She smoothed a hand over her skirt, absently picked a piece of lint off of her lap and flicked it away. Her attention turned back to the parchments laying in front of her.
“We are in agreement, then?” she asked.
She looked up at her grandmother, who nodded, and then across the table to the Order’s priests, who had spread several scrolls across the table.
Scrawled in black ink across the parchment was a list of ten candidates for her hand. First sons, heirs to small kingdoms or fortunes, second sons of large and wealthy kingdoms who still presented enough potential with their lands and wealthy to be tempting. One son of a merchant in Placida who would inherit his family fortune and, if selected as her consort, would gain the crown valuable influence with the mercantile guilds. If he brought nothing else to the table, that would be valuable in and of itself.
It wasn’t just names though. Oh, no. The rest of the words on those pages listed potential advantages and disadvantages to marrying each of them, what the crown had heard of their temperament, habits, and hobbies.
Amista swallowed a lump in her throat, looking at that list. It all seemed so surreal to her. Ink on a page. Names on paper. No faces, no voices, no emotion to go with it.
But one of those names would be her future. One of them would be her husband. A man she’d dine with, appear before her people with.
And go to bed with.
She swallowed another hysterical lump in her throat and tried not to think about how very vulnerable she’d have to be with one of these strangers.
Torchlight danced across the shining orb of the High Priest’s bald head as he folded his hands inside of her cerulean robes. “I think this is a very fine list indeed, Your Highness.”
Her grandmother’s eyes would have slice a lesser man in two as she directed a cutting gaze his way. “You will address the Queen Regent as ‘Majesty,’” she commanded sternly.
“Of course.” The High Priest’s hand, speckled and mottled with age, splayed wide in a gesture of contrition. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I am so used to addressing your as our Princess, not as our Queen. Your reign came so much sooner than any of us expected.”
She inclined her head, accepting the apology. “A simple mistake. Carry on, Your Holiness.”
The old man’s lips parted in a small smile. “As I said, I think this is a fine list. Any of them would do a credit to your throne. Have you given any thought to how you should like to meet them?”
“Yes…” A finger went to her lips, and she glanced up at the ceiling as though the thought was just occurring to her. In truth, it had been one of many thoughts keeping her awake at night, dreams and nightmares, past, present, and future coalescing in the shadows of her bedchamber and tumbling into a tornado that whirled wild through her mind.
“All of these men have been invited to the coronation ceremony, yes?” she asked.
She received nods of affirmation all around the room.
“Very good,” she continued on. “Then I believe I should like to meet them before I am crowned Queen. They’ll likely all arrive before the ceremony. I expect to be quite busy with my preparations and the celebrations that my lady grandmother has planned. It will allow us to meet not only on that happy occasion, but in private.”
More importantly, meeting them here in Tigrid, would allow her to meet them all when power was on her side, when there would be no doubt as to who in the room held all the cards. Some of these men had grown up knowing they would be kings; they would be used to being one of the most powerful people in the room.
It was Amista’s inclination to pick a second son. Someone who power hadn’t already gotten its claws into.
Though she’d told that to no one, simply instructing them to make their lists and she would meet whoever they liked if they did.
Her grandmother clapped her hands together. “Wise,” she decreed. “Meet in good spirits and revelry before turning to more pragmatic matters.”
Amista’s stomach twisted. “Yes…” she said uneasily. “Pragmatic…”
Her grandmother would be the biggest obstacle in these negotiations. She’d press and press for the most advantageous match.
But Amista worried that that would leave her just as trapped as she’d been when her father was alive. Trapped under the thumb of a King that she despised.
Her hands knotted themselves into fists. No. She’d never let herself be trapped that way again. For starters, she’d make sure her consort was just that: a Prince Consort. No real power of the realm would be in his hands.
The meeting was over. Her advisors gathered their papers and she rose to her feet. Chairs hastily scraping across the floor as everyone hurried to rise and show her proper respect. Except for Amista’s grandmother. She’d remained standing during the entire meeting. She held her hands in a relaxed fold before her deep violet skirt—at last, no longer in black. She was slowly moving through the colors of mourning.
“Thank you, gentleman.” Amista nodded to her grandmother. “My Lady Grandmother.” With her shoulder blades pinched together and her posture ramrod straight, she exited the room, two servants holding the doors open for her.
Behind her, she heard her grandmother echoing her thanks and a quick clip of steps behind her, the clack of heels against the hard palace floors. Despite her dismissal, she fell into step with Amista. Another set of footsteps, this one softer. Slippers. High Priest Ricon swished into place at her left, the sleeves of his robes brushing her elbow.
"That was well done," her grandmother murmured.
Amista's brow furrowed. "Thank you, Grandmother." She appreciated the praise, but it didn’t feel earned. There was nothing well done about it. Her grandmother had explained how things were to be to Amista. She only did what she must.
High Priest Ricon nodded. "Exactly what your father would have wanted."
At that, Amista's hand knotted into a fist at her side.
Her grandmother’s sharp gaze didn’t miss it. She laid a hand gently upon it, obscuring the gesturing of tension, of violence with her own calming hand.
