Chapter Eighteen
PEDR
Currents sprang to life under Pedr’s command, thrashing and violent as he chased the retreating storm.
“To the Westlands!” he bellowed.
The arcane understood. He pushed the ship and himself beyond possibility.
While the currents zipped so fast across sea and sky that his eyes watered and the sprint seemed nigh impossible, a new understanding dawned.
Deeper bonds formed between him and the arcane as it magnified, responding to his sincere love and his fear for Mila’s life.
The arcane obeyed. Because, in the end, an Arcanist’s command was all they had. The sea arcane wanted a leader, and he truly became one for the first time.
Mila’s face led him across the waves. The moment right before Stinna whisked her away swirled to life every few seconds.
His upper lip curled in a savage snarl.
Stinna.
The mongrel dog. He would have his revenge.
A voice whispered in his ear, Pedr, I’m sorry.
Himmel.
I tried to distract the Siren Queen and keep her out of crosswinds, but she scented Mila on an island you had taken her to before. She sent a small wave that very briefly touched Mila’s ankle and confirmed it, which brought Stinna to you.
Appreciation humbled him. “It’s not your fault, Himmel. Thank you for your assistance. It means . . . more than you know.”
Do you know who Mila is?
Drily, he muttered, “I do now.”
A pause. As the daughter of a Siren Queen—I’m not sure which one—she is a siren.
At least in part. I don’t know what process one must endure to become a Siren Queen.
But consider . . . Pedr . . . surely, this is what drives you to be close to Mila.
Do not chase her. She is kind and good, but she is also a siren.
The slightest tremble in her words affected him. He’d mused over the possibility. Was the immediate pull he’d felt for Mila a result of the obvious? Did her siren state draw him to her?
Or was it something else?
“Himmel?”
Yes?
“She never sang.” Voice hardening, he said, “If she never sang, then it wasn’t a siren song that pulled me in. It was Mila, and now she’s mine. I’ll be a bastid if any of her aunts gets away with taking her and then keeping her from me.”
This is an impossible task.
“I don’t give a shite.”
Resigned, she said, Then I shall help however I can, but I caution you to prudence.
Drawing Onskar’s attention at the beginning of your command isn’t a wise course.
He would loathe you, Pedr, and your impetuous courage.
Onskar hates a competitor, and you are nothing but seething competition unleashed.
Himmel said no more. Pedr turned his face to the storm and sailed.
Breakers littered the Westland sea. The jagged rocks clustered so tightly that if Pedr hadn’t commanded the currents, he would have bashed his ship to bits.
Any boat larger than a sloop would have difficulty navigating the hidden rocks, particularly during this choppy storm.
The most experienced Captain would struggle to keep his ship together.
Pedr stared at the impending problem and smiled.
“Let’s fix this.”
The arcane flew to work, and his weeks of steady focus and learning paid off.
Within moments, a cross current quickly dashed the stones out to deeper sea.
Beyond the paltry attempt to keep the Arcanist of the Sea out—or to lure unsuspecting sailors in— mountains awaited.
They formed a jagged bowl of slate that pierced the clouds, their foamy partitions covering the highest peaks.
Below them, a skirt of verdant trees flowed to grassy fields, then a circle of brambled bushes, and finally a ring of whitest sand.
Water splashed the pristine beach, unmarred by boats, footprints, or signs of life.
Pedr sniffed, nose in the air. What was that awful, tinny stench? Grumblings and mutterings and growls emitted from shaking bushes that ringed the beach. A flash of something like a snake appeared near the tops, but vanished so quickly he couldn’t be certain.
“Himmel, bring me a breeze? Will I be able to scent her?”
No.
“Where is she?”
There is a castle in the mountain bowl. I can’t be certain, but I would guess that Stinna took Mila right inside.
I’m not sure where. I have tried and cannot smell her, even within the bowl itself.
They have created an arcane fog that completely engulfs the castle, and my arcane cannot penetrate it.
In the past, I have glimpsed small gaps in it, but these are rare.
The sirens protect their home thoroughly.
Well, shite.
“Do you know much about the Siren Queens?”
Very little.
If Pedr strained and focused, he thought he could smell Mila. Briefly, and distantly. It might be a dream. He’d accept a dream over fevered and relentless fear. There were fates worse than death.
Pedr leaped from his ship into the sea and the waves brought him to sand, granting him brief contact.
