These Gilded Seas

Chapter Six: Forbidden Magic

After a few more moments of tense deliberation, where Finn nearly chickens out at least twice and begs me to come up with another plan at least ten times, we decide to take some basic weapons. Walking into a warlock's den is dangerous enough for two merfolk like us, but going in without some sort of protection is foolish. If we made it past the guards, of which I'm sure Zula will have plenty, we'd be lucky.

Being royal—and a friend of the royal family, in Finn's case—we've both received years of training with most mer-weapons. My father keeps a sizable arsenal at Hygge palace, but I've been allowed to keep my own in my room.

For protection, of course.

It was Mama's idea.

A woman is never fully dressed without her dagger, she used to say.

After grabbing a smaller leather crossbody from my shelf, I swim over to the alcove where my weapons sit lined up. Each has been polished recently, maintained with almost obsessive care. The one sitting in the center, a dagger the same length as my forearm, is made of lightweight obsidian from the underwater volcanoes littering the sea to our south.

I pick up the priceless dagger and balance it on the edge of my fingers, sighing at the familiar weight. The heavy, polished pearl sitting in the center of its handle, where the crosshairs split from the blade, keeps it perfectly steady. It doesn't even rock as I hold it aloft on my middle finger.

An expert of the highest caliber crafted this dagger. That much has always been crystal clear. I've always wanted to meet them, to praise their skill and craftsmanship, but I don't know who they were—or are, if they're still alive. The one person who could have told me is long gone, nearly thirty years to the grave.

It was my mother's blade.

I rotate the hilt onto my palm and twist the blade into the light. Just barely, the engraving on the obsidian shimmers like a mirage. Her name is etched there: Athalia. I graze my fingertips along the tiny indentations. Did the bladesmith chisel out each individual stroke, or was the writing sewn in using magic? It doesn't matter; it's a perfect weapon either way.

I tuck the dagger into an easy to reach pocket of my bag and make sure to face the hilt outwards. It's like I'm taking a piece of Mama with me, and if anyone could bring me good luck, it's the Blessed Queen herself.

"Ready?" Finn asks in a small voice.

I nod. "Might as well be."

Together, we leave the room and maneuver through the now-dark hallways. Moonlight cuts through the windows lining the paths. It dances in the water's gentle rocking and illuminates near-invisible fish as they dart in and out of the shadows. Finn sticks as close to me as he can, but speed is our priority.

If someone catches me leaving, they'll ask questions I can't answer.

Or won't, rather.

Clearing the palace is the easy part. Since it's so late in the evening, the remainder of my family members that still live in the palace are in one of two places: their rooms or the dining hall. As we pass the long, rectangular room, I peep my head around the edge of a window. Papa sits at the head of a golden table. Several, but not all, of my siblings are eating with him. The noise of their happy communion drifts out to me, breaks my heart.

There's one downside to having extra long lifespans.

You get tired of one another.

Time fosters resentments and creates divides. My siblings and I used to be close, used to play together in the anemone fields and among the coral polyps. We giggled about boys and tormented our only brother.