Prologue

Niq

On the last day of summer, on the island of Riganos, any man who pays the tribute must be allowed to hunt for a bride.

That’s what the human said.

I step into the tiny boat and rest my sack of treasures at my feet, surveying the red-tinted ocean.

You could borrow my boat, but you’ll never make it in time.

I glance back at the rocky outcroppings turning rosy from the evening sunset. My home is beautiful, mysterious, and filled with painful secrets.

They say their goddess leads hunters to pre-destined brides. But, your bride still has to choose you.

I desperately want, for once in my life, to be the one who’s chosen.

I face resolutely forward.

It takes three days for a human to sail to Riganos?

I spread my white wings and take a deep breath.

Let’s see if I can’t make it by morning.

Chapter 1

“Bride Hunt”

Faesli

On the last day of summer, on the island of Riganos, any man who pays the tribute must be allowed to join the bride hunt.

That is why our goddess Rigania blesses us.

Our sheep always give twins and our goats triplets. Our vines swell with wine grapes, our fertile valley produces bushels of barley, and the spicy scent of oregano sweetens the barren south mountain honey. Punishing summer winds skip over our fields, and our drought-stricken neighbors always look to us with envy.

But last year, something went wrong.

The winter was too short. We planted seeds, and sudden, harsh spring rains washed them into the sea, clouding and choking our best fisheries. We replanted, and the summer winds pushed over the too-young, spindly plants. Our sheep bleat, hungry, and our neighbors have no grain to sell. There’s talk of sending an envoy to the main island. The grandmothers count mouths and look at each other with knowing eyes. The grandfathers stare into their last drinks and steel their resolve.

This year’s hunt will determine how many starve.

I stand on the headland above the pebbled east shore, seeking a glimpse of something, anything, that will tell me my future.

Our sea monster, Achiron, is absent this morning. His long, ribbon body and frilled horns are sometimes visible in the shallows by the rock wall where my ancestors once built a harbor. The harbor has long-since silted over, but the remains of the old shipyard walls still have frescoes of when monsters were as plentiful as bees, and every island had a demigod hero to fend them off.

Having a sea monster in the current hero-less era is, like many things, a double-headed axe.

Achiron keeps our island safe from pirates. Those who don’t know better are struck down and eaten. Those who do know better sail around to our commercial harbor, which is easily defended from shore.

Achiron also stops violent waves from devastating our island. After the ground trembles and the sea pulls back, revealing the wriggling seabed, its returning rush slams into his body so only ordinary-sized waves slink back to our shores.

But he also capsizes the occasional merchant vessel. When he’s hungry, he devours anyone, even marriage-ready island men who’ve left for a season and are returning with better fortunes. As the bleached ribs of the most recent wreck attest, he will overturn boats on the calmest ocean, only a few strokes from the safety of shore.

Last night, I screamed at him in frustration. “You took what was not yours, Achiron. You owe me a husband!”

My shout echoed against the white cliffs. Wind whistled over the choppy waves, but Achiron hid himself and gave no answer.

This morning, as the dawn mist is burned off by late summer heat, I’ve come again to the headland.

I’m not the only one at this recent resting place of tragedy. Below me, shell pickers and seaweed harvesters wade up to their knees searching for anything that might have survived the spring disaster. It’s said that if you have seven living children, then Achiron won’t eat you. I don’t know if it’s true, but seven is a big number and at least half of them are being really brave.

Off to my right, youths collect brush for the ravenous cook fires. The week-long celebration uses up a lot of wood.

My friend Hesioni wanders up behind me. I smell the chamomile her stepmother rubs on her skin and hair to make her more beautiful to the suitors who’ve gathered on our island. She stands by my side, sharing my view. Then she murmurs, “Achiron didn’t return your fiancé?”

“No.”

“He ate him wrongly. We did all the rituals for a safe and prosperous return.”

“I know.”

She scratches her nose. Quiet, like the rustle of dried flowers, and kind. That’s Hesioni.

“Faesli!” Zekso bursts out of the brush, her long black curls wild, her blue eyes flashing with excitement. “I found you.”

Her petite younger sister, Petraya, hurries after her. “What are you all doing up here?”

Hesioni and I exchange glances.

Zekso guesses it. “She’s ordering Achiron to send her a bridegroom since he owes her one.”

“Oh, really? Would that work?” Petraya picks twigs out of her hair, then smooths her older sister’s curls. “It’s a good idea. All the half-decent grooms made their matches during the festival days. I’m worried about who’s left for the hunt.”

In silence, we contemplate our options.

Hesioni tries to make us feel better. “My gramma says in the old days, there were so many heroes that it was impossible for ordinary men to get wives. That’s why they started the hunt. So perfectly fine ordinary men could have a chance to catch one.”

“Those days are long gone,” Zekso says flatly.

“If they ever existed,” Petraya agrees sadly.

“I think they existed,” Hesioni says. “And if we were born then, maybe we would’ve had bigger destinies too. Do you ever think, if you’d been born a hundred years ago, you might’ve been god touched?”

Petraya shakes her head.

“Maybe I’m god touched right now.” Zekso grins. “You just don’t know it.”

Petraya rolls her eyes. Hesioni regards Zekso thoughtfully.

I don’t know. When I’m compelled to do something, like last night when I suddenly shouted at Achiron, then I do feel as if I’m a single thread in a larger weave, and my destiny is bigger than what I can see with my human eyes.

But most of the time, I bob along and don’t feel anything at all.

“Here I am, born too late. Instead of great deeds, I’m just trying to find a man who won’t spurn me.” Zekso stretches. “Barf.”

“They won’t spurn you this year,” Hesioni says encouragingly. “You’ll be hunted for sure.”

“You can be rosy-eyed because your parents already accepted a suitor.” Zekso plants her fists on her stocky hips. She’s beautiful, an epitome of strength and fertility. “Did you see the hooknose from Halonnesos is back? Again. What happened to his previous five brides?”

Petraya shudders. “I refuse to be bride number six.”

“Maybe they tried to escape and got dashed on the rocks.” Zekso’s eyes gleam with morbid interest. “They say the currents around Halonnesos are so violent that it’s impossible to land. The island residents have to trade at a smaller rock across the strait. It’s amazing anyone lives there at all.”

“Or maybe…” Petraya swallows. “They make him angry and he kills them.”

“Then he wouldn’t be allowed in the bride hunt,” I point out. “And Rigania would take her revenge.”

“Maybe that’s why she withdrew her blessing after last year,” Petraya whispers. “Because he killed them and we let him come back.”

The wind whistles ominously.

“My gramma says Rigania withdrew the blessing because Achiron ate our men,” Hesioni says firmly. “That’s why we can’t appease her even though everyone’s tried. It’s a fight between them.”

“Well, whatever happened, the hooknose isn’t returning his wives,” Zekso says. “And if the marriages failed, he’s supposed to bring them back.”

“Maybe they found someone else to marry and didn’t want to come back,” I say.

“On that desolate little island?”

“Maybe they died in childbirth,” Petraya says darkly.

Bringing a child into this world is dangerous. Mothers have to take one step into the land of the dead to scoop up their baby’s spirit and carry it back into the living. If the path is too slippery, we may tip into the river of souls and be washed away forever.

“But I suppose their fates can’t be very bad,” Zekso says, stretching. “Otherwise, he couldn’t participate again. The head priestess wouldn’t allow it.”

“That’s true.” Petraya straightens her tunic. “And even a hooknose from a solitary island is better than taking our chances on the main island.”

I agree.

Achiron is our sea monster, and we have a tenuous agreement with him, but the monsters out of sight of land are far more deadly. Even if we reached the main island—a land mass so large, it supports five kingdoms and even more bustling cities—there’s no guarantee of finding a husband. Main-island ways are different and unpredictable.

Petraya sighs. “Well, if Achiron has failed you, at least you’ve got a local suitor.”

My stomach revolts. “Ugh.”

“She’s got two suitors, actually,” Zekso snickers.

Petraya looks embarrassed for me.

Zekso laughs.

My gross suitor is an old, stout neighbor who swans around my parents’ home eating from my younger siblings’ plates while complaining that I’m not worked hard enough. My parents should give me to him—no bride price, so I’m worth less than a slave—and he’d have me laboring from dawn until night, then lock me up and feed me table scraps, as he’s done to his last two wives. Somehow, this manner of courting has worked for him twice already, but big shocker, both his former wives escaped. They entered our bride hunt and caught themselves much better men. He’s single again.

My other suitor is somehow worse.

“Well, come.” Zekso links one elbow with Petraya and offers the other to me. “The sun is rising. Our destiny awaits.”

No. The feeling is hot and strong. I clasp hold of it in my mind, feeling it weaving around my soul. Even though I don’t know what it means, I will honor it. “I’ll be along soon.”

