Page 48 of A Dark and Drowning Tide

Adelheid smiled ruefully, but the glint in her eyes was as bright as steel. “No. He fled.”

“And is that why you’ve come on this expedition?” Lorelei pressed. “To hide?”

“No. To hide from my duty would be cowardly.” Her voice dripped with disdain. “My father has never protected Ebul’s interests, but I will. I have Wilhelm’sear—andonce he claims the Ursprung’s power, he will stabilize the region. If we stand united, no armies will come to our doorstep again.”

Lorelei suppressed a shudder at the fervor in Adelheid’s eyes. Like Johann, Adelheid believed in Wilhelm. Years of surviving outside the Yevanverte had dashed the last of Lorelei’s optimism. Still, she could only pray Wilhelm would keep his promises to her as well.

“This expedition must mean a great deal to you, then,” Lorelei said.

“It does,” she replied, “to almost all of us. Some of us, I fear, cannot set aside ambition for the greater good.”

“What doyou—”

The sound of a horn tore through the festival, and Lorelei swore in surprise. The dogs wailed, and the crowds whooped. Clearly, the performances were about to begin. Lorelei craned her neck to get a view of thesquare—andsaw that an old woman had taken her place on the stage. But the woman held no instrument and wore nocostume—onlya crocheted shawl wrapped around her narrow shoulders.

“Back in the days when wishes still held power,” she began, “a barren woman prayed to God for a son.”

The storyteller, then. Lorelei scrambled to produce a pen and her notebook from her bag. She would have to transcribe this tale exactly if she had any hope of extracting something useful from it.

“He listened, and when the child was born with silver hair, it was said he would one day become a great king. And so he grew up much beloved in his village.”

Lorelei’s hand stilled over the wordssilver hair. A strange, prickling dread crept down her spine.

“Now, in those days, there was a dragon that lived within the bowl of the moon. Once each month, he swept down from his perch and left the sky dark, with nothing but stars to light the way. With his wings, he pulled in the tides, and with his breath, he filled ships’ sails with wind. But in exchange for his service, he took a price as well. He gorged himself on sheep and maidens gone out against their mother’s wishes, enough to sate him for another month. The village had fallen on hard times, for they could not produce enough lambs or maidens to keep him happy, and no one worthy had emerged to slay him. All who had tried had perished.”

Lorelei underlined the wordworthyafter she wrote it. This vague idea of worthiness was a consistent feature of all Ursprung tales. It always chose who would wield its power.

“One night, the silver-haired boy devised a cunning plan. He would climb to the top of the tallest mountain and kill the dragon while he slept.” The woman paused. Beyond her shoulder, the jagged mountain range unfolded. As the sky darkened, the fading sunlight limned the tallest peak in bloody red. “He made the treacherous journey with his lance clenched between his teeth, and when he reached the summit, he pierced the moon. The dragon let out a terrible cry, and his blood poured from the sky. It ran like a stream down the mountainside and pooled in the stone’s hollow. The boy lost his balance in the dragon’s death throes and plummeted toward the earth. He braced himself for death, but hefell into the pool of dragon’s blood. When he rose again, however, he found he could pull the tides and bend a river’s course to his will.

“So begins the legend of Saint Bruno, the first king of Albe.” The old woman smiled. “And today, we are blessed with the presence of his descendant, Miss Sylvia von Wolff.”

Lorelei rounded on Adelheid and hissed, “Did you know about this?”

“To a certain extent,” Adelheid replied. “I’ve never heard the story told, but I know it’s important to her mother. Sylvia has always hated it.”

Apparently only Albisch children grew up on tales of their silver-haired royal family.

“Miss von Wolff,” the old woman said, “will you honor us with a few words?”

It felt like some horrible inversion of the evening of the ball. Lorelei standing stock-still, watching the crowds part around Sylvia. There was dirt on her cheek and flowers clumsily woven into her hair, as if done by a child’s hand. It truly was no wonder that her people adored her. She was not just benevolent and charming. It wasn’t only that she genuinely wanted to know the name of their favorite horse and how many lambs had been born that season. She was asymbol—afairytale—cometo life.

Mondscheinprinzessin.

“Free Albe!”

The first shout wentup—thencaught like a flashfire. It spread through the crowd until they were all stoked to a fervor. They all gazed up at the stage as though Sylvia had come to deliver their independence to them herself. Her lips parted in surprise. Lorelei could practically see her mind working as she arranged her features into something resembling composure.

“Thank you for telling the tale so beautifully.” She scanned the crowd as if acknowledging each of them. “The strength of a nation lies in itspeople—thecommon people. Stories like this shouldn’t be forgotten. They teach us about who we are and where we come from.”

Sylvia was deluded if she believed her own words. Stories taught them nothing of how theyactuallywere. They were like molten steel, ready to be molded into a weapon by one clever enough to wield them.

“I have traveled to many places around the world and across the kingdom. Saint Bruno’s story is our own, but many of our folktales are told acrossBrunnestaad—perhapsnot with the same words, but with the same heart.”

Murmurs broke out among the crowd.

“I know many of you do not consider yourselves Brunnestader. Some of you may even be older than Brunnestaad itself.” She smiled indulgently at the shouts of agreement. “I hear your yearning for the day that Albe will be independent again. Perhaps some of you have even begun planning to fight for that day.”

Lorelei could only look on in horror as the murmurs intensified to a steadyyes, yes, yes. What was shedoing, encouraging these incipient sparks of rebellion?