Waterfire Saga, Book One: Deep Blue (A Waterfire Saga Novel)

by Jennifer Donnelly

  In the lava’s glow, Neela could see the faces of the crowd. Many were excited. Others looked nervous, even fearful. With good reason, she thought. Generations of young mermaids had been crowned heiress to the Miromaran throne here, but others—imposters all—had died agonizing deaths. Her eyes flickered to the heavy iron grille that covered a cavernous opening in the floor of the Kolisseo. Twenty brawny mermen stood by it, wearing armor and holding shields. Fear’s icy fingers squeezed her heart as tried to imagine what lurked underneath it.

  Serafina must be terrified, she thought. She’s right—this is a barbaric ceremony. It was hard to reconcile the Miromarans, a people so cultured and refined, with such a gruesome ritual.

  “It’s about to start!” Yazeed exclaimed. “I hear music! Look, Neela!”

  He pointed to the archway on the opposite side of the Kolisseo. A hush fell over the crowd as a merman, grand and majestic, emerged from it. He moved at a stately pace, his red robes flowing behind him. A matching turban with a narwhal’s tusk protruding from it graced his head. A scimitar, its gold hilt encrusted with jewels, hung from his belt.

  Neela knew he was the Mehterabaşi, leader of the Janiçari, Isabella’s personal guard. Fierce fighters from the waters off Turkey’s southern coast, they wore breastplates made of blue crab shells and osprey-skull epaulets. A line of orca’s teeth ran across the top of each of their bronze helmets.

  The Janiçari followed their leader out of the archway, swimming in tight formation. Some played boru—long, thin trumpets. Others played the davul—bass drums made from giant clamshells. The rest sang of the bravery of their regina in deep, rumbling voices. It was an immense sound, intended to terrify Miromara’s enemies. Neela thought it did the job well.

  After twenty lines of Janiçari had marched into the Kolisseo, another figure—one very different from the fearsome soldiers—appeared in the archway.

  “Oh, doesn’t Sera look gorgeous!” Neela whispered.

  “Merl’s so hot, she melts my face off,” Yazeed said.

  “Wow. That’s appropriate, Yaz,” said Neela.

  Mahdi stared silently.

  Serafina sat sidesaddle atop a graceful gray hippokamp. She wore a simple gown of pale green sea silk. The color, worn by mer brides, symbolized her bond with her people, her future husband, and the sea. Over the gown, she wore an exquisite brocade mantle, the same deep green as her eyes. It was richly embroidered with copper thread and studded with red coral, pearls, and emeralds—the jewels of Merrow’s crown. Her copper-brown hair floated around her shoulders. Her head was unadorned. Her face, with its high cheekbones, was elegant and fine. But it’s her eyes that make her truly beautiful, Neela thought. They sparkled with intelligence and humor, darkened with doubt sometimes, and shone in their depths with love. No matter how hard she tried to hide it.

  The second the Miromarans spotted her, they were out of their seats and cheering. The noise rolled over the amphitheater like a storm. Serafina, solemn as the occasion demanded, kept her eyes straight ahead.

  The Mehterabaşi reached the base of the royal enclosure and stopped. His troops—with Serafina in the midst of them—followed suit. He struck his chest with his fist, then saluted his regina. It was a gesture of both love and respect. In perfect unison, all five hundred Janiçari did the same. Isabella struck her chest and saluted back, and another cheer went up. The boru players blew loud blasts.

  Serafina’s hippokamp didn’t like the noise. She pawed at the water with her front hooves and thrashed her serpentine tail. Her eyes, yellow and slitted like a snake’s, shifted nervously.

  As Serafina calmed her, the Mehterabaşi turned to his troops and raised his scimitar, then sliced it through the water. As he did, the Janiçari moved forward, splitting their formation in the middle, so that half marched to the right, and half to the left. When they had ringed the amphitheater, the Mehterabaşi sheathed his scimitar, swam to Serafina, and helped her dismount. She removed her mantle and handed it to him. She would face Alítheia in only her dress. It would be her coronation gown or her shroud.

  The Mehterabaşi handed her his scimitar, then led her hippokamp away. Serafina was alone in the center of the amphitheater. When the cheers died down she spoke, her voice ringing out over the ancient stones.

