“You have,” Leviathan answered, “in every way that matters.” They smiled, showing all manner of terrifying jaws and teeth. Chiara grinned back at them affectionately.
“It has been a long time since one of our children walked on the face of the earth,” Leviathan said.
She would have to go back. The small life that she had sloughed away twisted itself around her legs, pulling her back to reality. “What am I supposed to do there?” she asked. “I don't know how to be a dragon. I barely knew how to be a human being.”
One of the heads bent down and nuzzled her. It had a tough golden hide and hundreds of teeth, but what she noticed most was the long, red beard that trailed from its jaws. That, and the kindness of its eyes. “You will learn,” it said, encouragingly. “All our children find their place.”
“But where will I go?” she asked, feeling suddenly overwhelmed.
A long goat-like head, heavy with curling horns, twisted toward her. “Wherever you choose,” it said. “You are a dragon now. Wherever you go is the place you should be.”
Memory stirred within her new mind. “But first I must heal the island,” she said.
Images flashed through her mind, the brilliant speech of the Oldest. She saw the healing that had happened, with its terrible price. She spoke to the island, heard its bitter voice, its anger grown through years of suffering. “I will not release her!” it shrieked. “Calypso's blood will heal my wounds!”
“The island has gone mad,” Chiara said, pulling her mind away.
“It has been so for many years now,” Leviathan replied. “Now, it has found its voice.”
Leviathan shifted slightly and Chiara saw the spell book, suddenly revealed between the beast's forepaws. She lifted it up. It belonged to her. She did not even need to open it to read it. The spells simply flowed into her, becoming her own knowledge. When she had swallowed them all, she put the book back down, to rest again in its place of protection.
“Go now,” they said. “The upper world calls you. Take this,” they added.
Chiara held out her hand and they dropped a pearl into it. It was perfectly round, rose-colored, and as big as a large apple. Her alchemical training told her what it must be. “The thunderball,” she whispered.
“You have the right to wield it,” they said. “Some day you will make your own. For now, take it as a mother's parting gift.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. And then she felt a great sadness, for she knew that she would never return to the deeps. Her realm would be somewhere else.
“Blessings, daughter,” they replied.
She turned and began to walk home, cradling the pearl against her heart. She could have transported herself to the island with a thought. She felt the summons of the upper reaches, just as her new monster-mother had, but still she walked on, savoring the peace of the deeps. Every creature she met shied away from her.
Chiara came to the soul field. The mermaid was gone. Chiara stood for a while, listening to the soft moans coming from the traps. With a word and a gesture she could free them all.
But she had lost her desire to help them. Their cries no longer tore at her heart. They were here because they chose to be here, because they wanted to be fooled. The siren's song had not really deceived them. Deep down they knew the peril of following the music beneath the waves. But they leapt anyway. The danger itself was a delight. And they each thought that they alone could survive the risk. The mermaid was right. They had given themselves away.
And then, with her new dragon knowledge, she discovered a strange truth. The souls had built their own cages. They were not woven out of metal, but of all the false hopes and empty wishes that had lived in their human hearts. The souls could free themselves. They were trapped because they were still caught by the lure of fool's gold.
But she could not tell them this. They wailed so loudly that they could no longer hear anything but the sound of their own sorrow. Chiara turned away from them. Perhaps, in time, they would find their own salvation.
It was surprising that the mermaid had left the field. Chiara threw out a spellnet, searching for the creature. At last she found her, up at the surface. She was singing up a storm with her two sisters.
And they were fighting Caliban.
Her young dragon wisdom evaporated. She was a girl once more, and the only person she had left in the world needed her.
The raging wind shook Caliban awake. It tore around him, screamed across the stones. Every joint of his body had seized, twisting and knotting him cruelly. He wrenched himself up. The grinding of his bones made him grit his teeth until his jaw ached and the tears welled in the corners of his eyes. He had no idea how long he had slept or even what day it was. The air stank of magic. He looked over at the other bed to check on Calypso.
She was gone.
