Chapter 6: The Island of Deadly Women
Three days had passed since Lefty took up his post off the bow, a vast shadow gliding beneath the keel, his curiosity sated by Greta's twice-daily offerings of boiled otter stew and mashed potatoes. The ship had threaded through the Spire Waters with a confidence no one quite trusted, the great tentacles curling and uncurling as he scouted ahead. The crew had begun to relax. Polly had even taken to sitting on the forecastle with Tulip, watching the dark shape roll through the water like a friendly whale.
Then Lefty stopped.
The change was sudden and absolute. One moment he was gliding; the next he had thrown up a wall of water that soaked the deck, his tentacles thrashing as he thrashed backwards, away from something only he could sense. The ship shuddered as his bulk bumped against the hull, and every hand on deck grabbed for a rail.
Nell stormed up from the quarterdeck, her braid whipping in the wind. "What in the nine hells is the matter with him?"
"Gone mad, Captain," Scathach said, wiping spray from her face. "Or scared."
"Lefty's not scared of anything," Greta protested, waddling up with a wooden ladle in her fist. "He ate a whole shark yesterday and asked for seconds."
Lefty's eye rolled toward them, enormous and white-rimmed. A low, keening sound rose from his maw, and he sank, then surfaced again, all his tentacles pointing toward the eastern horizon, where a smudge of land sat low and dark on the water. He made a sound like a whale in pain, and then he swam in a tight, desperate circle, as if the very water around that island burned him.
Nell fetched her spyglass and studied the island. It rose from the sea in jagged cliffs of black rock, crowned by a gleam of white marble and something darker, a structure that caught the failing light like a polished tooth. Unnatural. The vegetation around it was lush and colourful, purple and orange and red, too bright, as if the land was bleeding blossoms.
"Gulls," Tulip said quietly, coming up beside Polly. "Just like the hermit warned."
There were gulls circling the island by the thousand.
Nell snapped the spyglass shut. "We're not following gulls. Last time that advice got us nothing but hermit beard in our nightmares."
"Lefty won't cross the water near it," Tanna said, joining them. "He's been our compass this whole voyage. If he says no, I say we listen."
For a long moment the ship bobbed in the swell, Lefty circling and moaning, and the crew argued in low voices. Brutehilde slammed her fist on the rail. "Then we go around it. Wide. The map's clear past the island."
The map had been clear about the Spire Waters too, Polly thought sourly, but she kept it to herself.
It took three hours to convince Lefty they would not approach the island, that they would swing wide to the north, and even then he only settled when Greta threw him a whole boar carcass she had been saving for Midsummer. He swallowed it in two gulps and sank, and the ship began a slow, careful arc around the island's waters.
They were halfway through the arc when the rowboat went missing.
It had been lashed to the deck, provisioned and ready, and in the chaos of Lefty's panic no one had thought to double-check the lashings. When Scoffer went looking for it as a napping spot, he found bare deck and a frayed rope. Worse, the boat was gone from the water too, and the crew had a clear view for miles in every direction.
"Someone took it," Dravion said, his voice carrying a tremor of drama. "Some force reached out and snatched our little vessel from us."
"Or it fell overboard on its own and drifted," Ulrika said dryly.
"Lefty would have eaten it by now if it had," Greta pointed out. "He's not eating it. He will not even look that way."
Nell stared at the island. The temple gleamed beatifically in the lowering sun, and something moved on its terraces, tiny figures in white robes, glinting as if they wore chains.
"We need that boat," Tanna said. "It's our only way to shore if we need to resupply."
"I know what we need," Nell said, and the hard set of her jaw was pure captain. "We need to know what's on that island. And we need to know if they took my boat." She turned to Brutehilde. "You, me, Tanna. We take the port longboat and row in at dusk. Quietly. We scout, we find the boat, we leave the same way."
"Three women," Brutehilde said, cracking her knuckles. "Against an island of who knows what. Sounds like a proper night out."
Polly stepped forward. "I'm coming."
"You're staying with Tulip," Nell said flatly. "If something is wrong, you're the only one who can put a fist through it and get back to the ship. You're our hammer, Polly. I'll take the spear and the sword."
"In that case," Polly said, "just watch yourselves." She said it lightly, but there was something in her eyes that was not light at all.
They launched the remaining longboat at dusk, when the island's colours dimmed and the temple's white marble turned the colour of old bone. The rowing was silent, Tanna and Brutehilde pulling in unison while Nell kneeled in the bow and watched the shore grow closer. The smell of jasmine hit them first, thick and sweet, cloying at the back of the throat, and then the sound of singing, low and female, rising and falling like the tide.
"Don't trust anything that sings," Tanna murmured.
"Shut up and row," Nell said.
The beach was black sand, and the longboat slid onto it with a soft hiss. The singing came from the temple, and it was getting louder, and all three of them felt it in their chests, a vibration that made the hands on their weapons feel loose and warm.
Nell stepped out of the boat, drew her cutlass, and looked up at the gleaming structure.
"Stay together. Stay quiet. And if anything tries any funny business, you put a sword through it before it has chance to react."
