Fathoms of Forgiveness (Sacred Breath, Book 2)

by Nadia Scrieva

  “You tacky bitch. How could you do this to me?”

  “I cannot let Vachlan have you,” Aazuria said quietly.

  “It’s too late. You have to let me go. He has my sister. Sionna is worth ten of me.”

  “That is not true.”

  “I’m the one with the concussion. Is there something wrong with your brain?” Visola asked, walking forward until her nose poked through the bars and her forehead was pressed up against them. “Sio is a weirdo whose idea of a naughty weekend is creeping into a library and photocopying modern medical journals. She helps people. In all of the waters of the world, who knows more about mermaid anatomy than she does? Adlivun can’t afford to lose her.”

  “I know that Sionna is brilliant,” Aazuria said, “but I will not sacrifice you.”

  “I want to sacrifice myself,” Visola insisted.

  “You may give up on that idea now, my friend,” Aazuria told her. “I am launching an attack on Zimovia tonight.”

  “Hey, Zuri,” Visola said with a smirk.

  “Yes?”

  “Check your blind-spot.”

  Visola reached out and grabbed Aazuria’s wounded shoulder and pulled her against the bars. Aazuria cried out at the pain of Visola’s tight grip, and did not notice that her friend was stealing her knife from the sheath at her hip. In an instant, Visola had spun Aazuria around so that her back was against the bars. She held her shoulder firmly with one hand, and pressed Aazuria’s own knife against her milky-white throat.

  Visola winked at the guard, who had been unable to stop this. “Give me the keys and the Princess doesn’t get her neck sliced open.”

  “Do not give her the keys,” Aazuria told the guard. “She is bluffing. She would never hurt me.”

  “I don’t know about that, sweetie,” Visola said pressing the knife deeper into Aazuria’s throat. She released her tight grip on her friend’s wounded shoulder, and slipped her arm instead around Aazuria’s waist. She tightened her grip, around the smaller woman’s abdomen, forcing the air out of Aazuria’s lungs and pinning her against the prison bars. “You knocked me over the head and put me in prison, didn’t you? I think that changes our relationship a little bit.”

  Although Visola was much taller and more heavily muscled than Aazuria, the princess did not show any fear. “You know that I did so for your own safety. I expect that you respect my surprising use of force and you understand my actions,” Aazuria said, completely unfazed by the knife against her throat.

  “That may be true,” Visola said in a low tone, close to Aazuria’s ear, “but I’m also mightily pissed off. Very much in the mood for slitting throats… maybe with some candlelight and soft music in the background. Hey, guard lady, can you hum a romantic tune as I sever Aazuria’s jugular?”

  Aazuria sighed, wiggling with discomfort. “This is not convincing, Visola.”

  “Then you grossly overestimate my sanity. Due to the fact that I am a maniacal psychopath, my momentary anger at you is effortlessly overpowering centuries of adoration.” Visola gestured to the guard with her chin. “Hey, you over there. Haven’t you heard stories about the bloodthirsty and irrational General Visola Ramaris?”

  The young guard nodded, with a visible amount of anxiety on her face.

  “Well, little Oatmeal Cookie, how would you like to witness a spectacular assassination?” Visola gave her an enchanting smile. “I know how to slit a throat so that it makes a little mini-fountain for a few seconds. My daddy taught me when I was a little girl. You see, I’ve killed so many people. Hundreds of people—I’ve lost count really. As with anything one does frequently, you develop a taste for it, a knack for it, and ultimately a style. Style is the most important thing… do you doubt my stylishness?”

  “No,” the guard said, shaking her head and swallowing fearfully. “No, I think you’re really stylish.”

  “Dear Sedna,” Aazuria groaned. “She is playing you, Lieutenant. Do not listen to her. She means me no harm.”

  “Is that so? Check this out, Apple Strudel.” Visola winked at the young guard before digging her knife into Aazuria’s neck.

  “Just ignore her antics,” Aazuria was telling the guard. “She is not actually going to... ow!”

