My wildest nightmare could not have compared to this. Ever since finding out about the missing harp, a part of him had known they would come for him. But he never could have foreseen that Locklyn would get arrested as well.

Locklyn’s face is set and still and she betrays no sign of fear, but a slight flicker remains behind her eyes, which have shifted to a pale, almost opaque, gray. He thinks of Blackwell’s treatment of her. There is no way Locklyn can expect to receive justice—not with the hatred most Merfolk bear toward the Crura. And there is nothing he can do to protect her.

They are hustled through the streets toward the palace, a towering structure constructed of pure white stone that glows eerily in the dark water. Locklyn and her guard swim ahead, and rage stabs through Darin as he sees the guard purposefully moving too quickly for her, jerking the chain around her wrists so that it cuts deep, leaving red welts. Suddenly, she wrenches sideways, wrapping her legs around a seahorse hitching post. Her guard is pulled to a momentary stop.

“Zale!” she yells. “Zale!”

Pivoting, he sees his oldest nephew huddled in the shadow of a nearby building, eyes filled with terror. The guard utters an oath and yanks Locklyn’s chain, pulling her slightly forward, but she tugs back, pulling them to a halt once more.

“Zale, tell your father to go to my house!”

Zale’s eyes widen with sudden comprehension, and understanding dawns on Darin as well. Locklyn must have left Avonlea there. His nephew gives a jerky nod and shoots off toward home.

Locklyn’s guard has been trying to drag her forward, but with her clinging like a barnacle to the post, he has had little success. As she relaxes, watching Zale zipping away, the guard wrenches her toward him and slaps her so hard that her head whips to the side.

“Hold us up again and I’ll give you worse than that!” he screams in her face.

The slight trickle of blood from the fresh cut in her lip nearly causes Darin to lose control. He wants to sink an elbow into his guard’s stomach and make a break for it. But there are too many guards. And he has a plan that, if it works, might not save himself, but will definitely save Locklyn.

They are dragged through the double doors at the front of the castle, which are gold-studded with shells and precious stones. But he notices several divots that mar the gold, making it look as though someone has dug gems out. It seems the whispers about the royal family’s financial status are more than just idle gossip.

As he and Locklyn are hustled toward the silver doors which lead into the throne room, a young Merman swims out, his face suffused with anger. Darin ducks his head, hoping the youth will swim past, but the motion catches the other’s eye, and he turns. A smirk tilts his lips.

“Aalto. Fancy meeting you under these,” the Merman glances at the guards and then at Darin’s chains, “circumstances.”

“Your Highness, if I remember rightly, the last time we met in these circumstances, our positions were reversed.”

A flush rises up the Merman’s cheeks toward his wavy hairline. “Given your current position, Aalto, I’d watch your tongue.”

Darin begs the Wave Master to help him control his mouth. Now is not the moment to antagonize the royal family. Not if he wants to save Locklyn. Inclining his head slightly, he forces his lips to form words. “I apologize, Prince Conway. I spoke out of turn.”

For an instant, the cocky coolness in Conway’s eyes wavers, and the insecurity that has controlled the eighteen-year-old prince of Aquaticus since he was old enough to feel it, peers out. But then the moment passes, and his eyes fill with disdain once more.

“Don’t let it happen again,” he says and sweeps up the curving staircase to the left.

The guards chivvy Darin and Locklyn through the silver doors and into a long hall lined with statues of the previous monarchs of Undula. Blown-glass orbs filled with glowing seaweed hang from the ceiling at regular intervals, casting clear, white light over the scene.

King Malik sits on a throne of scarlet coral at the end of the hall, one hand gripping the symbolic golden trident, the other stroking his black beard, which is threaded with gray. The last few years have taken their toll on him, but his shoulders are still broad, and his muscular green tail glistens in the light. In the throne beside him—once occupied by Queen Kendra before she died giving birth to Conway’s younger brother Etan—lounges Ginevra, her pearly tail tapping lightly on the dais, impatience written in every line of her face.

As the silver doors swing shut, her dark eyes sweep the prisoners and widen when they land on Darin. He stares back at her, forcing himself not to look away, unable to read the emotion in her eyes. She is beautiful, with an exotic beauty seldom seen in Aquaticus. After a long moment, she turns and addresses Malik.

“So, this is the Treasure Hunter?” Her voice is a surprise. For a queen famed throughout the underwater realm for her ruthlessness, it is strangely high and clear, like a little girl’s.

