Mary Weber - The Storm Siren Trilogy: Storm Siren, Sirens Fury, Sirens Song

Storm Siren 2014 by Mary Christine Weber

Sirens Fury 2015 by Mary Christine Weber

Sirens Song 2016 by Mary Christine Weber

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Maps by Tom Gaddis

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Publishers Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

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For Peter and my
one,
two,
three precious Muses.
For invading the world with your magic and bringing my soul alive on this beautiful adventure.
You are the most daring dragon hunters I know.

And to Lee Hough, for the enormous honor of storming this bookish castle with you as my agent. Save me a seat in the Kingdom, my friend.

For my shield this day I call:
Heavens might,
Suns brightness,
Moons whiteness,
Fires glory,
Lightnings swiftness,
Winds wildness,
Oceans depth,
Earths solidity,
Rocks immobility.

FROM S AINT P ATRICK S B REASTPLATE

F OURTEEN CIRCLES FOR FOURTEEN OWNERS.

I shade my eyes to block the suns reflection off the distant mountains currently doused in snow and smoke and flesh-eating birds. The yellow flags above me snap sharp and loud in the breeze as if to emphasize my owners words that yes, shes quite aware such a high count is utterly ridiculous.

Waiting for it...

Fourteen? the sweaty merchant says.

Ha! There it is. Eleven years of repeatedly being sold, and its sad, really, how familiar Ive become with this conversation. Today, if Brea has her way, I will meet my fifteenth, which I suppose should actually bother me. But it doesnt.

Brea nods. Fourteen.

I smirk and turn to watch a gimpy minstrel roaming through the marketplace, which is the closest Ive ever been to Faelens High Court. The poor guy is singing so wretchedly off-key, I want to giggle, except he might be newly returned from the war front, so I dont. Besides, his odd version of the old ballad The Monster and the Sea of Elisedds Sadness reminds me of my home up in the Fendres. Have you been there? I want to ask him.

Instead, I look over as the enormous merchant grunts his nervousness and retreats from me, giving the ground a superstitious spit. He eyes Brea. Fourteen owners says either yer lyin or shes got the dark-death disease. Whichever it is, you best get her out of my way. I got a money business to run. He makes to hurry off toward the selling stand, almost tripping in his fur-trimmed shoes.

I grin. Yes, run away in your too-little boots.

Wait! Brea grabs his arm. Nym doesnt have the disease. Shes just...

The merchant scowls at her grip on his sleeve.

She releases it, but her roundish face turns stony with determination. Shes just too uppity for the poorer folk, thats all. Theres only so much a master can take of a servant who thinks shes made of better than the rest.

What in hulls? Is she off her chump? My laugh bubbles up and I choke it back, waiting for her to choke on her lie. He creeps closer and slides a look of dislike down my partially hooded face, my chin, my half-cloaked body. She dont look uppity. She dont even look decent enough for the favor houses.

Whoa. I bite back a prickly remark about his mum birthing him in one of those dung havens and look away. Neither of them deserves a reaction. Using my practiced haughty pose, I face the lively crowd gathered like giddy children in front of the selling platform. Five, ten, fifty people. Theyre all smiling as if the circus with its panther monkeys and manic dwarves were performing instead of a fat guy in little boots exploiting children. Seems even decent women are desperate for extra hands while the men are off fighting a war weve no hope of winning.

The merchant chews his puffy lip and studies me, like he expects me to help coerce him. Is he jesting? I raise an eyebrow and glare at him until, finally, he grunts again and pulls up the cuff on my right arm.

I stiffen.

His gloved fingers run over each thread tattooed around my wrist like tiny bracelets. One. Two. Three... He numbers the circles slowly, fourteen in a row inked into my skin with the juice of the black mugplant. I almost feel like I should clap for him.

Good job, I mouth. You know how to count.

The merchants face twists into a snarl. He gives me a vicious pinch below my elbow and pushes my sleeve higher up my arm onto my shoulder. I shiver and, narrowing my eyes, start to pull away, but Brea leans into me.

You hold yourself together, she sputters close to my ear. And for fools sake, keep your hair covered, or so help me, Nymia, Ill break your fingers again.

I bite my tongue but refuse her the satisfaction of dipping my gaze to my slightly misshapen left hand, which Im now curling into a fist.

How old are you? the dealer growls in my face.

Seventeen, I growl back.

When was she first sold? This question is for Brea, but I feel his bristly glove squeeze my skin as if he expects me to alert him if shes dishonest.

Age six. Her parents died when she was five and then she lived a short time with a midwife who had no use for her. She says this last part with a slice of disgust in her voice thats directed at me. And as much as I try to force it down, the hateful shame swells up to eat holes in my chest. Shes got me on that one. Two parents, one midwife, and fourteen owners Ive ruined, the latest being Breas own husband. And it doesnt matter that I tried to warn every single one of them.

The merchants eyes constrict. There somethin else wrong with her yer not tellin me?

Nothings wrong with her. Shes perfectly fine. Just give me three draghts and shes yours.

Three draghts? I murmur. How generous.

Either she doesnt hear or chooses to ignore me as the merchant rubs his huge, stubbled jowls and considers the offer. Although I can already sense hell take it. Three is cheap. Beyond cheap. Its pathetic. I consider feeling insulted.