Sy-wen ignored the predator, her attention focused on the wreckage. The hull had cracked in half upon impact. The masts had been sheared off, but the sails were still tangled by ropes to the shattered ship, flapping in the current like ghosts. What happened? she wondered to herself.
But her thoughts weren’t hers alone. Smells strange, Ragnar’k whispered. Bad. We go now.
No, my sweet giant. We must search.
She felt the hint of his worry, but also his acknowledgment.
I must search closer. Can you bring me to the broken section of hull?
As answer, Ragnar’k wound his body in a tight coil and swam down to the seafloor, beside the ragged crack in the hull. Silt churned as his belly and legs brushed the sandy bottom.
You go now? Ragnar’k asked, sorrow behind his sending.
I must. You know.
I know. My heart will miss you.
Sy-wen checked the pair of air pods and the spears on her back. Satisfied, she slid her feet free of the flaps. Fear not, my love. You’re always in my heart.
A warm sensation coursed through her, sent by the dragon.
I’ll see you soon. She spat out the siphon that let her share the dragon’s air reserves and allowed her natural buoyancy to lift her from her seat. As soon as she lost contact with the dragon, the seabed floor burst up in a churn of silt and sand. A dark shadow whirled beneath her, swirling and condensing. Sy-wen kicked and swept her arms to hold herself in place amid the swirling cloud, and waited.
There was another reason Sy-wen had been asked to examine the wreckage. She had her own expert on ships and sailing at her side.
From the cloud below her, Kast suddenly appeared, naked, eyes frantically searching. She dove toward him with a smile. His black hair, unbound from its usual long braid, floated around his face, his dragon tattoo bright on cheek and neck. His eyes met hers. Though she couldn’t speak heart to heart to him, the same warm sensation coursed through her. Their sharing was an older magick.
He swam up to her and slid his long arms around her waist, staring deep into her eyes. After so long with her, he was growing as comfortable in the sea as she. She reached to the air pod at her side, but instead, his lips found hers. He kissed her deeply.
After too short a time, he broke off. He still could not hold his breath for as long as a true mer’ai.
Sy-wen passed him an air pod, and he bit off the glued tip of its stem. She watched him inhale two breaths. He motioned that he was fine. She freed the second pod and did the same, then pointed to the cracked hull of the elv’in ship. They had drifted up a few spans and had to dive back down toward the dark interior. Kast kept one hand in hers. In the cold waters, his palm was a warm coal.
Together, they slipped between the yawning jaws of the gaping hull. An elv’in scoutship was not a large ship, less than two dragonlengths. Its bow end was no more than a trio of wardrooms and a small kitchen. The stern end contained a storage hold.
Kast motioned that he would check the forward rooms. She nodded. Before departing the Leviathan, they had broken down the search. Since the body of Meric’s cousin had not floated up, perhaps it was still trapped in the wreckage.
Sy-wen reached over a shoulder and freed one of her two short spears. She passed the weapon to Kast, remembering the rockshark prowling around the ship earlier. Then she freed her own spear and shook the two fist-sized glowglobes dangling from its butt end. The trapped algae in the kelp pods burst into green brilliance, bathing the wooden interior ribs of the ship in a sickly light.
Kast followed her example, then lifted his spear in a salute and slid from her side. As planned, he would check the bow section; Sy-wen the stern.
Turning, Sy-wen stared at the tumble of crates and barrels that filled the storage space. Some floated, buoyed and bobbing overhead. Others held contents heavy enough to keep them resting against the tilted deck. She stared deeper into the murky hold. The glow of her spear’s globes could not penetrate to the far end.
With a glance over her shoulder, Sy-wen watched Kast’s feet disappear through a hatch. Alone, she turned back to the gloomy interior of the ship’s storage compartment. Raising her spear ahead of her, she kicked off a strut and glided amid the piled debris. Was there some clue to the fate of the scoutship hidden among these crates? She swam slowly, searching for anything suspicious.
With her spear, Sy-wen bumped aside a floating crate, disturbing a large sea turtle. The ocean denizen eyed her with clear annoyance and paddled awkwardly away.
