Not to mention, this area is protected by some human law that prohibits fishing here; any time boats or divers come in, some of the humans who live on a nearby island run them off. Very little human activity is ever sighted here. But Galen is certain that if they don’t get on with the tribunal, some kind of human technology will detect the activity and investigate—interference or no.
Which, for once, could be a good thing.
So far, Romul has been the only person to give testimony. The old Archive eloquently expressed that he felt the Gift could conceivably pass on to non-Royals under certain circumstances. Galen couldn’t agree more—they’ve already had the genetics discussion. But since Romul isn’t familiar with genetics, and he’s arguing for the sake of Paca’s Gift, then Galen can hardly look his one-time mentor in the eye.
As Romul leaves the center witness stone, he says, “And who knows? Perhaps the Royals have … strayed in the past. Perhaps Paca has more Royal blood than we suppose?”
The implication is outrageous. More than that, it’s treasonous. But Romul is in no danger of being arrested. Right now, the crowd moves as one, alive with whispers. Romul’s testimony glides through the water with momentum, building into a wave of shock and awe that cannot be undone. The words are forever imprisoned in their minds, trapped, demanding to be analyzed and picked apart. A hint of distrust will forever taint the relationship between the Archives and the Royals, the Commons and the Royals. Or rather, a hint of distrust will forever just taint the Royals.
Galen looks to Grom, scrutinizing his reaction and finding next to nothing. His brother is stationed next to Paca, his smiling queen, but it’s Nalia with whom he shares his-and-her matching expressions of indifference. Next to the Triton Royals, Toraf clenches and unclenches his jaw, but gives no other outward reaction. Galen’s gaze shifts to Antonis, across to the Poseidon side of the Arena. The wizened king looks slightly amused. Of course, after having spent so much time in self-imposed isolation, Galen supposes the king may not know how to act appropriately anymore. Otherwise, he’d have to question His Majesty’s sanity in allowing a genuine smirk to tug at the corners of his mouth. As if Romul had told a joke.
Galen wonders what his own expression betrays. Fury? Disbelief? Nervousness? But he’s not given much time to contemplate.
Tandel, an Archive from the Triton house and elected leader of the council for this tribunal, takes the center stone and hushes the Arena. “My friends, Romul has given us something to consider, and it is much appreciated. But he is the first to give testimony. If we are to resolve the matter, we must hear from the rest.” This seems to placate the masses. Tandel nods in self-satisfaction more than graciousness. “Now, we have Lestar, respected Tracker of House Poseidon, to give testimony.”
Lestar is seasoned, of an age to remember Nalia’s unique pulse, her identity. Toraf says a Tracker never forgets a pulse. If that’s true, Lestar can positively identify Nalia as the Poseidon princess. His testimony, along with Yudor’s, will end this ridiculous trial.
To Galen’s relief, Lestar wastes no time in doing so. “My friends, thank you for hearing my testimony today. I am honored to be a part of such a happy occasion. Happy because our lost Poseidon heir has returned to us. Many of you older ones are aware that I led the search party after the mine explosion all those seasons ago.” This incites nods from among the assembly. Both houses know the story; it’s one of the worst tragedies in the history of their kind. “You younger ones have heard the tale passed down through the generations. If you have, you would know that I was one of the last to give up hope of ever finding our princess alive. I searched many days after the last Tracker party was sent out.” Lestar turns to Nalia, an affectionate smile pursing his lips. “My friends, please believe when I say this one you call ‘newcomer’ is not new at all. I swear on the law and my ability as a Tracker, she is Nalia, heir of House Poseidon. I have known this one since the day she released from her mother’s belly. Please join me in welcoming her home.”
This coaxes a small cheer from some, but mostly a rash of disgruntled moans from the Loyals. Tandel is quick to quiet all, raising both palms toward the crowd.
After a few moments, silence reigns once more. Tandel places a hand on Lestar’s shoulder. “Thank you, Lestar, for your fine testimony. We will be happy to take this into consideration as well.”
