Deep Blue (Waterfire Saga, #1)(12)

“Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know, Magistra!” Serafina said tearfully. “I think so. I thought so. But now I’m not sure. Not after what Lucia said.” She sat down next to her teacher.

“Oh, Serafina,” Thalassa said, putting an arm around her. “Have you told anyone how you feel? Your mother? Tavia? What do they say?”

Serafina shook her head. “I haven’t told them. I haven’t told anyone. I won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’ll get out somehow. The courtiers will find out and then it won’t be mine anymore. It’ll be theirs. You don’t understand, Magistra. My whole life is public. I can’t go anywhere alone. I can’t do anything by myself. Every movement, every word, every look is talked about and picked apart. I wanted this, this one thing, for myself alone.”

Thalassa took Serafina’s hand. “You’re wrong, you know. I do understand. I know something of a life lived in public. I am the canta magus, after all.”

Serafina looked at her questioningly.

“My talent was recognized when I was a small child,” Thalassa said. “A voice like mine, my teacher said, came along once in a millennia. I could fold water, throw light, and whirl wind by the time I was four. I was taken from my parents and given over to the Kolegio at six. By eight I was songcasting for your grandmother Artemesia and her court.”

“How did you cope with it all, Magistra?” Serafina asked.

Thalassa laughed. “Poorly. When I was little, I took joy in my music. I cast my songspells simply because I loved to do so. But as I grew older and started songcasting for the court, I began to listen to what others said. I heard their remarks—some spiteful and cruel—and I believed them. I let their voices get inside of me, into my heart.”

Thalassa released Serafina’s hand. She touched her fingers to her chest, to the place over her heart, then pulled them away, wincing as they drew fine skeins of blood. The crimson swirled through the water like smoke in the air, then coalesced into images. As it did, Serafina saw the bloodsong—the memories that lived in her teacher’s heart. She saw nobles from her grandmother’s court whispering to each other behind their hands.

She’ll never become a mage…Her voice isn’t strong enough…It’s too low…It’s too high…Her trills are muddy…She’s too fat…She’s too thin…She’s not pretty…

Thalassa waved the memories away. “I tried to please the voices. I started making music for them, not me, and my songspells suffered,” she said. “Luckily, I saw what the voices were doing to me and I vowed never to let them in again. I guarded my heart fiercely. I closed it off. I allowed no one inside, nothing but my music.”

“I’ll do the same,” Serafina said resolutely.

“No, child. I am telling you these things to convince you not to close your heart.”

“But you just said—”

“What I didn’t say, yet, is this: If you let no one into your heart, you keep out pain, yes, but also love. When I was sixteen, I wanted to be a canta magus. Music and magic were all that mattered to me. You, however, will become a ruler, and a ruler’s greatest power comes from her heart—from the love she bears her subjects, and the love they bear her.”

Serafina thought about Thalassa’s words. She’d longed to share her feelings for Mahdi with someone. She’d longed to open her heart, but she’d been too afraid. Impulsively, she touched her fingers to her chest now and drew a bloodsong. She gasped as she did, for she was much younger than Thalassa and her memories were sharper. It hurt to pull them.

“I’m touched by your trust, child,” Thalassa said. “Are you certain you wish to show this to me?”

Serafina nodded and Thalassa watched as the blood swirled through the water, taking on shape and color, making memory visible. Serafina watched too. It had happened two years ago, but for her it felt like yesterday. It had happened before the raids and disappearances. Before the tensions with Ondalina. Before the waters had grown so treacherous.

It had happened in the ruins of Merrow’s ancient palace.





SERAFINA WAS HIDING.

From her mother, ministers, minions, and Mahdi.

She had stolen away. It drove everyone wild with worry, but she needed a few minutes a day, every day, to be free from the eyes and ears of the court. And she especially needed it today. The match had been decided. The announcement had been made. Serafina had met her future husband—and she didn’t want any part of him.

Mahdi had arrived in Miromara a week earlier, with his parents, the emperor and empress; his cousins, Neela and Yazeed; and their royal entourage, to meet his future wife as custom demanded. He was sixteen—serious, smart, and shy. He didn’t ride. He didn’t fence. He preferred the company of Desiderio—Serafina’s brother, a merboy his own age—and Yazeed to anyone else’s. He barely spoke to Serafina, who was two years younger. He was courteous to her, as he was to everyone, but that was all.

“He’s a goby. I’d rather marry Palomon,” she told Tavia, referring to her mother’s bad-tempered hippokamp.

Their first real conversation came about only by accident. Serafina had been sitting in the gardens of the South Court, listening to a conch shell, when Mahdi and his chaperone, Ambassador Akmal, happened to swim by. They didn’t see her. She’d hidden herself on a coral shelf above them, behind a giant sea fan.