Verse IX

  The cloying darkness of the back tunnnels no longer bothered Marai as it once did, though she would never claim to enjoy the long and winding passages that had gone so long forgotten without the light of day to reveal them. The secret spaces at the end of the tunnel made it all worth the while. An hour spent admiring the statue of the green mer and enjoying Rhiela's presence made the return trip every bit as agreeable.

  At her waist, a line of scallop shells clicked together upon their sinew cord. She had retrieved the record, the Discourses of Deirdre min Thesia, from the exact shelf her mother had specified in her public office. In theory, she and the princess could have spent time that day studying their theosophical arguments.

  Another time would come; she was sure of that.

  "Come on, Marai," said her best of friends. "We need to get cleaned up and then... oh, hello." The princess's voice changed in tone and direction, carrying far down the hall to the entrance of her personal chambers. They had kept someone waiting. Again.

  Prestra Nehemi did not seem too fussed about it. The young leondra was much the same as last they had seen her, though her kilt now bore the proper emblems of her temple rank. Rather than floating in meditation, the prestra was deep in conversation with one of Bryndoon's royal guards. Tall in the back and long in the tail, with deep brown hair and two long knives at her hips: this was a mer whom Marai and the princess recognized.

  "Shalar!" Rhiela cried happily. The golden mer swam over with swift strokes. "When did you return to the harbor? Your pod was gone forever and a week!"

  "Your Highness." Shalar of the long knives saluted, with every line of her body at attention, only to relax a beat later. "And Marai. It has been a while. My pod only returned this morning in the early hours, and already they have me to work." The guard nodded to Nehemi. "Though I would not complain for the company."

  The leondra had a nervous smile. "And I thank you for your guidance. I should be able to see the city for myself on the morrow."

  "In fact, you were the final stop in my escort duty," Shalar told the princess. "Would you care to guess how long we have been here at your chamber portal, Your Highness?"

  Rhiela's laugh was even more nervous. "Ah... my apologies, Shalar. Prestra. We... Marai and I have a little space in the back tunnels where we go to study these days. It is so busy around the palace now, if you have not noticed. My coming of age celebration and all. I was afraid you'd miss it!" And with that, the princess faced the guard with her fists on her flanks and full attitude deployed. "Really, does it take that long to go and come back?"

  "Under a perfect firmament, no, but as I've been relating to the prestra here, it was an eventful tour of duty."

  "It all sounds so dangerous," Nehemi admitted. "I confess to wondering why I left my own home waters when I hear you tell of such things."

  The guard chuckled. "More likely to die of boredom than anything else. The exciting parts are few and far between, and I will say that rogue murderers and roaming orcs make me wish more for the boring parts to continue."

  The golden mer leaned in close. "Ah, with a tease like that, I must certainly hear more. Wouldn't you agree, Marai?"

  "Ah, y-yes, Rhiela..." In all honesty, she felt about as uncertain about hearing the details as Prestra Nehemi seemed to feel about having heard them. Murderers and orcs were the things of the adventure tales a mother told to daughters before bedtime, and not to the actual seas below the firmament.

  "My apologies, Your Highness," said the guard, "but I have stayed at my post overly long as it is. Next I must go help the new members settle in at the barracks." Shalar shook her head in mock dismay. "Some of them arrived just today and it has been, shall we say, not an easy transition."

  "Enough to make one miss the, ah, rogue murderers and roaming orcs?" asked Nehemi. "But I do thank you again for showing me the city today. I shall be fine on my own, of course, but if ever you have the time I would not mind hearing more of your thoughts."

  Shalar saluted, her hand not quite covering the quirk of a grin on her face. "Always a pleasure, prestra. And later to you as well, Your Highness."

  "So..." Rhiela said as the guard swam off at her fastest stroke. "Prestra, you had business with us again? I did not miss another summons, did I?"

  Nehemi bowed her head, sending a few bubbles free from the fur of her cheeks. "Her Holiness would invite you to a short meeting on the over-morrow," said she. "It was considered more reasonable to send the invitation two days ahead to avoid any inconvenient conflicts of schedule."

