Kingdom of Salt and Sirens

by J. A. Armitage

  Mara crept closer. She didn't relish the idea of slaying one of Amista's subjects—not when it may make Amista think less of her.

  Of course, that was if Amista found out.

  Still, she would do what she must if this man would sound the alarm over her presence. She wouldn't let him come between them.

  Silently, she moved through the water, raising her claws to strike. Only to stop short when the figure threw its hood back and the lantern lit Amista's soft features.

  Mara's hand fell back to her side, surprised. “You came.” Her brow wrinkled. “I almost struck you. Why do you look... bigger than usual?”

  Amista's laugh tinkled through the air, pulling a reluctant echo of it from Mara's lips. The young queen put a finger to her lips, then tugged at the neck ties of her dark cape until they loosened enough to reveal the pillows she'd strapped to her shoulders. “I didn't want anyone to know it was me,” she said. “If they knew the queen was sneaking out of the palace at night…” she trailed off, seemingly unsure what the end of her sentence was exactly. “Well, at the very least, there would be talk of a scandal. And I've had enough talk.”

  At ease now that she knew it was only Amista—and better still, that she and Amista were alone, Mara rested her hands on the dock. "I don't know this word."

  "What, talk?" Amista gestured to the two of them. "It's what we're doing now. Speaking. Communicating."

  “No,” Mara ‘tch’-ed and made a face. A laugh escaped, giving her pause. She wasn’t sure she’d ever done that before—not in a way that wasn't cackling, mean-spirited. “What is a ‘scandal?’”

  “Oh!” Amista's expression cleared as she understood. “It means... how to explain?” She put a finger to her lips, differently than she had when she wanted to Mara to be quiet.

  Amista puckered her lips in thought and Mara wanted to fix that image in her mind forever. “Humans... we have certain expectations of how people should behave. A scandal occurs when people violate those expectations in a most egregious manner.”

  Mara's memory flicked back to their first meeting. "So if you are a 'scandal,' they think you are not 'good,'" she summarized.

  Amista grinned. "That's the gist of it, yes."

  The moonlight lit stars in Amista's flaxen hair and her eyes danced. “I do not care if you have a scandal or not… I think you are very ‘good,’ Amista,” Mara whispered.

  The grin on Amista's face faded, replaced by something different. A more intense expression. Amista lowered herself to her belly so that she was lying flat against the dock. She clasped hands with Mara. “I think you're good too, Mara.”

  14

  Amista

  Amista stifled a yawn as she waited to meet Lord Montipin. The wind toyed with her tresses, but Amista tucked the errant lock firmly behind her ear. She didn’t want to look whimsically windblown. Better that Lord Montipin should meet her looking stern and serious. A true queen. Not a flirtatiously hopeful young girl. She frowned.

  Amista’s gaze moved to the vista before her and her expression softened as she took in the white-capped waves out toward the horizon. Her grandmother had arranged the meeting on a balcony that overlooked the sea. She'd thought it would be a good idea for Amista to get some fresh air and sunshine. Little did she know, the view only made her think of Mara.

  Mara was the reason Amista was so tired now. She’d kept Amista up for hours the previous evening.

  She and Mara had whiled away many hours talking last night. Mara had told her what it was like on the isle of the Mordgris, laughing at her when Amista exclaimed over how ruthless and terrible it all sounded.

  She'd shrugged it away. "It is ruthless. We are ruthless. But what do you expect? None of us have souls to weigh us down." The smile, when she tried for one, didn't reach her eyes. The eyes that Amista had once thought terrifying now looked to her like polished onyx. Valuable and treasured. And somehow, their trouble swam in their black depths.

  "Are you so sure that you don't have a soul?" Amista couldn't help but blurt out when she stared into them. "We humans have a saying: 'the eyes are the windows to the soul.' And I could swear I see yours looking back at me."

  Mara shook her head. "I used to be sure." She looked away then cut Amista a side-long glance. "I'm not anymore."

  Amista sucked in a quick breath.

