couldn’t have been more than seven years old. He shoved her roughly into a chair.
“A small reminder for you to do your best, Thalassa,” Orfeo said. “Your very best. Anything less”—he nodded at the child—“and she pays the price.”
The child’s eyes widened, a whimper escaped her.
“Oh, I’ll do my best, Orfeo,” Thalassa hissed. “Touch one hair on that child’s head and I’ll do my best to destroy this godsforsaken palace and everyone in it.”
This is who he is, Astrid thought, unable to look away from the frightened child. He’s vicious and cruel, and he’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants.
Yes, that’s who he is, said the voice inside her. But who are you, Astrid? His creature now, or your own?
Thalassa turned her back on Orfeo and circled Astrid, her eyes shrewd and appraising. A second later, a tiny bubble popped in Astrid’s ear. As it did, she heard Thalassa’s voice whispering to her. “You are the last hope of all the waters in the world, child, and of every living thing in them. Remember that.”
Aloud, Thalassa said, “I heard you working on an old Egyptian songspell as I was coming down the hallway. Your voice is very good. It has the potential to be excellent, but you must learn nuance and expression. We shall start with the breath. It’s all wrong.”
Astrid tore her eyes away from the child and regarded Thalassa. “I’m breathing wrong?” she said skeptically.
“Entirely,” Thalassa replied. She turned her head and gave Orfeo a withering look. “You’re excused. Have tea brought,” she said to him, as if he were nothing more than a kitchen boy.
Then she placed a hand on Astrid’s chest. “Right now, your breath is here.” She tapped the top of her rib cage. “Good songcasters breathe from here,” she added, patting Astrid’s belly.
Orfeo chuckled. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist,” he said. “You love a good voice even more than you hate me.”
Then he left the conservatory, barking at his servants to fetch the magistra tea.
Astrid watched him go. Thalassa was talking to her, but she barely heard the canta magus.
It was the other voice she heard, the one deep inside, whose words were echoing in her head.
Who are you, Astrid?
Who are you?
“HOLD STILL, WILL YOU?” Neela mumbled crossly through a mouthful of pins.