  "Of course it was..." said the princess. Marai knew that tone. Rhiela had run out of ways to avoid the summons, but the inevitability of the situation was slow in sinking across her brain. "But I thank you for taking the time and trouble, prestra. I wish you a good evening."

  "And may the blessings of the All-Mother Cythera lend restfulness to your slumber."

  Verse X

  Behind the fa?ade of the palace, the tunnels of the royal cliff flowed with industry. Stocks of fish required attention in special grottoes, fruiting pods and edible kelps were prepared for the banquet, and the palace maids tended to the decorations All of this bustle extended only to the first layer or two behind the rock face, however. As Rhiela and Marai were well aware, the network of passageways extended much further than that. Not even the princess knew their full extent, and there were areas which she had the good sense not to pry.

  Ministra Marhyd's personal spaces were just such a zone. The head of the royal ministry had her own bulbous structure dangling from the cliff face, as suited her rank in the court, but that was merely her outer study, fit only for entertaining officials. Most of her real work happened deep behind the palace face, in twisty passages the original purpose of which had been lost to time.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  It was certainly not the most convenient of places, as Marhyd thought, not for the first time. Private, yes. Secure, definitely. Accommodating to her figure, absolutely not. She winced as her scales scraped against the frame of the portal. If the proper implements were at hand, then it would be a simple matter to shave the stone until the problem ceased to exist. She saved that thought for later.

  Marhyd kept several workshops in this layer, more than anyone else realized. Some held shells upon shells of detailed records pertaining to the study of rune-crafting. Others held the finished products of her never-ending quest to restore the arts lost in the fall of Le?si, more than two centuries in the past. This night, however, her destination was a place of different purpose. The narrow worm-burrow of a tunnel was lit by a dozen glow-lamps. At regular intervals, a portal would appear in the wall, barred doors without lock or latch. Only the appropriate cantrip would trigger the runes holding them fast. It had been some time since she had last made use of this area, and Marhyd nodded with approval as she inspected the glow-lamps for freshness.

  Of the dozen rooms that branched away from this hallway, only one was inhabited. A single mer stirred from her resting stone to stare at the ministra. They were of an age, the two of them, each having about four decades behind them in this life. Where Marhyd was rotund from years of good eating, the mer in the cell was thin and sleek, with the pinched features of one who had known privation in the past. Her brown hair already showed thick streaks of grey, but there was a vibrancy to her dark green eyes as they met Marhyd's own amber gaze.

  "The servitors have been taking good care of you, I hope?" said the ministra.

  The other mer simply gestured to the floor, where the remains of a simple meal had attracted scavengers, the blind shrimp and tiny crabs that habitually occupied these chambers. "Of the food, I can complain not," said the mer in a strained but formal tone. "Of the accommodations... I believe you may imagine my thoughts there."

  "Yes, yes," said Marhyd. "I am sorry that such is necessary for the moment. Moreover, I truly regret the manner in which you came to be my guest here. Lieutenant Grett was well chastised for the way in which she handled the affair."

  She settled herself on the other side of the cage's door. It was snug against her flanks, but that could not be helped. From her side pouch, she retrieved a sac of kyun-pods, little red treats that went sweetly pop in the mouth when a mer bit down. Being a polite hostess, she offered some to her guest, but the other mer shook her head in equally polite refusal.

  "Why am I here?"

  "A fair question," Marhyd conceded. "You are here, Messra Diana min Na?da of the Mere Sangolia, because of an item which was found in your possession. A lovely little trinket it is, with some qualities in which we are quite interested. I of course speak of this."

  The ministra's other hand unfurled to reveal a small ring. It fit comfortably in the center of her palm, stark black against pale flesh. It appeared to be carved from obsidian, the dark stone glass which the galda sometimes provided, but Marhyd had already determined the material to be too strong for that. The color was subtly off, like a flow of black blood seen in dark waters, and glints appeared when it was held to the light, without pattern or repetition. It was doubtless a work of rune-craft, and a marvelously skilled work at that. How a provincial hunter had acquired such a bauble was a mystery which she hoped to solve now, and she watched Diana carefully for a reaction.

  At the sight of the ring, Diana stirred from her resting place and approached the bars for the first time. "That is not yours."

