“They’re not my rules,” Elian says. “And besides” – he taps the handle of his knife, the mockery crisp in his voice – “I have diplomatic immunity.”
Kye laughs from the grass below. “Is that what we’re calling Queen Galina now?” he asks. “You might want to tell Her Royal Highness that her title has changed.”
“I think I’d rather not.”
“When are you going to go see her?” Madrid asks, slinging the other arm of the weapons bag over her shoulder. “You just know that as soon as she hears we’ve docked, she’ll send guards to escort you over to the palace.”
“She always wants to make sure we settle in okay,” Elian says.
Madrid snorts. “You mean she always wants to keep an eye on us.”
Elian shrugs noncommittally and presses a hand to the seashell.
I try to be indifferent, but the thought of it being in his grasp makes me dizzy with anger. The sea kingdom of Keto has remained hidden from humans since the dawn of time, lost in a maze of ocean and magic woven by the goddess herself. The secret of its whereabouts is our best line of defense in this ongoing battle, and to have that advantage destroyed by him – because of me – would be unthinkable.
Even if the seashells do not work for humans, Elian isn’t like most humans. There’s no telling how much havoc he would leave in his wake if he captured a siren and forced her to use its power to lead him to our kingdom. I doubt there are any limits to his desire to rid the world of my race. His movements are as unpredictable as his motives, and if there’s anything I’ve learned these past few days, it’s that the prince has a way of getting what he wants. I’m not prepared to let him hold the key to my kingdom for long enough to realize that it is one.
Elian leads me from his ship and onto the floating meadow, the seemingly perpetual smudge of dirt creasing on his forehead. He never seems to be quite perfect. Every glimpse of him is tarnished with an odd dishevelment, noticeable even as he stands among such a makeshift crew. It seems to be a way for him to fit in with the thieves and rogues he has collected, in a similar way that I was fashioned into my mother’s vision of a true siren. And because of this, I know his attempts are fruitless. Royalty cannot be unmade. Birth rights cannot be changed. Hearts are forever scarred by our true nature.
“When we reach the wall, we can discuss your future,” Elian says.
I clench my fists, appalled at his audacity and the fact that I’m being forced to tolerate it. Never the queen, always the minion.
“Discuss it?” I repeat.
“You said you wanted to come with us, and I want to make sure you’re useful. You can’t just be a prisoner taking up space on my deck.”
“I was belowdecks,” I remind him. “In a cage.”
“That was this morning,” he says, as though it’s far enough in the past to be forgotten. “Try not to hold a grudge.”
The grin he gives me is beyond taunting and I sneer, not deigning to reply. Instead I breeze past and make sure to knock my shoulder as hard as I can into his. The sooner I have his heart, the better.
THE WALL IS NOT made of light, but of rose petals. They are pure white and when the sunlight bounces off the delicate leaves, they glisten like stars. At first, it’s hard to tell whether they are part of the wall, or if they are the wall itself. Tiny flower shavings somehow creating a barrier around the border to Eidyllio’s capital. As we approach, I see the solid marble drawbridge begin to fall, parting flowers through the middle.
Once we step inside the city, I’m hit by the smell of sugar bread and peppermint. Market stalls line the curved cobble streets, each stone like a ripple. By the entrance, a trader leans over a barrel of thick chocolate and stirs it with a spoon that’s almost the same height as him. Customers lick warm honey from their fingers and drip milk onto satin dress shirts.
When I open my mouth to sigh, the air caramelizes on my tongue.
I’ve never been inside a human city and I marvel at its abundance. How many people. How many colors and smells and tastes. The way their voices blur into whispers and roars while their feet clap against the cobblestone. So many bodies moving and crashing. There’s an unnerving madness to it. How do they breathe, with so little space? How do they live, with so much mayhem? In spite of myself, I edge closer to Elian. There’s comfort in his presence and how relaxed he disguises himself to be. As though he could belong anywhere if he truly wanted to.
The scouts seem to recognize him. They smile and greet the prince with swift bows before opening the weapons bag Torik slaps onto their station. Though Elian’s knife is covered by his jacket, it’s not completely unnoticeable and he makes no real attempt to hide it.