The two sisters exchange looks.

“Hurry, then.” Zekso shakes her curly hair. “You’ve got to stake out the best spot for an ambush. You can trick a man into grabbing you even if he was running after another woman.”

“You won’t have to ambush anyone this year,” Hesioni insists. “I overheard the acolytes. There are more men than women. You’re guaranteed to be caught.”

Zekso’s eyebrows shoot up.

Petraya worries her lower lip between her teeth.

“Guaranteed?” Zekso, who’s walked away single from several bride hunts, snorts. “I’ll believe it when I’m saying my vows at the wedding feast.”

The sisters move through the brush and disappear.

“The men on the hunt are only a starting point,” Hesioni tells me with a soft, encouraging smile. “Even if the husband you get today is no good, you could meet someone on his island. You can still choose your destiny.”

I link fingers with her. If I do leave here, I’ll miss my friendships with her, Petraya, and Zekso. “Thank you.”

Hesioni smiles, and then she rustles down the path back to our village, where her parents and bridegroom are waiting.

I don’t know why I linger on this headland as if I really do believe Achiron owes me.

The bride hunt is a risk but it’s also my choice. I want to begin my adulthood somewhere far away, where food is abundant and taking my breakfast doesn’t steal from my little brother’s plate.

Maybe my new husband will die tragically and leave me a vast fortune. Or, maybe he’ll be villainous and I’ll have to flee in the night. Maybe he’ll be ordinary, but not fit for marriage. Maybe we’ll have a magical love and stay together forever.

Maybe, maybe, maybe…

If things go in a bad direction, I can free myself after the year. As long as I don’t end up on Halonnesos, where it seems the brides do not return, I can go anywhere and do anything. I can even come to next year’s bride hunt and try for another husband.

The last of the morning fog dissipates, revealing the uneasy horizon and restless ocean, and still, no ghost arrives at the shore.

I start to turn away.

Something flickers against the horizon. White, like a bird.

I hesitate.

Is that a boat?

The others on the shore straighten and shade their eyes. It’s not my imagination. They see what I do, a small boat coming toward us. Incredible. Was it so small that Achiron overlooked it? Or…

A single man guides it toward the shore. He’s not rowing. He stands upright, leaning against the mast. The white sail has an unusual, winged shape—

He steps forward, and there is no mast. His body is the mast! The wing-shaped sails fold in and disappear.

He hops to the bow. The little boat coasts unnaturally across the water and glides onto the pebbled beach. He leaps, too large a distance to be covered by any mortal, and lands lightly on the dry rocks, then pulls the boat above the high-tide mark and straightens.

He is a man.

But…

His skin is dark amber-gold, and his hair is white-blond. He wears a white tunic tied at the waist, knee-length pants, and leather sandals. He slings a roughly woven sack over one shoulder and speaks to the nearest woman.

She gapes, frozen with her hands full of dripping shells.

He frowns and addresses an elder collecting seaweed.

The elder puts up her bent hands and bows her head, hiding her wrinkled eyes.

He huffs and looks around.

The others either stare blankly or avert their eyes.

He spies the path and climbs it, winding up to the headland.

Where I am.

Oh!

I should get out of here, move on, before—

He comes suddenly around the bend, moving much faster than I expect, and he’s right in front of me.

We both stop abruptly.

I am in the presence of a legendary creature.

He wears the shape of a man but the skin of a sun-burned god. His eyes are darker than ours, amber like precious stones from the mountains beyond the seas, and a white crescent moon marks the center of his forehead. His white sails are invisible now, but I know for sure they weren’t cloth.

He is an icarus, one of a race of men who accepted the gifts of the gods and flew too close to the sun. Under his tunic, on his shoulder blades, it’s said you can still see the burns.

“Islander.” His voice is oddly soft, and he speaks the ritual language of our oldest gods. “The bride hunt?”

I lift my hand in the direction that Petraya and Zekso went.

A white-gold light zips around the outer ring of his amber irises.

My heart stops.

He looks the way I’ve pointed, at the path into the hills where the ceremony will soon begin. “Enaksi.”

My automatic response, parayalo, parts my lips, but the word does not emerge. It hangs silent in the empty air above my tongue.

He moves into the brush. His bag rests flat on his back. No hints of wings or scars are visible under his tunic. The brush stops moving. He’s gone.

On the beach below, the women stare up at the cliffs.

At me.

I look back at them.

Yes, we all saw him. We were seen and spoken to by a mythic beast. Of course he passed by Achiron. They are the same kind, only this icarus happens to look more humanlike because of our common ancestor.

And he has gone to the bride hunt…

The rising sun makes a gold rim on the edge of the mountain. The wind whistles, and insects buzz low in the dried leaves.

The hunt is imminent.

I will not be an extra mouth for my family to feed.

And so, I run.

Chapter 2

“Bride Hunt”

Faesli

I didn’t need to run.

When I reach the clearing, the hunt has been stalled by the shock of the new entry. The icarus is, in fact, trying to buy his way into the bride hunt.

He’s technically a man of the outer seas. Ikaria is a mist-shrouded isle across the jagged waters from us and well within the bounds of our ancestral map lines.

Every man who enters the hunt must present an offering. That’s why I’m safe from my gross neighbor. He’s too cheap to pay and smart enough to know I’d run off the edge of the earth before I’d let him catch me.

The icarus’s offering is a mirror.

“The image is so clear, you can see your soul,” Petraya tells me, hushed. We brides all wait on the hill nearest the trees, but we take turns casually wandering over to the men’s side to see. “And the carvings around the outside are so real, you can see their jeweled eyes move. It’s magic.”

“The icarus says it’s just craftsmanship,” another girl murmurs. She went over and listened in after Petraya.

“He’s getting out a comb now.” Zekso hangs from the lower branch of a tree, squinting. She drops to the ground and shoves a handkerchief at one of the women. “Pretend someone dropped it and go ask if it’s theirs.”

The woman obediently slinks over, but whatever she hears, it causes her to completely forget what she’s supposed to do. She gapes in astonishment. An acolyte notices her and shoos her away, and she hustles back to us with excitement.

“He has more,” she tells us in a low voice, her eyes wild. “A whole bag of treasures! He thinks this delay is because he doesn’t have a good enough offering.”

“The bride he buys will have had the richest price since the age of queens,” another woman titters, and we all gasp and chatter excitedly.

“Yeah, but then you have to be married to him,” Zekso mutters shrewdly, halfway up the tree again.

We fall silent.

He looks over at us.

My heart freezes like a rabbit. We’re so far away, but he’s a monster. Did he hear us?

The white-gold ring flashes around his eyes.

Yes, I think he did hear us.

The priestess in charge of the hunt asks him something, and he turns away to speak with her again.

“What are they saying? Ah, we need answers. Who hasn’t gone? Faesli…no.” Zekso catches herself. “Petraya, go again.”

Petraya clenches her hands at her collar. “Me?”

“Pretend to ask what’s taking so long.”

Petraya minces toward the group like a fawn approaching a wolf’s den. Before she gets halfway, the priestess rises and holds up her hands for an announcement. Petraya races back to us like her feet are on fire.

The priestess announces, “The head priestess will oversee today’s hunt.”

We groan in spite of ourselves, and the sound echoes from the men and the spectators, families and friends who’ve gathered on the fringes.

Zekso hops down heavily from the tree. “We’ll be running in the hottest part of the day, then.”

“Couldn’t he have brought his offering to the temple on the first day of the festival like everyone else?” one of the other women grumbles as we crowd into a patch of shade. “He might’ve gotten a bride just from having it on display. My cousin would marry a sea snail if it was stuck to a gold medallion.”

She’s right. We all know women like that.

A potential bride hunter is supposed to bring his offering to the temple on the first day so the whole town has a chance to look it over. Our head priestess then rejects or accepts his gift, which counts as her permission for him to seek a wife. He tries to make a match at one of the athletic demonstrations, dances, or fertility rites in the days leading up to the hunt. This is how Hesioni got her bridegroom, the son of a shipwright. She liked his weight-lifting performance and her parents liked his prospects. For the men who can’t make a match, the hunt is their final chance.

We are each, in our own way, desperate.

Beyond our seas, it’s said that men don’t pay bride prices. I don’t know why any woman of theirs would ever marry. A bride price compensates her family for the loss and shows off the groom’s ability to provide. How can you trust a husband who doesn’t value you? Their broke wives cannot possibly be happy.

“How long will it take your head priestess to get down from the cave temple on the mountain?” one of the off-island women asks.

“It’s not too far, but she’s old,” Zekso says bluntly. “Plus, they have to send somebody up to pray for a wet, productive winter in her place.”

