She stepped into the dance, shouldering her way past scores of empty faces, frozen screams, hopeless shadows. They danced and spun in their endless rows, but they didn’t touch her, seeming to fear the Tree-shard in her hand.
And then she saw, coming toward her through the dead, a steady, unwavering light. The shadows parted and there was Wen, his skin torn and his clothes in tatters, his jaw tight with determination. The Star-light shone strong in his hand.
She met him in the midst of the dancers, her free hand tangling in his. “Thank the gods. I thought I’d lost you.”
He squeezed her hand, his blue eyes locking onto hers. His face was taut with concentration, or maybe pain. The Words of protection were fading from him, too. “She’s watching us, Talia. She knows we’re here.”
“Then it’s time,” said Talia grimly. She stared at him a moment, studying every line of his face, carving it into her memory. “But Wen, before we do this, there’s something I have to tell you—”
“Tell me later,” he said softly. “When we’re safe at home again.”
He smiled at her.
It hurt. It hurt so much. But she forced herself to smile back.
“Let’s finish this,” she said. “Together.”
“Together,” he agreed.
He let go of her hand and she tore her glance away from him. They both started scaling the dais, one on either side of the tangled tower of seaweed and bone.
She climbed as quickly as she could, grabbing bones and roots and coral, the weight of the water trying to crush her into oblivion. Pearls skittered down like pebbles around her and the coral sliced her fingers, but she almost didn’t feel the pain. Around the dais, Wen kept pace with her, the Star-light in one hand.
Unbidden, the Whale’s words coiled through her head: He will die for the love of you.
The Billow Maidens’ music rose to a horrid, keening wail, and she looked down to find them staring at her. Watching. Listening. Even Endain’s blind eyes were raised toward her.
And then Talia was grasping the top of the dais, her eyes level with Rahn’s feet, bare and white beneath the wavering hem of her dress.
“You are very bold, worm of the earth,” came the goddess’s voice above her, jagged lightning and wind and waves twined together. “Come. Let me have a look at you.”
Talia scrambled onto the dais, her skin crawling, and came face-to-face with Rahn.
For a moment, she found herself transfixed by the goddess’s beauty: hair the color of finely spun gold, shot through with veins of silver; skin as pale as the Tree; eyes as blue as the deepest part of the sea, filled with hatred and sorrow, wisdom and laughter and, above all, an immense, terrible strength. Tendrils from the seaweed that made up her throne curled through her hair and twined about her shoulders, caresses for their cold queen.
The goddess eyed Talia coolly, almost disinterestedly. “Very few of the race of mankind have ever dared come to my Hall. Why have you?”
Talia stared the goddess down. “I have come to destroy you.” Her words cut strong and clear through the Hall, but her knees shook. She could feel the Words peeling themselves from her skin, bit by bit.
The goddess looked at her, her expression a mixture of amusement and annoyance. The Star on her hand glittered and flashed. “What nonsense do you speak before me?”
Below them, the Billow Maidens’ music faded to the barest whisper, and Talia knew they were listening.
“I am a daughter of Endain. The strength of mankind and the power of the sea flow through my veins. Your evil won’t endure, and when you are gone the dead will at last find peace. Your rule is at an end.”
“Fool! There is no power on earth or sea or heaven that can stand against the Star and the Tree! I will rule the world until the end of time itself, and you will dance with the other worms at my feet, and worship me.”
“I will never worship you. And you’re wrong. There are powers that stand against you. I stand against you, bound with the very Words that spoke you into existence. And I am not alone.” Talia peered down below the dais to where the Waves were watching, fingers slipping slower over their harp strings. “Daughters of Aigir, there is no bond set upon you anymore! The nine centuries of your curse are ended—you need not play for your mother and her dead any longer if you do not wish it.”
“Silence! You will speak no more in this Hall. My daughters will do my bidding, now and forever, bond or no.” Rahn’s voice writhed through the sea, impenetrable, unmovable.
But below the dais, the Waves silenced their harp strings, one by one.
The dead moaned before the throne, confused, faltering in their dance without the Waves’ music to guide them.
The hand that bore the Star began to shake. The goddess rose from her throne, towering above Talia with majesty and rage. The sea slipped about her shoulders like a robe for an Empress, blue and green, white and silver. “Do not think you will defeat me!” Rahn thundered. “Many have tried and all have failed, and the ranks of my dead only swell.”
“The birthrights of the daughters of Aigir were not yours to take. You stole their power for nine hundred years—now it has returned to them, every drop.”
“And they’re rather angry with you,” added Wen, choosing that moment to leap onto the dais opposite Talia.
A split-second glance passed between them, and as one, Talia and Wen flung themselves at Rahn, a Word of Death echoing on their lips.
Talia seized one of Rahn’s arms and Wen the other. She had time only to reflect that the goddess’s arm was surprisingly human-feeling before she and Wen yanked her backward, tumbling with her down the side of the dais. Rahn raged as she fell, shrieking Words into the sea, but Wen and Talia didn’t let go.
They hit the ground in a rain of bone shards and pearls, and in the same instant Talia’s fingers closed around the Star. She yanked it from the goddess’s hand.
Fire shot through her.
She screamed, for the Star was drawing her into its heart and she couldn’t bear the pain. She would splinter into a thousand pieces; she would turn to dust, the fragments of her soul broken and scattered for all eternity.
But then she felt a change inside herself, the blood of Aigir crying out. She had a right to the Star. She could contain its power, control it just as he once had. She would destroy Rahn, save Wen and her mother, free the dead. And then—then she could do anything she wanted. Return to Eddenahr and execute Eda for her crimes. Take Wen to Od where he belonged. Crown herself Empress of all the world, never again have to endure pain or heartbreak or sorrow.
She wanted that, more fiercely than she had ever wanted anything. The power of the Star flooded through her. She welcomed it, let it in.
But then she felt fingers tightening around her wrist, biting sharp and cold, a cuff of bone. “Don’t,” hissed a voice.
She blinked and found her dead mother beside her, a spark of life in her eyes. “You’ll become like her.”
Talia gasped and dropped the Star. The fire winked out. She stared at it, relief and regret warring inside of her.