Chapter Twenty-Three #3
It is two moons into my reign as goddess that I go looking for the rebel Gheric Rodehands.
I have given up on Turbote. Given up on the prince of the Andalappos, who is now king of the Crocus Isles.
I have learned both of them serve only themselves.
They make up what the God of the Sea has “told them” out of whole cloth and then demand obedience from the people despite my orders to the contrary.
I have asked for none of what they claim I have required.
I have asked them for nothing at all. Everything they tell the people is a lie, and I fear that if I see Turbote again, I may kill him.
I have found no evidence of someone else giving him orders—no “Okeanos” pulling his strings.
I do not know if he has gone mad from the terrible horrors he lived through or if he is the villain he seems, intent on the deaths of others to shore up his own power.
I cannot quite seem to calm my fury where he is concerned, and I am beginning to fear that one day I will sharpen this trident and go looking for him.
He has not stopped his terrifying demand of drowning virgins.
And the last five I’ve drawn from the depths at the very last minute cursed the God of the Sea—and Okeanos specifically—with the first breath they drew back into their salt-soaked lungs.
It was not easy to find them safe places to hide, and to my despair, I could not convince them that the tragedy they had lived through was not ordered by the dead god they blame.
Because of all this, Gheric Rodehands is my people’s last hope of a mortal who might be made into a king. He certainly can do no worse than those who have already claimed the title. I have been watching him from afar, and now, it would seem, is the time to speak.
He’s young. Twenty-five, perhaps. Not good-looking, not particularly powerful of body, but his people hang on his every word. I wait until he is in the sea cleaning fish—he’s not too good to work with his hands—and I meet him there.
He freezes when he sees me, but after a breath he returns to what he’s doing.
I’m frequently curious to see how mortals will react to me.
I have looked into my shell of rainwater and my face is no different than it was when I was queen, but sometimes in the right light I do think that perhaps it glows a little.
It does not seem enough of a change to explain the reactions of mortals.
Some—like Turbote, who still does not recognize me—act as though I am as distant from them as the heavens are from the earth.
Others, like the innocent child of the priest of Okeanos or this leader of the people, simply shrug and carry on with their work.
I have not yet figured out if it is something I am doing, or some attitude they have, or merely a quirk of vision from one to the next.
“The Lighthouse,” Gheric says confidently when I explain who I am, and this time it’s my turn to freeze.
“Casavar the priest told me about it.” His eyes blaze as he speaks on about the man—the one I met in Okeanos’s Temple who gave me my peplos.
“If such a thing were possible, I would lead our people to it. All who remain. And we would be free of these looming god wars that threaten to ravage the land. We’d be free, too, of the moods and whims of those who were meant to protect us but seem only set on ruining us.
” His smile is grim and sad. “But of course, it’s only a tale. ”
He tells me of other things as well, and tries to sway me to his cause.
Were I mortal still, I might join it. Were I queen, I’d make him a captain or advisor despite his clear disdain for the monarchy.
He’s very persuasive. But I am neither mortal nor queen and even the memory of me has left the lips of the people.
They do not speak of Coralys except in cursing the gods for taking me and leaving them to their current fates.
There is a small group of people who believe I was the first of Turbote’s virgin sacrifices—foolish, since I was not a virgin and since Turbote had nothing to do with my choice to abdicate.
To everyone who meets me now, I am only Okeanos’s wife.
They will not call me Coralys no matter how often I remind them.
I go home from my meeting with Gheric deep in thought.
“Can I bring up the Lighthouse from the depths?” I ask the helpful woman from the pearl that night, drawing her out from her prison, but she only laughs at me.
I ask them one by one—each resident of each pearl—and each one laughs or shakes his head or tells me I’m a fool. Even those who look at me with wistful eyes as if they wish it could be so say the same thing.
“It’s too late,” they say. “There was a chance, but that is gone now.”
At last, I even ask Vesuvius.
“The Great Lighthouse?” He sneers at me, but there is a light in his eye that tells me I’ve piqued his interest. “Better to ask for the soul of your dead husband back.”
And I do not know if it is his words that trigger it, but that night I dream of Oke drowning with no one to save him. I leap into the inky water, but when I reach for him, there is nothing to be found but a dull, festering ache.
When I wake, the dream is still with me and I realize the ache I felt is familiar. It is that infection I’ve been sensing in the sea that I do not wish to explore.
I go about my work that day pretending I don’t know what I’m going to do, but when evening comes, I can no longer deny it.
I must know. I must know if Markanos told the truth and Oke yet lives in some form or another.
I must know if his life is connected to that dreadful pain and sorrow I feel at the center of the sea.
And if it is, then I must beg him to explain to me how to drag his Lighthouse up from the depths.
I must know if there is any other way than that ridiculous list of impossible tasks.
And I must do it now before I make a greater mess of things than I have already.