I start to sing a stevedore haul—one of the work songs we used on the docks to move heavy cargo, to coordinate the efforts of many hands working in unison. The melody is strong and steady, built for lifting weights and moving obstacles, for the kind of honest labor that builds rather than destroys.
"Heave away, my lads, heave away,
Lift the burden, earn your pay,
Strong backs bend but never break,
Pull together for love's sake."
As my voice fills the chamber, something extraordinary happens. The harpoons begin to respond to the rhythm, their vibrations growing more organized, more purposeful. One by one, they start to unpin themselves from the walls and ceiling, the iron spears sliding free of their holdings as if drawn by invisible hands. The treasures they once secured drift away into the darkness, no longer bound to this place of eternal taxation.
A shade materializes in the center of the chamber—different from the others I've encountered. This one moves with purpose, its form more solid, more aware. It watches me with ancient eyes that hold neither malice nor kindness, only a terrible patience. When it speaks, its voice carries the authority of a customs officer who has processed a thousand souls.
"You sing of honest work," it says, tilting its head as if puzzled by the concept. "Of labor freely given, wages fairly earned. But this is the realm of the taken, the stolen, the hoarded. What tribute do you offer for passage, child of the surface?"
I could offer gold—I have the coins I gathered from the dissolved sentry. I could promise treasures from Milthar'svaults, or pledge my service to the drowned in exchange for safe passage. But something in the shade's manner tells me it hungers for a different kind of payment.
"I offer this," I say, and begin to sing again—but this time, I let the shade echo my lead. I teach it the harmony, show it how voices can work together instead of competing. The stevedore haul becomes a duet, then something richer as other shades emerge from the shadows to join our impromptu choir.
The work song takes on new dimensions as the dead learn to sing it. They remember what it meant to labor alongside others, to share the burden and divide the reward. For a few precious moments, the Chamber of Tithes fills with the sound of cooperation instead of greed, of community instead of hoarding.
The watching shade nods slowly, and I see something like approval in its ancient features. "Your tribute is accepted," it says, and gestures toward a sluice gate I hadn't noticed before. "Pass freely, singer. But know that the deeper halls demand higher prices still."
The gate groans open, revealing a tunnel that slopes downward into even greater darkness. I bow to the shade—respect where respect is due—and swim toward the opening. Behind me, the Chamber of Tithes continues to ring with voices learning to harmonize, the dead remembering what it means to sing together.
But as I pass through the sluice, I hear it slam shut behind me with the finality of a tomb sealing. The message is clear: there is no retreat from this path. The only way out of the necropolis is through its heart, where Eurydice waits and the greatest trials await.
I press the red ribbon around my wrist to my lips, breathing in the faint traces of her scent that still linger there. "I'm coming, my love," I whisper in the darkness ahead. "Every gate you open, every song you teach the dead, brings me closer to your voice."
The tunnel stretches before me, and somewhere in its depths, I can hear the faintest echo of children singing—and threading through their chorus like silver through shadow, the unmistakable harmony of my beloved calling me home.
12
EURYDICE
Amaiden-shade drifts toward me through the coral gardens, her movements graceful as a dancer even in death. Her pale hair floats around her shoulders like seafoam, and she wears the remnants of what was once a beautiful gown—silk that has been turned to tatters by centuries beneath the waves. In her translucent hands, she carries a comb made of coral, its teeth carved with delicate precision that speaks of master craftsmanship from ages past.
"Such lovely hair," she sighs, her voice like wind through empty chambers. "Dark as kelp forests, soft as the memory of sunlight. You must be beautiful when he arrives, dear one. Beauty calls to beauty, even in the depths."
There's something achingly sad about her manner, a loneliness that radiates from her like cold from ice. She approaches without threat, only longing, and I understand that this poor creature hasn't had anyone to tend to in longer than memory serves. The drowned children scattered when the priest-shade appeared, but this one seems immune to such fears—or perhaps her need is stronger than her caution.
"Be pretty when he arrives," she whispers, positioning herself behind me as if I were seated at a vanity instead of bound to a pillar of ancient stone. Her fingers work through my tangled hair with surprising gentleness, the coral comb sliding through the strands with barely a pull. "Let me make you lovely for your golden bull. Let me remember what it was to prepare a bride."
I don't resist her ministrations. The maiden-shade's touch is cold but not cruel, and there's something almost motherly in the way she works. Each stroke of the comb seems to unknot more than just my hair—it loosens some of the despair that has been gathering around my heart like frost.
"You were someone's bride once," I say softly, trying not to startle her with sudden movement. "Weren't you? You remember what it was like to prepare for love."
Her hands pause in my hair, and for a moment her form grows more solid, more real. "I was to marry in the spring," she murmurs, her voice indicating the weight of centuries-old grief. "White flowers in my hair, my mother's pearls at my throat. But the city fell before the ceremonies could be completed. The sea took us all—bride and groom, families and friends. None of us ever made it to the altar."
The coral comb moves through my hair again, each stroke a ritual of memory and loss. She begins to hum as she works—not the harsh lament that echoes through most of the necropolis, but something softer, sweeter. A wedding song, perhaps, or a lullaby meant for children she never had.
"What was his name?" I ask gently. "Your intended?"
"Vaelen," she breathes, and the name carries such longing that it makes my heart ache. "He had eyes like summer storms and hands that could coax music from stone. We were to build a garden together, raise children together, grow old together beneath the stars."
The sadness in her voice is overwhelming, but I hear something else too—a flicker of warmth, of joy remembered even through the veil of death. Love endures, I realize. Even here, even drowned and lost, love endures.
"I have someone like that," I tell her, feeling tears prick my eyes. "Theron. He's coming for me now, singing his way through your halls. He won't let the dead keep me."
