Waterfire Saga, Book Four: Sea Spell: Deep Blue Novel, A (32 page)

P
ALE AND DRAWN, seated on a high throne of black marble, Serafina gazed out over the Courtyard of the Condemned.

A gold crown studded with pearls, emeralds, and red coral—Merrow’s crown—graced her head. Gold chains of office hung from her shoulders, set off by the deep black of her high-necked sea-silk gown. Alítheia, her bodyguard, stood just behind the throne, her eyes alert for any threat.

Lucia’s brief reign was over. Sera was her realm’s regina now. She was honored to take her mother’s place upon Miromara’s throne, relieved that her uncle had been defeated, and happy to be overseeing the reconstruction of her realm. Yet her victory was bittersweet. Her crown had been won back, but its price had been high.

She had not set fin in this courtyard once in her entire life. Even her mother had not. The Courtyard of the Condemned had not been used since her grandmother Artemesia’s time.

Her eyes took in the court’s high stone walls now, the armed guards lining them, and the block of wood, hewn from the mizzenmast of some ship wrecked centuries ago, that stood in the courtyard’s center. The block was about two feet high, and a foot and a half wide. A smooth, ellipitical depression had been carved into its top.

Sera knew what that block was for, and vowed that if it were to be used today, she would not look away.

Her gaze traveled up, to the tower at the top of the far wall. It housed a huge bronze bell and was flanked by statues of the sea goddess Neria, and her sister, Verita, the goddess of justice. The sight of the deities brought painful memories back to Sera. Of the end of the battle. Of the medics pulling the spear out of Mahdi’s body. Of his last words to her. And then of herself, on the hospital floor, shrieking at the gods.
Why?
Why?
How much more can you take from me?

Thousands of Black Fins and civilians had died in the battle for Cerulea. Huge swaths of the city had been destroyed. And Mahdi…
Mahdi.

As she thought now of how his heart had stopped, and how close she’d come to losing him, her own heart faltered.

She’d screamed at the doctors to help him, to do something. One had pressed bandages against the wound in his chest, another had put the heels of his hands over his heart and started pushing. One, two, three, stop. One, two, three, stop. Over and over again, and with every push, the bandages had turned redder. For endless, agonizing seconds, nothing had happened, and then Mahdi had groaned and started breathing again. The doctors had called for blood. Yazeed and Neela, his cousins, shared his blood type. They’d given him pint after pint.

For once, the gods had listened. For once, they’d taken pity on her, because Mahdi had lived—barely. Lucia’s spear had missed his heart by an inch, but had badly damaged his lung. He’d lost a great deal of blood and had been deprived of oxygen. Would he recover? Could he fully come back from such terrible injuries? Sera didn’t know. No one did. Mahdi couldn’t tell them. He was still unconscious.

Two weeks had passed since he’d almost died, and he was still in a coma. Sera went to visit him morning and night, always hoping for a sign—a twitch of his hand, a flutter of his eyelashes—but she never got one.

The doctors had told her that they’d done all they could. That she must prepare herself for the worst—that Mahdi might remain in a coma for the rest of his life. Sera talked to him, sang to him, told him about her days, and the new challenges they brought, as if he could answer her. He was still there; she knew he was. She refused to give up hope.

The bell in the tower began to toll now. Its sound, low and ominous, tore Sera from her memories and brought her back to the present.

Twelve times the bell tolled. When it finished, a pair of heavy doors opened in the wall underneath the tower.

Drummers swam in first, beating a slow tattoo. They were followed by dirgecasters, who were dressed in robes of dark gray edged with silver. Both drummers and singers took their places at Sera’s left. Next came the realm’s powerful duchessas. Each bowed in turn to Sera, then took her seat in a row of high-backed chairs at Sera’s right. One chair remained empty: Portia Volnero’s.

Desiderio, now Miromara’s high commander, swam in next. His shoulders were broad under his uniform; he held his head high. He was nineteen now, only two years older than Sera was, and the second-most-powerful mer in the realm.

