Deep Blue (Waterfire Saga, #1)(24)
She showed how the merfolk of Miromara spread out into all the waters of the world, salt and fresh. Some—longing for the places they’d left when still human to journey to Atlantis—returned to the shores of their native lands and founded new realms: Atlantica; Qin in the Pacific Ocean; the rivers, lakes, and ponds of the Freshwaters; Ondalina in the Arctic waters; and the Indian Ocean empire of Matali.
Then Serafina pulled rays of sun through the water, rolled them into a sphere, and tossed it onto the seafloor. When the sunsphere landed, it exploded upward into a golden blaze of light. As the glittering pieces of light descended, she depicted Matali, and told its history, showing it from its beginnings as a small outpost off the Seychelle Islands to an empire that encompassed the Indian Ocean, the Arabian Sea, and the Bay of Bengal.
She sang of the friendship between Miromara and Matali and conjured dazzling images of the emperor and empress, praising them for their just and enlightened rule. Then, though it pained her deeply, she showed herself and Mahdi, floating together in ceremonial robes, as they would be shortly to exchange their betrothal vows, and expressed her hope that they would rule both realms as wisely as their parents had, putting the happiness and well-being of their people above all else.
The images faded and fell, like the embers of fireworks in a night sky. Serafina remained still as they did, her chest rising and falling, and then she finished her songspell as she had begun it—with no images, no effects, just her voice asking the gods to ensure that the friendship between the two waters endured forever. Finally, she bent her head, as a sign of respect to all assembled, to the memory of Merrow, and to the sea itself—the endless, eternal deep blue.
It was so quiet as Serafina bowed that one could’ve heard a barnacle cough.
Too quiet, she thought, her heart sinking. Oh, no. They hated it!
She lifted her head, and as she did, a great, roiling sound rose. A joyous noise. Her people were cheering her, even more loudly than they had after the blooding. They’d abandoned all decorum and were tossing up their hats and helmets. Serafina looked for her mother. Isabella was applauding too. She was smiling. Her eyes were shining. There was no disappointment on her face, only pride.
She remembered her mother’s words to her uncle in the presence chamber. Serafina won’t let Miromara down….
As the mer continued to cheer for her, Serafina’s heart felt so full she thought it would burst. She felt as if she could float along, buoyed up by the love of her people, forever.
She would remember that moment for a long time, that golden, shining, moment. The moment before everything changed.
Before the arrow, sleek and black, came hurtling through the water and lodged in her mother’s chest.
SERAFINA WAS FROZEN IN PLACE.
Her mother’s chest was heaving; the arrow was moving with every breath she took. It had shattered her breastplate and pierced her left side. Isabella touched her fingers to the wound. They came away crimson. The sight of blood—on her mother’s hand, dripping down her skirt—broke Serafina’s trance.
“Mom!” she screamed, lurching toward her, but it was too late. Jani?ari had already encircled her. They were shielding Serafina from harm, but also preventing her from getting to her mother. “Let me go!” she cried, trying to fight her way through them.
She heard the shouts of merpeople, felt bodies thrashing in the water. The spectators were in a frenzy of fear—swimming into one another, pushing and shoving. Children, separated from their parents, were screaming in terror. A little girl was knocked down. A boy was battered by a lashing tail.
Unable to break through the Jani?ari, Serafina pressed her face between two of them and glimpsed her mother. Isabella was still staring down at the arrow in her side. The Jani?ari were trying to surround her as they had Serafina, but she angrily ordered them to leave her and go to the Matalis. With a swift, merciless motion, she pulled the arrow out of her body and threw it down. Blood pulsed from her wound, but there was no fear on her face—only a terrible fury.
“Coward!” she shouted, her fierce voice rising above the cries of the crowd. “Show yourself!”
She swam above the royal enclosure, whirling in a circle, her eyes searching the Kolisseo for the sniper. “Come out, bottom-feeder! Finish your work! Here is my heart!” she cried, pounding her chest.
Serafina was frantic, expecting another arrow to come for her mother at any second.
“I am Isabella, ruler of Miromara! And I will never be frightened by sea scum who strike from the shadows!”
“Isabella, take cover!” someone shouted. Serafina knew that voice; it was her father’s. She spotted him. He was looking straight up. “No!” he shouted.
He shot out of the royal enclosure, a coppery blur. A split second later, he was swimming up over the amphitheater—between his wife and the merman in black above her who was holding a loaded crossbow.
The assassin, barely visible in the darker waters, fired. The arrow buried itself in Bastiaan’s chest. He was dead by the time his body hit the seafloor.
Serafina felt as if someone had just reached inside her and tore out her heart. “Dad!” she screamed. She clawed at the Jani?ari, trying to get to her father, but they held her fast.
More Jani?ari, led by Vallerio, surrounded Isabella. The Mehteraba?i had ordered another group to the royal enclosure, where they’d encircled the Matalis and the court.