Song of the Abyss Read online

  * * *

  Sea worms could not be steered in the right direction. Unlike sea horses, worms were largely content to gnaw on seaweed or kelp and chase after their own tails, wherever their tails led them. But horses were rare in these parts, and the worms had their uses. When they chose to, they could be very, very fast.

  Fortune was on her side once again, at least when it came to her worm. This one pulled her a full quarter of the way to Lunes before it reversed direction and headed back out to sea. When she felt the shift, she let go, taking a moment to catch her breath and check the seal on her map carrier, before continuing on her own to shore. As her arms sluiced through the water and her legs propelled her toward land, she focused her mind. Do not think of what is behind you. Do not imagine what may have already happened to Gunnel and your shipmates. Forget also what might be swimming beneath, lurking and hungry and watchful. Her task was to think ahead, to the harbor and a del Marian ship. Sailors from home, who would help her.

  Her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Gradually, the lighthouse took shape behind its beam, tall and regal atop a rocky promontory. She swam in that direction. The sea was calm, with the occasional ripple and splash of worms too far away to be of any use. A school of lightning fish darted by. She did not know what made her stop swimming and tread water, scanning her surroundings.

  There it was. Some distance away, between her and Lunes, a dark shape. It looked like a large triangular rock jutting from the sea, but seconds after she spotted it, the rock disappeared beneath the water. It reappeared minutes later, a short distance east, closer to her than it had been before. There were no more squeaks from the worms. Only a terrible, menacing silence.

  The finned lion was no small threat. A fully grown male could measure twice the length of a man. Spikes edged the fin on its back, and its mane, a grand, golden halo, never flattened in the water, for it was not hair, but thousands of stiff, needle-thin quills, poisoned at the tips. If the lion’s teeth did not finish you off, the stab of a single quill would.

  Like most predators, the finned lion was attracted to movement and to blood. She would offer neither. Tipping her head back, she loosened her limbs, floating upon the surface with her arms and legs extended and looking straight up at the sky. Outwardly calm. But inside? That was another story.

  Bargaining with herself offered a distraction. If she survived this night, she would do things differently. Better. Go to church sometimes, like a normal, God-fearing del Marian. Wear more dresses. Her Uncle Ginés cared nothing about the former, but had grown increasingly persistent on the latter. You are seventeen now, my dear. No longer a child. You should wear more dresses. She had laughed when he said these things. Kissed him on the cheek and asked what one had to do with the other. Thinking of him hardened her resolve. She would not die tonight, for the simple reason that it would break his heart. Her uncle had not had an easy life. His heart had been broken enough already.

  A growl in the distance sent her thoughts scattering.

  After a time, a worm brushed her hand and squeaked cheerfully at her. She took it as a sign the lion was a safe distance away and grabbed the worm’s tail. This one pulled her straight toward the sea floor. Releasing it, she fought her way back to the surface. Once again she checked the carrier seal and set off on her own, eventually latching on to a third worm. One that took her the rest of the way into the vast harbor of Selene on the island kingdom of Lunes.

  * * *

  No torches burned; no lanterns flickered. Starlight only lit her way. The harbor was at its quietest in the small hours before dawn. Even the cogs, the caravels, and the fishing boats appeared to have nodded off, bobbing gently alongside one another.

  She kept low to the water, eyes and nose exposed, like a crocodile. Despite the hour, there would be guards patrolling the seafront. Guards meant questions, along with endless delay and a thorough search of her carrier. She must avoid them.

  Lunes and St. John del Mar were not enemies, and they were not friends. Too many centuries of scheming and envy lay between them. Mercedes had once compared their relationship to that of two women who had lived as neighbors for many years. Always pleasant at the annual harvest picnic, but each secretly vying for the grandest manor, the choicest furnishings, the brilliant marriages for their pretty daughters. For the two kingdoms, however, the prizes were not houses or unions for their offspring. They were the trade routes, jealously guarded pathways that showed where and how a kingdom supplied its wealth.