At this, Antonis speaks up. The smirk has vanished from his face. “I wonder that we need to consider further, Tandel. Lestar has just identified my daughter and welcomed her home, as did Yudor upon her arrival. What more is there to say?”
If Galen thought the crowd was silent before, it’s speechless now, probably marveling at his mere presence. Antonis has kept himself hidden so many decades. Syrena from both houses seem captivated by his gravelly voice. Galen just hopes that their wonderment isn’t keeping them from listening to the king’s actual words or to his reasoning.
Tandel recovers with a smile. “Your Majesty, I think I speak for all in attendance when I say how thankful we are that you have honored us with your presence at this tribunal. I do see your point, Highness. But if we are to come to a thorough and satisfying agreement, would it not be wise to listen to all the testimony available to us now?”
Antonis rolls his eyes. “I well know the proper proceedings of a tribunal, Tandel. But she is my daughter. Who else would know her better than I? Why would I bother myself with honoring the Boundary with my presence if that were not the case?”
Galen can’t help but be amused by Tandel’s floundering under the scrutiny of the Poseidon king. He wonders if Antonis was always so blunt and impatient, or if he developed these savory characteristics while isolating himself in his Royal caverns. The king’s fit has Toraf grinning like a mischievous fingerling.
“If I may,” a voice calls from the crowd. A voice Galen is all-too familiar with. Jagen makes his way to the center stone, and turns to his section of Loyals. He smiles wide and bows before his traitorous followers. “If I may, friends, I would propose a very good reason why His Majesty would claim this stranger as his daughter.”
Jagen turns to Antonis, careful to keep the poison in his eyes from infecting his voice when he says, “I propose, friends, that King Antonis would rather claim this newcomer as his daughter and pretend to perpetuate his bloodlines than let his house become useless. You see, if my Paca possesses the Gift of Poseidon, as many of you have seen already, then what reason do we have for keeping the Royals in so lofty a position among us? King Antonis knows this. If a Common could possess the Gift, then why should we be under the vigilance of Royals, instead of perhaps a leader chosen from among us, one who is more fit to rule?”
Jagen turns to his followers, who cheer with almost violent enthusiasm. Galen feels a knot in his stomach tighten, a knot that grows bigger with each word that spews from Jagen’s mouth. Mostly because what he says is true—technically. But Galen wasn’t prepared for Jagen to be this blunt, to be this open with his endeavors. And he wasn’t prepared for the spirited acceptance of such treason.
No, Jagen didn’t name himself as that potential leader. But he didn’t have to; he’s the one guiding their thoughts, influencing their decisions. It’s almost as if he’s had this talk with them before, minus the Royals. Jagen had been a very thorough adversary. He continues, “King Antonis has not graced us with his presence nor his leadership for many, many seasons. Only now that his own Royal status is threatened has he bothered to take an interest in our dealings. How can we trust this kind of rulership?”
The Loyals applaud again, but Jagen holds up his hands for silence. “What’s more, the Royals think they are above the law. They present us with this newcomer who they say is Nalia, the Poseidon heir. My friends, even if she were the Poseidon princess—which will be proven to you she is not—are we to simply overlook the fact that she has been breaking the law for many years, while she claims to have lived on the Big Land among humans? How much longer will we allow the Royals to dilute the law passed
down from our esteemed generals?”
The audience roars with mixed emotions. The Arena is almost deafening. And that’s before Antonis closes his large hand around Jagen’s throat.
15
I SET my backpack on the counter and pull a bar stool next to Rayna, who’s soaking/drowning a cotton ball in nail polish remover. “I think it’s dead now,” I tell her.
She gives me a sour look, then proceeds to scrub her big toe like a dirty pot. Rachel sets a glass of ice water down in front of me and a cookie that has nuts, marshmallows, chocolate chips, cinnamon, and … I can’t tell what else. “What’s this?” I ask.
Rachel shrugs. “Dunno. I made up the recipe this morning, but I can’t think of a good name for it. I was kinda just craving everything.”