  They lingered in silence for a moment before Mara's voice broke the spell. "What about you, my little human? I am not the only one of the two of us who has had to live with ruthless and terrible things, I think."

  Somehow, with what she had revealed about her father, Mara had guessed what she left unsaid about him. And Amista didn't want it to be a hidden part of her anymore. Not with the people who were closest to her. So for the second time in several weeks, she rolled her sleeve past her elbow and told her story.

  Mara was quiet for a long time once she had finished. And when she spoke, her words chilled Amista at her core. "You are right," she said. Her voice was low and the edges of a chorus crept into it. It made the hairs on the back of Amista's neck stand on end. "He was not a good man. But if he had lived to see today, he would be a dead man once again by the time I got my claws into him."

  A chill raced up Amista's spine.

  She wished she was a big enough person to say that it was because Mara had threatened her with violence. But it truth, that wasn't it at all. It amazed her that Mara's instincts were to lash out at someone who was hurting Amista. That she'd fight for her. Protect her.

  It had been a long time since Amista felt like she had someone like that.

  Oh sure, she had legions of guards at her disposal now, forces that would be determined to protect her from bodily injury. But they'd protected her father before her and done nothing to help her then. She hadn’t been important enough to them.

  Amista had had no one before. And now, she not only had the new understanding that she'd forged with her grandmother, but she had Mara.

  And more than that, she had herself.

  Without constantly being kept under her father's heel and shrinking into his shadow, hoping she wouldn't be noticed, Amista was at last blossoming. She felt like a plant that had been fed only enough water and sunlight to survive until now. Now, she was blooming into something beautiful and fierce. A scarlet red rose, as violent a shade as Mara's hair. With the thorns to match.

  She had people who would take care of her, but she could take care of herself now.

  She snapped back to the present as the door to the balcony door opened and a manservant cleared his throat to announce her guest. "Your Majesty, I'd like to introduce you to Lord Caleb Montipi—"

  The man's words were cut short as a young gentleman clapped him on the back in a friendly sort of fashion—though a bit too aggressively, to Amista's eye. Her manservant coughed as the blow landed and jolted forward, his eyeglasses falling to the floor.

  Lord Caleb picked them up immediately, handing them back to the servant. "Sorry about that, old chap. I hate hearing that ghastly title. No need to address me so formally."

  He turned to her now and she was able to get a better look at him. No wonder her grandmother liked him. He was friendly, had the important connections they wanted in a prince consort, and more than that, he was handsome.

  The gods had blessed Lord Caleb with sun-kissed skin and sandy blonde hair. His figure was trim, and he looked to be in perfect health. He was outfitted appropriately for meeting a potentially advantageous match in a suit and his coattails were neatly tailored. Amista discreetly scanned him for any sign of faded fabrics and there were none that she could see.

  "Your Majesty." He bowed, executing it perfectly. He straightened and gave her a winning smile. Gods, even his teeth were perfect. Straight and white as a swan's wing.

  Amista stared in fascination as he reached forward to take her hand a dash a perfunctory kiss along her knuckles. "May I just say, it a distinct honor and pleasure to make your acquaintance?"

  "You may," she said, not willing to
let him be the only charming one here as she slanted a quirked smile to him. The perfect gentleman, he stood back to put some respectful distance between them. "Are you enjoying your time here in the capital, Lord Montipin?"

  "Call me Monty, please. Or Lord Caleb if you absolutely must." He wrinkled his nose. "Lord Montipin makes me feel dreadfully old. That's my father."

  Amista's eyebrows knitted together. "Forgive me. My advisors informed me that you had recently inherited the title. Was that inaccurate?"

  "Oh no," he hastened to assure her. "It's the gods’ honest truth. It's just that I like thinking I have a few years yet left in me and my father—the last Lord Montipin—was an old man. But yes, he has passed on. It’s a pity. Personally, I much prefer working the vine myself." He tapped the freckles on the bridge of his nose. "I have that work to thank for these. My father's death, gods rest his soul, has pulled me indoors, out of the sun, and in front of constant paperwork and negotiations. But if I want the vineyards I love to live on, someone has to run the place."