  If she arrived at the castle and explained what had happened, and who she was, the royal family would help her. As any good neighbor would. She would be offered fine clothes and excellent food, escorted home on a royal vessel. But hospitality came with a price. A peek into her carrier. Her maps “borrowed” while Lunesian artists copied her work and claimed it for their own. It did not bear thinking about.

  Reyna navigated between two caravels and hauled herself, gasping, onto the landing. That was as far as she made it. Even as she told herself she must hurry, she sprawled face-down onto wood that stank of damp and gutted fish. It smelled beautiful. Her laugh was more of a whimper. She had done it. Made it all this way without an arrow in her back or a single gnawed-off limb. She took a moment to marvel at that before she froze. Somewhere close, under cover of night, came the sound of flint striking stone.

  She scrambled off the ground as a lantern sparked a dozen feet away. A lone figure sat directly across from her, his back against a waist-high coil of rope and his legs splayed before him. A young man, not many years older than she. He wore a white shirt and dark trousers. Leather boots came to his knees. Beside one leg, the lantern. Beside the other, a discarded dagger and belt. She took all this in at a glance before lifting her gaze, and from there, wariness turned to confusion.

  He was weeping, this stranger. His was a narrow, handsome face. Sharp edges and strong black brows. His cheeks were wet with tears he made no effort to brush away, and a smudge like a dirty thumbprint marred the center of his forehead. She knew what the mark represented. A symbol of mourning in a hundred kingdoms, including her own. He had lost someone he loved not too long ago.

  They regarded each other quietly across the landing. Reaching up, he knuckled away his tears and studied her own bedraggled appearance: hair and clothing plastered to her skin, seawater pooling around bare feet. Her shirt was also white, and she was glad now of the vest that kept her as decent as circumstances permitted.

  He was the first to break the silence. In Lunesian, in a voice that rolled deep and pleasant into the dark. “Between the two of us, I wonder who’s had the worse night of it.”

  The answer was clear. In Lunesian, she said, “I have.”

  The smallest of smiles touched his lips. There was little humor in it. “I doubt that very much.” A glass bottle rested on his leg, gripped around the neck. He brought it close and peered into the opening. “Do you know, I’m not certain what this is, but it’s stronger than I thought. I can’t feel my legs.”

  That was welcome news to her. She heard the liquid slosh around within. The bottle was nearly empty, and she could smell its contents from where she stood. Mandarin and lemon masking a far more potent ingredient.

  “It’s called kudzu.” She shifted a half foot or so, prepared to run if she must. Though he did not feel threatening, there was the matter of his dagger. Her arm brushed her belt to ensure her own weapon had completed the journey with her. It was there, Papa’s old dagger, comforting in its deadliness. “People drink too much of it because it’s sweet, but it’s quite strong.”

  “Kudzu?”

  A second small step. “Yes, it’s from the Bushidos. You’ll have a rough time of it in the morning.”

  “I think I knew that already” came his rueful answer, followed by “It’s a fine night for a swim. Warm.”

  This time she did not move. She found herself wishing the lantern burned brighter, to better show his face. Something warned her he was not as inebriated as she had firs
t imagined. Cautiously she said, “I thought so too.”

  “Not very safe, however. Monsters of all sorts in these waters.”

  “There are monsters everywhere.”

  The bottle stopped halfway to his lips. He lowered it. “Indeed,” he said. And, with barely a pause: “That’s quite a large dagger you have there.”

  “It’s smaller than yours.” She thought quickly. It was unlikely she could outrun him. He would know this harbor better than she. Better to end this conversation, dive back into the water, and try her luck there.

  “So it is.” The bottle came up. When he finished drinking, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are you an assassin? If you are, I hope you’re not going to the castle. It has excellent guards, you know.”

  The castle was the last place she wanted to be. “I’m no threat to your king, or to anyone on this island. I swear it.”

  Her words were meant as a reassurance. Instead he flinched, and his voice turned flat. “No one is a threat to him, not anymore.”

