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That was exactly what my mother had said when I requested a small and inconspicuous ceremony. The ancient customs demand the ceremony take place at the palace with as many people gathered as possible, and she won’t tempt disaster by breaking that custom.
“Her traditions might bring us all to ruin,” I mutter. My mother clings to the customs of the Atathari tribe as if they’re sacred and infallible. While I don’t share in her fanaticism, I have no desire to provoke her wrath in these matters—at least not tonight, when so much is already at stake.
I glance through the gates into the vast foyer beyond. It’s even more crowded. I scowl. I have no desire to be waylaid by conversation right now, and I doubt my battle-sister does either. I turn and propel myself upward instead, pulling her along with me. We skirt along the flat roofs of some of the palace’s outlying chambers.
The healers take residence in one of the quieter southern wings, close to my own quarters and those of my battle-sisters—the elite cohort of female warriors under my command. A cluster of women awaits us by the arched doorway of the infirmary. Most of them are already dressed for the festival, wearing wrap bodices of brightly colored silk and ropes of pearls and shell beads around their necks and arms. Most of them also sport bandaged wounds, and their faces are lined with exhaustion. Few of us escaped unscathed from the battle.
One of my younger warriors, Cirali, swims out to meet us as we approach. Her auburn hair is woven into elaborate braids and adorned with black pearl ornaments that match the scales of her tail.
“You’re all right!” Her relieved voice carries through the water as she darts up beside us. She gives Lirana a careful embrace, then turns to me. “Evya, the Seamother came looking for you, and she wasn’t pleased to find you missing. She brought garments for you to wear tonight.”
“Of course.” It’s all the reply I can muster. I was hoping to at least choose my own clothing tonight, but naturally my mother wants to dictate every detail of this challenge. I tamp down my resentment and focus on getting Lirana the rest of the way to the healers’ chambers.
As I start toward the infirmary door, Cirali grabs my arm, pulling me to a halt. She circles around and supports Lirana from the other side. “I’ll take her to the healers so you can prepare for tonight, Evya.”
I start to protest, when Lirana meets my gaze. The look in her brown eyes is piercing, as if she knows just how badly I want to avoid the impending ceremony and is reminding me of my duty.
I let out a quiet sigh. They’re right, of course. Our battle-sisters will see that Lirana is well tended, and there’s no need for me to stay with them. I should rest, and then make myself as presentable as possible.
I nod, even as resignation spreads its shroud over me. “Very well.”
They swim away without another word. I linger just long enough to see Cirali guide Lirana inside, where healers and warriors are gathered to meet her. Then I turn a flip in the water and head up toward my tower.
I can’t avoid my fate any longer. It’s time to face the men who will fight for my hand, and to learn exactly what sort of monster my mother intends me to wed.
Chapter 2
Evya
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The smooth stone wallsof my tower rise a short distance beyond the infirmary. My tower is far less grand than the palace’s central structure, but it stands almost as tall, cresting in a slender turret that stands thirty feet above the surface of the water. I claimed the upper floors of the tower as my own quarters when I came of age over two centuries ago. Even now, when most of my people have fled to deeper waters to escape the dangers of war, I choose to dwell here. On nights when the moon is bright and the sea is calm, I can still look out from my windows across the vast horizon and feel a semblance of freedom and peace.
Sometimes I can even hear the dream-singer from here. I don’t know how his songs carry so far over the waves—probably the work of elven magic. However he does it, his songs have brought me comfort and lulled me to sleep on nights that held no other comfort for me.
Yet tonight the water still reverberates with hurt and fury. Without the presence of my friends to distract me, the ocean’s mournful voice fills my mind and prods my wounded spirit. I’m not sure whether the resonating anger is from the sea, for being so defiled with the blood of warriors and the noxious flames of elven explosives, or if it emanates from the Seamother herself. There is less and less of a distinction these days. My mother rules the waves with unyielding command, fueling them with her anger over everything she and our people have suffered. The ocean can’t help but reflect her mind and soul. Their combined fury is justified, but it also grates on me, calling to mind a constant stream of memories of bloodshed that I would rather forget. My head throbs as scenes of today’s battle flash through my mind unbidden.