  Amista thought of the hours of decree signing, ceremony review, and updates on the realm at large that she had to endure every day since becoming queen. But would she give it up? She thought of the people cheering her along the canals, of the way she felt when she saw her home's skyline along the horizon after time at sea and she knew the answer. No, she would not.

  "I can relate to your struggles with running a business. It doesn’t sound so different from being Queen," she told Lord Montipin—or Lord Caleb, she supposed. She couldn't bring herself to think of this stranger with so informal a nickname as "Monty." It simply wasn't appropriate.

  "I'm sure you can." He grinned again, meeting her eyes with a gleam of mischief in his own, as if he was inviting her to share in a private joke.

  "How long have you been in the capital?" she asked, switching tacks to look away and break their gaze. Amista felt... uncomfortable at the prospect of sharing in his jokes. She didn't understand this man's sense of humor. Didn't get his jokes.

  Wasn't sure she wasn't the butt of them.

  He held a hand over his heart. "My entire family came to pay our respects after the passing of your respected father. My condolences on your loss, my Queen."

  She nodded, not trusting her voice to thank him. "That was weeks ago, though. I take it your extended stay means you're enjoying your time here?"

  “Yes, my family returned home, but I decided to stay. As you said, I was enjoying my time here.” He trailed off, looking uncertain before he caught her eye again. “That is, but for the other day.”

  The other day? What... oh. Memory surfaced. The explosion. Falling from the ship.

  Mara, coming to her rescue.

  Her cheeks reddened—though she didn't trouble herself about it overmuch. Lord Caleb was bound to assume she was simply infuriated over the attack. "Yes. My lady grandmother mentioned you'd been in the crowd. I am sorry your visit to our fair city has such a blight upon it, Lord Caleb."

  He waved a hand as if brushing her concerns aside. "Do not spare another thought upon it, Your Majesty. My only concern is in your well-being. Are you well? And more importantly, if you'll forgive my presumption in asking, have you managed to catch the dastardly Allarian-loving fellow who did this to you yet?" His hand knotted into a fist and Amista felt herself softening towards him.

  “I am quite well, yes,” she said gently. “Not a scratch on me. You need not fear.”

  He nodded stiffly, hand still fisted tightly. “Not even a scratch,” he repeated. His eyes glowed with gratitude. “Good. Thank the gods. If the people lost another Tigrid ruler so quickly...” He shook his head, expression dark. “It doesn't bear thinking about.”

  “You needn't fear for my safety. Not only am I well, but we have caught the man who did this. He won't be able to hurt me or anyone else from a cell in the dungeon, not with the inquisitors looking after him.”

  Lord Caleb relaxed at that assurance. "That does me a world of good to hear, Your Majesty. And you're kind and thoughtful to share that information with me. I know that you didn't have to."

  "I lose nothing by allaying your fears," she said. "But… while your concern is certainly appreciated, we must attend to other matters. You know why you're here, do you not?"

  He nodded. “I am a candidate for Your Majesty's hand in matrimony. And were I lucky enough to be selected as your King, nothing could please me more. I would strive to be an excellent husband, Majesty. I’d be faithful, attentive—”

  “Yes, yes, very good.” Hastily, she cut off the rest of his pledges before he could make them. “It is my intention, Lord Caleb, that I will make not only an advantageous match, but a happy one. I'm not a foolish young child with dreams of marrying a handsome prince, my one true love.”

  She pushed aside images of Mara with all her might and continued on ruthlessly.

  “I am a Queen. Love is for lesser folk. I do not need to love my new husband, but I should like it if I could consider him a friend.”

  His eyebrows had raised at the word 'happy,' and they stayed near his hairline now. "Unconventional," he managed.

