This was the plan. From the beginning, he had intended to use this claim as leverage to force Malik to release Locklyn. Then Darin could go treasure hunting rather than have his “treachery” punished with blue-ringed venom or a trip to Oro.

Before Locklyn challenged Ginevra to mortal combat, he had intended to say he was the one who knew where Llyra’s Lost Treasure was. It would not have been a lie, nor is the claim that Locklyn knows the location a lie either. They both know someone who knows where it is.

He tenses his whole body to keep still, while the water around Locklyn becomes tinged with scarlet. Her face is so pale, it looks like the reflection of the moon he once saw rippling on the waves when he visited The Surface.

Everything inside him longs to throw himself at Ginevra, wrest the spear from her hands, and free Locklyn. But the most likely thing he would accomplish by such an attempt would be Ginevra plunging her blade into Locklyn’s heart. He hovers in place, watching the queen of the Nebulae’s face. Darin ignores the guards behind him, who wait for a signal from Ginevra to seize him again.

Ginevra considers him. “That is a bold claim, Treasure Hunter.”

He flicks his tail. “A bold claim is only bold until it is backed with the most fabulous treasure the Undersea Realm has ever seen. Then it becomes a reality overlaid with gold.”

Her mouth quirks slightly. Then she pulls the point of her spear from Locklyn’s side and shoves her toward Darin.

With his manacled hands, he is unable to catch her, but Locklyn wraps her arms around his neck, tendrils of her blue hair drifting up to tickle his cheeks. Inwardly cursing his chains, he awkwardly props his forearms beneath her, supporting her weight.

“As you can see, the lady is injured.” His tone is polite but icy. “Are we free to go?”

Malik’s voice slides through the water, and Darin turns to face the king, careful not to dislodge Locklyn. “Not entirely, Aalto. You and the Crura may return to the palace, where you will remain as my guests,” sarcasm taints the word, “until you are ready to set out on your quest. We wouldn’t want you to—ahem—disappear, before you even have a chance to begin.”

With that line of reasoning, we might just disappear.

Malik’s smile widens, teeth gleaming, as though he has read Darin’s mind. “I am sure you won’t disappear while on your quest,” he says. “Blackwell, one of the gate guards, tells me you’ve just had an addition to your family. I’m sure you will be most anxious to return and see all of them. In your absence, my soldiers will make it their priority to ensure they are kept . . . safe.” He lingers on the word, eyes fixed on Darin’s.

He wills his expression to remain neutral. Faces flash through his mind, but unchecked emotions accomplish nothing. Instead, Darin refuses to break eye contact with Malik, willing the king to read his thoughts.

I will be back for my family.

And if I find that you have harmed them in any way, I will make it my life’s mission to bring you and your family crashing down from the gilded throne on which you sit.

Malik is the first to look away. “You may go,” he says, waving a hand before turning to Ginevra and engaging her in conversation. Ginevra glances over at Darin with Locklyn dangling limply around his neck, both of them surrounded by the misty red cloud of Locklyn’s blood. Ginevra’s expression is unreadable. The memory of her pearly tail smashing into Locklyn’s slight frame over and over makes him want nothing more than to snatch a knife from one of the nearby guards and send it hurtling to find its mark in the gleaming skin of Ginevra’s torso. Maybe that would generate some emotion on her expressionless face.

His thoughts must be visible in his eyes, because Ginevra looks away, the faintest flush of pink rising in her cheeks.

He turns to the guard behind him. “Could I have the use of my hands? I promise I won’t disappear.”

The guard glances toward Malik, who waves an impatient acquiescence without looking. The moment Darin’s hands are free, he loops one arm under Locklyn’s legs, cradling her body against him. She looks up, giving him the faintest smile, before closing her eyes and allowing her head to drop onto his chest. She doesn’t make a sound, but as he looks down at her, Darin sees an inky tear leak from one eyelid, tracing a green trail along her cheek.

By the time they reach the palace bedroom assigned to her, Locklyn’s face is chalky white, streaked with sooty black stains. As he draws back the sealskin blanket on the bed and gently lays her down, she cries out.

“Fetch the palace physician, please,” he says tersely to the maid drifting near the door.

Hovering next to the bed, he tries vainly to find words of comfort, while still wrestling with his desire to upbraid Locklyn for getting herself into this state in the first place. Gradually, he notices Locklyn’s black shirt has an enormous patch of greater darkness growing on the left side, above her wound. He pulls off his own shirt since cutting the palace’s sealskin blankets up for bandages doesn’t seem like a good idea under the circumstances. Wadding it up, he presses it hard to Locklyn’s side. She moans again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, glancing toward the door.

Where is that blasted doctor?

She shakes her head, still not opening her eyes, and reaches to cover his hand with her own, as if to say she knows he is trying to help and not hurt her. The feel of her weak hand covering his and the bravery of the mute suffering etched into her face are too much. He stoops down, brushing the soft, navy strands of hair off her forehead, and presses his lips gently to her clammy skin.

Her breath catches and her hand tightens over his, but just then, a voice sounds from the doorway. “Is this the individual who was injured in a duel?”

Turning, Darin sees a small Merman with mint hair and a wispy goatee hovering over the threshold, a basket of supplies slung over one arm. It is clear from the dull sheen of his scales he is not young.

