"Prince Scyllian! It has been far too long!"

A man with a black braid coiled about his head like a snake bows with a flourish and tries to kiss my hand. I barely deflect the attempt without causing a diplomatic incident before turning aside and greeting someone else — a woman, this time, wearing a dress that makes her resemble an aged seahorse. I murmur something that I hope sounds like a convincing combination of a greeting and her name, mixed with a suitable dash of royal ennui.

It was all coming back to me now: the tedium, the absurdity, the mounting desire to slip away and find some corner in which to hide. I had forgotten how liberating the surface world had seemed when first I found myself laid flat upon the sand, cast into a boundless realm in which not a single soul knew me from a lowly crab. The first person who came across me had mistaken me for a drunken sot, passed out upon the beach at dawn, and ever since, it had delighted me to be taken for a vagabond.

Now, with the weight of a kingdom threatening my shoulders, I was already itching to be away again. Perhaps once my mother was free, and the whole misunderstanding with my father cleared away, things might change.

My father's idea of joining the Supreme Council resonated with me. If we were less focused on isolating and protecting ourselves, and more free to explore and mingle with the wider world, our culture and way of life would be enriched, not diluted. Perhaps we might even move away from this ancient and outdated model of monarchy, and spread the burden of leadership more equally among many.

The thought is as inviting as the promise of a soothing bath and a soft bed, and as the meet-and-greet continues with no end in sight, I indulge in a daydream of taking my sisters on a tour of the globe — from San Francisco to Tokyo, Paris to New York, and everywhere in between. Martin and his children would come along as well, of course; perhaps we'd homeschool them for a year.

I'm halfway through constructing a mental lesson plan on history and art when Martin himself reappears at my side, wearing a surprisingly contented smile. I'd expected him to be miserable and ill-at-ease among so many strangers, but he looks entirely at home. Anemone trails after him, a decidedly less happy expression on her face, and slips away without meeting my eyes.

"Where have you been?" I ask, as Martin takes his place at my side.

He smiles. "The library. It's magnificent. I don't suppose the books are written in English, though, are they?"

"No, most are in Mer. Our language uses an alphabet that predates early Greek and Phoenician."

"I wish I had Noah's acuity for language," Martin says. "I wonder if he could ever visit us here. The children, too."

I cast him a glance. "I'm sure they can. When we've settled things, and you are free of Elena, we can arrange it. I'm sure there will be innumerable royal balls and other uncomfortable affairs to attend once mother is free. My presence will undoubtedly be required, and having you and the children along will make my duties far more pleasant."

"I shall be at your side, of course," he says, and smiles.

I give his hand a squeeze and sigh as the endless pleasantries continue. With every passing minute, the truth becomes more clear: this isn't where I belong. I'm glad Martin is enjoying himself, but I'm already counting the minutes until we can go home.

〜〜〜

"That was exhausting," I say, crawling across the enormous bed and collapsing face first into a pillow. "I'd forgotten how much I hated those things."

It's nearly dawn, the celebration of my return having lasted the entire night. Unfortunately, there really is no polite way to leave a party thrown in one's own honor, but Martin had been true to his word and stayed at my side for the duration, unshakable as a shadow. In fact, he'd seemed content to do nothing else, and his docility troubled me. I worried it masked some state of inner shock.

I roll onto my back as he joins me, lying at my side and shutting his eyes with a gentle smile on his lips.

"Are you sure you're alright?" I ask. "You've been... quiet."

"I'm perfectly happy," he says easily. "Thassos is wonderful."

I frown. "It's alright — if you enjoy stuffy traditions and pompous displays for the sake of vanity. Oh, and bloodbound curses that all but imprison you. Honestly, I miss my classroom. I'd take a parent-teacher conference over another royal ball any day."

"But it's so peaceful here," he murmurs. "I never want to leave."

I frown and sit up. Martin's eyes remain closed, and his face is the image of peace as he slips towards sleep. Usually, I would love to see him so relaxed, but his words trouble me.

"What about the children?" I ask. Since the day I met him, he's seldom thought of anything without thinking of them first. Now, though, he seems to have momentarily forgotten they exist.

"Children? Oh, yes. Well, they'll be alright. They have their aunts and uncles to look after them."

"And their mother, I suppose," I add, watching for his reaction.

"Their mother, too. Yes."

A strange shock goes through me — a wash of hot anger mixed with a tingling chill — as the truth hits me like a sleeper wave. He's been influenced by a Voice, and the only person he was alone with for any amount of time is the person I would least suspect. To use her Voice in such a way is not only a breach of etiquette but a serious crime, and I can't imagine why Anemone would risk it simply to change Martin's mind.

I shake him gently. "Marrtin, wake up and focus. What did Anemone say?"

He sighs sleepily. "Hmm? About what?"

"Did she use her Voice on you? Tell me."

