Seaspoken, p.1
Seaspoken, page 1
Seaspoken
Sarah Delena White
© 2022 Sarah Delena White
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Uncommon Universes Press LLC
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Danville, PA 17821
www.uncommonuniverses.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Editing by Janeen Ippolito – www.janeenippolito.com
Proofreading by Hannah Williams
Cover art by Hannah Rogers
Cover typography by Magpie Designs, Ltd.
For Julie
in honor of many late nights and good stories
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter 1
Evya
I tire of the taste of blood.
The coppery tang carries on every current of my ocean, a specter of war I can never escape. The battle is over for today, but fires still burn along the distant shoreline and the sea still churns around me as I swim. Each crazed wave swells higher than the last, echoing with the fury of my people and the memory of pain and destruction. The blood of war has stained the waters. The blood has stained me.
Maybe that’s why the ocean doesn’t heed my pleas today.
Be calm, just for a few moments. My thoughts are accompanied by a faint pulse of magic from my soul, which carries my silent words outward for the sea to hear. Let me find Lirana before it’s too late.
I sink below the surface as another wave swells above me. A few powerful strokes of my long tail carry me deep into the murky expanse of sea. As I dive, I listen, expecting the resonant thrum of the ocean’s voice to fill my mind in reply.
There is only silence.
I let out a hiss of frustration. Everything has gone wrong today. The elves’ surprise attack drove my warriors from our last stronghold on the mainland beach. Not even my magic could fend off the explosive blasts and poisonous smoke conjured by the elven mages. We didn’t stand a chance. Now all I want is to make it back to the palace without losing any more of my warriors, and I’m failing in this task too.
To think this was supposed to be a day of celebration.
Weariness presses on me as I swim deeper in search of my missing battle-sister. Distantly, I’m aware of the pain throbbing in my side. I glance down to see blood seeping through the gray fabric of my cropped wrap top, and cringe. I’ve reopened the wound I received during the fighting today.
It doesn’t matter. My wounds never get a chance to heal properly when each day is a new raid on the elves, a new barrage of fire from their mages, another death to avenge. Soon I will be nothing but scars, inside and out.
Even below the crashing waves, the currents buffet me on all sides, shoving me this way and that until my head spins from dizziness. My tail and fins twist in eellike motions as I try to outstrip them. At last I break free from their hold and shoot down toward the ocean floor.
“Lirana!” I shout my battle-sister’s name as I slip through the water, searching for any trace of her. My pulse quickens with urgency. It has been over an hour since Lirana fell back from the rest of my warriors as we retreated from the battle on shore. I’m not even certain I’m searching in the right place. The strong currents might have carried her far off course and left her at the mercy of the sharks that hunt on the fringes of the underwater ridge—or worse, she has been discovered by the elven scouts that patrol the coastline of the mainland.
Murk clouds my vision as the ocean depths swallow up the evening sunlight above. Even if Lirana is close by, I could swim right past her and never see her. I must risk rune-light.
I reach for the small, shark-hide pouch I wear attached to a cord and tucked beneath my abalone breastplate. A little glass orb rests at the bottom of the pouch, nestled beside by a swath of clean bandages, a vial of nyafish venom, and a few other items I carry for emergencies. The orb flares to life at my touch. The thin, swirling lines of the magical runes etched into its smooth surface begin to glow with white light, which swells until it seems I hold a star in my hand. The gleam spreads out around me, bright as midday, illuminating a vast stretch of sandy sea floor.
Apprehension tightens my chest. I try not to envision the threats that might lurk above. All it would take is for one elven dragon rider to fly overhead, catch sight of the bright glow beneath the waves, and drop an explosive into the water. I would be dead before I could blink.
At least then no warriors would have to die to win my hand.
The wry consolation cuts through my worries, even as a new knot of dread coils in my stomach. Tonight is the first night of the Shantura festival—and of my mate challenge. The Seamother will expect me to be at the palace even now, braiding pearls into my hair and preparing to meet the chieftains and warriors who have come to contend for my hand. Never mind that I’m weary from battle and grieving the loss my people suffered today. My mother demands I take a mate, and such challenges always take place during the ten days of the spring festival.
Dread darkens to anger. I shove the thoughts to the back of my mind and quicken the pace of my strokes as I slip through the water. I’ll think about the challenge when I have to, and not a moment before. Right now, I must find my wounded battle-sister.
A flash of shell-pink scales catches the corner of my eye. I whip around. Relief washes over me as I see Lirana huddled in the shelter of an outcropping of stone. She’s alive, but the battle has taken a high toll on her. Blade wounds crisscross the umber skin of her bare arms, and blood streams from a long gash on her tail. Black curls have escaped from the loose knot at the nape of her neck, and her overlapping plates of iridescent abalone armor are broken and charred. The runes etched into the shell plates weren’t powerful enough to shield her from the blasts of explosive magic conjured by the elves today. Still, her gaze is alert as she watches me swim toward her.