  The reason behind his ash mark became clear. Shocked, she said, “Your king is dead?”

  “My . . . king is dead.” He looked away, toward the blackness of sea, and in a distant voice said, “I’m no danger to you, whoever you are. I won’t ask what papers you carry, or why a del Marian female is swimming this harbor in boys’ trousers.” He flung the bottle into the water, and Reyna tensed. A splash followed. “You’re on some dark mission, I’m sure. I can’t bring myself to care.”

  He thought her some sort of courier, a spy. Yet he was letting her go. Why, then, was she still here? It did not feel right leaving him alone in his grief.

  Yet now was not the time to question this reprieve. There were others to consider. She backed away. “I am sorry,” she said, and when he did not answer, she turned on her heel and ran.

  Three

  REYNA KEPT CLOSE to the water’s edge, eyes peeled for skulkers in the shadows. Her feet slapped against stone and dirt and far worse. Her clothing dried stiff and itchy against her skin. She tried not to think about it. Harder to ignore was the exhaustion that threatened to envelop her. Even with the help of the worms, that swim, this night, had taken its toll.

  The sky remained the deepest indigo. But Selene was at its most striking in the daylight hours, she remembered: a city painted entirely in blue. She had visited a number of times with her uncle. Walls, doors, steps, all washed in blue, from the humblest tenements in the Old City to the royal castle, stone and crenellation nestled up against the base of Mount Abraham.

  The harbor slithered along the waterfront like a snake. To her left, great bearlike snores erupted from the anchored ships. Sailors preferred to sleep on deck whenever possible, rather than in the dank, smelly confines of a hold. To her right were shuttered shop fronts and warehouses. Even with sunlight, it would have been difficult to locate one ship among so many others. She peered up at the pennants hanging limp from their masts, then at the names painted along the hulls. The Guardian, the Peacekeeper, the Flying Stag. It felt as though every kingdom was represented here, save hers. There were Coronad junks aplenty. Lunesian carracks? One could take one’s pick. Along with galleys from Caffa, cogs from Oslaw, caravels from Pillard. Not one ship bearing the flag of St. John del Mar: two serpents entwined and hissing against the backdrop of a rogue wave. Trying not to give in to panic, she ran on.

  Though she stopped twice. Once to wring out her hair like a rag and tie it back at her nape. The second time before a church, unexpectedly nestled between two warehouses. Sanctuary, she thought, reaching back to touch her carrier. She spotted candlelight in a stained-glass window and, rattling the door, found it unlocked. Not surprising during the formal mourning of a king. The interior was dimly lit and nearly empty. More rumbling snores arose from the front of the church. A priest having nodded off behind the altar, or a mourner curled up in a pew. Whoever it was, it would be better if she did not wake him. She lingered for minutes only, after the hastiest of prayers, careful to note the church’s location so that she would be able to find her way back.

  By the time she left the church and returned to the water’s edge, dawn crept along the horizon. She was scowling up at yet another Caffeesh galley when footsteps intruded on her search. She spun around.

  The stranger from the pier stood mere feet away. The lantern was nowhere to be seen, but he wore his belt and dagger and a hard-eyed expression. He said, “I’m curious after all. Who are you?”

  She might have been back in the sea waiting for the finned lion to pounce. He’d followed her here? Had he seen her enter the church? “My name is Reyna.”

  Two men appeared at the railing of a nearby ship. The Caffeesh galley. They looked down upon Reyna and her nameless companion with bleary eyes, scratching their armpits and yawning.

  “Reyna, is it? Well, Reyna, what business do you have in Selene?” When she shifted, he matched her movements, warning softly, “Don’t try it. You can answer me now, or later, after a night in a crowded cell. It’s your choice.”

  She gave him a withering look. Some choice. Gunnel had given her one as well: remain on the ship, or swim with the lions. She was growing sick to death of choices.

  “What happened to not caring who I was? Or what I was doing here? You said—”

  “I changed my mind.”

