by Marc Turner
The septia groaned.
Not again.
* * *
Karmel gulped in a lungful of air, then gritted her teeth to keep it in as the sea pummeled her from every side. She was plucked from her feet, turned inside out, wrenched this way and that as if by vast watery hands. The waves were shot through with bubbles, but to her right she could make out the hazy forms of Imerle, Pernay, and the executioner, safe within a pocket of air. It stood to reason the emira would have collapsed only that part of the chamber where the Chameleons had been standing. Karmel considered swimming to join them, but doubtless if she did so she would be met by the point of the giant’s sword.
There were figures about her in the misty waters—other Chameleons wriggling and straining and kicking. A foot caught her shoulder as its owner swam for the surface. No access to the roof terraces from the sea, though—even Karmel knew that. Her best hope of reaching dry ground was to make for the doorway to the palace, for surely Imerle wouldn’t have flooded the building with so many of her own forces inside. Karmel squinted. She couldn’t see the doorway through the bubbles, but she could see the floor of the now-collapsed underwater passage stretching off to her left. She kicked in that direction, battling against the currents that threatened first to tug her up to the surface, then down into the grainy depths below.
Pressure was building in her lungs. There was no cause for panic, though, with the surface of the sea only a handful of armspans above. If she ran out of air, she could simply swim up for a breath before diving down again.
Then a memory came to her of the shark she’d seen circling the throne room. Where was it now?
She quickened her stroke.
Fish scattered from her path. The bubbles in the water were dispersing, and she glimpsed the doorway ahead—an arch of brightness in the long dark of the seawall with its swaying covering of fireweed. She pulled herself through the water, arms already aching with the effort, breath pushing against her bared teeth. She seemed to be moving away from her target instead of toward it, and she wondered if Imerle had spun chains of water-magic round her legs to keep her from escaping.
Then suddenly she was rushing toward the doorway as if she were being drawn into a whirlpool.
Too late she realized she’d been wrong about the emira flooding the palace. Imerle would have expected the Chameleons to have overrun her forces by now, so there was nothing for her to lose, and everything for her to gain, by flushing out the nest. The palace would have been transformed into a watery charnel house, but it was too late now for Karmel to turn back. When she twisted and tried to swim against the current, she found its pull was too powerful. Stronger and stronger it became as she drew near to the palace, the doorway yawning wide like the mouth of some creature set to devour her, water rushing all about. She was sucked through the opening and hurled into the wall across from it with bone-jarring force.
Air exploded from her lungs. Her mouth filled with water. The weight of the sea crushed her into the stone, and she coughed and thrashed and tried to surface. The corridor, though, was flooded even up to the ceiling, and she succeeded only in striking her head on stone. Through the stars that clouded her vision she saw a square of light ahead—a window!—and she thrust her head through it into the hot glare of the sun. A lungful of air was all she managed before the pull of the current dragged her away. She hooked her fingers round the edge of the window, clung on for an instant. But the draw was too strong, and she was tugged clear and carried along the corridor to her right in a contortion of limbs.
Walls flashed past to either side, windows to her left. The little breath Karmel had snatched at the window was already running out, but the level of water in the passage would surely drop as she moved farther from the doorway. Sure enough, when she kicked for the surface she found sufficient air for her to steal a breath. She tilted her head back so her face was pressed to the ceiling. For a while she let the current take her. Water sloshed and fizzed in her ears. The corridor was trembling. Then it opened out in front, and she glimpsed a patch of light in the roof to her right, a partly submerged staircase leading up to the terraces. So strong was the tug of water that she nearly overshot it, but she grabbed one of the foam-covered steps as she drew level, hauled herself round and onto it, her knees catching on the stone.
She turned onto her back and lay looking up at the sky, her legs still in the water, the air against her face cool with spray. Her scalp stung from when she’d smashed her head on the ceiling. Overhead the sky was dazzlingly bright after the gloom of the sea. The angles of the steps were cutting into her neck and back, but she hardly felt them for all her other aches and grazes. Distant screams reached her. From farther along the corridor came the sound of thundering waves as if there were rapids round the next corner. While from the direction she had come …
Splashing. It was drawing closer.
