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He’s exactly the kind of contender that would gain my mother’s favor. His pale skin is covered in battle scars and the red spiral tattoos of Sellan tribal royalty from his shaved head to his bulky calves. Despite the warmth of the crowded hall, he wears a cloak made from the heavy white fur of an arctic rimecat, complete with the enormous claws and fangs of the creature strung together to form a clasp at his throat. It’s an obvious boast, as Sellan tuath only wear the skins of animals they hunted themselves. He has not let go of his spear since he entered the room, and he keeps shaking the spear tip in my direction as if he expects me to be impressed. His face would be handsome except that his mouth is pulled into a sneer, and he looks down his chiseled nose at me—quite a feat for someone at least half a head shorter than me.
He also doesn’t know when to stop talking.
“... will forge a new destiny for the seas. I will sweep your enemies into the depths, and the waves shall roar my name. You will witness my power as a mate and as a prince of the ocean, and you will know that I alone can bring an end to your war and justice to—”
“You are welcome to take your place among the challengers, Chieftain Veltuk,” I say flatly, cutting him off. “May the Creator determine your fate, and mine.” I lift my chin and stand tall, conscious of the heavy crown of polished shells that sits atop my head.
Veltuk’s jaw goes slack. Then he huffs an angry growl before reluctantly retreating a few paces and taking his place in line beside the three other contenders I’ve met so far.
The crowd gathered around us murmurs at my abrupt dismissal. The faces of some cloud with disapproval, while others share muffled laughs at the chieftain’s expense. I take a deep breath and clutch the flowing folds of my crimson skirt, composing myself. Each of the hundreds of people in this room will have opinions about the contenders. I cannot possibly please all of them. My only priority tonight is to determine which contender will be the most effective ally. Chieftain Veltuk is not a promising option and humoring his arrogant speech would only have given him false encouragement.
Ignoring the onlookers’ reactions is hardly an easy task, however. Nearly all the Atathari have gathered to witness the official introductions of the contenders. My people have cast off their armor and practical garments in favor of finery I haven’t seen in years. Some are draped in gowns and tunics of gossamer silk, an echo of days when we traded with the elves and humans who dwell inland. Others wear loincloths and wrap dresses of bright blue and green cloth embroidered with our tribe’s characteristic wavelike patterns. All sport lengths of shark’s teeth or tiny, glass-like gouri shells around their necks and woven through their long hair. The emissaries from the visiting merroc tribes are just as splendidly attired.
Despite my worries over this night, my heart lifts at the sight of so many people gathered for an occasion other than battle. Before the war, we held feasts and dances here at every full moon, but those days are a hazy memory now. I’d even forgotten the splendor of the palace festival hall. It sits at the apex of the palace, rising high above the water’s surface in an ornately carved dome. The walls are set with dozens of tall windows paned with precious glass, which give a breathtaking view of the white-crested waves and star-filled sky outside. Water laps at the staircases that lead up to the room, but we stand on a dry floor inlaid with colorful stones. It’s a space designed for the dances that form the focal point of our gatherings—and for hosting guests who aren’t sea-dwellers.
To my surprise, a few such guests are present tonight. Representatives from the nearby land-dwelling tribes have come to observe the challenge, though none have chosen to vie for my hand. I catch sight of a pair of fire tuath on the outskirts of the crowd, with eyes that shine with vivid orange flames and obsidian-black hair bound in thick braids. A small group of forest tuath, with stately, stag-like antlers cresting their heads, stand in one corner and watch the proceedings with aloof curiosity. They’re clad in green and copper tunics embroidered with the leaflike emblems of the royal N’Amran family, who rule deep in the forest that borders our southern coast.
I long to rush over to greet them—if only I wasn’t embroiled in a formal ceremony at the moment. Our inland kin have kept their distance from the war, and it lightens my heart to see even a small number of them here tonight. Tuath have different physical traits and magical abilities depending on which of the four elements we’re mostly closely connected to, but our spirits are alike. We are all pieces of the living soul of our world, and we all share in its fate.
