by Chris Howard
Stratolaos bowed his head. “I am sorry, my—"
"I am displeased with you.” The king spoke right over the old soldier's attempt at an apology, but without raising his voice. He paused and gave every indication he was waiting for Stratolaos to say something.
"She is the—"
"I am not, however, displeased with you or your men for failing against Kassandra Alkimides, the Wreath-wearer."
A blurry layer of water haloed Stratolaos. He was sweating. King Tharsaleos waited patiently for the soldier to continue.
"Lord, she—"
"I am displeased you allowed your story to be told outside of my confidence. I depended on your secrecy, cousin."
Stratolaos kept his eyes on the rows of stone benches over a thousand feet below him, determined to wait out the king if every statement he made was destined to be interrupted. He felt the effort to keep his arms at his sides, and not fold them obstinately.
Tharsaleos’ eyes widened at the old soldier's childishness. “Do you waste my time? Report."
Stratolaos looked up into the king's very light eyes, almost gray with a yellow tinge. He was close enough to see flecks of gold in the irises, close enough to see that the king's glare was as cold as the abyss.
"My lord, this woman—"
"All of the Nine-cities will soon know of my granddaughter's existence and they will speak of the fact that she wears the gift of the Earth-encircler, that it has not been lost as we had all thought."
"I will punish—"
"Of course you will, my dear cousin.” Tharsaleos waved dismissively and let his eyes stray to the painting above him on the ceiling, one of the Nereids killing something, another blowing a horn. “It will only be a matter of time before the inquisitive citizens of our great city connect the existence of the Wreath-wearer to the loss of the Olethren."
The blurry layer around Stratolaos blossomed. “Loss?” He stumbled over the word. The king's ancient army of the dead was over two hundred thousand strong. She was skilled with a sword and she had someone's powerful bleed, but what could one girl do against an army that most immortals couldn't stop?
"Do not bother your thoughts with it, Stratolaos."
The old soldier bowed, flinching when the king said his name. Anger reeled raw inside Stratolaos, but he kept it there, showing nothing but a tightening around his mouth on the outside. The Wreath-wearer woman had done something to his mind. He feared hearing his own name.
"I have two more tasks for you.” The king waited for their eyes to meet. “Stratolaos.” He watched the man recoil with satisfaction and then continued. “The first involves the punishment you spoke of. I have nearly reached a decision on what is to be done. Return to your post and await my command. Speak to no one. Not even your wife."
The king waved him away, and Stratolaos bowed again before kicking off, thinking—with a release of tension—that more than one task was a good sign.
* * * *
The double thump of someone's fist on the door reached King Tharsaleos’ ears and he looked up from a topographic and bathymetric map of New Hampshire, a wedge-shaped plot of land in the Americas with a very short coastline. One of the king's fingers was in the middle of tracing a path through the soundings a few hundred meters off the coast.
"Come."
Two of his guardsmen—two of the trusted Eight, Oktoloi—pushed the doors wide and swam to him. One bowed his head, and the other extended a pale box of intricately carved whalebone a little larger than the size of a man's head.
The king folded the map over so his guards wouldn't see what he had been studying, and made his way to them with one powerful kick.
"Well done, Sameramis, Lazoros."
The king studied Sameramis for a moment, a handsome man with a young son. Sameramis had the common Alkimides sandy brown hair, long and unruly corkscrews to his shoulders, some of it bound in braids like most of the Oktoloi. Sameramis had pale green eyes, and a bleed off one parent gave him extraordinary archery skills. He could pin a man's heart a thousand kicks away. Sameramis was the first among the eight, the most experienced. And Sameramis was the only Alkimides in the king's trusted Eight, a concession to the house that contained the royal line.
Tharsaleos motioned for them to approach, and then lifted the lid away and stared into the box.
"My favorite cousin, Stratolaos."
A man's face stared back, something like disappointment showed on the features, the clear gray eyes wide open, clearly dead. His long black hair had been hacked off in places, his nostrils cut, his ears shorn from his head.