Brutehilde grinned. Tanna said nothing, but her hand found the hilt of her blade and gripped it until her knuckles went white.
They climbed the black sand toward the temple, and the singing wrapped around them like silk.
The path wound around the hill in broad, lazy switchbacks, paved with pale stones worn smooth by bare feet. No sentries stood at any bend. No faces peered from the undergrowth. The singing grew louder with every step, filling the air until it seemed to come from inside their own skulls, and the jasmine scent thickened until it coated the back of the throat like honey.
Nell motioned them to stop at the temple's base. The structure loomed above them, obsidian columns rising to a white marble lintel carved with images of women in chains, women dancing, women entwined. The carvings were explicit and lovingly detailed, and Brutehilde let out a low whistle before Nell silenced her with a glare.
A wide staircase ran up to a doorway tall enough for a giant. No door. No guard. The singing poured out of that opening, rich and layered, dozens of female voices in perfect harmony. And from where they crouched at the bottom of the steps, all three of them could see inside.
The temple's interior was one vast hall, its floor a mirror of black polished stone. Rank upon rank of women stood in concentric rows around a central altar of white marble, all of them facing inward, all of them singing. They wore white robes that left their shoulders and arms bare, and every single woman wore a collar of dark iron at her throat, gleaming dully in the light of a thousand candles.
Before the altar, sitting as if it had been placed there for a ceremony, was the missing rowboat.
"Son of a bitch," Nell breathed. "They took my boat to use as a bloody decoration."
"Look at their faces," Tanna whispered.
Nell looked. The women's faces were serene, peaceful, their eyes half-lidded as they sang. Not a single one of them showed any awareness of the three strangers crouching in the doorway. They swayed in unison, their voices rising and falling like a single breathing creature.
"They're not even looking at us," Brutehilde said. "We could walk right in and steal the boat back while they're busy worshipping their altar."
"Or singing to their god," Tanna said grimly. "And the altar's got our boat on it."
Nell was already moving, slipping through the doorway in a low crouch, her cutlass drawn but held at her side. The singing continued, undeterred. Tanna followed, and Brutehilde brought up the rear, her massive shoulders barely fitting through the gap. The stone floor was cold through the soles of their boots.
They crossed the hall at a swift, silent pace, weaving between the rows of singing women. Not one of them so much as glanced in their direction. The nearer they got, the plainer the collars became: bands of dark iron, unadorned, with a single rivet at the front that caught the candlelight. Some of the women were beautiful, some plain, some old, some young. All of them wore the same expression of dreamy compliance.
"Creepy as all hell," Brutehilde muttered.
"Focus," Nell hissed.
They reached the altar, and the rowboat sat before it like an offering, its hull scrubbed clean, its oars laid across its thwarts in an orderly row. Nell ran her hand along the gunwale, checking for damage. None. It was perfect, untouched, as if it had been borne up the hill and set down with great care.
"All right," Nell said quietly. "We take it and go. Heavy but manageable. Tanna, take the bow. Brutehilde, stern. I'll guide."
They laid hands on the hull. The wood was smooth and warm, and for a moment something in the back of Nell's mind wondered why a boat would be warm to the touch. Then the singing stopped.
All at once. A hundred voices cut off in perfect unison, leaving a silence so complete that Nell heard her own heartbeat, and then the whisper of something sliding through the air above them.
Her head snapped up. A net, weighted with iron balls at every corner, was already falling, released from the darkness of the high ceiling. It was enormous, wide enough to cover the altar and the whole rowboat.
"Move!" Nell shouted, but it was too late. The net came down in a single smooth motion, its weights striking the stone floor all around them, and the fine cord wrapped around three women and one boat in a tangle that cinched tighter at every struggle. Brutehilde roared and grabbed at the mesh, but the cords were strong, and they tightened and tightened with a sound like a closing fist.
Tanna drew her knife and hacked at the net. The blade bounced off the cords as if they were iron.
"Cutting won't help," a voice said, sweet and amused, from somewhere above them. "Netcord is woven from siren sinew. There's nothing on this island that cuts it, and nothing on your ship either. Those cords will hold a kraken, Captain, even your pet one if need be."
Nell stopped struggling. The net had her pinned against the rowboat, her sword arm trapped at an awkward angle, her face pressed against the warm wood. Through the mesh she saw the ranks of singing women part, and a figure stepped forward.
She was tall, taller than Brutehilde, and thin as a whip. Her robes were the same white as the others', but their hem was embroidered with gold thread in patterns that writhed when Nell looked at them. Her head was shaved to a dark sheen, and her ears were pierced with a dozen rings each. At her throat she wore no iron collar. Instead, a necklace of polished black stones sat against her collarbone, each one carved into a tiny screaming face.
Around her waist was a golden chain belt, and hanging from that belt was a keyring with more keys than Nell could count.
The priestess smiled down at them, unhurried, like a woman examining fish in a market stall. "Captain Nautical Nympho Nell of the Sea-Nymph's Revenge. I had hoped you would come yourself. They say you are the prettiest captain on the north coast, and I collect pretty captains." She walked around the net, her eyes bright. "You brought friends. A big one. That's fine. I like big ones. They make such a beautiful noise when they learn to sing."
