Tristan and Chuillyon crouched upon the pool's rear ledge, holding down Frey's limp form.
"Release him," she said.
Chuillyon quickly raised his head, glaring sternly at her—something very rare for the old one. The captain's expression mimicked the elf's, with a more frustrated anger.
"Highness—" he began.
"Do it!" Reine ordered.
With a grimace, Tristan took his hands away, as did Chuillyon. Frey's haunted eyes roamed about the chamber.
"Frey," Reine whispered gently, "come."
His gaze lifted beyond her, fixing upon the gate, the tunnel, or whatever waited there.
"Frey!" she said more sharply, and held out her hand.
He scrambled over the ledge's lip, slipping into the water with barely a splash.
Danyel and Saln were still in the pool, along with Wynn and her tall guard. Both half turned, trying to keep their captives in sight. Like her, they tensely eyed the rippling form beneath the water as it slipped along the pool's bottom.
Saln swallowed audibly, but Reine kept her eyes on the approaching shadow. Tristan dropped into the pool to follow, but she raised a hand to warn him off. She hoped Frey would heed her.
The wavering shadow of her husband reached her feet.
Frey surfaced, rising tall above her. His aquamarine eyes stared over her head at the gate—at the visitors waiting beyond it.
Reine reached up and touched his cheek.
"Send them away," she whispered, but it came out pleading rather than firm. "Frey, you must … please."
He blinked in confusion, and the hurt in his eyes flooded through her. She didn't know if his pain came from her request or realizing he'd forgotten her amid mad obsession.
"Please," she repeated.
Frey closed his eyes. His head dropped until it rested heavily against her hand. He submerged, and Reine's hand followed upon his shoulder into the water. She forced herself not to clench his shirt and hang on. She didn't need to turn, to look into the tunnel. She knew the visitors had sunk beneath the water as well.
Faint pulsing tones rose in the pool. They filled the chamber dully, as if coming from somewhere far off.
Frey had once tried to describe whale song and the utterances of dolphins. She still didn't know how he'd learned of such things. She felt the sounds through her legs and through her hand upon his shoulder. Any ignorant unfortunate who heard them would've thought them beautiful, like horns and reed flutes blown beneath the sea amid rolling staccato clicks.
Every tone made the pool's surface shiver subtly.
Every sound made Reine cringe, knowing they came from her beloved Frey.
He rose up before her, his eyes vacant, and stepped slowly toward the tunnel. Tristan waded forward, poised to grab him, but Reine shook her head.
There was nowhere for Frey to go, now that the gate was shut and the visitors were gone. Cinder-Shard called them the Dunidæ—the Deep Ones.
Only the Stonewalkers knew of their existence, along with the Âreskynna and a few others trusted with such a secret. They appeared only here, or where the ocean crept in beneath the mountain to meet the underworld. No one knew why, and it happened only after one of the Âreskynna "vanished"—like Frey. As with his ancestors, perhaps the change in him at the highest tides was what summoned the Dunidæ.
Every generation was tainted with this "sea-lorn" sickness, but there was always one who suffered worst. The last had been Frey's aunt, King Leofwin's sister, Hrädwyn. To public knowledge, she'd died of a fever at fourteen.
Hrädwyn had lived past twenty-three, though she'd never left this place in those nine years. Sea-lorn madness had finally killed her. And from what Leofwin had told Reine, Frey was more afflicted than his aunt, though it had set upon him later in life.
Reine clamped a hand over her mouth, refusing to cry.
Without the comb with its hidden droplet of white metal, Frey could never open the gate or the door. She'd become his prime jailer—for his safety, for the future need of him, like some tool or weapon harbored in secret for fear of a long-forgotten enemy.
Unless the Dunidæ let him out, and that would happen only if he asked for it.
How many times would his love for her keep him from doing so?
"Danyel!" Tristan barked, shifting toward Wynn and gesturing across the pool. "Make certain the gate is locked."
Reine came to her senses.
Danyel was nearest to Wynn, but when he began moving, the wolf snarled and clacked its teeth at him. He stopped, raising his sword for a thrust at the animal. Wynn reached up quickly and clamped her hands over the wolf's muzzle.
Danyel took a step closer to the sage.
"Get away from her!"
Reine and Tristan both turned at that maimed voice.
Wynn's guardian stood with Saln's sword point pressed against his chest. Pale skinned and pale eyed, the tall man bore a scar that ran completely across his neck. Some old battle wound had taken his true voice forever. More disturbing was that he never even glanced down at Saln's sword.
What had Wynn called him—Chane?
He ignored the weapon as if it weren't there. But the expression on his face, as he looked between Wynn and her captors …
Reine read it clearly, like a finely inked letter. She caught his tone beneath the written words. Chane was no mere guardian. And if she knew one thing intimately, it was the pain of impossible love—and the lack of awareness to escape it before it was too late.
Again, it made everything worse for what had to be done.
Reine turned on Wynn as the sage shook her head at Chane, warning him off. It didn't matter. At the slightest flinch, Saln or Tristan would kill him without hesitation.
But then, Master Cinder-Shard's massive form appeared in the doorway, and Wynn's wolf spun, snarling at him.
He ignored it, demanding, "Who opened the tunnel gate? Where is the prince?"
"I opened it," Chuillyon answered. "We have visitors… and not the usual ones."
Cinder-Shard's eyes fixed on Reine and then drifted beyond her. He relaxed just a little upon spotting Frey, but his expression darkened when his gaze fell upon the young sage.
"Princess …" he began, turning his cold eyes to her.
"Highness?" Tristan asked.
The captain stood halfway to Chane with his sword poised. Danyel and Saln waited as well.
Reine knew what was expected. They held back only for her command to confirm it. Suddenly all she could think of was Frey, somewhere behind her.
No one must ever learn he was alive or where he was. But he would never approve of what she had to do—for his sake and the family's ancient secret, for a world's hope—or for all that was hinted at in Wynn Hygeorht's damnable texts.
Reine looked up to Chuillyon standing on the pool's rear ledge.
The elder elf took a visibly hard breath. He dropped his eyes, as if whatever he might say wouldn't matter. No trace of sly humor remained on his old face.
"Your order, my lady," Tristan said, and it wasn't a request.
Reine retreated one step. A few quick sword thrusts and it would be over. Then her back bumped into someone, and she dropped her saber. As it sank in the pool, she whispered too faintly to be clear.
Tristan's eyes widened. "Highness?"
"Arrest them," Reine said clearly, anger rising to choke off fear. She spun, wrapping her arms around Frey as the captain's voice grated in her ears.
"My lady, we cannot—"
"Do it!" she ordered, and buried her face in Frey's back. "Get them out of here!"
Amid splashing, barked orders, and the wolf's growls, Reine slid her hands around and over Frey's chest. She felt one of his hands settle over hers.
"It'll be all right," she whispered. "It will pass … again."