Verse VII

  In the light of the first hour, when the firmament shone with the signs of day but its illumination had yet to trickle far into the waters of the harbor of Bryndoon, that was when the prestren sacrista gathered. Five floats greeted the leondra sestren as excitement flushed through nervous gills and all preparations came into their own flow. Nehemi min Noemi sculled from grouping to grouping in the crowd of prestra. It was their hour; it was their time now come. To board the float was to take the first stroke into the greatest service a prestra could perform for her fellow mer. Her sestren had been up and about since well before the dawn, if they had slept at all the night before, and the waters were a-thrum with their enthusiasm.

  Nehemi wished she could feel it at such a level as that. She could put on a happy face to show the world, share the sentiments in word and expression, and sometimes she would even fool herself. But, somewhere in the deep recesses between her ears, there came at times the echo of a sob, a cry of sadness and melancholy so pure that by its memory alone she could not lose herself in the joy surrounding her.

  The cry of the Mother of all, she had been told, by the Mitera Yesca herself. The sole sign of the goddess's attention in these dark days when mers lost their proper currents and abominations held sway over the backwaters. A sound of sorrow voiced but once a generation, at the invocation of Cythera on the naming of a new First Daughter Under the Firmament, and heard by one set of ears alone.

  Her ears had heard, and now she could never forget. If Nehemi had not slept well these past few weeks, it was not from the nerves of beginning a grand endeavor.

  With her simple pack in hand, she joined her sestren in boarding the float. Like a grandiose jelly formed of many layers, the mass of fabric billowed and swelled in time with the cadence of its commanding song. Nehemi settled into its folds alongside the other prestren sacrista, securing herself with a kelpen strap and readying her mind for the driving chorus. The song of the float was not difficult; a simple grammar with predictable themes and variations, a trifle when compared to the intricacies of the blessed sacrament. Learning it had made for a fun exercise, one afternoon when there was naught else to do.

  When all were secured, the Temple guards at their stations and the float's conductor seated in the front folds, it was time to begin.

  Nehemi was not the oldest or most senior of the prestren on the procession to Valden, but she had a strong voice and the matronage of Mitera Yesca. The two of these things together made her the natural choice to lead the driving chorus, and so she raised her voice in song. The syllables of the grammar floated across the kelpen fabric of the float, activating the runes woven into its design, and the artificial came alive. Billow, swell, let the water flow in. Squeeze, constrict, let the water flow out. The float rose towards the firmament as the conductor gave signals and Nehemi changed the flow of the melody to accommodate their needs.

  On jets of water and song, the Temple float left the harbor of Bryndoon for the distant waters of the Mere Kazahn.

  Verse VIII

  Halfway through the noon hour it was, and Sera'd found herself in another meal. Largely by accident, as the preparations for various far-swum matters had kept her busy the entire morning. In her head, she knew it to be necessary, but in her heart she wished to up and leave, like in olden times of last week. But some things required greater care, and so it was with the members of her family in all ways that mattered, the sisters, daughters, and mothers of the Wayward Drift. She'd introduced a few of the youngers to Elder Alo?ssa for consideration in runework—dark-scaled Gwenni and yellow-fringed Lehaya in particular were eager to try, after seeing Rook fix things around the crèche. Others got a tour of the fields or the pavilions where the local kelp was woven into fabric. Most of the older ones had been stuck in the mire of Mezzegheb's tents of hospitality for so long that it was a wonder they knew aught else of skill, only someone had to sew the clothes or arrange the the hair, and so too were places found for them in the city of the equmara.

  Not all of her sisters from the crèche were so capable, but none of those mers'd come along on this current. Sera would not miss Drazie one flick, and could only wish to hear how the pale little snitch's report to the viceroy would go, once it was realized that a decent chunk of the city's free-born population had swum off into the empty haze of distance, never to return.

  The only thing Sera might've liked more would be to witness the report to the Temple on how they'd lost a leondra matron with the rest. "Stoneshell?" she offered to Mihayela, the only mother she'd ever known. For all that the old mer had the fur, the thick hair, and the flattened face of a leondra, there'd always been a thing to her that set her apart from the other prestren who'd been charged with maintaining the Wayward Drift and caring for its residents. Unlike her sestren in the Temple, unlike Skola Stephani or Old Whiskerbrains, Matron Mihayela cared in thought as well as in deed, and no daughter of the crèche ever doubted her sincerity.