“Yes,” Malik says, sitting straighter on his throne and fixing Darin with a look of mingled indifference and disdain. “He and a team harvested the wreck we were speaking of and brought the treasure here. I had no interaction with him personally, but my steward swears he never said anything about the wreck being on the border with Nebula.”

Darin’s eyes flick to the left of the throne, where the steward, a small, ferrety Merman named Wyre, hovers in the shadows. Avoiding his gaze, the steward says in a squeaky voice, “It’s true, Your Majesty. Darin Aalto never mentioned the location of the wreck to me.”

His hands form a fist, forcing himself to stay calm. Saving Locklyn. That’s all that matters now.

“And what have you to say, Treasure Hunter?” Ginevra asks.

“He cannot be trusted, Ginevra,” Malik interrupts. “There is no reason a thief should not be a liar as well. Rest assured he will be dealt with.”

Ginevra turns back to him and lifts a hand, which glitters with silver rings. “And how will the rest of this situation be ‘dealt with,’ Malik?”

Malik’s eyes flicker for an instant. “Of course, now that we know where the wreck was discovered, we will deliver half of the treasure over to the Nebulae at once.” He makes a small gesture to Wyre, who snaps his fingers. A door below the dais opens, and a group of servants enters carrying a chest. At a sign from the steward, they set it down before the throne and throw back the lid. Ginevra leans forward slightly to survey the contents.

Curious, Darin leans in as well, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the chest’s contents. The sight of what is inside almost makes him burst out laughing. He catches Locklyn’s eye for a moment before she looks away, lips tightly compressed.

The pile of treasure in the chest is pitifully small. Ludicrously small. If Ginevra received a report of the wreck’s size that was in any way accurate, she will know instantly how badly she is being ripped off. He looks toward the dark young woman sitting on the dais, and the sight of her expression causes the laughter to die in his throat.

Silence swells and billows like an icy current as Ginevra continues to gaze into the chest. Malik begins to shift uncomfortably on his throne, but he cannot seem to find the nerve to speak. Darin catches Locklyn’s eye again and mouths, “I have a plan.”

To his surprise, she gives him a wry smile and mouths back, “So do I.”

His heart drops, but before he can do anything to communicate that she must not, under any circumstances, try some crazy scheme that puts her in danger in order to save him, Ginevra leans back in her throne.

“This is half the treasure you received from the wreck that was harvested this week?” Her voice is still high and young-sounding, but there is a menace in it that sends chills racing up and down Darin’s spine.

Malik’s free hand tightly grips the arm of his throne, and his eyes dart momentarily to Wyre, who avoids his gaze, staring at the floor beneath him. There is another long moment of silence, and it is unclear which horn of the dilemma Malik will choose to impale himself on—admitting he lied and accepting the consequences, or continuing to espouse a story that is so patently false.

At length, Malik says with an unconvincing heartiness in his voice, “Of course, it is not half the treasure! My son, Conway, had some—ahem—pressing debts that needed to be settled—young blood, you know—and since we weren’t aware at the time that all the treasure was not ours to dispose of as we saw fit, we used a little over half to deal with them. What you see now is merely a deposit. We will, of course, pay the difference as soon as another wreck is discovered.” The smile he flashes toward Ginevra does not reach his eyes.

“I’m afraid that isn’t satisfactory.” Ginevra’s voice is still light and pleasant, but her dark eyes shine like chips of obsidian. “My people have no reason to trust that we would receive our fair share. Indeed, it seems very much as though you were attempting to pass this,” she waves contemptuously at the open chest below her, “pittance off as half of what was described to me as the most fabulous wreck to be discovered in a century. And as someone wisely told me, there is no reason a thief should not be a liar as well.”

Malik’s face flushes an ugly, blotchy red. “I would watch your tongue, if I were you. In case you hadn’t noticed, my girl, you and your retinue are alone in Undula territory. I would recommend refraining from unfounded accusations.”

Ginevra laughs in his face. Her laughter, like her voice, is clear and lilting, completely at odds with the aura of menace she exudes. “And you really think if you dared to lay a finger on me, every warrior in Nebula would not be at your borders tomorrow and razing Aquaticus to the ground the day after that?”

The muscles in Malik’s face tighten. He is cornered. His eyes narrow. “What exactly do you want?”

