Chapter Twelve
I am lonely in a way that feels like a freezing wind blowing through my flesh and into my bones. It’s both a physical loneliness and a loneliness of purpose, for I am the only one still alive who is trying to fulfill this goal—the preserving of my people through the sacrifice of my freedom.
I have never before been alone. As a girl, I had been cared for and tutored by a string of attendants from birth.
As queen, there was a never-ending stream of people dressing me, feeding me, cleaning around me, or needing my ear, my word, or my signet ring to aid them.
We all had the same goal. The same guiding purpose.
I’m haunted by the expression on Okeanos’s face and the memory of his gentle touch as he drew me close when we fought—almost as if he was trying to comfort me while I was raging at him.
And I am sick with the knowledge that I was maneuvered into marriage by the very god who first drowned my husband and then drifted in to sweep me away like a bit of flotsam on the shore.
It makes my head roar and my heart quicken.
I know how gods play with mortals. But this is a betrayal worse than when Epicus slew his father and fed his feet to the sharks.
This is a betrayal worse than when Shimea slew her lover with the knife he gifted her to seal their bond.
This is a betrayal worse than when Anticus stole his brother’s kingdom when he was away, marrying his wife, adopting his son, and expunging his name from the histories.
It is a worse betrayal because I have been betrayed by both my god and my husband.
I do not go back to the islands with a twist of my hand and magic.
If there’s even a shred of hope that Okeanos might fight for my people, then I do not want to distract him from that.
I might feel with every breath the sting of his betrayal, but I am no fool.
I nearly died in the waters with Turbote.
I certainly will not live through that a second time.
And while I could go back later and be queen, that would negate my bargain and Okeanos might swallow my islands whole.
In my tangled fight with that enemy warrior, he left a nasty gouge in the flesh of my arm.
I turn my attention to binding that wound.
And as I do, I think of how a god can be killed.
The warrior attacking me had tried and then those tentacles swept him aside.
For such an act to succeed, it would have to be by surprise.
But even as I think this, I am reminded of Oke’s hands on mine—strong and sure—as I cast out heavy rope nets to fish. I remember how even that terrible godwound barely slowed him.
He could return home at any moment. And then what will I say to him? What will I do to him?
Emotion saws raw and hot through my chest, tugging me first one way and then another.
I could tell him that I must make him pay for what he did to Lieve and my people. I could still try to get my vengeance.
I saw the ruined faces of my people. Our entire island was ravaged, gone. I can only imagine how many other faces I would have recognized had I sifted through the dead.
Okeanos was their god. He knew exactly what he was doing when he stepped foot first on my dock. And he knew who I was when he bargained with me in that temple and then killed Lieve.
No matter how sweet or shy he has appeared over these past few weeks, it does not change any of that. He wears his face as he wears his pearls. Just another beautiful thing he clothes himself with—no more the truth of who he is than any garment might be.
I’ll admit that I indulge in a few sobbing jags and some furious rock throwing as the only means of temporarily calming the storm inside my heart.
I do not like either of my options, but I must choose. Either I align myself with the god who ruined my people and my life, or I defy him and seek his destruction.
I know my own mettle. I know I do not give over easily. I am almost certain to choose the second path, so why does it cause me guilt to think of it? Why does my mind shy away from the idea of taking Okeanos’s life?
He deserves it entirely. He has failed terribly in his role as God of the Sea.
Or he has intentionally used his position to benefit himself.
Either way he has made himself my enemy.
He has rent a hole in my heart so deep that no vengeance shall ever suffice, no penalty shall ever pay for what was lost to me.
No matter how much I might like him as a man, he is also my traitor god.
Over the next days, I turn in my turmoil to the books.
I am a fast reader, but not all of them are in a language I know.
I am versed in Archaen—the language of my islands and most of the coast—High Archaen for holy works; Greillic; and some Farsadean.
