Page 13 of From the Mouths of Sirens

“I reached my nineteenth birthday last spring,” Rook replied, grinning at the middle-aged man. While Rook himself had grown nearly a foot, Sahl had not aged in the years gone past, his dark hair only shining with only a few strands of silver. A surge of nostalgia washed over Rook as Sahl pulled him into a hug. Though they were the same height now, Rook immediately felt like a young boy again.

“It’s good to see you again, old friend,” Sahl breathed as they stepped apart. Rook nodded in agreement, genuinely happy to see the ambassador who had once spent several days training with him under the heat of the Shujaa sun.

“Where is your King?” Rook asked, gazing beyond Sahl and into the crowd. Sahl’s eyes darkened.

“Our King is gravely ill,” he replied, his voice heavy. “He is bedridden and unable to travel in his condition.” Rook sucked in a breath, unable to imagine the ancient king in bad health. He was seemingly eternal, older than any other ruler on the continent.

“I’m sorry to hear that. May the stars be on his side,” Rook replied sympathetically. “Ohan has sent you in his stead, then?” he asked the Tournament Ambassador.

“Indeed,” Sahl answered with a short nod. “Myself and the Princess of the Clay City,” he added, stepping aside. Rook looked beyond him, noticing the palanquin held up at the center of the crowd for the first time. The mobile tent-like carriage rested on the shoulders of six tall warriors, hoisted above the Tellusun entourage. The vibrant fabric of the palanquin was fine, embroidered with gold and flecked with jewels. Rook squinted, just barely making out the silhouette of Princess Hasana through the soft curtain. Rook lowered his head again, bowing just in case Hasana was watching him through the gauzy curtain.

“You and your party are most welcome here,” Rook told Sahl, rising from his bow. “All of your rooms are prepared, so feel free to refresh yourselves after such a long journey.”

“Thank you, Prince,” Sahl said gratefully. “After our three-weeks of travel, the thought of sleeping on a solid bed sounds too good to be true.” He paused, surveying Rook one last time. “I am pleased to see you again, Your Majesty. May glory be given.”

“May glory be given,” Rook answered in return.

His heart twisted in an odd way at the sound of the phrase, something like sadness mingling with yearning. A small, secretive part of himself wished that Sahl was there under different circumstances. He wished their nations weren’t reunited after years simply to compete in a cut-throat competition. For as close as he might be to Sahl, there was still a canyon of tension between them. They could never truly be friends. Not when their countries battled for the Crown. Rook crushed his thoughts abruptly.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Rook said, spreading his wings as a gust of warm air whispered through the courtyard. “I’ll see you for supper,” he told Sahl, letting the wind gently lift him from the ground. With a few pumps of his wings, Rook flew from the palace grounds and into the city, fighting his treacherous thoughts with every beat of his wings.

The Tournament was necessary and needed. It sealed Aurandel’s right to rule and silenced those who would take the Crown. He had the privilege of fighting for glory and redeeming the curses of the past. There was no other nation more suited to rule than Aurandel, that much he was sure of. As he soared through wisps of clouds, Rook slowly became lighter, his traitorous thoughts slipping away. He closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his skin and melt into his wings. After a few moments of clearing his head, Rook finally let himself open his eyes once more. Far below, he watched as a sea of color moved through the courtyard and into the lower depths of the Citadel. The brightly colored robes of the Tellusun people were beautiful, even from such a great distance away.

As he often did when he was anxious, he pulled his dagger out of its sheath at his waist. It was an ancient family heirloom, passed down for generations. He held it to the sun, looking at his own reflection in the mirror. When he looked at the shining blade, he saw his mother’s eyes looking back at him. Something about imagining her face always settled his fears. He remembered how she never left the Citadel without the beautiful dagger at her hip, how she always held it close by in case she needed to protect her children. But on the day she had died, even the dagger hadn’t been enough to save her. Rook sighed, running a hand down the familiar the black opal that sat squarely on the pommel.

He could vividly recall the moment his mother had pressed the blade into his small, childish hands. It is yours now, she had rasped, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth as the carriage was overrun by assassins outside. I did not intend for you to have it so soon, she had confessed. But now I bestow it upon you in the hour of my death. Protect it well, she told him as her heart gave out and her eyes closed for the last time. His mother’s death was what drove him forward, what constantly reminded him of why Aurandel must rule Revelore. Without the order that Aurandel established, the continent would collapse and more rulers would be assassinated. Rook abruptly slid the dagger back into its sheath, unable to bear the painful memories any longer.