Ginevra smiles. The expression does nothing to enhance her beauty. “What I want,” she says softly, “are rubies the size of my fist, overflowing chests of gold, innumerable barrels of honeyed mead, and bolts of silk piled as high as this palace. According to my sources, that is the share Nebula is due. So, this is what I propose, Malik.” She points at Darin. “You claim this Schatzi discovered the original wreck and lied to you about the location. My offer is this—if he can find another wreck of comparable worth, harvest it, and return with the contents in a month’s time, I will leave your city standing. If not, I will return and exact payment from every man, woman, and child in this city, starting with you and your worthless offspring.”

A harsh laugh echoes through the room and Darin turns his head to see that Conway has reentered the hall and now hovers near the doors, a contemptuous smirk on his face. “Still bitter that I refused your proposal, Ginny?”

At Conway’s words, Ginevra pales. For an instant, her lips part as though she is about to spew venom all over him. Then with visible effort, she turns back to his father, and says, “Unlike you, Malik, I tell no lies. These are my terms. Take them or not—it matters little to me. If you refuse, my people will merely attack your kingdom a month earlier.”

Malik glares at her for a moment and then looks at Darin. “I hope for your sake that the Wave Master tosses another wreck into your lap, Aalto. Because if you fail, I promise that every member of your family, from the oldest doddering fool to the youngest infant, will spend the rest of their short lives toiling over the flames of Oro.”

Relief floods through Darin. He was not forced to play his trump card. And if this quest is successful, Locklyn will still go free. Before he can say a word, a voice says loudly, “I challenge the accuser.”

He swivels to Locklyn, who gazes up at the dais, her eyes clear and steady.

“What?” Malik blusters, but Ginevra has gone completely still, her black eyes fixed on Locklyn’s gray ones.

“I challenge the accuser,” Locklyn says again, lifting her head. “You,” she points at Ginevra, “claim Darin lied about the location of the wreck he harvested and that as penalty he must find and harvest a wreck of equal or greater value for you. But I say that Darin is not the one guilty of lying, and in accordance with the laws of the Nebulae, I challenge you to mortal combat, staking my life upon his innocence.”

Mortal combat. Locklyn, what have you done?

Ginevra regards Locklyn, her eyes taking in Locklyn’s waving, cloth-clad legs. The corners of her mouth rise. “How is it that you know our laws, Crura?”

“Does it matter?” Locklyn says coolly.

Admiration flashes momentarily in Ginevra’s eyes, but then it vanishes. “No,” she says. “I accept your challenge. As I am sure you know, I, as the one being challenged, get to select the time and place of our battle, as well as the weapons with which we will fight. I declare this duel will take place immediately, in the central square of Aquaticus, and we will battle with nets and spears, in the manner of my people.”

She’ll be killed.

With a yank, Darin pulls away from his guard, dragging the chain through his slack hands, and throws himself at Locklyn’s guard, using his still manacled fists to punch the Merman hard in the face. The guard drops Locklyn’s chain as he staggers away from her.

“Go!” Darin shouts.

“No!” she retorts and doesn’t move. “You told me a wreck that big hasn’t been found in over a century! I’m not letting you go on some hopeless quest that will probably get you killed. Not if I can stop it.”

Frustration mounting, Darin suddenly feels a hand on his arm, and he flips his tail backward as hard as he can, sending the guard spinning away through the water. “Believe it or not, I can take care of myself, Locklyn,” he says. “Take the chance and leave. Now!” He lunges between her and the two guards who are closing in to seize her again.

“I’m not a child, Darin.” She remains steadfast and her words pierce him.

I know, Locklyn. Wave Master as my witness, I know.

Her voice changes, almost breaks. “And I care about you. Which is why I have to do this.” She darts forward, her small white hands latching onto his wrists just above the cuffs. He could throw her off easily. But as he stares down into her eyes, which are now a deep, vivid blue, all he can feel is the pressure of her fingers on the inside of his wrists, sending warmth rippling through his body. There is no way to dislodge her without hurting her. And he would never hurt her.

Other hands, rougher than hers, close around his biceps from behind, and he is yanked backward, away from Locklyn, whose eyes are full of determination and sadness. She turns toward the guards approaching her, laden with a large seaweed net, weighted with small chunks of sandstone and a long, metal-tipped spear.

Ginevra swims down from the dais, collecting her own net and spear from a Nebulae attendant, and heads toward the doors, ignoring Conway, who blows her a mocking kiss as she passes.

At the doors, she turns back, looking around the throne room with her dark, fathomless eyes. “Come,” she says, her voice almost bored. “Let’s get this over with.”