  The matron accepted the treat with a nod and a smile, then turned her head back to the performance. At one end of the pavilion, in front of all the orphelines and their mothers, as well as a school of young equmara playmates, the twins had gotten their puppet show started. Sera had no idea how the two had found the screen or the materials, though she'd asked her Rohaise to help them out. The lovely dear floated to the side with extra puppets in her hands and a big grin on her face that grew wider when she saw Sera's wink.

  "And so!" shouted Millie so all could hear in the back. "The urchin went to the home of the crab..."

  Above the screen bobbed a bundle of weed with thick needles stuck in. It was joined by a different bundle of weed that had a pair of claw-shaped things attached with hastily corded kelp, directed by some fresh fish spines.

  "Oh! Messra Crab!" shouted the urchin in Jumie's voice. The mer had twisted her tone into a high and squeaky impression of someone else. "I hear that you are the very best at what you do! Might I trouble you for a haircut?"

  A billow of giggles arose from the littlest orphelines and their new friends, with several gasps of "No!" and "Don't do it!" to show that even the smallest of them understood what a bad idea this was. Having heard plenty of the twin's stories over the past few weeks, Sera knew that bad decisions were what the urchin was for. Never did that character appear in a story and have it be a good thing. So it was now, as clips of kelp lofted over the top of the screen and tortured squeaks sounded from behind, much to the amusement of the little mers. When the urchin reappeared, declaring "Oh! how fine I look!" with more than half her spines snipped short—and the rest pulled out completely—even the mothers were laughing. The story continued on as the clever octopode and overworked wrasse tried to convince the urchin that she hadn't needed the haircut at all, and then to fix the damage like the good friends they were.

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  "A nice story," Matron Mihayela opined. "Somewhat muddled on the moral, but it flowed through well."

  "Sure to tell 'em you approve. Make 'em so proud." She tried to keep the sarcasm from her voice, but the matron would hear it anyway.

  "I suspect that it will," said the old mer. "Just as it always did you, Seraffine, loath as you were to admit it."

  No way to ignore the more complete form of her name, and the matron knew it. The extra tail-end never got used by anyone, not even on those shells the viceroy would send out on occasion, with the words DEAD OR ALIVE on them. Especially not on those. 'Sera the Red' made her sound more dangerous, even if every mer had different reasons to prefer that. But seated next to this mer, she would always be the prodigal daughter who only ever brought trouble home. Except maybe for this time.

  "Wasn't wrong, was I. 'Bout leaving."

  "No, you were correct," said the matron. "And not for the first time on this matter. Would that I had listened sooner... though if I had, it might only have been myself and the young ones here without mothers."

  "Good thing you waited till the proper time, then," said Sera. Blue eyes surveyed the hall, noting Klara and the other crèche-sisters of her age or a little older watching the continued plight of the urchin with their daughters. "Think Lanita's caught on yet?"

  "Our dear viceroy." The words fizzed with mordant tones. "That one notices everything, in time, but she has her nets full of her own problems right now. If she's not realized yet, then I am sure she will soon, or else my sisters amongst the prestren skola will have informed her."

  "And then?"

  The matron snorted a bubble. "I expect that she shall have crapped an entire coral spar in shock."

  Sera could only stare at the matron as the bubbles lifted that minor profanity upwards. The old leondra sat prim and proper as ever, applauding the end of the tale with the rest of her oddly gathered family. "Would you happen to have any more of those stoneshells?" asked Mihayela.

  "Ah, yes." She passed the basket over. "Should mention, too, last night..."

  "A visitor, yes? One of your old acquaintances? Megael, I think it was? She paid me a visit this morning, before the girls all woke. She told me that I was lucky to be here and not at one of the Free Flow holdings. Her wording was dangerous."

  "Wouldn't let any mer hurt you," growled Sera. "No matter where. Meg knows that, too. She's just messing with you." Messing around till it turned all serious in a beat, most likely.