I take a bite and all the flavors fight for attention. And I know exactly what to call it. “You should call them Garbage Cookies.” I realize how that sounds, and before she can finish her grimace, I say, “No, that’s a compliment! Mom makes me garbage eggs all the time. She puts all sorts of stuff in them, like jalapeños, cheese, sour cream, grits.” Or at least she used to make garbage eggs for me. Before she swam off to play princess.
“Ah,” Rachel says. “Well, I don’t want to steal your name. How about Dump Cookies?”
“Um. Sure.”
“No? How about … Upchuck Cookies?”
“Wow. Don’t hurt yourself.”
She grins. “How about—”
“How about we go check out what Rachel bought us today?” Rayna says, wiping the excess polish remover on a paper towel. She clears her throat in vain. “They’re on the beach.”
“They?”
Rayna nods. “I get the purple one.”
I follow her outside and toward the water. It looks like it has rained recently; tiny indents still dot the sand, marking the spot where each little raindrop fell to its death. Where the sand and water meet there are two jet skis, one red, one purple. I stop. “We’re not supposed to get in the water.”
“You only have to put your foot in to get on. Then you’re on top of the water.”
“What if I fall off?”
“Don’t.”
“But—”
“If you’re afraid then just say so. Or are you too afraid to say you’re afraid?” She crosses her arms when I don’t budge. “Rachel and I already took them out while you were at school. If you can drive a car, you can ride one of these things.”
Not comforting at all, since Rayna can’t actually drive. Last time she tried, we assaulted a tree with Galen’s little red car and got a free ride home in a cop car. What is Rachel thinking?
I bite my lip and think to myself how Galen would feel if I just stuck my foot in the water, just enough to get on the jet ski. Maybe I wouldn’t even have to; maybe Rachel could push me out. Wait … “Rachel took this out, bum leg and all, huh?”
Rayna scrunches her face. “Well, she came out and watched me do it. But it’s the same thing. She wouldn’t do anything she thought Galen wouldn’t like.”
I step out of my flip-flops and dig my toes in the sand. “I guess not.” But even Rachel must have a breaking point, a threshold for tolerating whining. And if trophies were handed out for whining, Rayna would have the biggest.
“He would want you to have some fun, you know,” Rayna says sweetly. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a fish look like a cat. “He would want you to keep your mind busy while he fixes all the little things wrong with the rest of the world.”
I decide Rayna is a grade-A manipulator. “He wouldn’t want me to risk myself for fun. And he’s not trying to fix the world. He’s doing what he thinks is best. For us.”
“And when is someone going to care what we think?” Her words are full of bitter and I wonder if she would have yelled that last part if she had her full voice back. It comes and goes, like a radio station just out of range. Tears threaten to spill through her long lashes. Tears that I’m not sure I can trust.
“What’s up with you?” I ask. “Is something wrong?”
She hugs herself as if it’s freezing cold out here on the sun-drenched beach. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I mean, what’s happening? Why hasn’t someone come for us? And…” She turns toward the water. “I’ve been thinking about how your mother lived on land all this time. And how … how I want to live on land, too.”
If I keep letting my mouth hang open, my tongue will dry up and shrivel inside my head. Before he’d left, Galen had made his intention of spending more time on land clear. Surely if he could do it, Rayna could do it, too, right? But she’s not talking about more time on land. She’s talking about all her time on land. Pretending to be human. Or is she? Is this all part of an elaborate scheme to tug on my heart strings and give in? She already tricked me into teaching her how to drive.
What would Galen want me to do? Would he want me to encourage her to follow the law? Would he want me to encourage her to live on land? And that’s when I realize what she’s talking about. Scheme or not, I shouldn’t encourage her to do anything.
Because I’m not her. All she’s trying to do is be her. At least, that’s what I think she’s trying to do. Now I feel bad for all the crap I give Toraf. You really can’t tell when she’s playing you and when she’s being serious. “You should do what will make you happy,” I tell her. “I think we should all do what will make us happy. And if living on land will make you happy, I say go for it.”