The woman sighs and flops onto her back.

Everyone else settles in.

There aren’t a lot of spectators. A bride hunt is potentially a long, boring day where most of the action is hidden in the brush. I know from satisfying my curiosity years ago. But as the day wears on, more and more spectators arrive to gawk at the icarus. He sits with the men on the other side of the clearing, on the outer edge of their group, arms crossed and face turned away.

Some spectators kindly bring food for their hungry sons and daughters. As hosts, the organizers have a duty to feed their off-island guests, and acolytes bring dishes one by one for each hunter.

We watch the men gulp their food like animals.

My stomach rumbles.

“The hunters ought to save some of those honey-drizzled figs for us,” Petraya mutters. “If we have to delay too much longer, they could win a wife through sheer hunger.”

Zekso laughs. “If they had that insight, they wouldn’t need to be hunting, would they?”

My stomach growls again.

“Oh, excuse me.” Petraya covers her belly. “I was too nervous to eat this morning.”

“It was me,” I assure her.

“Right, forget this.” Zekso stands, straightens her dusty tunic, and marches over to the spectators. She brazenly does two cartwheels and a backward somersault, then tells a bawdy story about a satyr and a sacred ash tree.

Petraya tsks, but there’s a note of wistful admiration in her voice. “She doesn’t fear anything.”

I admire her too.

Because it’s Zekso, the performance works, and she hauls back a small barley cake loaded with pine nuts and dried cherries. We split it in three, and I eat gratefully. Then we hike down to the closest stream—barely a trickle—and scoop up enough water to wash it down.

When we get back, the organizers are finally offering food to the icarus.

Unlike the simple cakes and stews they put out for the human hunters, they present the icarus with long ceremonial platters filled with every type of food the island has.

“Probably leftover from the previous festival days,” Petraya murmurs.

Everyone’s eyes are on him, judging his selections. Avoiding the roasts and sniffing the smoked fish, he chooses simple fruit, nuts, and seeds.

Huh.

“He eats like a bird,” Petraya says, surprised.

“Birds eat meat,” Zekso corrects her flatly. “And fish and anything else they can capture. Maybe he just doesn’t like our cooking.”

“Maybe. Ugh.” Petraya lies back and covers her face. Her voice is muffled. “I don’t want to be the bride of an icarus.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not here for you.” Zekso sits splayed on the ground and harvests dried blades of grass between her bare calves. She deliberately does not look at me. “He’s here for Faesli.”

Her words electrify me. I believe it too.

Petraya chokes. “Surely not.”

“This is Achiron’s answer.”

“Hmm.” Petraya sighs. “I don’t want to leave this island.”

“Then don’t.”

“But most of the hunters are from so far away… I suppose that one handsome man is an option. His island is pretty close by.”

“His dick doesn’t work.”

“No!”

“I overheard it.” Zekso tidies her grass blade piles. “His own women won’t have him because he’s a lush. Did you see his pitiful offering? He got some interest anyway, then drank half a pithos of ceremonial wine and face-planted into a pig trough. You can smell it on him. He doesn’t water down his wine at all. He’ll suffocate in his breakfast porridge one day and make you a young widow.”

Petraya scrubs her face. “Ah, it’s impossible to choose one of these men for a husband.”

“Yep. And every year, it gets worse.”

“Please, Rigania, whatever you do, don’t let me get dragged off and killed on Halonnesos.”

“I don’t know.” Zekso weaves the brittle blades into the start of a tiny basket. “This year, for me, Halonnesos is a maybe.”

Petraya abruptly sits up. She and I both look over at the hunters.

The man from Halonnesos isn’t bad looking. His hooked nose isn’t that prominent, and he took first place in the athletics demonstrations, as he does every year. His skill and the fact the head priestess keeps letting him participate in the hunt are reasons we think he might actually be god touched.

But even if he is, no parent can reach his island to check on their daughters. What happened to the other missing wives? And why does he keep coming back for more?

He sits apart, like the icarus, but on the opposite side of the clustered men. There’s no friendliness in his stern glance, no softness in his precise touch. He speaks when required and he sweats in the full sun like he doesn’t notice it’s a punishment. He chews his food mechanically and stares into the woods like he’s rehearsing. Nothing touches him. Nothing but hardened determination.

Petraya shudders and finishes her prayer. “No, Rigania, please no.”

“I don’t know,” Zekso repeats, standing abruptly and brushing off the grass. Her tone sharpens like a warning. “We could do worse.”

I scramble to my feet, and Petraya does the same.

“Faesli,” Sikyon says behind me.

I whirl and step back in distress. “You’re not supposed to be over here.”

Sikyon catches my wrist. “Nobody cares.”

“She’s right,” Zekso says gruffly, fists on her hips. “Go back to the men’s side before they kick you out.”

“They’re not going to kick me out.” He refocuses on me. “Remember the plan?”

I look away.

His clothes are finely woven with decorative yellow stitching. His face is more familiar to me than any of my brothers, but the dark hair waving across his low forehead, his too-bright eyes, and his eager upturned nose only fill me with regret.

I shake my head.

“You remember the spot. We met there many times as children.”

I keep shaking my head.

“It’s a perfect plan.” He pulls me against his chest, twisting my wrist painfully, and strokes a jagged fingernail down my cheek. “Your stupid parents can’t say no if I catch you during the hunt.”

“I don’t—”

“You remember,” he insists, talking over me. “Don’t be stubborn. Perthos didn’t deserve you, but I do. That’s why I’m not going to die. We’re destined.”

“No.”

“Stubborn.” He grabs my nape, pinning me in place. “Let me save you.”

Behind me, Zekso clears her throat in a threatening way.

Petraya quickly touches his forearm. “Um, Sikyon? The head priestess is coming.”

He frowns and looks out. She is coming, finally. He releases me. “Trust me like you used to, okay? I’ll take care of you. You don’t want to end up with a monster.” He turns and jogs back to the other men.

I rub my wrist.

“You should refuse him more firmly.” Zekso drops the rock she apparently picked up and dusts her hands on her pants. “I kicked him in the stomach when we were kids. He peed blood, but he never touched me again.”

Petraya brushes the new dust marks off Zekso’s front. “We don’t have to use violence.”

“Sometimes, we do.”

“Maybe Faesli doesn’t want to drive him off. It’s good to keep a backup, just in case.”

“Hmph.”

Zekso is not a slender-built woman like her younger sister. When she stops smiling, she has her mother’s fierceness, and everyone knows what their mother did. There’s a reason she, like Petraya, hasn’t gotten any marriage offers in all these years.

I rotate my sore wrist, then rub the scratch on my cheek.

After my engagement was announced, Sikyon changed from saying no other man will have you to forget any other man, I’m the best for you. I tried to ignore it. Maybe Zekso’s right and that’s a mistake. But maybe Petraya’s a little right too. If my choice today is between a year-long marriage to Sikyon and being a mouth that takes our meager food stores away from my siblings, then I’ll bow my head and squeeze myself into his jagged little shell.

Across the hill, the icarus is looking at us.

Looking at me.

Nerves coil in my belly like a baby snake, pricking me with potent venom.

You don’t want to end up with a monster…

The head priestess finally arrives.

As a true representative of the goddess, she marches right up to the icarus and holds out her hand. He hesitates, then offers his, and she studies the palm lines thoughtfully, then pokes and prods him all over his body. He endures her pokes, even in the meaty part of his buttocks where no one else would dare, without protest.

She steps back, gestures at his clothes. “Disrobe.”

He unties his tunic, steps out of his pants. The clothes pile at his sandals.

We all gape.

He’s rippling with muscle, but smooth, a striking male who doesn’t have to flex to show off his undeniable power. Amber-honey skin, head to toe, is broken by a curious thatch of white-blond curls nesting around his member. Although flaccid under our scrutiny, he’s a reassuringly normal size. I wonder if his arousal feels the same as any other man, the hard interior and soft skin like an antler coated in velvet. Will it swell as it grows? How does he taste?

My lips tingle and my mouth goes dry.

“You are a man,” the head priestess announces loudly enough so that all can hear. “Go on, then. Let’s see your wings.”

He tilts his head.

“Ah, of course.” She repeats her command in the ancient language.

Petraya and Zekso beside me watch curiously. We know the ancient language well due to our upbringing. The off-islanders shift, confused by the sounds they only hear during formal rituals.

He flexes his shoulders.

The white sails unfold, winking into existence from the very air. They spring from his shoulder blades and extend well beyond his fingertips like an albino eagle, with long flight feathers along the outer edges and much shorter contour feathers close to his back. Intermixed with these, four long gold feathers, two on each wing, gleam like the precious metal.

A collective gasp of awe and appreciation emerges from the spectators.