She sat up, shivering. A man moved into view, floating on his back with his face pressed to the ceiling as Karmel’s had been. It took the priestess a heartbeat to recognize the weaponsmaster, Foss, his black hair plastered across his face, his cloak shimmering in the water. She seized his arm as he came level. He fought her for an instant, his eyes rolling wildly. Then his gaze locked to hers, and his struggles subsided.
She dragged him onto the steps. He sat panting with his back to the wall, his shoulders slumped, his look one of grim disbelief. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. Karmel knew what he must be thinking. How could they have failed to see what was coming? How could they have been foolish enough to challenge a water-mage in a room carved out of the sea? With a mere gesture Imerle had smashed the Chameleons’ ambitions, for even if Caval’s forces survived the flooding of the palace there was no way they could reach the emira in her pocket of air. Once her troops in the city defeated the remaining Storm Guards …
And yet, that wasn’t what troubled Karmel most about the events of the last quarter-bell.
More splashing sounded. Another figure appeared along the passage, wheezing and spluttering. A man. He saw the stairwell and kicked for it. Foss leaned forward to extend a hand.
Karmel’s expression hardened. It was Caval.
Pushing herself upright, she walked up the steps to the roof terrace.
* * *
Agenta tensed for the wave’s impact.
That impact never came. Instead she heard a crash as of a breaker striking a cliff, then a spattering noise as water was driven out through the windows to fall into the courtyard to her right. The light in the corridor dimmed, and the kalisch looked up to see a shimmering blue-green barrier an armspan away. Balen stood beside her with palms extended, his brow furrowed in concentration. The two Chameleons who had killed Spark had been swallowed by the wave. The male one swam along the now-flooded passage toward Agenta’s party, and she shuffled backward as first his head, then his shoulders and arms, burst from the water. Gasping for air, he dropped his sword and clawed at the floor, his fingers seeking cracks in the mosaic so he could pull himself into the dry part of the corridor.
Warner stepped forward and plunged his sword into the man’s neck.
The priest died with a gurgle.
Behind him his female companion had been making to follow, but she now reversed her course and swam back along the passage. Reaching a window, she thrust her head outside. All around, the sounds of battle had died away. Running footfalls came from the roof overhead. Distant shouts rang out. Then one by one the noises faded until all that could be heard was the swirl and splash of water.
The sea had stolen the heat from the passage. Agenta sat against the wall with her arms wrapped round her knees. That wave had saved her life, she knew, yet somehow she doubted that had been its purpose. Farrell approached the dead Chameleon and stooped to collect the man’s sword. Exhaustion warred with sadness in his features.
“You should not have come,” Agenta said.
“I should not have talked my father into doing business with Imerle either. But I cannot change that
now.”
Agenta stared at him. So it was Farrell, and not his father, who had embraced the chance to ally with the emira? If so, the responsibility for Rethell’s death lay in part at the merchant’s feet, because without him Imerle might never have been able to hire the Revenants. Some of the anger Agenta felt toward the emira should be directed at Farrell too, she realized. When she reached for that anger, though, it eluded her.
“There’s no way that you could have known what would happen on the Icewing,” she said.
“What would happen on the Icewing, no. But that Imerle might prove to be an uncertain friend…”
Warner crouched to search the priest’s corpse. In the wall of water behind, Spark’s body and severed head hung motionless.
Farrell’s gaze was distant. “My father used to say all roads led to Shroud’s Gate, but he wouldn’t complain because by the time he’d walked them all he’d be due a rest. He knew the risk he was taking in supporting Imerle. He’d have had no regrets.”
