Kingdom of Salt and Sirens

by J. A. Armitage

  She threw the covers aside to pace her bedchambers. Really, she'd be much better off in burying herself in the work that her grandmother kept finding for her. There was the list of suitors to go over, among other things… But that thought troubled her as well. She still didn’t know what kind of men her grandmother and the Order had on their lists. They could be no better than her father, for all she knew.

  She let out a growl of frustration. And there he was again. She should do some work. It would keep her mind free of him. For whenever she stopped working, her mind seemed to return to that day. But he wasn’t the only memorable part of that day.

  Another, altogether more pleasant vision came to mind.

  Mara.

  The day had had its upsides. Freedom from her father's tyranny. Freedom... and Mara.

  She couldn't fathom how a Mordgris, of all people, had become the bright spot in her days.

  Mara was a monster. Fact. History and the bloodshed she'd witnessed herself when her father had fallen to the sea's open arms told her that. No one survived tangling with a Mordgris. It was only her good luck that Mara hadn't chosen to step onto the shore and end Amista's life as they'd spoken.

  And yet...

  Amista blew out a frustrated breath.

  And yet. She had chosen to remain where she was. To let Amista keep her life.

  She did not feel monstrous to Amista.

  She felt beautiful. She felt like... understanding.

  The orange glow of the sun gradually seeped into Amista's bedchamber, slowly bringing light to all of its corners and crevices. It still didn’t feel like her room. But it was. Soon, she would have her coronation ceremony. Soon, she would be queen not just in practice, but in name.

  And would anyone be able to understand her then?

  “A pleasure to meet you, your majesty.”

  The Duke of… Amista gave up remembering his name. She’d learn it if it became important. The Duke of Something-or-Other-Shire swept her a flawlessly executed bow. Amista nodded in what she hoped was both a regal and respectful fashion.

  At first glance, the duke was utterly unobjectionable. A handsome man, if a bit older than Amista may have preferred. He was outfitted in appropriate clothing and, as they chatted, he was respectful and appeared interested in what she had to say without coming off as smarmy.

  But when Amista's grandmother ushered him out of the room, she tutted and shook her head, wiping her hands as wiping the matter away.

  "Well. I think we'll do well to cross him off our list of potentials."

  Amista blinked in surprise. "Really? He was so high on your list. What changed?"

  Her grandmother narrowed her eyes. "Did you see the state of his clothes? Well cared for, certainly, but several seasons out of fashion. The colors were fading and a few threads were even frayed. He thought we wouldn't notice."

  Amista decided not to point out that she hadn’t noticed. But she also knew well that her grandmother's eagle eyes missed nothing. The woman leaned over the table and made a mark on the parchment, the quill scratching against the list there as she made her notes.

  "Why does it matter if he's dressed unfashionably?" Amista asked, confused.

  "His fashion sense matters little. What matters, my darling queen, is that he cannot afford the current fashions."

  Lady Prellae shook her head, laughing to herself. "I know the Lanconshires. The family has a great deal of pride. They always dress in the most current fashions, sometimes to a fault. It's almost tacky. I'd heard whispers that the Duke's eldest son likes to play cards in the taverns a little too often. I never give rumors more credence than they deserve without seeing things for myself. Now, I know that there is some truth there."

  Amista never would have thought to attribute unseasonable fashions to a lack of funds. She swallowed nervously.

  Sometimes, she wished that her grandmother could be queen instead of her. She'd held the position before, after all. She was much better suited to it than Amista.

  Besides, if her father had had his way, Amista never would have been crowned as the queen. He'd have married her off during his reign just like they'd done to her aunt. Who knew who may have ruled Tigrid then?

  Her thoughts darkened. Really, it wasn't just herself that she'd saved when she'd pushed him overboard. She had saved all of them, every last Tigrid.

  They ought to thank her.

  The cloud of darkness vanished and she shook her head, clearing it as common sense returned to her. Maybe it was true that they should thank her. But they wouldn't. They could never, ever know. Queen she may be, but even queens were subject to punishment when it came to regicide and treason.

  She sighed and looked up at her grandmother. “All right. If the duke is out... who’s next?”

  Hours later, she sighed and stretched as another suitor left the room. Lord Gotair was obsequious, with his black, slick-backed hair and oily smile, but he hadn’t even been the worst of the lot. Lord Consta had been red-faced and coughing into his kerchief the entire meeting. Prince Jimont had looked her up and down with a lecherous grin that made Amista feel like she was standing there naked in front of him. She'd had to resist the urge to cover her exposed cleavage. And the Duke of Tripory... she shook her head, remembering their meeting. A drunk. He'd drained the entire carafe of red wine during their introduction and still, he'd called for more.

  Her impressions of the lot of them left something to be desired, but her grandmother bent low over her notes, muttering to herself. Tripory was out; that was for certain. The position of King—or Prince Consort, if Amista had her way—was too dignified to risk public intoxication if he were to behave the same way at a state event.

  Lord Consta was ill—but was it merely a vicious sort of cold, or was it something else? She would inquire with the palace doctors. They ordinarily kept vows of confidentiality, but not so when it came to their lieges. They'd give them the information.

