Waterfire Saga, Book One: Deep Blue (A Waterfire Saga Novel) Page 6

  Mahdi, wincing at the light, said, “Yaz, you squid! Where were you? I was waiting for you. I decided to hang here until you caught up. I must’ve fallen asleep. Why are you always the slowest common denominator?”

  “Yazeed, take those stupid earrings off! And sit up, both of you!” Neela scolded. “Serafina’s here.”

  Mahdi paled. “What?” he said. “Oh, no.” He sat up. “Serafina? Is that you?”

  “Nice to see you, too, Mahdi,” Serafina said.

  Her voice was cool, but Neela could see the confusion in her eyes. She’d hoped to keep her cousin’s foolishness a secret from Sera. She’d hoped he could behave during his stay. Apparently, that was too much to ask.

  “Look, Serafina, I need to explain,” he started to say, getting up.

  “Um, Mahdi? Are you shimmering?” Serafina asked.

  “Hold on a minute…he’s shimmering?” Neela said. She swam up to Mahdi and looked him over, and then Yazeed. Parts of them were shimmering, other parts were completely see-through. She grabbed her brother’s gold chain and pulled it over his head. A small whelk shell dangled from it. As she turned it over, two pink pearls fell out.

  “Transparensea pearls,” she said. “Let me guess…you two cast pearls last night, then snuck out of the palace. When you tried to sneak back in, all the doors were locked. The windows, too. So you spent the night here, passed out under a coral. The only question is: Where did you go?”

  “Nowhere,” Yazeed said innocently. “Just out for a swim.”

  “Oh, please. I bet you went to the Lagoon. You did, didn’t you?” said Neela, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Yazeed looked around, suddenly interested in the architecture.

  Neela glanced at Sera again. Her friend’s eyes were on the lipstick kisses on Mahdi’s cheek. They traveled to the scarf on his head. It had an L embroidered on it. L for Lucia, Neela thought. Her heart clenched as she saw the hurt on Sera’s face.

  “You’re really something, Mahdi,” she said angrily. “We are guests of the Merrovingia—invited here for your betrothal, I might add—and you go shoaling?”

  “We weren’t shoaling. We were, um, attending a concert. Broadening our cultural horizons,” Yaz said.

  Neela held up her hands. “Just. Stop,” she said. She turned to her cousin, thumbed a smudge of lipstick off his cheek, and showed it to him. “Broadening your horizons?”

  Mahdi had the good grace to blush.

  “Neela,” Serafina said in a small voice. “I have to get back.”

  But Neela didn’t hear her. She was scolding her brother again.

  As they continued to argue, Mahdi swam up to Serafina. “Hey, Sera…” he said haltingly.

  “Sorry, Mahdi. I have to go,” Serafina said.

  “No, wait. Please. I’m sorry about this. Really. This is not how I thought we would meet again. I know how it looks, but things aren’t what they seem,” he said.

  Serafina smiled ruefully. “I guess mermen aren’t either.”

  Mahdi flinched at that. “Serafina,” he said, “you don’t know—”

  “—you,” Serafina said. “I don’t know you, Mahdi. Not anymore.”

  “Serafina!” Yaz shouted. “Help me out, merl! Tell Sue Nami here to cut me a break. All we did was hang out at the Corsair. The Dead Reckoners were playing. They’re my favorite band. Mahdi’s, too. We had to go. Otherwise, total FOMO.”

  “FOMO?” Serafina echoed.

  “Fear of Missing Out,” Yaz said.

  “Don’t encourage him, Sera. He thinks he’s a badwrasse with his stupid gogg slang,” Neela said.

  “We started dancing and some silly merls recognized Mahdi and went crazy and drew all over us with lipstick. Then some swashbucklers told us there was an all-night wave going on in Cerulea, so we swam back,” Yaz said. “That’s all that happened. I swear!”

  “An all-night wave in the ruins of the reggia?” Neela said. “Do you really expect us to believe that? It’s a national monument!”

  “Is that where we are? We’re supposed to be in the Kolegio,” Yaz said. He gave Mahdi a look. “Navigate much?”

  Yaz was fibbing. Wildly. Neela was sure of it. He was trying to cover up whatever they’d really been doing.

  “Look, I really do have to go,” Serafina said. She was good at hiding her feelings, but this time even she couldn’t pretend.

  “Wait, Sera,” Mahdi said, looking desperate. “I’m sorry. You’re hurt, I know you are—”

  “Oh, no. I’m perfectly fine, Your Grace,” Serafina said, blinking back tears.

  Mahdi shook his head. “Your Grace? Whoa, Sera, it’s me.”

  “Yes it is. I guess Lucia was right,” Sera said softly. She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it, Mahdi. I’m fine. I would be hurt…if I cared.”

  “GOOD 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.

  “YOU’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, emera
lds, 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.