My eyes prick with sudden moisture. They are beautiful.

“Stay there,” the head priestess orders him in the ancient language, then spryly hobbles over to us. She starts to ask us in the ancient language, then shakes herself and switches to our common tongue. “Will any of you accept this icarus as your husband?”

Hot wind blows through the dry leaves on the hillside.

My heart thumps.

Zekso nudges me with her elbow.

I don’t feel the compulsion I felt at the headland, and my belly twists. Is he or is he not my destiny?

The head priestess eyes us all, hard, then changes her question. “Will any of you refuse this icarus if he catches you?”

The other women shift, looking at each other. A few hands start to go up, including Petraya’s. Zekso grabs her trembling hand and yanks it down, glaring at her fiercely. The others quickly put their hands down too. They think Zekso wants him, and so they won’t let his participation stop the hunt.

The head priestess cracks a smile and chuckles darkly. Her cackle reaches a crescendo, and she throws her hands in the air. Her voice booms with inhuman power. The ancient language echoes out of her god-touched mouth.

“On the last day of summer, any man of the outer islands who presents a tribute must be allowed to hunt!”

She wheels to the men and jabs at them with her index finger. “Every man will hunt, but not every man will capture. Some will leave with empty hands.” She gestures to the icarus. “Even you, ikaros!”

He lowers his chin, accepting the judgment.

She goes limp as Rigania’s spirit leaves her. Her acolytes catch her midfall and ease her to the ground, then carry her, head lolling against her chest, into the shade.

An electric buzz runs through the crowd.

The hunt will proceed with an icarus!

The organizers reconvene as the icarus begins to dress. My view of him is blocked as the men jump up and stretch. Faint-hearted women grab on to their families and sob. The noise is tremendous.

Petraya, Zekso, and I are resolved. So we, like the men, stretch and loosen our limbs for a good, hard run.

Zekso offers me a hefty stick. “In case you need to beat him off.”

“An icarus wouldn’t be stopped by a stick,” Petraya says doubtfully.

“It’s not for him,” Zekso says.

“But Sikyon is from the island.” Petraya fixes my hair where he messed it up earlier by grabbing my nape. “He’s not a bad choice. You’d be able to stay close and help your family.”

“Even more reason to take this stick. Start the marriage with a good, hard smack and the next time he tries something, you look him in the eye and tell him, ‘Don’t go to sleep.’”

Petraya rolls her eyes. “Don’t joke.”

Zekso grins. I don’t think she’s joking, though.

My heart swells. I put my arms around the two sisters. “I’m going to miss you.”

Zekso drops the stick and rests her forehead against mine. “Me too.”

“Maybe Rigania will pair us with local men,” Petraya says anxiously.

Zekso and I say nothing. We all three hug like it’s our last chance, because maybe it is.

The organizers bang on pots for quiet.

“These are the rules,” the secondary priestess announces. “Brides receive a head start. Rigania will lead a predestined husband to his bride, so fighting over a captured bride is a crime against the gods. At sundown, any single hunters must exit the hunting grounds. Questions?”

The clearing is silent except for the crackle of leaves in the wind.

The icarus is fully dressed. He stands with the other men, determined and watchful.

“Brides, prepare yourselves.” She raises her hand. “Goddess Rigania, guide our hunt. Bring together these men and women to unite their bodies as they were designed, and let their joyful cries summon sweet rains and gentle sun for a plentiful year. We entrust our fertility to you. Reward your faithful with your bounty.”

Everyone tenses. Petraya, beside me, holds her breath.

The priestess drops her hands.

We run.

Chapter 3

“Bride Hunt”

Faesli

There is only the sounds of our breaths and the clatter of rocks beneath our feet as we collectively burst through the screen of trees and tumble down the hill, cross a dry creek bed, and climb an embankment on the other side. At the top, some women break off, choosing their spots to hide and ambush their chosen men. Deeper into the familiar forests, the rest of us run, scattering so that fewer and fewer of us remain.

“By now,” Petraya gasps, “do you think…they’ve released the men?”

“Maybe.” Zekso stops and hauls herself up a tree. “I’ll try to see.”

“Zekso!” Petraya circles around and whisper-shouts at her. “Get down! We’re still close. If you see them, they’ll see you!”

Zekso climbs vigorously.

“We’ve got a good spot on the cliff,” Petraya pants to me. “An overhang where you can see without being seen. You can join us if you want. She said there’s room.”

I shake my head.

“You’re brave.” Petraya straightens and clasps my shoulder. “I hope you get your choice of husband.”

“I see something…” Zekso murmurs, then shrieks and shimmies for the ground. “The hooknose!”

Petraya backs up, looks panicked at me, and takes off running hard. She is not going to end up on Halonnesos.

As if by agreement, we separate to obscure our trails. I think I know the shadowed overhang they’re planning to hide in, and Zekso’s lying to Petraya. It’s a shallow hiding spot. There’s barely room for two.

Up ahead is Sikyon’s ridge. The meeting spot from our childhood.

I run up the ridge and burst into the clearing. Bolts of nerves shoot into me, carried by a thread of knowledge tightening around my sternum. You’re not safe here! Without stopping, I grab on to a tree and frantically climb. I scramble over a wide knot, pad across a thick limb, and hide myself among the curling, desiccated leaves. Some drift down, through those sunbeams, landing on the dry grass.

My breath slows.

The dust motes in the sunbeams glimmer with dangerous, unreadable omens.

Why am I hiding? I’ve come to Sikyon’s meeting place just like he wanted. Doesn’t that mean I’ve secretly decided to…

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

I freeze.

Crunch, crunch. This is the pace of a man who’s not winded by the climb. What inhuman hunter could it be? I lie against the branch and go still, my bare toes gripping the bark so I won’t make a sound.

The man from Halonnesos crosses the clearing without breaking stride.

He is god touched. He must be.

He continues down the other side of the ridge. The sound of his footsteps fades.

Stay.

I close my eyes. Okay, Rigania, I will stay hidden.

The crunching sound increases. The Halonnesos man is coming back! He circles the clearing and stops beneath my trunk.

I am silent. I am still. I am a mouse in the brush. I am—

He dives into the brush. There’s a terrific snarling, and then he jumps back. In his hand is a badger! I have seen perhaps two in all my life. The animal fights and snarls, curling around to try to bite him. He throws it across the clearing, where it rolls to its feet and aggressively shuffles off, then he brushes his hands together. He frowns and listens.

Even my heart is still and silent…

He circles the clearing once more.

Why is he here? It isn’t a coincidence. Did he overhear Sikyon bragging about his “perfect” plan, or has his woodland tracking experience over the past six years made him almost as familiar with this terrain as an islander?

At last, he jogs away, continuing down the ridge. The footsteps fade out and don’t come back.

I breathe again.

Rustle, rustle.

I tense.

Sikyon bursts into the clearing, red-faced and panicked. “Faesli? Faes…ugh.” He doubles over coughing and pinches his side.

I hold my breath.

“You can come out now. I’m here.” Sikyon stumbles around the clearing. “Don’t be afraid. It’s destiny.”

Tension rises in my chest, welling in my throat.

His family has many granaries. Their deep-water nets swell to bursting with fish. His linens have the finest weave. Their temple offerings are always grand.

I just have to call out to him…

Black spots dance in front of my eyes from how long I hold my breath.

He balls his fists and shouts at the sky. “You were supposed to come here, you stubborn… I hope you break your neck in a ravine! Unfaithful, empty-headed…”

He cuts off his rant abruptly and lowers his fists as he glares across the clearing. “What are you looking at?” he snarls.

There’s no answer.

Sikyon mutters to himself, strides uselessly around the clearing once more, and then jogs down the hill in roughly the same direction as the Halonnesos man.

I breathe in, and the dots recede.

But beneath me, the shadows move once more.

Yes, I am still not alone. Another man ambles beneath me. This old clearing is surprisingly busy today. I should…

Oh.

An electric sensation shoots through me.

It’s the icarus.

He pads into the sunlight. From here, I can see white-gold threads intermixed with his hair. Like the gold feathers, they glimmer, iridescent metal.

He stares long and hard in the direction the Halonnesos man and Sikyon both disappeared.

And then he tilts his chin, angling his jaw up at me. Through the cloaking leaves, I can see one of his amber eyes. Despite this strange profile, his gaze unerringly finds mine.

Electricity numbs my lips. My heart thumps painfully loud.

He holds my gaze…and then he discards it, dropping his chin again and straightening, wandering casually away from my tree.

A pang strikes me. Why…?

Rustle, rustle, rustle.

Sikyon’s voice gets louder. He’s mid-conversation with another hunter. “…know that. Could we have overtaken the women? Some of them are stupid slow.”

