26. Panic | Lyra
The throne room was a sea of white, like ocean foam bubbling on the surface of a crested wave.
A choir of mermaids sang songs of worship. Their lilting voices cast nets of magic that ensnared all who gathered.
Lyra fidgeted with the high collar of her thick gown. It pressed into her throat, no doubt made that way to make speaking difficult.
“Shouldn’t it have started by now?” she grumbled out of the side of her mouth to Drystan, who floated languidly at her side.
He had arrived in her room bright and early this morning to escort her to the ceremony. They hadn’t spoken at all, and she was fine with that.
Drystan’s white robes were so thick they hardly moved in the current as he moved his hands from in front of him to clasp behind him.
“He likes to make an entrance,” he muttered as the singing swelled.
The dappled sunlight filtering in through the water seemed to turn golden as the sun rose higher in the sky.
Lyra sighed. It was probably a beautiful day on the surface.
The memory of fresh air and gentle breezes tickled her mind, and she could feel the ghost of both against her skin as she closed her eyes and tipped her head to the sky.
“See,” Drystan said.
Lyra’s eyes blinked open just in time to see Aegir arrive through two pillars of glittering granite, his arms stretched wide in welcome.
Gasps swelled and clapping erupted. It made her stomach turn to see such reverence for such a despicable man.
“You’ll forgive me for the delay,” Aegir crooned to the congregation as he placed a hand upon his chest. “The latest earthquake displaced many, and I was personally seeing to their new accommodations.”
Lyra hadn’t heard that there had been another earthquake—hadn’t felt one either. She slid her attention to Drystan just in time to see him mastering the surprise on his face.
How strange, something disastrous had happened under his assumed rule, and yet he was caught unaware.
Lyra searched for Nerida in the crowd, but couldn’t find her. She did, however, spy her sister, Thalassa, next to Rigel.
The prince and princess of Pavlopetri appeared somber. Thalassa’s golden hair was pulled back so severely it appeared brown and dull from the amount of jelly she must have used to keep her wild curls in place.
While Aegir droned on about the anger of Ennosidas, Rigel shared a look with Thalassa, his lips tugged down in a frown as he patted his wife’s hand. The earthquake must have impacted their territory.
“Was it Pavlopetri?” Lyra whispered to Drystan.
Lyra watched as his nostrils flared, but he did not respond.
Aegir’s voice rose until it was thundering around the room.
“It is the sin of the wicked that see us cursed! The wicked that flaunt their perversion and have no honor for our ways,” his voice was a slither, a snake through tall grass. “If you see something—say something! Alert the guards, alert my acolytes. Help us, and Ennosidas will be merciful!”
A snort slipped out of Lyra, and Drystan threw her a vicious glare.
Aegir turned slowly, looking over a broad shoulder at her.
“Something to add, Princess?”
His brow arched so high it was nearly lost in his hairline, the thick black broken up by a slice of pure silver. It didn’t move at all with his change of expression.
The stares of disgust were a weight settling on her chest. It made her skin crawl.
This is why she had always stayed silent in this room, had donned a mask of utter boredom to keep onlookers at bay. She slid that mask on now, relaxing her jaw and the tight lines around her eyes.
“No, Tidal Master.”
He waved a single finger beside his head, a cruel smile beginning to distort his sharp features.
“Your presence reminds me …” he turned, so that he was facing the congregation once more. “Our princess has spent too much time on land—with our enemy. A daughter of salt and sea walking among dwellers of dirt and air.”
Aegir’s upper lip pulled back with the last of his words. He paused dramatically, allowing the crowd to display its disgust at the mention of land.
Drystan shifted, his arm grazing against Lyra’s, only doubling the heightened sensations she was succumbing to.
The crowd was too loud, the water too cold, and the eyes on her too heavy. It all felt too much, too overwhelming.
A dull throbbing pulsed behind her eyes as she narrowed them on Aegir’s back.
“That has angered Ennosidas,” Aegir said at last.
The room was uncomfortably still, like the pause before a storm breaks.
“That is quite an accusation, Aegir,” Drystan said, loud enough for the entire room to hear him. “Lest we forget she was forced on land to preserve our most sacred traditions.”
Aegir clicked his tongue. “A tradition that ends at first light.”
There were several solemn nods in the crowd, mainly those of fathers who had sent their daughters for the Tidal Tithe.
