Chapter Ten
I do not need any light to descend the stone steps, for the room beneath is as open to the air on one side as it is with the cottage above, carved into the same cliffside.
The builder was clever enough to create several long slits about as wide as my body in the side wall and fit them from floor to ceiling so that the stone room, while guarded from the elements, is well lit.
With Oke gone fishing again, now is my chance. He’s hovered very close since the night he feared I would take my own life, and while I appreciate his company, my fingers itch to unveil the secret I knew was beneath us, waiting to be exposed.
I have imagined all manner of things over these past few days, and now that my chance is here, I am almost afraid to be disappointed by it.
But from the moment my head dips below the cottage floor, it is hard to keep my mouth from falling open.
In stark contrast to the room above, this cavernous space is rich beyond my experience.
None of my palaces have boasted such intricate murals as the ones set into the mosaic floors.
Stylized waves and stars are woven in swirling beauty from tiles no larger than my smallest fingertip and fitted to form the floor.
I think they might be reminiscent of the Cryciene Period, but the method of shearing the tiles into such delicate shards was lost after the War of Eastern Tides and we never rediscovered it.
The builders chose pale blues and stark whites for their patterns, and mosaics crawl right up the walls to waist level, where they morph into smooth white stone and then elaborate wave-and-tide cornices.
I think that the walls and cornices may have been carved directly from the stone when this room was set into the rock, and my mind can’t help tallying workers, materials, and cost. I would estimate three years of effort and ten seasons of wealth for my nation would be soaked up in trying to replicate this.
And it’s all sitting here where no one can enjoy it.
There are riches on display, set on plinths and small pedestals.
They’re valuable, no doubt, but they’re displayed like a collection rather than like useful tools—a draped shawl here, a burnished breastplate there, a small red stone vase, a carved sculpture no larger than my hand depicting a donkey of all things.
They’re vaguely familiar, as if I’ve read of these things before.
Is that meant to be the daffodil blade of Corephus used to cut the snake venom from his brother’s heel?
I’ve never seen another attempt to create the relic of the tale.
But a collection of items from legends will not help me now and I do not bother with them.
I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time later to peruse everything on this island if I wish it.
All I have is time and the weight of it clogs my chest if I dwell on it too long.
I go first to the dominating feature of the room.
Placed in the very center—surrounded by enough space to admire it from every side and surely planned when the room was built, for the mosaic swirls out from it—is something I’ve only ever read about but never seen before, a marvel of modern engineering, a treasure so priceless it might turn back the tide of a war. A water clock.
It is hard not to gasp at that. I was offered plans for one once for a kingly sum.
The seller had given me only a brief peek at them and that peek had been enough to tell me I had neither the expertise nor the resources in my kingdom to properly make use of them.
Such an item is a master craft and the work of years to produce.
I’d been sorry to turn it down, though, and I had thought long on the glimpse I’d had months after the seller’s boat had left our shores.
The builder of this clock—to his great credit—has been restrained in the details, choosing white marble rather than gaudy golds.
In the center of the water clock is a marble figure that can only be one of the gods.
He is depicted with a fishing spear slung across his back and throttling a sea monster in each hand.
He looks noble—if a naked man can look noble when he has no face.
Considering the intricate detail in every other aspect of the statue, from the froth on the waves twisting around his knees to the curls of his hair, it’s an arresting thing to see the face is gouged away in great hunks as if someone took offense to it.
I look up to where a half circle is set above the figure’s head. Rays reach out from the center. Three of them are golden. Seven more are black. That is not the current time—but neither are there only ten hours in the day.
How very odd.
As I’m thinking it, a bell rings and I catch my breath as water pours from the half-circle sun into the waiting mouth of one of the sea serpents, who then turns on a lever, falling from the statue’s grip until its head is close to his feet, where it coughs the water into a narrow trough.
From that trough, the water falls into the pool of green surrounding the statue and the sea serpent rights itself again.
My heart is pounding in my chest. I need no more proof that my husband’s ties are incontrovertibly to Okeanos, the God of the Sea. I need not even his own admission.