Behind her, the collared women had returned to their places, their eyes staring forward, their lips slightly parted as if awaiting instruction. None of them looked at the trapped women. None of them moved.
"Let us go," Nell said, her voice flat with fury, "and I will not burn this temple to the ground."
The priestess laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Oh, she has spirit. I do love that in a captain." She crouched down until her face was level with Nell's, close enough that Nell could smell her breath, sweet and spicy and laced with something that made her thoughts swim. "No, Captain. You are not going to burn anything down. You are going to sing. You are going to become part of my temple. You are going to wear a collar like all my daughters, and you are going to be so very, very happy serving me. And when your ship comes looking for you," she said, her smile widening, "well. I have so many keys."
She jingled the ring at her belt, and somewhere in the vast hall, one of the collared women let out a soft, contented moan.
Polly paced the deck for three hours after the longboat vanished into the dusk, her combat boots wearing a groove into the planks. Tulip sat on a coiled line, her hands folded over her belly, watching her with worried eyes. The sky went from orange to purple to black, and still nothing came back from the island. No signal fire. No returning boat. No distant cry.
"The captain said to wait," Tulip said softly.
"The captain said she'd be back by midnight," Polly snapped. "It's past that. And that bloody island is sitting there like a trap with a prettier spring than I like."
She stomped to the rail and stared across the dark water. The temple gleamed faintly in the moonlight, a white tooth in the blackness. She could feel the singing, even from here, a low hum that vibrated through the planks under her feet. She thought of Nell's sharp arrogance, Tanna's quiet steel, Brutehilde's booming laugh. She thought of what may have happened to them, and her stomach turned.
"You need a plan," Tulip said.
"I need a wizard," Polly said. "And I know exactly where he is."
She hit the companionway at a run, boots clattering down the ladder into the hold. The smell of vinegar and old parchment and unwashed bodies met her at the bottom, and beyond that, a rhythmic creaking that had nothing to do with the ship. The lantern at the far end of the corridor swayed in time with a low, wet grunting, and a woman's breathless whimper floated out from behind a curtain of hanging herbs.
Polly tore the curtain aside.
Scruffulus was on top of Elophelia, his pale, scrawny arse pumping between her spread thighs. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, her arms thrown above her head, and her aristocratic smile was soft and dazed as her hips rose to meet him. The wizard's robes were bunched around his neck, his cock slick with her, and he was so lost in it that he didn't notice the curtain move until Polly grabbed a fistful of his long, greasy hair and yanked.
"Ow! Fucking gods, woman, I am busy!"
"Not anymore," Polly said. She pointed at the ladder. "Up. Now. I need magic."
Elophelia shoved at him irritably, dislodging his cock with a wet, sucking sound that made Polly's lip curl. "This is the worst timing in the history of bad timing," the girl complained, sitting up and letting her small, hard breasts jiggle. "And I am told my timing is usually impeccable."
"I do not give a shit about your timing. The captain and my friends are on that island, nobody's come back, and Lefty won't go near it. I need to walk on water."
Scruffulus sighed, a long, theatrical exhale that ruffled his patchy beard. He reached down between his legs, gathered his balls into his palm, and tucked his still-slick cock away with a gloomy, offended air. "Water-walking is not a simple cantrip. It requires channelling, focus, and a clean conduit. I am currently in no condition to channel anything except this magnificent erection."
Polly grabbed him by the collar and hauled him off the berth. "Then get yourself in condition. You have one minute, and then I am dragging you overboard by your wizard's beard until you either float me or drown yourself."
Elophelia watched them go with a bored expression, then lay back and began toying with herself as if nothing had happened.
Up on deck, the night air hit Scruffulus like a slap. His erection had softened to a sullen half-mast, and he shivered in the cold, his robes hanging open, his skinny chest gleaming with sweat. Polly shoved him flat against the mast.
"Cast it," she said. "Now."
"I need rose oil," he whined. "And a focus."
"Here's your focus." Polly unhooked the small brass flask from her belt and shoved it into his hands. "It's cheap wine. I don't care if it works, I care if you believe it works. You're the bloody wizard. Make the water solid enough for both of us, and if it isn't, you'll drown first."
Scruffulus uncorked the flask, sniffed it, and grimaced. "This is vinegar."
"It's wine to you. Drink it."
He drank, coughed, and then his eyes glazed over with the familiar shimmer of a man who'd just hit the drink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, slurred a string of words in a language that sounded like cats fighting, and flicked his fingers at the water below the port rail.
The sea shimmered, briefly, a faint phosphorescent sheen that rippled outward and then settled.
"There," he said. "It is as walkable as a chapel floor. Though I would not attempt it while drunk, which is ironic, because I am."
Polly climbed over the rail without hesitation, stepped out onto the dark water, and stood. The surface held her like firm jelly under her boots. She bounced once, twice, then set off at a steady jog toward the island. A half dozen paces out, she looked back.
Scruffulus was still on deck, hugging himself and shivering.
"If that spell doesn't cover you too, master wizard," Polly called back, "you are going to be very cold and very dead in about ten seconds."
