Waterfire Saga, Book One: Deep Blue (A Waterfire Saga Novel) (7 page)

“G
OOD MORNING,
Your Grace!”

“Good morning, Principessa!”

“All good things to you on this happy day, Your Highness!”

In the Grand Hall, courtiers bowed and smiled. Serafina thanked them, accepting their good wishes graciously, but all the while, her tears were threatening to spill over. Her heart was broken. She’d given it to Mahdi, and he’d shattered it. He was not who she thought he was. He was careless and cruel and she never wanted to see him again.

Sera was swimming fast to her mother’s stateroom, where the business of the realm was conducted, to tell her what had happened. She knew her betrothal was a matter of state, but surely, in this day and age, no one would expect her to pledge herself to someone like Mahdi.

As she arrived at the stateroom, her mother’s guards bowed and pulled the huge doors open for her. Three of the room’s four walls were covered floor to ceiling in shimmering mother-of-pearl. Adorning them were tall pietra dura panels—ornately pieced insets of amber, quartz, lapis, and malachite depicting the realm’s reginas. Twenty massive blown-glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Each was eight feet in diameter and contained thousands of tiny lava globes. At the far end, a single throne, fashioned in the shape of a sea fan and made of gold, towered on an amethyst dais. The wall behind it was covered in costly mirror glass.

The stateroom was empty, which meant Isabella was probably in her presence chamber, working. Serafina was glad of that. She might actually be able to have her mother to herself for five minutes.

The presence chamber was a much smaller room. Spare and utilitarian, it was furnished with a large desk, several chairs, and had shelves stuffed with conchs containing everything from petitions to minutes of Parliament. Only Isabella’s family and her closest advisers were allowed inside it. As Serafina approached the door, she could see that it was slightly ajar. She was just about to rush in, sobs already rising in her throat, when the sound of voices stopped her.

Her mother
wasn’t
alone. Sera peeked through the crack and saw her uncle Vallerio and a handful of high-ranking ministers. Conte Orsino, the minister of defense, was staring at a map on the wall. It showed Miromara, an empire that swept from the Straits of Gibraltar in the west, across the Mediterranean Sea, to the Black Sea in the East.

“I don’t know if this has anything to do with the recent raids, Your Grace, but a trawler was sighted in the Venetian Gulf just this morning. One of Mfeme’s,” said Orsino. He looked haggard and bleary-eyed, as if he hadn’t slept.

Vallerio, who was staring out of a window, his hands clasped behind his back, swore at the mention of the name
Mfeme
.

Serafina knew it; everyone in Miromara did. Rafe Iaoro Mfeme was a terragogg. He ran a fleet of fishing boats. Some were bottom trawlers—vessels that dragged huge heavy nets over the seafloor. They caught great quantities of fish and destroyed everything in their paths, including coral reefs that were hundreds of years old. Others were long-line vessels. They cast out lines fitted with hooks that ran through the water for miles. The lines killed more than fish. They hooked thousands of turtles, albatrosses, and seals. Mfeme didn’t care. His crew hauled the lines in and tossed the drowned creatures overboard like garbage.

“I don’t think the trawler has anything to do with the raids,” Isabella said. “The raiders took every single soul in the villages, but left the buildings undamaged. Mfeme’s nets would have destroyed the buildings, too.” Her voice sounded strained. Her face looked troubled and tired.

“We’ve also had reports of Praedatori in the area of the raids,” Orsino said.

“The Praedatori take valuables, not people. They’re a small band of robbers. They don’t have the numbers to raid entire villages,” Isabella said dismissively.

Sera wondered how she knew that. The Praedatori were so shadowy, no one knew much about them.

“It’s not Mfeme, either. He’s a gogg. We have protective spells against his kind,” Vallerio said. He’d left his place by the window and was swimming to and fro, barely containing his anger. “It’s Ondalina. Kolfinn’s the one behind the raids.”

“You don’t know that, Vallerio,” Isabella said. “You have no proof.”

Glances were traded between ministers. Serafina knew that her mother and uncle rarely agreed.

“Have you forgotten that Admiral Kolfinn has broken the permutavi?” Vallerio asked.