I climb back up the steps in a hurry, suddenly afraid I might be caught, remove the broom, settle the bed back in place, and snatch the book that had disguised the hidden room from the shelf.
My breath is coming quickly. But what have I to fear? The worst has already happened: My heart has been shattered, my people decimated, my husband drowned. What could this new husband do in his wrath that could top that? Nothing. I dare him to try. Him and his sea god sponsor.
I snatch up The Twelve Furies of Vesuvius, reading quickly while standing beside the empty place on the shelf. I will put it back the moment I hear a sound. My heart is pounding.
It is a strange book indeed. Its author—who does not name himself—seems to think he is writing something factual, though of course it cannot be so.
He lays out the names of the gods first and my eyes skitter down the list, hardly paying attention, for I know these names by rote: Aurelius, God of the Air; Glorian, of Growing Things; Heskatan, of Horses; Pagetto, of Travelers; Treseano, of Death; El’Dorian, of Love; Alexandros, of the Hammer; but my mind stutters when I get to Lichenchus listed here as God of War, when I know well the name of that god is Markanos.
And now here is listed Typani, Goddess of Art, who ought to be Ordanus.
I frown at the book as we reach the God of the Sea—who ought to be Okeanos.
Who has been worshipped as Okeanos for as long as my people have lived on the Crocus Isles.
Instead, this whimsical writer has named Vesuvius, chaotic God of the Sea, Lord of Rage and Passion.
I flip back through the book, frowning all the while.
It is so very old that even in turning the pages the edges of the vellum crack and soft dust falls from the edge.
The penned words—copied with care—are slightly faded, but even faded they speak boldly.
I linger over one passage.
“And so Vesuvius slew his predecessor, Chaolic, and passed from creature to god. For those we call gods are not such, but only caretakers under the banner of heaven.”
My already racing heart is caught by waves of hope and rushes faster still at this information. Can this be true?
“And, verily, the soul of Chaolic complained loudly upon her demotion and roared across the seas in many storms and threw her case before the Lord of Lords beyond the veil of the heavens, but the Lord of Lords heard not her plea, for it was written upon the bones of the earth that Vesuvius should take her place, and that the sea should boil, and the shores shrivel, and the people fear the sea for an age until another came and took his place after him. That other would be he who holds the souls of his dead close and walks with succor in his footsteps, blood and flowers line his path, and though his power is cleaved in two, so will he still bear the spear of judgment, and will he drag from the sea her riches and from the gods their prostrate obeisance.”
I can hardly breathe. Here, at last, is the hope for which I have been looking. If the gods can be killed and their places taken, then I can truly hold Okeanos to account for all he has done. It is possible.
More than that, I have the key to his ruin right here on this island, in this house, in the form of his chosen hero. My husband. The Fisher King.
My fingers practically tingle with the excitement of it, but I must be deliberate, for I am only a mortal and no mortal stands more than the most slender of chances against the will of a god.
I am no longer content to remain in this cottage waiting.
I know where Oke will be even though I have been married to him such a short time. He will be fishing. And I must see him with my own eyes so that I may weigh whether I might turn this champion of a god into a weapon for my own hand.
I make my way under the watchful eye of the statues. They make the lonely haunt feel as though it is inhabited by ghosts.
The sea is calm again today, soft, pale blue and so smooth it reflects the tufted clouds above. It mocks me in its peace, and for a moment I glare at it and tremble, but the tears do not come.
Tears will not bring back my innocent husband or the people who depended on me. They will not make wrongs right or tear down hubris or dethrone heartlessness.
A small part of my mind reminds me that neither will revenge. But that, I choose to ignore. I will feast on revenge. I will sup on retribution. I will sate myself with vengeance until I am aching with overindulgence.
I wait as the sun sinks lower and lower, wreathing this island in an undeserved golden crown.
I expect to see his sail while still a long way off, but instead he appears so suddenly that my heart freezes in my chest and I have to force myself to breathe.