  Visola cut into her friend’s neck until blood began to drip in two rivulets down the pale throat of the princess. Aazuria found herself suddenly standing very still and breathing very evenly as she felt the pain and pressure at her neck. She felt a quiver of uncertainty run through her as she felt the warm wetness of her own blood dripping down her neck. Her lips slightly parted in surprise at the volume of the fast-moving streams which were already trickling down over her breasts. “Viso,” she whispered.

  In a clear and even voice, with unwavering eye contact, Visola declared her intentions to the guard. “I’m going to slice deeper and deeper with this knife until I cut right through Princess Aazuria Vellamo’s throat unless you open my cell right now.”

  Aazuria felt a small tremor of fear in her gut. The tone in Visola’s voice was deadly; she had never heard her friend speak like this. “Visola,” she whispered hoarsely against the blade pressing on her larynx. “This is high treason.”

  “Ha! I’m the treacherous one? You knocked me out and put me in the dungeons like a common delinquent! You let my sister get abducted because you wouldn’t let me follow Vachlan’s demands! You obviously didn’t care about your own sister enough to take the right actions to save her, but guess what?” Visola’s furious voice had become a hiss. “I’m not a pussy like you, Aazuria. I won’t let Sio be cut up into pieces, even if it means killing you to save her.”

  Aazuria closed her eyes tightly, feeling tears prick at them for the first time since Corallyn’s death. “How can you say all this, Viso? It is not that I did not care about my sister. I loved Coral. I just valued your life more than hers! I could not let anything happen to you, Viso. I just couldn’t.”

  The young guard finally succumbed to her confusion and opened the door of the cell with nervous, fumbling hands. Visola removed the dagger from Aazuria’s throat, and released her. Aazuria crumpled to a heap on the floor, sobbing. Visola exited the cell and knelt beside her friend.

  “I know, Zuri. I know,” she said, tightly hugging the princess.

  “I screwed up,” Aazuria said, through her tears. “I acted with personal interests. I let emotion cloud my judgment. How could I have known he would do that? How can I know what he will do to you? It’s impossible,” she said. “I do not want Sio to get hurt, but I will not lose you.”

  “The right thing to do in this situation is to throw me to the wolves.”

  “I can’t!”

  “I know. That’s why I’m making your decision for you. Love you, Zuri.” She pulled away, and slammed the hilt of Aazuria’s own knife into her friend’s head. Aazuria crumpled to the floor as Visola rose to her feet.

  Visola moved over to the stunned guard, and grabbed the key from her. “Go into the cell,” she ordered. The frightened guard did not hesitate to comply. Visola stooped down to grasp Aazuria, and gently dragged her friend behind the bars as well, laying her out on the ground.

  Visola turned to the guard. “What is your name?”

  “Namaka,” the girl answered timidly.

  Visola grabbed Aazuria’s dress and tore a strip off, handing it to the guard. “Namaka, press this against her neck to stop the bleeding.” The young woman complied as Visola observed her features. “You’re from Bimini, aren’t you?” Visola asked with a frown. The girl nodded, and Visola glared at her. “I am the only one who can stop Vachlan, and I need to do this alone. Do you understand me?”

  Namaka nodded. “I understand, General Ramaris.”

  Visola chewed on her lip for a moment, before holding up her wrist. “I have not removed this bracelet in five centuries.” She reached down and fiddled with the clasp. “Zuri selected you to watch over me for a reason. Now I’m appointing you to watch over her. You will answer to my grandson. Keep an eye
on him as well. Do not allow them a single unguarded moment —but give them the illusion of having plenty of privacy.” Visola fastened the bracelet around the young girl’s wrist.

  “You are now her private guard. Take care of her for me,” Visola commanded. “Do not even leave her side. Especially don’t let her come after me.”

  Upon seeing the girl nod again, Visola reached out and touched her shoulder. “You’ve done a good job here, Namaka. Now it’s up to you to keep the princess safe.”

  “I will try my best, General Ramaris,” Namaka said, giving Visola the salute of honor. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks, kid. I’m gonna need it.”

