my great-great-grandfather, Pelagios. In my time, a champion will win

my throne. Each champion will be selected by his regional herald. With

one exception. I will select my own.”

The green boy with the conch scuttles back out, his webbed feet

slapping on the ground. His voice is high pitched and amplified for

someone his size. “From the West Sea, Dylan, son of Ammon.” A tall,

broad man steps forward. His hair is like raw gold with streaks of

silver. His skin is slick with a golden tan, and he has patches of

scales along his ribs. He wears a small gold band across his forehead

with carved symbols I have no name for. He holds a young guy’s arm up

in the air. The guy is a younger version of the herald. Ammon and his

son. Their tent roars with applause as they walk before the throne,

beating their chests like something out of Clash of the Titans .

If there were ever a time for me to shit my pants, it would

probably be now.

“From the South, Adaro, son of Leomaris.” Father and son strut out

with their fists in the air. They have long black hair and skin like

sienna chalk. Their scales are a cluster of reds and oranges. Adaro

bows and presses his fist to his chest like an oath.

I hate the way Layla whistles for him, as she did with the guy

before that. I know she’s just having fun. But she should only be

whistling and cheering for me.

Adaro bows to the king before standing beside Dylan, two warriors

with their arms behind their backs and chests puffed out with pride.

“From the North, Brendan, son of Finbar.” The loudest cheer erupts

as this guy walks out with his father. They’re the tallest of the

bunch and not as abrasively muscular as the other champions. They at

least smile instead of roar at the crowd. The father has cropped gray

hair, more GI Joe than the other gladiator-like heralds. His son,

Brendan, has a shock of bright red hair that reminds me of my mom. A

woman with the same red hair, piled in a sophisticated bun and

decorated with starfish and pearls, walks behind Finbar. The slope of

her nose and her sharp cheekbones are so much like my mom’s that a

pang of nostalgia hits me like a shock. She waves at her son, who

shakes one fist in the air. He could be one of my friends, and I can

already tell he’s not taking this as seriously as the rest.

I motion toward the red-haired woman. “Is she-?”

My grandfather nods once. “Mm-hmm. She is my daughter Maristella.”

The green boy then announces, “From the East, the herald competes

as his own representative, Elias, son of Ellion.” Elias and his

fiancйe stride out of their tent. They remind me of Jerry’s parents

during parent-teacher conferences, the way they walk side by side but

look in opposite directions. Elias is all roaring chest-pumping, and

his Snow White mermaid stands there barely holding his hand like if he

were going over a cliff she’d definitely let go. I sort of like her.

Despite getting the fewest cheers, Elias takes the most time walking

back and forth in front of my grandfather, who frowns at the display.

The boy with the conch blows on it lightly and clears his throat.

Oh, shit. I’m up . But-I don’t have an entourage. I don’t have my dad

or a fiancйe to walk me in front of the court and show off my goods.

Compared to everyone else, I’m actually wearing too many clothes.

Maybe I should’ve worn the metal skirt after all.

“The Sea King’s champion for the High Court.” Somehow, people are

already cheering. “Tristan Hart, son of David Hart.”

Am I supposed to prance around beating my chest like a chimp in

front of my grandfather? Right now what I’m least prepared for is the

cheering. They’re actually cheering at me. Granted, I can make out

Thalia and Layla and Marty, and if I listen hard enough, I can even

hear Kurt hollering. But then there’s Hannah, and the boy with the

turtle shell and his mom, and even my mother’s sister is clapping with

a smile on her face. I find Layla’s face in the crowd, her skin

glowing in the light. She cocks her head to the side and blows me a

kiss the way she always does before a meet, and deep in my heart this

all feels right.

My grandfather grabs my hand and holds it in the air, just as the

heralds did for their kids, and suddenly I wish my dad were here to

see. I haven’t won anything yet; I’ve just been introduced to a court

of sea creatures, but they’re not booing. At least not yet. Maybe I

can do this. I pull off my shirt and strap the dagger to my bare

chest. I’m not rippling with the muscles of the other bros, but I’ve

got a pretty hot body.

Finally, the boy with the conch steps forward and blows the horn.

I take my place beside Elias, who isn’t shy about the way he snarls at

me.

The Sea King stands again. “The five champions of the High Court,”

he says for a final round of applause. It dawns on me that if I have

to fight any of these guys, I’m done for. I can hold my own in a fight

against some asshole after school, but I’m not at Thorne Hill anymore,

and Elias could crack my skull open and use it as a serving bowl if he

wanted to.

“The challenges that await our champions will try their strength,

their minds, and their hearts. They will come face-to-face with the

darkest parts of their souls as they go in search of the power of the

Sea King.” The king holds the crackling trident over his head. When he

releases it, it levitates and spins slowly over his outstretched

palms. “This is the power of the Sea King, a gift from the gods.”

The trident breaks cleanly into three pieces and sounds like

knives sharpening. The three-pronged fork crackles with thin fissures

of lightning at its tips. Its handle fits into a long staff made of

braided gold. The bottom is a long and jagged spear that appears to be

made of quartz or some kind of cloudy glass; it has a brass handle.

Each piece hovers in the air over the lake. They each spin in their

own contained tornado until the force is too much and they’re sucked

down into the lake. Down, down, down into the blackness of the bottom.

My grandfather dusts his hands and sits back on his throne. He

glows a little less than before. The effect isn’t instant, but it’s

noticeable to me.

“Where have they gone?” someone gasps.

“Each piece has been sent to an oracle. There are five remaining

sea oracles on this plane. The champion who retrieves the trident

rules this throne.”

“What if no one champion gathers all three?” Adaro asks.

The Sea King leans forward slowly. “Those with a single piece will

return here, and a final duel will occur.”

So much for not having to fight the guys directly.

“What is today?” Grandfather turns to the green boy, who whispers

in Grandfather’s ear. “Ah. The next full moon is just over a fortnight

away. Leave at sundown and return with your findings at the next full

moon, or not at all.”

“But sire,” the herald of the West speaks up, “the oracles shift

their locations every so many years. Their last known locations may

have changed.”

“I never said it would be easy,” the king says with a tiny wink.

“You all have excellent resources at your disposal.”

Wait a minute. I don’t have a strategy. I don’t have resources.

What was my grandfather thinking? What am I thinking?

Before I can say anything, my grandfather pats me on the back as

if he’s done it a million times before. “Now, let the festivities

continue.”

It’s still daylight, but the sun is sinking, allowing the pale