A shaft of sourceless lightning slapped the coin in midair, blinding Galahad.
The coin fell, and splashed into the water. It streaked toward the bottom…
And the water began to bubble.
Like a giant cauldron, the water frothed and roiled, rocking against Galahad’s knees, trying to push him back. He planted his feet, peering down below…
Black ink poured into the shaft from all sides, obscuring the green light—
Yet gaining a light of its own. A pulsing illumination, like lightning in the heart of a squall.
The water in the shaft began to swirl, and a gaping whirlpool opened up in its center. The corpse of the Cygnus broke to flinders, its pieces carried up, up, by the powerful circular current. The ship’s bones spilled out of the shaft like refuse, swimming past Galahad’s legs, groaning and creaking and snapping, crashing against the stone walls.
Icy wind buffeted him. The black, snarling ink rose to the surface, and the whirlpool inverted, turning to a rising pillar of black brine that soared hight up into the air. Galahad gripped his sword hard as spray rained down on him, chilling him to the marrow.
An ungodly stench flooded the chamber—a stench of rotting flesh, of dying coral, of sill, of mold and sewage. Of death.
White bones gushed out of the tower of water: spindly bones of fishes, human skulls, horses’ heads, sharks’ teeth, ribs and legs; broken frames of birds. They piled against the walls, slapping against the stones, cracking and cackling in a devilish chorus.
The black, whirling pillar began to take shape. Deep within it, Galahad glimpsed flashes of long, white limbs, and the crown of a head. Then, the seawater convulsed and throbbed, spilling down in pounding waterfalls, finally revealing her form.
A cloak of frayed fishnet, burned sails, rotted burial shrouds, torn tapestries, ripped bedsheets, dead seaweed, tattered sharkskin, lost maps, shredded books, ruined flags, and the billow of storm clouds. It hooded her mighty head, which nearly touched the ceiling of the vault. Its length dripped teeth and scales and fingerbones that rained into the filthy water. Its ghostly edges flowed with an infernal breeze, twisting and gnarling all around her, as if alive itself.
Her face hid in total darkness, her shoulders bony angles beneath her wrap, her clawed feet floating easily atop a surge of green foam. Her bare arms, draped with translucent nets, hung thin and gaunt like a skeleton’s, but lightning flashed and pulsed within her spidery veins, and powerful white sinew bound her joints together. Her graceful, ghastly hands bore sharp, curved black claws that gleamed like obsidian. When her cape churned to and fro, as with a surging tide, it revealed her bare hip on one side, and her ribcage on the other: both shining like bones bleached by the sun.
Galahad clenched his teeth, gripping his shining sword with all his might. Never moving.
The great head canted, and he felt its foul gaze fall upon him, though he could see no eyes.
“Galahad Stormcrane.” Her voice rolled beneath the waves like an earthquake, battered the air like a hurricane. “What dost thou want with me?”
“I have come to tell you that your bid for the Northeastern Seal has failed,” Galahad answered, staring directly back up at her. “I have given its guardianship over to another—one even stronger than the daughter of Strom.”
Fishbones hissed from her sleeves, cascading loose and spitting into the foam. She tilted her head far to the other side, leaning toward him.
“Indeed,” she whispered, like the snap of the hangman’s rope. “What causes thee to think I wished for guardianship?”
“I’m not a fool, Myrkur,” Galahad snapped back. “You knew you couldn’t kill a guardian yourself or you’d be destroyed—so you gave Princess Meira a curse so you could overtake the seal.”
A gust of freezing wind blasted through the chamber, and the clatter of dry wood issued from her chest in laughter.
“I know of no curse,” Myrkur breathed. “She willingly came to me for a spell, and I gave it to her.”
“A spell that robbed her of every chance she had to fulfill her side of the bargain,” Galahad retorted. “So that she would die by something she chose, and you could step into her place.”
Myrkur said nothing. She lifted one pointed shoulder, and watched him. Galahad tipped the edge of his sword in minute threat.
