“Humans do not enter other people’s bedrooms without invitation,” I huff, erring on the side of him genuinely not knowing.
“But you—”
“I know I did.” I roll my eyes. “But you, sir, are an exception.”
“Lucky me,” he says playfully enough that I can’t discern his true feelings on the matter. But his expression quickly sobers. “We should begin our preparations early. The wraiths are worse at night so we will want to leave while the sun is still high.”
Today is the day, at long last. I’m going to get the silver and save my family. While relief surges through me, it’s also tempered with a gut-wrenching horror about the unknowns that await me in this infamous Gray Trench. The glimpses I have seen of it are horrifying enough. What else lurks in those depths?
“I’m ready,” I say with confidence. I’ve faced the unknown before. I can do it again.
“If you would rather—” He crosses to me.
I stop him with a gentle hand on his chest. When we’re alone, touching him is easy—natural. “My mind is made up; I’m going, Ilryth. They’re my family, my responsibility. I cannot abandon them.”
His fingers close around mine and he gives a firm nod. “I understand.”
“I know you do,” I say softly. I truly believe he does. After all I’ve seen, all that weighs on him, there’s no doubt in my mind. “Now, let’s begin these preparations.” I free my hand and busy it by smoothing it down my front, pressing out invisible wrinkles on my shorts, my attention snagging on the colorful and golden markings that shine on my arm.
It’s very odd to not be regularly putting on fresh clothes. But in this form, I don’t sweat; I don’t seem to collect grime. My skin is as clean as it was when Ilryth first took me here. My hair remains untangled no matter how long it drifts through ocean currents unbound by braids. As uncomfortable as it might be to constantly have a nagging feeling that I am living in filth, it’s also terribly convenient as my mornings and evenings are much more streamlined without worrying about maintaining a physical form. Becoming more magic than flesh and blood has its benefits.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Yes, just thinking about how much I’ve changed over these past few weeks.”
Ilryth pauses. I turn my eyes to him. I half expect him to tell me that I haven’t changed. It seems like the polite thing to say. The kind thing to say. But he doesn’t. And somehow…well, it doesn’t make me feel better, but there is comfort in it. In knowing he’s realistic. Pragmatic. That he’s going to tell me the truth and not just cozy platitudes. I admire that in a person.
“It’s all right,” I say, mostly for my own benefit. “I’ve gone through many journeys, many evolutions.” I chuckle softly. “I even changed my name once.”
“You did?”
“Well, I began going by my middle name.” I avoid mentioning how the more official name change was dropping Charles’s family name.
“Why?” He seems genuinely curious with how he leans in slightly, as if he’s hanging on my words.
“Because the woman I was died in the ocean the night we met. I didn’t want to be her anymore. Her name didn’t fit me any longer.” Maybe, in a way, forgetting the memories of Charles, and all else that I’ve lost, is stripping off the last of Elizabeth’s old skin that still clings to my bones.
He opens his mouth, almost as if he’s going to say something more. But he refrains. I don’t press for whatever thought it might have been.
Instead, Ilryth says simply, “We should go.”
“Right. Lead the way.”
Ilryth swims over the balcony and I follow at his side. We head for a square building toward the center of the estate. This building is blockier than the majority of the constructions. There are no open archways or flowing kelp screens. It’s a solid structure—cut into a hulking rock—with only one entry, which is curiously sealed by a door that looks like a porthole. Ropes are wrapped around it.
Lucia and Sheel wait on either side of the entry with worried expressions.
“Lucia. Sheel,” Ilryth greets them each in turn.
“This is a terrible idea,” Sheel grumbles. Lucia is silent but radiates agreement.
Ilryth ignores the remark and begins to unfasten the ties of silvery kelp that hold the large porthole shut. He hums softly as he does, and the ropes shimmer with a rainbow sheen as he loops them around a knob off to the side. Pulling open the porthole, Ilryth leads us all into a dimly lit room.
The room reminds me of the houses of worship to the old gods I saw in the countryside where Lord Applegate was from—the buildings with the tall towers and rare stained-glass windows. This has no such glass, but it is ornately carved inside. Giant roots of stone wrap around the sandy floor of the room, coalescing into the base of a sculpture of a tree that stretches to the ceiling. Its carefully rendered canopy supports the roof as rocky beams. Lifelike leaves glisten in the hazy light brought in through the porthole.
The carved roots and branches slowly tangle across the walls, changing with the skilled hand of a master sculptor into tentacles. The suction-cupped limbs collect and weave together. Like rolling waves crashing into each other. They circle around the sunken visage of a beast.
No…not a beast. A god.