  Chapter 11: Sunday, February 23rd

  Her two-hundredth wedding anniversary was as good of a day to die on as any other.

  This was her manner of thinking as she stealthily navigated through a pitch black cave, her footsteps making no sound whatsoever. Her crazy, whimsical plan which would never, in a million years, be successful was to sneak down into the bowels of the Zimovia Islets through the secret passages that she knew quite well. She would steal her sister, who was hopefully bound and unharmed in the exact spot from which she emerged, as well as unguarded—or at least, lightly guarded by a few of Zalcan’s warriors of whom Visola would easily dispose. Then Visola would melodramatically hug Sionna and escape with her sister back through the tunnels into the dead of the night. They would escape through the forests to where Visola had stashed her fast boat, and make it home in time to have herbal tea with their friends in the evening. She visualized nursing a comforting cup of chamomile, while Sionna had either ginger or peppermint.

  This slapdash plan could conceivably work, Visola reasoned. Stranger things had happened. Fortune was a fickle thing. There might even be several resplendent rainbows, cauldrons of gold, and baskets of fresh seasonal fruit magically waiting for them in the boat upon their escape from Zimovia. (In her gung-ho zest for adventure and rebellion, Visola had forgotten to pack a lunch.) If life suddenly decided to become all fairytale-like, all of these things would surely happen and more. The fruit would be dipped in chocolate or topped with whipped cream, and there would be an excellent dessert wine for accompaniment. Her stomach growled. She quickly calculated the probability of this happening to precisely negative nine-thousand percent. These were delightfully encouraging odds.

  Visola had already encountered two roadblocks in her path. Literally; two of the secret passages that she knew led down into the submerged caverns of Zimovia had been naturally barricaded with the passage of time. It would take hours to uncover all the dirt, fallen trees, growing trees, and networks of roots that had covered and changed the areas she used to know so well. It was rather disarming and disconcerting to see that the foliage and landscape of Zimovia had changed so greatly since she had last been there.

  How could the earth have changed so much while she remained exactly the same?

  Certain paths and landmarks were emblazoned so strongly on her memory that it made her feel extremely out of touch with reality to see that the images did not match the silhouettes of her mind’s eye. It was a strange kind of nostalgia, which almost physically pained her. She had to admit that it was not the place which she was remembering, but the keen experience of beholding the place with the person she loved. She could recall walking hand in hand with Vachlan through these forests so vividly that it almost felt as if his hand was still in hers. Visola did not intend for this thought to bring a small, peaceful smile to her lips, but she was completely alone in the dark, and about to die, so it did.

  She remembered worrying that he would not see the same beauty in the place as she did. She remembered worrying that her own vision was tainted by the fact that her father had brought her here to train for blissful years on end when she was a child. They had mostly stayed underwater, but occasionally she and her sister would sneak up to explore the land through their various secret tunnels. Yes, it was theirs; she had never felt like she owned a place more than the Zimovia Islets. It had been her private, cherished gem until she had chosen to share it with Vachlan.

  “We could go anywhere in the world for our honeymoon, and you choose to go there?” he had asked with mild surprise in his tone.

  She had nodded, a bit embarrassed. “If you would prefer to have grand exploits somewhere we have never been, we can do that instead…”

  “The most sacred places are often close to home,” he had answered. “We can explore at any time, and we will have plenty of time to do so. Let us go to the place you treasure the most.”

  He had made love to her there, fashioning Zimovia to be even more beautiful to her for a fleeting time. Alcyone had almost certainly been conceived there. Then, with his unexpected and sudden abandonment, Visola had found herself wandering this island heavily pregnant and at the cusp of insanity for years. Most of the mermaids in Adlivun chose to spend the durations of their pregnancies exclusively on land to accelerate the process of gestation. However, many of the members of the royal families and aristocracy chose to remain underwater to elongate the gestation of their unborn children, just it did to their own lifespans. They believed that this resulted in healthier, more capable offspring, but it took great mental and physical stamina for a woman to be able to sustain such an extended pregnancy. Especially alone.

  Perhaps the saddest part was that she had truly believed that Vachlan would return.