He swore, scrambled over the rail, and landed on the water with a splash that he somehow didn't sink through. His second step was surer, and then he was jogging after her, his robes flapping around his pale, hairy legs, his face set in an expression of profound personal injury.
"Faster," Polly said.
"That is a three-mile water crossing," he wheezed. "In the dark. With suspicious singing everywhere. And I have not even had time to compose a suitable lament."
"Write it later. Keep up."
They ran across the inky sea together, two absurd shapes skimming the waves. Behind them the ship shrank to a dark speck. Ahead, the island swelled, the temple glittering on its heights, the singing growing louder with every stride. The jasmine scent arrived first, thick and cloying, and then the black sand shore was beneath them, their boots splashing through the shallows.
Polly drew her brass knuckles and slid them over her fingers. Scruffulus stumbled to a stop beside her, panting, his face gray.
"I feel," he gasped, "like I am about to die."
"Good," Polly said, scanning the slope above them. "That's the right mood for a rescue. Now shut up and follow me, and if anything pretty starts singing at you, remember that she probably wants your soul more than your cock."
The priestess rose to her feet in a single fluid motion, her gold-hemmed robes whispering against the polished stone. She turned to face the net, her eyes moving from Nell to Tanna to Brutehilde with the unhurried appraisal of a woman choosing cuts of meat from a butcher's block.
"My name is Anallansia," she said, her voice carrying effortlessly through the vast hall. "And before you judge this temple too harshly, Captain, hear what I have to tell you. I was a cabin girl once. Twelve years old, sold to a merchant galley for the price of my mother's debts. I scrubbed decks until my fingers bled. I was beaten for singing. I was passed between the crew like a shared ration of rum, and when I grew too old for their tastes, they planned to sell me to a brothel in the next port."
She walked slowly around the net, her bare feet silent on the black stone. The collared women stood motionless, their eyes unfocused, their lips parted. Somewhere in the ranks, a woman sighed in her sleep.
"But the goddess Sunessa, Lady of Song, heard my voice through the hull of that ship one night. She heard the beauty in it, even as I wept into my hands. And she gave me the power to sing my way free. The crew opened the hatches for me. They unlocked the chains. They knelt in the bilgewater and begged me to let them serve me. And I walked off that ship with every one of them wearing collars like these."
She reached into the net and stroked Nell's cheek with one long, cool finger. Nell flinched away, but the finger followed, tracing the line of her jaw.
"I did not choose this life. This life chose me. And now I have built a temple in Sunessa's name, where women like me, women who have been used and discarded, can find purpose. We lure the captains who sail these waters. We collar them. We teach them to sing." Anallansia smiled, and her teeth were very white against her dark skin. "And we are never discarded again."
"Let us go," Tanna said, her voice low and hard. "We have no quarrel with you."
Anallansia laughed. "No quarrel, she says, while her hand is reaching for a knife she cannot draw through the net. You have no quarrel, little warrior, because you have no power here. Your strength is in your arms. Mine is in my voice." She tilted her head, and her voice dropped to a warm, honeyed register that seemed to vibrate in the air between them. "And I have not yet begun to sing."
Brutehilde roared and threw herself against the net, her mighty shoulders straining. The cords held. They held with the patient, unyielding strength of siren sinew, and Brutehilde sank back, gasping, her muscles trembling with the effort.
"That was impressive," Anallansia said approvingly. "You will make a wonderful bass."
She turned and walked to the altar, where a small iron chest sat on a stone shelf. She opened it with one of the keys from her belt, and the click of the lock echoed through the hall. From the chest she lifted three collars, each one a band of dark iron with a single rivet at the front, identical to those worn by her servants.
Nell watched her return, her heart hammering against her ribs. The net pressed her against the rowboat's hull, her sword arm twisted uselessly behind her back. She could not fight. She could not run. And Anallansia walked toward her with the calm, patient tread of a woman who had done this a hundred times.
"The net will open in a moment," Anallansia said. "When it does, you will not attack me. You will not flee. You will kneel, all three of you, because the alternative would be to listen to me sing, and I assure you, you do not want that. Not yet."
She snapped her fingers. The net pulled back with a smooth, oiled motion, retracting into the darkness above.
Nell surged forward, her cutlass in her hand, her fury overriding every instinct that told her to flee. She closed the distance in three strides, the blade singing toward Anallansia's throat.
Anallansia opened her mouth and sang a single note.
The note was pure and high, a thread of sound that pierced Nell's skull like a needle of pleasure. Her sword arm went loose. Her knees buckled. The cutlass clattered to the polished stone, and Nell fell forward, catching herself on her palms, her body trembling as the note faded.
"What the fuck," she breathed.
"I warned you," Anallansia said mildly. She held the first collar up to the candlelight, examining it. "Mithril and iron, forged in a volcano that no longer exists. Sunessa blessed them herself. Once this is fastened, it will respond to my voice and my voice alone. You will want to please me. You will crave it. And eventually, my darling captain, you will love it."
Nell looked up at her, gasping, her face flushed. "I will die first."
