Laurelle’s eyes flew wide—then she, too, dropped her head, fingers folded at her bosom.
Dart, still on hands and knees, found herself unable to move. Horror dried the earlier tears. She knew that voice. Only now did she connect the man in the gardens to the face carved and sculpted throughout Chrismferry. Who would’ve expected the eldermost god of the Hundred to be found without his guards, walking the gardens?
A weary sigh sounded behind her. “Enough of this foolishness. Please stand.”
“Of course, Lord Chrism,” Matron Shashyl said, obeying him, but keeping her head bowed. She waved up Laurelle and Dart. “These are your two chosen handmaidens-in-waiting.”
Laurelle gained her feet smoothly, a flower rising toward the sun.
Dart, tangled in her skirts, had to crawl a bit, struggling.
A hand reached to her arm and helped her up. “There you go, lass.”
On her feet, Dart turned and stared up at the god she had mistaken for a groundskeeper. She remembered crashing into him, striking him with her knee. Her gaze tore away, unworthy, horrified at how she had treated him.
Lord Chrism lifted her chin to face him. “It seems my Oracle chose well indeed.”
9
GLOOM
“ARE WE STILL SUPPOSED TO BE PANICKING?” ROGGER asked. “Because I’m getting sores on my arse from all this waiting.”
Tylar shrugged. He had no idea why they hadn’t been attacked yet. He and the thief, along with Delia, sat on a shadowed bench under a fold of sail and watched the seas.
The Grim Wash lay mired in the tangleweed, like a bottle-fly in a spider’s web. The slack sails fluttered weakly with the occasional gust of wind, as if trying to fly free. But escape was impossible.
Tylar stared at the entwining growth. The field of tangleweed undulated with the ocean swells, surrounding the ship in all directions. It took a spyglass to see the open water now.
Earlier in the day, they had crashed broadside into the edge of the choked patch. While they foundered there, the tangleweed flowed past the ship’s flanks, encircling the boat, its passage marked by a ghostly scritch-scratching against the planks, like drowning men clawing to board the ship. Captain Grayl had attempted to keep at least the keel clear by lowering a man on ropes with an ax, but with every chop, more weed writhed up from below. It was futile. The weed was relentless. Even the galley cook reported tendrils sprouting through the boards of the galley, twining inside.
With the ship mired, there was nothing the crew could do but watch the sun crest the sky and begin its slow fall toward the western horizon, baking the ship beneath it.
Eyes narrowed at Tylar. “We should just throw his arse over the rail,” he heard a sailor mumble to another. “Give the watery god what she wants.”
Tylar had heard similar rumblings all day. Only the captain’s goodwill protected him from attack. But how long would it last? Gold bought only so much loyalty, especially among the ilk that bartered with the Black Flaggers.
As the day wore on, the heat continued to rise, damp and salty, smelling of wet weed. It didn’t help the crew’s temperament. The occasional gusts brought a bit of movement to the air, stemming the heavy heat and wafting upon them a sweetness from the fields of blooming spore heads. The thorny flowered stalks pushed above the roll of weed, jostled sluggishly by the current. They looked like white-haired old men, skeletally thin, shaking their heads at the sorry state of the wooden intruder into their midst. But these flower-headed men remained their only companions. The weed hid all else below.
“Are you certain this is Tangle Reef?” Tylar asked for the hundredth time.
Captain Grayl spoke behind them, where he oversaw the repair crews. “It be the Reef, surely. I’ve never spotted a patch of tangle so large. It can be no other.”
As confirmation, Rogger tapped the brand on the underside of his right forearm, reminding everyone that he had been here before. “The good captain is correct.”
Tylar motioned to the spread of weed. “Then where are all the trading barges, the supply ships, the floating dockworks that service the city below the waves?”
Delia answered, waving a small silk fan before her face. “The Reef is as changing as the seas it rides on. It is a living creature whose heart is Fyla.” She touched her chin with the back of her thumb, respect for letting a god’s name pass from her lips. Though the young woman had nailed her fate to theirs, she was still a handmaiden and would not speak harshly of another god, even one meant on capturing them, most likely killing them.