  Megael was not here under the pavilion. Would've noticed that immediately. Unlikely for the mer to start trouble elsewhere, either. Not in the equmara's home waters. But as soon as they arrived in Valden...

  Needed to keep her eyes open.

  Verse IX

  Light came at different times for different seas, and for the Mere Almezzeb, southern and central and largely lacking in things which cast long shadows, the change from night to day was sudden and stark. Marilis and Martella, agents and chosen daughters of the ministra, had little care either way. The sharp-eyed Marilis, with her violet hair pinned back by short combs to sweep it from her eyes, kept watch over the surrounding sands as she sang the courier float along. The vehicle was little more than an outer perch and an inner resting space, and did well enough with a soloist at its helm.

  There was naught to see but the deep shadow of the float itself upon the sand and the occasional puff of some burrowing creature as it dug in deeper to hide from her passage. Smaller fishes avoided these waters, where they could so easily be spotted by larger, hungrier things.

  She ignored the growl of her stomach. Though the flesh be weak, still was her will strong, and she would obey Mother's call.

  Word had come in the early hours. A singular word, borne through the whorls of their message-conch: RETURN. No other was necessary; Mother had trained her chosen daughters well. She and Martella were quit of the tent city, with one-third of its canopy collapsed and its ragged edges fluttering in the morning currents.

  It would take much effort to set it aright. Far less to bring it all down. Upon her wrists, the bracelets which comprised her rune-weapon, her gift from Mother, pulsed with the fulgurous force, until her skin prickled and her fingers itched to draw strings of deadly violet radiance and loose them upon a target.

  Serendipity sculled in. A shape, low to the sands but visible in its dark colors. It was perhaps the size of a small shark, but its outline was warped and strage, with octopod arms where fins should be. An abomination, nosing around waters where it should not be.

  Her bracelets chimed as they came together, her wrists passing along to create a tether of violet between them, to draw it long and form the radiant needle. With a flick, she sent it through the waters, leaving empty bubbles cavitating in its wake. What it did to the abomination was difficult to say from this distance, but the sudden burst could be felt a few beats after the rags of flesh settled upon the sand. The grisly bits would soon sublimate to an ugly stain.

  "Huh?" The ripple of force had unsettled more than just the abomination. In the rear of the courier float, her sister Martella raised her spiky-haired head to look around. "Is there a problem?" The words were slurred by more than the simple need for rest. The two of them had done well under Mother's strict tutelage, and it was only in moment such as this that Marilis was reminded that they were not so equally well-suited when caught in the eddies of a mission in progress. The harrowing of the Free Flow rebels from their dens in the tent city had been beyond their original parameters, but Marilis was proud of her efforts on behalf of the viceroy and the Crown.

  Martella, she suspected was not. There was nothing in the spiky-haired mer's demeanor to show any satisfaction with being powerful, being useful, in the service of Mother and the Ministry, and it was unseemly how her sister huddled in the rear. Until this moment, there'd been naught but disquieting silence that morning. Marilis hoped this to be a sign that her sister was coming around to her senses.

  "An abomination," she told her. "Now a billow of chum." Her eyes scanned the haze of distance. "More come."

  Three more, in fact, all with the same ugly silhouette as their details remained lost against the brightly lit sand. The abominations schooled in formation, approaching the float in a shortening arc that would bring all three sets of savage teeth to the fabric in a measure or two. The jaws unfurled, their lower halves curled outwar into a serrated nightmare that ended on a spike.

  Any mer would prefer to see them from a safe distance, perhaps the breadth of a sea. That would be how far the abominations need flee to avoid the weapon now stirring to life on Martella's forearm. The rune-crafted vambrace opened like the arms of the anemone, with each tip shimmering briefly as the kinetic force flowed across it before that same energy surged forth in eight solid waves in the water to slam into sand and toothy maw alike.

  Sand billowed up where some blasts missed, then settled down to show where they had struck true. Three bodies, mashed and pulped, fell to the sand beneath their float as it continued on its current.

  Marilis flushed her gills in relief. Her sister was feeling more herself, already.