The permutavi was a pact between the two waters enacted after the War of Reykjanes Ridge. It decreed an exchange of the rulers’ children. Isabella and Vallerio’s younger brother, Ludovico, had been sent to Ondalina ten years ago in exchange for Kolfinn’s sister, Sigurlin. Desiderio was supposed to have gone to Ondalina, and Astrid, Kolfinn’s teenage daughter, was to have come to Miromara. Inexplicably, the admiral sent a messenger one week before the exchange was to have occurred to say that he was not sending her.

“In addition,” Vallerio continued, “my informants tell me Kolfinn’s spies have been spotted in the Lagoon.”

“Kolfinn has not yet informed us why he broke the permutavi. There may be an explanation,” Isabella said. “And Ondalinian spies in the Lagoon are nothing new. Every realm sends spies to the Lagoon.
We
send spies to the—”

Vallerio cut her off. “We must declare war and we must do it
now
. Before we are attacked. I’ve been saying this for weeks, Isabella.”

Serafina shivered at her uncle’s words.

Isabella leaned forward in her chair. “Desiderio sent a messenger with word that he’s seen nothing—no armies, no artillery, not so much as a single Ondalinian soldier. I hesitate to declare war based on such flimsy accusations and without convening the Council of the Six.”

Vallerio snorted. “You hesitate to declare war? You
hesitate
? Hesitate much longer, and the Council of Six will be a Council of Five!”

“I will
not
be pushed, Vallerio!
I
rule here. You would do well to remember that. I am not concerned with my life, but with the lives of my merfolk, many of which will be sacrificed if war breaks out!” Isabella shouted.

“
When
war breaks out!” Vallerio thundered back at her. He turned and smacked a large shell off a table in his anger. It shattered against a wall.

It was silent in the chamber. Isabella glared at Vallerio and Vallerio glared back.

Conte Bartolomeo, the oldest of Isabella’s advisers, rose from his chair. He’d been refereeing these shouting matches since Isabella and Vallerio were children. “If I may ask, Your Grace,” he said to Isabella, attempting to defuse the tension, “how are the preparations for the Dokimí progressing?”

“Very well,” Isabella replied curtly.

“And the songspell? Has the principessa mastered it?”

“Serafina will not let Miromara down.”

Bartolomeo smiled. “Is the principessa happy with the match? Is she in love with the crown prince? From what I understand, every female in Miromara is.”

“Love comes in time,” Isabella replied.

“For some. For others, it does not come at all,” Vallerio said brusquely.

Isabella’s face took on a rueful expression. “You should have married, brother. Years ago. You should have found yourself a wife.”

“I would have, if the one I wanted hadn’t been denied me. I hope Serafina finds happiness with the crown prince,” he said.

“I hope so too,” Isabella said. “And, more important, as a leader of her people.”

“It’s those very people you must think of
now
, Isabella. I beg you,” Vallerio said. The urgency had returned to his voice.

Serafina bit her lip. Though they fought constantly, her mother prized his advice above everyone else’s.

“What if I’m right about Ondalina?” he asked. “What if I’m right and you’re wrong?”

“Then the gods have mercy on us,” Isabella said. “Give me a few days, Vallerio. Please. We are a small realm, the smallest in all the waters. You know that. If we are to declare war, we must be sure of the Matalis.”

“Are we not sure of them? The Dokimí is tonight. When Serafina and Mahdi are united, their realms will be united. Their vows cannot be broken.”

“As I’m sure you recall, the betrothal negotiations with Bilaal were long and hard. I suspect Kolfinn may have been negotiating with him at the same time on behalf of his daughter,” Isabella said. “The Elder of Qin, too, for his granddaughter. Who knows what
they
offered him. Their ambassadors are here at court to witness the ceremony. For all I know, they’re
still
making offers. Until a thing is done, it is not done. I won’t rest easy until Sera and Mahdi have exchanged their vows.”

“And once they do, then you’ll declare war?”

“Only if by so doing, I can avoid it. If we declare war on Ondalina by ourselves, Kolfinn won’t so much as blink. If we do it with the Matalis’ support, he’ll turn tail.”

