Deep Wizardry-wiz 2 (23 page)

Nita was startled by the sudden sharpness of S’reee’s answering voice. “Areinnye, don’t talk nonsense,” she said after singing the last note of a spell that sealed the sperm whale’s torn flesh. “The krakens are here for the same reason the quake was—because the Lone Power wants them here. We’re supposed to use up our air fighting them.”

Tlhlki looked soberly at S’reee. “That brings up the question, Ree. Can we complete the Song?”

S’reee swung her tail in a shrug, her eyes on Areinnye’s healing wound. “I thought such a thing might happen,” she said, “after we were attacked the other night. So I brought extra air, more than the group felt it needed. Even so—it’ll be close.”

“We’re a long way down the canyon,” Nita said. “Practically down to the plain. If they’re all down there, waiting for us—if these attacks have just been to wear us down—“

“I don’t think so,” Tlhlki said, glancing over at Nita. “Once out into the plain, we’ll be practically under the shadow of the Sea’s Tooth, close to the ancient site of the Song. And once our circle is set up, they couldn’t get in unless we let them.”

“Which we won’t,” S’reee said. “Let’s waste no more time. This is going to be the fastest Song on record. —Areinnye, you’re done. How do you feel?”

The sperm swayed in the water, testing her healed tail. “Well enough,” she said, grim-voiced. “Though not as well as I would if this human were—“ And Areinnye broke off. “Pardon me,” she said, more slowly. “It was an ill thought. Let me go help Kit now.”

She went. “You now,” S’reee said to Nita. She sang a few notes to start the healing spell going, then said, “HNii’t? Are you all right otherwise?”

The sound of Kit’s battlecry came scraping along Nita’s skin from down-canyon. “No,” she said. Kit had been fighting with a skill and, heaven help him, a relish that Nita would never have suspected in him. I’m not sure it’s the sark doing this, she thought. I keep thinking that Kit might actually be this way, down deep.

Then Nita stopped. What makes me think it matters one way or another? she thought. In a few hours, anything I think about Kit will make no difference at all. But I can’t stop acting as if it will. Habit is hard to break...

“If it’s something I can help with—“ S’reee said, finishing up.

Nita brushed skin with her, an absent gesture. “It’s not,” she said. And off she went after Areinnye—into the water fouled with stirred-up slime and ink and blood, into the reach of grabbing, sandpapery tentacles and the glare of yellow eyes.

It went on that way for what seemed forever, until Nita was nearly blind from head-on ramming. She gave up on sonar and concentrated on keeping just one more squid occupied until Kit or Ed or Areinnye could deal with it. So, as the walls of the canyon, which had been towering some six thousand feet above the Celebrants on either side, began to decrease in height, she didn’t really notice it. Eventually the bitter cold of the water got her attention; and she also realized that the krakens’ attack had stopped. Nita sang a few notes to “see” at a distance, and squinted around her in the sea-green wizard-light to find out where she and the other Celebrants were.

The walls closest to them were still nearly three thousand feet high. But their slope was gentler; and the canyon had widened from some two miles across to nearly five. To left and right of the canyon’s foot, curving away northward and southward, miles past sound or sight, stretched the rubble-strewn foothills of the Continental Shelf. Behind the Celebrants the shelf itself towered, a mighty cliffwall rising to lose itself in darkness. Outward before them, toward the open sea, the terrain was mostly flat, broken only occasionally by hills so shallow they were more like dunes. The rocky bottom was turning to pale sand. But the paleness did nothing to lighten the surroundings. Above it lay an intolerable, crushing weight of water, utterly black, icy cold, weighing down on the soul no matter what spell protected the body. And far out in the blackness could be seen the furtive, erratic movements of tiny lights—eerie points of peculiar-colored fire that jittered and clustered and hung in the cold dark, watching the whales.

Nita took a sharp breath, for some of those lights were definitely eyes. Tlhlki, hanging motionless in the still water beside her, did the same. He was staring down the slope, which sank past the light of the breathing-spell, and far past echo range, dropping farther downward into more darkness. “Nothing can be this deep,” he sang in an unnerved whisper. “How much farther down can we go?”

“All the way,” said another voice from Nita’s other side. She turned, not recognizing it—and then knew the speaker very well and was sick inside. Kit hung there, with a fey, frightening look in his eye—a total lack of fear.

Nita swallowed once. Sperm whales took the great dives better than any other whale, coming down this far on purpose to hunt the giant squid; but their boldness also got them in trouble. Numerous sperm-whale skeletons had been found at these depths by exploring bathyscaphs, the whales’ tails or bodies hopelessly tangled in undersea telephone or telegraph cables.

“We’re a long way up yet,” Kit said, with that cool cast to his voice that better suited Areinnye than it did him. “Barely six thousand feet down. We’ll have to go down to sixteen thousand feet at least before we see the Sea’s Tooth.” And he swam off toward the boundaries of the light.

Nita held still for a few moments as S’reee and various other of the Celebrants went slowly after Kit. Tlhlki went too; she barely noticed him go. This isn’t the Kit I want to say good-bye to.

Perhaps a hundred feet away from her, Ed glided past, staring at her. “Sprat,” he said, “come along.”

She did. But the fighting in the canyon had left Nita so fatigued that much of this part of the descent seemed unreal to her, a prolonged version of one of those dreams in which one “falls” downstairs for hours. And there was a terrible sameness about this terrain: a sea of white sand, here and there featuring a darker rock thrust up or thrown down into it, or some artifact more bizarre—occasionally, great pressure-fused lumps of coal; once an actual kitchen sink, just sitting there on the bottom by itself; another time, a lone Coca-Cola bottle standing upright in the sand with a kind of desolate, pitiful pride. But mostly the bottom was as undifferentiated as a mile-wide, glare-lit snowfield, one that pitched forever downward.

Nor was Nita’s grasp on reality much helped by the strange creatures that lived in those waters more than a thousand fathoms down. Most everything seemed to be either transparent as a ghost or brilliantly luminous. Long-bodied, lantern-eyed sharks swam curiously about Nita, paid brief homage to their Master, and moved on. Anglerfish with their luminous baits hanging on “fishlines” in front of their mouths came up to stare Nita right in the eye and then swam dourly away, disappointed that she was too big to eat. Long, many-segmented bottom worms and vampire squid, sporting dots or stripes of pink or yellow or blue-white light, inched or squirted along the bottom about their affairs, paying no attention to the Celebrants sailing overhead in their nimbus of wizard-light. Rays fluttered, using fleshy wings to rearrange the sand in which they lay buried; tripod-fish crutch-walked around the bottom like peglegged pirates on their long stiff fins. And all the eyes circling in the black water, all the phosphorescent shapes crawling on the bottom or undulating above it were doing one of two things—either looking for food or eating it, in the form of one another.

Nita knew there was no other way for these creatures to live, in this deadly cold, but by the minimum expenditure of energy for the maximum return ... hence all the baits, traps, hiding. But that didn’t affect the dull horror of the scene—the endless crushing dark, the ear-blinding silence, and the pale chilly lights weaving through the space-black water as the creatures of the great depths sought and caught and ate one another with desperate, mindless diligence.

The gruesome power of the besetting horror brought Nita wide awake. She had never been superstitious; shadows in the bedroom had never bothered her when she was little, and she found horror movies fun to watch. But now she started to feel more hemmed in, more watched and trapped, than she suspected she’d feel in any haunted house. “Ed,” she sang, low as a whisper, to the pale shape that paced her, “what is it? There’s something down here...”

“Indeed there is. We are getting close.”

She would have asked To what? but as she looked down the interminable slope at the other Celebrants—who were mostly swimming gathered close together, as if they felt what she felt—something occurred to her, something so obvious that she felt like a moron for not having thought of it before. “Ed, if this is the Song of the Twelve, how come there are only eleven of us singing!”

“The Twelfth is here,” Ed said. “As the Song says, the Lone Power lies bound here, in the depths below the depths. And It will sing Its part, as It always has. It cannot help it. Indeed, It wants to sing. In the temptation and subversion of the Celebrants lies Its only hope of escape from the wizardry that binds It.”

“And if It succeeds—“ ‘

”Afallone,” Ed said. “Atlantis, all over again. Or worse.”

“Worse—“ Then she noticed something else. “Ed, the water’s getting warmer!”

“And the bottom is changing,” Ed said. “Gather your wits, Sprat. A few hundred more lengths and we are there.”

The white sand was giving way to some kind of darker stuff. At first Nita thought she was looking at the naked rock of the sea bottom. But this stuff wasn’t flat, as sediment would be. It was ropy, piled-up, ridgy-looking black stone. And here and there crystals glittered in it. Scattered around ahead of them were higher piles of the black stone, small, bizarrely shaped hills. Nita sounded a high note to get some sonar back, as the water through which she swam grew warmer and began to taste odd.

The first echoes to return surprised Nita until she started to suspect what they were. Waving frondy shapes, the hard round echoes from shelled creatures, a peculiar hollowness to the echo that indicated water of lower pressure than that surrounding it— That was a stream of sulfur-laden hot water coming out of an undersea “vent”; the other echoes were the creatures that lived around it, all adapted to take advantage of the oasis of heat and the sulfur that came up with it. And now she understood the black bottom stone—old cooled lava, the kind called pillow lava, that oozes up through the ocean’s crust and spreads itself out in flat, ropy piles.

But from past the vent came another echo that was simply impossible. A wall, a rounded wall, at least a mile and a half wide at the base, rising out of the piled black stone and spearing up, and up, and up, and up, so that fragments of the echo kept coming back to Nita for second after second. She backfinned to hold still until all the echoes could come back to her, and in Nita’s mind the picture of the massive, fluted, narrowing pillar of stone got taller and taller, until she actually had to sing a soft note or two to deafen herself to it. It was, like the walls of Hudson Canyon, “too big”—only much more so. “Five Empire State Buildings on top of each other,” Kit had called it—but Empire States a mile wide: Caryn Peak, the Sea’s Tooth, the site of the Song of the Twelve.

The whales ahead of Nita were gathering near the foot of the peak. Against that gigantic spear of stone they seemed dwarfed, insignificant. Even Aroooon looked like a toy. And the feeling of being watched, closely, by something of malicious intent, was getting stronger by the second.

She joined the others. The Celebrants were poised not too far from the open vent—evidently S’reee preferred the warmer water—in clear view of the strange creatures living about it: the twelve-foot stalks of the tubeworms, the great blind crabs, the colonies of giant blood-red clams, opening and closing their fringed shells with mindless regularity. No coral, Nita thought absently, looking around her. But she wouldn’t need any. Several hundred feet away, there on the face of the peak, were several shattered outcroppings of stone. The outcroppings were sharp as glass knives. Those should do it, Nita thought. So sharp I’ll hardly feel anything—until Ed arrives...

“If you’re all prepared,” S’reee sang, her voice wavering strangely where notes had to travel suddenly from cold water to hot, “I suggest we start right now.”

The Celebrants chorused muted agreement and began to spread out, forming the circle with which the Song begins. Nita took her place between Fang and Tlhlki, while S’reee went to the heart of the circle. Ed swam away, toward the far side of the peak and out of sight. Kit glided away from the circle, off behind Nita. She looked back at him. He found the spot from which he would watch and gazed back at her. Nita swallowed one last time, hard. There was very little of her friend in that look. “Kit—“ she said, on one low note.

“Silent Lord,” he said.

And though it was his voice, it wasn’t Kit...

Nita turned away, sick at heart, and faced inward toward the circle again; and S’reee lifted up her voice and sang the Invocation.

“ ‘Blood in the water I sing,

and one who shed it:

deadliest hunger I sing,

and one who fed it—

weaving the ancientmost tale

of the Sea’s sending:

singing the tragedy,

singing the joy unending.

“This is our shame—

this is the whole Ocean’s glory:

 this is the Song of the Twelve.

Hark to the story!

Hearken, and bring it to pass;

swift, lest the sorrow

long ago laid to its rest

devour us tomorrow!’ “

And so it began, as in song S’reee laid out the foundations of the story, which began before lives learned to end in resistance and suffering. One by one the Celebrants drew together, closing up the circle, named themselves to one another, and began to discuss the problem of running the Sea to everyone’s advantage. Chief among their problems at the moment was the sudden appearance of a new whale. It was puzzling; the Sea had given them no warning, as She had in times past, that this was about to happen. But they were the Ni’hwinyii, the Lords of the Humors, and they would comport themselves as such. They would decide the question for themselves. Under whose Mastery would the Stranger fall? ...