Delia continued. “The weed moves through the Deep by Fyla’s will, but it still requires preparation. Once the hunt began, she would have no choice but to unfetter the Reef’s support ships, to withdraw her surface docks below. There are limits even to the tangle’s reach.”
“It reached us fair enough,” Rogger grumbled, glaring down the length of the Grim Wash.
The wavecrasher listed about four hands to port, tilting the crowded decks. Most of the ship’s crew had come topside, standing, sitting, pacing, all eyes on the horizons. Some attempted to keep busy under the baleful eye of Captain Grayl. Others stood by the rails in supplication, rubbing prayer beads between palms, spitting into the sea to add their waters to the Deep. But most, like Tylar, Rogger, and Delia, stared listlessly at the weed, awaiting certain doom.
“So why isn’t Fyla attacking?” Rogger asked, keeping his voice low. “She must know you’re here.”
Tylar shook his head. “Perhaps she’s consulting with the other gods.”
Rogger spat over the rail in irritation. “It’s not like our watery mistress of the weed doesn’t have the time to dally. We’re certainly not going anywhere. There’s no swimming to freedom, not through this snarl. It’ll pull you under before you’re past the ship’s shadow.”
The chief mate crossed by them, headed for his captain. He had come up from below. His leggings were soaked from the knees down. Not a good tiding. He tapped Grayl’s shoulder.
“Captain, we’re taking on water in the bilge. I have men working the bellows pumps, but it’s a lost battle.”
“Maybe Fyla means to sink us,” Rogger said, leaning back and stretching. “Why dirty her hands with air breathers when she can drown the lot of us?”
Delia stirred. “No. Fyla would want to face Tylar at the very least.”
“Face a godslayer?” Rogger asked doubtfully. “Would she take such a risk?”
“For Meeryn, she would,” Delia answered. “Fyla and Meeryn were close. Both were water gods of the warm seas. Once a decade, the Reef would sweep into the Summering Isles. And though Meeryn could never leave the islands to which she was bonded, the two gods would meet near the Tumbledown Beaches. Fyla would ride in upon a woven carpet of weed, pulled by a pair of silverback dolphins. I saw such a meeting once with my own eyes. Two gods within arm’s reach of each other.”
Tylar could only imagine such a sight. As the Hundred were bound by blood to the lands they settled, it was rare for one god to meet another. Occasionally those who shared neighboring realms would meet at the borders, but even that was rare.
“Some say,” Rogger began, lasciviously cocking up an eyebrow, “that the two were once lovers. Before the Sundering. Now I’d slap down a silver yoke or two to see those two together.”
Color rose darkly to Delia’s cheeks, but before she could reprimand him, shouts burst from the port side.
“The weed is opening!” a man in the high riggings called down. He pointed an arm.
Those gathered atop the deck rushed to the port rail. Tylar was pulled along with them, trailed by Rogger and Delia.
A lone sailor left on the starboard side rubbed prayer beads together. “Everyone on your knees!” he yelled to his ship-mates. “Beg forgiveness from she who moves beneath! Cast the blasphemer from our sight!”
A few glanced to the crazed supplicant until someone in the rigging threw a tin cup at the man’s head. He cried out and went silent.
Cap
tain Grayl stepped to Tylar’s side, plainly worried the tense crew might mutiny against his sworn charge. “Stay close,” he warned. “No telling when the lot of ’em might forget how you fought off the jelly shark and saved their filthy hides.”
Grayl cleared a way to the port rail. Tylar stared at the rolling spread of weed. Its sweet scent wafted stronger now.
“Something’s rising!” the crewman in the nest yelled.
They all saw it a moment later. Through the gap in the weed, a huge black bubble rose from below. It surfaced, sluicing water from its iridescent smooth sides.
“A deepwater pod,” Rogger said.
The top of the bubble peeled open like the petals of a nightshade. Cupped within the center were six men, tall, muscled, hairless from crown to heel. They were naked, except for snug loincloths that blended with their skin, a fish-belly paleness striped in swatches of gray, brown, and ebony.
In their right hands, they carried spears that glinted in the sun. Traceries of green phosphorous crackled along the shafts. Weapons blessed with Grace.
