“Father, I didn’t ask you to come here with me,” Aria said. Her voice was as cold and hard as the sword which saved her that morning. “Go back, and I’ll join you when I’m finished.”
Conall looked doubtfully at the cloak which he and Dalquin had arranged on the coping under Aria’s direction. Lowering his voice a trifle (though Dalquin was politely distant and the huge room drank voices anyway), the king said, “Is it because you and, ah, Dennis are having a problem? Believe me, dearest, you mustn’t be concerned about a little awkwardness early in a mar—”
“Father!” Aria snapped. “I appreciate your helping me, but it’s time now for you to go.”
“I… well, whatever you want, dearest… But I do wish—” Conall looked at his daughter directly for the first time since they’d entered the cavern beneath the city he ruled “—that you’d at least keep the lantern.”
“Thank you, father,” Aria said, “but I’ll do this as I’ve planned.”
Clutching her lute, she watched the backs of the men who retreated to the bright upper world of the city. Just before they disappeared up the stairs, Aria heard Dalquin say, “Just where is Prince Dennis, anyway? I haven’t seen him…”
Blinking back tears, Aria seated herself cross-legged on the coping beside the half-folded cloak and tuned her lute with practiced fingers. With the lantern gone, the glow of her spinning pendant was enough to cast faint shadows onto the mother-of-pearl and exotic woods inlaying the sound chamber.
But the sea was beginning to hint at gray light also.
Aria began to sing, her fingers plucking the strings with perfect, plangent timing in her own accompaniment. The words were ancient, older than the settlement of Earth by men:
The dead are gone and with them we cannot speak;
The living are here and ought to have our love.
Leaving the city gate I look ahead
And see before me only mounds and tombs…
The sea’s stirring was so faint that at first it could have been driven onto the water by the lute-strings themselves. But it brightened; and, with a motion so gentle that the water didn’t rush over the coping, the sea hag surfaced.
The woman-face looked at the princess. Aria sat transfixed. For a moment, she felt that she was looking at herself reflected in a frost-etched mirror.
“Sing,” said the sea hag; and when the creature spoke, all semblance to humanity was lost forever.
Aria struck a chord:
In the white aspens, sad winds sing
Their long murmuring kills my heart with grief.
“Why have you come to me, Princess of Rakastava’s City?” the sea hag asked. Its voice was as hollow as the cavern in which it and Aria were the only living things.
“Give me my lover, sea hag,” Aria said. “Return my Dennis to me.” Her fingers drew a melodious arpeggio from the lute strings. Her heart was filled with terror and blue ice.
The sea hag laughed, its great mouth gaping to pour out notes that filled the cavern as the roars of Rakastava had filled it—before Dennis and his sword ended the roaring forever.
“You will not have your lover, woman,” the sea hag said. “He is mine by a bargain older than his soul.”
Aria lifted the chain from her neck. The pendant followed the metal links as though there were a physical connection between them and the carven crystals, each nested at the heart of the next larger.
“I will bargain with you, then,” Aria said. “Give me a sight of my husband, my lover, and I will give you this.”
The sea hag sighed like the wind driving through a mountain gorge. “Give it to me, then,” the creature said. “Throw it to me…”
The bauble was an heirloom from the days of Earth’s first human settlement. It had been as much a part of her life as Chester was to Dennis.
Aria obeyed without hesitation.
The sea hag caught the chain in one “human” hand. For a moment, the crystal dangled in the air.
The creature’s real mouth opened; the face and the hand smeared into the scaly visage of the monster that they only decorated; and the pendant dropped into the bone-ribbed gape.