“You are god touched,” I tell him, throwing it in his face. “You serve the will of Okeanos, God of the Sea.”
I give him time to deny it. But the sudden woodenness of his expression is enough proof that I have hit the mark.
“Each time I see you anew you level accusations at me,” he says mildly, pushing past me to climb the steps back to our cottage, but he does not meet my eye.
“Is it an accusation if it is true?”
We climb together, fish in his hand and worry tucked deep in my heart. I do not want to fight him. But I demand that he relinquish his secrets.
“I am your wife,” I say baldly, and he flinches. “I ammeant to be your partner, but you hide from me things I ought to know. Are you working against your god with these tasks of yours? Will he come in vengeance and destroy us both?”
I might even want that. If he comes in fury, he will be here. I cannot think of another way to access a god.
“You need not fear such,” he says. “I would not willingly place you in danger. It’s a rare woman who would give her future to save her people. I honor that.”
“You honor me? Then be honest with me. Tell me who you serve.”
His eyes are a driftwood fire—green and scorching.
“I do honor you, Queen Coralys,” he says tightly. “And I have told you that I will reveal all to you when the time is right. Which is not now. I, too, have a people I am devoted to protecting, and I will trade myself for their futures day by day, piece by piece. Tell me this, if you do not like my answer, will you make it your goal to hinder me?”
I lift my chin and refuse to answer that. If he will not bare himself to me, then he cannot expect that trust from me, either. But if he will not let me in, mayhap he will let me out.
“Would you sail me away from here if I asked you to? Back to my home and people?”
“No.” The word is barely audible, but I know men. I know it is not negotiable.
“Will you tell me why there is a treasure beneath your house?”
He looks at me sharply. “I do not touch that treasure, and Iadvise you to do the same. It was here when I came to this island, and it bears within it a dangerous power best undisturbed.”
Ah. So he guards it for his master like a large dog sleeping on a bound chest.
“Who are you?” I demand, bold as the seagull, not bothering to disguise the frustration in my voice. Daring him to meet me in my boldness. Giving him this chance to be a true husband to me. “Tell me the truth.”
“In time I will tell you all,” he says, exasperated. “Every detail. But does not your dead husband deserve the honor of your sorrow? Do you not deserve the consideration of being given time to grieve your many losses? I would not begin our lives together by robbing you of what is rightfully yours. How can we stand together in my fight if you do not know I am your ally just as I require you to be mine? No, more than allies, friends.”
Lieve was my friend. And he would not have hidden himself from me.
I look away, blinking furiously, and when I turn back he is already making his way painfully back up the boardwalk steps, leaving a trail of smeared blood in his path. He has distracted me from my purpose by touching my grief.
I dash my tears aside and stiffen my spine. This will not do. Grief is a terrible force, and if I let it govern me, I will be useless for all else. But I will not let him use it to maneuver me, either.
I follow him into the house and silently help him cook and prepare fish, and it’s only when I’m looking into the blackeye of a fish, sliding my knife through its flawless scales, that I turn what I’ve learned over in my mind.
Oke knows how to work magic. I’ve seen him do it twice. He must think he can use it to work his list of tasks for a people he loves. But he does not have the backing of a god in this, which means he is alone in his endeavors. And maybe he has not confessed his plans to me because he does not see me as a wife, or a friend, or an ally, but merely as a tool. Just as I see him.
Chapter Eleven
It is almost as if Oke can sense my restlessness and sudden coldness to him in the same way that he senses the movements and shifts of the sea, for in the coming weeks he remains close to me, despite the way his wound hinders him. He will sail out through the curling waves to fish, or he will weave through the rocky trails around the island to check on set traps and tide pools, hobbling and hunched but never giving in to what must be agonizing pain, never leaving me long from his sight. I will be just settling into mending a net under the winking sun and then he’ll suddenly be there, slipping quietly from around a rock, as certain and variable as the sea herself.
“Come,” he says, one morning after rejecting my plea.
He leads me through the growing light of dawn on a very still day to mark the places where his nets are set around theisland. We find them through the dappled morning sun and shake flashing fish and many-legged sea creatures from their seaweed-bearded grasp.
“If you hunger, you’ll know where to find them.”
As if this makes up for keeping the truth from me. As if I can be put off like a child with a treat.
