Chapter II
II
My father, Phorcys, is no king.
That doesn’t stop him from pretending as much as my sisters and I enter our great hall the next evening and settle at the table alongside him and our mother.
He sits in a chair fashioned like a throne, lording over all of us.
The sun has barely set on our island, but already his dark eyes are glazed and unfocused, a sure sign of wine-fueled indulgence.
Objectively, I suppose his chosen form is a handsome one.
His skin is dark like mahogany wood, and his kinky hair—white and thick—reminds me of the sea-foam that sometimes gathers at our island’s shores.
I note that, tonight, he has donned a tunic dyed a rich purple, and each one of his long brown fingers is furnished with a golden ring.
I know it is all for show, a reminder to those present that he used to be the primordial sea god of hidden dangers in the deep, a sort of king in his own right.
He used to control vast leagues of the open sea; thousands prayed and offered tribute to him.
But my father is only a shadow of that ancient and powerful being now. Sometimes, secretly, I pity him.
The five of us remain seated at the host table while slaves scurry about like ants turned out from their mound.
Our great hall is always elegant. Tonight, though, its white marble floors have been scrubbed and polished to a high shine.
Garlands thick with fresh lilies and irises have been strewn about the interior stone pillars, and my nose fills with the savory aromas of roasted lamb, seasoned legumes, and baked bread.
My eyes search for Theo among the slaves, to no avail.
With a pang, I wish he were here, that I could talk to him.
The minutes stretch without the arrival of our first guests, and I begin to wonder if the tension hanging thick in the air is real, or simply my imagination at work.
Several seats down, my mother pours her second drink to the brim without bothering to ask a slave, while my father impatiently drums those ringed fingers along the table’s edge.
Stheno, Euryale, and I exchange looks, but none of us dare speak.
I know my sisters are thinking the same thing I am.
A poorly attended feast would be fodder for light gossip among gods, a feast with no guests at all would be considered a sound failure. I swallow.
After all my mother’s planning and preparation, is it possible no one will even come?
As if in answer, the main doors to our hall suddenly open with a low groan. My breathing eases as, one by one, familiar faces begin to appear.
At last, the gods of the Sea Court have arrived.
First, my aunt Eurybia, a buxom, green-haired sea goddess, traipses in wearing a tunic of shimmering white.
She strides right up to our table to plant salty kisses on each of our cheeks.
My more subdued uncle Thaumas files in after her with less pomp, but he offers each of us a low, chivalrous bow.
Other members of my complicated family tree arrive over the next hour, but my attention wanes.
All too soon, the hall is full and noisy.
Euryale nudges me. “It’s time,” she whispers.
I wasn’t nervous before. Now my mind seems to detach itself from the rest of my body as she, Stheno, and I rise and head for the center of the hall, where there’s an empty space.
My heart rabbits inside my chest as the lute player takes his seat and signals to us with a nod.
I assume my starting position alongside my sisters and wait while a whole century seems to pass.
Then the first chords of the lute fill the air, and I begin to move.
I have practiced this dance on our veranda a thousand times—the movements are more a thing of muscle memory than anything else—but tonight, in front of so many gods, I’m intensely conscious of every step.
I press my foot into the polished marble, praying with all my might that I won’t stumble or trip.
To my surprise, I do neither. I kick out a leg and arch my back so that my black locs fly out behind me.
Several of the gods murmur in appreciation, and something within me takes triumphant flight.
Each of my locs is as thick as my smallest finger, and they nearly reach my shoulders. I am not ever going to be as beautiful as my sisters, but my hair is something that, I know without a doubt, people truly admire. My locs are my pride, perhaps my dearest physical possession.
The lute player’s plucking quickens, and my sisters and I match the new cadence. We clasp hands as we form a tight circle, moving faster and faster in time with the song while our feet move in perfect tandem. Then—
The music stops.
At first, I think I’m imagining it, the new and sudden silence. Stheno is looking over my shoulder, frowning, and when I follow her gaze, I realize that everyone in the hall has turned their heads in the direction of something. Someone.
The crowd begins to buzz, low at first, but gradually they become more animated and excited as gods press in to see the newcomer.
