It’s not going to work. I don’t have enough connection with this water. I try to swing my trident back up, but I’ve left it too long and all I see is teeth.
I gasp, pulling at the echo with all my mental strength—andthen like a dam bursting the water calls back and the sea rises in a sudden upward swell, catching both me and the creature up with a force so powerful that it snatches my breath, soaks me entirely, floods over us both, and lifts us. To my relief, we’re flung apart.
In the sudden tumult of bubbles and brackish water flooding my nose and mouth, I kick, propelling myself toward where the island must be. We’re above it, I think, but before I can orient myself we’re already descending, the wave receding as quickly as it rose.
I smack into the rock, biting my tongue and tasting blood. But I’m scrambling up on the wet rock before I even finish catching my first breath. I’m still coughing up water as I adjust my grip on the trident.
The creature has landed right beside me. It’s sliding across the wet rock and standing up like some snakes do.
I don’t hesitate. I leap forward and thrust the trident into it while it is stunned and vulnerable.
My trident is a god weapon. It pins the creature in place, and panting, I step neatly to the side so it cannot shred my leg any more than it already has. I twist the trident as I saw Markanos do. The creature shudders. Screwing up all my courage, I rip the trident out, and as fast as I can I stab again, and again, and again until the shadow creature lies still and shriveled on the rocky floor.
I’ve killed it. I’ve killed it. Thank the heavens.
I’m panting, dripping blood, my dress ripped and my hair wild. Pain flares hot and insistent through my leg and upinto my torso. It’s only then that I flick my gaze desperately around the rest of the island.
“So that’s how you killed him,” Markanos says, his eyes locked on the dead creature. He’s soaked, too. “Suits you.”
The other creature hangs limply from his hand like a fur bought at market and there’s a light of admiration in his eyes as if for once I’ve pleased him.
“Well done, Coralys.”
But that is not what draws the gasping cry from me.
Behind Markanos, the room is laid out—a bed, a wardrobe, a chest, and a large fountain. And over the arm of the decorative statue is what is left of Treseano.
That horrible black sack he used to carry has been jammed over his head, as if he were crammed into it face-first. I know he is dead, for golden flowers spill out of the bag and drift to swirl in the dark pool beneath the fountain.
I am suddenly ill. He’s been here all along as his creatures fought us, a grisly spectator. I swallow bile as too much warmth sweeps over me.
“Not much of a battle when your opponent is already dead,” Markanos says, but I note how his hand shakes and his face has paled in the faint light. He strides across to the corpse, his rounded shoulders heavy as if he is very tired. I try to follow, but my leg is in agony, and when I look down at it, I’m momentarily frozen by the sight.
The flesh across my thigh is shredded, hanging in loose scraps of meat. I can see the bone—so much of it, stark and white against red flesh and tattered brown skin.
My hands start to tremble. I can’t quite focus.
“Come and look at this,” Markanos demands hoarsely.
“My leg,” I gasp.
“Don’t be such a mortal,” he sneers, but I do not think his heart is in it. He is trembling visibly.
With great effort I abandon my wound and hobble over to him, fear a cold clamp around my heart.
“What makes this death different than the others?” I ask him.
“What makes the death of the leader of the rebellion significant?” Markanos asks as he rips the sack off Treseano’s head. “Only that he was who we thought was behind all of this and now he is a corpse before us.”
The dead god’s eyes are open and staring. His dark skin has gone a terrible grey and something has left round marks on his neck and face—what’s left of it. Half his face is as shredded as my leg and probably from the same source. Was some jewelry pressed against his cheek when he died, perhaps? I see nothing that would make such a distinctive mark.
“That makes no sense. Why would someone kill him and release Okeanos? Surely half the gods stand with him, and if others have chosen my husband’s side, then they haven’t made themselves known.”
Markanos doesn’t answer. He looks away and I see him swallow violently twice as if he is trying to hold down his bile.
“What makes this different than El’Dorian?” I press him. “You did not look so ill when you found her.”
“Because she was just one god,” he spits out, still not looking at me. “Now four are dead. Who is next? Me?”
