Chapter Thirty #2
I swallow as Markanos takes up his talk again. I think it comforts him to speak. It only makes me more edgy. Water laps against the rocks we traverse and the sound cloaks any we make—and any an attacker might make.
“I’m just stating the obvious,” he says as if I have argued with him. “We worship ourselves. And we’re always looking for converts to worship us, too. It’s the way of things. Why do you think your husband wants this Lighthouse so badly?”
“To keep his people safe,” I say. Did I hear a faint splash?
“To make a lasting name for himself,” Markanos says. “To be revered. The original makers of the thing couldn’t keep it. If he can prove he can—well, that would be an accomplishment.”
He falls silent as we clamber over more jutting rocks and arrive at a new island, and I don’t need Markanos to tell me whose this is.
He watches it intently and I try to keep watch behind us and to the sides.
My eyes keep flicking forward toward the island, though.
It is set low and close to the mist-wreathed sea so that the lantern of the next island over hangs high enough above this island that it casts it in stark light.
I wish I could see through the mists. Worry claws up my throat as Markanos presses a single finger to his lips and then begins to mount the rocks that form a rough set of steps up to the island.
We are still climbing when I feel something brush my leg. With my heart in my throat, I twist to look over my shoulder, trident at the ready, but there’s nothing in the mist.
“Markanos,” I whisper, and then the creature is upon me.
It leaps from the mist at the same moment that Markanos leaps over the lip of the island and vanishes from sight, and I’m pinned clutching the nearly vertical rocks that rise up like teeth and form ragged steps from the riblike bridge to this island.
I must hold on with one hand; I dare not let go, or I will lose my balance and any hope I have of defending myself.
My other hand grips the trident in a tight, white-knuckled fist.
The creature swirls out from the mist, cloaked at first so that it looks pewter grey but then growing darker until it is upon me—a black mass of writhing strands, eel-like and yet made of shadow.
It opens its many-toothed mouth and roars, and its breath gusts over me in a cloud of soporific spice.
I did not expect this, but I still manage to lurch to the side and land a glancing blow with the trident as it plunges past. I do not think it expected me to be able to maneuver at all. It will not be fooled twice.
It swims through the air, defying all logic and gravity, and turns around for another strike. I throw my efforts into scaling farther up the toothlike white rock. Chalky powder breaks free and coats my palms, and I do gain ground but not quickly enough.
Above me, up on the island, Markanos grunts, but there is no time to wonder how he is faring.
The creature plunges out of the mist again, unharmed by my strike.
It bunches up and then elongates, thrusting forward, its mouth open and roaring.
Again, I feel the rush of its spiced breath against my face, but this time I try to get my trident angled right as I brace myself against the rock.
I get the weapon up just in time and it sticks into the creature’s flesh, but I’ve hit it too far back to prevent it from snapping at me, catching my left thigh with its vicious teeth.
I scream as they dig in and tear, ripping and shredding the flesh. I twist the trident, almost on instinct, and the attack abruptly stops, but the pain hasn’t ended and I’m fighting to keep my mind focused as it floods over me.
My breath rasps harshly in my ears and my muscles scream as I hold on to both the weapon and the rock, fighting against the creature as it rears back, nearly taking my trident with it. It’s all I can do to hold on, and as the creature rips itself off my weapon black spots dance across my vision.
I can’t fight it successfully here on the rocks. I’m too stationary. I’m too vulnerable. But if I couldn’t climb while fighting before, I certainly can’t now. I fight a wave of panic. No, I won’t give in to that. I can think this through.
I look down at the pewter water below, judge how far I’ll fall if I let go, and hear the faint echo of the sea. It’s not my ocean, but it knows me.
I fling my mind toward it, calling to that echo and begging it to rise and bear me upward. If I could just reach the island above, I would have a chance, even wounded and inexperienced.
The creature has gathered itself up again, keening in a way that sounds like rocks scraping together mixed with a howl. I grit my teeth and pull at that echo, pulling and pulling as the creature bunches again and rushes forward.
It’s not going to work. I don’t have enough connection with this water. I try to swing my trident back up, but I’ve left it too long and all I see is teeth.
I gasp, pulling at the echo with all my mental strength—and then like a dam bursting the water calls back and the sea rises in a sudden upward swell, catching both me and the creature up with a force so powerful that it snatches my breath, soaks me entirely, floods over us both, and lifts us. To my relief, we’re flung apart.
In the sudden tumult of bubbles and brackish water flooding my nose and mouth, I kick, propelling myself toward where the island must be. We’re above it, I think, but before I can orient myself we’re already descending, the wave receding as quickly as it rose.
I smack into the rock, biting my tongue and tasting blood. But I’m scrambling up on the wet rock before I even finish catching my first breath. I’m still coughing up water as I adjust my grip on the trident.
The creature has landed right beside me. It’s sliding across the wet rock and standing up like some snakes do.
I don’t hesitate. I leap forward and thrust the trident into it while it is stunned and vulnerable.
My trident is a god weapon. It pins the creature in place, and panting, I step neatly to the side so it cannot shred my leg any more than it already has.
I twist the trident as I saw Markanos do.
The creature shudders. Screwing up all my courage, I rip the trident out, and as fast as I can I stab again, and again, and again until the shadow creature lies still and shriveled on the rocky floor.
I’ve killed it. I’ve killed it. Thank the heavens.
