The Mermaid's Madness

by Hines, Jim C.

  Varisto laced his fingers together, bringing his hands to his mouth as he glared fire at Danielle. He took several deep breaths before saying, “I will have the mermaid who took my brother from me. If you try to protect her—”

  “That’s enough,” said Armand. “I understand your grief, Highness. There will be time to talk later. You and your crew are welcome to stay as guests—”

  “Forgive me if I mistrust the hospitality of liars and murderers. I will stay with my ship.” With that, Varisto backed away, never taking his gaze from Danielle. “I have spent a year of my life hunting that mermaid. Do not test my patience.”

  Danielle watched him leave. “He might try to sneak his men onto the Phillipa to take Morveren. We should—”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” said Talia. “Captain Hephyra will be watching them, and I’m sure she’s just waiting for an excuse to play with the people who hurt her ship.”

  Armand took Danielle’s hand in his as they walked toward the horses. “Remind me to have Ambassador Trittibar talk to you about diplomacy. Did you really invade Hilad?”

  “Only the very edge,” said Snow. “And it was only the three of us. There was no looting or pillaging or anything like that.”

  Talia coughed and looked away. “I might have pillaged a few things.”

  “Perhaps it would be best if you don’t tell me,” said Armand.

  Danielle quickened her step. After so many days at sea, it was strange to feel solid ground beneath her feet. She had finally grown accustomed to the rocking motion of the Phillipa. “We’ll need a carriage for Snow. She’s hurt, and riding wouldn’t be good for her injuries.”

  “A horse is fine,” Snow protested. “I’ve been riding since I was five.”

  Danielle pointed to the barracks. “If you can tell me how many horses are tied there, you can ride whichever you please.”

  Snow adjusted her hat and squinted, her lips moving silently. She closed one eye, then switched to the other. “I think . . . it looks like there are . . . oh, go fondle a dragon.”

  Armand ordered one of the guards to prepare a carriage. To Snow, he said, “I’ll have Tymalous look to you as soon as we reach the palace. Will your injuries keep you from being able to help my mother?”

  Danielle glanced back at the ship. “We should arrange to have Morveren and Lannadae brought—”

  “No,” said Snow. “Varisto is right not to trust Morveren. I can help Bea without her help.”

  From the way Talia’s brow wrinkled, she didn’t like that answer any more than Danielle. They had both heard Snow express such determination before. She would do whatever she had to in order to save Beatrice . . . no matter the cost to herself.

  When they reached the chapel, they found Father Isaac trying to spoon broth into the queen’s mouth.

  The queen had never been a large woman, but this was the first time Danielle had ever thought of her as fragile. Her face was taut, the cheekbones protruding beneath sunken eyes, but it was her hands that chilled Danielle’s heart. Beatrice’s hands were clasped over her stomach. Her fingers were like interwoven sticks. The skin was dry, sagging from the bones beneath. She wore no jewelry save her wedding band, which was so loose it could have fallen off.

  A pair of silver incense burners hung on the walls to either side of the altar. The smoke was heavily perfumed, making Danielle’s eyes water.

  “Tymalous and I have been able to protect the wound, keeping it from turning gangrenous,” Father Isaac said without looking up. “In the beginning, she appeared to be healing, albeit slowly. But being unable to swallow means her body has lost the strength to repair itself.”

  “She’s starving,” Danielle whispered.

  Snow had retrieved Lirea’s knife from Talia. She carried it in both hands as she approached the altar. Her movements were stiff from pain, but she said nothing.

  Isaac stared at the knife, his expression a mix of curiosity and revulsion. “She’s trapped in that thing, along with another. Can you free them?”

  Snow glanced back at Danielle. “Beatrice is so weak ... I don’t know what will happen when both souls are released. There’s a chance Gustan might try to take her body. I had hoped Beatrice would be strong enough to help fight him off. I could try to enter the knife myself, to restrain Gustan until Beatrice is able to—”

  “No!” Danielle wasn’t sure who spoke first—herself, Talia, or Father Isaac. She hurried to Snow’s side. “Talia, will you stay with Snow to make sure she doesn’t try any more experiments?”