While my thoughts have wandered, my mother has come forward to speak to Chieftain Veltuk and extend her own welcome to him. She towers over him, her gray hair falling in unkempt locks around her bony shoulders and her massive, abalone-headed spear gripped in one hand. She wears a wrap dress of steel-colored cloth covered in heavy scarlet embroidery depicting stylized scenes of battle. Even here, in her land-dwelling form, she’s an image of the angry sea.
Veltuk stares up at her, his eyes wide with terror as if seeing a specter. In that moment, I almost pity the man despite my dislike of him. I know all too well the dread of being caught under the Seamother’s merciless gaze. Still, the scene reduces all his claims of courage to empty boasts.
If only the other contenders were more promising. I glance down the line of men who have been presented so far. They stand side by side, each trying to look more regal and imposing than the rest.
First, Irtos, the diminutive, red-haired chieftain from the neighboring Nicessi islands. He’s known to have a quick mind for strategy but the physical prowess of a minnow. I feel a stab of guilt as I look at his determined face. According to the gossip that swept through my warriors the other day, he’s only here because a power-hungry tribal elder goaded him into it and he needs to uphold his honor. He won’t last a day in this challenge.
Next to him stand Faltan and Lorfen, the sturdy twin sons of the chieftain of the Morda. They stand tall and regal, a striking image with their headdresses of gold-plated shells and the angular lines of metallic body paint that cross their bronze skin. When we were introduced, however, they spent more time glaring at each other than looking at me. The equatorial tribe is infamous for its intrigues and backstabbing, and the twins’ bitter rivalry has gone on for decades. I have a feeling that if I were to show favor to one of these brothers, the other would murder him.
Dread clenches me in its fist. None of these men are good choices for a strategic alliance. My gaze sweeps over them again and again. I take in every detail of their appearance and demeanors, looking for anything that would make one of them more desirable. I can’t picture any of them standing up to the Seamother at my side.
I certainly can’t imagine kissing any of those proud mouths.
I grimace at the thought and try to push it away. I need an ally. I can’t afford to care about kissing.
But isn’t it right that I should desire my mate in all ways?The thought whispers in the back of my mind, quiet but firm. At its question, the embers in my heart flare up.
Yes, it is right. But it’s too much to hope for.
Why do I keep hoping?
The flames within me flicker out, replaced with ash and ice. When I met my potential mates, I thought there might be some sense of hope, or at least attraction. Instead, I feel only a gaping void in my chest—and the memory of an elven song drifting through the ocean mist.
Keliveth.I push away his name, and his memory. Allowing my thoughts to linger on him will only make this night more painful.
At last my mother finishes her words to Veltuk. His shoulders sag in visible relief as she turns away from him and paces toward me.
Her icy green gaze rests on me, sending a chill over my skin. “There is one contender remaining,” she says, her voice an eerie calm that seems to hold a threat. “You should be wise in your words to this one. I favor him.”
She’s talking about Arcorlan.I press my lips together and give a curt nod, not trusting my words. Apparently satisfied, she circles behind me, where she stands like a menacing shadow.
I clench my fists as hot anger floods over me. I doubt she’ll let me out of her sight until this challenge is over. Finding a suitable ally without her interference will be next to impossible. But resolve wells up within me. I’m tired of being caught up in her way of seeing the world. Of being used.
“Arcorlan Fethani. Come forward.”
My spine stiffens as my mother calls out the name. The murmur of voices in the hall stops abruptly. A shiver runs through the air, carrying the prickle of magic. I brace myself as I look toward the room’s large, arching central doorway.
Waves leap up behind Arcorlan as he ascends the steps into the hall, cresting white and crashing down just short of the doorway. As he sets foot in the room, he casts off the water from his form, leaving his long hair and clothing dry. Then he strides forward in strong, determined steps as if this hall and this crowd belong to him. Gasps and whispers rise from the onlookers as he passes them. A few bow out of sheer instinct.
