Free Waterfire Saga, Book One: Deep Blue (A Waterfire Saga Novel) by Jennifer Donnelly Page B

She’s right—this is a barbaric ceremony. It was hard to reconcile the Miromarans, a people so cultured and refined, with such a gruesome ritual.
    “It’s about to start!” Yazeed exclaimed. “I hear music! Look, Neela!”
    He pointed to the archway on the opposite side of the Kolisseo. A hush fell over the crowd as a merman, grand and majestic, emerged from it. He moved at a stately pace, his red robes flowing behind him. A matching turban with a narwhal’s tusk protruding from it graced his head. A scimitar, its gold hilt encrusted with jewels, hung from his belt.
    Neela knew he was the Mehterabaşi, leader of the Janiçari, Isabella’s personal guard. Fierce fighters from the waters off Turkey’s southern coast, they wore breastplates made of blue crab shells and osprey-skull epaulets. A line of orca’s teeth ran across the top of each of their bronze helmets.
    The Janiçari followed their leader out of the archway, swimming in tight formation. Some played boru—long, thin trumpets. Others played the davul—bass drums made from giant clamshells. The rest sang of the bravery of their regina in deep, rumbling voices. It was an immense sound, intended to terrify Miromara’s enemies. Neela thought it did the job well.
    After twenty lines of Janiçari had marched into the Kolisseo, another figure—one very different from the fearsome soldiers—appeared in the archway.
    “Oh, doesn’t Sera look gorgeous!” Neela whispered.
    “Merl’s so hot, she melts my face off,” Yazeed said.
    “Wow. That’s appropriate, Yaz,” said Neela.
    Mahdi stared silently.
    Serafina sat sidesaddle atop a graceful gray hippokamp. She wore a simple gown of pale green sea silk. The color, worn by mer brides, symbolized her bond with her people, her future husband, and the sea. Over the gown, she wore an exquisite brocade mantle, the same deep green as her eyes. It was richly embroidered with copper thread and studded with red coral, pearls, and emeralds—the jewels of Merrow’s crown. Her copper-brown hair floated around her shoulders. Her head was unadorned. Her face, with its high cheekbones, was elegant and fine. But it’s her eyes that make her truly beautiful, Neela thought. They sparkled with intelligence and humor, darkened with doubt sometimes, and shone in their depths with love. No matter how hard she tried to hide it.
    The second the Miromarans spotted her, they were out of their seats and cheering. The noise rolled over the amphitheater like a storm. Serafina, solemn as the occasion demanded, kept her eyes straight ahead.
    The Mehterabaşi reached the base of the royal enclosure and stopped. His troops—with Serafina in the midst of them—followed suit. He struck his chest with his fist, then saluted his regina. It was a gesture of both love and respect. In perfect unison, all five hundred Janiçari did the same. Isabella struck her chest and saluted back, and another cheer went up. The boru players blew loud blasts.
    Serafina’s hippokamp didn’t like the noise. She pawed at the water with her front hooves and thrashed her serpentine tail. Her eyes, yellow and slitted like a snake’s, shifted nervously.
    As Serafina calmed her, the Mehterabaşi turned to his troops and raised his scimitar, then sliced it through the water. As he did, the Janiçari moved forward, splitting their formation in the middle, so that half marched to the right, and half to the left. When they had ringed the amphitheater, the Mehterabaşi sheathed his scimitar, swam to Serafina, and helped her dismount. She removed her mantle and handed it to him. She would face Alítheia in only her dress. It would be her coronation gown or her shroud.
    The Mehterabaşi handed her his scimitar, then led her hippokamp away. Serafina was alone in the center of the amphitheater. When the cheers died down she spoke, her voice ringing out over the ancient stones.
    “Citizens of Miromara, esteemed guests, most gracious regina, I come before you tonight to