Verse V

  Stillness was a precious commodity. Such was Marhyd's opinion of it, at least. A rare quality indeed, so rarely observed in the seas. Few were the spaces where currents did not -- or dared not -- flow. The immense cavern, hidden so deep behind the cliff face of the palace, was this sort of rarity. The weight of the waters pressed down and held close, making every motion of a fin or fluke seem like sacrilege.

  Marhyd fancied herself the blasphemous sort, and truly enjoyed saying things that would make the mitera growl and grind her teeth, but this was different. This place was different. For one of the few times in her long and checkered existence, the ministra could feel the true power of something beyond the scope of reality, and it was centered in this wide space.

  She wondered if the princess had felt something similar on her many little excursions to this place in the past few weeks. Would they feel the same things, via the same senses? Would the ministra's finely tuned powers of observation mean anything? For once, Marhyd actually wished Rhiela were present to pose the question. Rarely did she find any use for Her Highness in a practical matter of science, and yet there they were.

  It had taken some time for her to puzzle out what her own senses were telling her, but then again time was plentiful enough to spare as she and her assistants worked upon the corpse of the abomination. The pale grey flesh was rubbery beneath her knife, and did not so much refuse to be cut as simply passed to one side or the other before the knife's edge could bite. An assistant was sent off, to return promptly with a pair of kelp shears. The tool looked somewhat like a pair of tongs, being a thin bar of springy metal bent sharply in the middle. The two ends of the bar presented razor edges which met like the maw of a squid, and between which no kelp could hope to survive. They sawed through the outer layers of the abomination just as easily.

  Her grey-clad assistants had their tools laid out upon the tiled floor in orderly patterns, ready to take each slice of flesh as she stripped it from the main body, catching bubbles of ichor in rough bladders as they floated upwards, and taking notes on everything they saw. Each mer represented an enormous investment on her part, with weeks upon weeks of training needed to gift them with the mental faculties which the ministra required. If she were to ask one of them to give her a beat-by-beat account of the day, however, she knew that the mer would do so without nary an item missed. That attention to detail took effort to instill.

  Inwardly, she cursed that idiotic green mer who had deprived her of two excellent members of her trained cadre. Their observations on Messra min Na?da would be sorely missed.

  But on to the matter at hand. The corpse of the abomination was still surprisingly solid, with no answer as to why or how. Everything she had learned about this class of creature told her that it should be nothing more than an oily feeling in the water by now, sublimated away once its mockery of a life was ended, and yet here it was. She paused in her task to listen to an assistant's report whispered in her ear, and then nodded her acknowledgment. Marhyd took the shears and neatly severed a stubby finger from the monster's right hand. Holding it between her own thick little appendages, she watched as the specimen quickly dissolved into the waters. After a three-beat count, her hand was empty.

  This was how an abomination should be, this long after death, and so her specimen here did not seem to be so out of the ordinary after all -- once it was cut up. Before that point, however, something was different. Some power was keeping the body together and intact... but how? That was the question.

  Marhyd traced the tips of the shears along that grossly sleek skin, now cleaned of its caustic mucus. There were no lines, no ridges, no scales, nothing at all to distinguish one bit from the next. The monster was a uniform blubbery grey from its maw to the tip of its tail, except for in one spot.

  She'd intended to open that section last, but now curiosity won out. There was a patch, a blazon of sorts that shone upon the abomination's breast. It was vaguely triangular in shape, with one edge straight and the others slightly curved, and it appeared to be set within the flesh, not upon it. Her shears went to work, tracing an ichorous black circle around the patch, then carefully peeling layer upon layer of dermis away. As before, the thing's skin and flesh dissolved to nothing almost as soon as they were parted from the main body, and the underlying patch became clearer as she worked.

  Finally, her shears touched something which they could not cut, something hard within the mass of soft flesh. Marhyde switched her tools, choosing a scraper to remove the bits of flesh which still remained, and then a pair of gripping tongs. Slowly the piece of not-flesh slid from the body of the abomination, revealing itself in the low light of the cavern.

  In appearance, it was a slice of crystal, though how it might have been shaped was beyond the ministra's knowledge. Perhaps the size of an outstretched hand, the piece was a rounded triangle, longer on two sides, but curved and tapered along its sharpest point. She held it up to the light, noting its translucence and the way it seemed to catch the light in its glimmering surface. The shining motes within it seemed to exist on a layer far deeper within the material than was physically possible.

  "Oh-ho, what do we have here?" she mused, raising her new prize high. Behind her, unneeded and unnoticed, the ugly grey corpse began its swift course to decomposition and oblivion.

  Verse VI

  There was a natural flow to the year which Mitera Yesca enjoyed. One month led to the next at a steady, inexorable rate, and with them came the festivals, the celebrations, and the rituals of observance in honor of the Mother of All. The princess's coming of age ceremony, regardless of how its aftermath now flowed, was but the beginning of a long chain of serious matters, of which she as the high mitera of Bryndoon had been placed in charge.