“Evya? You should be at the palace by now.” Her voice holds a sharp edge of pain. “You’re going to be late for your own ceremony.”
“It’s not as if the Seamother can hold it without me.” I flash a grin, even as my suppressed worries reach back into my mind like the coiling tentacles of an octopus. “Although if you’re so concerned, I can swim home and let someone else rescue you.”
She opens her mouth as if to retort, but a snarl of pain comes out instead. “Depths take Falamar and his mages. I thought I had the strength to make it home, but—” Her hand goes to the gash that cuts through her shimmering pink scales, and she bares her sharp teeth in a grimace.
I sink down beside her for a closer look at the wound. It’s not deep, and should heal well if tended soon. Yet I can see why it was too painful for Lirana to make the long swim back to the ridge unaided. I retrieve the small wad of bandage cloth from my pouch and unfurl it, then loop the strip of fabric around Lirana’s tail and bind it tight across the wound. At least that should stop the bleeding until I can get her to a healer.
I slip the rune-lantern back into its pouch. Some of the tension leaves my shoulders as its light goes out. Inky darkness closes in around us, but I can read the currents well enough to travel home regardless. I loop one of my arms around Lirana’s torso, careful not to jostle her too much. Then I start to swim, propelling us both with smooth, rippling movements of my tail.
“You should have sent someone else to find me so you could prepare for tonight.” Lirana’s expression pinches as she glances over my disheveled blonde braids and bloodstained clothing. “Unless you plan to present yourself to your future mate looking like you just wrestled a shark.”
I snort. “What difference would it make? The contenders will fight over me all the same.”
And it would serve my mother right for insisting I be mated while my mind and senses are filled with war.
Lirana lets out a hiss. “The mate challenge is happening whether or not you want it. You can’t risk swimming against the Seamother’s currents this time.” She pauses, and a shy grin spreads over her face. “I saw one of them arrive early this morning. He has muscle enough to strangle a dragon with his bare hands.”
“How appealing.” I sigh, biting back another sharp response. This day has seen enough atrocities and hardships. I don’t want to add a quarrel with my oldest friend. Still, I can’t help the jealousy that flashes through me. Lirana is an honored warrior in the Atathari tribe, but she isn’t a chief tain’s daughter and therefore doesn’t have to marry for power or political alliance. If she ever takes a mate, it will be for love.
“Scoff if you want. I only hope you favor a strong contender.” Lirana’s voice turns sadder. “Find a mate who will help us sink King Falamar in the deepest trench in the sea.”
Her words conjure unsettling images in my mind. More drowning, more death. How much blood can the sea hold?
“It’s not like you to wish death on anyone, even the elven king,” I say. That is an understatement. Once Lirana sought to live in peace with the elves, just as I did. But those days are long gone, destroyed when Raith Dalzana persuaded the noble elven houses to turn against the tuath tribes. Though Raith is long gone, the shadows of his treachery and malice still loom large over the peoples of Tandith.
“I don’t truly wish for his death,” Lirana says quietly. “But what else could end this war?”
I have no answer. No one does.
That’s why my mother wants me to be mated. If I join with a powerful warrior, our combined magic could give the tribe a new advantage over the elves. But I pity any man who would bind his soul with mine, blood-soaked as I am.
Of course, if my mother has her way, my mate will have a mind and body made for war. The thought sends a shudder of revulsion through me. Such a union would be disastrous. Because of the intensity of the soul bond that forms between mated tuath, couples fare best when they have complimentary traits. If I join with a man who is as steeped in warfare as I am, I fear we will spur each other on to more bloodshed until we forget even the memory of peace.
Maybe I shouldn’t pity my future mate, whoever he ends up being. Maybe I should fear for myself and my people. What will we become if I join with the sort of battle-hungry chieftain that would win my mother’s approval?
“I will favor the man who is best for our people.” It’s the only answer I can give my friend. A dark foreboding in my heart tells me that my mother and I will have very different ideas on who is best.
Lirana gives a satisfied nod, then closes her eyes and lets me pull her through the water without another word. The sea feels endless when the waters are so clouded. The swim between the northern shore and the underwater ridge usually takes less than an hour, but I can’t tell how time is passing. We speed on and on, over beds of kelp and outlying ridges of volcanic stone.
My thoughts swirl like currents in the deep. I try to set aside the fears, reminding myself that I can’t judge these men until I meet them tonight. Perhaps I’m wrong, and the Creator will send me a mate who is good and noble as well as powerful. Perhaps together we will find a way to end the war.
