Every nine years she and the other Billow Maidens gathered the dead in Rahn’s enchanted nets, and dragged them down to the Hall. There, Endain plied the strings of her harp, waiting for the turn of the month and the rising of the crescent moon to call her up again.
She was death.
She was doom.
And she could never break free.
One night, when Endain had bowed under the yoke of her mother’s curse for five hundred years, the crescent moon rose out of the sea and she obeyed its bidding. She swam a little apart from her sisters, for she wished to sing in solitude. Their united voices drew the ships in droves; Endain alone sometimes drew no one. If the ships did not come, the sailors did not drown—it was her small rebellion.
But on that evening, the moon rippling silver in the water, a ship bobbed helplessly in the sea very near her. The curse tore the song from her lips, making it echo between moon and waves, louder with every note. She saw that the ship was ruined; its masts were cracked and the sails were sagging, water seeping into the fractured hull. The vessel was slowly sinking.
Only one sailor had survived the wreck, a dark-eyed man with skin that shone like polished copper and hair as black as ink. He was weak and ragged; he had fought hard against the storm that had already doomed his shipmates.
He heard her song and lifted his weary head and saw her there, watching him from the waves. He sat very still.
The curse drove her to swim nearer, and the sailor put his hands upon the rail and dragged himself upright. The ship shuddered and groaned, the water crept higher.
The song wrested itself out of her, and she stared at him and wished she could stop.
“Lady,” he said, his eyes fixed on her, “I know what you are. Would you think me a beggar if I asked you to spare me?”
And she found she could answer him, cutting off her music for a time. “I am a slave, sir. It is not within my power to spare you.”
“Surely a slave can go against her mistress’s bidding if she wishes it.”
“I can not.”
The wind stirred through her long hair, and she could hear her sisters in the distance, their music twisting like shards of bone in her heart.
“Spare me, lady,” said the sailor. “Deny the will of your mother.”
“If I leave you be, the sea will claim you.”
“Then take me to shore. I will show you the way.”
“You do not wish to descend with me into my mother’s Hall?”
“There is no life for me in Rahn’s Hall.”
“You do not wish to save me then. You think only of yourself.”
The sailor’s eyes looked long into hers, and she was troubled.
“You are the daughter of the sea god, and I am only a man,” he said. “What could I hope to do for you that you cannot do for yourself?”
The ship tipped into the water, the waves lapping at the sailor’s heels.
His arrogance angered her. “You do not understand the nature of the bond laid upon me.”
“Then tell me, that I might understand.”
“I must rise to the surface with every crescent moon and sing to the ships. I must gather the dead every nine years, and bring them to my mother. It is my doom, and I cannot disobey.”
“Does the curse say you must go down to the Hall again when you have sung?” the sailor objected. “Does the curse forbid you from going where you will the other eight years? Does it deny you the ability to visit the shores of the world?”
She did not answer. She did not know how.
The ship shuddered, sinking below the surface of the sea. The sailor clung to the rail, watching her. “Perhaps you are stronger than you think, Daughter of Aigir. Can you not draw on the power that is your birthright?” Sorrow came into his face. “If you do not save me, save yourself. Do not let her rule you. Do not let her win.”