"Well done. I have one more task for my dear cousin. Take him to the well of eels and let them feed.” The king paused as if reconsidering. “Will the eels hunger after so small a meal, do you think, Sameramis?"
"They always hunger, milord."
"Yes, you are right. Feed them also with Stratolaos’ wife and son."
* * * *
An hour passed, and the king had gone back to his maps, drawing a path from the depths off the New England coast to the middle of the Wreath-wearer's yard. Then he summoned his war-bard.
He showed her the path on one map of the Atlantic Ocean's floor that continued on to the map of coastal New Hampshire. “Take me there.” He jabbed his finger into a green stretch of the map right on the coast.
Theoxena followed the lines with her finger, humming softly to herself. She nodded, understanding what the king wanted from her, and swam across the room to get ready. “I have heard the story of the Wreath-wearer.” Theoxena glanced over her shoulder, unwrapping her lyre from its case and plucking a few strings. “That she lives among the surfacers."
"Your ears are better than most,” said King Tharsaleos. She was the war-bard—whose ears could be better at picking up the rumors and currents in the city?
"Not in this. I heard it from my daughter."
The king looked up from the maps to Theoxena, watching her cross the chamber with her lyre. “Which one?"
Theoxena's delicate fingers damped the strings. With a tone as sharp as jagged shark's teeth she said, “My youngest, Nikasia."
"Nikasia has your bleed, does she not?"
"She is young. She is not me yet, my lord."
"How quickly do the Kirk?latides bleed?"
"Slowly.” She plucked one note and turned her eyes on him, the irises a solid feral orange. “How quickly does a Dosianax bleed?"
He held his war-bard's eyes for a moment, tempted to ask her if she was threatening him. He had known Theoxena since she was a child, trusted her as much as he trusted anyone, but he still had to be careful. The Kirk?latides—distant descendents of Circe—were deadly. Still, he distinctly heard “Would you care to find out ... how quickly a Dosianax bleeds?” in the silence after her words.
"Queen Isothemis has given me two children, Theoxena.” He forced his eyes to the map with some effort.
"Neither have your bleed, so I've heard.” She tilted her head to the side with something dangerously close to pity. “Nor do they have your dear wife's bleed."
King Tharsaleos kicked up from the map table, enraged, pointing to the surface thousands of feet above him. “Get on with it! Show me this woman."
Theoxena strummed a chord playfully. “Your granddaughter?"
"You push too far, Kirk?latides, always too far. Do not play with me, wife of Epandros!"
One of the lyre's strings went sour and snapped with a flower of blood from Theoxena's fingers. At the mention of her dead husband's name, she curled into a shuddering wreck, her three black braids winding around her throat. Her fingers shook as she restrung the instrument from a spare in the case. The sea blurred around her eyes.
The king kicked to the ceiling of the chamber, glaring down on Theoxena. I killed your beloved Epandros, poisoned him along with his seven companions.
It was the king's turn to express pity, but it was a condescending show, the same expression he'd worn years ago when he had lied to Theoxena—when he had told Theo
xena that her husband, Epandros was dead, killed in an assassination attempt by an exiled prince, Gregor Rexenor.
The King's face turned cruel, daring Theoxena to look up at him. I commanded you to create eight war-horns—with voices that hate life. Who do you think blew those? Your dead husband, in my army, put one of those horns to his rotting lips, and blew the hard work of his own wife. Drink your tears, let them burn your throat, you stupid, stupid—
"It is tuned, milord,” said Theoxena softly. “I am ready."
Tharsaleos nodded curtly. “Let us see this Wreath-wearer, then."
Theoxena wiped her eyes before studying the maps again, tracing the path drawn by the king across the Ocean into the shallows and above the waves to a point on the surface.
She plucked three strings, pulled two at the same time, and sang a few soft words about cleansing the location, darkening the room, sealing the walls from leaking sounds, a preparatory epaiod? for her song about seeing, a distant eye that watched a faraway place, the bright surface of the earth above the waves, reflecting the light into the chamber where she sang.