“Withdraw the spell,” he commanded. “You cannot gain anything from her death. Not now.”
A rushing roar, like the waves receding, inhaled through her ribs.
“I cannot withdraw it,” she said.
Galahad flipped his wrist and plunged the tip of his blade straight down through the water and into the rock.
Power slammed against the walls. Hot wind blasted through the chamber. The sea witch’s cloak billowed like great sails. Galahad grabbed the handle of his sword with both hands and held on. Myrkur leered toward him.
“Release me,” she boomed, sending a stinging, boiling sensation through his blood.
“Let Meira go,” Galahad bit out. “Let her be human and live.”
“Thou knowest better than that, Curse-Breaker,” she snarled, like chains clattering over rocks. “This was a blood spell. It cannot be undone.”
Galahad bared his teeth and twisted his sword.
Myrkurs hands coiled.
“And what if she had married the king?” Galahad demanded. “What would have become of your plans, then?”
An eerie cackle broke forth from the depths of her cloak.
“I knew prince James had bound his heart to the lady from Hanter-broder long ago,” she muttered. “He would never have married the mermaid.” Myrkur withdrew toward the back of the chamber, looming up like a giant sepulcher. “Thine efforts here have been in vain, Curse-Breaker,” she seethed. “For this night, I have already given Princess Meira the means to return to her life beneath the sea, to the fellowship of her father and sisters. She will save her own life—thou shalt have no hand in it.”
Galahad stared at her, his heart skipping several beats.
“What?” he bit out. “What do you mean?”
The Sea Witch twisted her head far to the other side, in a languid movement like a serpent.
“I sought out her sisters,” Myrkur simmered. “And they came to her today as she stood upon the lower balcony of Perlkastel. They gave to her my gift: an enchanted blade.” Myrkur dipped low, her voice softening to almost nothing. “A blade with which to kill the new queen.”
Galahad’s pulse staggered. His mouth opened, but no words came.
“Meira has had only fifty years—so young for a mermaid, who ought to live three-hundred,” Myrkur whispered. “I gave her this chance to restore her body to its true form, and live once more in her own realm, for the full length of her rightful life.” Myrkur lifted her hands, and stretched them through the air in weird, inhuman motions. “I knew what thou wouldst do, Curse-Breaker. I knew it from the beginning. That thou wouldst give the seal to the Elfin-Blood, for she could rightfully hold it once she wed a king. And I felt it within me as thou didst perform the rite. Now, all Meira must do is strike the elfin queen through the heart, and the mermaid shall return to the sea.”
“No,” Galahad said through his teeth. “No. Meira would never do that.”
“What wouldst thou know?” Myrkur replied, laughing with the gnashing of dry jaws. “She was birthed in my waters. I felt the first beat of her heart. I have known her every movement, her every breath, her every longing. She is selfish, Curse-Breaker. And above all, she desires to live. And she hates the queen for robbing her of the man she loves.” The Sea Witch bent toward him, drowning him in stench. “She will kill the queen. And I shall have the seal.”
Silence fell. Galahad froze—but his left hand trembled on his sword. He locked gazes with the Sea Witch, feeling her slow smile wash over him.
“Release me, Curse-Breaker,” Myrkur purred. “I have no further business with thee.”
Galahad stopped breathing. The world stopped spinning.
Then—
He let go of the sword with his left hand, bit the fingers of his glove and pulled his glove off. He spat it out, then swiftly slid his palm down the side of sword.
The blade sliced a line in his skin. Pain shot up his arm.
His blood dripped into the water.
Myrkur’s whole cloak thrashed.
“What are you doing?” she hissed, recoiling.
Galahad shook his fist in the air, squeezing more blood into the frothing black waves. Fire filled his chest, heat blazed before his eyes. He spoke through his teeth.
“I am striking a new deal.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The full moon rose high over Metern as Galahad and Thondorfax raced away from the woods at the Ruined Mount, making straight for Perlkastel. His hand stung, and blood from his new wound made the reins slick. He gritted his teeth, his heart hammering, leaning down so far that Thondorfax’s mane brushed his face.
