Talia brushed her fingers against the leather knapsack. “Why is Endain the only one who knew to call you? Why do the other stories not speak of you?”
His voice was sad and deep and filled with memory. “I am written into every line of the old histories, for those who have the heart to see it.”
The wind wrapped around her and she caught the sudden aroma of roses and fire, deep earth and sweet rain. “What is that?”
“The Tree,” said the Whale. “We are very close.”
Two days later, Talia saw it.
At first it was nothing but a tiny white scar in the distance, rising out of the sea, but it still made her heart pound and her mouth go dry. The Immortal Tree, formed at the beginning of all things—it was real.
The Tree’s scent grew wilder and stronger as the Whale swam closer, until Talia felt almost drunk with it. She had to remind herself to breathe, in and out, in and out.
Wen flew lower in the sky, just a few feet above her; she could feel the rush of air from his wings and looked up to find him watching her. She wished again that he was safe at home, far away from here. Far away from her.
But his presence gave her courage.
The Tree loomed near, bone-white in the sun, its leafless branches clawing some forty feet up into the sky. Talia could feel its strength, and the immensity of its age. Its trunk was nicked with countless scars, and she held tight to the leather knapsack, wondering which one her splinter had come from.
Strong sorrow gripped her. The Tree wasn’t meant to be here, stripped of its glory and original purpose. This was all wrong.
And then she saw the serpents, lunging toward her through the sea, their bodies rising and falling in sinuous arcs, fins flashing green.
“Don’t be afraid,” came the Whale’s steady voice beneath her.
The serpents slammed into his side and one of them sprang up at her, roaring, its mouth open wide, its teeth as long as spearheads. She screamed and tried to kick at it, but the serpent latched onto her leg, biting deep. White-hot agony burst behind her eyes.
She scrabbled in the knapsack, seizing hold of the Star-light. “Let go!” she cried through gritted teeth. “By the power of the Star I command you to let me go!”
The serpent shrank away, teeth ripping out of her leg, and she screamed again, the pain unbearable.
And then Wen was there, in a rush of white wings, diving straight at the serpent. The sea-snake turned on him, lunging with its knife-blade teeth.
“Wen!” Talia shrieked, but he jerked himself up into the air—just missing the serpent’s jaws.
The serpents turned to the Whale, leaping at him, tearing at his skin. The Whale rammed his body sideways and shook them back into the sea. “Go, daughter of Endain. It is time.”
She leapt into the water, the knapsack slapping against her hip, and swam toward the Tree.
Behind her, the Whale bellowed in anger and pain, the serpents screeched with the noise of a thousand tormented souls.
But she couldn’t turn back.
Wen’s claws dug into her shoulder, sudden and sharp, and his wings whirred as he half-lifted her out of the sea.
“Wen!” she cried, trying to wrench out of his grasp. “You have to let me go. You have to let me do this!”
The waves crashed hard and cold over both of them. He didn’t let go.
She looked back at the Whale and the serpents, who were locked in an impossible battle, the serpents sinking their shining teeth into the Whale’s sides, the Whale violently twisting his great body and shaking them off, lashing them hard with his tail. The Whale was strong but the serpents were lithe, coming at him from every side.
The Whale’s bellowing cries and the serpents’ screams echoed all around her until it seemed the world would crack in half because of the noise.
And then the Whale started singing.
He sang as the serpents wailed and flung themselves at him with renewed fury.
He sang as they stripped away his flesh and the sea ran red with his blood.
His voice overpowered theirs, but he was not winning the battle.
“Whale!” Talia screamed, tears running down her face.
Wen was tugging her away, away, but she wouldn’t go. At last he released her, hovering just above her head. She treaded water, ice seeping into her bones.
Over and over the serpents lunged at the Whale, again and again he shook them off. But Talia could see he grew weaker with every attack. She could not bear to watch, and she could not bear to look away.
The serpents drew back once more, torn and bloodied, their scales dripping red. For an instant Talia thought it was over, that the Whale had won.
But then they coiled themselves and sprang at the Whale one last time. He turned to meet them full on.
There came a noise like water breaking on stone, then the notes of the Whale’s song wavered, and went out. The white Tree shuddered like a knife had gone into its heart.
“No!” Talia roared. “No!”
But the Whale lay dead in the midst of the sea, the serpents’ broken bodies beside him. Their mingled blood stained the water.
Wen’s claws bit into her shoulder again, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from the Whale’s body.
The sea washed over her, and she felt its anger creeping into her.
The Words the Whale had taught her resounded strong in her mind, and she turned her eyes to the Tree. She would not let the Whale’s death be in vain.
It was time to do what she had come all this way to do.
Once more she shook Wen off her shoulder and he let her go, but he did not fly away.
She looked up at him, fear and grief raw inside her. “Please go home, Wen. Please. Don’t follow me. You can’t help me now.”
And then she took a deep breath, and finally, finally, spoke aloud four of the Words the Whale had taught her.
Pain exploded in her body and she knew she was screaming, but the sound seemed to come from outside of herself. She felt her skin fall away, felt her bones crack and change. Her muscles broke and her lungs burned and she saw her hair lying loose and dark in the water beside her. Fire coursed through her veins, and the sea closed over her head and choked her breath away.
Chapter Forty-Eight
THE NEXT MOMENT THE PAIN VANISHED AND she could breathe again, even though she was still under water.
The Whale had told her how to turn herself into a fish. He’d also taught her Words to bind and protect her in her human form beneath the sea, but they would only hold a little while.
She could see everything now, the delicate shifting shades of the water, the colors of the algae drifting by, an odd lumpy shape she felt sure was important, the red stain of the Whale’s blood—or was it her own blood? She shuddered, and swam toward the Tree.
The water parted easily, and she drew close enough she could have touched the Tree if she still had hands. There were tiny patterns in the bark, swirled and notched like fingerprints. She stared at the trunk, dread weighing heavy.
There was no turning back.
She dove into the sea, down and down and down. Glancing back, she saw the silhouette of a huge seabird swimming after her. He will die for the love of you, she heard the Whale say. Die for the love of you.