13. Soren
Chapter thirteen
Soren
The royal council chamber, a small, gaudy room, perches atop the palace’s west wing, squarely in line of the evening sun. The soft chatter of vendors in the streets drift up through the open window behind me, mixing with the crash of waves against the shore. Humidity glazes everything in a soft sheen. There’s no evening breeze to relieve the sweat clinging to my forehead.
A squat table with thick, pillared legs stands in the middle of the room. Its stone surface bears the topography of the six kingdoms of Adria. The map sweats with moisture, dew pooling in the grooves. Six gilded chairs surround the table—each occupied by an overdressed council member, with the exception of the spot opposite mine, where the queen should be. My mother is late. Again.
I straighten, wincing as pain flares in my side where the handmaid’s spines raked me earlier. The healers worked their magic on it this afternoon, but a residual sting lingers beneath the skin.
I scrape over the spot repeatedly, slowly, so as to not draw too much attention from the council. But they’re not watching me. Even as I bore my gaze into the side of Lord Ruven’s face, studying the soft skin that jiggles under his chin with each animated sentence, the minister of foreign affairs does not turn to look. He whispers to Lady Myrrh next to him, the only female member of the royal council aside from my mother. The mermaid chuckles, tugging absently at a stray curl of her graying hair.
Lord Varik avoids my gaze, studying a tapestry behind me, no doubt still offended over my rejection of his daughter. Beside him Lord Almar, a quiet old priest with a curling mustache, props his head on his fist, sleeping.
I might as well be invisible.
I deepen my scratch, digging my nails into the silk. If I weren’t in the company of the council, I would have removed this shirt, searched my skin for the point of irritation, and scratched it to my heart’s content. What did that handmaid do to get under my scales? Is she poisonous? Is this some dark-dweller magic I have yet to learn? And why in the six pools of hell does the princess need a handmaid like that ? The more I dwell on it, the more the sting intensifies.
Inhaling deeply, I recite my to-do list and relax in the knowledge that I’m down to my last two events with required attendance today: this meeting, followed by dinner with the princess. I just need to sit here, assert my presence, try not to scratch myself to death, and then leave.
The door clicks open. My mother breezes in, aiming for the velvet chair at the head of the table. The council straightens their posture, their whispers sucked into stiff silence. Lord Almar snorts awake. She lifts her gaze and nods a greeting.
“The prince and I have a dinner to attend, a guest to welcome, and a wedding to plan,” says the queen. “Whatever you must say, make it quick.”
The council looks to Lady Myrrh, her violet face suddenly as blank as the moon. She smooths her hair, then clears her throat. “This council expresses concern about the princess. Your proposal was rather hasty, and we have a few questions for you, Your Majesty.”
The queen raises her eyebrow. “Does the council mistrust my judgment in selecting a suitor for my son?”
“No, Your Majesty. We just—” Lady Myrrh inhales deeply, steadying herself. The queen’s gaze grows colder by the second. “She’s Abyssal. And we have some concerns about, well—” Lady Myrrh trails off, searching the room for help.
Lord Varik smacks the table. Lady Myrrh flinches, then nods at him to take over.
“What is the crown’s verdict on the latest suitor? Is she a worthy match?” he asks.
“The crown has not yet decided, Lord Varik. I expect we will learn more at dinner tonight,” the queen says calmly.
“Not yet decided? Just a few days ago, the crown had plenty of opinions on a certain match within this court, did it not?”
“I rejected your proposal, Lord Varik,” I remind him rather bluntly. “Do not waste time asking again.”
The treasurer slides his eelish eyes to me and scowls. I keep my face neutral, passive. The corner of my eye begins to quiver, and my side flares once more, itching for my attention.
With a grunt, Lord Varik turns to address my mother directly.
“Your Majesty, if I may, the crown prince does not seem to be taking his duties seriously. Lines of suitors at his door, perfectly amiable females, and has he courted even one? No! My daughter is more than worthy to sit on that throne.”
My mother stirs in her chair, flicking her fingers in a dismissive wave. “The prince may be… overly selective. But we have our reasons for being so.”
“Fact is, we need a royal match.” Lord Ruven touches the hooked tip of his large nose and sniffs, his mouth maintaining his permanent scowl. “The coffers will run out, Lord Varik, if we do not secure an alliance with another kingdom. The Kingdom of Frost has no match to offer, at least one capable of producing an heir with our prince. The Kingdom of Sands has their heads buried in their namesake. The Brine is more interested in chasing cloudwhales than aligning with anyone. And Estuary is, well, stubborn as ever.”