They streaked over the moors, steadily downhill, until Galahad spied the watchlights of the palace. Thondorfax leaped over an obstructing hedge, flying through the air twenty feet before thundering back to earth and doubling his speed.
Hooves hit paving, and horse and rider blazed up the palace lane, skirted the gardens and bombarded the main gate.
The guards threw themselves out of their guard towers, jerking their weapons out of their scabbards before they caught sight of him.
“Wh—Stormcrane! What is the matter?” one of them cried.
“Where is Meira?” Galahad roared. “Is she still here?”
“I don’t know, sir!” the other guard replied.
“Open the gates!” Galahad commanded. The guards flung themselves to the latches and hauled them open, and Galahad rode into the courtyard and straight toward the main doors. Another guard quickly heaved that door open for him, and Galahad and Thondorfax sped inside, causing a deafening clatter to resound through the palace.
“Gawain!” Galahad thundered, his tones echoing like an earthquake. “Lancelot!”
“Good lord!” came a shout at the far end—and all at once, Sir Gawain, in his nightclothes and stockings, came skidding into the hallway. “What is it?”
“Where is Meira?” Galahad demanded, pulling up in front of him.
“I…I don’t know,” Gawain shook his head, eyes wide. “Last I saw her, she was sitting with Beatrix—but that was long ago, before I retired to for the night. Several coaches left, one of the ladies may have taken her back home—”
“Wake everyone up,” Galahad ordered. “Search the palace for her.”
“What is going on?” Gawain pressed. Galahad took a quivering breath.
“Her life is in danger.”
Gawain’s eyes flashed.
“What will you do?” Gawain asked.
“I am going back to Euryor House,” Galahad wheeled Thondorfax around. “Send word to me with the greatest possible haste if you find her here.”
“I will!” Gawain promised, and sped off in the other direction. Galahad pressed Thondorfax’s flanks, and together they barreled back out the corridor, through the courtyard, between the gates and out into the night.
They screamed down the garden lane and swerved into the woods, taking the forest path at a reckless speed. Night birds skittered away from them in terror, the fireflies went dark before them. Galahad’s cape caught on a branch and ripped.
Deep, throbbing pain made his entire left arm spasm. He jerked it toward his chest, grimacing, then shook his head hard and forced his vision to focus. Just then, they burst out of the forest and onto the moon-bathed moors.
They ripped down the familiar hillside track, Thondorfax’s gait churning like a squall. Galahad searched the distance, straining to catch even a glimpse of a light in a window…
A screeching crow issued from above. He jerked his head up to see Scraw’s wingspan eclipse the moon.
“Is she there?” Galahad screamed into the sky.
“Yes,” Scraw croaked in reply. “Yes, yes.”
Galahad swiped at his face—smearing blood across his cheek. Scraw dove down, curved and flew along beside them, his wing feathers touching Galahad’s shoulder.
They rounded the bend in the road, and Galahad finally saw Euyror House. Lights flickered in the library and the front parlor, and smoke curled from the chimney.
They skidded into the yard and jolted to a halt. Galahad leaped off the horse, fighting a sudden surge of dizziness, and started toward the door. Thondorfax tossed his head and clawed at the turf. Scraw dipped down and landed heavily on Galahad’s shoulder as he grabbed the door handle, flung it open, and charged inside.
“Meira!” he shouted, rattling the windows. “Meira, where are you?”
Scraw screeched and hopped off, landing on the back of a chair. Galahad stormed through the parlor, sweeping the room—
He saw her.
There, in the library.
She had just jumped to her feet from sitting at the study table. Her face had gone white, her hair wild, as if she’d walked upon the moors in a high wind. She still wore her fine blue dress, but mud coated the hem and soaked the skirt. Her wide, stark gaze met his. She reached up and questioningly tapped her own cheek, then pointed faintly to him.
All the strength left Galahad’s body.
“You…” he choked, a terrible trembling covering his body. “You didn’t…”
She frowned sharply, holding her breath.