Agenta’s face twisted. Regrets, she’d always considered, were for those stupid enough to think tomorrow might hold less disappointment than today. And yet, had her indifference to the world made her any more impervious to its hurts? She regarded Farrell impassively. The words he’d spoken just now had been said to convince himself rather than the kalisch. Did he believe them any more than she did? Earlier on the Crest she’d wondered at his acceptance of Samel’s fate. Where was his anger? His need for vengeance? The truth was, he blamed himself as much as the emira for his father’s passing. And guilt would be a harder foe to vanquish even than Imerle.
“Do you think the emira is dead?” Farrell asked. “The only way the palace could have been flooded is if the magic holding back the sea failed.”
“We will see for ourselves soon enough,” Agenta said.
Warner looked at her sharply. “You still mean to go on?”
The kalisch was tempted to confide in him her plans for Imerle. Instead she turned to Balen and said, “Mage, this wall of water, can you drive it before us as far as the throne room?”
He nodded.
Farrell’s voice was urgent. “What about the one behind?” he said, pointing back down the corridor.
For a second wave was rushing toward them.
* * *
Arms and legs flailing, Senar was swept along the passage by the wave. A smaller wave surged toward him from the opposite direction, and the two masses of water met with a crash of spray that came splattering down upon him. A current gripped his legs and tugged him under where he tangled with the shaven-headed Chameleon priestess. He shoved her away, broke the surface, and heaved in a breath.
Another wave hit him from behind.
Then he was hurtling along the corridor again, eyes stinging with salt, feet scrabbling at the floor. In an effort to slow himself he kicked against the flow, but the weight of the surge was irresistible. It snatched him under once more, enfolded him, and the roar of the water fell to a muffled gurgle as if someone had pressed their hands over his ears. Blinded by bubbles, he didn’t know which way was up. Then he saw the blue-white of the floor mosaic. He pushed off against it and surfaced again, coughing spray from his mouth and nose.
He sucked in another breath. The waves in the passage were rolling high enough to break against the ceiling, and Senar rose and fell with them, water washing into his eyes. An intersection came rushing toward him. He reached it just as a wave lapped into the corridor from a side passage, dealing him a clout to the side of the head. That wave carried him into the point of a corner and pinned him there. It seemed a good idea to escape the drag in the main corridor, so he kicked and twisted and squirmed until he’d reached the less turbulent swell of the side passage.
Sudden calm.
Treading water, Senar drifted for a time. With each junction he passed, the water became less choppy. He had no idea where he was heading. Maybe he should be trying to find a way into a courtyard or onto one of the terraces, but just now he was happy to settle for no one swinging a sword at him. To his left was an open doorway. When he looked through he saw a flooded room filled with bobbing casks. Floating facedown among them was a woman in the uniform of Imerle’s personal guard. Along a side passage were more corpses—all Storm Guards. In front of the bodies Senar glimpsed the Chameleon priestess he’d fought, struggling under the weight of her sopping robes. There was no sign of her male companion, or of the twins.
To his right water poured through a window into the courtyard beyond. The sea must have been flowing into the passage faster than it could drain away, because the water continued to rise until the windows narrowed to mere bars of sunshine. He raised his head to keep from swallowing a mouthful of water. The light began to fade. At the next T-junction he was tugged right. From the wall to his left seeped water-magic, and he realized he must be in the corridor that bordered onto the sea. Close by was a partly submerged staircase. The steps fell away from this side, meaning Senar would have to swim past, then double back if he wanted to climb. Was this the same staircase he’d taken to the roof terrace when he first met the emira? He hoped not, because if so the underwater passage would be near. And the last place he wanted to be floating toward now was the throne room.
Something brushed his ankle. He looked down to see a sea snake slither past. There were fish in the water too—silver ones and black ones and blue ones with red-tipped fins that scattered when he kicked his legs. In his mind’s eye he saw again the kris shark circling the throne room, and it occurred to him there might be worse things prowling the passages than the twins and the Chameleons. His gaze fell on his wounded shoulder. Blood was leaking from the cut the priestess had given him, staining his shirt red. Doubtless that blood would be attracting predators from the sea.
If they hadn’t already been drawn here by the corpses of the Storm Guards.