Tylar knew who stood before the ship. The elite guard of Fyla. The Hunters of the Deep. The Shadowknights of the seas.
Their leader stepped forward onto the closest edge of the folded petal of the pod. “Tylar de Noche!” he called to the ship. His voice was oddly nasal, but still rich with authority. “You are ordered by she who moves below to present yourself to her court, to address the heinous acts of which you are accused.”
Captain Grayl gripped Tylar’s elbow and whispered fiercely. “It is certain doom.”
“No doubt, but we have no choice here.”
“We can still fight. I have archers in the riggings, ready on my word. I owe you my ship, my life.”
“And I would have you lose neither defending me.” Tylar freed himself from the captain’s grip.
“Then what will you do?”
Tylar found Rogger and Delia staring at him. “I will go. Once you’re all safely out of harm’s reach, I’ll seek another way to escape.” He had little hope for such a possibility. He barely understood the Graces that ran through his blood and bile, let alone how to use them. And the daemon inside could not save him from drowning.
Delia shook her head. “I’m going with you. I can speak on your behalf. Fyla might listen to words coming from Meeryn’s blood servant.”
“And where you go, I go,” Rogger added.
Tylar sought words to argue. He wanted to bravely cast aside their loyalties, but in his heart, he found strength in their companionship.
Before he could settle the matter, a shudder passed through the ship. Sails shook, ropes rattled in their stanchions, planks trembled underfoot. Cries arose throughout the ship.
“What’s happening?” Delia squeaked.
Captain Grayl answered, “We’re sinking!”
Leaning over the rail, Tylar saw the waterline climb the flanks of the ship. “It’s the skagging tangleweed!” Grayl spat. “It’s pulling us under!”
The leader of the Hunters called out again. “Tylar de Noche! Show yourself or the ship and all aboard will be drowned!”
The Grim Wash continued its shuddering descent into the choked seas, pulled from below. There was no more time for discussion or debate.
Tylar raised an arm high. “I am here! Spare the ship and I will come freely!”
With his words, the tremble in the ship stopped.
The eyes of the Hunters narrowed on him. The Grim Wash remained half-submerged, awaiting his cooperation.
“I must go,” Tylar said.
Captain Grayl wore a determined but resigned expression. “I’ll drop a rope ladder.”
It was all done hastily. The crew was anxious for Tylar to abandon the ship. A few looked ready to simply push him overboard. As he swung a leg over the rail, Grayl grabbed his arm and twisted his wrist.
“What—?”
“Here,” Grayl said. “A return for the remainder of the journey not sailed.” Three gold marches were dropped into his palm.
Tylar shoved them back. “Where I go, I have no need for coin.”
The captain refused to accept them, and the marches fell between their fingers and bounced on the planks.
Rogger set upon them in an instant. “Who says we won’t need coins? You sound like a man heading to the gallows.”
Tylar frowned at him.
“Trust me,” the thief continued. “I’ve lived enough lives to know that the future is never fixed to one path. And no matter which course opens, a bit of gold never hurt.” He jangled his pocket and waved Tylar over the rail. “Now get going before I change my mind about following someone so lacking in good sense.”
Tylar mounted the ladder and descended while Rogger helped Delia over the rail. They didn’t have far to climb. The water’s edge was three-quarters of the way up the ship’s side.
Tylar reached the last rung, ready to jump into the seas and swim to the awaiting Hunters. He turned to get his bearings and found the deepwater pod floating toward the boat, petals extended toward Tylar’s group. The weeds parted before its path.
After a moment, the lead petal’s edge bumped against the ship. Tylar stepped out onto it, wary of his footing. He needn’t have worried. What appeared delicate was firm and steady. Thick veins ran through the leafy petal, supporting it. It was a living thing, a part of the mass of tangleweed.
He stepped away, allowing room for Delia and Rogger. Up at the rail, Captain Grayl raised a hand in sad farewell.
Tylar nodded, mystified by the simple nobility of someone tied to the notorious Flaggers. He had always known that the world was more gray than black and white, but he had never imagined that gray came in so many shades.
Rogger spoke as he stepped onto the petal, his eyes focused on the pod’s center. “Let’s hope these Hunters are half as hospitable as our good captain has been.”