  “Citizens of Miromara, esteemed guests, most gracious regina, I come before you tonight to declare myself of the blood, a daughter of Merrow, and heiress to the Miromaran throne.”

  Isabella, regal atop her throne, spoke next. “Beloved subjects, we the mer are a people born of destruction. In Atlantis’s end was our beginning. For four thousand years we have endured. For four thousand years, the Merrovingia have ruled Miromara. We have kept you safe, worked tirelessly to see you prosper. Descended from the one who made us all, we are bound heart and soul, by oath and by blood, to carry on her rule. I give you my only daughter, this child of my body and of my heart, but I cannot give you your heiress. Only Alítheia can do this. What say you, good people?”

  The Miromarans erupted into cheering again.

  Isabella took a deep breath. Her back was straight. Her manner calm. But Neela could see her hands shaking. “Release the anarachna!” she commanded.

  “What’s happening?” Yazeed whispered.

  “This is the blooding, the first part of the Dokimí,” Neela explained. “Where we find out if Serafina truly is a descendant of Merrow.”

  “What if she’s not?” Yazeed asked.

  “Don’t say that, Yaz,” Mahdi said. “Don’t even think it.”

  Neela looked at him and saw that his hands were knotted into fists.

  The armored mermen posted around the iron grille in the center of the amphitheater worked together to raise it. Heavy chains were attached to thick iron loops on its front edge. The mermen heaved at the chains and little by little, the grille lifted. Finally, it swung back on its hinges and clanged down loudly against the stone floor. A few seconds went by, then a few minutes. Nothing happened. The Miromarans, restless and tense, murmured among themselves. A few, very daring or very stupid, called the anarachna’s name.

  “Who are they calling?” Yazeed asked. “What’s in the hole?”

  Neela had studied up on the Dokimí ceremony. She leaned in close to him to tell him what she’d learned. “When Merrow was old and close to death,” she explained, “she wanted to make sure only her descendants ruled Miromara. So she asked the goddess of the sea, Neria, and Bellogrim, the god of fire, to forge a creature of bronze.”

  “Duh, Neels. I know that much. I’m not dumb.”

  “That’s highly debatable,” Neela said. “When the Feuerkumpel were smelting the ore for the creature, Neria brought the dying Merrow to their blast furnace. As soon as the molten metal was ready, she slashed Merrow’s palm and held it over the vat so the creature would have the blood of Merrow in her veins and know it from imposters’ blood. Neria waited until the bronze was cast and had cooled, and then she herself breathed life into Alítheia.”

  “Wow,” Yazeed said.

  “Yeah,” Neela said. She looked at Mahdi. All the color had drained from his face. He seemed positively ill.

  Yazeed noticed too. He leaned forward. “Mahdi, you squid! I told you to lay off the sand worms last night. They were way too spicy. Are you going to hurl? Want my turban?”

  “I’m cool,” Mahdi said.

  But he didn’t look cool. Not at all, Neela thought. His eyes were rooted on Sera. His hand was on the scimitar at his side. He was tense, as if he was ready to spring out of his seat at any second.

  A roar—high, thin, and metallic—suddenly shook the amphitheater. It sounded like a ship’s hull being torn apart on jagged rocks. An articulated leg, dagger-sharp at its tip, arched up out of the hole and pounded down against the stones. It was followed by another, and another. A head appeared. The creature hissed, baring curved, foot-long fangs. A gasp—part awe, part horror—rose from the crowd as it crawled all the way out of the hole.

  “No. Poss
ible. Way,” Yazeed said. “M, are you seeing this? Because if you’re not, then I’m, like, completely insane.”

  “Sera, no,” Mahdi said.

  Yazeed shook his head. “I can’t believe that thing’s Ala…Alo…”

  “A-LEE-thee-a,” Neela said. “Greek for—”

  “Big, ugly, scary-wrasse monster sea spider,” Yaz said.

  “—truth,” Neela said.

  The creature reared, clawing at the water with her front legs. A drop of amber venom fell from her fangs. Eight black eyes looked around the amphitheater—and came to rest upon her prey.

  “Imposssster,” she hissed.

  At Serafina.

  QUIA MERROW DECRIVIT.

  But how? Serafina wondered desperately. How could she have done this? How could she have forced all those who came after her to endure this?