  The thought occasionally came to her, uncharitable as it was, that the temple elders gave her the honor of these duties so that they themselves would not be bothered in their privacy and prayers. No matter; hers was to serve, and so serve she did. It kept her mind off of the more worrisome matters of the day.

  Coming soon was the most necessary of dates, the importance of which could never be understated: the festival of the blessed sacrament. Festivals, rather; the seas would each in turn be visited by the trusted pilgrims of the Mere Kamazon, those prestren sacrista whose specialty lay in the convoluted prayers of the blessed sacrament. Yesca had herself made a study of those prayers, as any leondra might do in her youth, but like most prestren of the Temple, other matters of faith had called to her heart. She left the great words to those with both the passion and the compassion to facilitate the lives of the next generation.

  Her business of the day was of lesser importance but greater experience: the allotment of prestren sacrista for the pilgrimages ahead. Already had they gathered here in the Temple of Bryndoon, making their preparations and studies for weeks if not months before they were ready to set forth. But who would go where? The first of the festivals, here in the Mere Le?na, would be the largest outside of the leondra waters, but from there a few prestren to the Mere Sangolia, a few to the Mere Arkhala... Two adventurous souls--or three, if a volunteer could be found--for the settlements of the Mere Hetropa. By longstanding agreement, a dozen prestren each would go to the Mere Tessra? and the Mere Kazahn, though it rankled her sensibilities for those seas to rate so highly.

  To the Mere Almezzeb, none. Again. The House of Casima would object, again, but they understood the risks of the Free Flow as well as she. Even more than she, if one were to believe the continued squawking of the mer in the council meetings. Every other contingent of pilgrims would have their honor guards, but there would be no chances taken with the sea over the sands. In any case, there was never much call for the sacrament in Mezzegheb. Only the viceroy's House and its cadet branches actually made the city of tents a home for the generations, and they could just as easily ride the greater flows to Le?na or Tessra? if they desired a blessing so much.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The string of shells at the entrance to her office did their job, clinking and plinking to announce a visitor. A polite visitor, no less; this one stayed at the entrance and waited the few beats for Yesca to clear the flat shells of business from the space before her.

  "Be welcome," she called.

  "By your words shall I be," came the reply. Into the chamber swam a leondra, young and fit to set an envious thought to stir in Yesca's breast. There was many a long year between herself and this prestra sacrista. Nehemi min Noemi was but recently come to these waters, but already she showed promise.

  In the mitera's mind, an image stirred of Nehemi, of the mer's face during the convocation to the Goddess just the day before. Already it seemed like an eternity since then, but the memory was sharp. It was a rare prestra who heard anything during the great convocation, and those who did seemed destined to swim far. Yesca herself could attest to as much.

  "Is all well?" asked the mitera. "Are your preparations on the proper current?"

  "That they are, o mitera," said Nehemi. "Though eddies there have been. Nothing to disturb the work, I must assure you, but..." The prestra's fur shivered and shimmered for a beat as the familiar tremor of nerves passed through. "It has been a long night, and a longer day before."

  Never a squarer truth had been stated. The older mer allowed herself a grimace of agreement. "I shall speak true when I say that I am sinking myself in the work of the day so I do not need to think about yesterday," she said. "An awful business, both muddy and frothed. You knew her? The guard?" With a gesture she offered her visitor a spot on the floor to rest.

  "Shalar, yes." Nehemi settled herself down with a flush of water on the gills. "Not too well, I would say, but she took her time to show me around the palace and the city, and... and she was friendly in a way that many are not. The... the ceremony of farewell is this evening, and I have been asked to say some words."

  "A difficult task in the best of times."

  "I have given myself to the study of life!" Nehemi cried. "Not of death! I do not know what to say, or how to say it, or how to console those who knew her for longer than I, better than I. And... and for all their kind words, I am not convinced that anyone would wish me to attend."

  Yesca rested her chin upon her folded hands and watched the young prestra. "Why wouldn't they?"

  "There is no single thing to which I could point," Nehemi admitted. "It is only... a feeling. Not just among the barracks guards, but out in the city as well. A feeling. A sense that none welcome our presence. A politeness that cannot be faulted, save that it is used so rudely. My sestren and I, we... we have our concerns, our worries. We have heard the songs of past pilgrimages and thought we knew what to expect, but... is this a normal thing, which none do mention?"

  "It is," said Yesca, "and then again, it is not. There is nothing straightforward beneath the firmament save for Her love of us, and nothing more convoluted than the emotions of a city. The events of yesterday, the death of Shalar and the chaos of Rhiela's continued absence have only exacerbated it. A greater abomination, in the tunnels behind the palace itself! Such terrible things cause terribly currents to flow amidst the manoa. Currents of fear, of anger, and of discontent. It is in their nature to strike out at that which threatens them, an itch to beat into submission enemies which they cannot fathom, and without clear targets they may seek out anything sufficiently different to strike."

  "But they would never dare raise a hand to a prestra of the blessed sacrament... ah," said Nehemi. "And thus discontent arises from envy. We do what they need, yet cannot do themselves."

