Youngest Son of the Water King. A bride for the water prince. Natalie Yacobson
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surely not the new priestess?”
Desdemona looked around helplessly. In one large puddle that covered half the street, she saw her reflection. There seemed to be nothing wrong with her face. No rash. So why were those creatures looking at her as if she had horns growing out of her head instead of a graceful tiara?
The water rippled in the breeze. Raindrops seemed to be folded on the surface of the puddle into a fanciful inscription. A moment, and instead of her own reflection, Desdemona saw again the face that had already frightened her in the pond. It was entirely green, framed by worms instead of hair. Two pearls grew in the nostrils of the hooked nose and another on the chin. A third yellow eye burned in its forehead. There was no pupil in it, nor were there any in the pair of orange eyes at the bridge of his nose.
The green lips quivered at the sight of Desdemona. The creature in the puddle saw her, and so did she see her. So was the witch in the water just a reflection, or was she really sitting in it? Desdemona made a desperate gesture and dipped her hand into the water. She found no one under the water, but the vile face laughed. The laughter was real. It carried down the street.
“Remember my prophecy!” The witch’s face grinned. “I usually take payment for prophecies in the form of a drop of blood, but I told you in advance. And don’t forget me when you’re visiting powerful people.”
The unpleasant voice cut through her ears like a drumbeat.
Desdemona wanted to go around the puddle, but there was no dry space around her. She had to turn back and walk into the gloomy alley. Green creatures of small stature crawled along the walls there. They resembled toads. Desdemona was not touched by any of them. She slipped past.
The streets ahead were not yet flooded, though even here the rain pounded on the windows, knocking out the shutters. The hail left puncture holes in the mica windows. Not so long ago, Aquilania had been a sunny kingdom. Now darkness was descending.
Desdemona stopped before a turn. There were men armed with sharp sickles. Their intentions were clearly malevolent, and their robes were suspicious. Only priests would wear such robes. Hoods pulled low over their foreheads to hide their faces, but she could see hoops on their hardened foreheads that seemed to have grown into the cracked skin. In the center of each hoop was a sign of some kind.
What the strangers were doing was like a ritual. The disfigured remains of bodies came to life and squirmed at the touch of the tips of their sickles. More than a dozen figures in red capes with brown claws stood in a circle over the body of the drowned woman. At any rate, by the looks of it, the dark-haired woman looked like a drowned woman. Her corpse swelled with water and turned blue. Seaweed dangled around her neck like a ligature, coiled like knots, as if someone had tied them on purpose.
The figures in red were also arguing about something. But their voices, unlike those in the tavern, were somber. The conversation resembled a funeral service.
“Is it she or isn’t she?”
“She’s the one, but it’s all too easy.”
“No hunting! No sacrifice! No magical intervention! If it had been the right one, it would have cost us dearly. This one fell right into our hands. More like a clever ruse to lead us astray.”
“But from the looks of it, this is the one. Even the markings on it are in the shape of the symbol of Darunon.”
“It could be artificially carved, not a birthmark. It’s done with magic or even needles.”
“But how precise the lines are? And the appearance fits, and the age, and the position of the stars, both celestial and nautical. This could be the maiden.”
“Let’s check it out!”
In the ringleader’s hand was a sickle with runes. The blade itself was frighteningly sharp. How well it was sharpened, how ominously it glittered!
Desdemona covered her mouth with the palm of her hand to keep from screaming. But she wanted to scream. The leader whispered something, tracing the wounds on the face and neck of the deceased. Then he swung the sickle as hard as he could.
Did he want to cut the corset of the dead woman’s body with it? But he drove the tip of the sickle into the flesh and cut her open from the genitals to the neck, studying the insides as if they were writing on paper. He is so indifferent, and the female body before him now resembles a gutted fish. From his whispering, something was happening. The corpse was coming to life and moving under the pressure of the sickle.
“It is no marks inside her,” he concluded. “So the external markings were a hoax. Why don’t you tell us yourself!”
Is that what he says to a dead woman? Desdemona was taken aback. She might as well be calling to the wall. But contrary to her expectations, the dead body suddenly opened its pale mouth and spoke, struggling to move a white tongue that resembled a worm that had crawled into the corpse’s lips.
“She is not in the city… somewhere in the province… in Adar.”
The words from the dead lips were jumbled.
“So you were wrong after all?” Several of the red-clad figures turned to the leader at once.
“It’s not that simple,” he watched coldly as the dead woman’s eyelids fluttered open, the empty whites of her eyes peering out at something in the void. The bloodless lips curved, mimicking a fish mouth.
“She wouldn’t say for sure right away. It’s all because she’s dead. Dead people are dull-witted,” the leader explained.
“What does that mean?” Someone asked him timidly.
“That means she’ll talk about the past first, what happened before she died. We don’t have time. I sense the chosen one is in town. But I don’t see her.”
He sniffed as if his eyes were blind. They seemed to be covered by a veil or some kind of white film that had grown between his eyelids. What were these creatures? Were they priests or sorcerers? Is it a secret society of assassins?”
She should run away from them, but her feet felt like they were stuck to the ground. A familiar face still stared back at her from the puddles, framed by seaweed and vipers instead of hair. An eyelid with gills winked at her. And again it seemed like a bottomless pond, and she was standing knee-deep in it, and the lilies were whispering to her.
The rain was ceasing, and it seemed that in its streams instead of hail real pearls were glimmering. It was a rain of pearls. Desdemona put her hand under it, and the pearls settled in her hand. It was a whole handful. They could be sold. Just don’t show them to your stepmother. Candida will want to take them away.
“The Chosen One,” the walls were humming.
Who are they talking about? What does it mean to be chosen? It’s what they usually say about sacrifices to a sea god. Desdemona didn’t want to be chosen, because it meant being a sacrificial lamb on the altar under the priest’s knife. The word “chosen” even frightened her. It echoed in her brain like a monster hand pounding on a door with a fist.
She was lucky that the red-cloaked figures had turned in a different direction. Their footsteps were getting farther away. Ominous voices produced echoes. The sickle-cut corpse left on the sidewalk emitted a foul odor. This corpse was definitely dead now.
Desdemona almost vomited.
Someone tugged at her sleeve. Beneath her feet was a low creature like the ones that climbed the walls. It was as if the rain had bred them.
Desdemona recoiled from the one standing next to her and for nothing. He took off his green beret, like a pageboy’s, and bowed with the mannerism of an experienced servant.
“Are you Lady Desdemona?”
“Yes!” She was surprised to hear human speech from greenish lips. Though maybe she only thought the page had green skin and webbing between his