With a sigh, he dove back down to the sprawling city below. With the Tournament so near, there was no time to lose himself in the clouds.

7

SAOIRSE

Saoirse stood before the doors of her father’s study, tension coiling in her stomach. She clutched Selussa’s obsidian flask in her hand, her knuckles going pale as she tried to keep from trembling. She turned her free hand, reaching deep inside of herself to try and grasp the tendrils of power that lurked in her veins. She summoned the sea, calling out to it with bated breath. But just as Selussa had promised, nothing happened as she flexed her fingers and called to the waves. The water around her didn't so much as stir. The weight of her bargain settled on her shoulders with a note of finality.

One chance. She had one chance to get this right. Carved into the silver door, an intricate mural of Mer warriors in an ancient battle stared back at her. Their fearsome eyes seemed accusatory as she lifted a hand to knock, looking like they knew what she was about to do. Taking a deep breath, Saoirse rapped on the door and braced herself.

The door quickly opened and light spilled into the hall. King Angwin stood in the doorway, his expression softening as he looked down at her. Dark shadows pooled under his eyes, suggesting that he hadn’t slept at all the night before.

“Saoirse,” he whispered, relief in his eyes. “You’re well.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” she demanded, a spark of fear shooting through her. Had he found out about her midnight journey to the Fretum? Had Adda betrayed her?

“I just thought-” Her father began, his eyes scanning her face. “I just thought that after our conversation last night you might never want to see my face again.” He gently touched her cheek, his face more tired than she had seen it in years. “And I wouldn’t blame you for it, Saoirse,” he added. “I know how much this means to you. And I’m sorry that I was harsh last night. I said things I regret, and for that I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“I understand, Father,” she replied. She slipped past him into the room, her churning stomach threatening to revolt at any moment. “I know why you did it,” she continued, walking to the glass cabinet in the corner of his study. At least a dozen bottles and bejeweled flasks glittered behind the glass, amber liquids glowing in the blue light. She opened the cabinet slowly, fighting the urge to turn around and swim from the room. She grabbed a bottle from the shelf and turned to face him, fighting not to avert her eyes.

“It was foolish of me to even dream of becoming a tribute. Selfish even.” She set the bottle down, pulling two crystal glasses from the lowest shelf. Her fingers trembled as she uncorked the bottle, betraying her fear and guilt. She poured the fine drink slowly, watching as the smooth liquid shimmered in a tiny stream from the mouth of the bottle. She glanced over her shoulder at her father, eyeing him from across the room. He stood before the hearth, his large form silhouetted by the blue undying flames that burned within. She exhaled a shaky breath, thankful that his back was turned from her.

“I know Elorshin needs me,” she continued quickly, hoping he wouldn’t turn around. “My duty is to my country, and the Tournament is just a childish dream.” She slipped the onyx vial from her pouch and untwisted the crystal lid in a fluid movement. She watched as a drop of the elixor rippled through her father’s glass, fizzing with bubbles as it hit the surface. But after a fleeting second, the bubbles melted away and the surface of the drink went still as glass. She shoved the vial back into her purse and turned, presenting both glasses in her hands. Her father was still standing with his back toward her. She crossed the room slowly, taking a seat before the hearth.

Her father was not gazing at the undying flames that crackled in the hearth, but rather at the portrait that hung above the fireplace. A beautiful painting of a young woman in finery surveyed the study, a tiny infant tucked in her arms. Dark curls framed her mother’s face in delicate tendrils, her pale blue eyes identical to Saoirse’s own.

“You look so much like her,” her father said wistfully, his voice thick with emotion. “I vowed to your mother that I would keep you safe, you know.” He paused, letting the words settle in the room.

“The night before she left for Terradrin, the last night I saw her alive…” he trailed off. Memories streaked across his somber face. “I promised her that I would keep you out of harm's way. That I would protect you from the politics and court gambles that have cost Elorshin so much.” His golden eyes glittered with tears. “I can’t lose you, daughter,” he pleaded. “You are my life. The one thing I treasure most in this world. To lose you would be to lose everything.” He looked back down at her, tears now flowing freely from his eyes.

“You must know that,” he pleaded. “I have no doubt in your abilities. In fact, I am certain that you would win. But I cannot let you go. There is more to the Tournament than you know.”

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