Kingdom of Salt and Sirens

by J. A. Armitage

  Amista giggled as Mara sank back into the water.

  “Wait...” Amista's eyes flicked from the dock to Mara's form—more importantly, to her tail, still in the water. Her expression filled with contrition. “I think I understand. Mara, I'm so sorry. I know how you can all change your faces. I just assumed that your tail could follow suit into legs. But I shouldn't have made that assumption.”

  "No," Mara said, waving her apologies away. "It isn't that. I have had legs before. I will have them again someday, I am sure. But I have only ever set foot on the Isle of the Mordgris. Anywhere else..." She hesitated. This was a secret of her kind. Something that the humans may use against them if they knew. But Mara wasn't sure that she was even one of her own kind anymore. She was something new.

  "We have to be invited to tread upon land or ships," she confessed. "And no one, not a single human in all my years has ever been stupid enough to invite a predator like me into their midst." Her soul count would be much higher if they had.

  A smile unfurled across Amista's features. “Then I suppose you're about to think me very stupid indeed,” she breathed. She dropped Mara's hands and hastily scrambled to her feet, clearing her throat. “Mara,” she said with a hand over her heart. “I hereby invite you to attend my coronation ball. I hereby invite you to Tigrid.”

  With a silly little flourish, she reached a hand down to the water, expression open and expectant.

  Mara hesitated. Part of her wanted very badly to take Amista’s hand and leave the water. To be a part of Amista’s world and leave her old life behind. But so much had changed already.

  “Mara?” Amista’s smile wavered, her hand still outstretched.

  Mara never wanted to be the reason her little human stopped smiling.

  So, she extended her hand as her black nails dulled to a flat human color. A nose sprouted in the center of her face. Her skin shifted from gray to brown as her tail parted in the middle and transformed into a set of two human legs and other human parts she’d never had a use for before.

  Their fingers curled together.

  Amista grabbed her other hand and heaved until Mara's feet left the water. Together, they collapsed. Body to body. Skin to sodden skin. Mara could feel Amista's warmth seeping through the cloak she wore.

  Amista ran a hand down Mara's new leg, where she'd never been able to touch her before.

  Mara's breath caught as Amista brushed aside a lock of her red hair and tucked it behind her ear.

  "You're really here," Amista said, marvel in her tone.

  "I really am," Mara said, just as surprised as she was.

  They got to their feet and Amista untwisted the cloak around her neck with fumbling fingers. She draped it over Mara's shoulders, blushing as Mara stood before her. "Here. You should... um. Here."

  Mara drew it close, glad of its warmth. It was still warm from Amista's body. Still smelled like her.

  Amista removed the pillows strapped to her body.

  "I thought you said it would be a scandal if they saw the queen sneaking out of the castle," Mara said.

  A laugh tripped out of Amista's mouth. "Trust me, Mara. It would be a much greater scandal if they saw me sneaking back into the castle with you if didn't have even a stitch on to cover your most intimate parts." The color in her cheeks deepened when she said the word 'intimate.' Mara filed it away to ask for its meaning later.

  She lifted her lantern and took Mara inside, leading her from the docks and up the great stone stairs into the castle. Mara instantly marveled at the difference in the air without the Sea's wind.

  Amista found a steward and explained that Mara had washed up on the beach, victim of a shipwreck. Mara fought not to let her lips twitch over the idea that she could ever be any sort of a victim. Much less of a shipwreck. She ate shipwreck victims for breakfast.

  The steward's mouth fell open when Mara adjusted the ties of her cloak and it exposed her form underneath. Amista glared and he valiantly stared at a point somewhere over her left shoulder.

  "The poor thing is traumatized, Yancy," Amista stressed. "Do fetch her some comfortable sleeping atiire and open a guest chamber for her. We'll settle her more properly in the morning."

  He coughed into a hand. "Very good, madam," he said. "If the lady will come with me..." he trailed off as Mara began shaking her head, casting a look back at Amista. She wasn’t ready to be alone with another human besides Amista. And how could Amista trust Mara not to taste this young man's soul? Mara didn't even trust herself to do that.