His weariness forgotten, Senar pushed his sword into its scabbard and started swimming for the stairs. He ignored the complaints from his injured shoulder. The water in the corridor was covered with a layer of fireweed that weighed on him like wet wool. By the time he made it to the steps, the muscles of his arms were burning-tight and the sea had risen to almost an armspan from the ceiling.
His knees bumped into the submerged stairs. He crawled a short way up before rolling onto his back. Waves lapped at his boots, but he didn’t have the strength to move. Instead he lay listening to his ragged breath and staring up at the sky through an opening in the ceiling. He hadn’t been in the water for long, yet his body felt as if he’d swum all the way to Olaire from Erin Elal. A body drifted by: a Chameleon priest, his eyes staring wide, his open mouth collecting water. It seemed to Senar there should have been more corpses down here, but then maybe anyone else caught in the passages had been quick to climb to the terraces. Were the twins up there waiting for him now? There was no clash of swords from above to suggest the fighting had moved to the rooftops. All Senar could hear was the gush of water, a distant grumble of collapsing masonry, someone’s cut-off cry for help …
Then the sound of splashing reached him. He looked back along the corridor. Two figures were heading toward him. Mili and Tali. Neither of the twins were looking his way. One was clearly no swimmer for she lay on her back, kicking out with her legs while her sister half dragged, half supported her along the passage. Easy prey while they remained in the water. A lot easier, certainly, than if they gained the stairs and drew their swords.
Senar’s hand strayed to the hilt of his blade.
Then a black fin rose from the waves behind the twins. It sped toward the women, cutting a V through the chop and leaving ripples in its wake. The twins had seen it too, and they began thrashing toward Senar’s staircase, churning the sea to froth. They closed the distance in heartbeats, only to flinch when they caught sight of the Guardian. A moment’s pause, then the nonswimmer lifted a hand to him, her eyes pleading. He hesitated. Yes, the Chameleons had attacked both him and the twins, but that hardly made the sisters his
allies. If he helped them now, what was to stop them turning on him when the danger had passed? It wasn’t as if he had time to quiz them on their intentions. Why take the risk? Why save them now just to kill them later? Or perhaps be killed by them, more to the point.
A huge shadow was now visible in the water behind them. The already meager light in the corridor seemed to dim further with the creature’s coming. Its snout glistened as it broke the surface. Senar half drew his sword. If he wasn’t going to help the twins he at least owed them a clean death. It would be a mercy, he told himself. They would do the same for him if the roles were reversed.
He had to kill them. It was right thing to do.
The twin thrust her hand at him again.
For a heartbeat longer he stood frozen in indecision.
Then he released his grip on his sword hilt and grabbed the sister’s hand. There was no balustrade on the stairwell, and he pulled the woman out of the water and onto the steps behind him.
Senar turned for the second twin. The current had carried her a few paces past. If she’d had the presence of mind she could have swum farther along the passage and clambered onto the submerged stairs to the Guardian’s left. With the shark bearing down on her, though, she wasn’t thinking clearly, for instead she swam a stroke toward Senar before stretching and reaching out her right hand. He snatched for it.
Missed.
The twin gave a despairing cry and fell back in the water.
Senar glanced at the approaching shark. The creature was almost as wide as the passage. When it opened its mouth he saw teeth a handspan long, a scrap of red cloth trapped between them. The sister standing on the staircase behind him screamed, startling him so much he almost toppled into the water. Her horror was reflected in the eyes of her twin in the waves. Senar lashed out with his Will at the shark’s snout. There hadn’t been enough time to fully gather his power, though, and the blow barely slowed the creature’s rush.
Cursing himself for not acting sooner, Senar grabbed for the sister’s hand again. He caught it at the second attempt. Her skin was so slick it began to slide from his grasp, and he seized her wrist with his halfhand also, half lifted her from the water. Her legs hit the submerged steps. As the shark’s head emerged from the sea she raised her knees to her chest. Her twin, behind Senar, screamed again. Matron’s blessing, did she think that was helping him? Or that he wasn’t aware of the danger, perhaps?