“I was good at it. We tend to love doing things we’re good at.” He shrugs uncomfortably. “I won’t say I didn’t mourn my friends who died. Mourned them for centuries—and that’s longer than most mortals are remembered, but I wouldn’t be God of War if I didn’t love the work. It’s the strategy of it, the quick responses, the gut instincts that surge up, the way you’re gambling with the biggest stakes possible—lives and nations. It’s addictive. And more than that. Hate injustice? War is the quick end to that. Want a tyrant overthrown? War.”
“You’re oversimplifying.”
“I am speaking what I know. I am the God of War because I respect it and know its worth. Do not you love the sea?”
“Of course. But all of us from the Crocus Isles love the sea. It’s our lifeblood.”
“Mm-hmm. And even if you slew Okeanos, if you didn’t love the sea with all your heart, you could never be god of it.”
“Then why did you suggest I could take over from Ordanus? Did you think I could love music and art that way?”
He shrugs. “You’d learn the love of it fast, or you’d die along the way. Same with war for me. I don’t fuss much about it. We love what we love, and we make it our god.”
“No, we make ourselves gods,” I say absently. I could have sworn that shadow moved a moment ago along that hanging island closest to us. It takes all my courage to keep moving forward as the shadows pulse around us.
“Yes. We do,” Markanos argues, oblivious to my concern. “Because we love ourselves. It was my idea to become a god. I went out and looked for Lichenchus, who was God of War before me, and it took me forty grim years to find him and slay him.”
He’s silent then for a while as we make our way forward. Twice he creeps up a set of stairs to check an island platform—both are empty of living things, though they are elaborately furnished and bear enough of the taste of their owners that one can guess whose they are. I am certain that the first is Glorian’s. It’s decked with pillows and woven cloths depicting large flowers and birds and there is a raised garden filled with pale decorative grasses and night-blooming flowers. The second is dark and stark as the mood of Heskatan. It boasts four separate wardrobes laid out much like walls, a raised box bed one must climb a ladder to enter, and a beautifully stitched saddle displayed on its own stand.
Markanos grunts at each empty island, but I do not think he expected them to be occupied. We both know we will find Treseano in his own place.
Even so, I feel eyes on my back. But though the feeling grows with each step, every time I twist to look, nothing is there.
I swallow as Markanos takes up his talk again. I think it comforts him to speak. It only makes me more edgy. Water laps against the rocks we traverse and the sound cloaks any we make—and any an attacker might make.
“I’m just stating the obvious,” he says as if I have arguedwith him. “We worship ourselves. And we’re always looking for converts to worship us, too. It’s the way of things. Why do you think your husband wants this Lighthouse so badly?”
“To keep his people safe,” I say. Did I hear a faint splash?
“To make a lasting name for himself,” Markanos says. “To be revered. The original makers of the thing couldn’t keep it. If he can prove he can—well, that would be an accomplishment.”
He falls silent as we clamber over more jutting rocks and arrive at a new island, and I don’t need Markanos to tell me whose this is. He watches it intently and I try to keep watch behind us and to the sides. My eyes keep flicking forward toward the island, though. It is set low and close to the mist-wreathed sea so that the lantern of the next island over hangs high enough above this island that it casts it in stark light.
I wish I could see through the mists. Worry claws up my throat as Markanos presses a single finger to his lips and then begins to mount the rocks that form a rough set of steps up to the island.
We are still climbing when I feel something brush my leg. With my heart in my throat, I twist to look over my shoulder, trident at the ready, but there’s nothing in the mist.
“Markanos,” I whisper, and then the creature is upon me.
It leaps from the mist at the same moment that Markanos leaps over the lip of the island and vanishes from sight, and I’m pinned clutching the nearly vertical rocks that rise up like teeth and form ragged steps from the riblike bridge tothis island. I must hold on with one hand; I dare not let go, or I will lose my balance and any hope I have of defending myself. My other hand grips the trident in a tight, white-knuckled fist.
The creature swirls out from the mist, cloaked at first so that it looks pewter grey but then growing darker until it is upon me—a black mass of writhing strands, eel-like and yet made of shadow. It opens its many-toothed mouth and roars, and its breath gusts over me in a cloud of soporific spice. I did not expect this, but I still manage to lurch to the side and land a glancing blow with the trident as it plunges past. I do not think it expected me to be able to maneuver at all. It will not be fooled twice.
It swims through the air, defying all logic and gravity, and turns around for another strike. I throw my efforts into scaling farther up the toothlike white rock. Chalky powder breaks free and coats my palms, and I do gain ground but not quickly enough.
Above me, up on the island, Markanos grunts, but there is no time to wonder how he is faring. The creature plunges out of the mist again, unharmed by my strike. It bunches up and then elongates, thrusting forward, its mouth open and roaring. Again, I feel the rush of its spiced breath against my face, but this time I try to get my trident angled right as I brace myself against the rock. I get the weapon up just in time and it sticks into the creature’s flesh, but I’ve hit it too far back to prevent it from snapping at me, catching my left thigh with its vicious teeth.
I scream as they dig in and tear, ripping and shredding the flesh. I twist the trident, almost on instinct, and the attack abruptly stops, but the pain hasn’t ended and I’m fighting to keep my mind focused as it floods over me.
My breath rasps harshly in my ears and my muscles scream as I hold on to both the weapon and the rock, fighting against the creature as it rears back, nearly taking my trident with it. It’s all I can do to hold on, and as the creature rips itself off my weapon black spots dance across my vision.
I can’t fight it successfully here on the rocks. I’m too stationary. I’m too vulnerable. But if I couldn’t climb while fighting before, I certainly can’t now. I fight a wave of panic. No, I won’t give in to that. I can think this through.
I look down at the pewter water below, judge how far I’ll fall if I let go, and hear the faint echo of the sea. It’s not my ocean, but it knows me.
I fling my mind toward it, calling to that echo and begging it to rise and bear me upward. If I could just reach the island above, I would have a chance, even wounded and inexperienced.
The creature has gathered itself up again, keening in a way that sounds like rocks scraping together mixed with a howl. I grit my teeth and pull at that echo, pulling and pulling as the creature bunches again and rushes forward.