In the pale dawn light, he looked around the room wildly, as though he might find her hiding in a corner or beneath a bed. He cursed himself for falling asleep. He did not know where to begin looking for her, and his body ached so badly that he doubted he could go far to find her.
Lightning ripped down the sky, piercing the water like a great trident. He began to run then, ignoring every cry from his tortured joints.
She was Sycorax, and she was attacking the ship.
“I curse you!” Sycorax screamed. “May my hatred be the last air that you breathe! May the waters smother you slowly, crushing you with their weight until you beg for death! May all your children and all your mothers waste away waiting for you to return, until they walk the earth as pale shadows, always searching for you, never finding you. May your homes be burned to the ground and a pain strike any lip that dares to utter your names. I curse you, now and forever!”
She pulled the fire from the sky and set the ship ablaze. A wailing cry went up, but it was quickly lost in the roar of the flames. She danced on the shore, flinging her bare feet high and laughing as the ship burned on the waves. They would regret leaving her here upon this godforsaken land.
“No!” cried a man's voice. She turned and saw a squat, lumbering creature moving awkwardly toward her across the rocks. He wore a cape of feathers. His arm was outstretched, words of power tumbled from his lips. He called down the rain. A deluge fell upon the ship, dousing the fire.
She leveled the staff at him, ready with the words needed to rend his bones from his flesh. Before she could speak she was thrown back upon the stones. A spirit of the air was before her, and in its hands a spellnet that would hold her fast. She turned her staff upon him, but he was torn away before she could utter a word.
The lumbering creature stood over her, protecting her. Tufts of gingery hair stood up around his ears. The sight made her pause. Confusion fell upon her once more. Years tumbled through her mind, a death, her death; a new mind surged forward, trying to control her.
The spirit of air shrieked. “She must be stopped, Caliban! You cannot hold her. She would have destroyed all the innocents on the ship!”
Caliban. Caliban must not be hurt. The thought singed her mind with its clarity. She bent herself around, closing the circle of pain.
“No, Calypso!” Caliban cried. He was frantic, trying to save his niece from his mother's fate and fend off Ariel. The shouts from the ship distracted him further. Ariel was right about that; the ship must be protected. He pulled the green handkerchief from beneath his robe and loosed its knot once more.
The last faint whisper of Prospero's breath went out across the waters, still powerful enough to catch Ariel in its tide and sweep both spirit and ship out to sea. He knew that Ariel would be back soon. In the meantime, he had to help Calypso. He knelt beside her and tried to unclench her left hand from her ankles, to break the punishment she was inflicting on herself. He was gentle at first, but in the end he had to tear her hand away with all his strength. She gasped when he did it, whether out of relief or because of the wrenching twist of her flesh he could not tell. She collapsed immediately into unconsciousness. He lifted her up and over his shoulder and stumbled with her to his cave.
Ariel had no power here, in the deep places of the earth. He could not enter without growing thin and pale. He'd done it once, long ago, on Sycorax's command. When she saw that Ariel could not serve her, she'd sent him away. The spirit had never come back to the cave since.
Caliban spread his feather cloak over the old branch bed and then laid Calypso down upon it. In no time he had lit the small fire, bringing some warmth and light into the cave. He went back to Calypso and examined her hand. It would be bruised, but he had not broken any of the small bones. He supposed that she had her hardy existence as a sailor to thank for that. There was sweat on her brow, and she was muttering in Greek. He could not make out anything that she was saying.
Quickly he went to the far corner of the cave, to a dark crevice where the light of the cooking fire never penetrated. There he felt about until he found the small earthenware vessel he'd been looking for. He lifted it carefully and brought it out to the fire. He brushed the thick layer of dust off it and removed the lid.
There was some left. Not a lot, but enough. It was a powder Ariel had brought him when he was a boy, a medicine for his mother. Poppy powder. It was the only time he had colluded with the spirit against his mother. Ariel had told him that it would take away pain and bring sleep. Caliban would sprinkle it on his mother's food when she had gone too long without rest.