Sikyon stumbles into the clearing again and stops abruptly at the sight of the icarus.

“Yeah, they’re all behind us,” his companion agrees from outside the clearing. He’s from another island, not someone I know. “Like the girl who ambushed that wine drinker at the first ridge. They don’t know a man’s worth beyond his face. Let’s go back and flush out anyone who’s hiding. Poke the bushes with a big stick until they run out.”

Sikyon swings wide around the icarus, his fists clenched. “I ought to end you for daring to come here,” he mutters. “But then I remembered you don’t speak our tongue.”

“Don’t…be very…confident,” the icarus replies, in stilted but correct common language.

Sikyon almost falls down. He catches himself, staggers back, hands out in shock. Then, without another word, he turns and plunges away, back toward the starting point of the bride hunt.

So, the icarus understood us this whole time, and heard everything that was said about him?

The icarus watches Sikyon go.

Then he steps back, plants his feet, and looks up at me fully in the face.

My heart thuds like crazy.

He tilts his head slightly as if he’s wondering why I’m up in a tree hiding from a man that I appear to have run here to meet.

But he doesn’t poke at me with sticks or throw rocks. He just watches.

What’s he waiting for?

Some will leave this island with empty hands.

Is that it?

If he’s waiting for me, then I’m the one who has to move.

My hands shake as I slowly climb down, careful of my footing, and land on my feet. Not lightly, like he did at the beach, but heavily, like a human. His gaze follows my descent. I rise, taking deep breaths, and face my destiny.

He faces me back.

This is my choice.

My knees tremble.

You don’t want to end up with a monster.

I take a single step toward him.

The white-gold lightning zips around his amber irises.

Fascinating.

I ease away.

He remains in place.

I stop. My mouth is dry, but my command of the ancient language is firm. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to chase your bride?”

He blinks, then strides forward.

I turn and bolt, my legs flashing and arms pumping. I am faster than a wild rabbit, faster than a leaping dolphin, and I am certainly faster than him. It’s a little surprising. I slow down, double back, peer down the hillside as he struggles. Finally, I call, “Do you not run on Ikaria?”

“Not often,” he admits, in our common tongue. His voice is soft and very slightly accented. “There is…little…flat ground.”

“I have the advantage, then.”

“At what?”

“A bride of Rigania is strong and fleet. Our island is large and close to the gods, so all our daughters study as acolytes to hear their words better. My husband should be at least as talented.”

He reaches me, and I take off again, but this time, he paces me and slips back into the ancient language. “Does a human really hear the words of the gods?”

I smirk, and from then on, we remain speaking only in the ancient language. “Catch me and find out.”

He suddenly lunges.

I easily dodge, the ground hot and familiar beneath my feet.

He darts again, almost at my shoulder, his own legs flashing. So, he does run. It’s not all inhuman leaps.

“Good, icarus.” I laugh, the ancient syllables echoing against the rocks. “But remember, using wings is cheating.”

“I wouldn’t dare cheat a worthy bride.” His tone is teasing, but I don’t hear a trace of malice. More than that, I hear exhilaration. A broad grin splits his face, and he focuses on his footing.

His joy fills my chest too, and suddenly, I feel lighter than air. I dodge his casual swipes, weave down the slope, and race up the other side.

The land of my home spreads beneath me, gorgeous mountains and distant barley fields. The farmers wait for this ritual to finish, for us to consummate our chase and summon the rains. And maybe this year, it will happen quickly. The sun, so harsh this morning, now flirts behind heavy-bottomed clouds.

I ascend one of my favorite trails along the rocky cliffs, my legs pumping hard. The icarus follows, and I feel, for the first time since last fall’s shocking tragedy, that I can stretch out and take a full breath. I’m finally alive.

Beside me, he’s serious. Focused. But then he catches one of my sideways glances and trips.

I laugh aloud. Even a man of air can stumble.

He touches the ground with one hand and rights himself.

I scramble onto a ledge with no room for any feet but mine. My chest heaves and my legs tremble, but it’s no longer from nerves. He slows and comes to a stop beneath me, wipes his sweat from his brow, then tilts his head, inquiring.

I point. “Look, icarus. This is my island. This is the home of my gods, the pride of my ancestors, and the resting ground of my kin.”

He follows my gaze out over the vast panorama. Dark rock, brown fields, white shore, vivid blue ocean.

“Is Ikaria as good as this? Is it as beautiful and as sheltering? Will we feel the tender touch of the gods, and will our children thrive and be happy?”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out. Then he looks up at me, sideways, his amber eyes glimmering through his lashes. “I don’t know.”

The hot wind feels cooling on my damp skin.

He frowns. “I should have anticipated this question and considered how to convince you…”

“I would rather hear a rough, honest answer than the smoothest rehearsed words.”

His brow lifts, and again he glances up at me. Despite our differences, a spark of understanding passes between us. Perhaps we’re more alike than we seem.

I leap over him like a mountain goat.

He makes a noise of surprise. “Do you have wings?”

“If I did, I couldn’t use them,” I remind him, surfing down the clattering rocks into the screen of trees.

As we angle back, he slows, and, thinking he might be tiring, I slow as well. He darts forward, successfully tricking me, so I reward him by letting him bump into me. Elbow brushes forearm, hip checks hip. He is hard and male, and he shifts away as though concerned the touch is unwelcome, so I bump him again, more firmly, as we run along the edge of a shallow ravine.

He snorts in surprise, then feints to grab me.

I dash away, just out of his reach.

He feints again. That adorable smile again curves his lips. He’s forgotten to be serious. A monster like him can play.

My heart beats so fast, it could race out of my chest. What will I do when he catches me? I—

Fear suddenly stabs me with warning, and movement catches the corner of my eye. There, only a few strides away, is Sikyon.

I jolt to a stop. The icarus stumbles into me. We knock over branches and make a huge clatter. Panicking, I shove him behind a bush.

Sikyon turns toward us.

If he sees me, there will be violence. Even though it’s a violation of Rigania, there will be blood and failure of the rituals, again. I know it as surely as I’ve known everything else today.

“Faesli?” Sikyon tramps toward us. “Is that you?”

No. I refuse.

I turn directly away from Sikyon, which happens to be right into the icarus, and push off. My instinct is to run as far and as fast as I can away from him. But the icarus balances on the edge of the ravine, and when I shove directly into him, his heels tip backward.

He grabs my wrist to steady himself.

But that backfires when I lean into his motion.

Together, we fall into the shallow ravine.

Chapter 4

“Bride Hunt”

Faesli

His arms close around my body as we—mostly him—crash through the dense thicket growing out of the sides of the ravine. He draws me close as we roll across roots and drop. Branches thwack me and scrape my forehead. His big hand closes over my head, and he tries to shelter me. We land at the bottom with a hard thump, me on top of him, about thirty feet down, swallowed by brush and lost in deep shadow.

He winces and rubs his shoulder, then wriggles sideways as though trying to get off a sharp rock.

Then he sucks in a breath to speak.

I put my hand over his mouth.

He stills.

Up above, Sikyon says, “Did you see what that was?”

“No,” his companion answers. “An animal or something. They sure aren’t making it easy this year.”

“Yeah. Well, I know a few more spots. Bring your stick.”

Their voices grow distant.

And then it’s just the wind.

I let out my held breath in low relief. “Enaksi.”

“Parayalo.” The icarus studies me.

“What?” I ask, still in the ancient language. “What do you see?”

“You.” He tilts his head the other way, getting another view. “You’re like no one I’ve ever known.”

Heh. “Same.”

He lifts his hand, hovers just above my hair. “May I?”

My heart thumps, a drumbeat so loud that if he does have magical hearing, he’ll know the answer. “You may.”

He pulls a twig out of my hair.

I giggle. That was not what I expected. “I thought you were going to touch me.”

“Oh.” He makes no move to do so.

I hover my hand over his head. “May I?”

His voice softens and deepens. “You may.”

His hair is silken and thick. It covers his head well, although it doesn’t grow beyond his ears. The white crescent on his forehead is bleached skin, or maybe magic. It’s the mark of the moon god, Miynos, who breathed life into the icari drowned in the sea. It’s said all icari are weak to water, so it’s extra impressive that this one sailed here on his own.

I trace my fingers across his white-blond eyebrows, down his nose, across his cheeks, where a dusting of reverse freckles delights me. His scent is male, musky and sweet, and I inhale a deep breath, feeling him enter my body and bubble in my blood.

His waist is narrow, his thighs hard beneath mine. He is muscular, thick, and well-fed, and his frame is strong and sheltering. He has not hungered much in his life.

His fingertips trace a curious design on my waist, ticklish. The other hand tests a lock of my curly black hair, rolling the strands between his thumb and forefinger.