His little boat has materialized from nothing and is beside the dock as if it never left, but his emergence is seared across my vision and I can see very distinctly the shape of his upheld hand—shaped like a bowl, just like before—and I wonder what will happen if I try to make that shape with my hand, too.
If one mortal—even a god’s pet mortal—can perform such magic, surely another can as well.
He’s already lowering his hand, and I’m surprised that he smiles peaceably when his eyes find me. He is not put out that I am down on the beach waiting for him, then.
I help him tie his boat to the dock, my hands trembling.
“You are waiting for me,” he says as if testing the idea for merit.
“Yes.”
He is beginning that winning smile of his again, but I cut him off.
“You are god touched,” I tell him, throwing it in his face. “You serve the will of Okeanos, God of the Sea.”
I give him time to deny it. But the sudden woodenness of his expression is enough proof that I have hit the mark.
“Each time I see you anew you level accusations at me,” he says mildly, pushing past me to climb the steps back to our cottage, but he does not meet my eye.
“Is it an accusation if it is true?”
We climb together, fish in his hand and worry tucked deep in my heart. I do not want to fight him. But I demand that he relinquish his secrets.
“I am your wife,” I say baldly, and he flinches. “I am meant to be your partner, but you hide from me things I ought to know. Are you working against your god with these tasks of yours? Will he come in vengeance and destroy us both?”
I might even want that. If he comes in fury, he will be here. I cannot think of another way to access a god.
“You need not fear such,” he says. “I would not willingly place you in danger. It’s a rare woman who would give her future to save her people. I honor that.”
“You honor me? Then be honest with me. Tell me who you serve.”
His eyes are a driftwood fire—green and scorching.
“I do honor you, Queen Coralys,” he says tightly.
“And I have told you that I will reveal all to you when the time is right. Which is not now. I, too, have a people I am devoted to protecting, and I will trade myself for their futures day by day, piece by piece. Tell me this, if you do not like my answer, will you make it your goal to hinder me?”
I lift my chin and refuse to answer that. If he will not bare himself to me, then he cannot expect that trust from me, either. But if he will not let me in, mayhap he will let me out.
“Would you sail me away from here if I asked you to? Back to my home and people?”
“No.” The word is barely audible, but I know men. I know it is not negotiable.
“Will you tell me why there is a treasure beneath your house?”
He looks at me sharply. “I do not touch that treasure, and I advise you to do the same. It was here when I came to this island, and it bears within it a dangerous power best undisturbed.”
Ah. So he guards it for his master like a large dog sleeping on a bound chest.
“Who are you?” I demand, bold as the seagull, not bothering to disguise the frustration in my voice. Daring him to meet me in my boldness. Giving him this chance to be a true husband to me. “Tell me the truth.”
“In time I will tell you all,” he says, exasperated.
“Every detail. But does not your dead husband deserve the honor of your sorrow? Do you not deserve the consideration of being given time to grieve your many losses? I would not begin our lives together by robbing you of what is rightfully yours. How can we stand together in my fight if you do not know I am your ally just as I require you to be mine? No, more than allies, friends.”
Lieve was my friend. And he would not have hidden himself from me.
I look away, blinking furiously, and when I turn back he is already making his way painfully back up the boardwalk steps, leaving a trail of smeared blood in his path. He has distracted me from my purpose by touching my grief.
I dash my tears aside and stiffen my spine. This will not do. Grief is a terrible force, and if I let it govern me, I will be useless for all else. But I will not let him use it to maneuver me, either.
I follow him into the house and silently help him cook and prepare fish, and it’s only when I’m looking into the black eye of a fish, sliding my knife through its flawless scales, that I turn what I’ve learned over in my mind.
Oke knows how to work magic. I’ve seen him do it twice.
He must think he can use it to work his list of tasks for a people he loves.
But he does not have the backing of a god in this, which means he is alone in his endeavors.
And maybe he has not confessed his plans to me because he does not see me as a wife, or a friend, or an ally, but merely as a tool. Just as I see him.