Grateful to share the same land with Mila again, he brought himself to the beach with a wave and strode out of the water.
She was here. He could feel it. No amount of beach, bramble, bush, bough, or boulder would stop him.
He paused long enough to survey the landscape, analyzing any route. Everything mimicked a circular shape, spreading in flows with increasing danger and restriction. The work of paranoid women. No, not women.
Sirens.
Shaking that off—and the fact that he had no plan, no hope of winning, and nothing but sheer, dumb desperation on his side—he reached for a machete he’d uprooted from Havard’s weapon drawer.
Gripping it lent a marginal sense of protection, but offered no path.
He’d have to hack his way through this mess.
No problem.
He’d hack his way through it for weeks if it brought him closer to Mila.
As he lifted the machete to clear a spot in the bramble bushes, a hiss emanated behind it.
He froze. A snake head shot through the bushes and straight for his face.
Instinct more powerful than his human brain could manage made him recoil.
He ducked a moment before bared teeth would have sliced his lip wide open.
Pedr swung. A gurgling hiss and the thud of a falling snake head broke the air. He backed away as the monstrosity the snake had been attached to threw itself through the brambles, nearly knocking him over.
A gorgon.
The hideous beast slithered on black-and-amethyst tentacles that reached around like long, searching fingers.
A human-like head snarled, crooked teeth dripping with saliva.
Tens of growling snake heads elevated around it, fangs gleaming in the sunlight.
Pedr shouted, dodged another jabbing head, and sliced the machete in an outward arc. He hit nothing.
The monster advanced, towering taller than him. Its sucking tentacles slapped his cheek, stinging. Venom chugged free. Snakes slashed his neck, arms, ribs. Blood oozed, then cleared. He continued to swing the machete.
The gorgon overpowered him in size, but hadn’t planned on his arcane-given strength. While he dodged a snake head, he swung the machete with a speed he never could have managed as a human. The near-infallibility of his arcane body rose to the occasion.
Blood lashed around in ropes as he cut a tentacle off the gorgon.
Limp, the rubbery appendage thudded to the sand.
Several snake heads screeched, elongating and renewing their attacks.
He stabbed at the straining bosom, but the gorgon dodged.
The blood slowed, which meant the gorgon healed as quickly as him.
Must be arcane, which meant the arcane extended to more than Arcanists and Siren Queens. At this rate, he’d be locked in this gorgon battle forever.
Unless . . .
Pedr charged, focusing his swinging machete on the snakes. He slammed one under the jaw, shattering it. It screamed, eyes rolling back. As the gorgon swiveled to retaliate, he brought the machete down and hacked off four at once. Blood flowed like lava ropes.
The gorgon wailed and withered. He advanced on other snake heads, slashing from the left, then the right. He loped free another snake head at the tail end of the machete arc. One more, then two. With each snake that died, none of them were replaced.
The thudding tentacles weakened, and so did the gorgon’s power and thrust. The inert heads flopped to the sand in a death pile.
Weakness pervaded the beast, allowing Pedr to shove his machete through the throat.
The gorgon stared at him with hatred as he yanked the machete through the neck.
The half-severed head crashed to the sand, hitting before the meaty body.
Pedr crouched, machete held upright. Gorgon blood dripped onto his wrist. Rustling brambles increased around him and leaves wavered. Approaching gorgons, most likely. Snarling, he growled, “Come on, ugly beasts. I already know your secrets. You die when your snakes die.”
None appeared. He glanced at the bushes as the ground trembled, toward where the noise emanated from.
Something was . . . wrong.
At once, sound ceased. Black clouds built in the air near the mountain bowl, spreading far and wide. Their dark underbellies obscured the craggy spires. Pedr braced himself. He knew that storm.
Stinna.
Fog rolled down the mountainside like tumbling cotton, black as pitch. It had a foul smell; danger mixed with terror. He recoiled, but held his ground.
A single musical note pierced the cloud. The sound attacked him from body to soul. Shouting, he dropped the machete, slapped both hands to his ears. Agony reverberated through his head, as if a fist gripped him from temple to temple. He plunged to the sand, prostrate.
The note ceased.
Sand granules stuck to his skin as he pushed free. The lurid smell intensified to colossal proportions. He could barely think. The amplified, horrible smell might be all of?—
The thought cut off.