The Mermaids Madness

hilt.
    If she hadn’t been waiting for it, Snow might not have noticed the knife’s magic reaching out to her. Morveren’s magic was both strong and subtle. Snow’s thumb grew cold, tingling as though asleep. She drew her hand back and sucked on the wound as she studied the knife. The magic felt like a cobweb sticking her thumb to the hilt. Right now, she could sever that bond with ease. With more blood, it would soon become unbreakable.
    “Queen Bea?” Beatrice didn’t respond, so Snow fed the knife another drop of blood. She was rewarded with a soft buzzing in the back of her mind. Voices, too distant to make out. “Bea, it’s me. Please hear me.”
    Magic tugged her hand, like a fish nibbling a line. Snow pulled back. “Stop that.”
    The bindings on the knife reminded her of the spells she had touched on Morveren’s soul jars. She still hadn’t found time to take out the jar she had . . . borrowed . . . and investigate it more closely. She wondered if the core of the knife’s hilt, like those jars, would turn out to be hollow.
    Snow picked up her needle and pressed it beneath the edge of a scale, prying it back. The voices grew louder, their tone more urgent, but Snow couldn’t understand what they were saying. They could be telling Snow she was on the right trail to unwind Morveren’s magic, or they could be screaming in terror and pain.
    More blood helped somewhat. The voices didn’t seem to come from the knife itself. Rather, Snow heard them inside her head, through the bond she had established with her blood.
    “Beatrice?” Snow could almost hear her. Not a single voice, but a chorus, all singing different tunes. Pain and confusion and fear and hope and fatigue, as though Beatrice had fragmented into a hundred voices. Then, without warning, recognition .
    Snow blinked back tears as she spread more blood onto the hilt. “I’m here, Bea. I’ve got you.”
    For a heartbeat, the chorus spoke as one. Snow?
    Other voices clamored to be heard. No, not voices, but a single voice crying out as many. Stronger than Beatrice, drowning her in his rage and his terror.
    “Prince Gustan?” There was no response. Either he couldn’t hear her, or else he no longer recognized his own name. Neither Gustan nor Beatrice was aware enough to help her from within the knife.
    “I’m going to get you out of there,” she promised. The cacophony of voices grew louder. She blinked, trying to clear her vision. Her head was pounding so hard she could barely see. When she tried again to reach Beatrice, Gustan’s anger drowned everything else.
    Snow couldn’t blame him. She’d be mad too if her lover drove a knife into her chest and trapped her soul. She tried to push past Gustan’s thoughts—
    Her mind touched Gustan’s.What was left of it, rather. Little more than disjointed memories and emotions. She saw him with Lirea, his fingers digging into her arms as they rocked together.
    This was familiar . . . Snow tensed. She had seen pieces of this vision in Lirea’s dreams, before the touch of Snow’s magic had roused Lirea from her sleep. Before Lirea’s air spirits had almost killed her.
    She forced herself to stay with Gustan. They were on a docked ship, the cot rolling with the movement of the waves. Lirea’s body wasn’t yet human. Gustan’s hands clutched her tails, pushing them apart farther than any human could have endured. Lirea clung to her prince, inexperienced but eager.
    The images fragmented, and then Gustan was greeting his brother Varisto at the docks. Gustan laughed and joked as he helped the men unload the ship, while Varisto stood with his arms folded in disapproval.
    Who was Varisto to question him? Varisto would be lucky to inherit some minor title, deep in the arse end of Hilad. He was as bad as Father, a whimpering child too afraid to take what was rightfully his. The empire needed strength to survive.
    A third memory. Lirea limping up the beach, begging for forgiveness. Gustan laughing as he told her how he had taken a new girl. Lirea wept, telling him she would die without him. Slowly, Gustan wavered.
    Was there still power in Lirea’s voice, some trace of undine magic to help sway Gustan’s mind? Snow couldn’t tell. He had already rebuffed her request for marriage, but the sight of Lirea’s body overcame his distaste. Gustan pushed her down on the damp sand. She kissed his neck, and then he fell back as something within him was tugged away, pulled toward Lirea. He rolled off