When night fell over the world and the round disc of the moon awoke out of the waves, the Whale stopped singing. Talia caught a sharp breath—the sudden absence of his music disturbed her.
Wen settled beside her, and she put one hand on his wing.
And then the Whale taught her the Words she would need: Words to change her form, like Wen had done; Words to protect her from the weight of the water; Words to give her a voice in the depths of Rahn’s Hall. They sank into her heart, as the Words Wen tried to teach her had not.
The moon slipped back into the sea and the lesser stars faded in the light of the rising sun, and the Whale at last stopped speaking. The Words burned on in Talia’s mind, and she knew she would be able to use them when she needed to. They made so much more sense to her after the Whale’s song, and she understood what Wen had meant: the Words came easy to him, because they were like music. She glanced at the white bird, his feathers ruffling in the night wind.
“How long will the Words last, down in Rahn’s Hall?” Talia asked the Whale.
“Long enough, I hope, for your purpose.”
She stared out over the sea. “What happens when their power fades? When the Words unravel? Will the blood of Aigir save me then?”
“No, daughter of Endain. There is not enough sea god blood in your veins for that. When the Words unravel, you will drown.”
Chapter Forty-Six
TIME DID NOT SEEM TO PASS IN the normal way, riding on the back of the Whale through the deep waters of the Northern Sea. Talia slept sometimes, but not often. She was rarely tired. She didn’t feel hungry or thirsty, and so had no need to eat or drink. She wondered if it had anything to do with the Star-light and Tree-sliver tucked into her knapsack. The Tree had fed the gods once. Maybe that’s what it was doing for her. Or perhaps the sea sustained her, feeding the descendant of Aigir with life and health in a way she couldn’t understand. She felt stronger than she ever had. Her thoughts were clearer. And the music of the waves ceased to bother her, like the sea understood she was coming and had no need to call her anymore.
She spent many long hours in silence, staring out over the sea or lying on her back and gazing up at the wide sky. Wen sat with her sometimes, but more often he flew behind them, always watchful. The lack of hunger didn’t seem to extend to him. He went hunting every day, snatching up glimmering silver fish from the water and eating them when he thought Talia wasn’t looking. She wished he was home, but was also immeasurably glad that he’d stayed with her.
Every morning she reviewed her plans for when she reached Rahn’s Hall. And every night she shut her eyes and let the Words the Whale had taught her burn fresh through her mind, powerful and certain, ready to be uttered. But she didn’t let herself speak them yet.
Sometimes, the Whale would tell her to hold her breath, and he would dive suddenly deep into the ocean, water folding around her heavy and cold. The Whale would feast on krill while she watched fish darting through the sea, or studied the coral formations that looked to her like strange miniature palaces. She saw huge sea turtles and the occasional octopus, and stingrays with wings wider than Wen’s. And just when she felt her lungs would burst from the lack of air, the Whale swam to the surface again.
Once, when they were deep below the sea, she heard the sound of iron against iron, saw sparks glinting red somewhere among the waves. The Whale swam nearer, and Talia felt the heat of an impossible forge. A shadowy monster crouched over an anvil—he had the body of a man with the spine of a sea dragon and the head of a lion. He pounded on a curve of iron, sparks glinting off his hammer, Words of power twisting into the metal. He wept as he worked, and a school of yellow fish swam past his face to drink the tears away.
“It is the god Hahld,” the Whale told her when they breached the surface again. “Rahn trapped him and bound him, and now he makes collars for the dead.”
She couldn’t stop shuddering.
A few days later, when the sun burned bright in a wide sky, Talia saw a white ship in the distance, with tall masts and silver sails. It drew slowly nearer, its shining prow carved in the shape of a beautiful woman with jewels caught in her long hair. Sailors in loose-fitting clothing and smart green caps manned the riggings with rapid efficiency, their rough voices caught up in a sea chantey. They drew close enough for Talia to see the bright flash of their eyes and the deft movements of their hands. But they didn’t seem to notice her, or the Whale.
A banner snapped out in a sudden breeze, three Stars on a field of white with red edges: the crest of Denlahn, long-time enemy of the Enduenan Empire. But this wasn’t a warship; it carried no guns, and the sails were not painted red.
A young man came up to the rail and stared out over the water. He had dark brown eyes and darker skin, and he wore red silk robes with a velvet cap. Talia caught the glint of a sword hilt at his side. He was almost near enough to touch, but he stared right through her, away out to sea.
“He can’t see or hear you,” said the Whale.
“Why not?”
“We sail in different waters. They go to the living; we go to the dead.”
The words sent a chill down her spine. Talia turned to look after the ship as it drew away from her, the sailors’ chantey growing faint on the wind. “I wonder where they’re headed.”
“To Enduena,” said the Whale. “The young man is a Prince of Denlahn, an offering of peace to the Empress.”
“To Eda?”
“Indeed. She has been threatening war with Denlahn since she was crowned.”
The ship grew tiny on the distant horizon, and for an instant Talia saw a different future: herself, Empress of Enduena, standing on the quay in Evalla as the white ship landed and the solemn Denlahn Prince came to take her hand. “And will Eda marry him?”
“Yes. But the prince will not be content to bring peace, for much bitterness and anger dwell hot in his heart.”
“What will happen?”
“The Empire will fall.”
She blinked, and that alternate future vanished with the ship, swallowed by the horizon. “Whale, how do you know all that?”
She felt his sigh, reverberating through his long body. “I know many things, Talia Endain.”
“Do all of them make you sad?”
“Many,” he returned, “but not all.”
Rain streamed cold from an iron sky and waves churned angrily, large and black and crested with foam. But the Whale’s heat warmed her, and he swam close enough to the surface that she could always keep her head above the greedy fingers of the water. Wen huddled close, and she folded her hands in his warm wings.
A light appeared ahead of her in the darkness, bright enough to pierce through the storm.
“What is it?” she asked the Whale.
“The lamps from the lighthouse on the island of Shyd.”