Page 6

N o amount of velvet coverings or gleaming wood could hide the fact that King Nemea’s ritual room was subterranean, carved into the mountain itself. Its dank smell and webbed corners wouldn’t be done away with. Candles glowed in their iron holders, giving off a secret kind of light.

My arm was linked with Evander’s, and he slowed us just as we reached the heart of the vast, low-ceilinged space. “I’m to escort King Nemea from his quarters,” he said. “Do not leave this room.”

He left and my tight shoulders eased.

We’d arrived early to a few courtiers greeting each other, their voices pinging off the stone as they regaled one another with stories of last night’s feast. Their laughter boomed and closed in around me.

I walked the room’s perimeter slowly, feeling caged.

In the far corners, the statues of the Great Gods and Goddesses that had once stood in the courtyard gathered dust. Their faces had been chiseled off when I had been a girl, but I knew them from the items they held.

Milton of Della cupped silkworms in his crumbling palm and a hare was tucked beneath his arm to signify his power over beasts.

Panos of Varya stood tall and strong, with a flowering vine snaking up his leg, over his shoulder, and around his open marble hand.

I noted the tall, graceful lines of his body.

He reminded me of his grandson, King Theodore.

Panos had possessed the power of life—with just a thought he could make dying plants spring up green, mend ripped flesh.

Diantan of Hera—the Great Goddess of craft—cradled a hammer and joiners.

The plumb line that had hung from her other hand had long since snapped off and was likely now the grit I felt beneath my shoes.

A prolific builder, she could machine what she saw in her mind’s eye.

Jesop of Gos lay on his side, his bearded head a foot away from the rest of him.

He possessed the power of memory, which, combined with a God’s divine, near-immortal life span, provided Leucosia with its first books of history, genealogy, and folklore.

And in the most dismal corner of the room stood the Great Goddess Ligea.

I gazed up at her. Her delicate marble wings lay in pieces around her base.

Her head was missing altogether, but her body was strong, swathed in a length of fabric that fluttered behind her in an unending breeze.

A cresting wave kissed her bare feet. The other Gods said that she possessed the power of death—but they were wrong.

She controlled the wind and sea.

With a melodic whisper, she could kill a tempest or stir one to life. She used her power to fill nets with fish, to aid ships in battles. And when she was wronged, she would lure the guilty to a brutal, drowning end.

I stared and stared at what was left of her.

“Lady Imogen,” came a low voice beside me.

I whirled. King Theodore stood taut with anger, a ferocious look on his face. I curtsied. “Good morning, Your Majesty.”

“What is this place?” he asked, fiery gaze bouncing from one defiled God to the next. His eyes stuck to the effigy of his ancestor. “I was instructed to arrive here but was not told why.”

My mouth gaped. The Great Gods—the Gods of Leucosia, made from its land and water—did not require offerings. They were not worshipped within the stygian belly of the earth.

“It’s King Nemea’s ritual room, Your Majesty.” Shame weakened my voice. “It is where his court offers their blood to his deity.”

His gaze shot to mine. “ You do this?” A horrific look of disgust marred his face. “You give your blood to—to what? To whom?”

The water deity that I was moments away from offering my blood to was no Great Goddess, nor was she their descendant. If King Nemea was to be believed, she had been born with no power at all. Just like him. She’d made her own power with twisted, illicit magic.

“I do, Your Majesty.” I couldn’t meet his eye. “The offering is made to Eusia. Refusal means death.”

The withering look he gave me was clear—the threat of death did not absolve me.

A hard hand met the small of my back. “All right, darling?” Evander said, glaring at King Theodore, who stared back with his own obliterating sneer.

The room had filled further. Nemea now sat in a wooden throne on the far side of the room, wearing the same scarlet coat he’d worn at the feast.

“Just fine,” I said, and followed where Evander led me.

In the center of the room, a throw of black velvet had been laid upon the dusty floor.

Two bowls made of carved bone sat atop it.

Beside them lay a pair of short, wickedly sharp obsidian blades.

A small pile of white bandages sat in the very middle. The ritual for the betrothed.

Absent-mindedly, my thumb bumped over the mound of scars etched into my left palm. I’d sliced my hand with that blade so many times, I’d lost count.