  "On second thought," Amista said airily, changing her mind as she read Mara’s expression. "I think that I will join you. As I said, she seems quite traumatized. And as I'm the one who found her, I daresay that she's grown attached to me." She took Mara's elbow beneath the cloak and guided her after the steward.

  "Breathe," she whispered into her ear. "I am with you."

  "Oh, and Yancy?" she said at a louder volume. "Belay that order of a guest chamber. Set something up for her in my suite. I think she'll sleep a great deal easier if I stay with her through the night."

  Mara grinned as they turned a corner. Amista was with her. And they'd be closer than they ever had before.

  16

  Amista

  Amista's eyes fluttered open as sunlight streamed in through the white canopy bedding. Its rays lit on Mara's red curls and set them on fire. Above her, Mara held herself aloft, her arms on each side of Amista's head. The brown eyes she'd chosen smiled down at Amista in the bed that they'd shared for five nights now.

  Happiness unfurled in Amista’s belly as she took in the glorious sight of Mara above her. The other girl’s arms were sculpted with muscle as powerful as the tail she’d possessed in her Mordgris form. Her chin was as sharp as her mind. And her skin looked as though she’d never been troubled by a blemish in her entire life.

  Which, obviously, Amista realized, was the case.

  The first night, she’d plucked at the night dress Amista had given her, face wrinkled with disdain. She had wondered why her own flesh would not suit, but listened to Amista when she told her that, if they were to remain unchaperoned, propriety insisted upon clothing.

  Of course, they’d had to have a brief conversation wherein Amista explained ‘propriety’ to Mara... but as the talk had ended in kissing and caressing, she wasn’t too fussed about that.

  "Good morning," Amista whispered up to her Mordgris. She reached up and placed her hands on both side of Mara’s face, memorizing her features. No matter which form she took, Amista never grew tired of looking at her.

  “It is good,” Mara agreed. “Today is your ball.”

  Amista sat up against the pillows as Mara shifted aside and laid her head in Amista's lap. Amista threaded her fingers through her hair while Mara practically purred in satisfaction.

  “Today is the ball. And tomorrow, I will be the queen,” Amista murmured, lost in thought. “In more than just the name.”

  Mara caught the hand combing through her hair and laced her fingers with Amista's, kissing her knuckles one by one, mouth lingering for just a second longer with each kiss. "No one is worthier," she said fervently.

  “Says you,” Amista returned with a playful smile. “I think you may be biased, but the compliment is appreciated nonetheless.”

  Reluctantly, she rolled out of bed. The day and her duties beckoned. "There are some things I must attend to before the ball tonight."

  She pointed to a wardrobe in the next room. “Today I’ll have a final fitting for my gown this evening, but you’ll need something to wear as well. I’ve a slew of ballgowns and dresses in there. Try a few on, see what you like. I may have time to get it the tailor to do something that fits you a bit more precisely if need be.”

  “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” Mara raised an eyebrow at her, then lengthened and shortened her nose in two blinks of an eye. “I don't think the need will be,” she said dryly.

  After reading the report they’d been given, Amista's gran
dmother slammed a hand down onto the thick wooden table in the war room, knocking over a vial of ink. It poured out across the table, the black creeping along the surface like oil dropped into water. Amista's eyes trailed it for a moment before going back to her grandmother.

  Lady Prellae was very obviously perturbed. Even more so now that she'd made a mess. Her normally put together appearance was mussed. Her hair was fastened back and out of her face, but she brushed stray flyaways out of her eyes with irritation.

  "Oh, drat it all," her grandmother murmured. She huffed out a breath of frustration. She strode to the hall and opened it to speak to the sentry and steward waiting outside. "Fetch a maid; there's a spill."

  The door squeaked closed again after she made the request and stepped back inside. She looked up at Amista, mouth opening and closing for a few moments, trying to find her tongue.

  Dread seeped into Amista the longer it took her grandmother to speak. The woman was not often at a loss for words.

