Page 76 of Beneath the Haunting Sea

They walked very far, and Lida began to grow fearful of the coming night and exhaustion in the morning. “Come, sister,” she said. “Let us go back.”

“It is not yet night. Come with me, just a little further.” And Dahna pulled her on.

The sun dropped out of sight over the rim of the world.

“Please, Dahna,” said Lida, touching her sister’s arm. “We must go back now. We have walked too far and I am very tired.”

Then Dahna turned in a rage, and, seizing her sister with a grip of iron, dragged her into the sea.

Lida cried out in fear, for the waves grasped at her, choking her breath away, and her sister was strong. She struggled and looked up into Dahna’s face and saw that she was laughing.

“You shall not have him!” cried Dahna. “If I cannot have him, neither shall you!” Then Dahna pushed Lida’s head under the water and would not let her up, no matter how Lida writhed in her grasp. She held her there until Lida grew weaker and weaker, and her body was at last limp and still.

Then Dahna looked up into the sky and felt very cold, but she did not regret what she had done.

She did not return to the village, not that night nor any night after, and no tale tells what happened to her.

It was three days before an old fisherman found the body of Lida, and sent her to rest beneath the waves, as was his custom. When Cyne heard it his heart broke, for the sea had robbed him of even one last glance at his bride. He mourned and raged, longing for death to claim him too, that he and his love might be together for eternity.

He wandered often along the shores of the sea, staring out into its endless waves. He remembered the stories he had heard in his childhood—tales of the Immortal Tree, of Rahn and the Hall where she sat enthroned, the dead of the sea dancing before her. He thought of Lida alone in the faceless masses in the Hall of the Dead, and he determined not to resign her to such a bitter fate.

So Cyne built a ship with the wood of a few scarce trees that grew on the shore of Od, and he strengthened it with the ancient Words of power and set off into the deep waters, on a night that burned with stars.

Long years he sailed on the Northern Sea, and his love for Lida made him strong.

One morning, he lifted his eyes and at last saw the Tree, reaching up from the depths, the blue-and-silver serpents circling it. But Cyne was not afraid, for he bore his father’s sword. It burned with white fire, and was said to have been made in the days when mankind dwelt under the shadow of that selfsame Tree.

The serpents feared the sword, and let him pass.

Then speaking aloud the Words he had long studied in his father’s library, Cyne turned himself into a sea-dragon, and dove into the water.

He followed the trunk of the Tree many fathoms down, and his love for Lida and the Words that guarded him made him strong.

At last he came into Rahn’s Hall, and, shedding the sea-dragon form, he held his sword high. He beheld the dead, and Lida among them, weeping for the pain of her torment. He gave a cry, and, springing to her side, he seized her hand and led her to the dais, where Rahn sat enthroned, the Star bright on her finger.

Then Rahn looked upon him and was surprised, for she had seen no living man for many centuries. “What do you do here, son of the dust? You are not among the dead: I see the life that burns still in your eyes. Why have you come to my Hall?”

And Cyne answered, “I come here for the great love I bear this maiden, who was drowned on the eve of our wedding. Release her soul from your Hall and let her return with me—let her still be my bride. She should not yet dwell among the dead.”

And Rahn saw the fire in his eyes and the flame of the sword which the sea could not quench. Never had such a thing been asked of her, and never before had she seen such love in the face of a man.

“Let her return to the light,” said Cyne.

Then Rahn looked into his heart and saw that it was pure, and she almost repented of the murder of Aigir, wishing suddenly for the love he had once borne her. She lifted her hand so the Star blazed brighter. “Take her, son of the dust. It will not matter in the end, when I rule the earth as well as the sea and all mankind are in chains. Take her, and leave my Hall, and return here no more.”

And Cyne rejoiced, and bore Lida up with him to the surface of the sea, setting her within his ship.

Then Lida stirred and woke and lived, and he kissed her under the sky and wept long. They sailed together many months upon the sea, returning at last to Od where they were met with much rejoicing, and were at last wed.

Long and happily they lived beneath the sun, and when they died they died together, and the One who was before the gods gathered them beyond the circles of Endahr, and there they dwell in peace for all eternity. But their children set a watch over the sea, lest Rahn come ever to the shores of the earth and sought to claim it. And they watch still.

It was possible, then.

Dread prickled down her spine and she closed the book, staring blankly into the fire. Could she really hang her entire future on such an absurd story? A sword that burned in the ocean. A manchanging into a sea-dragon. A dead bride brought back to life.

But wasn’t that what she wanted for her mother? Wasn’t that what the gods were calling her to do, with their dreams and their mirrors and their ships in hidden coves? She didn’t want to think about Rahn leaving the sea, or that the gods might want her to do something about it. Saving her mother was hopeless enough. She refused toworry about the fate of the whole world as well.

She gnawed on her lip, frustrated, and got up from her chair.

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