  "Precisely." A niggling thought worried at the edge of her mind, but the mitera was well practiced at ignoring such things. A young, fresh prestra such as Nehemi did not need to be laden with certain truths. Let the purity of her heart survive a while longer yet. "I think that you shall find more appreciative mers in the course of your pilgrimage proper," she assured the young prestra. "But if you need guidance, allow me to lend you a shell..."

  She knew the exact spot on the shelf to search, though she dithered a beat for the sake of appearances. A single large scallop, flat and perfectly etched, was soon presented to the prestra sacrista. "This is an old work," explained Yesca. "One of the oldest of our written compositions. 'The Lament of Hirami min Barabba,' it is called."

  "I confess that I have never heard of it, o mitera."

  "It is not in the regular Temple curriculum," Yesca told her. "The words are archaic, the form difficult to follow, and the subject too sad for most daughters. Hirami was a foremother of our tribe, one of the first mitera, and a survivor of a war that nearly ended us all. Few details remain, for we did not wish to let our minds linger on such unpleasantness, and her lament is one of the few direct references to survive these many past centuries. In it, she cries for her sister, dead possibly by her own hand. A terrible thing to do, and even more terrible for the fact that it was necessary for the survival of the tribe. And so Hirami min Barabba composed this poem to let out her feelings of despair and teach herself how to deal with the dark necessities of life." The mitera let the water blow out her gills in a sigh. "It is a lesson worth learning, even if we do not wish to study it."

  Nehemi accepted the shell with careful grace. "I thank you, o mitera. I shall... I shall do my best to understand."

  "That is the best we can ever hope for," said Yesca. "Now, while you are here, shall we discuss where to send you for your pilgrimage? Nothing is set on the shells just yet. If you are not feeling up to the rigors of travel, I can place you with the group staying in the Mere Leina."

  The younger mer was polite with the subtle shake of her head. "Thank you for your concern, but I think perhaps I should away from these waters for a while."

  "Understandable. Ah..." The mitera checked through the shells. "The Mere Kazahn, then. The rim city has its comforts, and they always are appreciative of our efforts. The mer galda are somewhat blunt and unimaginative, but neither are they so bitter at heart as the manoa can be. It should be a welcome change from this general malaise upon the waters of Bryndoon."

  "I thank you, o mitera."

  "Was there anything else?" It was a formality, and already her eyes were straying to the remainder of the flat shells of business. The prestra's concerns were assuaged, so there was only the final check before she was dismissed.

  Nehemi's own eyes darted like little fish. "Actually... I, well, four days ago now, I was speaking with some manoa in a public bathhouse..."

  "And they made you feel unwelcomed, as you were saying?

  "Yes, but that was not the thing." The prestra flushed her gills and little bubbles clung to the fur of her neck. "I was speaking of the blessed sacrament, of course, and how important it was for us to perform it, and I gave them the practice word. To, to make a point."

  Yesca nodded. The mystic grammar of the sacrament was, even for a spell gifted from the Mother of All, a marvel of complexity. A prestra novita could study for years before the syllables came naturally. The practice word was a shibboleth, a string of nonsense created to flow with difficulty from the tongues of manoa, and it was shared freely by the prestra to make a point to all who would receive the sacrament: That only a leondra could do it properly.

  "Well, one of the manoa in the baths, she could... she could pronounce it. Perfectly, on the first try, without even a thought." Nehemi's shoulders sank low and her body drooped. "She did so better than I myself could as a prestra novita."

  That news was not cause for alarm, though it did give Yesca reason to pause. "Such is not unheard of," she admitted. "Rare, but not impossible. Did this mer realize what she had done?"

  "Not exactly. At least, I do not think that she did. But, if she could... would she be able to perform the blessed sacrament?"

  The waters rumbled as Yesca flushed her own gills in annoyance. "No, for none would teach it to her, and that is all that matters. Never forget, Nehemi min Noemi, that we are the ones to safeguard the future of all, because we are called to this duty. Other mers under the firmament cannot understand what this means, what this blessing represents. Not the way we do. Have you seen this mer since?"

  "No, o mitera. She was a caravanner, I believe."

  "Gone on the next morning's tide, presumably." She relaxed, even allowed a smile to grace her lips. "There is no worry to be had, then. Do not let this surprise faze you, but instead allow it to inspire. Show this mer, and thus all the seas, what wonders the leondra perform for others. Be brave, be bold, and perform your services faithfully in the Mere Kazahn."

  "I thank you once more, o mitera." Nehemi min Noemi pushed off the floor, making the rounded hand signs of gratitude and obeisance as she sculled backwards for the exit. "I shall not falter in my sacred task."

  "Know you that I hold great faith in you," Yesca told her. "Now, be off with you. There are many things which I must complete before your pilgrimage may even commence."

  The old leondra's smile persisted long after the prestra's exit. With all the fuss over the princess and the ministra and the depths-taken abominations, it was nice to focus on things which she as mitera could do for the mers of the sea. It was good to recall her place in the waters beneath the firmament. And ever was it good to remind others of that place as well.

  With that in mind, Yesca returned to matters of the great pilgrimage