But there are no sharks or ill-tempered squid close by.

So it startles Galen when Grom swims forward to meet with Romul, hauling Nalia with him by the hand. Does he not sense a danger here? Of course not. Look at him. Grom appears half crazed with happiness as he pushes Nalia ahead of him and, all at once, presents her to Jagen and Romul.

But before anyone can say anything, before the tension even has time to thaw, a distant cry ripples thought the water. “Nalia!”

Galen doesn’t recognize the voice and he’s certainly never sensed this older one approaching them. Still, there is a familiarity to him that Galen can’t quite place. Something in his facial features, something in his graceful glide. Galen glances at Toraf—if anyone recognizes this stranger it would be Toraf—and is surprised to find that his friend is bowing low as the striking gray-headed Syrena approaches. The others follow suit, dividing into a row of respectful bows as he passes without acknowledging them.

That’s when Galen realizes who he is. And he bows as well.

“Father!” Nalia throws herself into his arms and he embraces her fiercely.

Then, in front of everyone, King Antonis of the Poseidon Royals sobs into his daughter’s hair. It’s a sound full of agony and pain and wonder. “Poseidon’s beard, you’ve come back to me! My beautiful pearl.” He squeezes her even tighter. “You’ve come back.”

Galen studies his brother as his brother studies father and daughter. Grom’s smile is full of the kind of peace that results from having everything you’ve ever wanted. From wrongs being righted, from an overbearing weight being lifted.

From love.

Galen has the feeling that Grom’s newborn peace is a bit premature.

Romul proves him right. “Your Majesty, King Antonis, what a great honor to see you after so many seasons! What brings you out of the Royal caverns this day?”

Antonis laughs his surprise. “Romul, I had no idea of your sense of humor, old friend.”

“Forgive me, Highness.” Romul nods, a counterfeit smile curving his lips. “While I do wish to please you, I’m not entirely sure what I have said that so amuses you, Majesty.”

Galen feels his throat constricting. He glances at Toraf, whose jaw has become taut with clenched teeth. Something is wrong.

“Romul, surely you jest. Or has your sight left you in your old age? Even so, surely your sensing abilities haven’t failed you.” Antonis chuckles and turns Nalia to face the Archive. Nalia smiles widely at him. Galen’s gut churns. None of them see what is happening here. “My daughter, Nalia, has returned to us!” Antonis says, squeezing her shoulder.

Romul arranges his demeanor into a sickening graciousness. “Esteemed One, I’m not entirely sure of your meaning. Are you suggesting that this”—he gestures to Nalia—“is the long-dead Poseidon princess?”

Antonis laughs again. He still doesn’t understand. “Oh, Romul, you clownfish. Of course I’m not suggesting it. This is my daughter, and clearly, old friend, she is not dead.” He sweeps his hand over her in emphasis.

Grom swims up next to Antonis and Nalia. “I’m rather curious to know what you are suggesting, Romul.” It occurs to Galen then that the Syrena “welcoming” party had not bowed in reverence when they’d first arrived. They’d shown a complete lack of regard for Grom as Triton king.

This time Romul inclines his head, but it’s still not the full bow that is customary when first greeting a Royal. “My apologies, my king. I’m not sure where the confusion has arisen, but we will get this matter straightened out, I assure you.”

“What matter?” Grom nearly growls.

Jagen swims forward. “The matter of the identity of your guest, of course, Highness.”

Yudor fills up the space between Jagen and Romul. “With much respect, I’ve already confirmed her identity. This is Nalia, the Poseidon princess.”

Jagen nods. “We do appreciate your involvement, Yudor. You are a much-respected Tracker. And of course, if this were Nalia, you could not imagine our great elation at having the princess returned to us. But you see, other Trackers—Trackers whom you yourself have trained—are convinced that our new guest could not possibly be Nalia. In fact, they have never sensed this newcomer before.”

It takes all of Galen’s self-control not to wrap his hands around Jagen’s throat. He knew something was amiss, but he never saw this coming. Grom’s unsealing from Paca could have been a simple matter. Until this. Now with Nalia’s identity conveniently in question, the Archives have no reason to unseal the union.

We have all underestimated the extent of Jagen’s power. And now we’ll pay for it.

“I’m not sure which Trackers have told you this,” Antonis cuts in, “but they are mistaken.”

“Mistaken” is a generous word, in Galen’s opinion. “Bribed” would be more appropriate. Or at the very least, “manipulated.” Whatever the case, Jagen has been very thorough in his endeavor for power. While Galen was chasing Emma and her mother across the big land, Jagen was apparently adjusting his strategy for the change in circumstances.

Jagen’s sigh is full of false sympathy and a hint of cheerfulness. “I’m afraid, Your Highness, we’ll have to hold a tribunal to get this all cleared up. But not to worry. I’m sure we can come to a satisfying explanation very soon.”

The word “tribunal” seems to contaminate the water between them. Antonis snarls. “I hardly think there is a need for a tribunal. If anyone would recognize her pulse, it would be me. Unless you are questioning my word?”