I’m panting, dripping blood, my dress ripped and my hair wild. Pain flares hot and insistent through my leg and up into my torso. It’s only then that I flick my gaze desperately around the rest of the island.
“So that’s how you killed him,” Markanos says, his eyes locked on the dead creature. He’s soaked, too. “Suits you.”
The other creature hangs limply from his hand like a fur bought at market and there’s a light of admiration in his eyes as if for once I’ve pleased him.
“Well done, Coralys.”
But that is not what draws the gasping cry from me.
Behind Markanos, the room is laid out—a bed, a wardrobe, a chest, and a large fountain. And over the arm of the decorative statue is what is left of Treseano.
That horrible black sack he used to carry has been jammed over his head, as if he were crammed into it face-first. I know he is dead, for golden flowers spill out of the bag and drift to swirl in the dark pool beneath the fountain.
I am suddenly ill. He’s been here all along as his creatures fought us, a grisly spectator. I swallow bile as too much warmth sweeps over me.
“Not much of a battle when your opponent is already dead,” Markanos says, but I note how his hand shakes and his face has paled in the faint light.
He strides across to the corpse, his rounded shoulders heavy as if he is very tired.
I try to follow, but my leg is in agony, and when I look down at it, I’m momentarily frozen by the sight.
The flesh across my thigh is shredded, hanging in loose scraps of meat. I can see the bone—so much of it, stark and white against red flesh and tattered brown skin.
My hands start to tremble. I can’t quite focus.
“Come and look at this,” Markanos demands hoarsely.
“My leg,” I gasp.
“Don’t be such a mortal,” he sneers, but I do not think his heart is in it. He is trembling visibly.
With great effort I abandon my wound and hobble over to him, fear a cold clamp around my heart.
“What makes this death different than the others?” I ask him.
“What makes the death of the leader of the rebellion significant?” Markanos asks as he rips the sack off Treseano’s head. “Only that he was who we thought was behind all of this and now he is a corpse before us.”
The dead god’s eyes are open and staring.
His dark skin has gone a terrible grey and something has left round marks on his neck and face—what’s left of it.
Half his face is as shredded as my leg and probably from the same source.
Was some jewelry pressed against his cheek when he died, perhaps?
I see nothing that would make such a distinctive mark.
“That makes no sense. Why would someone kill him and release Okeanos? Surely half the gods stand with him, and if others have chosen my husband’s side, then they haven’t made themselves known.”
Markanos doesn’t answer. He looks away and I see him swallow violently twice as if he is trying to hold down his bile.
“What makes this different than El’Dorian?” I press him. “You did not look so ill when you found her.”
“Because she was just one god,” he spits out, still not looking at me. “Now four are dead. Who is next? Me?”
“I didn’t think gods could die,” I say stupidly.
Markanos barks a despairing laugh. “Because they rarely do. Once in a dozen centuries, perhaps. Never four at once.”
He wipes his forehead anxiously and then realizes he is still carrying the shadow creature.
“I need to look to my people,” he says suddenly, taking a step backward. It’s the most uncertain I’ve ever seen him. “I need to discover if there is some threat I’ve overlooked. I need to be sure…”
“But, Markanos,” I say, fighting to stay conscious as my physical situation becomes unbearable. “We need to think this through. Who has killed Treseano and what does it mean that he’s dead?”
“It means your husband is free. Is that not enough for you?” he roars, spinning to face me.
“Someone is killing gods. On both sides of this rebellion,” I say in a small voice.
The pain of my ruined leg washes over me in burning waves, nausea shudders through me, and my vision narrows to blackness.
“We don’t dare just run from here. We have to consider.
We have to protect ourselves from betrayal. ”
“That’s rich, coming from the woman who slew my friend while he slept,” Markanos spits out, his face bleak, and before I can respond, he slashes his sword through the air and he’s gone.
I’m left on this lonely island with nothing but a dead god hanging from a statue, a dead monster shriveling on the ground nearby, and the ghosts of my past clinging to everything I see.
I try to search Treseano for any kind of clue as to who has killed him, but there is nothing to find but what we’ve already seen, and if it would be obvious to someone else, it is not to me.
It takes all my willpower to force my leg to carry me to the edge of the island and to fall from there into the sea. All my efforts are spent in moving, in not panicking, in not fainting, and in reaching the salt.
The second I fall into the water, gasping with relief at the smell of the ocean and the way it hugs my flesh, I twist my hand and rush through the water back to home, washing up like flotsam on the shore of my island.
I don’t know where on the shore I arrive.
I don’t care. I crawl up the stone and collapse, clutching my ruined leg with both hands as if I can press the flesh back to the bone.
I’m sobbing, my breath in my chest panicked and rushing in and out far too fast. I black out.
I’m in and out of consciousness several times before I stumble up to the cottage.
I must not die like this. Not like this. Not when I’ve achieved nothing and my people and nation are as shredded as my leg. I must hold on for them, for Oke.
My thoughts are scattered and hard to grasp, sliced from me by pain and fear.
I collapse on the swinging bed and try to tend my leg.
The flesh hangs in uneven scraps from the bone and I don’t know how to put them back together again.
I flinch back from the idea of cutting my skin and muscle away to trim what’s left, even if they are mostly hanging free already.
The very thought overwhelms me, and my head spins, my stomach revolts, and I lay back on the pillows, gasping in harsh breaths, and let sweet blackness claim me.