  The sun had risen high enough for her to see that his eyes were blue. The blue of sapphires shot through with red. She suspected she looked just as battered. They were both in a bad place. She said, “I’m looking for a del Marian ship.”

  “Your ship?”

  “No. Mine was attacked by raiders. My captain and crew are still there. I was sent here . . .” She scuffed one foot on top of the other to dislodge a sharp pebble. “I’m here to find help.”

  “Sent?” His eyes had widened, and he looked at her clothing in a whole new light. “You’re saying you swam here? All the way from the shipping lanes?”

  “Where else?” He had seen her, hadn’t he? Lying on the pier and gasping for breath.

  Dark brows shot up. His answer was to sweep an arm along the harbor front with its endless row of ships. He thought she’d snuck off one of the anchored vessels. If only.

  “Well, I didn’t.” Reyna tried to step around him, and this time when he moved to stop her, her dagger was in her hand. She pointed it at him, ignoring the startled shouts of “Whoa, whoa!” coming from the galley’s deck.

  “Don’t,” she warned. “You’re wasting my time here. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you, either” was his quiet, ominous reply. He did not look in the least afraid of the dagger twitching by his nose. “What’s in your carrier?”

  “Paintings.”

  “You’re a painter?” Skepticism laced his words.

  “It’s true.” And it was, partially. “Not a courier. Not an assassin. Will you go away? Find someone else to use your thumbscrews on? I don’t have time for you.”

  There was a short silence during which they exchanged scowls and suspicious looks. She had thought him to be a regular shipman. A closer look at his clothing changed her opinion. His linen shirt was of a finer quality than that worn by most sailors, as were his boots, the leather soft and supple.

  He said, finally, “I don’t know any man who could make that swim.”

  “As you see, I’m not a man.”

  Someone laughed. Though she did not turn to look, she knew more sailors had gathered at the railing to watch their exchange. She could hear them, amused at this morning’s unexpected entertainment.

  The stranger said, “Come with me.”

  “No.”

  He reached out, slowly, pushing her hand down until the dagger pointed straight into the dirt. She let him and she did not know why she did. He said, “You need ships? Soldiers? Then come with me.”

  Who was he, that he could offer such help? And why would he do so? Nothing about his stony expression reassured her. She would not have thought h
im capable of weeping, for his king or anyone else, had she not seen it with her own eyes. But he held out his hand to her and kept it there even as the silence ticked on.

  Another set of choices. Trust this stranger? Or . . . only there was no other choice, was there? Time was running short. Even as the realization came to her, she reached out and placed her hand in his.

  * * *

  Reyna snatched her hand back almost immediately. He led her down the harbor, demanding answers to his questions along the way. That her name was Reyna, that she was from del Mar, her parents long dead, were the only truths she told him. The rest were variations on the truth. She was a painter, like her guardian and uncle, Ginés. They spent much of the year traveling throughout the Sea of Magdalen, fulfilling commissions and accepting new ones as they came. Her uncle had decided to extend his stay abroad to visit with friends, but he’d sent Reyna ahead to del Mar to prepare their home, which had been closed these many months. It was on this journey that her ship had been attacked. It was a plausible collection of half-truths, given how tired she was. She only hoped she could recall the details for later.

  When she was done, he said, “What is your ship’s name?”

  “The Simona.” He had shortened his stride to match hers, she’d noticed. He kept frowning down at her bare feet in the muck.

  “What sort of ship is it?”

  She opened her mouth to say a cog, a del Marian merchantman with a crew of thirty, but caught herself in time. A painter would not necessarily know these things. She said, “Who knows? It’s the one that looks like a floating banana.”

  That earned her a quick, unreadable glance. “You were on a cog,” he said after a moment.

  “All right.” Inwardly, she shrugged. He thought she was dim. It couldn’t be helped.

  The harbor woke slowly around them. Fishing vessels headed out toward the rising sun; trinket and food sellers prepared their booths. Within the hour, the waterfront would be a cramped, lively place, best navigated by using sharp elbows and slipping through gaps in the crowd.