  "Ah, but is it yours? That is the question I wish to have answered." Marhyd pulled her hand back, returning the ring to a pocket of her tunic. "I was not aware that the Mere Sangolia had crafters capable of such a work. To be honest, I am not sure if the Mere Tessra? has any such mer, either. Exquisite in every way. And yet, it is in the possession of an average mer like yourself? It beggars the imagination."

  "It was a... a gift," said Diana. "A memento."

  "From whom, my I ask?"

  "A friend."

  "A lover?" She noted the twitch below the hunter's right eye. "Or rather, a liaison. Something meant to be kept secret."

  The green eyes turned hard as their owner glared at the ministra. Despite herself, Marhyd was amused. Such attitude was not a regular sight for her these days. She turned to hide the grin spreading across her face. "I have little time to spare for you this day, Messra min Na?da," she said. "So we shall have to continue this conversation later. I hope you shall take this opportunity to collect your thoughts and consider your loyalties."

  *

  Diana remained silent as the fat mer squeezed her way back down the tunnel. She waited even longer for all echoes of chuckling and scraping to fade. Once her senses told her there was no one near, she allowed herself to let out a long sigh.

  "Ardenne..." she whispered. The memory of her daughter, lying helpless in the silt of the Mere Sangolia, bolstered her resolve. Whoever that mer had been, whatever her rank or purpose, Diana min Na?da would not give in. For her daughter. She was not sure what place this was, but she would be leaving it soon; she swore to that.

  Her daughter was waiting, and so Diana would find her.

  Verse XI

  Down at the bottom of the hollow what Baba'd dug for herself over the years, the little orange mer named Rook knew the hour better than if she'd got a full view of the firmament above. One of the old bits of rune-working on the wall, a circle of cut clamshell recovered and refurbished from a midden pile years before Rook was ever born, served to count the seven hours of the day and the seven of night with careful precision. Even as the length of the day stretched or shrank with the light above, the hour-teller performed its task well.

  It was inspirational; that's what it was. Rook could only hope to be as useful and well-regarded as the rune-work relics Baba'd collected over the years, fixing and filling in lost beats in the mystic grammar so that they'd work anew.

  Rook was still learning the basics. As she stared down at the little pot what she'd accidentally turned to a frothy ball of steam bubbles the other day, she found herself again hoping that this day, to-day, she'd get it right. Baba had a strict policy of a mer fixing her own mistakes, and this'd been a big one for Rook. The leather of the pot bore scald-marks that wouldn't ever fade.

  "Go on," said the old mer. "Get to it."

  She blew a short wash of bubbles through her gills. Holding her hands at precise angles around the little pot, Rook intoned the questioning syllables of basic divination. What was wrong? she meant in song. Where is it broke? The notes of her song became as lines of glimmer between the fingers of her outstretched hands, slipping back and forth across the space between until the pot lay at the center of a webbed pattern. One final syllable signaled an end to the chant, triggering the grammar.

  "Better," grumbled Baba. A finger like a stick of knobby coral drew a circle in the water around one section in the pattern. Simple, everyday runes appeared along the line. "Be yer able to tell the problem?" the old mer challenged.

  It was a happy surprise that she could. Rook's eyes followed the string of mystic grammar, noting the syntax. "The point what shows direction," she said to her teacher. "Rune's got garbled, showin' out instead 'a in." And thus putting all the boil on the wrong side of the pot, as she remembered too well. The karo nuts inside the thing weren't the least touched by the heat and still tough enough to chip a tooth on.

  That got her another "Better" from Baba. If the old mer ever gave an actual word of praise for anything, a "Great" or even a "Good," then Rook hadn't heard. "See yer that words got themselves consequences. Gotta be careful wit'cher rune-work."

  "Yes, Baba."

  "Now fix it." Baba Rill tsked as the divination web rippled with echoes of her surprise. "Focus, child. Gotta get'cher practice in, learn yerself better a'fore I can trust'cher with customers. Got it?"

  "Ye-yes, got it." Forget kind words; that was how a mer knew old Baba was pleased with her.

  Focus, understand, change. The mystic grammar had its ways and its peculiarities, and one day Rook hoped to know them like her teacher did. One day. Not to-day. Tonight, she fixed a broken pot.