  And Gotair was a power-climber. Lady Prellae would mull it over. He could pose a risk if he decided there was a better position to be had than Amista’s consort.

  Jimont was a lecher, but there were worse things provided he could be a faithful lech—or at the very least, a discreet one.

  Amista rubbed at her temples. "Is that it for today?" she asked wearily.

  "One more," her grandmother said. "After that, we must attend to your people."

  "Attend to them how?" Amista asked. This was the first she'd heard of such plans today. She wiggled her toes inside her slippers, feeling impatient. The walls of the castle were beginning to feel stifling around her. She longed to dip her toes into the ocean, to feel a cool sea breeze upon her cheeks.

  "Another tour along the canals," her grandmother said nonchalantly.

  Amista stifled a groan. "Again? We were just out there a week ago."

  “Yes, well, things would be different if there was some sort of magical contraption that was capable of getting your face and disposition in front of every man, woman, or child in the kingdom, my dear. But alas, such wonder does not exist in our world. We must rely instead upon our own ability to show up.”

  She tilted Amista’s chin up so that she looked up at her. “The people do not know you as well as we might wish they did. They knew your father when he ascended the throne—your grandfather and I took pains to assure that. But you, my dear, are an unknown entity. They do not know if you are a kind and just ruler—benevolent. They don't know if you'll be ruthless, sending them into needless wars and taxing them into oblivion, so high that even bread would be a very dear thing to come by.

  “They—” Her grandmother dropped her chin and twirled her hands about as though searching for another word, but came up short, shrugging. “They simply do not know you at all.”

  Amista took her point.

  "I just wish Damien had thought better of it. He knew what was to be done. We'd done it with him. I cannot fathom why he left you so unprepared. His death was sudden, but..." She sighed. "At the age you
are now, he was a great deal more prepared to rule than you are."

  That stung and Amista jerked back, unprepared for the blow. "I'm sorry that I am turning out to be such a disappointment to you, grandmother," she said stiffly.

  Her grandmother gave her a sharp look, sensing the change in her tone. "Do not be like that. Don't be unreasonable. You know very well what I meant. Your father had training that you do not. Show me that your aptitude and care for your people can make up for it. You've been so quiet, but you must speak up now."

  Amista got to her feet, blood singing in her ears at the insinuation that her father was more worthy of the crown than she was. Her grandmother did not understand who King Damien—who her son had truly been.

  “Training?” Amista repeated. “Exactly which part of my father's training included leaving his sole heir bruised and bloody at least once a month?”

  Her grandmother cut her a confused glance. “What in all the gods’ names are you talking about?”

  “If I was quiet, Grandmother, it was due to a sense of self-preservation. There was no one to protect me but myself. Do you have any idea how I cringed each time he entered the room, how I wondered what sort of mood he was in? I wondered, agonized over every decision I made, every word I spoke in his presence. If we dined together, should I ask for a second helping?”

  She shook her head. “If his mood was bad, it wouldn't matter which choice I made. I’d either be beaten for being gluttonous if I wanted more or I’d be slapped for being ungrateful if I didn’t eat enough.”

  Her grandmother's mouth hung open, but Amista wasn't done. She rolled up the sleeves of her dress with jerking motions. Now that she'd started, she couldn't stop. It was as though a dam inside her had broken, the pressure building for so long that she'd unleashed a torrent when she started speaking.

  "Most of the time, he was smart. He kept it to blows and kicks in areas that no one would ever see. Well, except for my handmaids when they helped me dress, or a doctor that was sent for when it got too bad. They all knew better than to breathe a word. He'd know who had told if they did."

  “But on this day…” Amista's movements stopped, the sleeve rolled to just before her elbow. If she continued... if she showed her grandmother the undeniable evidence of her father’s abuse, there wouldn’t be any going back.

  Her mouth firmed.

  To hell with it.

  She gave the sleeve the final shove past her elbow that was needed to reveal an angry, puckered scar in the crook of her arm.

  Her grandmother sucked in a breath.

  "It was summer," Amista said, her voice very far away, like she was standing at the bottom of a cliff and listening to someone shout at its peak. "We were all in short sleeves because of the heat. I don't remember what I did; which imagined offense it was this time. It never seemed to matter if I was on my best behavior or not. But he called me to his chambers to lecture me."

  She turned her arm this way and that, considering.

  "My blood froze in my veins when he withdrew a poker from the fire and walked toward me."

  Abruptly she blinked, coming back to herself and cleared her throat, efficiently rolling her sleeves back down, all business-like.

  "I suppose you can guess what happened next."

  Her grandmother's face was torn between revulsion and horror. Tears pricked her eyes. "I... I didn't know."

  Amista shrugged, embarrassed now that she'd let her emotions get the better of her. The man who had tortured her her entire life was gone. What use was this show?

  "You didn't want to know," she said gently. "If you'd paid too much attention, you might have noticed that your son was not the good-hearted, charitable patrician he played at to everyone else. If you'd looked too closely, you might have seen the monster I knew all too well."