  “What is it?” she asked. “It is the Allarians? Have they grown bolder?”

  Quickly, her grandmother shook her head. "No, no, nothing so dire as that. It's only... your attacker."

  The dread in Amista's belly didn't dissipate at those less-than-comforting words. "What about him?"

  Her grandmother lifted her eyes to hers. "He's dead. Poisoned, by the looks of it."

  Amista reeled back. Had the man in her service interrogating him gone too far? "The Inquisitor...?" she asked.

  But her grandmother was already shaking her head. "No. He prefers a more personal touch. He doesn't bother with poisons and concoctions and if he did, he certainly wouldn't overestimate so badly that it would kill the man before we get our answers. This may mean that we never find out who was the mastermind plotter behind it all."

  Unless there was another attack. But would they get that lucky twice? Not only to escape an attack unharmed, but to find the attacker before they got away. Somehow, Amista doubted it.

  "There will be another attempt," she surmised.

  Her grandmother nodded gravely. "Yes. I suppose there will be."

  Amista gave the order for the guards at the ball that night to be doubled and returned to Mara with a troubled frown on her face, massaging a point of tension on her forehead. She stopped short when she entered her chambers and found Mara frowning at herself in a mirror and pulling at the bodice of the teal dress she wore.

  She looked like a water nymph from tales of old. Amista could see the scene so easily in her mind: Mara, standing in a field, gazing at herself in a pool of still water before diving into it to cool herself off.

  Mara's eyes caught on Amista's reflection and she grinned. "You're back!"

  She whirled around, her skirt flaring, but her smile faded as she took in Amista's demeanor. "Something is wrong. What is it? You must tell me."

  Amista forced a smile onto her face. No matter how she took pains to hide it, dismissing the ball as "human frivolity," Amista could tell that Mara was excited about tonight. She'd asked keen questions about the order of the ceremonies so that she would not step out of turn. Having developed a taste for human foods that didn’t include humans over the past several days, she asked many questions about the food as well.

  But mostly, Mara had wanted to know about the dancing. Would it be fast, would it be slow, was it hard? Finally, Amista got to her feet one night.

  “Come,” she’d said. “I’ll teach you.” They'd whirled about Amista's chambers as Amista softly sang a song beneath her breath.

  Amista had enjoyed the closeness. And she didn't care if it violated protocol. She very much intended to keep Mara near her tonight.

  Now, she forced a smile onto her face. "You mistake 'wrong' for taken aback. You look especially beautiful in that dress."

  Unconvinced, Mara's brows furrowed and she opened her mouth. But whatever she planned on saying, she thought the better of and swallowed the words back down.

  Soon, the horde of beauticians, handmaidens, and tailors descended upon Amista's room to ready the two girls. Amista watched Mara in the mirror. To her credit, Mara did her best not to hiss when one of them poked her with a pin and yanked half of her red curls back tightly so tightly that it stretched the corners of her eyes toward her ears. But she couldn’t completely hide her instincts.

  Her bared teeth disappeared when the girl ran a finger through the ends of Mara's curls in wonder. "Never seen such a gorgeous color before. Is it a dye?"

  Mara preened with pride. "No. I made it myself."

  Amista's lip twitched. She dare not laugh.

  Her attention turned to her own reflection in the mirror, examining the dress that had been designed for her. The tailor had taken inspiration from Tigrid military dress. The lavender top was fastened with two rows of golden buttons and red tassels at the shoulders. It belled out into a full tulle skirt in the same pale lavender colors. She looked like a leader, and felt like one too.

  She just worried that the military uniforms that the dress was inspired from was yet another harbinger of war on the horizon.

  They announced Amista—and Mara, as her “shipwrecked ward”—to great applause. Whenever feelings of being overwhelmed threatened to overcome her, Amista glanced at Mara to steady her. She felt stronger just standing beside her. Or down at her gown. Amista felt confident and strong in the dress her tailor had designed.

  As they descended into the ballroom, Amista kept a tight grip on Mara's hand when a well-meaning steward tried to guide her away. Soon, she'd have to think of a better excuse than Mara's "trauma," but for now it was serving them well.

