“I’ll talk to her after the ceremony. I’ll explain,” Mahdi said.
Neela rolled her eyes. “‘Hey, Mahdi, good idea!’ said no one ever.”
“Do I have to separate you like little children? The ceremony is about to start!” Empress Ahadi scolded.
Neela, Yazeed, Mahdi, and the rest of the Matalin royal party were seated in the royal enclosure inside the Kolisseo, a huge open-water stone theater that dated back to Merrow’s time.
Isabella and Bilaal sat together in the front of the enclosure on two silver thrones. The regina was spectacular in a jeweled golden crown, her long black hair coiled at the nape of her neck. A ceremonial breastplate made of blue abalone shells covered her torso and gossamer skirts of indigo sea silk billowed out below it. Emperor Bilaal was splendid in a yellow high-collared jacket and a fuchsia turban studded with pearls, emeralds, and—in the center—a ruby as big as a caballabong ball.
Serafina’s father, Principe Consorte Bastiaan, and her uncle, Principe del Sangue Vallerio, sat directly behind Isabella. There was no re, or king, in Miromara. The regina was the highest authority. Males could be princes of the blood if they were sons of a regina, or prince consorts if they married one.
And in front of them all, on a stone dais, was a circlet of hammered gold embedded with pearls, emeralds, and red coral—Merrow’s crown. It was ancient and precious, a hallowed symbol of the unbroken rule of the Merrovingia.
The empress and crown prince sat directly behind Bilaal. Neela and Yazeed were behind them. Fanning out from the royal enclosure were the Miromaran magi—Thalassa, the canta magus, the keeper of magic; Fossegrim, the liber magus, the keeper of knowledge—and the realm’s powerful duchessas. Neela recognized Portia Volnero. She knew Sera’s uncle had been in love with her once. She could see why: Portia, dressed in regal purple, with her long auburn hair worn loose and flowing, was stunning. Lucia Volnero was there too, drawing every eye in a shimmering gown of silver. Behind the duchessas sat the rest of the court—hundreds of nobles, ministers, and councillors, all in their costly robes of state. It was a sumptuous spectacle of power and wealth.
“Where’s Sera?” Yazeed whispered.
“She’s not in the Kolisseo yet. The Jani?ari bring her here for the blooding, the first test,” Neela replied.
She looked out over the amphitheater. Along its perimeter, the flags of Miromara and Matali fluttered in the night currents—Miromara’s coral branch and Matali’s dragon rampant, with its silver-blue egg. She knew the dragon depicted was a deadly razormouth, and that its egg was actually an ugly brown. The flag’s designer, she guessed, had thought the egg too ugly and had changed it to silver-blue.
Every seat in the Kolisseo was taken and a tense, expectant energy filled the water. White lava illuminated the dark waters. It boiled and spat inside glass globes that had been set into large whelk shells and placed in wall mounts. To obtain the lava, magma was channeled from deep seams under the North Sea by goblin miners, the fractious Feuerkumpel, one of the Kobold tribes. It was refined and whitened, then poured into glass tough enough to withstand its lethal heat by goblin glassblowers, the equally unpleasant H?llebl?ser.
In the lava’s glow, Neela could see the faces of the crowd. Many were excited. Others looked nervous, even fearful. With good reason, she thought. Generations of young mermaids had been crowned heiress to the Miromaran throne here, but others—imposters all—had died agonizing deaths. Her eyes flickered to the heavy iron grille that covered a cavernous opening in the floor of the Kolisseo. Twenty brawny mermen stood by it, wearing armor and holding shields. Fear’s icy fingers squeezed her heart as tried to imagine what lurked underneath it.
Serafina must be terrified, she thought. She’s right—this is a barbaric ceremony. It was hard to reconcile the Miromarans, a people so cultured and refined, with such a gruesome ritual.
“It’s about to start!” Yazeed exclaimed. “I hear music! Look, Neela!”
He pointed to the archway on the opposite side of the Kolisseo. A hush fell over the crowd as a merman, grand and majestic, emerged from it. He moved at a stately pace, his red robes flowing behind him. A matching turban with a narwhal’s tusk protruding from it graced his head. A scimitar, its gold hilt encrusted with jewels, hung from his belt.