Deep Blue (Waterfire Saga, #1)(5)
She hated the hot-spring atmosphere of her court. She hated the whispers, the glances, the toadying smiles. At court, she must dress just so. Always swim gracefully. Never raise her voice. Smile and nod and talk about the tides, when she’d much rather be riding Clio or exploring the ruins of the reggia, Merrow’s ancient palace. She hated the suffocating weight of expectation, the constant pressure to be perfect—and the pointed looks and barbed comments when she was not.
“Two minutes,” she whispered.
With a flick of her tail, she rushed to the opposite end of her bedroom. She pushed open a pair of glass doors and swam onto her balcony, startling two small sea robins resting on its rail. Beyond the balcony was the royal city.
Cerulea, broad and sprawling, had grown through the centuries from the first mer settlement into the center of mer culture that it was today. Ancient and magnificent, it had been built from blue quartz mined deep under the seabed. At this time of day, the sun’s rays penetrated the Devil’s Tail, a protective thorn thicket that floated above it, and struck the rooftops, making them sparkle.
The original palace had been built in the center of Cerulea. Its roof had collapsed several centuries ago and a new palace had been built high on a seamount—a baroque construction of coral, quartz, and mother-of-pearl—for the royal family and its court. The ruins of the reggia still lay preserved within the city, a reminder of the past.
Serafina’s eyes traveled over Cerulea’s winding streets to the spires of the Kolegio—with its black-robed professors and enormous Ostrokon, to the Golden Fathom—where tall town houses, fashionable restaurants, and expensive shops were located. And then farther still, out past the city walls to the Kolisseo, where the royal flag of Miromara—a branch of red coral against a white background, and that of Matali—a dragon rampant holding a silver-blue egg were flying. The Kolisseo was where, in just a few hours, Sera would undergo her Dokimí in front of the court, the Matali royals, the mer of Miromara…
…and Mahdi.
Two years had passed since she’d last seen him. She closed her eyes now and pictured his face: his dark eyes, his shy smile, his serious expression. When they were older, they would marry each other. Tonight, they would be betrothed. It was a ridiculous custom, but Serafina was glad he’d be the one. She could still hear the last words he’d spoken to her, right before he’d returned to Matali.
“My choice,” he’d whispered, taking her hand. “Mine. Not theirs.”
Serafina opened her eyes. Their green depths were clouded with worry. She’d had private conchs from him when he first returned home, carried by a trusted messenger. Every time one arrived, she would rush to her room and hold the shell to her ear, hungry for the sound of his voice. But after a year had passed, the private conchs had stopped coming and official ones arrived instead. In them, Mahdi’s voice sounded stilted and formal.
At about the same time, Serafina started to hear things about him. He’d become a party boy, some said. He stayed out shoaling until all hours. Swam with a fast crowd. Spent a fortune on mounts for caballabong, a game much like the goggs’ polo. She wasn’t sure she should believe the stories, but what if they were true? What if he’d changed?
“Serafina, you must come out now! Thalassa is due at any moment and you know she doesn’t like to be kept waiting!” Tavia shouted.
“Coming, Tavia!” Serafina called, swimming back into her bedroom.
Serafina….
“Great Goddess Neria, I said I’m coming!”
Daughter of Merrow, chosen one…
Serafina stopped dead. That wasn’t Tavia’s voice. It wasn’t coming from the other side of the doors.
It was right behind her.
“Who’s there?” she cried, whirling around.
The end begins, your time has come….
“Giovanna, is that you? Donatella?”
But no one answered her. Because no one was there.
A sudden, darting movement to her left caught her eye. She gasped, then laughed with relief. It was only her looking glass. A vitrina was walking around inside it.
Her mirror was tall and very old. Worms had eaten holes into its gilt frame and its glass was pocked with black spots. It had been salvaged from a terragogg shipwreck. Ghosts lived inside it—vitrina—souls of the beautiful, vain humans who’d spent too much time gazing into it. The mirror had captured them. Their bodies had withered and died, but their spirits lived on, trapped behind the glass forever.
A countess lived inside Serafina’s mirror, as did a handsome young duke, three courtesans, an actor, and an archbishop. They often spoke to her. It was the countess whom she’d just seen moving about.
Serafina rapped on the frame. The countess lifted her voluminous skirts and ran to her, stopping only inches from the glass. She wore a tall, elaborately styled white wig. Her face was powdered, her lips rouged. She looked frightened.
“Someone is in here with us, Principessa,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder. “Someone who doesn’t belong.”
They saw it at the same time—a figure in the distance, still and dark. Serafina had heard that mirrors were doorways in the water and that one could open them if one knew how. Only the most powerful mages could move through their liquid-silver world, though. Serafina didn’t know anyone who ever had. Not even Thalassa. As she and the countess watched, the figure started moving toward them.