“ Imogen. ” Evander jostled me. “Did you hear me?”

I shook my head.

“What did the prick want?”

“He wanted to know about this room—and the ritual.”

Evander made a gruff sound of annoyance and adjusted his coat. “Have you decided what you will ask of Eusia?”

“Oh.” Evander had never performed the ritual before, as only King Nemea’s court was required to do so.

He seemed eager, gaze intent on the implements at his feet.

“I have nothing to ask of her,” I said. “I only ever speak the ritual prayer.” A prayer that made my stomach twist, for Nemea’s beloved water deity was offered the blood of his court so that she might grant him his greatest desire: to rid the sea of Sirens.

“And what will you ask of her?” I asked, somber and soft.

Evander answered without pausing to think. “For power.”

Power.

I shook my head, confounded. “Don’t you have enough already?”

“You mean my title and my sword?” He gave a mirthless huff and his gaze cut to King Nemea. “I live my life in service of someone else.” He shook his head, met my eye. “I want something that’s mine. Something I can’t be stripped of.”

Perhaps Evander and I were not so different.

After last night, after feeling my veins fill with such potency, I yearned for power too.

I yearned for the freedom and choice and protection it could offer.

If I were near the water, I’d command the sea and shape the wind just as the Great Goddess Ligea had once done.

I’d sing those who would hurt me to a black, depthless grave.

If I were near the sea, I’d have sway over the man beside me.

No—I’d have outright control.

A hush fell over the room as King Nemea cleared his throat.

“We wish for goodwill between our kingdoms.” He spoke to the other rulers—the Queen of Della and Gos, the King of Hera, and to King Theodore too—in a rough voice.

“For years, the Isle of Seraf has sought acceptance and respect. We have a right to worship who we choose. And we have a right to ask for blessings from a deity who actually answers.”

The challenge in his voice sent a chill through the air.

Nemea went on. “Today, the betrothed shall ask Eusia for a blessing. May she give them what they request. Captain Ianto, Lady Imogen. Kneel.”

The courtiers had pressed back against the rough walls of the room, their faces smudged by the dark.

My breaths were shallow, hands damp, as Evander and I faced one another and went to our knees before our respective bowls.

Evander’s back was to King Nemea, which left me with a clear view of him sitting on the edge of his throne, a mad gleam in his eye.

But it was King Theodore who drew my gaze.

He stood beside Nemea’s seat, seething. Deep lines were carved between his brows, and his jaw looked close to snapping with how tightly he held it. Even in the weak candlelight, I could make out the green of his eyes, wild and furious, locked on me.

Power radiated from the man. It poured from him, wove through his well-formed muscles.

On the heels of the disgrace he’d made me feel came a burst of anger.

He had never known what it felt like to be bent by someone else’s will.

He’d never been required to give something of himself that he did not wish to give.

I met his blazing glower with my own, suddenly enraged that he would make me feel like my desire to survive was unforgivable.

“Begin, ” came Nemea’s dark voice.

Evander lifted his blade, and I watched him, frozen.

He swiped it quickly over his hand, splitting it open.

His blood spilled like dark wine between his fingers and over his wide palm, tapping into the bowl below.

He whispered his prayer, then snapped his gaze to mine.

A lock of sandy hair fell over his furrowed forehead.

“ Imogen, ” he warned through clamped teeth.

There was not even time for me to lift my knife. His shocking grip found my wrist, and with a sharp twist, he forced my palm up. The black blade bit deep into my skin and with a flick, my hand burst open. My entire body jerked at the ripping pain.

In my periphery, King Theodore moved closer, but I didn’t look up. I could only focus on the sting and the growing pool of red in my palm. It oozed toward my sleeve cuff, seeping into the black lace. Evander twisted it over the bowl. “Say the prayer, love.”

I tried to speak through the bitter taste of self-loathing, through the fiery anger.

All my life I’d thought being docile and obedient would give me a sort of strength, safety.

But I’d made myself fragile instead. I’d turned myself into something easily snapped between the finger and thumb of a person like Evander.

My voice wobbled when the words finally came.

“I give to the sand. I give to the water.” The last bit of the prayer stuck, just as it did during every offering. “Hear me, heed me. Cleanse the sea.”