Galahad risked a step inside, then another. He swallowed hard.
“You didn’t do it,” he gasped. “You didn’t.”
Understanding washed over her features.
Then, she gave him the gentlest, saddest smile he’d ever seen.
And she reached down into her pocket, and drew out a long, graceful knife.
It was made of black metal that sparkled in the lamplight. It bore a curved handle, suited to the grasp of a woman, and a wickedly-slender blade. She held it up in both hands, gazing gravely at it. Then, she lowered her head, and laid the knife on the table. It clicked as it touched the surface. She released it.
Galahad, drawn against his will, stepped further in, his attention captured by that evil blade. At last, he stood in front of her, sensing the invisible shadows twisting and snarling around the weapon. He lifted his head and desperately searched her face.
“You didn’t…?” he murmured, his brow knotting.
Her quiet gaze lingered on him, that sorrowful smile returning.
And she shook her head.
Galahad released a sudden, broken sigh, and sagged forward.
Meira grabbed hold of his shoulders. Then, she caught sight of his wounded hand.
She gasped.
“Meira,” Galahad tried. “Meira, I…I summoned Myrkur.”
Her eyes flashed to his, but at the same time, she grasped the sleeve of her dress at the seam and ripped it. She tore off a long strip and snatched hold of his hand, pressing the cloth against his wide cut and binding it round and round.
“I forged a new contract,” he managed.
Meira went still. Her fingers clamped down on his hand…
And she lifted terrified eyes to his. Galahad’s breath shuddered.
“I transferred the guardianship of the seal to Beatrix,” he said. “But when I asked Myrkur to release you from the spell, she said she couldn’t.” His shaking fingers closed around hers. “So I performed my own blood spell.” He smiled weakly for an instant. “And I took the spell from you.”
Meira stared at him.
Then, slowly, she started shaking her head.
“You’ll live, Meira,” Galahad said, clearing his throat and ducking away. “I’ll die in the morning, as you would have. And when I do, you’ll be human, and have your voice back.”
Meira shook her head harder, a gasp tearing through her—and she reached up and slid her warm hands around his neck, pressing her thumbs to his temples. Galahad tried to look at her—caught sight of sudden tears in he
r brilliant eyes before he couldn’t bear it. He reached up to pull her hands down…
But strength failed him, and he could only hold her wrists and squeeze his eyes shut.
She released his face and grasped his collar, and shook him. He forced his eyes open again to see her still fervently shaking her head. She let go of him with one hand and snatched up a book from the table, then shoved it into his chest. He limply caught it. Meira rapidly pointed to all the other books, then rapped her knuckles on the one he held.
He shook his head.
“No, there’s no way out of this,” he murmured. “At least…Not unless I ask you to do something I know you cannot do.”
She flung the book on the floor. It hit the wood with a deafening bang.
She grabbed his wounded hand again in both of hers and glared fiercely at him. Twin tears spilled down her cheeks.
Galahad twisted his head and tried to wrench out of her grip—but she held onto him, clawing at his vest, wrapping her hand around his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Then, all at once, she went still.
Galahad’s heartbeat raged in his ears, but he didn’t dare look at her again.
Her touch changed. Softened—as if she held something as delicate as glass.
And her realization hit him like a ton of stone.
His eyes flew open.
Her eyes had flooded with blue.
“Meira…” he rasped.
She clenched his wrist in both her hands, turned him, and started dragging him toward the door.
“Meira, no,” he tugged against her, planting his feet.
She whirled around, striking him with a fiery stare. And before he knew what he was doing, his feet gave way, and he let her lead him out into the parlor, into the entryway, and through the front door.
Thondorfax snorted at her in greeting and stamped his feet. Meira led Galahad up to the horse, then turned and faced him. She stood still, her frame filled with an iron resolve.
But her breathing shook, and everything in her bearing asked a single question.
A question that sent splinters of agony through his heart.
She squeezed down on his wounded hand.
He bit the inside of his cheek.
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