A disc the size of a face appeared in the water in front of King Tharsaleos, hardening into something that could be moved with strong hands, the morning sky above New Hampshire in its surface, firing a bolt of blinding blue against the king's chest.
"Move the eye and you will find your Wreath-wearer, my lord,” sang Theoxena, her eyes showing more white than iris.
Tharsaleos curled his thick fingers around the lens. It was cold and rigid under his skin, like ice. He shoved it back, tilting the view forward and a field of green replaced the blue.
"Slowly,” said Theoxena, coming out of her trance and paddling to the king's side.
Tharsaleos eased the lens back and ... there was Kassandra in a flowery pale blue cotton dress, dancing in the middle of a long slope of rich green grass. She jumped, hanging in the air, defying the Earth's gravity, her long legs spread, toes pointed. She dropped, did a short hop, and twirled, her arms looping above her head.
Theoxena looked puzzled. The young woman seemed fragile in her dress and her braids flying in the wind. “What is she doing?"
"That is a pirouette, I believe. Something from a dance the surfacers do."
Theoxena reached for the lens, thinking something had gone wrong. “She is the one who defeated your Dosianax guard? That woman is the Wreath-wearer?"
Tharsaleos stared at Kassandra, puzzled by something himself. “Yes."
"She defeated that killer, Stratolaos? By herself?"
The king turned to her. “Tell me everything you know of that."
Theoxena scowled at him. “Only what has been said in the City. That Stratolaos was defeated by the Wreath-wearer, a woman from the surface. Nothing more."
The king nodded grimly and turned back to the lens.
Kassandra sang to herself as she jumped and twirled. “...the honored sweet prophet of summer for mortals. The Muses love you and gave you shrill song. Old age does not wear you down, wise one, earth-born one, lover of song. You cannot suffer, your flesh is bloodless, you are almost like the gods."
"That is an old song,” said Theoxena.
Kassandra's form drifted from view and Tharsaleos swiveled the disc right to capture her again. She had vanished. The wind off the Atlantic shook the branches of the pines, a warped watery view of a big white clapboard house in the background blurred past. Solid green filled the lens as the king shoved its view to the ground. He tugged it and the flare of True Helios filled the chamber, blinding the king and Theoxena.
"Where did she go?"
The king leaned into the elliptical window, grabbing more of it with both hands, jerking it so hard that light and color bled into each other. He held it firm, scanning the house, his nose almost touching the cold surface.
Kassandra's face suddenly filled the window, one side of her smiling mouth lifted mischievously.
"No peeking, granddad!"
She pointed, the tip of her finger an inch from his face, wagging it, as if he was a naughty child. “You killed my grandmother, Pythias, but not before she had a daughter, Ampharete. You killed my mother, but not before she had me. I'm coming to kill you.” She stepped back, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “I was thinking of having your severed head mounted on my bedroom wall. My sisters think it's disgusting. I think it'd be adorable. Oh, and thank you for the bleed. It will make cutting off your head that much more satisfying—knowing that I'll be doing it with some of your own magic. Isn't it elegant the way this has worked out?"
Theoxena's mouth dropped open. She quickly closed it. The king killed Queen Pythias? That was the first time she had heard this. And the king's bleed was going to the Wreath-wearer, Pythias’ granddaughter?
Tharsaleos shook off a wave of dizziness. There was something about listening to her through the lens that rattled his senses. Perhaps Kassandra was trying to trace the path back to him, a reverse trace? He started to explore that, but something she had said proved more distracting.
"Sisters? You have siblings?"
"Two. Adopted by my father. They're not here now or I'd let you meet them. I borrowed this—” She pulled the front of her dress tight. “—from my sister, Jill. It's so light. I'm not much of a dress girl, but I can see why she likes them."
