“Cora.” This time it is a plea. And I do not know if he is pleading with me to stay or to go, to take him or to leave him alone.
I do not know. And I cannot ask. Not now.
I turn quickly so I do not need to be burned by his molten gaze, and I leave him alone on the rocks, slip into the sea, and I flee. And it’s only when I am miles and miles and miles away from the booming silence of all he hasn’t said that I can breathe again.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Iovershoot the dock and end up on a part of the island I’ve never visited. It’s a lonely spot, not in the sea exactly, but hidden in a crevice between two rocks where ocean water laps in through a crack. I’m heaving with emotion, so tangled up in my mind that I can’t tell up from down, and for a moment, I fear I’m not on our island at all, but when I hold my lantern up, I nearly scream at the visage before me.
It’s Vesuvius. In statue form.
As a statue, he has all eight legs. Two of them pin a man in place while two more tear a woman in half. On all this island, none of the other statues are so grotesque. It is most certainly his face on the figure, but his usual cunning mockery is highlighted in such a way as to make it twist into both genius and cruelty and his handsome face is stark and bleak. The sculptor of this piece is an artist who ought to berevered. Every nuance of terror and horror show in Vesuvius’s victims’ faces and the white marble fingers curl precisely as the hands of a man would, dimpling the woman’s thigh in a way so realistic that I can almost hear her screams.
I lift the lantern higher, anything to block out how my body still tingles from head to foot from that bold embrace, how my heart is racing, how I wish I had the courage to turn around and go back and do it again.
The golden glow bathes the statue and picks out details I had not seen before—the waves frothing up around the figures, foaming, formed with such care that they almost seem to move in the flickering of the lantern light.
My tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth as I study it intently. I reach out and run my fingers over the ragged edges of the waves. I know as certainly as if he had admitted it to me himself that this is the creation of Okeanos. No one alive could hate Vesuvius as the artist of this statue did. I recall Okeanos’s words to me: “Is that an honor, do you think? For a god to pay such special attention to your humiliation?”
And in my heart what I feel for the former sea god crystallizes into something like its own kind of hate. The gut-level revulsion of knowing that someone has been cruel to one you would be tender toward.
I can hear his every whispered word as I look at the shadows dancing across his face. Would I have believed Okeanos’s explanation at the Resurgence if it had only been him and me in our bedroom together and not Vesuvius, too, whispering to me that my husband was speaking lies?
I do not know, but I find I am shaking off the last vestiges of my stolen kiss. Instead, I am trembling as I look upon Vesuvius. Perhaps I am furious with myself. Perhaps I am guilty and frustrated, I do not know, but I pick up a rock and fling it at the statue with a roar.
It falls to the ground without so much as chipping the marble and splits into two chunks when a voice behind me says, “You would have had to make one for Okeanos if he were properly dead. I wonder what you would have made for him. Would you have shown his honor and strength? Or would you have been blinded by hatred?”
Of course it is Markanos, god of self-righteousness. The swirling winds take the edges of his hair and cloak and ripple them as if the air itself would toy with him. I manage to calm my breathing enough to answer, but my cheeks are hot, my emotions more tangled than rope all thrown together in one barrel.
“Do you think Okeanos is blinded by hatred of his predecessor? I do not. The mood of this statue seems clear to me. And accurate.”
Markanos shrugs.
“How did you become friends with the God of the Sea?” I ask him. I’ve wondered all along.
“With Okeanos?” He lifts a brow before coming over to the statue. “A wrestling match. He beat me. It was a fine display and one of the fiercest of my life. I keep telling you that you’re not seeing him at his best. Brought low by a woman. It happens.”
I do not give any credence to his words. But despite his arrogance, I am still determined to work with him. Tonight, we hunt Treseano and hopefully destroy the monsters he carries, free Okeanos, and at the same time heal the Crown of the Sea—fulfilling one of Okeanos’s ten impossible tasks.
I pull myself together and employ my most imperious tone. “How did you find me here?”
Markanos barks a laugh. Everything he does is writ large. He’s speaking to me, but he’s handling the statue, tracing the perfect lines with his blunt fingers as if he can appreciate it better by touch than by sight. I get the feeling he’s that kind of a person—hands-on, unable to simply watch a thing without diving in himself. Perhaps that is why he is friends with Okeanos. Perhaps he was not content to watch the man storm through time and history without involving himself in the story.
“You did something violent. Threw a rock, perhaps, or smashed something. Violence draws me like a moth to flame. I could feel you out here, though I’m surprised you weren’t on the dock to meet me. I was waiting there as we agreed.” His tone changes as his palm skims over the end of one of Vesuvius’s tentacles. “I must say, I had no idea Okeanos was such an artist. Perhaps it is Ordanus who should have befriended him and not I.”
“Rather too late for that, I think,” I say tightly. I can’t blink away the deluge of memories at the name of the God of Art. I dare not dwell on them, or I will be sick again and lose my nerve for what comes next.
“It’s a pity Vesuvius does not yet live,” Markanos says, turning away from the statue. “He might have told us where to find Treseano. The pair of them were ever friends and coconspirators.”
“Are we still going to look for him, then?” I ask, not meeting his gaze. I want to find Treseano, don’t I? I want to free Okeanos and heal his wound and get us that much closer to raising his refuge. And yet I’m afraid of it, too. What might a free Oke do to me if one in bondage drives me to such madness?
Markanos shrugs. “Of course. I don’t know how we’ll find him, but it hardly matters. We’ll search. And eventually we’ll discover him.”
I give him a look of disgust. No planning. No foresight. Typical. But then, I’ve planned nothing, either. Instead, I spent the time I should have been doing that chasing down a man who had no right to be watching me all these years and then succumbing to passion for him. I can hardly blame Markanos when I am such a mess.
I set down the lantern, lean my trident against the statue, and reach into the pouch at my side to draw out the black pearl. If Vesuvius knows where Treseano might wait, then Vesuvius will tell us. And that will be an end of his value to me.
It doesn’t take much to work up tears to spill on the pearl. Just thinking of what Lieve would think if he’d seen what I’d done—especially if he knew all the torrid thoughts that accompanied my kiss, the heightened thirst that fills me even now—is enough to make them flow freely. I am deeply ashamed.