His Holiness was oblivious to it all. Blindly, he continued on. “Now, we must discuss the rest of your coronation arrangements.”
Suddenly, Amista's corset felt too tight. The diadem at her brow, too heavy. The heels on her feet pinched and her jaw ached from clenching. She was going to scream if she didn't get out of here soon.
"That can wait, surely, Your Holiness. I am certain Her Majesty has other things she needs to attend to."
The gods bless her. Amista closed her eyes, uttering a silent prayer of thanks for her grandmother.
Her grandmother's voice washed over her like a soothing splash of water, refreshing and cleansing.
“Yes,” she agreed hastily. “I must attend to—important things. Yes.”
The glare from her grandmother let her know that she was overplaying her part. She cleared her throat. "I welcome your counsel, of course, Your Holiness. But as my lady grandmother says, I am far too fatigued to continue on this evening. We may resume these discussions after we break our fast on the morrow."
Amista folded her hands before her, hidden in the folds of her sleeves, praying the High Priest didn't see how white her knuckles were and scolding herself for the foolish feeling that she needed the man's permission. She was to be the queen, damn it. And her father was dead. She should be done with letting men control her life by now.
“Your Holiness. My lady grandmother.” She nodded with respect to each of them in turn and then turned on her heel and strode quickly away before the High Priest could make an argument that may convince her to stay.
The halls were quieter than they should be, nobles hidden behind veils of black, hands in front of their mouths to cover their hushed whispers.
They'd say that they kept quiet out of respect for her recently deceased father, out of grief for a king who they'd lost too soon, but Amista knew better. She'd heard the sorts of things they used to say, the gossip that t
hey spread, their malicious speculation. Before, they stayed quiet when her father or his favorite members of court were around, not wanting things to reach his ears. They never cared before if Amista—his daughter—heard. Everyone knew he did not care for her opinion.
Much less respect it.
The difference was that now Amista held the power. And they all cared very much if she heard them.
She didn't bother straining her ears to decipher their whispers. She kept a blase expression pasted over her features and hurried through the hall. But she didn't turn up the staircase that would lead her to the royal bedchamber. Even with her things newly transferred to it, it still held the dark shadow of her father's presence for her. Not even her cheery turquoise bedding could remove his chill from the room.
Instead, she descended another staircase, taking the stairs two at a time until she exited out the side of the castle. She slipped her aching feet out of the too-tight shoes and massaged the angry red skin there.
Sighing, she leaned against the cool, shadowed stone of the castle tower she'd emerged from.
It was late in the day. The sun was setting low, casting the palace in shadow and cooling the sand beneath her feet as she walked forward into the cove.
The late hour combined with the gray clouds in the sky had conspired to create an enchanting effect in the sea. A deep and beautiful teal color deepened past the shallows. It sparkled as the light caught it. The color reminded Amista of legends and sirens. It was nothing at all like the powerful silver muscle of a Mordgris.
But Mara crossed her mind, anyway.
Amista lifted her chin to the sky and closed her eyes as a breeze caressed her face. Freedom. It felt like freedom.
Anyone could be watching out a window, or from one of the ships that guarded the cove, but Amista did not care. She strode down the sand and let water lap greedily at her toes, relishing in the soothing sensation. She grinned for the first time that day, wriggling her toes in the wet sand with glee, letting it slide and slime over her feet.
"Hello again."
She stiffened.
That voice.
No... not just one voice. It was hundreds. All purring the same soft, coquettish note at her.
Hello again.
She lifted her head.
A human face stared back at her from the water. The woman had red hair—a kind never found in nature, a color far more likely to be found in the shell of a cooked crab than streaming out of a head. Browned skin, as polished a color as varnished wood, except for the dusting of freckles across her nose like specks of sand.
Amista's fingers drifted over her own nose in wonder.
But this was no human. It was Mordgris artistry. The creature before her bore little resemblance to the Mordgris she'd spoken to the day her father had died. There was no sign of the blonde hair she—it?—had assumed, not even a gray tinge to her skin to belie the deadened cells that painted the faces of the creatures of death. Her eyes were as rich a brown as hardened amber. There was a hungry and predatory gleam in them and when she smiled...
Amista's heart fluttered. Straight, white teeth. Flat teeth.
There was no resemblance at all. And yet...
"It's you, isn't it?" She whispered. "Mara?"
Mara cackled and Amista winced at the klaxon sound. "My kind do give you humans too little credit," Mara's chorus of a voice said. "I didn't think you'd realize who I was until you saw my fin."
"Could you..." Amista gestured to her throat. "It's hard to understand with so many talking at once."
Mara's eyes widened and Amista relaxed when she spoke again in a single voice. "I had forgotten."
"Better," Amista decreed. More than better, in fact. Mara's voice, now that she'd settled on one, was clear and lovely. Like an alto singing. Rich and melodic. "What brings you here?"
"Curiosity." The tail made its first appearance, flicking out of the water and splashing a few droplets onto Amista's legs.