“Yes, well,” Drystan drawled. “She’s been reunited with the sea.” He reached for Lyra’s hand, and despite the revolt that raged in her blood, she took his hand. He had come to her defense after all; it would be a terrible decision to spurn him now. “With me.”
Aegir rolled his shoulders, a slight flicker of annoyance in his steely eyes.
The moment was slipping away from him. It was obvious he hadn’t expected anyone to defend her, least of all the king.
He turned back to the crowd, and Lyra let out a small sigh of relief.
But it was not the reprieve she expected it to be.
Aegir swam from side to side across the dais.
The crowd followed him with their eyes. He put on quite a show, stroking his jaw and looking unsettled.
“I’ve been thinking long and hard about a way to heal our kingdom.
To navigate us out of the path of so many disasters.
But I fear that I have failed this congregation,” he said, with polished lament.
There were shouts of denial, and Aegir bowed his head.
“It is not enough that we observe the tides and punish the wicked—if we are being led by one.”
The words rippled around them. Was he truly condemning them and twisting it as concern? They were natural disasters, not a punishment.
“Our kingdom awaits the accession of an unwed prince and a mermaid who lived with elves.” He drew the words out like he was drawing a bow and knocking an arrow.
Drystan ground his teeth. It was uncommonly loud, as if he had taken a fistful of shells and crunched down on them.
Aegir continued, blissfully unaware of the wrath he was incurring behind him.
“Our king is still not crowned, and such delinquency could lead to the destabilization of our very kingdom.”
The attention of those gathered shifted from Aegir to Drystan. Varied expressions on the faces of nobility ranged from confusion to anger.
It appeared that not all knew that Drystan hadn’t been crowned yet, not until he took her hand in marriage.
How extraordinarily bold of the Tidal Master to throw a gauntlet of challenge so unhindered by the thought of its consequences.
Drystan’s face was eerily calm and still before it cracked into his rendition of the happiest of smiles.
“If that is the solution you found for us to be free of Ennosidas wrath, then I am very pleased I can put our people at ease,” Drystan announced, his hand still gripping Lyra’s as he propelled them forward, closer to the edge of the dais. “Our wedding …”
Lyra’s knuckles turned white against his as she squeezed his hand in warning.
Don’t.
Drystan’s eyes flashed with warning as he shifted his grin-turned-grimace on her.
“Has a date at last!”
The crowd erupted with cheers and whistles of congratulation. Lyra’s left eye twitched with irritation as she scowled at him.
“Master your face,” he hissed, raising their conjoined hands above their heads. “Or he will win.”
Lyra slid her attention over to a carefully quiet Aegir who wasn’t close enough to hear the exchange, but studied them with the same kind of ferocity that a sobek displayed during an attack.
She hated Drystan, but her loathing of Aegir was quickly becoming its equal.
It was hard to breathe, being between two males she would like to see dead and in front of a kingdom whose favor changed quicker than the tides.
Instinctively, she reached inward toward her magic, just to ensure that it was still there, still viable.
The throbbing behind her eyes intensified.
The dim light in the room became brighter, painfully so. Sounds were sharper, grating on every fiber of her being.
The light tunneled, and she felt a heaviness pulling down on her arms and tail.
“Drystan,” she hissed, hoping he could hear her over the excitement. “Help.”
Her body swayed, her tail brushing against his, drawing his attention to her.
His eyes widened before he cleared his throat.
“Tidal Master,” Drystan said calmly. “I’m afraid the sacred energy has overcome my bride. Please commence the ceremony in our absence.”
He didn’t wait for Aegir’s response before he whisked her away, ordering Fang and Angler to follow them.
He tugged her off the dais and through the back of the throne room, avoiding cutting through the crowd as he propelled them through two colossal columns.
“What is happening?” he asked sharply, his grip on her arm intensifying.
“I can’t see,” her voice was shrill and unsteady. “I can’t see.”
Utter darkness had swallowed her vision until not a speck of light could be seen.
Lyra waved a hand mere inches in front of her face, but could not see a thing.
The throbbing behind her eyes was now sharp, like a blade slowly piercing her brain.
She panted, her shoulders rising and falling as the terror built.
“Quiet,” he hissed. He jerked her to a halt, and she heard a low whistle. “Alert the council of an emergency meeting—now.”
“What is happening?” Lyra’s panic trembled in her speech.
The sound of heavy iron doors creaked on ancient hinges.
“I’ve called the council,” was his curt reply.
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid of this.”