Deep Blue (Waterfire Saga, #1)(4)

This was sobering news. Ondalina, the realm of the arctic mer, was an old enemy. It had waged war against Miromara—and lost—a century ago, and had simmered under the terms of the peace ever since.

“As you know, the Ondalinians broke the permutavi three months ago,” Isabella said. “Your uncle thinks Admiral Kolfinn did it because he wished to derail your betrothal to the Matalin crown prince and offer his daughter, Astrid, to the Matalis instead. An alliance with Matali is every bit as valuable to them as it is to us.”

Serafina was worried to hear of Ondalina’s scheming, and she was surprised—and flattered—that her mother was discussing it with her.

“Maybe we should postpone the Dokimí,” she said. “You could call a Council of the Six Waters instead, to caution Ondalina. Emperor Bilaal is already here. You’d only have to summon the president of Atlantica, the elder of Qin, and the queen of the Freshwaters.”

Isabella’s troubled expression changed to one of impatience, and Serafina knew she’d said the wrong thing.

“The Dokimí can’t be postponed. The stability of our realm depends upon it. The moon is full and the tides are high. All preparations have been made. A delay could play right into Kolfinn’s hands,” Isabella said.

Serafina, desperate to see approval in her mother’s eyes, tried again. “What if we sent another regiment to the western border?” she asked. “I listened to this conch last night…” She quickly sorted through the shells on her floor. “Here it is—Discourses on Defense. It says that a show of force alone can be enough to deter an enemy, and that—”

Isabella cut her off. “You can’t learn to rule a realm by listening to conchs!”

“But, Mom, a show of force worked with the Opafago in the Barrens. You said so yourself five minutes ago!”

“Yes, it did, but that was an entirely different situation. Cerulea was not under the threat of raids then, so Merrow could afford to move her guerrieri out of the city to the Barrens. As I hope you know by now, Sera, six regiments are currently garrisoned here in the capital. We’ve already sent four to the western border with Desiderio. If we send another, we leave ourselves with only one.”

“Yes, but—”

“What if the raiders who’ve been attacking our villages attack Cerulea instead and we have only one regiment of guerrieri left here to defend ourselves and the Matalis?”

“But we have your personal guard, too—the Jani?ari,” Serafina said, her voice—like her hopes of impressing her mother—growing fainter.

Isabella flapped a hand at her. “Another thousand soldiers at most. Not enough to mount an effective defense. Think, Serafina, think. Ruling is like playing chess. Danger comes from many directions, from a pawn as well as a queen. You must play the board, not the piece. You’re only hours away from being declared heiress to the Miromaran throne. You must learn to think!”

“I am thinking! Gods, Mom! Why are you always so hard on me?” Serafina shouted.

“Because your enemies will be a thousand times harder!” Isabella shouted back.

Another painful silence fell between mother and daughter. It was broken by a frantic pounding.

“Enter!” Isabella barked.

The doors to Serafina’s room swung open. A page, one of Vallerio’s, swam inside. He bowed to both mermaids, then addressed Isabella. “My lord Vallerio sent me to fetch you to your staterooms, Your Grace.”

“Why?”

“There are reports of a another raid.”

Isabella’s hands clenched into fists. “Tell your lord I’ll be there momentarily.”

The page bowed and left the room.

Serafina started toward her mother. “I’ll go with you,” she said.

Isabella shook her head. “Ready yourself for tonight,” she said tersely. “It must go well. We desperately need this alliance with Matali. Now more than ever.”

“Mom, please….”

But it was too late. Isabella had already swum out of Sera’s bedchamber.

She was gone.





Tears threatened as the doors closed behind Isabella, but Serafina held them back.

Nearly every conversation with her mother ended in an awkward silence or heated words. She was used to it. But still, it hurt.

A slender tentacle brushed Sera’s shoulder. Another curled around her neck. A third wound around her arm. Sylvestre, finely tuned to his mistress’s every mood, had turned blue with worry. She leaned her head against his.

“I’m so nervous about the Dokimí, Sylvestre,” she said. “My mother doesn’t want to hear about it, but maybe Neela will. I’ve got to talk to somebody. What if Alítheia tears my head off? What if I mess up my songspell? What if Mahdi doesn’t…”

Serafina couldn’t bear to voice that last thought. It scared her even more than the ordeal that lay ahead.

“Serafina! Child, where are you? Your hairdresser is here!”

It was Tavia, her nurse, calling from her antechamber. Sylvestre shot off at the sound of her voice. There was no more time to fret. Sera had to go. She was expected—by Tavia, by the canta magus, by her entire court.

“Coming!” she called back.

She started toward the doors, then halted. As soon as she opened them, she was no longer Serafina. She was Your Grace, or Your Majesty, or Most Serene Principessa. She was theirs.