“But the Abyss is abhorrent,” Lady Myrrh protests. “They’re nasty, debaucherous dark-dwellers. The Abyss does not get along with this kingdom. Have we tried reaching out to the Brine one more time? They’re so pleasant and happy, and I hear their princess Nahla is lovely. Nice, happy face. That’s what this kingdom needs.” She smiles, as if demonstrating for the council what happiness looks like.
Lord Ruven waves his hand. “The Brine remains unreachable, my lady. What difference does it make if the dark-dweller looks unpleasant, if her brother is rich and the only king in all of Adria willing to bargain? The past is the past. Let’s leave it there. If the Abyss is willing to look past the incident with the dredgebeasts, then we should let them.”
“Then the prince should marry her and be done with it. He speaks of me wasting his time, when he’s rejected the past five suitors, all of excellent character. How many is too many?” The council shifts uneasily at Lord Varik’s remark, looking to me for my response.
Seven suitors—beautiful and quiet, but power-hungry—and not one of them fit to be my queen.
As my silence stretches, Lady Myrrh pipes up. “The princess does seem an excellent match, and our prince deserves the best. But we don’t know what type of manners they’re cultivating down in the deep.”
“Stubborn, racist bloodfish. The lot of them,” grumbles Lord Almar.
“The prince must get to know her, make sure she’s the type of queen this kingdom needs. That’s what the courtship is for,” says Lady Myrrh. “If her character is less than worthy, time will tell.”
“And what time do we have to tell?” Lord Varik clenches his fist on the table.
“We’ve waited this long for a suitable match. What’s one more moon cycle? Our prince needs a proper courtship.”
By all means, my lady, tell me again what it is I need. I lean back in my chair, folding my arms over my chest. If Lady Myrrh is intent on speaking on my behalf, I’m no longer needed here. I should skip right to dinner.
While the council is distracted, I slip my finger under the hem of my shirt, leaning forward on the table to cover my movement. I graze my bare skin, fingering each scale along my abdomen, until—there. At the lower edge of my ribs, the sting flares from beneath a hardened scale. I lift the edge of the scale and press into the stinging flesh, right on the mark. The relief is instant and all-consuming. My eyelids briefly flutter closed.
“I’m inclined to agree with Lord Varik,” Lord Ruven says. “A courtship would be pageantry. Apologies for the bluntness, Your Majesty, but it must be stated—your son has no other choice. We have one heir, one chance, and no way of producing another.”
“Watch your tongue,” I spit, “lest you upset your precious heir.” My father is dead; I know I have no choice but to marry and inherit my ancestral throne. I do not need this reminder of my duty. My position has been made abundantly clear since my gills first fluttered. But that does not mean the council can walk all over my wishes. I have been clear in my expectations of my match; I will accept nothing less than perfection, by my own definition.
As the council murmurs apologies and honorariums for my dead father, I grit my teeth, gnawing on my response before it spits out in a near-growl. “I will not marry a female I do not know thoroughly. I’ve met her only once.”
This excites Lady Myrrh much more than I hoped. “So you have met her! Delightful. Tell me, did she have fangs? A barbed tail? Tentacles?”
“We’re putting a dark-dweller on our throne, letting her into our keep, and you’re worried about what she looks like?” Lord Varik sneers.
“Certainly. Abyssals can be terrifying creatures indeed. Imagine, the next princess running around with claws!”
Lord Ruven scowls. “Won’t marry a female he doesn’t know. Bah! The prince can get to know her after his wedding. He has denied his fair share of suitable matches. This one’s a royal magic-wielder, at least. I say, skip the courtship and send them down the aisle before he can back out of another match.”
I keep my gaze firmly on Lady Myrrh, ignoring Lord Ruven’s remark. “No tentacles that I could see, Lady Myrrh.” Just a wicked handmaid in the wings.
“The future of this kingdom depends on a reasonable partnership between our prince and his bride,” the queen cautions. “These things cannot be rushed. A standard courtship will be adequate.”
“Is she beautiful, Your Highness?” asks Lady Myrrh.
Lord Ruven sighs loudly, for once echoing my thoughts. “This is a waste of time.”
My mother speaks before I can unclench my jaw. “She’s as we hoped—the picture of grace and poise. Quiet and polite. She’s beautiful.”
“Lord Ruven is right,” says the queen. “We don’t have many options. This Abyssal Princess is the best choice we have. From the captain’s early reports, the princess is showing good character, and that is what should matter to this council.”
Lord Varik leans forward, his scowl deepening by the minute. “Did we not gather this information before the princess arrived? What of the informants?”
Lord Ruven narrows his eyes. “They were… lost to the Drink, I’m afraid.”
“And how many troops might Captain Nara spare to fetch them?” asks Lord Varik.
“For certain death by dredgebeast, my lord? She will not risk it again.”