  Looking up at the massive creature, its bronze body blackened by time, Serafina was certain she would collapse from terror.

  “You fear me! As you ssssshould. I will have your blood, imposssster. I will have your bonessss….”

  Alítheia scuttled toward her, her body low to the ground, her horrible black eyes glittering.

  Serafina stifled a cry. In her head, she heard Tavia’s voice, telling her the story of a treacherous contessa who’d lived hundreds of years ago. The contessa had stolen the real principessa when she was newly born, and put her own infant daughter—enchanted to look like the principessa—in her place. The young mermaid herself, the regina, and everyone else in Miromara believed she was the true principessa—everyone but Alítheia. She’d sunk her fangs into the mermaid’s neck and dragged the poor imposter into her den. Her body was never recovered.

  “We never know who we are, child, until we’re tested,” Tavia had said.

  What if I’m not who I think I am? Serafina asked herself. She imagined Alítheia’s fangs sinking into her own neck, and being dragged off, half alive, to the creature’s den.

  The spider skittered over the stones. She was only yards away now.

  “No heiresssss are you….Usssssurper are you….Death to all pretendersssss….”

  She circled, coming closer and closer, then lowered her head until her terrible fangs were only inches from Serafina’s face. Another drop of venom fell on the stones.

  “Who are you, imposssster?”

  Serafina felt her courage falter. She backed away from the creature, turning her eyes from its awful face. As she did, her gaze fell upon the mer seated in the amphitheater—thousands and thousands of them. She was their principessa, her mother’s only daughter. If she failed them, if she swam away like a coward, who would lead them when her mother’s time was done? Who would protect them as fiercely as Isabella had?

  And suddenly she knew the answer to the creature’s question. And the knowledge filled her with new courage and with strength. Bravely, Serafina faced the spider. “I am theirs, Alítheia,” she said. “I am my people’s. That’s who I am.”

  She raised the scimitar the Mehterabaşi had given her and drew its blade across her palm. It bit into her flesh. Blood plumed from the wound. She raised her bleeding hand, palm up. The spider advanced.

  “I am Serafina, daughter of Isabella, a princess of the blood. Declare me so.”

  Alítheia hissed. She pressed her bristly palps against the wound and tasted Serafina’s blood. And then she reared up, screaming in rage. She spun away from Serafina and slammed her legs down, cracking the stones beneath her. “No flesshhhh for Alítheia! No bonesss for Alítheia!” she howled.

  She scuttled around the amphitheater, menacing her keepers, trying to crawl over them and get at the Miromarans. The merpeople screamed and rushed from their seats, but the keepers held her back by brandishing lava globes. The white, molten rock, hot enough to melt bronze, was the only thing in the world the spider feared.

  “Alítheia!” a voice called out loudly. It was Isabella. “Alítheia, hear me!”

  The spider sullenly turned to her.

  “What is your decree?”

  Not a sound was heard. It was as if the sea itself was holding its breath. The spider crawled to the royal enclosure and took Merrow’s crown in her fangs. She returned to Serafina and placed it upon her head. Then she bent her front legs in a bow, and said, “Hail, Sssssserafina, daughter of Merrow, princesssss of the blood, rightful heiressssss to the throne of Miromara.”

  Serafina made a deep curtsy to her mother. The cheer that went up was deafening. After a moment, she rose, carefully balancing Merrow’s crown. It was heavier than she’d expected. Her heart was still hammering from her encounter with Alítheia, and her palm was throbbing, but she felt proud and exhilarated.

  All around the amphitheater, the merfolk rose, still cheering. In the royal enclosure, Isabella and Bilaal rose, and the rest of the royal party followed their example. A bright flash of blue caught Serafina’s eye.

  It was Mahdi. He was wearing a turquoise silk jacket and a red turban. It killed her to admit it, but he was so handsome. She’d seen his face in her dreams for the last two years. It was different from what she’d remembered. Older. More angular. He caught her eye and smiled. It was beautiful, his smile. But it was a little bit awkward, too. A little bit goby. In that smile, Serafina saw the Mahdi she’d once known.

  It made her heart ache to see that Mahdi. Where had he gone?

  She didn’t have long to dwell on that question, or the sadness it made her feel. The boru players blew a fanfare. The Mehterabaşi swam to her with her mantle and helped her back into it. Then he wrapped a bandage around her wounded hand.