  Her grandmother winced, Amista's words apparently striking too close to home.

  "So now you know," Amista said. "Why I mourned less than the rest of you. Why I was less than eager to consider tying my fate to some unknown man."

  Her grandmother nodded. “You made me a promise not long ago. That you would not leave me alone. I offer you this promise in return: You will not have to marry a man who would treat you that way again. You will not ever have to put yourself in a position weaker than one of them again.”

  Amista's gaze sharpened. "Not in a position weaker... But I thought the advisers would insist upon my new husband being a King. I thought if I wanted him to be Prince Consort I would have to fight for it. It was a battle I was prepared for."

  Her grandmother clasped her hands and her mouth firmed. “And I am very proud to hear that you would have fought for yourself. But let me deal with them. You have had to fight enough.

  “And I think we can leave our last meeting for a bit longer.”

  The tours along the canals did not end, but there was a new feeling of camaraderie between Amista and her grandmother. So while Amista was still eager to please her, it was no longer a heavy burden of expectation that passed between the two of them, with Amista carrying all of the weight. They had both shared things now. There was a mutual understanding between them.

  She smiled and waved at her people and cracked her usual jokes from behind a grin that felt almost genuine this time. She swore some of them even came close to cracking her grandmother's elegant demeanor.

  Between the tours, preparations for her coronation, and meetings with suitors further and further down her list, the weeks turned into a blur. She rarely spared a thought for her father, her head spinning with recitations in the Word of the Ancient Ones, names and positions of the nobility, protocol, arguments with her advisors about trade agreements.

  She almost forgot Mara too. It would be better if she could; she had to marry someone else. But she never quite managed it.

  Every unexplained ripple in the surface of the canal water reminded her of Mara. Every red curl had her turning her head to try to catch a glimpse of her.

  But it was never the right shade. Too orange. Not like Mara’s: a fire on her head to match her soul.

  The soul she claimed she didn’t have.

  But determinedly, Amista brushed the image of Mara away.

  She wouldn't let her grandmother down. She was going to be a good queen if it killed her.

  A commotion in the crowd caught her eyes and she knit her eyebrows in confusion. A crowd was screaming and darting away from one person among the rest.

  It was like a crater formed around him. One man, standing alone and holding a rounded object in his hand. He stared at the ship.

  For one, wild moment, Amista swore they locked eyes. And he smiled.

  “Death to the rebel bitch!” he shouted and lobbed the object toward her.

  She had just enough time to laugh at the irony.

  Being a good queen just might kill her after all.

  11

  Mara

  Mara was going to kill Amista.

  No, that wasn't true… but wouldn't it be simpler if it was? She knotted her hands into a fist beneath the water's surface. For days now, Mara had trailed her little human through the Tigrid canals. She'd gone so far as to flick her fin above the water's surface when she had another one of her gods-damned parades through her city, risking her own neck, and for what? Just so that Amista would know she was there?

  And yet, again and again, she returned, lurking in the shallows near the royal docks, waiting for Amista's vessel to leave and following it when it did.

  It would be far easier if she could just leave her little human a message. But there wasn't exactly a human-Mordgris postal service.

  So Mara resigned herself to trailing her instead, clinging onto her like sea urchin.

  She lay belly up, vision cutting through the ripples of the water. Even obfuscated by the difference between water and air, her little human drew the eye. The skin on her cheeks that looked as soft as an underbelly. The pillowed lips like a pufferfish. Hair softer than any seaweed Mara had ever threaded her finge
rs though that gleamed beneath the sun's light. She waved to her people;

  It all combined into a package that begged not to be torn into, but savored. Mara longed to touch it. To put her mouth upon Amista's and start savoring.

  Sounds above the surface were muffled, but suddenly the humans' cheers turned to angry and horrified cries and Mara jerked to attention when the wrinkled human who had commanded Amista's guards disappeared amid an abrupt burst of exploding flame at the top of her ship.

  Mara’s eyes scanned the fiery sky above her anxiously. The old one was gone. But where was Amista?

  There.

  She had only a moment to be relieved when her eyes landed back on the form of her little human. Only a moment before Amista’s body stumbled and jerked above the water and then...

  She fell.

  Where Mara was waiting for her.

  The young queen plummeted into the water, legs and arms outstretched as though she'd tried to grab hold of something to save herself before she fell.

  Blood bloomed from somewhere on her body, momentarily distracting Mara as her vision darkened, honing in on it.

  She shook her head. No. She must focus on her task. The blood would call to her brethren the same as it did to her. And Amista wouldn't have the option of charming them they way she had Mara. Mara had to get her out of the water and to a shore where her soul would be safe.

  She swam toward Amista, catching her easily in her arms and glaring at the surface above. Cowards. Cowardly humans to hurt their own kind this way. All the worse for having harmed Mara's little human.

  She smoothed the hair away from Amista's face. The weak little thing was unconscious, lashes resting upon her cheeks as though she was simply sleeping.

  There was no one to hear Mara’s confessions except for the school of small silver fish that had darted away when Amista fell. So Mara just said it: