of frothy water under the door and drowned us all.”
They are mad! Desdemona kicked the door with her foot in frustration. No one reacted. But the sounds of the same monotonous conversation resumed.
“The rain doesn’t stop for too long. The streets are already turning into channels of sewage. If it lasts more than a day, we’ll be in trouble.”
“We were told that a king from the sea was coming who would turn the country into a sea hell. We didn’t believe it.”
“He’s going to flood the whole place.”
“He’d better find himself another Princess Lilophea like his father did and go away with all his watery hordes.”
“And then who would be king of Aquilania?”
“There will be some. The late king’s distant kin (seventh water on the vine, but still kin) rule Sultanite.”
“But none of them can keep us safe from the creatures of the sea. They will come with the surf if the next king fails to make a treaty with them for the coming century.”
“I heard there was a treaty, but it’s no longer valid because of the passage of time.”
Desdemona was no longer interested in eavesdropping on other people’s conversations. Green tentacles of mist clung to her hair, pulling the curly strands. Something wrapped around her neck like a necklace, squeezed it, and began to choke her. Her eyes rolled back, and her breath was cut off. Desdemona felt weakness in her knees, but the pearl became warm in her hand.
Suddenly the fog let go. Out of the blue! The tentacles darted farther down the street. Why did the creeping fog remind her of monstrous claws? A necklace of bruises remained on her neck.
Knowing that the beer hall patrons would not let her into their unpretentious hiding place, Desdemona wandered forward. The carriage with her stepmother had long since left. She would not make it home on her own. It would take either a swift horse or a rook to reach Adar by water canal. It was only before the water that Desdemona began to feel as much fear as before the fog. From the large puddles in the road voices called out. They called her by name or title. Once it even seemed that her late mother’s voice was calling her.
There were whispers in the fog, too.
“Was it she or was she not?”
“Is it his destiny?”
“Is she 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