  “Required,” she shot back. “It’s far more important to me than anything to do with your social standing. My lady grandmother will concern herself with things like your treasury, political positioning, any scandals she catches a whiff of... those concerns aren't mine. But I'd like to get to know my suitors’ personalities. If I'm to tie my life to yours, I want to make as sure as I can that we can coexist in peace.” She tilted her head in inquiry. “Are you game?”

  He straightened. "Ask me anything you like. I'm an open book."

  So she did. For nearly two hours, Amista asked him question after question about his family, his childhood. His hobbies, his favorite foods, his least favorite foods. Did he have any pets, did he enjoy reading? He answered them without hesitation, firing them back at her to answer as well.

  He occasionally caught her off-guard with his wit and a slanted grin her way. And the face he'd made when he told her that he hated raisins! A wrinkled nose, flared nostrils, and a tongue stuck out of the side of his mouth.

  "What?! But you own so many vineyards!" she protested.

  "Raisins are a perversion of the grape," he insisted seriously.

  “Whatever you say, Lord Caleb,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You certainly know better than I.”

  They parted with smiles on both of their lips and Amista walked back to her grandmother's chambers to report on how the introductions had gone.

  “So?” Lady Prellae asked eagerly. “How did it go?”

  “It went well, I think,” Amista said thoughtfully. “He seems a decent fellow. I should like to keep him on the list.”

  Her grandmother snorted in a most inelegant and uncharacteristic fashion, taking Amista aback. "Good," she said frankly. "Because at this point, he is the list." She pointed toward the half-curled parchment on the paper, her list of potential suitors that had started out so promising. Now, the paper was pock-marked with ink blots and stains, strikes through names, notes squeezed into the margins.

  “At any rate,” her grandmother continued. “You're to be crowned in a week. I don't want any question that it's you who holds the power, so we'll make no announcements until after that. I'll arrange a few more meetings, but be sure to pay Lord Caleb some attention at the ball before your coronation.”

  The ball.

  Amista had nearly forgotten. Six days hence, she'd don a dress she hadn't even seen yet, made in the Tigrid colors, specific to her measurements. There was a painting of her father that used to hang in his study. He’d been a young man then. The artist had painted him in the formal dress he’d worn on the eve of his coronation, proudly bearing the Tigrid colors like Amista would this week.

  It was a tradition. She'd accept her people's well wishes, and then she'd lead them in dance and merriment and refreshment.

  "All of them are going to be looking to me," she murmured.

  Her grandm
other reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "They already are, my dear girl."

  That was true, wasn't it? And Amista was doing just fine with all of those eyes on her already. A thought occurred to her. “Grandmother…” she started carefully. “May I bring someone to this ball?”

  "You're the Queen, darling. Invite whoever you like. Though I'd stop short of the entire city. We only have so much food at our disposal, you know." She smiled, eyes twinkling.

  Amista only grinned in response.

  15

  Mara

  "What is a ball?" Mara's face twisted like the word tasted strangely in her mouth. And truly, it did.

  Amista leaned forward eagerly, clasping Mara's hands to her chest as she leaned down. "It's a party. With dancing and food and—haven't you ever danced before?" She asked when the look of confusion swimming on Mara's face did not clear away.

  Dancing was a word Mara knew. It was what that humans did on the decks of their ships while they played music and danced and laughed... she had never told any of her sister Mordgris, not even her dam before, but it was the first look at a human activity that had actually appealed to Mara.

  When she'd gone back to the Isle of the Mordgris after seeing them, she'd attempted a few fumbling steps on the clumsy human legs she sprouted to walk ashore before giving up with a growl of frustration and diving back into the sea. No one would dare question her coordination there.

  So the idea of seeing this ball Amista talked of, of maybe learning to dance herself... it interested her.

  Her hopes rose before suddenly deflating. She wilted, sinking down chin deep into the sea with a scowl. “I cannot go.”

  "What? Why?" Amista's lips parted in confusion. The soft shape they made beckoned Mara. With both hands on the dock, she heaved her torso up so that she could drop a kiss there before explaining.