This is the moment we should consummate our hunt. We must dedicate our union to the goddess so our fertile energy infuses my barren homeland. Does he have any interest?

His male length presses against my thigh.

He does, then.

I lean forward to begin with a kiss.

He catches my hand, stopping me. “Faesli.”

The soft murmur makes a shiver go up my spine. The very air is hot. I feel him in my pores.

“Right?” he questions.

I nod. “And you?”

He abandons my side and uses both hands to frame my face, to tuck the wild locks of hair torn free by branches behind my ears. “Niq.”

“Nick?”

He nods. “Niqalis-ruqin-aqinthos. Its meaning is ‘gentle breeze after the gods’ hurricane.’”

I repeat the unfamiliar syllables, emphasizing as he does, and an easy grin flashes across his face. The word for “breeze” can also mean an exhale, like letting out a sigh of relief, and somehow, that seems to fit him so well that I want to compliment his name givers.

But he sobers as he winds my loose hair around one finger. “That man thinks he has a claim on you.”

Ah. Well, I have nothing to hide about Sikyon. “He was a childhood friend.”

“A long-standing claim, then.” His amber gaze flicks from my hair straight into my soul. “One you may regret losing.”

He’s perceptive.

But my regret isn’t from losing Sikyon’s claim.

“Childhood is over.” I fill my words with truth, and they ring as Rigania unexpectedly shares her power to emphasize my honesty. “I choose you.”

He blinks twice, then frowns hard as he rolls upright, fully focused on me. My truth affects him deeply. He cups my cheeks. “You choose me?”

“I choose—”

He draws me into his kiss.

I melt in flames.

His mouth is hot and sweet, and he nibbles and sups on me with delightful urgency. His lips and teeth are soft but demanding. I open to him, and he delves in, filling me with an impossible-to-describe flavor, like rain-dampened stone evaporating in the sun’s heat. I drink him in. His fingers splay across my cheeks, rough and male, and my loose hair spills over us like a curtain.

His tongue catches mine, curls.

Throbbing heat awakens in my center.

Like our running, he chases after me. Everywhere I lead, he is right at my shoulder. I push up his tunic, baring his hard abdomen and the lighter treasure trail leading to the band of his pants. I dip my hand beneath and encircle the hard length.

He inhales, then helps me to bare him.

His member is just as I saw, now a proud, well-formed maleness, and his musky sweetness intensifies. The scent envelops me like a drug, making me slick and wet for him. I tease the tip of his prowess and stroke his sensitive ridges. He groans. His girth swells, and I squeeze him in response. This will fit in me, I think.

He slides his hand under my tunic and cups my breast. His thumb teases my sensitive peak.

Heat streaks to my center.

I wet my palm and glide it along his hardness.

He shudders. “Faesli.”

I want to explore and learn about him. I shimmy out of my pants, my garments catching on the brush, and when my own yanking gets frustrated, he intervenes with a chuckle and helps me. I like this about him. He can be so serious in one moment, flash a grin, then go back to kissing me deeply. I think it means he’s good-natured.

I settle against him, my breasts pressing against his hot, damp skin. He’s coating me in his scent, making me his. He pauses his kiss as I straddle him and align our bodies. His delicate male head touches my wet entrance. He sucks in a breath, his chest heaving as if we’ve begun our race again. I sink onto his hard length. Every rigid inch fills and stretches me. It feels amazing.

He rests on his hands, gives his head a shake, his sweat flowing. “You…”

I lift, making him lose his train of thought, and resettle myself to take him a little deeper. A third time seats his full length within me. Pelvis to pelvis, we are one.

He releases another groan. His voice breaks. “You’re amazing.”

My lips curve with the smile in my heart. I will take this compliment.

I shift my hips, testing different angles, and he shudders again. This is too deep, and this, not quite right.

“Go back on your elbows,” I tell him, and when he does, I scoot forward. Our heads bump gently, and we both laugh, just a single breath, to show we’re figuring this out together.

I slide against his muscular abdomen, and brilliant glow lights fire off behind my eyes. He moans, and I clench around him, centering him on my pleasure. “That’s good.”

He tries to rise again.

I resist, holding him in place, and grind against him.

He settles back, alternating between watching me with his mouth open, eyes focused on our union, or rolling his head back and groaning at the sky.

This is good too, this reaction. Some men will insist on their preferred position, ignoring a woman’s pleasure. He lets me take mine and supports me as I buck, increasingly wild. His amber eyes roll as if he’s experiencing my same building intensity.

And then the goddess takes hold of my woman’s area and her blessing whips through me. Pleasure shoots through my veins, light and goodness and healing, like a brilliant glowing beacon. This moment is perfect. This act is good. I am one with the earth and spirit, soul and space. My body clenches, holding her light, a vessel of her joyous form made real.

The icarus—Niq—makes a strangled noise as his seed floods my womb. His eyes squeeze shut. And then he gusts out and collapses, flat on his back, trembling.

Good. The goddess moved her life-giving energy through him too. Together, we completed the replenishing ritual of fertility.

Please, Rigania, let this bring healing back to our land.

I lie against Niq. His heartbeat is loud, and it mirrors mine. We are more alike than different, perhaps. His breathing slows, smooths, and then he picks up a lock of my hair again and rubs it between his fingers. He makes a noise.

“What?” I say.

“Do men and women of this island always lie together outside?”

I laugh again. This is the most I’ve laughed since I can remember. “No, just during this festival. What about on Ikaria?”

“No. We have too many people flying overhead for that.”

“Is everyone on your island a monster, then?”

He lets my hair drop. “Am I a hideous monster?”

For some reason, my throat closes up and heat burns my cheeks. His amber eyes are fathomless.

I clear my throat. “A beautiful one.”

Something flickers across his face.

He takes a deep breath and rocks upright. We separate, standing awkwardly in the brush, and pull on our clothes. He winces and pulls up his pant leg. A gash on his shin is bleeding.

Oh, no. “You could’ve used your wings to stop us from falling.”

“I didn’t want to cheat my worthy bride.”

Even though I was the one who said it, the words prick me a little. “It wouldn’t have been cheating. I’m sorry I said that.”

“I’ll fix it.” He glances up at me, measuring my reaction, then shrugs his right shoulder. His right wing emerges, white and glistening, like magic. He plucks one of the downy feathers and makes his wing disappear again, holds the feather to his mouth, and whispers secret words. Then he lays the feather against the gash. The feather catches fire, blackening and twisting, and clings to his skin like a bandage until the fire goes out. Then the ash flutters away. The gash is healed! His skin is a little red, but otherwise fully restored.

“It’s magic,” I breathe. “Can you heal anything?”

“A small wish for a small feather.” He rises, then averts his eyes and gestures at my cheek. “I could erase that if you wanted.”

My hand goes to my cheek.

There’s no new injury, which is surprising considering how we fell through the brush, although he did his best to protect me. I only sense the slight uneven sensation of Sikyon’s scratch on my cheek. It’s small and barely bothers me, but I am curious about his magic. “Please.”

He materializes his wing, pulls another feather, then disappears the wing again. “It’ll hurt.”

“A lot?” I stand still, offering my cheek for him.

“Not this one.” He whispers and then presses the feather to my cheek. “It depends on the size of the wish.”

The feather blackens and curls at the edge of my vision.

Searing pain lances my cheek as if I’m being branded with a real fire. Then it’s gone. The soot flies away.

I touch my cheek.

The skin is smooth beneath my fingers.

“I never heard about this,” I tell him, softly rubbing the newborn skin. “Is it a unique power?”

He shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “Pretty normal for an icarus.”

“I see.”

A low rumble of thunder echoes across the darkening sky.

I orient myself to the familiar landmarks and lead him up a winding deer trail out of the ravine. “Did your ancestors take their gifts for granted and fall out of the sky?”

“No, but that’s a common question.”

“Did they drown and get revived by the moon god who marked you as his servant?”

He laughs behind me. “Not exactly.”

“Huh.”

“What is it?”

“I was just thinking…”

He follows me up the hill, but as he’s taking his last steps, the pebbles slide away. He teeters.

I grab his hand and haul him up to solid ground. He’s as heavy as a man when I pull on him. We both pant.

“You were thinking?” he prompts.

“I thought I knew about the icari, but maybe I don’t know anything at all.”

A smile crinkles his eyes. He straightens and takes a firmer grip on my hand. “I don’t know anything about you.”

“You know some things.”

“A woman from Rigania is fleet and strong and close to the gods.”

My heart thumps. I feel a tug in my bones, a metal bit in my sternum circling around and orienting me on Niq. “That’s the important part.”

“I’m eager to learn the rest.” His voice is low and intimate for my ear, and his breath dries the sweat on my neck and makes me feel ticklish in a good way. “Teach me.”