He’s too young for this burden,
she thought, looking at him.

She was, too. But what choice did they have?

Desiderio bowed to her, then in a loud, ringing voice, called for the Keeper of Justice. Three deep booms were heard from the drummers, and then an elderly merman, garbed in purple and holding a golden staff, swam through the doors and into the center of the courtyard.

“Greetings, Regina Serafina,” he said solemnly, without bowing.

Sera did not expect him to. He represented the rule of law, and in Miromara the law bowed to no one, not even the regina herself.

“Greetings, Keeper,” Sera said, her voice ringing out strong and clear. “You have presided over the realm’s case against its former high commander. The prosecution and defense have concluded their arguments. Has the jury reached a verdict?”

The keeper nodded. “It has, Your Grace.”

“Lead the prisoner forth,” Sera commanded.

She swallowed hard as her uncle, dressed only in a simple white sea-flax tunic, swam through the door. He was escorted by two guards. His hair had been cropped short. His hands were bound behind his back.

As she regarded him, Sera thought about how much he’d taken from her. Through his cruel deeds, he’d smashed her heart to pieces again and again, and yet that heart was beating, still alive, still capable of feeling sorrow. Even for him.

She remembered how he’d looked to her when she was small—so tall and strong, so handsome with his shock of black hair and his fierce blue eyes. She remembered feasting with him at holiday banquets. Racing hippokamps. Dancing at state dinners. She remembered him playing with her when she was tiny, pretending to be a tiger shark and chasing her around the throne.

He’d had his own daughter then—how it must’ve pained him to play with her, Serafina, and feign indifference to his own child.

The terrible things he’d done…were they all because of a love denied? she wondered. Would any of them had happened if Artemesia had allowed him to marry the mermaid he loved? Or had he always been jealous of his sister’s power, and his niece’s birthright? Sera realized she would never know.

“Keeper, the verdict, please,” she said, with no trace of emotion in her voice.

“The jury finds the defendant, Vallerio di Merrovingia, guilty of regicide, high treason, and war crimes,” the keeper intoned. “The high court sentences him to death by beheading, followed by the singing of gallows dirges.”

“Vallerio di Merrovingia, you have heard your sentence. The high court decrees that you must pay for your crimes with your life,” Sera declared. She paused to let her words sink in, then said, “It is the right of the condemned to speak aloud your last words. Have you any?”

“I do,” Vallerio said. “I underestimated you, Serafina. You are much changed from the young mermaid I knew. You are stronger and smarter than I believed you to be. An able and impressive ruler. I never thought you would learn to lead so fast.”

“I had a very capable teacher.” This time Sera was unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.

Vallerio laughed darkly. “I suppose you did. However, it appears that the student is now the master. You are there,” he nodded at the throne, “and I am here. But soon I shall be gone.”

Sera winced at that, just slightly, but Vallerio caught it.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to beg you for my life. But I will caution you to be careful with yours. Very careful.”

His lips curved into a mocking smile. Malice glinted in his eyes.

“Your mother had an expression:
Play the board, not the piece
. You’ve played well, Serafina, but not well enough. Did you really think I wouldn’t have an endgame? Orfeo and I made a deal. I would help him search for the talismans, and he would help me take over the water realms.”

“That is hardly news, uncle,” Sera said. She managed to keep her voice even, but a cold dread crept over her.

“No,” he allowed, “but
this
is: I made Orfeo promise that if something happened to me, he would protect Lucia. And he will. He gave me his word. Abbadon will slaughter you and your friends, and then Orfeo will restore my daughter to the throne. Good-bye, Serafina. Enjoy the view from up there…while you still have it.”

Serafina felt her gorge rise. Only minutes ago, she had remembered the good merman he’d once been. Now all she felt was revulsion for the vicious, unrepetent murderer he’d become.

“Great Neria forgive you, Uncle,” she said, “for I cannot.”