  During that phase of her life, she had been surprisingly weak. Far too weak to be a mother. She could not believe that her husband had left her, and she had lived in denial until she was consumed by fantasy. It had taken great efforts from her sister and Aazuria to pull her out of delirium. When she was finally able to move past it, she had needed to cast all memory of Vachlan from her mind in order to function.

  She did not often allow herself to remember, but since it was possibly her final night among the living, she figured that she might as well face her darkest memories. She might as well face the fact that the reason they were her darkest memories was because they were ultimately the happiest ones which she had no chance of ever experiencing again. They were the joyous moments which had become so tainted and sour that she could not bear to revisit them.

  Visola had reached the third passage on her list, which was accessible from the bottom of a sizable pond. A tunnel extended downward from the seabed in something of a natural staircase. As she navigated the dark passage which had not been used in decades, she disturbed and frightened much of the reclusive sea-life who had made it their home.

  As she descended, she began to wonder exactly what she would say to her husband when she saw him. It would have to be adequately flippant and aloof. Her face would have to be completely expressionless. “Hey, Studmuffin. Here I am. A lot of trouble you went through for a booty call,” she practiced with her hands. Her brow immediately creased. No, I will not address him like that, she scolded herself mentally.

  She recognized this indecision and hesitant practicing of speeches as nervousness. It had been a long time since she had felt so apprehensive about meeting someone. It had nothing to do with the fact that Vachlan was sitting on an army of unknown multitudes. (Death and torture did not terrify her as much as they should have, and she indifferently acknowledged that many would chalk this up to some kind of mental illness. She merely considered it a peculiar personality quirk. Everyone was different, after all.) No, it had everything to do with the fact that Vachlan was Vachlan.

  No other man could put irritating winged insects in her stomach the way that he could.

  She had always known that he would be her undoing. Now, it seemed, she was approaching the moment of her undoing and all she could really do was determine the most stylish way to extinguish her candle. She would clutch fast to her style until her last breath, and when her style was gone, beneath it would be her honor. She began to experiment once more with the best sign language greeting. Maybe something cool, modern, and American sounding. Her brows creased with the effort. “Hey,
Swordfish. Heard you been killin’ a lot of people. How’s that workin’ for ya?” She shook her head angrily at herself. “Mornin’, Alligator. Sorry about Atargatis, your bed-buddy. I accidentally killed her. Oopsie.” That would not do either.

  Visola was fairly confident that this route offered her at least the element of surprise. Not that anything could ever surprise the brilliant strategist that was her husband. He thought of every possible outcome to every scenario. He was a genius. Her hopes were not high, nor were they moderate, nor were they even palpable. She could not plan ahead, or consider the future. She had to take each rung of the proverbial ladder at the pace of one agonizing step at a time.

  Here was a rung. She found herself quite suddenly out in the open, in a well-lit underwater area. There were people here. Mostly men. Heavily armored men who snarled when they caught sight of her and recognized her colors. She wondered if they were expecting her, and if they would guide her to Vachlan without a fight. A second later, when they began to slowly advance in a warlike pattern, her question was answered.

  And the adrenaline started.

  She quickly did an assessment of how many there were, and it was just over a dozen. They had been caught off-guard, or at least they gave her the distinct impression that this was the case. She observed the way they moved, and she smiled. This was not going to be a big deal. It might be a bit time consuming and wasteful of energy (she cursed inwardly again for neglecting to bring snacks) but they were not elite warriors by any means. Her father had pitted her against groups like these when she was a pre-teen, and they had not gotten any more difficult to defeat.

  Besides, today was one of those days on which she rather felt like being a one-woman-army. She often had days like these, but there was usually no opportunity to act on the feeling. She knew she should appreciate the circumstances. Visola did not reach onto her back to access one of the two rifles which hung there. One of the swords on her hip would be enough. Visola hacked away at her attackers with ease, almost as though on an automated setting, and she found it somewhat therapeutic. While she did this, she continued to consider what she should say to Vachlan. That was far more taxing than wiping the floor with a few ill-trained lackeys.