I had barely noticed Awi all afternoon, sitting as still as a statue on a high shelf, but at this she changed her form to a puffin and took flight toward the baths.
Taran, on the other hand, had done nothing but pull up his feet to stay dry, and he was watching me rather than his dangerous friend as though interested to see what my reaction to Marit would be.
Silently cursing Taran again, I sloshed over to the main door, intending to let the water drain. But when I opened it, water swept into the room, not out. The hallway was entirely flooded, nearly knee-deep with cold, turbulent water, and waves were gathering around the corner.
I spun around—the windows were shuttered, and there was no other door to the outside.
“Do something,” I snapped at Taran, and the movement of his shoulders suggested both mild surprise and amusement that I found it natural to shout orders at him.
“What would you like me to do?” he asked with a bright, artificial look of attention on his pretty face.
“I don’t know, tell him to stop.”
With an indulgent shrug, Taran went to the divan and bent over the wailing immortal. He checked to make sure I was watching, then took the sea god’s chin in his hand. He spoke to Marit in a cool, serious voice.
“Hey. Cut it out. You’re scaring my priestess.”
That only made Marit cry harder. He brushed Taran’s hand away and clasped his own palms over his streaming eyes.
“Sober him up, then,” I said, beginning to feel a real anticipation of danger. They were immortal, but I wasn’t, and I had no confidence Taran would see my death as more than an inconvenience.
“Good idea. How?”
I curled my upper lip at him. “Purge the alcohol from his body, starting with his liver and moving to his gut.”
“Does that work?” He sounded curious.
It had worked any of the dozens of times I’d seen a peace-priest cure a hangover.
“It’s the blessing of Genna that starts,Queen of Heaven, may your steps light a path…the key signature shifts from E to D minor in the second and fourth verses.”
Taran paused as if scouring his memory, then shook his head.
“Don’t know it.” His tone was light even though water was beginning to lift small objects and carry them around the room.
You do, I wanted to cry. But maybe he’d forgotten it, just like he’d forgotten me.
“Why don’t you sing it yourself?” he asked, as though hitting upon a good idea.
I remembered the words but felt shaky on the wordless vocalizations—and the liver wasn’t an organ I wanted to make any mistakes on. Maybe it wouldn’t kill an immortal patient, but Marit could do worse than slowly filling the room with water if I accidentally tortured him. The entire building could come down on our heads.
“Priestess of Wesha,” I said, pointing at myself. “Genna’s son,” I said pointing at him.
Taran stepped onto a low table to escape the rising waters, and I did the same.
“Genna hasn’t taught me that one yet. But I heard that Wesha’s priests can put a man to sleep,” he said, watching me carefully.
“He’s the god of the sea, not a farmer with a tumor on his neck. Can’t you do anything?”
The waters rose to the point that they began to lap against Marit on the cushions. When the first wave hit him, he keened like a child and tossed his limbs so wide that he tipped into the water. The walls shook violently, making tiles pop off the murals and vases on shelves crash with a ricochet of pottery shards.
Forgetting that Marit was immortal, I lunged for him to haul his face out of the water. He fought me, sputtering, and his elbow in my gut knocked the breath from my lungs. When I collapsed to my knees, my mouth filled with cold seawater before I spat it out and gulped for air.
“Taran!” I cried, and he grabbed Marit by the front of his tunic to get him off me, but this did not stop the rising water.
I wasn’t a strong swimmer. Neither was Taran, unless he’d lied about that too.
Marit was screaming now, unintelligible babbling about the dark, the well, the water. I scrambled to get my feet back under me as the water pulled hard at my sodden clothes and the walls vibrated in time with Marit’s voice.