"Many of them say that," Anallansia said. "None of them die. They all sing, eventually. Superb, soaring sopranos, some of them. You have a good throat, Captain. I heard you yelling orders from your quarterdeck as you came ashore. I have been looking forward to hearing you in harmony."
She crouched in front of Nell and held the collar open with both hands. "Hold still. This will be quick."
Nell tried to rise. Her legs would not obey. The note had done something to her body, flooded it with warmth, left it loose and willing in a way that disgusted her to her bones. She watched her own hands rise, watched them reach for the collar, and she could not stop them.
"No," she heard herself say, and her voice was small and far away.
"Yes," Anallansia said, and pressed the collar closed around her throat.
The iron was cold. Then it was warm. It settled against her skin like something that had always belonged there, and a shiver ran down her spine that was part horror and part something far worse. Nell felt the collar pulse once, twice, like a heartbeat, and then it was still, and she could feel it in her mind, a quiet presence at the back of her thoughts.
"Good," Anallansia murmured. She ran a finger along the collar's edge, and Nell shuddered. "Now your friends."
Tanna had backed away during the exchange, her knife drawn, her eyes wide. She stood at the edge of a row of collared women, her blade between her and the priestess. Brutehilde had managed to get to her feet, but she swayed like a tree about to fall, her massive arms hanging limp at her sides.
"Let her go," Tanna said, pointing the knife at Anallansia's heart. "Let her go or I will cut your throat."
Anallansia sang another note, lower this time, a warm alto hum that rolled through the hall like a wave. Tanna's knife wavered. Her arm dropped. Her body swayed forward a step before she caught herself, gritting her teeth.
"That is not a fair fight," Tanna said, and her voice cracked on the last word.
"Nothing about this island is fair," Anallansia agreed. She crossed to Tanna in three unhurried strides and fastened the second collar around her throat before the warrior could more than twitch. Tanna gasped as the iron settled, her hand flying to her neck, her eyes wide with betrayal at her own body.
"Now the big one," Anallansia said.
Brutehilde stood her ground, swaying, her fists clenched. The song had taken its toll on her; her face was slack, her eyes glassy. But as Anallansia approached with the third collar, she gathered herself and spoke, her voice thick and slow.
"You put that thing on me," Brutehilde said, "and I will pull the temple down around your ears."
"By the time I am done with you," Anallansia said, "you will want to sing the temple down in praise of me." She reached up and fastened the collar around Brutehilde's massive throat. It clicked into place, and Brutehilde went still, her great body shuddering once, twice, and then relaxing into a posture of calm that was somehow more terrifying than her rage.
Anallansia stepped back and surveyed her three new daughters with satisfaction. Nell stood by the rowboat, her cutlass forgotten on the floor. Tanna knelt with her hands on her knees, breathing hard. Brutehilde stood in the middle of the hall, motionless as a statue.
"Perfect," Anallansia said, and clapped her hands. The collared women around them stirred, their eyes focusing, their lips curving into soft, welcoming smiles. "Daughters, greet your new sisters. Teach them the songs. And if any one of them tries to flee," she added, her voice dropping to a whisper that made all three of them tremble, "bring her to me, and I will show her what Sunessa does to those who are ungrateful for her gift."
She walked toward the back of the hall, toward a throne of carved bone that Nell had not noticed before. As she took her seat, she called over her shoulder, "Your ship will come for you, Captain. I have seen it in the vision. When it does, I will greet them with a new choir. And we will have such a wonderful, endless concert together."
Nell tried to speak, tried to spit an oath, but the collar pulsed at her throat, and what came out instead was a soft, breathy sigh.
She settled onto the throne, the bone seat creaking under her weight, and surveyed her three new daughters with the satisfaction of a woman who had never lost a game she played. Nell stood trembling by the rowboat, her hand pressed to the collar at her throat. Tanna knelt in the middle of the hall, breathing in short, shallow gasps. Brutehilde remained motionless, a mountain of flesh wearing a band of iron.
"You will learn to love Sunessa," Anallansia said, leaning back. "She is patient. And so am I."
A shadow fell across the threshold.
Every collared head in the hall turned at once, a hundred faces swivelling in perfect unison toward the open doorway. Anallansia did not hear the warning in that movement until it was already too late. She rose from her throne, her eyes narrowing.
Standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips, her green mohawk catching the candlelight like a crown of thorns, was Polly Panzerfaust.
She had not come up the path. She had not crossed the black sand beach. She stood there as if the temple had simply grown around her, her fishnet stockings soaked to the knee, her combat boots planted wide, and her grin was all teeth.
"Nice place you got here, priestess," Polly called across the hall. "Real cult chic. Do the collars come in any other colours, or is the iron the only flavour?"
Anallansia's hand went to the keyring at her belt. Her voice, when she spoke, was honey and steel. "Another one. The witch must have scattered your little crew across the waves. No matter. Two more collars in the chest is nothing."
Polly laughed, a hard, flat bark. "You think I'm here to surrender? Fuck that. I'm Polly Panzerfaust. I'm the temple harlot, the one who's been on her knees for coin and company since she was old enough to know what a cock was for. I've had my throat fitted with more rings than you've got keys, and none of them made me sing a note I didn't want to." She took a step into the hall, her boots ringing on the black stone. "You want to collar me, sweetheart? You better bring a bigger spell than a pretty voice, because I've heard sweeter songs from a dying cat and it didn't make me drop my drawers either."