"So much the better. I've been curious too."
Boldness made her take a step further into the water. The waves swallowed her ankles.
Mara's eyes heated as she looked at Amista and Amista swallowed. Perhaps she was being reckless. Stupid, even. She dared fate by getting this close to a Mordgris. She tempted it.
"What are you curious about, little human?" Mara asked.
Little human? Maybe it should have felt like an insult. Like the Mordgris mocked her, toying with her as a hunter would toy with its prey before the killing strike. But it didn't feel that way from Mara. She said the words like a caress and they wicked over Amista's skin, lighting her from the inside out.
"You," Amista said honestly. Boldly again when she had never been bold before. Never before her father died. "And what are you curious about?"
"You."
The little human thirsted to know about the little monster. And perhaps that meant they were already in the middle without either of them knowing it had begun.
7
Mara
Mara swore as she looked into Amista's eyes.
When, after days of searching, she’d at last seen the little human along the shore, she hadn’t cared that it was still daylight. The sun was setting and it would be dark soon. She could wait until then to make her move. But she needed to keep Amista within her reach until then. Then, she could return to the Isle of the Mordgris, still grinning over her soul’s sensation, and no one would question her again.
But now, as Amista gazed at her…
Mara had thought she was the predator here. But the guileless little human stared back at her as though she was hungry and Mara was the only thing that could feed her.
At the touch of Amista’s skin in Mara's waters, Mara had had to knot her fist at the jolt that went through her. The fool thing was practically begging to be feasted upon. The song of her blood was like the rushing sound of the tide pulsing through her. She could practically taste her soul already.
Mara's nails spasmed back to their natural black talons at the sensation.
In a decade, nothing had existed that could make her form warble the way Amista just had. And the little human hadn't even tried to do it, not the way Mara's dam had when she was still mastering her abilities, before Mara had even tasted her first soul.
Her nails punctured her palm, and the sting was enough to break her reverie. She steadied herself, taking a breath through human lungs in the air and gills in the sea.
When her hands rose again to splay on the sea like it was a tablecloth she was smoothing down, they were simple rounded nails that shone through to the human skin beneath.
She cautioned herself to remain calm, not to lunge toward Amista like her instincts urged. She had come here to kill the girl true, but Mara was smarter than that. Craftier. Yes, she could lunge toward Amista and she may get lucky—she was fast, after all. But humans had strong instincts of self-preservation. Amista could stumble out of her grip. If she left the water, she would be out of Mara's reach.
Mara needed an invitation to leave the water. No human had yet to be stupid enough to issue one to her.
Still, she would prove to her dam and the rest of her kind that Mara remained someone to be feared.
She needed the little human to come closer to her, first. Not the other way around.
The sun had set now. Until the soothing blanket of the dark night sky, Mara reclined backwards and let her tail swish up out of the water, pillowing her hands on the back of her head. She threaded her fingers through her red hair, comforting herself with the fact that it was like slipping blood through her fingers. She let her lips curl, but it faltered when the little human covered her mouth with a snort.
Was she laughing at Mara?
"What?" Mara asked defensively.
"No, I'm sorry," Amista said, waving her hand in apology. "It's just—the way you leaned back just then. You had the same pose as an old man leaning back in a recliner and puffing his cigar."
Mara wasn't sure what a "recliner" o
r a "cigar" were, but she gathered it wasn't a very flattering image. She bolted upright and put her hands on her hips, brow furrowing as she flipped her tail powerfully enough to raise her torso from the sea. "Do I look like an old man now?" she demanded.
Amista's laughter faded as her eyes skimmed Mara from browbone to naval. Something fluttered inside Mara in response. "No," Amista said lowly. "No, you do not."
Warily, Mara settled back to the sea, ire fading. She tilted her head at Amista. “I cannot puzzle you out,” Mara said. “You're a curious thing.”
"As are you."
Mara shook her head. "No, I am not curious at all. I am exactly as the gods intended my kind. You're curious about me, though. You have questions. Ask them."
Amista hesitated. "I do..." she said thoughtfully. "But my questions were not so urgent that I traversed an ocean in order to seek them out. You may ask yours first," she decided.
"Ask yours."
"I am the queen in this realm. I have already issued my decree."
Mara raised a brow. A queen, was it? She pocketed that useful bit of information; tucked it away to properly examine later and mull over its implications. She had heard these words before. Queen, King. Prince, Princess. They were humans who commanded other humans. She shrugged. "I have no ruler. Your decrees mean nothing to me.“
She crossed her arms and leaned back, not carrying if it made her look like an old human male or not. "But what I do have is lots of time."
Amista rolled her eyes. "Stubborn. But fine." She mirrored Mara and crossed her arms. "Your kind. Why do they kill?"
Mara felt a flare of disappointment and voiced it. "I had expected something more interesting from you, little human. Why does any predator kill? For sustenance. For survival."
"Yes, but..." Amista's hands groped the air as though they could latch onto the words she needed. "But it doesn't seem like you even swallow the meat."
Kingdom of Salt and Sirens Page 32