Locklyn opens her eyes and tries to sit up, but Darin restrains her. She attempts to speak, then stills for a moment again. “Cut in my side,” she finally says between breaths. Her voice strengthens with her next words. “Anything else will heal on its own.”

The doctor gives her a cursory glance, then turns to Darin. “Was the blade that inflicted the wound straight or serrated?”

“I’m thinking your patient is now perfectly capable of answering any questions you might have, Doctor.”

The doctor busies himself with supplies, not looking at Locklyn. “Well? Was it straight or serrated?”

“Straight,” she answers.

The doctor sets several vials, a needle, a spool of jellyfish thread, and a knife on the small table next to the bed. “You may wait outside,” he tells Darin.

He looks at Locklyn, but when she nods toward the door, he swims slowly out into the hallway, closing the door and propping himself against the wall to wait. Leaning his head back, he closes his eyes, trying to block out the sounds from the next room by pushing his brain to map out a plan to ensure that he, Locklyn, and Beck’s family all make it out of this situation alive.

The first move would be to get into and out of the castle tonight undetected. Ginevra gave them thirty days to locate a wreck of equal or greater value. He should start preparations tonight so that he and Locklyn can set out as soon as she is fit to travel, hopefully in the next day or two.

The next step is to contact Beck and Amaya, to make sure their family is safe and, on the very off chance they are not already being watched, to persuade Beck to move the family out to Locklyn’s place and catch a ride on the next blue whale.

After that, Darin should go back to his house and collect any treasure not yet impounded, for journey expenses, and for bribes.

And, finally, he must visit a certain Mermaid. Hopefully she was not exaggerating when she told four young Mermish children stories of her uncle, the greatest Schatzi of all time, who, she claimed, had discovered the location of Llyra’s famed wreck.

The door opens, and Darin jerks upright, opening his eyes. The doctor emerges, clutching his basket, distaste on his face.

“How is she?”

The doctor’s sour expression morphs into a look of fearful respect as he takes in the bulging muscles of Darin’s torso and the tooth-shaped scars that cover his chest and back. “She’ll live,” he says shortly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

After the doctor swims off up the hall, Darin enters Locklyn’s room.

“Hey,” she says, trying to push herself higher up on her pillows.

“Hey,” he says, zipping toward her. “Just lie back. You need to rest.”

“Stop fussing, Darin.” She leans against the headboard and reaches up to push her hair out of her face, wincing as she raises her arm.

“Locklyn, seriously,” he says, unable to help himself. “Lie back down. You look awful.”

“Thanks,” she says flatly.

“I didn’t mean it like that. You just got brutalized by that harpy.”

“I got in a few good cuts of my own.”

Her tone says she’s upset about something. “Of course, you did.” He grins, hoping to lighten the tension. “But I’m sure she is actually listening to her elders and resting.”

Her lips tighten, and she turns away.

He moves closer. “Locklyn?”

She doesn’t turn her head. “A ‘thank you’ would be nice, Darin.”

He blinks, completely confused. “Thank you? For what?”

“I didn’t just let myself get cut open and tail-thrashed for the sheer joy of it.” She sounds irritated. “I did it for you.”

“Well, thank you, Locklyn, but if you really want to do something for me, I’d prefer that you never let yourself get tail-thrashed or cut open again.” He tries to force a smile into his voice.

There’s no reply, so he reaches out tentatively to touch her shoulder. She shrugs his hand away and curls tighter onto her side, pulling the sealskin closer around her shoulders.

An ache grows inside him as he looks down at her hunched form. “Locklyn? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says. “I think I’ll try to rest, like you suggested.”

He hesitates, running a hand through his hair. “Locklyn, I didn’t mean to hurt—”

She flips toward him, her face twisting in pain, her eyes a vivid, poisonous green as she glares. “Don’t you dare say you didn’t mean to hurt my feelings, Darin Aalto. I’m not three.”

He opens and closes his mouth, then opens it again. “I know you’re not three.”

“Do you?” she says, still glaring.

“What? Of course.”

“You could try acting like it.”

“Locklyn, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Her voice is one of forced calm. “I know you’ve protected me since I was little, Darin. But I’m not that baby abandoned in the reef anymore. I don’t need you to always try to stand between me and the world. Believe it or not, I can look out for myself. And, once in a while, I’d like to be the one risking my life for my friends, not the perpetual protectee.”

An exasperated laugh escapes him. “Locklyn, if this,” he gestures toward her battered body, “is the result of you ‘looking out for yourself,’ I think you’ll understand why I’d rather be the one looking out for you. You remember spending the night with one arm caught in the city gates, don’t you?”

The moment the words leave his mouth, he wants to take them back.

Locklyn’s eyes fill with tears. “Well,” she says, “I guess it’s a relief to learn that you despise me too.”

Bewilderment and panic churn as she turns her back on him again, pulling the blanket tightly around her shoulders. “Locklyn,” he says desperately. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry, I—”

“Just leave me alone, Darin.”

“Locklyn, please. How could you think I despise you? I—” He breaks off a second time.

“What part of ‘leave me alone’ is unclear?” Her voice freezes his blood.

For a long moment, Darin stares at her small form, curled in on itself as though to guard against further hurt. Hurt he unintentionally inflicted—hurt, apparently, much worse than the wounds on her body. Confused, he turns and silently leaves the room.