In their midst, I make out a head of glossy black hair and rise to my toes, curious.
Finally, the gods and goddesses part, and I’m able to see what has flustered them so.
That is the first time I lay eyes on Poseidon.
Like most of the newer gods, the king of the sea is tall, slender, and lean.
His skin is not as dark as mine or my sisters’, but it is still sun-bronzed, the clearest indication of an immortal life spent among the tides.
There is nothing soft about his person; he is sharp and muscled, angular in the extreme.
His wavy hair is so dark that it looks blue in our hall’s flickering candlelight.
In contrast, his toga is so white that I can barely look at it without squinting.
“He came.” Euryale’s bewildered whisper is so low I barely hear it. “I didn’t think he would.”
In truth, I didn’t think he would, either.
My mother had certainly mentioned that she and my father had invited the sea king to this feast, but his attendance had always seemed unlikely.
The new gods—the Olympians—don’t usually fraternize with the old gods, who are considered inferior.
Now I watch as Poseidon moves among our guests, looking genial but decidedly reserved.
There’s a natural lure about his person, something that seems to draw everyone closer, and the regal distance he maintains only seems to strengthen that lure.
His unhurried strides remind me of a panther stalking through a jungle.
He even walks like a king, I realize. I remind myself that he should. Zeus, ruler of the Olympians, may serve as king of the gods, but his brother rules over every god in the Sea Court. At present, Poseidon is the most powerful being in this hall.
For a moment, I think he’s going to look our way, but then he’s swallowed up by the crowd again. I feel the slightest twinge of disappointment. The feast’s normal din eventually returns, but we remain standing in the middle of the hall.
“What should we do?” Euryale asks under her breath.
“We keep dancing,” says Stheno. She is always surest. “We finish.”
I barely have time to register what’s happening before the lute’s chords resume, and I am moving again.
Around us, some of the gods are still distracted, but plenty turn back to watch us.
Nothing has changed, really: My steps are still instinctual and easy, but it all seems different now.
I feel the press of each god’s eyes more keenly, and though I can’t be certain, one set of eyes seems to burn into me more intensely than the rest. I know it is the sea king’s, but I can’t find him as I twirl and leap, and eventually I give up trying.
There is great applause when we finish and take our collective bow; several of the nearby goddesses audibly commend our mother.
Within seconds, my father has pushed through the crowd and taken hold of Stheno’s arm.
“Come,” he commands. He leads the three of us to the back of the hall, where other gods are already jostling around someone.
I know what’s about to happen, but I still suck in a sharp breath as those gods move aside and we find ourselves face-to-face with the person everyone has been clamoring to see.
“My king.” My father’s voice is grand as he bows. “May I present my three daughters: Stheno, Euryale, and Medusa.”
From the moment he entered our hall, I wanted the sea king to notice us, but nothing has prepared me for the moment he does.
Poseidon turns to us slowly, and the first thing I note is that, up close, his irises are an unnaturally bright sea-foam green, rimmed with gold around their edges.
He has a long nose, a dusting of dark stubble along his jaw, and lips that remind me of an archer’s bow.
One corner of those lips quirks as he briefly looks us over the same way I’ve skimmed over vaguely interesting scrolls. My bones hum under his gaze.
“Your daughters are beautiful, Phorcys.” The sea king’s voice is crisp and baritone, touched by a slight but detectable Olympian drawl. “Surely they are the envy of all the Sea Court.”
Beautiful? The compliment startles me. I’m used to Stheno’s and Euryale’s looks being complimented, but I’m not usually included in that praise. I feel as though someone has let loose a hundred hummingbirds inside my chest.
“They are not sons.” My father shrugs. “But they are old enough for marriage.” He smiles pointedly. “Of course, if any of your sons is in search of a bride…?”
I start. It’s jarring to remember that Poseidon is old enough to have sons of marrying age. Like my parents, he is thousands of years my elder, but tonight, he looks like a young man of twenty or thirty years at most. Without warning, his eyes fix on me. I can read nothing from his expression.
“And which of Phorcys’s daughters are you?” he asks.