I look down at our clasped hands. My skin is an olive brown like the earth shoring up a stone foundation, and his is the burned gold of a creature who once flew too close to the sun. We look so different, but we both found each other in this beautiful, vibrant world.

Our first day together is a good one. I pray that all our days together will be the same.

“Very well, my husband.” I swing our hands lightly as I lead us back, through my forest, toward the clearing where we’ll share our wedding feast and begin a new fate. “What would you like to know?”

Chapter 5

Niq

The hunt has worked out so well for me that I’m beginning to question my good fortune.

My bride answers my meandering questions, gently swinging our linked hands, as she leads me through the dried brush back to the ceremonial grounds.

My bride.

The words sound strange and exhilarating in my mind.

At this time yesterday, I was standing at the back of my brother’s wedding feast, stretching my lips into a forced smile so that everyone would know I wasn’t resentful. I congratulated the couple and even gave a speech about how great they were together. They thanked me sincerely while everyone clapped.

But then my brother came up to me privately and echoed the rumors I’d been ignoring for months—that it wasn’t right for me to live in the same house with them unmarried. So, I brashly told him not to worry, I’d get married too, and then we’d all be fine. My brother gave me a half-amused, half-skeptical look. Given my history, I can’t blame him, but I’m as good as my oath. In less than a day, I have my very own bride.

As long as I don’t scare Faesli off now.

The other humans are frightened of me, even the priestesses, and I know Faesli was nervous at first too. I just have to lull her into keeping her false confidence for a few more hours. Once she’s in my boat and we’re heading back to Ikaria, she’s stuck with me for at least a year.

“We used to mine mosaic stone and marble, so all sorts of visitors came in the old days,” my bride says conversationally. Her voice is pleasant, and what initially struck me as a slightly unfamiliar accent has already faded to familiarity. “You’re the first monster to visit us in quite a while.”

Monster…

Is everyone on your island a monster, then?

I slow. “Faesli…”

She looks up at me, her clear blue eyes shockingly bright. “Yes?”

Wind rustles through her messy black hair. Her coloration matches the dried grass and parched forest of her home.

On her cheek, the scratch made by that other man, Sikyon, is barely visible.

I wanted to wipe it off since I saw him grab her—in front of everyone—and hold her by the neck, mark her as his, then throw a cocky glance back at us, smirking at his claim. I don’t think it had the right effect on us, though. The man from Halonnesos took off after her as if he was planning a personal rescue, ignoring other brides who could’ve been more easily caught. And I take great pleasure in seeing it nearly erased. There’s nothing but a faint lightness on her olive skin.

She follows my gaze and touches her cheek, her quick smile flashing. “It doesn’t hurt now.”

I change my mind about what I was going to say and keep walking. “Did it hurt before?”

“Not really, but it’s even better.” She tilts her head sideways as she peers up at me. “Did you have a question?”

“What were you saying about your pretty rocks? They were used in offerings?”

“Mosaics. Here.” She leans down, scoops up a dull, round rock and wipes the dirt on her rustic brown tunic, then hands it to me. “These were made into pebbled floors at the main island’s palaces.”

The small stone is a striking lavender color crossed by a narrow white band. “You have a lot of these?”

“Not anymore.”

“I can see why it was popular.” I try to give it back to her.

“Oh, you can have that.” She swings our linked hands. “If you like it, I mean. You brought us amazing things. This is the least we can give back to you.”

I feel an unusual piercing sensation in my chest. “I’ll treasure it.”

She flushes and looks away. “Ah. If you’d come to the opening festivities, you could have seen real treasures. Although they might not have been very impressive to you now that I think about it.”

I rub my thumb over the smooth white band, like a small wish, and then tuck it into my tunic. “There were opening festivities?”

She describes them, single-handedly carrying on the conversation as my thoughts weave in and out like rays of sunlight beneath the trees.

“At least you’re here for the grand finale,” she says cheerfully. “After the delicious feast, we parade into town, dance, and celebrate all night.”

“All night!”

“It’s the grandest festival of the year, even bigger than the spring equinox festival.” She falters. “Is there a problem?”

My heart thumps. Can I go a whole night without accidentally scaring her? “I’d planned to return to Ikaria.”

“Well, we can’t travel at night, anyway.”

“I do.”

“You do?”

“I did. I traveled all night to get here.”

“And you weren’t attacked by sea monsters?”

“Not a one.”

Her eyes are as round as saucers. “Is it because you have the same blood as them? Or do you also have an ability to command them?”

Again, her weird thought that I’m related to monsters gives me discomfort. The icari were originally created to protect humans. She and I are more alike than I and any monster. But I feel nervous saying that to her, as if I’ll be introducing an argument for no reason when all I want to do is get along and ease her onto my boat.

“Neither,” I say eventually. “I’m just fast.”

“I guess.” She bites her lip. “You really shouldn’t miss the celebrations. There’s so much food. You eat until you’re stuffed. Plus, the temple will be open. The dancers are incredible this year.”

I reset my expectations. Another few hours will be fine. I’m going to be on my best, least-monstrous behavior. I won’t give her a reason to change her mind about our marriage when the goal is almost accomplished.

“Sure,” I force myself to say. “We can stay.”

She bounces on her toes. “You won’t regret it! I promise.”

I already regret it, but when she beams and describes what I have to look forward to, the regret fades away into the twilight.

The smell of cooking makes my stomach rumble as we return to the clearing where the hunt began. A grand tent has been erected, and a smaller tent flanks the entry carpet. Hot breezes carry delicate musical notes from a stringed instrument playing a tune I don’t recognize.

Visitors chat, and acolytes carry in food. They fall silent as we approach.

My heart thumps with anxiety. Faesli chose me in private, but the public eye is harsh and chilling.

Faesli leads me to a water basin located by the smaller tent. She steps into it and swishes her feet around. “First, we wash.” She steps out onto the carpet.

I remove my leather sandals and mimic her, swishing away the dirt, and step barefoot onto the thick wool carpet. Its dyed reds and greens zigzag in an intricate pattern that reminds me of unfurling buds and new life.

Faesli pulls open the small tent flap and ducks inside. In the center is a cauldron of fresh water dotted with fragrant flowers. Beside the cauldron are stacks of small clay bowls and neatly folded red and green cloths.

“You don’t have to be too thorough.” She scoops up a bowl of water, including some of the tiny red blossoms, and hands it to me with a red cloth. She takes a green one for herself. “We’re only going to have to put on our sticky clothes again, unfortunately.”

“Are your clothes still damp?” I ask, tugging the knot of my tunic and shouldering out of it.

“Yes, from— Oh, not here!” She hides her face and points to a hanging curtain. There are two private sections of the tent. “That’s the men’s area.”

“Ah.” I clear my throat so I don’t laugh out loud, and my voice only wobbles a little when I ask, “Now you care about modesty?”

“In case someone else comes in.” She scoops a bowl of water and retreats behind a hanging fabric screen. “We’re only supposed to be nude on this day with our betrothed.”

Well, I like that.

Faesli’s body is strong and well formed and pleasing to any eye. She was the subject of more than one man’s interest. Of those men, she chose to show herself to me, and I feel my privilege acutely.

The carpeting behind my private curtain is damp. Empty bowls are stacked beside discarded cloths.

That’s clear enough.

I scrub the scented water under my armpits and groin, then dump the remainder over my head, and dress again quickly, beating her back to the central area.

Faesli dropped her clothes on the floor, so they’re half out of the curtain. I pick them up. “Shall I dry your clothes?”

“Oh, I’m almost done.”

I shake her tunic and breathe on it, rotating it to disperse the heat of my breath.

She pokes her head out, clutching the curtain to her, panicked. “Did you…?”

I hand her the tunic.

“Ah.” She takes it with a frown, disappears. “Enaksi.”

“Parayalo.” I breathe on her pants.

They’re damp with her sweat, and my warmth intensifies her fragrance. I enjoy taking a deep breath, reliving the dust and crushed plants and sunlight, the smoothness of her wet body gliding against mine.

Being naked with her was great. And now she’s my bride. I look forward to being naked with her again.

She thrusts her palm through the curtains. “Pants?”

I hand them to her.

She exits shortly after, tugging them into place, a curious expression on her face. “What did you do?”

“I…” It suddenly strikes me that I’m trying to be less monstrous to her, not more. I got caught up in trying to ease her discomfort and forgot. “I breathed. That’s all.”

“You have fire breath?” She steps closer, rolls her deft fingertips up my forearm to my biceps and across my chest. “Is there always a fire within you?”

Ah, I’ve done it now. “Is it a problem?”

She shakes her head, splays her hand over my heart. “Does it hurt you?”

