Deep Blue (Waterfire Saga, #1)(22)

“Who are they calling?” Yazeed asked. “What’s in the hole?”

Neela had studied up on the Dokimí ceremony. She leaned in close to him to tell him what she’d learned. “When Merrow was old and close to death,” she explained, “she wanted to make sure only her descendants ruled Miromara. So she asked the goddess of the sea, Neria, and Bellogrim, the god of fire, to forge a creature of bronze.”

“Duh, Neels. I know that much. I’m not dumb.”

“That’s highly debatable,” Neela said. “When the Feuerkumpel were smelting the ore for the creature, Neria brought the dying Merrow to their blast furnace. As soon as the molten metal was ready, she slashed Merrow’s palm and held it over the vat so the creature would have the blood of Merrow in her veins and know it from imposters’ blood. Neria waited until the bronze was cast and had cooled, and then she herself breathed life into Alítheia.”

“Wow,” Yazeed said.

“Yeah,” Neela said. She looked at Mahdi. All the color had drained from his face. He seemed positively ill.

Yazeed noticed too. He leaned forward. “Mahdi, you squid! I told you to lay off the sand worms last night. They were way too spicy. Are you going to hurl? Want my turban?”

“I’m cool,” Mahdi said.

But he didn’t look cool. Not at all, Neela thought. His eyes were rooted on Sera. His hand was on the scimitar at his side. He was tense, as if he was ready to spring out of his seat at any second.

A roar—high, thin, and metallic—suddenly shook the amphitheater. It sounded like a ship’s hull being torn apart on jagged rocks. An articulated leg, dagger-sharp at its tip, arched up out of the hole and pounded down against the stones. It was followed by another, and another. A head appeared. The creature hissed, baring curved, foot-long fangs. A gasp—part awe, part horror—rose from the crowd as it crawled all the way out of the hole.

“No. Possible. Way,” Yazeed said. “M, are you seeing this? Because if you’re not, then I’m, like, completely insane.”

“Sera, no,” Mahdi said.

Yazeed shook his head. “I can’t believe that thing’s Ala…Alo…”

“A-LEE-thee-a,” Neela said. “Greek for—”

“Big, ugly, scary-wrasse monster sea spider,” Yaz said.

“—truth,” Neela said.

The creature reared, clawing at the water with her front legs. A drop of amber venom fell from her fangs. Eight black eyes looked around the amphitheater—and came to rest upon her prey.

“Imposssster,” she hissed.

At Serafina.





QUIA MERROW DECRIVIT.

But how? Serafina wondered desperately. How could she have done this? How could she have forced all those who came after her to endure this?

Looking up at the massive creature, its bronze body blackened by time, Serafina was certain she would collapse from terror.

“You fear me! As you ssssshould. I will have your blood, imposssster. I will have your bonessss….”

Alítheia scuttled toward her, her body low to the ground, her horrible black eyes glittering.

Serafina stifled a cry. In her head, she heard Tavia’s voice, telling her the story of a treacherous contessa who’d lived hundreds of years ago. The contessa had stolen the real principessa when she was newly born, and put her own infant daughter—enchanted to look like the principessa—in her place. The young mermaid herself, the regina, and everyone else in Miromara believed she was the true principessa—everyone but Alítheia. She’d sunk her fangs into the mermaid’s neck and dragged the poor imposter into her den. Her body was never recovered.

“We never know who we are, child, until we’re tested,” Tavia had said.

What if I’m not who I think I am? Serafina asked herself. She imagined Alítheia’s fangs sinking into her own neck, and being dragged off, half alive, to the creature’s den.

The spider skittered over the stones. She was only yards away now.

“No heiresssss are you….Usssssurper are you….Death to all pretendersssss….”

She circled, coming closer and closer, then lowered her head until her terrible fangs were only inches from Serafina’s face. Another drop of venom fell on the stones.

“Who are you, imposssster?”

Serafina felt her courage falter. She backed away from the creature, turning her eyes from its awful face. As she did, her gaze fell upon the mer seated in the amphitheater—thousands and thousands of them. She was their principessa, her mother’s only daughter. If she failed them, if she swam away like a coward, who would lead them when her mother’s time was done? Who would protect them as fiercely as Isabella had?

And suddenly she knew the answer to the creature’s question. And the knowledge filled her with new courage and with strength. Bravely, Serafina faced the spider. “I am theirs, Alítheia,” she said. “I am my people’s. That’s who I am.”

She raised the scimitar the Mehteraba?i had given her and drew its blade across her palm. It bit into her flesh. Blood plumed from the wound. She raised her bleeding hand, palm up. The spider advanced.

“I am Serafina, daughter of Isabella, a princess of the blood. Declare me so.”

Alítheia hissed. She pressed her bristly palps against the wound and tasted Serafina’s blood. And then she reared up, screaming in rage. She spun away from Serafina and slammed her legs down, cracking the stones beneath her. “No flesshhhh for Alítheia! No bonesss for Alítheia!” she howled.