Maris Calderon's Arc

Chapter 8 of 14

The sirens had bowed. But Malachar was coming, and Maris had no wall he trusted. Every stone gate of Miredeep had been built by Malachar's hands. Every trap in the swamp had been set to guard the tyrant's throne, not Maris's. He walked the outer halls at Elara's side and saw the truth. He could not defend a fortress designed by his enemy. "He knows the way in," Maris said. "He knows the weak stone. He built it that way on purpose." He called the council. Seven swamp-born sirens gathered in the throne room, tridents in hand, pearls strung across their chests. They had ruled these waters under Malachar for years. They knew the swamp better than Maris did. That was why he needed them, and why he could not fully trust them. "The gates will not hold," Maris told them. "Speak plainly. Where does he strike first?" One council member, an old siren with a shell scepter, tapped the stone. "The lower arch. Malachar left it thin. He meant to flee through it if he ever lost the throne." "Then we do not defend it," Maris said. "We let him come." The council stirred. Elara stood near the throne, Rath asleep against her chest. Maris looked at his son. Malachar could not touch a child of siren blood. The old law had thrown him back once already. Maris hated the plan forming in his mind, but he saw no other wall that would hold. "Malachar cannot harm Rath," Maris said. "The blood law binds him. If Rath is near the breach, Malachar cannot pass it. His own men can, but he cannot lead them through." Elara's face went hard. "You want to put our son in front of him." "Not in front. Behind the arch, guarded by the council. Malachar strikes and the law throws him back. His forces break without him." Maris held her eyes. "I would not ask it if I trusted these walls. I do not." Elara said nothing for a long moment. Then she felt Rath shift against her. His small hand pressed flat on her collarbone. Under the water, she had begun to breathe easier each day. Her skin no longer stung. The swamp was becoming hers too. "He is stronger here than at the shack," she said. "You saw it. He threw Malachar back with a cry." She swallowed. "Do it. But I stand with him." The council bowed their heads. The old siren struck his scepter on the stone. "Then the trap is set, my king. We wait at the lower arch." Maris felt the current shift far out in the dark water. Malachar was close now. The plan was made. The weakest wall in Miredeep would become the killing floor, and his own son would be the thing no enemy king could cross.