Page 56 of Seaspoken

I’m about to coax the still-dozing Nadria awake when Evya takes me by the arm. She leads me a short way over the beach to a spot where her cloak lies spread out over the sand. On one corner of the cloak sit the folded silver robes and the carved wooden box I stashed in my rucksack last night. I look at Evya in confusion.

“Kneel down,” she orders.

“What are you doing?”

She gently pulls me down until I’m kneeling on the cloak, then she settles on the ground in front of me. “I wish I could do this the right way, as you deserve, but I will do what I can.”

I barely restrain myself from repeating my question, but the gravity in her bearing silences me. Evya crushes maraseya petals and traces her fingers over my skin in swirling patterns, as if spreading on paint. Only, instead of thick inky lines, the petals leave behind a shimmering dust. She runs the lines over the contours of my chest, then down my arms, then up my neck and over my forehead.

As she works, she chants softly. The newness of the ritual is so strange to me that only after a moment can I comprehend what she’s saying. She’s singing a blessing over me, and a prayer for strength against impossible odds.

“Are you sending me off to battle?” I ask, almost afraid to break the moment but too confused to keep quiet.

“Maybe.” She traces one last mark along my temple, then sits back, looking satisfied. Then she moves on to my hair, working the long strands into slender braids scattered throughout. “Something isn’t right about today. I awoke with foreboding. I don’t understand why, but my heart tells me you need this.”

I don’t protest. I know that feeling all too well.

She secures one last braid and stands. Following the cue, I rise to my feet as well. She picks up the robes and lets the shining silk unfurl in her hands, then looks to me. “You should wear these.”

“Not very appropriate for a merroc ceremony.” Not that I have any suitable clothing right now. I grimace at the thought of turning up at the maelstrom in my prim formal robes. “I’m not much of an elven lord anymore.”

She tilts her head as if considering my words. “You are an elven lord as they are meant to be. There is honor in that.”

Evya drapes the robes over me one layer at a time, and I tug the cloth into place. Then she then pulls out the carved wooden box that holds my silver circlet. I fight the urge to protest as she sets the diadem on my head and arranges the braids around it. I feel ridiculous, but as Evya tweaks the last braid into place and sits back to survey her work, her face is filled with sober satisfaction. If this is an honor she wants to give me, then it isn’t my place to be contrary. Only one question creeps into my mind.

“We’re facing this day together. If anything, you’re risking more than I am.” I reach out and take her hand. “Why are you preparing me?”

“My people have done this for me many times, for many battles. But no one has ever done it for you.”

She leans in and kisses me, not with the burning passion of last night, but with deep solemnity. My lips linger on hers, wishing my touch could carry away all her sorrow and promise her endless days and nights together.

Behind us, Nadria gives a soft snort. I turn to see her pawing the ground impatiently, as though she’s been waiting for us this whole time instead of sleeping. It is time to go. Evya and I both seem to accept it in the same moment.

I stride toward the star dragon, feeling uncharacteristically regal. I’ve never cared much for formal robes, but their weight and splendor seem fitting now. Everything around me seems filled with more grandeur, from the crimson morning sky to the sight of Evya gazing out at the sea as if about to challenge the world to a duel.

Part of me wants to cry out at the unfairness of it all. Why should the visions bring Evya and me together only to lead us into more danger? But if not for the visions, we would never have met at all, and we would both be the lesser for it.

Whatever my fate, I will take it,I pray silently.And ... I thank You.

The roar of the maelstrombeckons us like the din of battle. Even from miles away I can hear the waters raging and see smoke rising from the fires that line its shores.

We race southward on Nadria’s wings, passing over an archipelago of maraseya islands. The sturdy trees wave with the wind, unfazed by everything that happens in the world. Their roots and blossoms seem to beckon with promises of shelter and joy. The sight emboldens me. Someday, I want to explore all these places with Evya. All we have to do is survive today.

I urge Nadria to fly lower and lower until we almost skim the waves. I doubt the tribes would take kindly to the sight of a dragon. We land among the elven ruins that line the western side of the island—the one place where none of the tribes cared to build their fires. Nadria seems content to wander among the ancient stones, so we leave her there with a simple command to await our return. Then Evya and I start down the pebbled path to the cliffs.

The walk seems to take forever. Evya strides as if marching into battle, her face stern and her eyes flashing. I take her hand. Our fingers twine together in a grip so tight no current could pull us apart.

We leave the ruins behind and pass through the patches of waving sea grass, and then suddenly there are the tribes. They cluster in groups along the edge of the cliff, each dressed and adorned in their traditional finery. The Fethani, draped in sealskin cloaks, stand aloof near the edge of the cliff, talking amongst themselves. The resplendent Morda and black-clad Nicessi warriors gather on either side of a cleft in the plateau, hurling insults and shaking spears at each other.

They fall silent when we come into view. A thousand faces turn toward us at once, eyes going wide with shock as we walk hand in hand among the gathered crowd. The air is thick with woodsmoke and the roar of the water nearly drowns out the astonished voices of the tuath. Evya and I keep walking, heedless of the stares and whispers, until we near the edge of the cliffs.

The Seamother stands staring out at the maelstrom, her massive spear gripped in one hand and her other hand balled into a determined fist. She radiates power and rage, as if she has only to snap her fingers and sweep all of us away in a tidal wave. In the sunlight, everything about her is gray—her skin, her hair, her tunic and shell armor—as if the life has been leached out of her, leaving only a wrathful ghost behind.

I glance at Evya, following her lead as we approach and trying not to let the apprehension I feel show in my expression. Evya stops walking just short of a spear’s distance from her mother. My mate stands tall.

“Seamother.” Her voice rings out stern and clear. “There will be no challenge.”

The Seamother whirls around. Her eyes flash with a look that almost seems like relief as she sees her daughter standing alive and well before her. Then her gaze shifts to me, and to our clasped hands, and all traces of tenderness vanish.

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