The Cerulean (Untitled Duology, #1)(40)

The one person who had shown her kindness was the girl called Agnes. Sera had been hesitant to offer up her hair, worried that Agnes would try to steal her magic like the humans on the last planet had, but it was only hair, not blood, and Sera had felt she needed some kind of help if she was to ever have any hope of getting home.

But Agnes wasn’t here now, and Sera didn’t know if she’d ever see her again. Her pulse quickened, her mind turning over her options, the slats of the crate closing in on her. The truth was she had no options. She was trapped. Her City was far away. And she couldn’t even speak the same language as these people. Her green mother had said the Cerulean could communicate with those on the planet, but Sera couldn’t see how. Was there some secret, lost over time, some ritual or practice that would unlock the barrier of communication?

You can write, though, she reminded herself. That had been shocking. She had only meant to trace what she remembered of the symbols on the ancient bowl that had told her Heal them. She thought maybe the symbols held some clue as to why the ceremony had failed, why she’d ended up here—and secretly, in her heart of hearts, she hoped maybe they could help lead her home. She should have told the High Priestess about them, but she had been overwhelmed then, and had never considered the possibility of being trapped on Kaolin. So she had poked her fingers through that horrible net and written out in the dirt what she could recall and then, while Agnes was wishing aloud that she could understand Sera’s language, she found herself making different sorts of symbols, ones she’d never seen before. Sera did not know how she knew it was her name she was spelling out, but she did, as certainly as she knew the sound of her purple mother’s harp or the scent of a moonflower. And Agnes had been able to read it.

Maybe there had been another ceremony already, to make up for her failure. Perhaps a better Cerulean had been chosen, one who was truly worthy, and the City was already drifting through space, leaving Sera stuck on this planet forever. The thought was so unbearable, she began kicking at the crate again. If she could just see the stars . . .

Or the tether! She stopped kicking and sat up. If she could find the tether, she would know her City was still up there. Maybe it even held a clue as to how to get home. The problem was she didn’t know where the tether was attached. She was in Kaolin. What if it was in Pelago? Would she be able to see it if it was so far away? And how far away was far away? She had no concept of distance here. She’d only ever seen the planet from high above, where everything looked small and simple. Pelago was to the east of Kaolin, across an expanse of water. And Kaolin itself seemed a very large mass of land. Where on the lopsided star was she being held? How far apart were the two countries?

She went back to kicking the crate, over and over until her feet were sore and her legs gave out. Her stomach ached, despair threatening to swallow her whole.

“Please, Mother Sun,” she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “If you can hear me . . . help me, please.”

“It cries.”

Sera’s head whipped up. The voice was raspy and hissing, and there was something off about it, like it was coming from inside her head. A pair of bulging eyes hovered above the edge of the platform. A clawlike hand emerged, then another; then a strange creature wriggled itself over the moss and onto the platform itself. Sera shrieked and scuttled back as far as she could go.

The creature was small, only about three feet long, and pale green. From the waist up it had a torso and two arms and a head that were all humanlike. From the waist down, it had the scaly body of a fish. Its head was perfectly round, with luminous eyes and teeth like razors. Its skull was bare and pocked. Instead of eyebrows, three glowing filaments stuck out over each eye—they dipped and swayed with the creature’s movements. The clawed hands had seven webbed fingers.

The filaments were beautiful and delicate—like spun glass, they refracted the light that shone from the flowers. And on the end of each filament was a tiny bulb. Sera could not help but be reminded of the fish in the Great Estuary, the ones that had filaments just like these, fish that no other Cerulean would go near but herself. Except they were fish through and through, without arms or heads.

The creature stared at Sera and Sera stared back. It never blinked. She was fairly certain it didn’t have eyelids.

“Did . . . did you say something?” she asked, feeling a bit stupid but unsure of what else to do. Even if it had been the creature who had spoken, it wouldn’t understand her.

“It cries in its box, so sad, so far from home, the sea, the sea.” Its mouth didn’t move, but the filaments lit up in a distinct pattern—red-gold, magenta, blue. Something about the voice made Sera guess the creature was male.

“Is that how you talk?” she asked, crawling forward and gripping the slats. “With lights?” Suddenly, she noticed her fingertips were glowing, like the blood bond, except this wasn’t just one index finger, but each of the three middle fingers on both her hands. She stared at them, aghast. “What is happening?” she said aloud.

Her fingertips lit up in flashes, just like the filaments. Purple, yellow, green, purple again. She recalled the story her green mother had told her of the planet with the giant birds. Could her magic let her communicate with this sea creature?

Sera hesitated, remembering what Agnes had said. Don’t let anyone else know you understand us. But she felt that applied to humans, and this creature was not human. She held up her hands so he could see them and said, loudly and clearly, “My name is Sera Lighthaven. I am a Cerulean and my blood is magic.”