The collared women parted before her like water. Polly walked through the ranks as if they were nothing, empty chairs in an empty room. Her brass knuckles gleamed on her fingers.
Anallansia's composure cracked. She drew herself up, opened her mouth, and sang.
The note was a spear of pure sound, the same note that had dropped Nell to her knees and left Tanna swaying. It rolled across the hall, aimed directly at Polly's chest, powerful enough to crack glass.
And it died in the air.
The sound curdled, flattened, and fell to the stone floor like a dead bird. Anallansia tried again, a higher note, a lower one, and each came out as a strangled whisper that barely carried past her own lips.
"No use, priestess," came a reedy voice from the doorway. Scruffulus shuffled into view, one hand raised, the other clutching his robe shut. His face was pale, his eyes alight with the glow of a spell held on a razor's edge. "Sound-dampening ward. Old trick, learned from a deaf monk in the eastern mountains. Whatever magic you've got, it's got to come through the air to find its target. And this air is as silent as a grave if I say so."
Anallansia stared at him. For the first time, something like fear flickered across her angular face. She tried to take a step back, and her heel struck the base of her throne.
Polly closed the distance in three strides, seized Anallansia by the collar of her gold-hemmed robes, and lifted her clean off her feet.
She held the priestess eye to eye, her fist cocked back, her knuckles gleaming in the candlelight. The temple was silent, the collared women frozen, watching their mistress dangle in the grip of a woman who looked like she had been born with a broken bottle in her hand.
"Give me one reason," Polly said, her voice a low growl, "not to put these through your face."
Anallansia did not struggle. She hung in Polly's grip, her shaved head tilted, her eyes wide and dark. Her lips parted, and what came out was not a song.
"I made them take the collars," she said. "But I can make them come off."
Polly's fist trembled. "Bullshit."
"I have the keys. Every one of them has its match on this belt." Anallansia's voice was thin and quick, the voice of a woman bargaining for her life. "I looked at your captain and her friends and I saw mine. Women who would die before they wore a collar. I have hunted such women for years. They make the best daughters, the brightest voices, the truest worshippers." She swallowed. "But you are not like them. You are something I have never caught. And I do not want to learn what happens when I try to catch something that will not be caught."
Polly's arm shook. The brass knuckles pressed against Anallansia's jaw.
"I am offering you a deal," Anallansia whispered. "My belt of keys for my life. Release your three. Take your boat. Leave this island, and I will never sail these waters again. I will take my daughters and go inland, to a place where I can worship Sunessa without preying on passing ships."
"Why should I trust a word out of your lying mouth?"
"Because I am as trapped as they are," Anallansia said. "You have taken my voice. Without it I am nothing. A woman with a belt of keys and a temple full of women who wore collars for a song I can no longer sing. Let me go, and I will give you everything you came for. Let me speak with your captain, a bargain can be made that will satisfy the goddess."
Polly held her gaze for a long moment. The tension in the hall was a living thing, coiling around them like the siren sinew that had trapped Nell and Tanna and Brutehilde.
Then, slowly, she lowered her fist.
"Keys," she said. "Now."
Anallansia reached to her belt with trembling fingers, unhooked the ring, and held it out. Polly snatched it from her hand and flung her to the floor. Anallansia crumpled at the base of her throne, gasping, her robes pooling around her.
Polly crossed to Nell first. She sorted through the keys in the candlelight, found the one with a tiny songbird engraved on its bow, and pressed it to the collar's rivet. The iron clicked and fell away, clattering to the stone floor. Nell gasped, her hands flying to her throat, her muscles releasing as if a fist had unclenched around her soul.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Fuck, thank the gods, Polly."
Behind her, Tanna had already shaken off her daze. She was on her feet, knife in hand, her face twisted with fury. She lunged at Anallansia, and only Brutehilde's massive arm across her chest stopped her.
"Let me at her," Tanna snarled. "Let me cut her where she lies."
"Easy," Polly said, fitting the next key to the collar around Tanna's throat. It clicked, fell, and Tanna staggered forward, her breath a ragged sob of rage. Polly caught her by the shoulder. "Easy. We're getting out of here."
Brutehilde's collar took the third key. When it fell, the big woman drew a shuddering breath, rolled her shoulders, and turned to face Anallansia with an expression that could have turned milk sour. She cracked her knuckles.
"I could kill her with one hand," she rumbled.
"Maybe." Polly turned to Nell. "But the captain decides. She's the one who leads."
Nell stood over Anallansia, her cutlass back in her hand, her eyes cold as the sea on a winter morning. Anallansia looked up at her, still gasping, her face pale, her pride stripped away.
"I listen," Nell said quietly. "And then I decide. Tell me your bargain, priestess. And make it good."
The hall was silent, save for the sound of a hundred collared women holding their breath.
Anallansia drew herself up from the floor, her robes rumpled, her composure returning in slow, careful measures. She did not rise fully, staying on her knees before Nell with her hands folded in her lap, the posture of a supplicant who knew exactly how to play the role.