Sy-wen swam deeper into the hold.
Soon she found herself gliding above a nest of small, oddly shaped barrels. Each was perfectly oval in shape and no larger than a human head: They looked like large eggs. But what was odd was their coloring: a deep ebony—so dark in fact, the eggs seemed to suck the light rather than reflect it. She swam closer, intrigued, and saw forked streaks of silver running through the black, like cracks in a shell.
Sy-wen leaned her face nearer, and suddenly knew what she had found. Sweet Mother above! Almost choking in panic, she sprang back, paddling. She used her spear to push away from the crowded deck, but her rising back struck a rib of the boat, holding her above the abomination. As she stared down, her heart sickened, and the cold chill of the ocean penetrated her bones. She spun in a tight circle. The objects were scattered all around. There had to be over a hundred of them.
Her eyes were wide with fear.
They were all made of ebon’stone! Ebon’stone eggs!
She backed away from the nest, kicking aside crates that floated along the roof. She swam to the broken section of hull and stared up at the sun shining high above the ocean, a watery blur of brightness. She drew strength from the light, as if its purity could cleanse the sight from her eyes.
Something brushed against her shoulder.
She shouted in fright, spitting out her air pod and gulping a mouthful of seawater. Arms grabbed her and spun her around. She found Kast peering down at her with concern. His face was better than any sun.
He dropped his spear and snatched up her discarded air pod, bringing its stem to her lips. She took it gratefully, blowing the water from her mouth, then sucking in air. Half sobbing, she clasped to him and buried her face into his chest.
He held her until her shaking stopped.
After several breaths, she felt strong enough to push away. She sent him a questioning look. He shook his head. He had been unable to find the captain’s body. But he lifted his other arm. A book was clasped in his grip. It looked like the ship’s log. She nodded. If the water hadn’t damaged it too severely, maybe it held a record of what had happened . . . or where the ship had come upon such a foul load.
Biting her lip, she tugged Kast toward the stern hold. He should see what she had discovered. He retrieved his spear, and together they ventured back into the maze of crates and barrels. She quickly returned to the nest of ebon’stone eggs and pointed.
Kast seemed as confused as she had been at first. He swam down, but she restrained him from getting too near. She lowered her spear’s glowglobes closer, then felt him stiffen with recognition. He glanced back at her, shock and fear shining in his dark eyes.
She tried to tug him away, but he reached to her waist and slipped free a small net of woven seaweed, normally used to collect sea-tubers and other edibles. He passed her his spear and the logbook, then unfurled her net. She knew what he meant to do.
She grabbed his wrist, wanting to stop him, but she knew he was right. They must return with one of these dreadful eggs. Others would want to see it, examine it, to attempt to divine the danger here.
Sy-wen met Kast’s eyes and urged him caution. He nodded, understanding.
He slid from her side and kicked off to where a lone egg lay apart from the others. Kast lowered the net over it, then scooped it up, careful not to touch its surface.
He waved her to lead the way back out. Clutching the logbook to her chest, she swam swiftly out of the broken ship and into the bright wate
rs beyond.
Sy-wen turned and motioned for Kast to draw nearer. Slipping the spears over her shoulder, she motioned with her hands: a bird in flight. He nodded. They must bring their discoveries as quickly as possible to the castle.
Kast slid up to her. He passed her his burden. She was reluctant to accept it but had no choice. She held the book and the twisted handle of the net in one hand. With the other, she reached to the man she loved. He took her fingers and brought her palm to his lips. The heat of his kiss burned.
He then reached and pulled her close, pressing against her, one leg slipping between hers. He squeezed the fear from her with his strong arms. Gasping slightly, she stared up into his eyes and saw the love there.
At last, before she could balk, she slipped her free hand to his cheek and touched his dragon tattoo. His body arched against her, both pain and pleasure. I have need of you, she intoned.
The world burst around her. Sand skirled out in a mad whirl. She spun. Her legs were thrown apart, forced by muscle and magick. Under her, a dragon took shape, wings spread, a roar echoed in mind and ear. She clutched her burdens in an iron grip.