A fragment of melody threads through my mind along with these feeble hopes, conjuring a sense of peace that is strange and welcome after the turmoil of this day. The familiar notes are gentle and lilting. They wrap around my thoughts like a blanket. The song carries me back to the time I first heard it, while I was scouting along the western shore alone on a cloudless winter night.
I linger in the memory. I’ve never seen the elf who comes down to the shore and sings over the waters on moonlit nights. He’s little more than a fantasy, but his songs whisper forbidden hopes to my heart. Sometimes I even dare to believe he dreams of peace as I do.
“I’ve never heard that song before.” Lirana’s voice pulls me from my musings.
I don’t realize I’ve been humming aloud until the notes catch in my throat. Alarm flares within me, and I stifle the melody. “It’s nothing,” I say quickly. “Just a refrain I heard somewhere.”
“It sounded like elven music.”
I press my lips together, hoping she won’t push for a reply. I’ve never told anyone about the dream-singer—not even Lirana. If the Seamother were to learn I’ve been venturing close to shore to listen to the song of an elf, she would hunt the singer down and put a spear through his heart.
The dream-singer will always be just that—a dream. At least I have the memory of his songs to comfort me at times such as this.
We swim on in silence. It seems like an eternity before the gleam of rune-light cuts through the darkness and I see the towering walls of the palace loom before me.
On any other night, the palace would be mostly dark so as not to draw the attention of elven dragon riders who might pass overhead. Tonight, though, it blazes with light. Strings of small, illuminated orbs are strung along every contour of the massive structure, sparkling white and green and blue.
I pause for a moment to take it in. It has been a long time since I had a chance to appreciate the underwater palace in its full glory. The enormous structure is a marvel, carved long ago from a mountain of volcanic rock. The dark gray stone rises from the sea floor in towering hexagonal columns fused together into sturdy walls. At its highest points, the palace stands hundreds of feet above the sea floor so that the uppermost towers breach the surface of the water.
Inside is a vast maze of corridors and chambers painstakingly hollowed out by the Atathari over centuries. The walls, both outside the palace and within, bear the marks of the artistry our tribe was known for before our lives were consumed with war. Every door and window frame is studded with pearls and bits of reflective glass that sparkle in the rune-light. Bas-relief carvings depicting scenes from our history adorn nearly every vertical surface.
It is the epicenter of our culture, and it has been my home for most of my life. It was once a place of light and music and dancing, where the Atathari would hold festivals and host foreign visitors. But when King Falamar and his soldiers descended on us five years ago, the palace became too great a target. Now we keep the lights dim and only the lower levels are occupied.
Tonight, however, I feel I’ve stepped into the past. The entire palace is alive with voices and movement. The massive central gates stand open, flanked on either side by a dozen spear-wielding warriors decked in polished plates of abalone armor.
Everywhere I look, clusters of people mill about the open expanse of water in front of the gates. Each group wears the traditional garments of a different tribe, from the sealskin cloaks of the northern Fethani to the golden shell headdresses of the equatorial Morda. There are scores of sea-dwelling tribes—or merroc, as we call ourselves—throughout the oceans of the world. Nearly all of them swear fealty to the Seamother because of the strength of her magic, which means they also have a vested interest in my choice of mate.
The beautiful sight sets my heart pounding with anxiety. If dragon riders venture out to sea tonight, the palace will be an easy target for their attacks. If that happens, it won’t only be my tribe who suffers, but everyone who has journeyed here to witness my mate challenge.
“We’re inviting disaster,” I mutter as we approach the open gates. “I told Mother we should have gathered on one of the outer islands instead.”
Lirana shakes her head, giving a smile that is taut with pain. “You know the Seamother would never break tradition by holding a formal gathering somewhere other than the palace.”
That was exactly what my mother had said when I requested a small and inconspicuous ceremony. The ancient customs demand the ceremony take place at the palace with as many people gathered as possible, and she won’t tempt disaster by breaking that custom.
“Her traditions might bring us all to ruin,” I mutter. My mother clings to the customs of the Atathari tribe as if they’re sacred and infallible. While I don’t share in her fanaticism, I have no desire to provoke her wrath in these matters—at least not tonight, when so much is already at stake.
I glance through the gates into the vast foyer beyond. It’s even more crowded. I scowl. I have no desire to be waylaid by conversation right now, and I doubt my battle-sister does either. I turn and propel myself upward instead, pulling her along with me. We skirt along the flat roofs of some of the palace’s outlying chambers.
The healers take residence in one of the quieter southern wings, close to my own quarters and those of my battle-sisters—the elite cohort of female warriors under my command. A cluster of women awaits us by the arched doorway of the infirmary. Most of them are already dressed for the festival, wearing wrap bodices of brightly colored silk and ropes of pearls and shell beads around their necks and arms. Most of them also sport bandaged wounds, and their faces are lined with exhaustion. Few of us escaped unscathed from the battle.