"The goddess is not merciful," she said, her voice steadier now, though the song was still dead in her throat. "She is not kind. She is a goddess of song, and song demands sacrifice. You have been caught in my net, touched by my collars. Sunessa has tasted your presence in her temple, and she will not let you leave empty-handed. If you depart without satisfying her, she will reach into the deep waters and take your ship."
Nell's jaw tightened. "My ship is not hers to take."
"She will not take it by force of arms," Anallansia said. "She will take it by song. Your kraken, Lefty, is a creature of the deep, and the deep answers to her. She will sing a note into the water that will drive him mad with rage. He will crush your hull like an egg. He will drag your crew down screaming, and the sea will swallow every trace of them within a day." She paused, letting the weight of it settle. "I have seen her do it. She did it to a war galley, once, that refused the tithe. The captain's last words were a prayer to gods who do not listen."
The hall was silent. Polly's fist tightened around the keyring. Tanna took a step forward, her knife still in her hand, but Nell put out an arm to stop her.
"What does she want?" Nell asked.
Anallansia's eyes met hers, and for the first time there was something in them that was not threat or mockery. It was hunger, raw and open. "A captain's submission. Not her soul, not her freedom. A token. A permanent marker that she was here, that she gave something of herself to Sunessa willingly, and that the goddess owns a piece of her for all time."
She reached into the folds of her robe and drew out a small object, holding it up between thumb and forefinger. It was a needle of pale bone, long and thin, tapering to a point fine as a whisper. At its base was a loop of mithril wire, the same dark iron-white blend as the collars. In the candlelight, the needle glinted like a sliver of moon.
"This is the only way," Anallansia said. "A collar is taken. A piercing is given. If you accept this, Sunessa will be satisfied. She will have her token, and I will release you, and your captain will walk free of this island with no iron around her neck."
Tanna made a sound, a choked, furious noise, and surged forward. Polly caught her by the shoulder, held her back.
"Piercing where?" Tanna's voice was raw. "Where the fuck are you going to put that thing?"
Anallansia looked at Nell as she answered. "Her clitoris. The seat of a woman's pleasure, the little pearl that swells when she is touched, that aches when she is denied. Sunessa collects such tokens, marking the captains who have known pleasure and surrendered it to her keeping. Your captain will wear a riveted ring of mithril and iron through that tender flesh for the rest of her life. Every step, every ride, every brush of clothing will remind her that the goddess owns a piece of her. And she will remain free. She will sail away. Her men and women will live."
Tanna went pale. "No. Absolutely not. I will not let you put a needle through her."
"It is not your choice," Anallansia said, her voice soft. "It is not your body. It is the captain's, and the goddess has chosen her."
Polly stepped in front of Tanna, blocking her path to the priestess. "Tanna. Let her speak."
"Polly, she's talking about a needle through my girl's clit. You cannot be serious."
"I'm not serious, I'm practical. The alternative is Lefty crushing the ship, remember? That's the deal. One piercing, or everyone in the water." Polly glanced at Nell, her eyes hard. "It's your call, Captain. I'll back whatever you decide."
Nell stared at the needle in Anallansia's hand. She could feel her own pulse in her throat where the collar had rested, the ghost of the iron's weight against her skin. She thought of the Sea-Nymph's Revenge, her proud little ship. She thought of Greta's stew, Scoffer's enormous grinning face, Wee Minnie's cheerful screeching, Grakthor's hopeless confusion. She thought of Polly standing on the water to come save her, and she thought of Tanna's arms around her in the night.
"Will it hurt?" she asked.
"Yes," Anallansia said. "Briefly. Intensely. Sharply. And then it passes, and the ring remains forever. I am told the piercing heals in a few weeks, and after that it is a pleasure rather than a pain, a constant sweet ache that reminds you of who touches you there."
Nell took a long, slow breath. "And if I do this, we all walk out. The boat comes with us. Lefty stays calm. No songs in the water."
"On Sunessa's name, I swear it."
"Your goddess's name means nothing to me."
"It means everything to me. And it is the only bond I can offer."
Tanna made another sound, and Nell looked at her. Tanna was shaking, her knife hand trembling, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Nell. You don't have to do this. There has to be another way. We can kill her. We can burn this place. We can walk out with the boat and trust Lefty never to turn."
"Trust Lefty," Nell repeated. "You heard her. The goddess sings into the deep, and Lefty is deep. You want to bet his love of Greta's stew against a divine note that could turn him mad within the hour?"
"She might be lying."
"She might be." Nell reached out and took Tanna's hand, pried the knife from her fingers, and pressed it into her own belt. "But I can't make that bet. Not with all of them on the line."
She turned to Anallansia. "Do it."
Anallansia rose, and for the first time, her face showed something like respect. She gestured to the altar, the white slab at the heart of the hall. "Lie there. It is not a clean surface, but it will do."
"Not the altar," Nell said. "The rowboat. It's the only thing here that isn't covered in your goddess's filth."
Anallansia inclined her head. "As you wish."