  Snow rolled her eyes and gave a melodramatic sigh. “Fine. I’ll find another way. Father Isaac, could you come with me to help—”

  He shook his head. “I can’t leave the church. Nor is it safe to tinker with such spells so close to the queen.”

  Snow started to argue, then turned around, studying the church walls. She sniffed the air. “The incense?”

  “As well as certain enchantments worked into the stained glass,” said Isaac.

  Danielle looked at the windows. “I don’t understand.”

  “He’s protecting her.” Snow pointed to the incense burners. “He’s mixed a potion into the incense. No, two potions.” She sniffed again. “One to ward off certain demons, and another to . . .” She turned to Father Isaac. “Is that a sleeping potion?”

  “Not exactly,” said Isaac. “I think of it as a potion of peace. Try to strike me.”

  Snow shrugged and raised a hand. Midway through the movement, she turned away, yawning.

  “The greater the anger or hostility, the stronger the magic,” said Isaac.

  Both Snow and Danielle turned to look at Talia, who scowled. Either her anger had eased, or else her curse protected her from the effects of Isaac’s potion.

  “The windows are warded as well,” said Snow. “They block out external magic and suppress spells cast within the church. Even if I could work here, our spells would interfere with each other.”

  “It’s necessary,” said Isaac. He tipped his spoon, allowing several drops of broth to fall past the queen’s lips. Perhaps he hoped such a small amount might make its way down Beatrice’s throat, even if she couldn’t swallow to help it along. “Man was not meant to stand on the border of life and death. In this state, your mother is highly vulnerable. I must remain here to protect her.”

  “So summon Trittibar,” Armand snapped. “Call every witch and conjurer from the city and put them to work on this knife.”

  “Trittibar is a fairy,” said Snow. “His magic comes to him through the hill in Fairytown. His spells are too different from Morveren’s.” She bent down to kiss Beatrice’s forehead, then stepped back from the altar. “As for witches, you’ve heard the expression about too many cooks?”

  Armand nodded.

  “Too many spellcasters is worse.” Snow’s smile held no humor. “Worse as in smoking craters and charred corpses.”

  “If you cannot free the queen, please bring the knife back to me,” said Father Isaac.

  Snow stopped moving. “What can you do?”

  “I can destroy it.” Isaac met and held Armand’s stare.

  “I can release the queen and the knife’s other captive. I can give them both peace.”

  “I can give her life.” Snow left without another word. Talia started to follow, turning back when Danielle called her name.

  “Take care of her,” said Danielle. “Don’t let her—”

  “I will,” Talia promised.

  Though she never would have admitted it to Talia, Snow knew she was in no condition to climb down the ladder hidden in Danielle’s room. Fortunately, there were other ways to reach the secret chambers beneath the palace. Ways that would have been far more convenient without the two servant girls making up the bed in the king and queen’s bedchamber.

  Snow cleared her throat as she entered the room. She tried to remember the servants’ names, then gave up. “The prince sent us to find you. He wants—” She glanced around the room, searching for a plausible
excuse.

  This room was similar in shape and size to the one Danielle shared with Armand. Both rooms were tiled in black and white, with soft carpet covering most of the floor. Tapestries covered the outer walls. One showed the Lorindar navy at sunrise, while another depicted a young girl in a field, surrounded by six white swans.

  The first tapestry had been made here in Lorindar. Snow could tell from the gold and burgundy border, as well as the knots used on the white tassels. But she had never been able to identify the second. The violet star-shaped flowers in the field were like none she had ever seen, nor did she recognize the stylized flames that bordered the piece.

  Talia cleared her throat. Snow turned to see both of the servants staring at her, making no effort to hide their amusement or disdain. Right . . . Snow’s mind was wandering. The throbbing in her head made it difficult to concentrate on anything.

  “The prince is hungry,” she said. “Run to the kitchen and fetch him something to eat. You’ll find him in the chapel.”

