Riverians? Before I can search the hills again, points of light stipple my vision, along with images of rippling water. I brace against the wooziness that follows this flash of brandmagic, and blink away the spots.
On the pool at our side, bubbles rise to the surface like fine ropes of pearl. Moments later, the barbed tails and rippling halo-fins of two fathomgliders emerge from the water, black as the Sickening-stained sands of the Southern archipelago are now purported to be. Jets of air escape their blowholes with a loud hiss. Astrophel’s hands tighten around his sword, and one of the Xylians lets out a low whistle. The venomous rays are harnessed and tow a vessel resembling an immense scalloped shell behind them. Five individuals with bluish skin and hair are seated within it. Two men and three women.
As the craft draws level with us, one of the women dives into the pool to anchor it and unshackle the fathomgliders, while the remainder of the Riverian contingent alight onto the bank with practised ease. When the last of them finally emerges from the water, hoisting herself onto the grassy verge, she now has a shimmering tail. Turquoise scales glisten as she reclines by the water’s edge. The glint brightens to a gleam, flares to a glow. The tail forks down the middle, transforming back into legs.
It’s one thing reading about a pearlsprite’s ability to survive on land in human form. Witnessing the change is something else.
‘What sorcery is this?’ Astrophel mutters. The hand gripping his sword is shaking now.
Cerulean eyes, feline in tilt and intensity, stare out from the sprite’s heart-shaped face. Like a cat’s, they’re also slit-pupilled. She has a sharp turned-up nose, strongly bowed lips, and gauzed fan-gills either side of her face, rapidly retracting to reveal the shells of her ears. She’s clad in a pleated sheath of the same sea-green, diaphanous material all the Riverian delegates wear. It clings to the lithe curves of her body, revealing more than it conceals. A vial of liquid the murky colour of used bathwater dangles from a chain of pearls over her heart.
The sprite’s hair, hanging in loose braids to her waist, starts to change colour, rippling, shifting like the surface of the pool she’s just emerged from. Turquoise darkening to onyx. The bestiary mentioned that the hue of a pearlsprite’s tail and hair fluctuates according to mood – much like mortal auras. How must it feel to have one’s emotions so exposed? Legible, not only to the Starborn, but to anyone who cares to observe the patterns? And what emotion does black correspond to?
Hopefully something favourable – though the sprite’s drawn lips and narrowed, darting gaze suggest otherwise. So too does the sea-spear brandished between taloned fingers frilled with webbing. It’s angled at shoulder-height, ready to be launched. All five Riverian delegates are similarly armed and sporting armoured neck coverings, made not from metal but what looks like cuttlebone, carved to resemble scales. At the point where these guards meet collarbone, I glimpse the iridescent flash of real scales.
I reach inside my reticule, fingers closing around the razored edge of the throwing star I’m carrying for protection. The Xylians finger their bows.
The two Riverian men look roughly the same age as my father. Grey threads their hair at the temples, and one walks with a pronounced limp. One of the women is old – even older than Carmentis. The other is considerably younger – around my own age. They all share the same lean, wiry physique, familiar from Zale’s portrait. Like him, their upper bodies are disproportionately long. They’re taller than the Xylians, but still short to my eyes.
The man with the limp breaks the cutting silence.
‘The Island Tribes have answered your call.’ The common language lilts under his tongue, cadence and vowels worn soft by his lips, like driftwood by the tides. Smoothed into something more melodious.
Izarius mentioned the tribes when he showed me the Reliquary portrait. Three of them, named for the trio of island groups that make up the Riverian archipelago.
‘If this is a trap, we stand ready to defend ourselves,’ he continues. Shards of shell weight his braids, jangling as he speaks. His left hand, the one not clasping his sea-spear, is blackened, wasted.
‘Damned river-roaches,’ Astrophel hisses under his breath.
‘We’re not here to make war,’ I say quickly. ‘We seek a temporary alliance.’
The Riverian purses his lips. ‘And who are you to demand such a thing? Star-Touched, that much is evident… A surprise to find any of your kind endures. The Waveborn have long since evaporated from our shores.’
Another blow, but I draw myself straighter. ‘Leilani Stellarion, heir to the Crystal Throne. And this is Lord Vesparion, my… my betrothed.’ The word leaves a bitter aftertaste on my tongue, like unripe snowberries. ‘I trust you’ve already been introduced to the Xylian delegates?’
The Riverian waves his hand in dismissive assent. ‘So rather than greet us himself, the mighty Stellarion King sends two minnows in his stead?’
‘His Radiance has good reason for not being here,’ Astrophel snaps.
‘My mother’s not long for this world.’ My voice cracks and I curse myself for sounding weak. But something in my appeal seems to have touched a nerve, for the Riverian’s eyes soften, and at his signal, the other Islanders lower their spears.
‘I’m Lakyn Casparo, chieftain of the Laragona Isles. This is my daughter, Maris.’ He gestures to the brazen young woman.
Wearing a sheath knotted at one shoulder, she maintains the wide crouched stance of a warrior. There’s a defiant jut to her chin, and her wide set, lapis-blue eyes rove over me, suspicious but unabashed. The smattering of scales that fan her collarbones glitter like diamonds.
Her hair falls in a thick azure wave almost to her feet, with the midsection swept back in a fishtail braid, shells woven through it. Her lips are overly full and her nose strong and straight.
I flash my widest smile at the chieftain’s daughter. Keep your enemies close.
Lakyn nods in the direction of the older woman, who sports a simple braid, dotted with pearls, and a high-necked sheath. ‘Raine Iara, chieftain of the Alethian Isles. And Waverley Arethusa, chieftain of the Urbina Isles.’ He indicates the man to his right, whose braids are tied back from his face and studded with coral fragments. ‘Delphine, daughter of the Blood Basin, Guardian to my house and kin, stands with us. She represents her sisters’ interests at this assembly.’ The pearlsprite locks eyes with me, then moves closer to Maris. She slips an arm around her waist and whispers something in her ear which makes Maris’ lips quirk.
I lift my chin and try to ignore the venom in that smile, the suspicion their whispers are about me. ‘We’ve brought a carriage to escort you to the palace. We’ll await the arrival of the Oralian envoy there together.’
Maris nudges Delphine. ‘Wait to seeifthey’ll deign to make an appearance, you mean.’
Astrophel leads the Outrealmers to the carriage and instructs the Watchers to escort the sylvanmares to the palace gardens where we’re to hold the Council of Four. I lag several paces behind everyone. Maris’ words linger in my mind like the foul-smelling smoke from the pyres, striking at the heart of my secret fear.
After all this time, after so much enmity, will the Oralians come? Will they answer my call?