Nell walked to the rowboat and swung a leg over the gunwale, then lay back along its length, her head resting on the worn wood of the stern seat. She looked up at the vaulted ceiling, the candlelight casting long shadows across the black stone. Her hands found the gunwales and gripped them.
Tanna was beside her in an instant, kneeling at her head, her face white with misery. "Nell. Please."
"Tanna. I need you to be strong for me. Hold my hand, tell me I'm brave, and don't let me scream loud enough to wake the dead. Can you do that?"
Tanna swallowed, tears spilling down her cheeks. She took Nell's hand in both of hers, brought it to her lips, and kissed the knuckles. "You're the bravest woman I've ever met. And if this goes wrong, I will tear this island apart stone by stone."
"I know you will."
Anallansia knelt between Nell's spread legs, the needle in one hand, a small cloth soaked in wine in the other. She pulled the trousers of Nell's captain's uniform down, exposing her thighs, her hips, the platinum blonde hair between them. Nell's breath caught as the cool air touched her skin, and Tanna made a noise that was half groan, half sob.
"Show me," Anallansia said, and her voice had dropped to a low, intimate register. "Show me where it is, so I do not miss."
Nell's hand shook as she reached down and spread her labia with two fingers, baring the small pearl of her clitoris, already swelling with the flush of embarrassment and arousal that the situation had stirred in her. It was slick and glossy in the candlelight, a delicate bud between her fingers. Tanna saw it, and her face twisted.
"There," Nell whispered. "The little thing. That's it."
Anallansia leaned close, studying it with a healer's concentration. "Very pretty. Small but pronounced. This will weep when I pierce it, and then it will learn to sing."
"Do it," Nell said through clenched teeth. "Now. Before I change my mind."
The cloth was cold and soaked with wine, and Anallansia dabbed it against the bud, cleaning it, numbing it slightly. Then she took a pair of tiny steel forceps from her robe and clamped them gently around the head of the clitoris, holding it steady. Nell hissed, her hips twitching involuntarily.
"Hold still," Anallansia murmured. "One breath. One moment of fire, and then it is done."
"Liar," Nell breathed. "There is never just one moment."
But she gripped Tanna's hand, looked up into Tanna's wet eyes, and she held her breath.
The needle went in.
It was a point of pure fire, a lance of white-hot agony that shot straight through Nell's groin and up into her belly. Her back arched, her mouth opened, and she screamed, a raw, full-throated scream that rang off the temple walls. Tanna cried out with her, clutching her hand, pressing her cheek to Nell's forehead. Polly took a step forward, her fist clenched, only stopping when Nell's scream subsided into a broken sob.
The needle had passed clean through her clit, the bone shaft visible in the candlelight, the mithril loop already threaded at its base. Anallansia worked quickly, turning the needle, drawing the ring through the fresh wound, and pressing the rivet shut with a snap. The metal was warm and heavy, and Nell could feel it, a new weight in a place she had never imagined weight could live.
"There," Anallansia said, sitting back. "It is done. The token is placed. Sunessa has her mark."
Nell lay gasping, her thighs trembling, her hands white-knuckled around Tanna's. She could feel the ring, that small circle of mithril and iron, resting against the sensitive flesh it had just pierced. Every twitch of her thigh, every breath of air against her wet, swollen skin, sent a shudder through her. The pain was fading, bleeding away into a deep, resonant ache that was almost sweet, almost pleasant, almost something she was afraid to name.
Tanna was crying. She lowered her head to Nell's chest, her shoulders shaking.
"It's done," Nell said, her voice hoarse and tired. "Help me up. It's fine, or it will be."
Tanna did. Nell rose from the rowboat on trembling legs, and the ring shifted, and she gasped. The weight of it, the motion of it against the raw wound, sent a jolt through her that was equal parts agony and something else, something that made her squeeze her thighs together without meaning to.
Anallansia rose too, and watched her with dark, satisfied eyes. "You will find, Captain, that the ring brings a peculiar pleasure as it heals. And when it is healed, it will sing for your lover in ways a collar could never. Sunessa is not cruel in her gifts. She is merely exacting in her prices."
Nell met her gaze. "We're taking the boat."
"Take it. Take your women. Take your wizard. Sail away, and let the sea bear you wherever it pleases. You have paid the price, and the goddess is satisfied."
Polly and Brutehilde lifted the rowboat between them and carried it out through the door into the warm, jasmine-scented night. Tanna kept one arm around Nell's waist, supporting her as she walked, her steps slow and careful. Nell could feel the ring with every step, a dull, throbbing counterpoint to her heartbeat, a permanent reminder pressed against the tender core of her. "You can kiss it better later, if you like," she whispered to Tanna.
They reached the black sand beach, Tanna now carrying Nell in her arms. The sea lapped against the shore, and beyond it, the dark shape of the Sea-Nymph's Revenge waited, Lanterns glowing at her mastheads.
Nell looked back once at the temple, white and gleaming in the moonlight. Then she looked down at herself, at the place where her captain's uniform hid a ring of mithril and iron, and she felt a strange, sharp thrill that she could not have named if her life depended on it.
"Captain," Tanna said softly. "Let's go home."
Nell nodded, and let herself be led onto the boat.