Tylar turned to face the gathered guards. Closer now, he spotted the ribbed lines that shadowed either side of the Hunters’ throats. Gill breathers, like all who lived in Tangle Reef. They could live for short spells above the waters, but it was uncomfortable, and after a day’s time, they would sicken and die unless they returned to the seas.
Tylar led Delia and Rogger forward. The points of five spears tracked them. Only the leader kept his weapon by his side.
“I am Kreel,” he said when they were a step away from him. “Know that you will die on my spear if you attempt any misdeed. She who we serve has blessed me with the sight to see any flows of Grace, whether dark or bright. Cast any charms or summon your daemon and I will know it within a breath, and you will die on the next.”
Tylar noted a glint in the other’s eyes that had nothing to do with the sun overhead. He spoke the truth. There was power hidden there. Tylar refused to flinch from his gaze. “I swear that I will bring no harm to anyone in Tangle Reef unless provoked. As you protect your god and people, so I will my friends here.”
Kreel nodded and stepped back, opening the way to the pod.
They gathered into the center of the pod. The Hunters stood at the edges, spears pointing at them like the spokes of a wheel.
“What about the ship?” Tylar asked.
Kreel nodded. “They will leave unharmed.”
As proof of his word, the Grim Wash suddenly bobbed up amid small cries of distress from the crew. The boat had been set free. Tylar watched as a lane opened in the weed behind the ship’s stern. He heard Grayl’s gruff voice bark orders. Sails climbed up the masts. Even before they could be unfurled, the ship began to move, gliding down the open space in the tangle.
“The weed’s pushing ’em,” Rogger said. “Shoving them out of here.”
Tylar watched. “At least they’re honoring their word in this regard.”
“I suspect it’s not so much honor that grants this boon.”
Tylar glanced to the thief.
He nodded to the retreating ship. “There goes all hope of ever escaping Tangle Reef.”
With those words, the petals of the pod folded up and over their heads, forming a seamless seal. Instead of darkness, the space glowed with a soft green luminescence, filtered sunlight through leaf.
As they began their descent, Tylar was reminded again that the pod was a living part of the weed . . . and they’d just been swallowed up.
For a long silent stretch, they continued blindly into the depths, pulled smoothly by a stalk underneath the pod. Tylar, standing in the center, sensed tiny vibrations through his boots.
“Look,” Delia whispered, drawing his attention to the walls.
When they had first begun their descent, filtered sunlight from the surface had slowly faded to eternal darkness. A small glass lamp—a fire lantern blessed with a single drop of blood from a fire god—had been shaken and bloomed with a tiny flame to light the darkening space.
Now, like an onion peeling, the outermost layer of the pod’s walls had begun to fold back. Translucent walls transformed to fine crystal, opening a clear view to the seas beyond the pod.
Tylar gaped.
All around, a vast forest spread through the dark waters, lit by glowing globes that hung from arched branches. Slender trunks rose in fanciful spirals, while giant fronded leaves waved everywhere. Currents wafted entire sections in slow, undulating dances, moving to a music beyond their hearing.
Rogger spoke. “Who would’ve guessed that snarl topside would look so handsome from down here?”
“I thought you’d been here before?” Tylar said.
He hitched a thumb upward. “Only to the surface docks. I was branded under the sun. To travel down more than a handful of fathoms is forbidden to all but a select few. The mistress here likes to keep the true face of Tangle Reef turned away from sunlight and wind.”
A sudden storm of luminous pinpricks swept up the pod, swirled in eddies like a snowstorm, then rolled away.
“Sea sprites,” Delia said, amazed, following their flight as they fluttered away. “They’re the tiniest bits of sea life, more energy than substance.”
Other larger denizens came swimming up with flicks of tails or writhes of bodies: sharkrays, nibblecray, mantai, and a monstrously large gobdasher. This last curious visitor dwarfed the pod and stared in at them with one baleful yellow eye, then the other. Its mouth cracked enough to reveal three rows of palm-sized teeth, razor edged. But a school of puffer crabs chased it off, jetting through the water with little bursts and nipping claws at the gobdasher’s tail.