  And no one was going to question the queen on the eve of her coronation.

  People wrapped around the room in a queue that ended at her throne. Amista tried not to groan upon seeing it. That receiving line would take forever to get through. It was full of people wanting to get on her good side before she was crowned. But it was all part of the job.

  Thankfully, she got to start off easy: her grandmother was the first one in line. She’d tamed her appearance after their meeting and after curtsying, she pecked Amista on each cheek serenely.

  Then, she eyed Mara with a naked curiosity. Amista started. That was right. With all of the preparations and goings on about the castle, Amista hadn't gotten the chance to introduce the two of them.

  “Mara, may I present my grandmother, Lady Prellae? My lady grandmother—” She turned and squeezed Mara’s hands with great affection. “This is Mara.” She offered her grandmother no false last name. No made-up title. She liked to think that the warmth in her voice when she said Mara’s name said all that needed to be said.

  "A pleasure," her grandmother said with a nod in Mara’s direction. "I have heard a great deal about you. I am so sorry to hear of your plight."

  Had she heard a lot about Mara? Amista’s interest was piqued. If she had, it hadn't been from Amista. But her grandmother had always had her ways, the palace whispers finding a way to circle back to her. And of course, they would all be talking about Mara now. She was an oddity, the hot new gossip.

  Mara didn't respond to the condolences. "You are the grandmother."

  Lady Prellae looked taken aback by the blandly stated fact. “Yes…” she shot Amista an uncertain look before straightening and looking down her nose at Mara as though daring her contradict her. “Yes, I am.”

  "Amista speaks well of you." Mara seemed to struggle for a moment, waging some private internal. "Thank you," she finally managed, the words coming out in a rush. "For caring for her."

  Her grandmother's demeanor softened a bit as she cast Amista a fond look. "She is my granddaughter. My family. And a wonderful girl. It's a pleasure. I would do it even if we didn't share blood."

  Amista grinned, truly touched. "Thank you, grandmother."

  Lady Prellae nodded and stepped aside to find a drink while Amista greeted the next supplicant.

  And the next.

  And the next.

  Twenty minutes
passed and she still had a queue of subjects to get through.

  Beside her, she heard Mara fidgeting and guilt assaulted her. She’d told Mara that this would be a night full of revelry and she was failing to deliver. She turned, covering her mouth to whisper. "Go have a look around, if you like. Get something to eat. This may take a while."

  Mara shot her a grateful look as she slipped away. Loathe as she was to part with her, Mara was used to a great deal more freedom and Amista understood that this wasn't the fun evening she had promised… yet. The night was still young. She had high hopes she’d be able to fulfill those promises later.

  She watched Mara go with a small smile playing about her lips, but her reverie was interrupted when Lord Caleb’s smiling face protruded into her vision, distracting her from her Mara Watch.

  “Your Majesty!”

  "Lord Montipin," she returned, surprised to see him. Her grandmother had arranged a few other meetings, but Amista hadn't been able to make most of them, with everything else going on.

  Plus, there was the niggling feeling of wrongness when she thought of marrying someone else given how she felt about Mara.

  He winced at the formal address and she remembered that he preferred to be called Lord Caleb. "Sorry," she whispered, leaning toward him conspiratorially. "Formal event, you know."

  "It's fine," he whispered back with a wink. "Head in the clouds?" he teased.

  "No," she murmured, her gaze landing on Mara again, her red hair like a beacon among so many banal shades of brown, blonde, and black. "Under the sea, more likely."

  He laughed, shaking his head in wonder. "Most mysterious, Your Majesty. You're an enigma."

  "I don't mean to be, but... perhaps it's better it stay that way," she said, returning his wink.

  "I'll see you on the dance floor later?" He asked, eyes hopeful.

  "Of course." Guilt twisted her insides. This man believed she would marry him. And she'd given him no reason to believe otherwise. He dropped a kiss on her waiting hand. Amista didn't think it her imagination that his lips lingered a moment longer.