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“I thought you were jesting, but this tastes delicious.”
She looks pleased. “Perhaps you do have a chance at surviving among the Atathari.”
“Does the mate challenge involve fish?”
“It might, if I planned it.” Her cheerful expression vanishes in an instant, replaced by the lines of care I saw last night. “Unfortunately, my mother is the one who sets the terms of the challenge, and she will not be so kind.”
My next bite turns to ash in my mouth, but I force myself to keep eating. “Howdoesthe challenge work? I’ve heard of such a custom among other tuath tribes, but most speak of it as a mere formality. That doesn’t seem true of yours.”
“It would be, if I were not the Seamother’s daughter and heir. Usually, the challenge is a small task a woman gives to her chosen mate—a chance for him to display his skill and prowess in the presence of the tribe. But for me ...” She picks up another fish and begins to flay it, moving her knife with more force than necessary. “A leader needs a strong mate, and the only form of strength my mother respects is brutality in battle.”
I swallow. Foreboding creeps over me, but I shove it aside, calling on the calm, calculating part of my mind that has been honed for war and strategy. I need to understand this custom so I can devise a plan to win it.
“What sort of battle? Will I be fighting her?” It’s not a pleasant thought, but I am no stranger to single combat. I can take one opponent, even one as formidable as the Seamother.
“You’ll be fighting the other contenders. The Seamother will give you a single task to complete, and all of you will attempt it at once. The contenders are not permitted to harm each other before the challenge, but once it begins there are no restrictions on what they can do. Any weapon and any magic is allowed, and bloodshed is encouraged. The task itself is likely to be simple, but the challenge will ultimately be a test of survival.”
“... I see.” I grimace. It will be difficult to devise a strategy for a deadly, magical free-for-all. “Who are these other contenders?”
“There are five, from the most powerful merroc tribes in the seas.” Evya sets down the remains of her fish and starts ticking off on her fingers. “The chieftain of Nicessi will not be a threat to you. He has no skill as a fighter. Faltan and Lorfen are twins and bitter rivals. The easiest way to deal with them is to pit them against each other.”
She leans forward, her expression earnest. “Your true threats are Veltuk Sellan’aru and Arcorlan Fethani. Both are known as formidable warriors. Veltuk is arrogant, and I suspect he will do anything to win. Arcorlan is my mother’s favorite, and she will likely take measures to ensure his victory.”
“That narrows it down, at least. Do you know of their particular strengths and weaknesses in combat?”
“No. I haven’t had a chance to spar with either of them yet.”
I nod. “All right, then. Over the next few days, I’ll watch them carefully and learn as much as I can about them. Are there any prohibitions against sparring with other contenders?”
“None, as long as you don’t do each other any real harm.”
“Good.” I blow out a long breath. “Your mother spoke of other customs surrounding the challenge. What else do I need to know?”
“I’ll explain while I work on your runes,” she says. “All of this talk will mean nothing unless you are able to survive in the ocean.”
The tattoos. I’d almost forgotten. I flash Evya what I hope is a confident smile, even as a knot forms in my stomach. Once she sets those runes on my skin and the magic becomes a permanent part of me, there will truly be no going back to the life I knew before Evya.
It wasn’t much of a life. All those lonely years I spent wandering through war-ravaged lands, so often spurned because of my family’s legacy ... Perhaps I should be glad to leave it behind.
At least that’s what I tell myself as I watch Evya prepare to work the magic.
She pulls a flask of water from her rucksack and rinses her hands, then passes it to me so I can do the same. While I clean up the remains of our meal, she unpacks a few more items from her bag: a watertight clay pot filled with thick, blue-black ink and a long needle that looks to be carved from bone.
She settles on the sand in front of me, brow furrowed and lips pursed in thought. She takes my left hand and places it flat on the ground, palm down and fingers outspread. Warmth runs through me as she leans close and lightly traces patterns over the back of my hand and up my wrist, envisioning where she will set the marks.
At last, she picks up the needle and coats the sharp end with ink. I lean forward and watch her with curiosity, and my hand shifts in the sand.
“Hold still,” she orders, pressing my fingers flat again.
Then she shoves the needle hard into my skin.