I can practically see Galen cringe. But Rayna is right. It’s time someone asked what she wants. No one asked her if she wanted to stay here and babysit me. No one asked her about mating with Toraf—even though it turned out that she wanted to. What if she hadn’t? Would she still be forced? I hate to think so. But I can’t convince myself otherwise. Not with this burdensome law the Syrena have clung to for so long.
Sure, there are good things about the law. Galen would argue that same law has kept them safe from humans all these centuries, and he would be right. But I can’t help thinking of my grandmother, my dad’s mom. She had this crystal figure of a clown holding a bouquet of balloons. I’d only ever seen it once, when she showed it to me while she was cleaning it. As she would turn it over and over in her hands, trying to get to every hidden crevice, it cast a rainbow prism on the ceiling, turning the whole room into a giant kaleidoscope. All the colors danced and played. It was absolutely mesmerizing to a six-year-old. After Grammy had made it shine, she wrapped it up in tissue, put it back in the box, then put the box in the attic. I’d asked why she didn’t show it off, put it on display in the house somewhere close to the window, so she could have a ballet of colors on her wall every day. “I want to keep it safe,” she’d told me. “I keep it in the box so it doesn’t get broken.”
That day I learned the exact opposite lesson Grammy was trying to teach me—well, as much as a six-year-old could comprehend of the matter: Grammy’s nuts. Also, breathtaking crystal clowns were not made that way for no reason. They were meant to be seen.
Now, years later, I can translate that lesson into: safe isn’t always better than sorry. Sometimes you need sorry to appreciate the safe. And sometimes safe is just plain boring. Rayna’s probably going through a combination of both right now. And who am I to say what’s right and what’s wrong?
And what is the law to say how she should live?
The law prohibits Half-Breeds. Am I really that bad? The law is like a one-size-fits-all T-shirt. And how often do those shirts really fit everyone?
Rayna studies me, as if she can tell what’s going through my mind. No, it looks more like she planted what’s going through my mind. Suspicion creeps back in.
“Yes, I can decide for myself,” she says. “I don’t need everyone else telling me how to think or feel about things. I’m a Royal, too. My opinion counts just as much as theirs.” She stares down into the water.
This whole time she was making the argument for freedom to live on land. But now I’m not so sure that land had anything to do with it at
all. Somehow it sounds like she’s saying, “I want to live on land,” but meaning something else. Something else, like, “I want to go see what’s going on down there.”
She strips from her clothes, down to her still-wet bathing suit, and gets a running start for the water. “You’re just going to leave me here?” I shout after her.
“I’m not leaving you here, Emma. You’re keeping yourself here.” She leaves me with those crazy words, and then she’s gone.
I am paralyzed on the beach in my school clothes. I can’t help but feel that I’m in huge trouble. But why should I? She was babysitting me, not the other way around, right? It’s not like I can chase her down and follow her. Her fins have already gone a distance I can’t cover with my puny human legs. Besides, these are my favorite jeans; the salt water would be unforgiving.
Except … There is that shiny new jet ski sitting there. I could close the distance between us, put my foot in the water, and find her. She would sense me, come back to see why I was in the water. Wouldn’t she? Of course she would. Then I could talk her into staying here, not leaving me alone to drive myself crazy. I could manipulate her into feeling sorry for me.
Unless she’s the complete sociopath I think she is.
Still, it’s my only option. I grab the handle to the jet ski and pull it toward the waves. Luckily high tide is coming in and I don’t have to drag the thing far. It makes a trail from the beach to the water, evidence that one of us did what we weren’t supposed to. Or, maybe Rachel will think that we’re riding double. Yeahfreakingright. Rachel’s specialty is figuring stuff out.
But the more time I spend thinking about all this, the more time Rayna has to put leagues of sea between us. Good thing I don’t care about grace as I awkwardly climb aboard and stub my toe. I bite back a yelp, and turn the key in the ignition. The thing roars to life beneath me and all at once I’m one part scared and one part exhilarated.