  “Just ’cause you’re the queen’s favorite doesn’t make you head of this household,” muttered one. Miriam, that was her name.

  Snow smiled. “That’s all right. I’ll tell the prince you were too busy to answer his summons.” She turned to go.

  Miriam beat her to the door. “I never said I wouldn’t do it, you old—”

  “The prince asked for wine as well,” Talia said, turning to the second girl. “Could you please find him something from the cellar?” Once they were gone, Talia shook her head. “You’re as bad as Danielle. She still thinks she’s a serving girl, and you still think you’re a princess.”

  Snow stuck out her tongue. “I tried being nice back when I first arrived. They all hated me anyway.” She had quickly learned not to bother trying to befriend the servants. The girls were jealous of her beauty, and the boys . . . well, they were boys. Add to that Snow’s closeness to the queen, and she was shunned by most of the staff. Not that she minded, much. Snow had spent most of her life alone and preferred it that way.

  Snow knew they had given Talia a hard time in the beginning as well, but that hadn’t lasted long. Two weeks after her arrival, Talia had found herself alone in a hallway with a blacksmith’s assistant named Brendan who had been known to harass the girls. Nobody knew exactly what Brendan had said or done, but Talia had broken both of his arms, blackened his eye, and might have killed him if the queen hadn’t come running. Nobody bothered Talia after that.

  Once both servants were gone, Snow shut the door and walked to the fireplace. She picked up an iron poker, then crouched down, flinching at the heat. The fire had died down, but the embers still glowed in the ashes. She wrinkled her nose and held her breath. Given the pain in her head, a single sneeze would probably knock her unconscious.

  “There you are,” she whispered, jabbing the poker into a cracked brick at the back of the fireplace.

  The wall beside the fireplace slid open, revealing steps spiraling downward. The staircase was so narrow Snow had to walk sideways, but it was much easier and safer than the ladder in Danielle’s room. She whispered a spell, casting candlelight from the mirrors of her choker.

  The stairs circled around, following the contours of the tower wall until they reached another hidden doorway. The door was as narrow as the passage, opening through the side of the archway connecting the armory and the library. Talia slipped past her, checking the darkness as she always did.

  “Have you mentioned these stairs to Danielle?” Snow asked.

  “Not yet. She needs the exercise.”

  Snow called sunlight from her mirrors and followed, only to find Talia waiting with folded arms.

  “You know, those servants might just notice an open door beside the fireplace,” Talia said.

  Snow blushed and hurried back to close the door.

  By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, Snow’s vision was flashing with each drumbeat in her skull. She did her best to ignore the pain as she lit the lamps and made her way into her study.

  Snow brushed her hands over the platinum frame of her mirror, whispering words Trittibar had taught her. Slowly, the vines cast into the metal twisted and peeled away from the glass, reaching down to the floor. Snow stepped back, smiling as the vines lifted the mirror from the wall, tilting it until the mirror stood flat like a table.

  She pulled a stool up to the mirror. “Trittibar showed me that trick. What do you think?”

  “Can you teach it to fetch and roll over, too?” asked Talia.

  “I tried, but there’s too much power in the mirror. It ran off and tried to mount the queen’s leg. She made me stop experimenting after that.” She smiled and set the knife on the glass, then went to the bookshelves. Running her finger along the spines, she selected four tomes.

  “What are you doing?” Talia asked.

  “The mirror helps me to see the weave of Morveren’s magic.” She set the books on one end of the mirror, then waved a hand over the glass. The light in the room brightened. “Mirror, mirror, on the floor. Show me now the mermaid’s lore.”

  “You really need to talk to a bard about those rhymes,” said Talia. “Someone to tutor you in matters of word choice and rhythm.”

  Snow made a gesture she had picked up from Captain Hephyra. Then she reached out and moved the knife to one side.

  The reflection of the knife remained behind. Snow bent over the mirror and willed the image to expand. The colors in the mirror brightened as the reflection grew, from the rainbow shimmer of the abalone blade to the cracks of purple where Lirea’s scales peeked between layers of hair.