  The blooding was over. She knew what came next—the second of her tests, the casting. Her stomach squeezed with apprehension. This was the moment she’d worked so hard for, the moment when talent, study, and practice came together.

  Or didn’t.

  NOW SERAFINA cleared her mind, of everyone and everything except for music and magic.

  Magic depended on so many things—the depth of one’s gift, experience, dedication, the position of the moon, the rhythm of the tides, the proximity of whales. It didn’t settle until one was fully grown; Serafina knew that. But she needed it to be with her now, and she prayed to the gods that it would be.

  Taking a deep breath, she pulled on everything strong and sure inside of her, and started to sing. Her voice was high and clear and carried beautifully through the water. She sang a simple, charming welcome to the Matalis, telling them how happy Miromara was to receive them. When she finished, she bent to the ground, scooped up a handful of silt, and threw it above her head. Nihil ex nihil. That was the first rule of sea magic: Nothing comes from nothing. Magic needed matter.

  Serafina’s voice caught the silt as it rose in the water, molded it, and then embellished it with color and light, until it took on the appearance of a lush island with bustling ports, palaces, and temples. She enlarged the image until it filled the amphitheater. Next, she summoned a shoal of small, silver fish. These she transformed into the island’s inhabitants and as she did, her image became a living tableau.

  The island, she told her listeners, was the ancient empire of Atlantis, nestled in the Aegean Sea. Its people were the ancestors of the mer. It was their story she sang now. Her voice was not the most beautiful in the realm, nor the most polished, but it was pure and true, and it held her listeners spellbound.

  Using her magic, she showed how humans from all over the world: artists, scholars, doctors, scientists—the best and brightest of their day—had come to Atlantis. She showed farmers in their fields, sailors on their ships, merchants in their storehouses—all prosperous and peaceful. She sang of the island’s powerful mages—the Six Who Ruled: Orfeo, Merrow, Navi, Pyrra, Sycorax, and Nyx. She sang of its glory and its might.

  And then she sang of the catastrophe.

  Heavy with emotion, her voice swooped into a minor key, telling how Atlantis was destroyed by a violent earthquake. Pulling light from above, pushing and bending water, conjuring images, she p
ortrayed the island’s destruction—the earth cracking apart, the lava pouring from its wounds, the shrieks of its people.

  She sang of Merrow, and how she saved the Atlanteans by calling them into the water and beseeching Neria to help them. As the dying island sank beneath the waves, the goddess transformed its terrified people and gave them sea magic. They fought her at first, struggling to keep their heads above water, to breathe air, screaming as their legs knit together and their flesh sprouted fins. As the sea pulled them under, they tried to breathe water. It was agony. Some could do it. Others could not, and the waves carried their bodies away.

  Serafina let the images of a ruined Atlantis fall through the water and fade. Then she tossed another handful of silt up, and conjured a new image—of Miromara.

  Show them your heart, Thalassa had told her. She would. Miromara was her heart.

  With joy, she sang of those who survived and how they made Merrow their ruler. She sang of Miromara and how it became the first realm of the merfolk. Her voice soared, gliding up octaves, hitting each note perfectly. She was conjuring images of the mer, showing them in all their beauty—some with the sleek, silver scales of a mackerel, some with the legs of crabs or the armored bodies of lobsters, others with the tails of sea horses or the tentacles of squids. She sang of Neria’s gifts: canta mirus and canta prax.

  She showed how the merfolk of Miromara spread out into all the waters of the world, salt and fresh. Some—longing for the places they’d left when still human to journey to Atlantis—returned to the shores of their native lands and founded new realms: Atlantica; Qin in the Pacific Ocean; the rivers, lakes, and ponds of the Freshwaters; Ondalina in the Arctic waters; and the Indian Ocean empire of Matali.

  Then Serafina pulled rays of sun through the water, rolled them into a sphere, and tossed it onto the seafloor. When the sunsphere landed, it exploded upward into a golden blaze of light. As the glittering pieces of light descended, she depicted Matali, and told its history, showing it from its beginnings as a small outpost off the Seychelle Islands to an empire that encompassed the Indian Ocean, the Arabian Sea, and the Bay of Bengal.