There are about thirty volumes written in none of those, and since they also have no woodcuts, I cannot tell what their subject is.
I work my way through the others, one at a time, bringing them with me as I check my lines, wash my laundry, set my fire, and curl alone in my bed.
It’s cold when I’m the only one in it and the winds from the shore whip in through the open window and chill me to the bones until I bury myself beneath a heap of tattered pillows like a crab crawling under the sand.
I dredge out every bit of knowledge I can as I plot.
And through it all, I keep that black pearl close, and I think. I have not yet decided if what I saw was a hallucination brought on by trauma, for Turbote did not also see it, or a true creature.
If he was real, then he is connected to this pearl.
If he was real, then he offered to make a bargain with me to defeat my enemies.
Do I dare to bargain with a monster or an ancient god or whatever this thing might be?
I don’t want to end up holding my own severed head, or manacled to six other women and thrown down a well, or any of the other things depicted in the books on Oke’s shelves. I shudder at the thought.
Vesuvius is not in my childhood list of gods, though the song runs through my mind more than once as I consider him.
Take your breath for Aurelius,
Drink your drop for Okeanos,
Plant your seed for Glorian,
Give your kiss for El’Dorian,
Sing your song for Ordanus,
Strike your hammer for Alexandros,
Walk your trail for Pagetto,
Dig your grave for Treseano,
But for me it is Heskatan with her snorting horses,
And Markanos will guide me through battle’s courses,
And your love will fade, my dear, as my death takes me
And in the Nightwaters, all ten gods I’ll see.
Could that song have once said, “Drink your drop for Vesuvius”? And if it did, then how did Okeanos replace him? Is it truly as easy as just killing the god and taking his crown?
Vesuvius makes my skin crawl. Would a god have that effect? Okeanos does not.
What if Vesuvius attacks me? He could overpower me. He could kill me. Perhaps he could even trap me in that pearl with him—however that works.
But what if he says that he can help me kill a god? Surely we will both want revenge on the god who has destroyed us. Would working with him transform me into someone complicit in evil rather than a champion of the good?
A tiny voice in my mind reminds me that vengeance is rarely a “good,” but it can go right back to where it came from. I do not require a conscience at the moment. And besides, my aim is higher than vengeance. My goal is justice, restoration, peace. Just not peace for Okeanos.
It is the sixth afternoon after Oke is gone and I am on the shore with a book on my knee, staring at the sea, that I take out the pearl and the thimble and look at them.
The pearl is a normal black pearl. It has no mark to distinguish it, no way to expect it is anything but a precious bauble.
I set it to the side on the sand and look at the thimble.
This is even simpler and even stranger for its simplicity.
But I realize something as I stare at the thimble. In the time we have been married Oke has only asked me to do one thing. Fill this thimble with riches.
It’s one of his tasks. I remember the first four very clearly.
Win a god’s oath.
Wed the drowned queen.
Collect the dead to serve.
Fill a thimble with riches.
Is it a test to determine if I can help him fulfill them? He has presented me with his fourth task in such a simple manner that it is hard to be certain.
Well. He and his test can both go and hang for all I care.
I am crying as I sit here, great, fat, angry tears as if my small saltwater contribution could match the salt of Okeanos’s sea. The disparity reminds me of the gap between god and man, and that only makes me more furious. Bitterly, I catch my tears in the thimble, one by one until I fill it up.
I’m spiteful in catching them, in filling Oke’s little thimble. I make sure to catch every one.
With care, I tuck the pearl back in my belt pouch and carry the little thimble back to the house and set it on the table.
I’m perversely proud of myself. He asked for riches from me and instead I have given him evidence of what a pauper I am, for I have nothing left but my bitterness and rage.
I’ve filled his thimble with both. He can choke on them when he gets back.
Oddly, the thought comforts me enough that I draw the pearl back out, and with a sigh, I confront my fears. Let’s see what the soul of a dead god has to say for itself.