  Snow massaged her forehead as she studied the knife.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to get Trittibar?” Talia asked.

  Snow glanced up, then groaned. Squinting, she addressed the Talia on the left. That one appeared slightly more solid than the other. “His magic and mine don’t obey the same rules.” She rapped her knuckles on the metal vines beneath the table. “I spent three weeks translating his spells to make this trick work for me. Even if Beatrice had that kind of time, Trittibar doesn’t know anything about binding or releasing spirits. I asked him about it last year after we returned from Fairytown.”

  Snow turned her attention back to the knife. Working with the mirror was a tremendous relief. Like her smaller mirrors, its magic didn’t seem affected by her blurred and doubled vision. She brushed her fingers over the reflection, wiping away the likeness of the knife and leaving only the image of Morveren’s magic.

  The binding spell was clearest: loops of green light where the hilt had been. Inside those loops, two shadows moved about like bottled smoke.

  Snow rested her cheek on the glass, trying to see into the end of the loops. She expected a cap of some sort, a symbolic net to keep the souls from escaping. Instead, spokes of light crossed through the entire length of the hilt.

  Talia’s reflection appeared beside the knife. “What is it?”

  “Morveren’s spell.” Snow rubbed her eyes, but the images didn’t change. She grabbed the soul jar she had stolen from Morveren and set that on the mirror. When she moved the jar away to study the magic, the differences were obvious. The jar’s spells formed a hollow prison, as she had expected. She looked back at the knife, with its tendrils of magic that pierced both souls.

  “The knife doesn’t just trap souls.” Snow blinked back tears and pressed a finger to the glass, trying to reach through to Beatrice. She could hear Talia moving closer. “It’s feeding on them.”

  Talia whispered an Arathean curse. Snow was already grabbing the top book from her pile, a treatise on ghosts written sixty years ago by a dwarven priest. She flipped pages, searching for the chapter that talked about binding spirits, but the words blurred and swam together. She had hoped her vision would have improved by now, but instead it seemed to be getting worse. The dwarf’s handwriting didn’t help matters either. Gritting her teeth, she squinted and tried to force the words into focus.

  T
his was going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER 13

  TALIA HOOKED ANOTHER LOOP of green yarn, pulling the row tight. She tugged more wool from the skein and studied her progress before starting the next row. A flat snake of green and black squares, barely as wide as her hand, sat in her lap. “Maybe I should just make the kid a scarf instead of a blanket.”

  She rested her shoulders against the wall, shifting ever so slightly to loosen the muscles of her back. The light from Snow’s mirror really wasn’t bright enough for knitting, but Talia had learned these patterns as a child. She could stitch a rayid-style two-color row blindfolded, thanks in no small part to the “gifts” of her fairy patrons.

  “I’m sorry,” Snow mumbled. “I’ll try to be gentler.”

  Talia tensed. “What was that?”

  Snow looked up and squinted. “Didn’t you . . . sorry. I thought you said . . .” She yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Wait, are you knitting?”

  “I didn’t want to disturb you.” Talia gathered her would-be blanket and yarn.

  “But you’re knitting.” Snow smothered a giggle.

  Talia held up one of the needles, a bronze spike as long as her hand. “A woman with proper training can kill a man with this needle and never spill more than a single drop of blood.”

  “I suppose you’re knitting a garrote?”

  Though Snow’s voice was playful, her eyes were bloodshot, and her lips had lost much of their color. She kept rubbing her thumb, smearing a thin layer of blood over the skin, though she seemed unaware of it. “When was the last time you took a break?”

  “Beatrice can’t wait.” Snow wiped sweat on her sleeve. “Stop being such a hen.” She turned back to the knife and her books.

  Talia’s needles clicked a staccato rhythm as she watched. It wasn’t long before Snow was mumbling to herself again. She sounded like she was speaking Allesandrian. Talia didn’t recognize the exact words, but the tone was unmistakable.

  Soft footsteps announced Danielle’s arrival. “Has she made any progress?”