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The sound of feet splashing through water comes from nearby. My head jerks up and I bare my fangs out of instinct.
There is no need. Arcorlan emerges from the water a dozen paces away, dragging the waterlogged Nicessi chieftain behind him. The look he gives us is one of satisfaction—almost of triumph. There’s no sign of Veltuk or any of the other contenders. I let out a shaky breath, relief mingling with anger that any of them had to die. Later, I’ll find out what happened in the maelstrom. For now, I need to attend to my mate.
“Can you shift back to a land-walking form?” I ask him quietly.
His brow furrows. “I’m not quite sure how I shifted in the first place, but I’ll try.”
His gaze goes distant, his features tense with concentration. I feel a soft tug on my magic, then breathe out a quiet sigh of relief as Keliveth’s scales and fins begin to vanish. A moment later he’s struggling to his feet. I rise beside him.
We linger for a moment, arms wrapped around each other. Keliveth looks too exhausted to even stand, much less walk. Ugly bruises stain his arms and ribs. His blade wounds, which had been little more than scars this morning, are seeping fresh blood. But his expression is fierce as he holds the rune-lantern up for everyone watching to see.
A hush falls over the tribes as they peer down at us from the top of the cliff. Then, a lone voice breaks out in a triumphal chant, joined by another and another until thousands of voices ring out as one. I bury my face in Keliveth’s shoulder, weeping from relief and joy as the song echoes from the cliffs.
My people may be skeptical, but there are a few things they take as destiny. Keliveth has faced the sea, and the sea has deemed him worthy to be my mate. No one among the tuath can rightfully dispute that now.
Not even the Seamother.
At last, I straighten and give a shaky laugh. Keliveth gives a weary smile in return, but it dims as he runs his fingers over my brow. His hand comes away crimson with blood, and I realize I’m bleeding where the waves had slammed me down against the stone. I lift my hand and cringe as I feel the edge of the gash on my forehead, then catch sight of more blood on my arms and knees.
“She tried to kill you, too?” he asks. There’s no need to ask him to clarify. I can only imagine what he must have gone through beneath those waves.
I nod. Even that motion sends a spike of pain through my skull.
Keliveth clenches his jaw and starts toward the steep slope to where the tribes wait. “Let us finish this. Now.”
We don’t climb the slope alone. As we start to struggle up the slick stones, Lirana and a few others of my warriors rush forward and steady us until we reach level ground. The people gather close around us, parting just enough to give us a path as we walk toward the Seamother’s vantage point.
There is no doubt in their faces now, and no enmity toward each other. Some whisper blessings as we pass. White maraseya petals shower to the ground before our feet, tossed by unseen hands in the crowd. They fill the air with perfume as we trod over them. Our journey is a blissful blur. Only my throbbing head reminds me this isn’t a dream.
My greatest hope is playing out before me. The man I love walks beside me with the promise of our future in his hands.
Finally, we break through the other side of the crowd. The Seamother stands still as a statue at the very edge of the cliff, on a place where the rock juts out a short distance and leaves a drop on three sides of her. Below her, the water is growing restless again, all traces of my song vanishing in the renewed onslaught of my mother’s power.
Her face is deathly gray as she watches us approach. She grips her spear as if to shatter it in her hand. Her gaze flits desperately from me to Keliveth to the crowd that follows behind us.
Keliveth stands tall, his chin raised and his eyes flashing like a proud hero out of an old tale. The elegant circlet still adorns his brow, but the rest of his appearance is as wild and strong as the ocean, from the dripping tangles of his hair to the stern set of his shoulders. He holds out the rune-lantern to her in both hands. “You wanted the sea to choose? It has.”
A murmur of agreement rises from the tribes. They gather close around us, and their presence is solemn and steady. Every person among them is ready to hold the Seamother to her word.
The Seamother stares at the glowing orb, seeming dazed. Keliveth stands still, holding it inches from her, but she doesn’t move to take it. I press close beside him as my mother’s piercing gaze suddenly lights on me again.
“He won by the use of elven magic. His victory is void. The—”
Her words are cut off by an outcry from the people behind us. Arcorlan’s deep voice resounds above the rest. “No form of magic is forbidden in the challenge, Seamother, according to all our traditions. The challenge has been won. Let it never be said of us that we contest the workings of destiny.”
The Seamother glares at Arcorlan like his words are a personal betrayal. He shrugs. I give the Fethani warrior a grateful look. He stands a short distance behind us, gripping his sturdy spear in one hand. His other arm is around Lirana, who embraces him with a look of fierce possessiveness on her face. The sight is joy added to joy.
The Seamother moves forward. Her hand hovers above the rune-lantern as though trying to convince herself to take it from Keliveth. Dark emotions flicker over her wraithlike features, and a tremor runs through her outstretched fingers.
“Take it, Mother,” I urge quietly. “Take it and have the courage to lay aside your fear.”
She looks to me, and the despair in her gaze chills me. “Everything I do, I do for our people,” she says in a whisper like dying wind. “Someday you will understand.”
Her fingers close around the orb—and then I see the flash of metal in her other hand. There’s no time to think, no time for Keliveth or me to reach for our own weapons and counter the strike.
I can only throw myself in front of my mate as the Seamother thrusts the knife toward his heart.
A jolt runs through me, and the world seems to stop. The Seamother’s eyes go wide with horror. I look down to where her gnarled hand still grasps the knife hilt.