Kassandra's eyes narrowed and hit him hard. Her smile drifted away and she bared her teeth at the king. In one moment, she changed into something different—but still with a girlish voice. “I let your four killers go. Next time, I won't play nice. This is war, grandfather. You send your pet, Mr. Fenhals, snooping around and I'll send him home in a box. Do you understand me? You send anyone ... anyone comes to my doorstep, Stratolaos or some other Dosianax thug, your war-bard—” Theoxena stiffened and kicked closer. “Anyone, and I'll eat them alive.” Kassandra opened her mouth wider and bit down twice, clicking her teeth. She jabbed her finger at him and her voice went lower and angrier. “Don't fuck with me, you murdering piece of shit. Enjoy your throne. Take a good look around the City, because when I come home ... Well, won't that be fun?"
Kassandra put on her smile.
"Time's up!” She shoved her open hand at the lens. It shattered, and jagged wedges of ice flew into the king's face. The room went black. Tharsaleos kicked frantically, coming away with a deep scratch on his right cheek. A bead of blood sprouted from his eyebrow.
He kicked against the wall, rage burning him. Turning to Theoxena, he said, “See what this monster is made of."
"I ... If she has come into her power—and she has your bleed—even I will have trouble going against her by myself, milord.” Theoxena's gaze wandered, her lips opening slowly, and in an awed whisper, she said, “She destroyed the army of the dead."
The king turned away, angrier. “Her father is Gregor Lord Rexenor."
Theoxena's gaze shot to him, wildness blazing in her eyes. Her upper lip twitched. “I will go—at least to discover the nature and extent of her plans and power. I will not promise to destroy her or return with her bracelet.” She hauled some of her anger inside, into a cold hard lump of ice. “Her father, now, he is a different matter."
The king smiled cruelly. “You will have your moment for revenge, Theoxena. If you can kill or capture my old Rexenor slave, do it, but the Wreath-wearer is your primary concern. Do not tarry. Tell me what she knows, who she has gathered around her, what she can do, what these sisters can do. We must prepare for the war in the north. It is time to remove House Rexenor from the ocean floor, from the world, from history, out of all the memories of the Seaborn."
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Chapter Twelve
The New World
Right of the Earth-encircler, dark-haired Lord of the Sea! Souls arise, with third fore-fathers by our sides we will kill the old kings!
—Alkimides battle cry
* * * *
Aleximor opened his eyes, looking out at the pure black of the deep Pacific, but there was something missing inside. He
could not feel much of the presence of Corina Lairsey. She had sunk into herself, brooding or plotting. He gave her another moment's thought, and then moved on to something more pressing.
He felt it in the water, a distant repetitive thumping but so rapid that it was almost a hum, and so far away that he couldn't fix his senses on it. He looked up into the night. Something was there, moving, high above him, maybe even on the surface.
He had swum for six days, following the curve of the land to the tip of Baja California, training this new body to move correctly in the water. Then he went into open water, planning to pick up the west coast of South America at some point. He was about halfway between continents, a thousand feet deep, when he heard the slow rumble of something in the water with him.
He felt Corina stirring inside his head, weak threats and long dull pauses.
Perhaps I am not eating enough? He looked down at his host body, unsure of the correct feel of its weight. It had been so long since he had eaten anything—so long since he had needed to.
Since obtaining this body, he had snapped up a few fish with his bare hands, slicing them open with Corina's dive knife, devouring them raw.
Corina woke feeling hollow and drained of energy. She was getting used to the sense of weakness that went along with someone else controlling her physical side—but this weakness ... her body was consuming itself. He just wasn't eating enough to fuel it.
Anything. Fish is fine. Just eat something.
Raw fish didn't bother her. He hadn't eaten at all the first three days—apparently out of practice. Then he figured out what that gnawing feeling in his stomach was, and started catching fish. The burn inside had made anything taste good, and Corina had watched hungrily as he peeled off the silvery skin and carved out cubes of meat.
Over the last few days depression had driven her into the background, becoming more of the listener and watcher. Her mind was still recovering from his last threat, to bind her to some rotting skeleton.
Now, she was hungry again—hungry enough to heave herself above the depression. And she was angry. If he was going to move in, the least he could do was take care of the place. Hey shithead, get something to eat! I'm wasting away here.