To the castle, Ragnar’k. Quickly.
Dragon thoughts and sensations merged with her own. As you wish, my bonded.
Her feet slipped into the warm flaps of scale that drew tight around her, holding her secure. She leaned into his neck. Go, my sweet giant.
With a burst of muscle and energy, the dragon lunged up, toward the watery sun. Sy-wen held tight to her burdens, but at the back of her mind, she wondered if all this was best left drowned at the bottom of the ocean.
Then dragon and rider burst from the sea. In the distance, she spotted ships on the water and in the air. Farther out, Leviathans spouted jets of spray as they filled their monstrous reserves. The world awaited her, and the dangers ahead must be faced.
Ragnar’k tilted on a wingtip and banked toward the island and the great edifice of A’loa Glen, the last bastion of freedom in this dark world.
Sy-wen glanced down to her netted cargo, wondering again what horror she was carrying forward from this watery grave. She pictured the dark nest in the broken hold and shuddered.
Whatever evil it represented, it must be stopped.
“Winterfell . . .” Elena whispered.
Er’ril stared at the stricken woman. How he wanted to scoop her into his arms and calm that look of dismay. She seemed to sink in on herself, swamped by memories of a childhood lost too young. Her eyes, usually a bright emerald, had gone distant, as if she had to search far back to remember. He tried to remember the little girl he first saw on the cobbled streets of Winterfell. It seemed like ages ago to him also.
He suddenly found her eyes focused back on him. What did she see? An old man wearing a young man’s face? What more did he have to offer her? He had forsaken his own immortality for the woman at his side, placing all his hopes for Alasea’s future on her small shoulders. He had a sudden urge to drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness.
Instead, he stood his post: knight, liegeman, protector . . . and in some small way, husband. For the past moons, they had given up denying what was in their hearts. Bound by elv’in law, they were husband and wife. But what hearts could admit, their bodies had yet to yield. He ached for her, but the gulf of years still separated them. She was a child wearing a woman’s body. He was an old man disguised in a young man’s form. That difference had yet to be resolved with their tender touches, glances, and brief kisses.
“Er’ril,” Elena said to him, bringing him back to the dilemma presented by this acerbic clown in motley and bells. “We can’t dismiss what Master Quail has told us. It rings with truth. We know the Wyvern Gate was heading to the Winterfell when we discovered it. I can’t imagine what that dark og’re expects to accomplish with only one Weirgate, but it must be stopped.”
Er’ril nodded. “Without doubt. But how?”
“We destroyed the others,” Elena said. “We will destroy this one. The Wyvern Gate is the last stake that holds Chi imprisoned. Destroy it, and Chi will be free. The Dark Lord of Blackhall will be powerless.”
Er’ril grimaced. “So the spirits have said.” But he was not so sure, himself. During the last moon, Elena and Er’ril had shared many discussions with the spirits of the Blood Diary: the shade of Aunt Fila and the spirit-being Cho. Five centuries ago, Cho’s brother spirit, Chi, had been trapped within the four Weirgates. With three broken, no one could say for sure why Chi remained trapped in this last Gate. Er’ril doubted that the Wyvern Gate was the sole answer. “We dare not place all our hopes that the spirits are correct in this matter.”
Harlequin spoke by the hearth. “Spirits, whores, or fools—what does it matter? I read Shorkan’s note to his underlings. By Midsummer Eve, he declared, the battle would be over. The last words in his note I can still quote: ‘Lo the Eve, wit’ch and world will be broken upon the Master’s pyre.’ ” Harlequin shrugged and picked at a hangnail. “I don’t know. That sounded pretty dire to me.”
Meric cleared his throat. “It does seem plainly spoken.”
“It could be a trap,” Er’ril said, “intended to draw Elena out . . . or to make us act before we’re ready.”
The high keel’s face twisted as if he tasted something sickening. “Or a feint, meant to divide our forces.”
No one spoke for a few moments, pondering these possibilities.
“I can’t ignore the threat to Winterfell,” Elena said. “Trap or not, we must attempt to break that last Gate.”