Carefully he measured a small amount of the powder and mixed it with some water in his old wooden drinking cup. He lifted Calypso's head and gently encouraged her to swallow the liquid. Its bitter taste made her wince and cough, but still he was satisfied that she'd taken enough to help her. He sat beside her, his hand on the pulse in her left wrist, and watched her. Her breathing slowed, her muttering ceased. She slept, a smile curving her lips. Caliban knew that the powder brought dreams with it. His mother would recount them in the morning. He wondered what Calypso would dream about. He hoped they would be Calypso's own dreams, and not the visions of abandoned palaces that had filled his mother's nights.
He rose, his tired limbs aching. He wanted to lie down and sleep again, even take some of the mixture himself. But that escape was not for him, not now.
He went out from the cave, to face Ariel.
The air was electric with suspended spells. Ariel was not alone. He had been joined by the mermaids. The three sisters lay in the shallows of the shore, their wet hair streaming over their naked chests, their tails concealed by the waves.
Caliban bowed to them. They each bared their teeth in response, ghastly imitations of a smile.
“You have something we need, Caliban,” Peisinoe said. Her green eyes glared at him coldly. “Give her to us, Caliban,” she said.
For a moment he almost turned and obeyed her. Few could resist her suggestions, even fewer her commands. It was she who called sailors from their ships to their deaths, persuading them that she was a fair human maid, and not the green-skinned, green-haired water-witch their eyes first spied. But some far corner of his mind remembered the trick of her speech, and so he was able to stand against her will.
“I cannot,” he replied.
The three sisters threw back their heads and howled, their voices piercing him. He covered his ears with his hands, trying to shut out the madness they invoked. Ariel gestured them to stop. Amazingly, they did. Caliban let his hands fall.
“You'll madden her further,” Ariel was saying to them.
“She's asleep,” Caliban said.
Ariel turned to him. “You have spelled her, then?” He looked disbelieving.
Caliban shook his head. “Drugged her,” he answered, “with the sleeping powder you gave me long ago for my mother.”
“So,” said Ariel. His eyes narrowed in thought. “That will not hold her for long. When she wakes, what then?”
“Then I will feed her. Calypso will be hungry.”
“And Sycorax?” Ariel's eyes burned. “What if it is Sycorax who awakes? Will you feed her more poppy and hope that she returns to the land of the dead?”
“My mother is dead. It is only her memory that returns.” Caliban's words sounded hollow to his own ears.
“Her memory, earth-born?” It was Aglaope who spoke, her beautiful face pinched and mocking. She was the fairest of the three, her skin pale and gleaming, her hair a thick curling purple river flowing down her back. “A powerful memory, burning the ship and calling down the storm.”
“As you are also threatening to do,” Caliban replied. “I can smell it in the air. But you should know that all the rain and all the wind in heaven will not convince me to give up my niece. She is innocent.”
“Innocent, Caliban?” It was Thelxepeia who spoke now, her words, as ever, as smooth and soothing as milk. “Ariel tells us that she stole the staff in the mending. She claimed the power. Now, it seems, she must pay the price. The island wills it.”
“She's a child,” Caliban replied stubbornly. “She did not know what she was doing. She was only trying to protect herself, to make a place for herself. She is not my mother.”
“But her blood is the same, and the island claims it. You don't know her, Caliban, however much you may pretend and call her “niece.” She is not the child you lost beneath the waves. She is Sycorax's blood, and she stole with Sycorax's will. Her life is forfeit. Spill her blood, and let the island go free.”
“The island needs a queen,” Caliban began.
“We've had enough of queens, and kings, and the rule of mortal wizards. They bleed the land, bleed us all,” Aglaope said. “It is her turn to bleed.”
“Never,” replied Caliban.
The storm fell again, a smothering blanket of wind and water. Waves rose up, empty maws ready to devour him, drag him down to the sirens' lair. He pulled his own protection around him, fighting his way back to the cave. Hail pelted him, one large ball of ice striking against his temple and stunning him. He fell to his knees.