Serafina remembered her mother’s visit to her room earlier. Now it took on new meaning.
That’s
why she’d been so worried about her songspell, and why’d she’d said they desperately needed an alliance with Matali. They needed it to avoid a war with Ondalina. Or to win one.

Moments ago, Serafina had been desperate to see her mother. Now she was desperate to slip away without being seen.

Isabella worked tirelessly on behalf of her subjects, always putting their welfare ahead of her own, always stoically bearing the burdens and heartaches that came with wearing the crown. Sera could only imagine what her mother would have said if she’d barged into her chamber complaining that Mahdi had hurt her feelings.

She had to do it. She had to put her pain and loss aside and exchange vows with a merman she couldn’t even bear to look at, in order to save her people from a war. That’s what her mother would do, and that’s what she would do, too.

I always disappoint her,
Serafina thought,
but tonight I won’t. Tonight, I’ll make her proud.

“Y
OU’RE TUBE WORMS.
Both of you. No, actually,
tube worms
doesn’t do you justice.
Lumpsuckers
would be better,” Neela hissed. “Jackwrasses. Mollusks. Total guppies.”

“Shh!”
Empress Ahadi said. “Sit still and be quiet!”

Neela was quiet for all of two seconds, then she poked Mahdi in the back.

“You don’t deserve her. She’s way too good for you. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s a no-show.
I
wouldn’t get betrothed to you.”

“I’ll talk to her after the ceremony. I’ll explain,” Mahdi said.

Neela rolled her eyes.
“
‘Hey, Mahdi, good idea!’ said no one ever.”

“Do I have to separate you like little children? The ceremony is about to start!” Empress Ahadi scolded.

Neela, Yazeed, Mahdi, and the rest of the Matalin royal party were seated in the royal enclosure inside the Kolisseo, a huge open-water stone theater that dated back to Merrow’s time.

Isabella and Bilaal sat together in the front of the enclosure on two silver thrones. The regina was spectacular in a jeweled golden crown, her long black hair coiled at the nape of her neck. A ceremonial breastplate made of blue abalone shells covered her torso and gossamer skirts of indigo sea silk billowed out below it. Emperor Bilaal was splendid in a yellow high-collared jacket and a fuchsia turban studded with pearls, emeralds, and—in the center—a ruby as big as a caballabong ball.

Serafina’s father, Principe Consorte Bastiaan, and her uncle, Principe del Sangue Vallerio, sat directly behind Isabella. There was no re, or king, in Miromara. The regina was the highest authority. Males could be princes of the blood if they were sons of a regina, or prince consorts if they married one.

And in front of them all, on a stone dais, was a circlet of hammered gold embedded with pearls, emeralds, and red coral—Merrow’s crown. It was ancient and precious, a hallowed symbol of the unbroken rule of the Merrovingia.

The empress and crown prince sat directly behind Bilaal. Neela and Yazeed were behind them. Fanning out from the royal enclosure were the Miromaran magi—Thalassa, the canta magus, the keeper of magic; Fossegrim, the liber magus, the keeper of knowledge—and the realm’s powerful duchessas. Neela recognized Portia Volnero. She knew Sera’s uncle had been in love with her once. She could see why: Portia, dressed in regal purple, with her long auburn hair worn loose and flowing, was stunning. Lucia Volnero was there too, drawing every eye in a shimmering gown of silver. Behind the duchessas sat the rest of the court—hundreds of nobles, ministers, and councillors, all in their costly robes of state. It was a sumptuous spectacle of power and wealth.

“Where’s Sera?” Yazeed whispered.

“She’s not in the Kolisseo yet. The Janiçari bring her here for the blooding, the first test,” Neela replied.

She looked out over the amphitheater. Along its perimeter, the flags of Miromara and Matali fluttered in the night currents—Miromara’s coral branch and Matali’s dragon rampant, with its silver-blue egg. She knew the dragon depicted was a deadly razormouth, and that its egg was actually an ugly brown. The flag’s designer, she guessed, had thought the egg too ugly and had changed it to silver-blue.

Every seat in the Kolisseo was taken and a tense, expectant energy filled the water. White lava illuminated the dark waters. It boiled and spat inside glass globes that had been set into large whelk shells and placed in wall mounts. To obtain the lava, magma was channeled from deep seams under the North Sea by goblin miners, the fractious Feuerkumpel, one of the Kobold tribes. It was refined and whitened, then poured into glass tough enough to withstand its lethal heat by goblin glassblowers, the equally unpleasant Höllebläser.

In the lava’s glow, Neela could see the faces of the crowd. Many were excited. Others looked nervous, even fearful.
With good reason,
she thought. Generations of young mermaids had been crowned heiress to the Miromaran throne here, but others—imposters all—had died agonizing deaths. Her eyes flickered to the heavy iron grille that covered a cavernous opening in the floor of the Kolisseo. Twenty brawny mermen stood by it, wearing armor and holding shields. Fear’s icy fingers squeezed her heart as tried to imagine what lurked underneath it.

Serafina must be terrified,
she thought.
She’s right—this is a barbaric ceremony.
It was hard to reconcile the Miromarans, a people so cultured and refined, with such a gruesome ritual.

“It’s about to start!” Yazeed exclaimed. “I hear music! Look, Neela!”

He pointed to the archway on the opposite side of the Kolisseo. A hush fell over the crowd as a merman, grand and majestic, emerged from it. He moved at a stately pace, his red robes flowing behind him. A matching turban with a narwhal’s tusk protruding from it graced his head. A scimitar, its gold hilt encrusted with jewels, hung from his belt.

Neela knew he was the Mehterabaşi, leader of the Janiçari, Isabella’s personal guard. Fierce fighters from the waters off Turkey’s southern coast, they wore breastplates made of blue crab shells and osprey-skull epaulets. A line of orca’s teeth ran across the top of each of their bronze helmets.

The Janiçari followed their leader out of the archway, swimming in tight formation. Some played boru—long, thin trumpets. Others played the davul—bass drums made from giant clamshells. The rest sang of the bravery of their regina in deep, rumbling voices. It was an immense sound, intended to terrify Miromara’s enemies. Neela thought it did the job well.

After twenty lines of Janiçari had marched into the Kolisseo, another figure—one very different from the fearsome soldiers—appeared in the archway.

“Oh, doesn’t Sera look gorgeous!” Neela whispered.

“Merl’s so hot, she melts my face off,” Yazeed said.

“Wow. That’s appropriate, Yaz,” said Neela.

Mahdi stared silently.

Serafina sat sidesaddle atop a graceful gray hippokamp. She wore a simple gown of pale green sea silk. The color, worn by mer brides, symbolized her bond with her people, her future husband, and the sea. Over the gown, she wore an exquisite brocade mantle, the same deep green as her eyes. It was richly embroidered with copper thread and studded with red coral, pearls, and emeralds—the jewels of Merrow’s crown. Her copper-brown hair floated around her shoulders. Her head was unadorned. Her face, with its high cheekbones, was elegant and fine.
But it’s her eyes that make her truly beautiful,
Neela thought. They sparkled with intelligence and humor, darkened with doubt sometimes, and shone in their depths with love. No matter how hard she tried to hide it.

The second the Miromarans spotted her, they were out of their seats and cheering. The noise rolled over the amphitheater like a storm. Serafina, solemn as the occasion demanded, kept her eyes straight ahead.

The Mehterabaşi reached the base of the royal enclosure and stopped. His troops—with Serafina in the midst of them—followed suit. He struck his chest with his fist, then saluted his regina. It was a gesture of both love and respect. In perfect unison, all five hundred Janiçari did the same. Isabella struck her chest and saluted back, and another cheer went up. The boru players blew loud blasts.

Serafina’s hippokamp didn’t like the noise. She pawed at the water with her front hooves and thrashed her serpentine tail. Her eyes, yellow and slitted like a snake’s, shifted nervously.

As Serafina calmed her, the Mehterabaşi turned to his troops and raised his scimitar, then sliced it through the water. As he did, the Janiçari moved forward, splitting their formation in the middle, so that half marched to the right, and half to the left. When they had ringed the amphitheater, the Mehterabaşi sheathed his scimitar, swam to Serafina, and helped her dismount. She removed her mantle and handed it to him. She would face Alítheia in only her dress. It would be her coronation gown or her shroud.

The Mehterabaşi handed her his scimitar, then led her hippokamp away. Serafina was alone in the center of the amphitheater. When the cheers died down she spoke, her voice ringing out over the ancient stones.

“Citizens of Miromara, esteemed guests, most gracious regina, I come before you tonight to declare myself of the blood, a daughter of Merrow, and heiress to the Miromaran throne.”

Isabella, regal atop her throne, spoke next. “Beloved subjects, we the mer are a people born of destruction. In Atlantis’s end was our beginning. For four thousand years we have endured. For four thousand years, the Merrovingia have ruled Miromara. We have kept you safe, worked tirelessly to see you prosper. Descended from the one who made us all, we are bound heart and soul, by oath and by blood, to carry on her rule. I give you my only daughter, this child of my body and of my heart, but I cannot give you your heiress. Only Alítheia can do this. What say you, good people?”

The Miromarans erupted into cheering again.

Isabella took a deep breath. Her back was straight. Her manner calm. But Neela could see her hands shaking. “Release the anarachna!” she commanded.

“What’s happening?” Yazeed whispered.

“This is the blooding, the first part of the Dokimí,” Neela explained. “Where we find out if Serafina truly is a descendant of Merrow.”

“What if she’s not?” Yazeed asked.

“Don’t
say
that, Yaz,” Mahdi said. “Don’t even think it.”

Neela looked at him and saw that his hands were knotted into fists.

The armored mermen posted around the iron grille in the center of the amphitheater worked together to raise it. Heavy chains were attached to thick iron loops on its front edge. The mermen heaved at the chains and little by little, the grille lifted. Finally, it swung back on its hinges and clanged down loudly against the stone floor. A few seconds went by, then a few minutes. Nothing happened. The Miromarans, restless and tense, murmured among themselves. A few, very daring or very stupid, called the anarachna’s name.

“Who are they calling?” Yazeed asked. “What’s in the hole?”

Neela had studied up on the Dokimí ceremony. She leaned in close to him to tell him what she’d learned. “When Merrow was old and close to death,” she explained, “she wanted to make sure only her descendants ruled Miromara. So she asked the goddess of the sea, Neria, and Bellogrim, the god of fire, to forge a creature of bronze.”

“Duh, Neels. I know that much. I’m not dumb.”

“That’s highly debatable,” Neela said. “When the Feuerkumpel were smelting the ore for the creature, Neria brought the dying Merrow to their blast furnace. As soon as the molten metal was ready, she slashed Merrow’s palm and held it over the vat so the creature would have the blood of Merrow in her veins and know it from imposters’ blood. Neria waited until the bronze was cast and had cooled, and then she herself breathed life into Alítheia.”

“Wow,” Yazeed said.

“Yeah,” Neela said. She looked at Mahdi. All the color had drained from his face. He seemed positively ill.

Yazeed noticed too. He leaned forward. “Mahdi, you squid! I
told
you to lay off the sand worms last night. They were way too spicy. Are you going to hurl? Want my turban?”

“I’m cool,” Mahdi said.

But he didn’t look cool. Not at all, Neela thought. His eyes were rooted on Sera. His hand was on the scimitar at his side. He was tense, as if he was ready to spring out of his seat at any second.

A roar—high, thin, and metallic—suddenly shook the amphitheater. It sounded like a ship’s hull being torn apart on jagged rocks. An articulated leg, dagger-sharp at its tip, arched up out of the hole and pounded down against the stones. It was followed by another, and another. A head appeared. The creature hissed, baring curved, foot-long fangs. A gasp—part awe, part horror—rose from the crowd as it crawled all the way out of the hole.

“No. Possible.
Way
,” Yazeed said. “M, are you seeing this? Because if you’re not, then I’m, like, completely insane.”

“Sera,
no
,” Mahdi said.

Yazeed shook his head. “I can’t
believe
that thing’s Ala…Alo…”

“A-LEE-thee-a,” Neela said. “Greek for—”

“Big, ugly, scary-wrasse monster sea spider,” Yaz said.

“—truth,”
Neela said.

The creature reared, clawing at the water with her front legs. A drop of amber venom fell from her fangs. Eight black eyes looked around the amphitheater—and came to rest upon her prey.

“Imposssster,” she hissed.

At Serafina.