River stuffed down an ounce of old guilt.He loved Ione; she had to know that, had to know that his discussing her with Saros was for her sake.“Getting better.She’s, er, befriended aCaelosiwho she insists has been helping her improve.”
He waved a hand, and River felt stupid for thinking that was worth reporting.“The warden,” Saros specified.“How is she getting on with the warden?”
“As well as you’d expect.Which is not very.”
A sigh.“She is stubborn.We’ll give her time.”
River’s stomach dropped.Time to what – to accept him, to like him?Oseidos was safe beneath the ward, and Saros already had Malia Mahina’s loyalty.If Saros wanted more, naval prowess or men or anything else, all he’d have to do is sit down with her and ask.
Or had they discussed it already?And had a political union been part of the terms?
River breathed.Swallowed hard.“You know, he’s a murderer.”He pulled Saros to look at him.“Haven’t you heard?He’s a wardsmith, sure, but is he someone you want anywhere near Ione?”
Saros gaped at him.“Rumours, River!Be wiser than that.”
“He drinks.He gambles.He uses snow.You’ve seen him rubbing his eyes and nose?That isn’t allergies, it’s – ”
“Because of him,” Saros cut in sharply, “we can prepare for Caelos’s restoration in peace.Like him or not, he’s worked hard for us.”
“We don’t even know if his ward will hold.If the Moths really are searching for Menon, it won’t take them long to try us.And if our warden is a drug-addled mess when they come – ”
“Have faith,” was all Saros said.“Kai is perfect.Exactly what I’d hoped for.What we need.”
Saros smiled at him then, the same sorry, disappointed smile River knew so well.Be quiet, be good.Here is my replacement son; he isn’t as I’d hoped, but he is still mine.
His adoptive father didn’t listen to him.His goddess was locked within a mortal shell.Who was there left to have faith in?
Saros returned his focus to the sea, his expression dignified, assured, even with the decades-old burns marring his cheek, his temple, his ear.River recalled how weak and frightened he was as a child in this new place, all of his mother’s training forgotten when the Archpriest knelt before him, his face strange and scarred, his huge hands heavy on River’s shoulders.
“Don’t cry, lad,” Saros had said, recovering admirably after learning that the bright young spellcaster he’d ordered couldn’t even shield himself from the rain.“Of course I’m not sending you back.Come.”He took River’s hand, led him into the altarhouse to meet the Goddess Incarnate.“Your job will just be a little different.”
Saros loved him, loved his people.Saros knew what he was doing.
All River could do was trust him.
Chapter Five
Ione
“River’s not going to be very happy with this,” Cynthia warned her as she ensured that nothing would hinder Ione’s stride in the busy market.Or trip her, which was just as likely.
Ione squinted at the shapes and colours of today’s shoppers.“River is never happy, gods love him.”
“Your mother won’t be happy, then.”
Ione’s sandal caught on a cobblestone, making her swallow a curse.“Same answer.”Bodies swarmed around the fishmonger’s stall; the scent of fish and people half-cooked by the summer sun made Ione’s nose wrinkle.“But at least with Mother, I don’t care what she thinks.”
Cynthia jutted her chin, granting her that.
Ione stood on tiptoe, searching, seeing nothing and everything at once: churning, people-shaped blobs garbed in priesthood white or twilit blues, violets and pinks from shellfish dye; flags shaped like sparkling koi undulating overhead, indicating special offers; stalls laden with fruit and vegetables and goods she could scarcely make out.
No golden curls, caramel eyes.She was out, somewhere, according to the priest at the acolytes’ building – at every week’s end, theCaelosienjoyed a free day – and where else on Oseidos would she be on a sunny afternoon but at the market?
Ione pressed her fingertips against her eyelids, growing annoyed with the noise and heat.“Be my eyes, please, Cynthia,” she grumbled.“Mine are playing up.”
She held out an arm, grateful when Cynthia took her wrist – Cynthia did not like touching others, even goddesses, unless necessary – and guided her to the quieter end of the market, the stalls here brimming with bolts of fabric and jewellery gleaming within locked cases.
They found her here, running her hands through a cascade of homespun cotton and cheap textiles hanging over a draper’s stall.Lina pulled out a swathe of material the colour of golden wheat, bright and new compared to the faded yellow dress she wore, and had worn the last time Ione saw her.She held it out for the woman beside her – Ami, Ione remembered – to inspect.They contemplated it, chatted.And there it was again, that silvery laugh, joyful and bell-like and nauseating.