Vallerio’s guards moved to lead him to the wooden block, but he shook them off and swam to it himself. The executioner, a tall, muscular merman in a black hood, had quietly come forward. He was floating by the block now. His curved ax was leaning against it. He offered Vallerio a blindfold, but Vallerio refused it. He bent his tail, like a terragogg might bend his knees, and lowered his head to the block, resting it in the smooth hollow.

The executioner leaned down to him, grasped the collar of his tunic, and tore it open to expose his neck. Sera’s hands tightened on the arms of her throne. She didn’t want to watch this, but she had no choice. Reginas were required to witness the executions of those the high court condemned.

The executioner lifted his ax. He swung it back and forth through the water, picking up speed with each arc, sharpening his focus, priming his aim.

And then, with no further preliminaries, he swung it high above his head. As the fearsome blade began its final descent, Vallerio suddenly tilted his head and raised his eyes to Sera’s.

“Checkmate,” he said, just before the ax came down.

“O
NE HUNDRED thousand troops, Sera,” Neela said excitedly. “And more fighters joining us every day!”

She was sketching as she spoke, designing a military jacket. Sera had never gotten to wear the last one Neela had made for her, and now that she was no longer leader of the resistance but the leader of her realm, Neela had decided that a completely new look was in order.

“From Miromara and Matali, Qin and Ondalina,” Neela continued. “From the prison camps that are being liberated—”

“But are the numbers
enough
, Neela?” Sera asked, her brow knit with worry. “Enough to take on Abbadon? And Orfeo?”

The two mermaids were in Sera’s rooms—her mother’s old chambers—where they often spent their evenings now. Sera was staring out of a window, her arms crossed. Sylvestre was draped over her shoulder. His color had improved. She could see her troops’ camp in the distance, the white of their tents, the glow of their waterfires. Three weeks had passed since the battle for Cerulea had been won. While Sera and Des had been figuring out how to rule their realm, Yazeed, Neela, Becca, and Ling, together with Garstig and the other commanders, had once again been working to provision Sera’s soldiers. They would all leave for the Southern Sea in six days.

“Orfeo’s powerful,” Sera continued. “In ways we know, and in ways we don’t. He has the black pearl. What if he has Nyx’s ruby ring, too? What if…what if he…” She couldn’t bear to voice the thought.

“Killed Ava?” Neela said.

Sera nodded, turning to her. “What if he killed Astrid, too? We haven’t heard from either of them in weeks.”

“Not possible. We’d feel it,” Neela said, looking up from her kelp-parchment sketchbook. “It’s your uncle, isn’t it? And what he said to you.”

“Yeah,” Sera admitted, “it is.”

“Checkmate,”
Neela said, rolling her eyes. “Forget him, Sera. He only said it to rattle you.”

“He succeeded.”

“Did he?” Neela said with a smirk. “He’s dead; you’re not. I think that means
you
won.”

“For now,” Sera said.

Neela rose. She swam to her friend and put an arm around her. “We didn’t come this far to fail.”

Sera nodded. She kissed Neela’s cheek, but inside she was still uneasy. Her uncle’s final words had sewn dark seeds of doubt in her. As Neela sat back down and took up her sketchbook again, Sera thought about how the chessboard had changed.

Neela was right about one thing: she would have a large and loyal force at her back for the journey to the Southern Sea. And Orfeo was now without Vallerio and Portia, his firm allies, but Lucia was still on the loose. She’d escaped from the city, and, seemingly, the realm. There was a large bounty on her head, but no one had so much as glimpsed her. Had Orfeo given her sanctuary?

Sera remembered something that Mahdi had once said about Lucia—that she was like a rockfish, at her most dangerous when you couldn’t see her. Sera had confided her worries to Desiderio, but he told her she wouldn’t have to worry for long; Lucia couldn’t stay hidden forever. They would find her and she would answer for her crimes, just like her father had.

“There! Done!” Neela suddenly said, interrupting Sera’s thoughts. She held her sketchbook out. “Take a look and tell me what you think.”