Richard Byers: Queen of the Depths

A3 Anton had initially suspected, all Myth Nantar lay under a benign enchantment enabling visitors from the world above to breathe, withstand the pressure of the depths, and even see clearly despite the hundreds of feet of water filtering out the sun. Thus, he could discern the preparations for war. Mermen strung enormous nets between the luminous spires and equally massive spurs of corals. Sea-elves shot crossbows at targets, and shalarins jabbed in unison with tridents, as the alliance’s raw new army, hastily scraped together to replace the superior one the wyrms had already annihilated, doggedly trained for the struggle to come.

It was the loan of Tu’ala’keth’s coral ring, however, that permitted Anton to eavesdrop on passersby as he and the waveservant swam through the canyonlike streets. He heard variations of the same fearful conversation repeated again and again: “The dragon flight has turned.” “The wyrms are headed straight at us.” “I’m taking my family out of the city today.”

Tu’ala’keth had been correct about the need for haste. As it was, she’d only barely returned in time.

They swam through a plaza where a fountain miraculously spewed yellow flame, noticeably warming the water. Beyond that lay a blue marble temple, with columns shaped like chains of bubbles, and a frieze of a triton adoring the facade. Adjacent to that stood the imposing five-story keep that was the Council House.

Sentries stood watch before the arched entry. According to Tu’ala’keth, the allied races supplied the honor guard on an alternating basis, and today was evidently the locathahs’ turn. Advised to expect the waveservant and her companion, the gill-men ushered them inside with a minimum of fuss. It reminded Anton of his own countrymen, who, as citizens of a republic, often took a sort of pride in eschewing aristocratic airs and elaborate ceremony. But he suspected that in this case, the city’s desperation had more to do with it.

The council chamber turned out to be a spacious room with an enormous table made fashioned from a dragon-turtle shell at the center. Around it sat the councilors, one for every allied race, another for each of the three orders of Dukarsa sort of highly regarded wizard who could evidently come from any raceand one for an elven High Mage, for a total of ten. Still, the Serosians called it a Council of Twelve, and two chairs sat empty, the first representing an extinct order of Dukars and the second reserved for any god who might care to manifest and address the assembly.

The word chairs was somewhat misleading. Fashioned in different shapes to accommodate the varying anatomies of the councilors, some resembled cages as much as anything else, and in a realm where everyone floated, each functioned to hold the occupant effortlessly in position at the table at least as much as it did to provide a comfortable resting place for a rump.

A merman functionary announced Anton and Tu’ala’keth. The spy hung back a little as they swam toward the assembly. The councilors were the waveservant’s people. Let her do the talking.

The muscular sea-elf representativeMorgan Ildacer, if Anton remembered the name correctly wore a shirt of sharkskin armor and had brought a barbed lance and crossbow along to the meeting. He was evidently a high-ranking warrior, who, by the look of him, might have just come from drilling the troops under his command. He regarded the newcomers without discernible enthusiasm. “Priestess. Forgive us if we receive you with little courtesy, but we’re trying to deal with an emergency. You told our deputies you have a way to help us.”

“I do,” said Tu’ala’keth. “Umberlee sent me on a mission to find our salvation in the world above the waves and provided a champion to aid me. To put the matter succinctly, we succeeded. If you follow our guidance and use the weapons we procured, you can destroy the dragon flight.”

Ri’ola’con, the shalarin councilor, sat up straighter. Gray of skin, with a white mark on his brow and milky stripes on his dorsal fin, he was skinny even for one of Tu’ala’keth’s kind, with deep wrinkles etched around his eyes. “Can this be true?” he asked.

“I pray it is.” Pharom Ildacer said. Though less overtly athletic, the High Mage bore a familial resemblance to his handsome cousin, but his sympathetic air was in marked contrast to the warrior’s brusque and haughty manner. “Please, tell us more.”

“In good time,” said Tu’ala’keth.

Anton felt a twinge of unease. What did she think she was doing?

“As I explained,” said Morgan, “time presses. Speak if you actually have something to say.”

“I have a good deal to say,” she replied. “Have you wondered why this affliction has come upon us in this season?”

Arina, a youthful-looking mermaid and her people’s representative, shrugged bare and comely shoulders. In less serious circumstances, Anton could have spent a stimulating time ogling the upper half of her. “It’s just something that happens every couple centuries,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

“It is,” said Tu’ala’keth. “But you would do well to remember that nothing happens without the permission of the gods, and that calamities can embody their displeasure.”

Ri’ola’con blinked his round black eyes. “What god have we offended?”

“Do you not know?” Tu’ala’keth said. “Of all those assembled here, you and Tu’ola’sara”the shalarin Dukar”are the ones who should. None of the allied peoples honors Umberlee as much as is her due. But some never did, and perhaps considering their lack of reverence beneath her notice, she did not deign to avenge herself. But until recently, the shalarin people did worship her, and now, for the most part, we have turned away. She will not tolerate that affront.”

“Nonsense,” Morgan snapped. “Any time misfortune strikes, some priest pops up to claim it’s because folk failed to heap pearls on his deity’s altar. But the world doesn’t work like that.”

A hideous blend of sailfish, octopus, and crustacean, Vualdia, the morkoth councilor, stirred within her “seat,” a lattice of intricately carved bone. “Sometimes it does,” she said. Accurately or not, Tu’ala’keth’s ring, translating for Anton’s benefit, gave the creature the quavering voice of a cranky old lady accustomed to having her way. “History records a number of instances where the gods chastised cities and whole kingdoms that displeased them.”

Morgan sneered. “You’re a scholar, so I’ll take your word for it. But where’s the proof it’s happening now?”

“Those of you who profess mystical abilities,” Tu’ala’keth replied, “should be able to read the signs. If not, I swear on Umberlee’s trident that matters are as I say.”

“I trust your oath,” Pharom said. “I believe you think you’re speaking the truth. But that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re right.”

“Had I been wrong, had Umberlee not prompted me to do as I have done, I surely could not have procured the means of saving Myth Nantar.”

“Good,” said Nalos of Pumanath, the triton councilor, “now we’re circling back around to the point. I don’t care why the dragons are attacking. We can argue that later. I care about killing them. Do you truly have a way, waveservant, and if so, what’s your price?”

“I have the way,” said Tu’ala’keth, “and will give it to you in exchange for a pledge. After we destroy the wyrms, Myth Nantar will hold a festival of thanksgiving to Umberlee. The lords and captains of every allied race will offer at her altar.”

“Impossible,” Morgan said. “Deep Sashelas is the god of the sea-elves, and supreme above all others. I’ve never prayed to a lesser deity, and I never will.”