Lady Myrrh chimes in, “Might be worth the risk, if they have crucial information. They should be able to handle a little fish in the dark. Perhaps they forgot which way was up. I hear it’s hard to tell down there.”
“Big fish. With teeth twice around the size of you, my lady. Or are you forgetting our history?” Lord Ruven’s eyes sparkle with mischief.
A cacophony of complaints rise like a tidal wave. Their voices crash over the room, loud and churning, growing in restlessness and spite. Until finally, Lord Almar rises from his chair. “There is another way.”
The entire meeting, the old priest has slouched in his chair as he followed the conversation. He twirls the gray curl of his mustache between two fingers. The scales on the back of my neck lift, an eerie feeling settling over my shoulders. He scans the room, meeting each frozen gaze before continuing.
“To ensure her character. An old way, one used many times by our ancestors before us,” he says. “We have the pendant.”
In the bowels of this palace, locked behind a door guarded with magic, Queen Amura’s pendant rests, untouched for centuries.
King Eero forged the pendant for his queen and laced it with dark magic at the dawn of the kingdom to ensure her safety. One only needs to speak in the pendant’s presence, and anyone less than benevolent toward its wearer succumbs to a gruesome penalty.
When hysteria swam rampant under the rule of my great-great grandfather, the pendant’s magic was abused, and the entire kingdom faced its judgment. Many merfolk who opposed the Mad King fell to the effects of its magic, until the population dwindled to all but nothing. It took my family three generations to rebuild what we lost, but we were never quite the same again.
“That’s barbaric,” Lady Myrrh protests.
“We locked that necklace up for a reason, or don’t you remember, Lord Almar?” Lord Ruven shakes his head, muttering, “What a mess.”
“Less barbaric than a princess with fangs, my lady?” Lord Varik pins her with a look, and she narrows her eyes. “Let’s get it over with, then. Send a guard to bring her in now!”
“A bloody, miserable mess,” Lord Ruven grumbles. “Are you going to clean it up, Lord Varik?”
Lord Varik frowns. “We’ll fetch the housekeeper.”
“And if we insult the dark-dwellers?” Lady Myrrh’s bottom lip quivers. “That pendant has a bad reputation with the other kingdoms. This council must consider the military repercussions if we wrongly accuse their princess. They’ll see it as a threat, a breach of trust. We would lose the match. We’d have a hoard of highly trained dredgebeasts at our gate.”
“Aye,” says Lord Ruven. “And lose access to their darksteel mines.”
A wry smile plays on my lips. “Not to mention I’d need another suitor.”
The council grows quiet as they absorb my comment. The queen shifts in her seat, folding her hands onto the table.
Lord Almar smiles, lopsidedly. “Mister Hugo took the liberty to fetch it for me this morning. Just in case.”
My attendant steps forward from the shadowy corners of the room, carrying a velvet pouch. He reaches into the bag, pulling out the golden chain of the necklace. From the chain swings the whitesteel shell, simple and seemingly harmless.
The council holds its breath, no one daring to speak in its presence while it touches Hugo’s skin. He places it on the table before me.
Wispy remnants of King Eero’s ancient magic shroud the surface of the shell, hissing softly as they swirl around the metal.
Lord Almar looks to me. “Your Highness, I encourage you to consider. For the good of the kingdom.”
“We need not make this decision in haste,” the queen cautions. “I am confident in the value of my selection. The princess is already here and settled. Why not give her the chance to prove her character first, as you said, Lady Myrrh.”
Murmurs of approval ripple around the table. My mother looks to me with expectation. “What do you think, Your Highness?”
Using the pendant would risk an attack from the Abyss, and my mother knows that. She will avoid it at all costs. I must choose now between my desire for a love match—a queen suitable not just for the throne but for me—and the good of my kingdom.
Like a fish between a rock and the net, I have only one way out: to accept my fate and see where I end up.
As I fold my arms across my chest, my thumb brushes the bottom of my rib. The stinging returns, dull and throbbing. I flex my hand, aching to reach for the spot, to dig once more under that scale and pluck the feeling out. Instead, I stare at the sweating map in the middle of the table, tracing the carvings with my gaze.
Whether I marry the princess now, as Lord Ruven wishes, or in one more cycle of the moon, it no longer matters, not with Amura’s pendant on the table. Accepting the princess is my sole, remaining option. Before my mind’s eye, my future narrows into a singular, straight current.
My heart squeezes tightly, its last thumping protest to the inevitable. Am I really giving up this easily?
“What do you think?” my mother prods.
I scoop the necklace into its protective velvet pouch and tuck it into my pocket. Then I grunt, pushing out of my chair. “I think it is time for dinner.”