Er’ril sighed, recognizing the glint of her determination. “What of the attack on Blackhall? Do we wait until after the Gate is dealt with?”
Elena glanced to her gloved hands. “We dare not. Before our allies’ elemental powers wane further, we’ll bring them to bear upon the volcanic stronghold. Perhaps with the Dark Lord’s attention focused on his own defense, we’ll be able to thwart his ambition in the mountains.”
“We?” Er’ril asked.
“If this last Gate holds the key to the Dark Lord’s goal, then he’s sure to have brought strong forces to protect it—even stronger than when his power was divided among the four Gates. If we are to succeed, my strength will be needed. We’ll take one of the elv’in ships; once the Gate is destroyed, we can return and help with the siege upon Blackhall.”
“You can use my ship,” Meric said. “The Stormwing is the swiftest, and my magicks are the strongest of my people. I’ll lead you to the mountains and back.”
“You’ll be needed here to lead your people,” Elena said.
Meric waved away her words. “The captain of the Thunderclouds, our warships, can lead as well as I, and he’s a better warrior and tactician. If the Wyvern Gate is as important as Lord Tyrus’ friend suggests, then my skills are best suited in aiding you.”
Before the matter could be discussed further, a loud thud sounded overhead, accompanied by the screech of scraped stone. All eyes glanced upward as a familiar roar echoed down to them.
“Ragnar’k,” Master Edyll said from his seat.
Meric stood straighter. “Maybe they bring news of my cousin’s ship.”
Lord Tyrus moved from his space by the hearth. “I’ll see if it is so.” The pirate prince hurried through the small tower door, allowing in a gust of ocean breeze.
Voices were heard, and then Tyrus returned, minus his cloak. Kast followed, barefooted and wrapped in the prince’s garment, Sy-wen at his side. Both newcomers shivered and bore burdens in hand, faces grim.
“There’s hot kaffee by the hearth,” Er’ril said.
Kast crossed with Sy-wen, drawn by the hearth’s warmth. Both were quickly given steaming mugs and updated on the discussions.
Kast stared over at Meric. “I must add more dire tidings.”
“Of course you must,” Harlequin said with false brightness.
Meric frowned and sat straighter. “Something about my cousin’s ship?”
Kast nodded. “We did not find her body, bu
t we found this.” He pulled out a large leather-wrapped tome from under his cloak. “The captain’s logbook.”
Meric accepted the parcel, resting a palm atop it. “Thank you. I pray it contains some answers.”
“Pray hard.” Kast nodded to Sy-wen. “The log wasn’t all we found.”
Sy-wen lifted a large dark object, setting it on the table and carefully removing the seaweed net.
“An egg?” Master Edyll asked.
“What strangeness is this?” the high keel asked.
Er’ril stared in disbelief. He choked, unable to find his voice. He saw similar reactions around the room. “Ebon’stone!” he finally gasped.
“We thought as much,” Kast said.
“Why did you bring this here?”
“We thought it best you see this for yourselves.” His voice grew more grim as he glanced to Er’ril. “There are over a hundred of the cursed things down in the hold of the sunken ship.”
“A hundred . . . ?”
“At least that many,” Sy-wen added softly.
Elena pointed. “But what are they? What’s their purpose?”
Meric squinted his ice-blue eyes. “More importantly, why did my cousin bring them here?”
“Perhaps forced,” Master Edyll offered.
The group gathered in a wary circle around the table.
“Whatever danger it represents,” Kast said, “I thought we should be prepared. Figure out what risk this single one poses, then address the nest under the sea.”
Er’ril noticed one member of the group, usually quick with his tongue, remained quiet. Harlequin Quail stared at the ebon’stone egg with an unreadable glint in his gold eyes—no wry comment or biting wit this time.
Er’ril shifted from Elena’s side, moving around the table as if he were examining the egg from all vantages. As he slipped behind the pirate spy, Er’ril slid his sword silently from his sheath and pressed its tip against the base of the small man’s skull. “What do you know of this?”
Harlequin did not flinch.
“What are you doing, plainsman?” Lord Tyrus demanded.
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