“Magic,” I suggest. “The nature of that place.”
“Come and find me when you’re done,” Markanos says, ignoring my argument entirely, and it feels anticlimactic somehow.
“You’re not going to come with me and find out yourself?” I allow a sting in my tone. After all, he breezed in here, wounded me, and now he will leave as if it is no matter to him at all?
His face goes red and blotchy. “Alexandros made an inroad into my territory while I was distracted by Ordanus. Everything is chaos now. The god war has begun. The nations that have been building armies are ready to fight. If you listen to the prayers of your people, I am willing to bet that they, too, may be sailing forth to battle.”
I feel my breath hitch at his words and a tingle run down my spine. Like him, I’ve been distracted, and last night when I was in the water, I was in too much pain to hear any kind of prayers. My gaze slips to where frothy green licks the docks and I can’t seem to let the breath out.
“Besides, this is on you, Drowned Queen. Only you can employ the tasks to wrench your husband back into godhood.”
“But the god-killer,” I protest. “Whoever it is may be laying traps for us even now.”
“Seven hells, woman. One thing at a time. If we don’t take hold of the reins of the mortal lands, it won’t matter which of us he targets next. You aren’t a god without your followers!”
And he doesn’t even bother to explain more, he just flickshis sword and he’s gone in a blink, and I’m left staring at the place where he stood.
If he’s right that I must make a decision between Oke’s life and his quest, then I know what my husband would want. He would never hold his life as more valuable than his Lighthouse. And if I choose to go against him, then I risk breaking his heart, his spirit, and his body all at once. I clench my fist, thinking hard, but no matter how hard I think, I believe that I know what I must do.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Iplace my hand in the water, about to shift to the canker in the sea. Instantly, I’m smacked with a torrent of prayers. Prayers to me—the God of the Sea. I’m made breathless by them, bowled over and thrown about. If I were not in a boat, I fear I might be dashed on the rocks by the swell of them.
In my time as a god, I have never been swept away by the power of my people’s prayers. They come to me in trickles. One here, one there. But these… these rush over me with the power of a waterfall.
“Help me!” one penitent begs.
“Save your people!” another cries.
“They come in ships. They’re everywhere. They’ve taken the docks.” The voices are overlapping, one drowning out another in their wails and sobs and cries.
There are hundreds of prayers. Each more desperate thanthe last, and I am shaking, shuddering, lost in them. This is what had Markanos so rattled. Like him, I was only gone for a couple of nights, and I think I would have heard them if they were praying to me yesterday. This conflict is fresh. The god wars have started, and they have come to my shores. I taste acid in my mouth because I do not doubt the truth or sincerity of these prayers.
I stand up almost unconsciously. I need to go to them.
And yet, I also must discover if my work has freed Okeanos, and I must decide whether to use the five great tasks to restore his life, or restore the Lighthouse. Because if his help is available to me, it could make all the difference to them. My people need that Lighthouse now more than ever. And they need Okeanos, who would know exactly what to do.
I put my hand into the sea, and as the pain of so many prayers descends on me, I twist my hand in the wash of the surf and travel.
When I reach the canker in the sea, all is not right.
I leap from the craft onto the black rocks. Everything looks smaller in the light of day. The island feels claustrophobic, though it is exactly the same—the giant anchor jutting out of the sharp rocks, the chains and loops that hang from it, and the rivets set through the crossbar.
The same, and yet different.
There are no birds. The seaweed has been swept aside. Any remnants of the fire Oke shared with Markanos are washed away. The blood he leaked out over the ground has not even left a stain.
And he is not here.
I stand still for a moment, desolate. Where is my husband? I’m assaulted by a series of imaginings of him drawn under the water and torn apart by sea creatures, or snatched up by an enemy and thrust into a pearl, or sinking in the waves as he tries to swim for safety and drowning under the surf.
I can’t quite catch my breath.
I’ve lost him.
My fingers crawl up and clutch at my own throat, and for a moment I’m lost to shattered thoughts and rough breathing. But no, I am panicking for no reason. There are ways I can verify this.
I trail a hand into the sea, and then wade right into it until it is over my head, close my eyes, and reach out with the part of me that is the sea to sense him.