I put the barest hint of power in my own words.

"She helped me see the truth, is all," he whispers. "Our place is here. Thassos is... wonderful."

"No, it isn't," I snap, grasping his shoulders and shaking him again, a little less gently this time. "If coming home has convinced me of anything, it's that my place is not here. I don't want to be king, and you don't want to be my 'consort.' You want to go home to Flora and Nico, and Rio and Miguel — to your family. Think of them and remember, Martin."

He blinks at me, his expression shifting from contentment to confusion, and then he sits up and looks around.

"What happened? How did we get here?"

"Anemone took you to see the library. What did she say to you?"

He winces and rubs the side of his head. "We were talking about your father, and Natalis, and... holidays."

"Holidays..." Suddenly it hits me, and I swear. "Fuck me with a whale cock."

"What?"

"My father," I snap, rolling off the bed and snatching up my clothes from where I'd dropped them on the floor. "He's landborn. He doesn't have a siren's Voice like the rest of us. Most Mer don't. It runs in the royal line."

"So?"

"So, if he'd revealed himself — showed up one day and revealed the fact he was alive — what do you think would be the very first thing any of us would do?"

"Er..." Martin squints at me.

"We'd use our Voice, of course, and demand he tell the truth. He'd have no choice but to tell it. And, if that truth happened to be that he really did intend to kill mother, put me on the throne, and use me as a puppet for his own political machinations, well..." I pull up my trousers and buckle my belt rather violently. "You can imagine how quickly he'd have found himself on his way back to the depths."

"What about Natalis?" Martin asks, rising as well and dressing himself hastily. "Anemone said she's as powerful as your mom. Wouldn't she have asked your dad the same thing?"

"She's on his side, obviously."

"Oh."

"And Anemone..." I shake my head. "I don't know. She's young and impressionable. Maybe Natalis convinced her to help. At any rate, she was obviously supposed to convince you to convince me to stay and take the throne. Fat chance of that."

I stalk to the doors and throw them open, ready to confront whatever might await on the other side, but the corridor is empty. Martin scrambles to keep up with me as I stride off down the hall.

"Where are we going?"

"To the throne room," I say, taking a sharp turn at a side passage meant for the serving class — another thing that could do with a modern overhaul. "I don't know what my father has planned, but I'll break this curse on my own terms."

Martin jogs to keep up as I trot through narrow — and notably abandoned — hallways towards my destination, the map of the palace as clear in my head as it was in my childhood, when eluding angry tutors was the primary inspiration for such forays.

After a labyrinthine journey, we emerge, breathless, from behind a tapestry hanging from a wall of the grand hall. The doors of the throne room are within spitting distance to our left, flanked by two guards.

"I'll handle this," I say, pushing Martin behind me. "Just stay quiet."

With a deep breath, I step into the passageway, straighten my posture, and lift my chin. The guards raise their weapons, but upon recognizing me, lower them halfway, as if uncertain.

"Apologies, my prince," one guard says, holding her spear in a neutral position, "but no one is to enter. Orders of Lady Natalis."

I adopt my snootiest tone and look down my nose at her. "The last time I checked, I was next in line for the throne. I would like to pay my respects to my mother, if you please."

The guard purses her lips and shoots a sideways glance at her partner, who raises his brows in an 'I don't fucking know what to do,' sort of way.

Taking the initiative, she stands aside and bows. "As you please, my prince."

Casting her a nod of royal acknowledgement, I link my arm through Martin's and march through the doors.

Sweat trickles down my back as we traverse the length of the room, mounting the three steps of the raised dais at the end, and approach my mother's cloth-covered, stone-bound form.

I pull the dust cloth aside and barely restrain a gasp.

She's as beautiful as I remember her — every detail preserved in perfection.

I recall coming across a man in a park, once, who had covered himself in gray paint and taken to posing as a statue in the name of art. He seemed to delight in scaring the shit out of people who failed to discern his disguise.

My mother looked like that — like at any moment she might move, and prove herself a living being and not a figure cast in stone.

"Give me your amulet," I say, pulling my own over my head. Martin complies, and I hold the two halves of the gem in front of me, back to back.

As it had when my father gave me the half I lacked, the gem fuses into a single whole — a three-dimensional heart lit from within.

I place it around my mother's neck. The blood red gem glows, pulsing with a heartbeat rhythm that matched its shape, and a corresponding excitement swells within my chest. In a moment, I will have my mother, my freedom, and all the answers I desire.

The statue begins to glow as if heated from within; and then, with a suddenness that makes me gasp, the stone figure shatters and crumbles into dust.

The truth explodes like a bomb in my mind, but before I can give Martin so much as a warning, a troop of guards bursts through the door amid a chorus of horrified shouts. 

Above all, Natalis's Voice rings out loud and clear.

"Seize these assassins," she commands, "they've killed the queen!"