Her gaze traveled up, to the tower at the top of the far wall. It housed a huge bronze bell and was flanked by statues of the sea goddess Neria, and her sister, Verita, the goddess of justice. The sight of the deities brought painful memories back to Sera. Of the end of the battle. Of the medics pulling the spear out of Mahdi’s body. Of his last words to her. And then of herself, on the hospital floor, shrieking at the gods. Why? Why? How much more can you take from me?
Thousands of Black Fins and civilians had died in the battle for Cerulea. Huge swaths of the city had been destroyed. And Mahdi…Mahdi.
As she thought now of how his heart had stopped, and how close she’d come to losing him, her own heart faltered.
She’d screamed at the doctors to help him, to do something. One had pressed bandages against the wound in his chest, another had put the heels of his hands over his heart and started pushing. One, two, three, stop. One, two, three, stop. Over and over again, and with every push, the bandages had turned redder. For endless, agonizing seconds, nothing had happened, and then Mahdi had groaned and started breathing again. The doctors had called for blood. Yazeed and Neela, his cousins, shared his blood type. They’d given him pint after pint.
For once, the gods had listened. For once, they’d taken pity on her, because Mahdi had lived—barely. Lucia’s spear had missed his heart by an inch, but had badly damaged his lung. He’d lost a great deal of blood and had been deprived of oxygen. Would he recover? Could he fully come back from such terrible injuries? Sera didn’t know. No one did. Mahdi couldn’t tell them. He was still unconscious.
Two weeks had passed since he’d almost died, and he was still in a coma. Sera went to visit him morning and night, always hoping for a sign—a twitch of his hand, a flutter of his eyelashes—but she never got one.
The doctors had told her that they’d done all they could. That she must prepare herself for the worst—that Mahdi might remain in a coma for the rest of his life. Sera talked to him, sang to him, told him about her days, and the new challenges they brought, as if he could answer her. He was still there; she knew he was. She refused to give up hope.
The bell in the tower began to toll now. Its sound, low and ominous, tore Sera from her memories and brought her back to the present.
Twelve times the bell tolled. When it finished, a pair of heavy doors opened in the wall underneath the tower.
Drummers swam in first, beating a slow tattoo. They were followed by dirgecasters, who were dressed in robes of dark gray edged with silver. Both drummers and singers took their places at Sera’s left. Next came the realm’s powerful duchessas. Each bowed in turn to Sera, then took her seat in a row of high-backed chairs at Sera’s right. One chair remained empty: Portia Volnero’s.
Desiderio, now Miromara’s high commander, swam in next. His shoulders were broad under his uniform; he held his head high. He was nineteen now, only two years older than Sera was, and the second-most-powerful mer in the realm.
He’s too young for this burden, she thought, looking at him.
She was, too. But what choice did they have?
Desiderio bowed to her, then in a loud, ringing voice, called for the Keeper of Justice. Three deep booms were heard from the drummers, and then an elderly merman, garbed in purple and holding a golden staff, swam through the doors and into the center of the courtyard.
“Greetings, Regina Serafina,” he said solemnly, without bowing.
Sera did not expect him to. He represented the rule of law, and in Miromara the law bowed to no one, not even the regina herself.
“Greetings, Keeper,” Sera said, her voice ringing out strong and clear. “You have presided over the realm’s case against its former high commander. The prosecution and defense have concluded their arguments. Has the jury reached a verdict?”
The keeper nodded. “It has, Your Grace.”
“Lead the prisoner forth,” Sera commanded.
She swallowed hard as her uncle, dressed only in a simple white sea-flax tunic, swam through the door. He was escorted by two guards. His hair had been cropped short. His hands were bound behind his back.
As she regarded him, Sera thought about how much he’d taken from her. Through his cruel deeds, he’d smashed her heart to pieces again and again, and yet that heart was beating, still alive, still capable of feeling sorrow. Even for him.
She remembered how he’d looked to her when she was small—so tall and strong, so handsome with his shock of black hair and his fierce blue eyes. She remembered feasting with him at holiday banquets. Racing hippokamps. Dancing at state dinners. She remembered him playing with her when she was tiny, pretending to be a tiger shark and chasing her around the throne.
He’d had his own daughter then—how it must’ve pained him to play with her, Serafina, and feign indifference to his own child.
The terrible things he’d done…were they all because of a love denied? she wondered. Would any of them had happened if Artemesia had allowed him to marry the mermaid he loved? Or had he always been jealous of his sister’s power, and his niece’s birthright? Sera realized she would never know.