“It’s not real fire. It’s like the sun.”

She looks up at the ceiling of the tent.

I snort. “In me.”

“The sun is in you?”

I give it a beat, but her expression doesn’t close down in fear. Her eyes open wider, sparkling with amazement. She squeezes my hand in excitement. “You have a sun in you? Can your eyes make beams of light in the darkness? Does it shine out of your mouth?”

I laugh again, and my shoulders feel lighter, as though I’m shedding burdens I didn’t know I was carrying. “Well—”

The tent opening shakes as the cover is pulled aside. Another couple peers in, blinking.

“Oh.” Faesli switches to the more common language of the islands. “Apologies. We leave you.”

The couple stares at me. Surprise and then defensive caution cross the face of the man. The woman looks confused and fearful.

This is what I keep expecting to happen to Faesli. Especially since I can’t stop doing monstrous things around her. I want to show her everything.

I changed my mind. You’re not the man I thought you were. I don’t want you. My ex’s voice echoes. Then, Faesli’s new voice adds to it. Is everyone on your island a monster?

I twitch.

“Sorry for that. I got distracted,” Faesli murmurs, switching back to the ancient language as she hurries me to the grand tent. “We should continue anyway. I’m starving.”

We pass under a festive archway of bent pine woven with dried stalks and berries, duck under the soft woolen fabric, and enter the grand tent.

Couples at low tables eat and converse quietly. A priestess plays an oddly-shaped lute. As I step inside, she stops playing for a moment, surprised. The low conversations die, and there’s an awkward silence.

Heat from their scrutiny burns me. It’s like my brother’s skepticism. These humans didn’t think I would find a willing bride. Not one of them thought so.

The head priestess sits to one side of the entry flanked by her acolytes. She waves for us urgently, wipes her mouth with a cloth, and chews. Unlike the others, she’s businesslike and not especially surprised. “Come, come.”

Faesli and I kneel in front of her and hold out our linked hands.

“Rigania has led husband to wife,” the head priestess intones in my ancient language, coughs and wipes her mouth again, and finally grips our hands. She’s strong. “You will live under her rules for one year. Treasure your spouse and be fruitful, and your fields and orchards will swell and your house will be blessed. Ignore Rigania’s laws and your fields and orchards will wither, your house will crumble, and you will suffer a terrible vengeance.”

The words echo with prophetic power, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I rub it down.

The head priestess catches my eye, and her own glow greenish like the hillside plants as she grins with a face that is not entirely her own. She grips our linked hands even harder. “Do you vow to live according to Rigania’s laws?”

“I so vow,” Faesli murmurs.

“I so vow,” I echo.

The head priestess—or Rigania herself, if that’s who she’s channeling—smirks as if she sees into my distracted soul. “Do not forget yourself, icarus.”

I shake my head.

She turns to Faesli. “And do not forget what you are.”

Faesli inhales and nods vigorously.

Then the head priestess blinks, and the greenish cast disappears. The head priestess’s eyes are once again a watery blue like the ocean after a storm, and her grip on us relaxes.

She dips her thumb in rose-scented oil and presses it to our foreheads like a kiss from the gods, then pats our hands in dismissal. “Remember your vows.”

Do not forget yourself.

I meant my vow, and I will remember and honor it, but the prickling warnings fill me with unease…

Chapter 6

Niq

The warning makes me uneasy.

Do not forget yourself.

How could I forget myself? I am and always will be the oldest son of Councilor Ruqen, responsible for our House in his absence, primary caretaker of its reputation and honor. This is etched in my heart, in my soul. It’s not some frivolous cloak I can slip off when the burden grows too heavy, and marrying won’t change that.

“Eat and be merry,” the old priestess orders us absently and returns to her meal.

We rise.

An acolyte directs me to one of the low tables. It’s so low, I have to kneel to fit under the table. The other couples stare, but at least the music has started up again.

Faesli scoots in beside me.

The acolyte lifts one brow. “Won’t you serve your new husband?”

“Ah! Yes. Sorry. Yes.” Faesli stands, bumping the table with her knee so hard that she nearly knocks it over. The acolyte catches it, and Faesli apologizes in a panic as she helps right it.

I start to rise.

“No, no. You stay here.” Faesli pushes me down firmly, her hands on my shoulders. “I’m supposed to serve you.”

I allow myself to be pushed into place.

Everyone’s eyes are on us.

The acolyte guides Faesli to a side area with steaming dishes and pots. I rub my fingers over the intricate carvings on the bench and table. It isn’t the most comfortable style, but it is ornate and skilled work.

On her return, Faesli is stopped by her stout friend with flashing eyes. The woman—I believe her name was Zekso—glares at me as she speaks with Faesli, but seems satisfied with Faesli’s answers. She stalks back to her own table and flops into her seat beside the man from Halonnesos.

He seems more relaxed than before. Like me, he sat apart from the other hunters. Apart from their scheming, apart from their petty squabbles. Now, his gaze flicks over me, curious, but doesn’t linger. His focus returns to Zekso, his new bride.

A third woman was sitting with Faesli and Zekso before the hunt, thinner and more anxious, but she’s not here.

Faesli sets a flat dish piled with food before me and scoots onto the bench beside me. “I can’t wait to eat.”

We both stare at the unrecognizable piles of…whatever this is.

She twists her hands in her lap.

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

She’s silent for a long moment.

I changed my mind. You’re not the man I thought you were. I don’t want you.

“I’m fine. Just, um, excited.” She looks at me hopefully. “Why aren’t you eating? I thought you were hungry.”

I agreeably try a few bites. Slices of savory nut bread, roasted eel on crunchy millet, a mixed seafood omelet with pungent spices. Innocent-looking foods, like a dollop of whipped yogurt, are flavored so harshly that it’s like the food bites back. I am hungry, though. I didn’t eat much before the hunt because I didn’t want a foreign dish to disagree with me. Now, I need my strength for the return journey to Ikaria.

Faesli sits upright, fingers clasped, attentive.

“You’re not eating.” I chew my mouthful of food.

“A husband is supposed to feed his bride her first bite.”

I choke.

She thumps my back.

I cough it up, chew more firmly, and finally swallow down my mouthful. “Faesli. You have to tell me these things or else I won’t know.”

“Oh, I…” Her eyes widen, and she covers her mouth. “Ah.”

I select something at random—a chunk of a nicely decorated geometric cake that tastes overwhelmingly of soap—and offer it to her.

She parts her lips.

I place the cake on her tongue.

Her lips close around my fingers, a wet and silken feeling that makes my groin tug with appreciation.

She breathes in deeply, then chews and sighs happily. “That’s my favorite.”

Oh, good. There are several more bites of soap cake. “Have the rest.”

She covers her mouth, shaking her head. “No, you go ahead.”

“I insist.”

“I insist back.”

“Honestly, Faesli?” I lean toward her ear and murmur, “I don’t like the flavor.”

She gives me a skeptical side-eye.

I lower my voice even deeper and turn my face away from the others. “And I like your expression when you’re enjoying yourself.”

Her lashes flutter, and she lifts a shoulder as if my words are ticklish, but her startling blue eyes focus on me with an intensity that makes my own cheeks warm.

And suddenly, this feels like a real wedding feast.

She daintily takes the rest of the cake from the plate and nibbles on it. “You’re smooth with lines after all.”

“I only speak the truth.” I enjoy a tastier handful of roasted nuts. “This is quite the feast.”

“It was a bad harvest year, but your tribute will help.”

I assume she means the temple will sell my hand mirror and comb for grain as needed, because that’s what our temple would do, surely.

“How was the harvest on Ikaria? Was it okay?”

“It was unremarkable. But we’re not solely reliant on the weather, so that helps.”

“You’re not? Hm. Do you have wedding feasts on Ikaria? Or are wedding traditions for your kind different?”

“Well…”

“Do you not have weddings?”

“We do.” The tightness in my cheeks, a reminder of the frozen rictus I forced myself to make only a little over a day ago, makes it hard to talk. “We absolutely do.”

A shocked outburst makes us both jump.

“Faesli!” The aggressive childhood friend, Sikyon, bursts into the tent and storms toward us.

Two acolytes grab his arms.

He shakes them off and snarls at me. “I told you, monster, I would beat you for taking my—”

Multiple things happen at once.

I push Faesli behind me as I jump to my feet, my hand closing on my empty sheath.

Oh, right. I left my dagger behind because no blood is supposed to be spilled on this day…

The man from Halonnesos dives in front of my table.

Sikyon winds up and throws a fist.

His fist lands in the Halonnesos man’s larger palm.

Sikyon tries to pull back, then to shove him, but the Halonnesos man is an iron wall, and Sikyon’s struggles are like trying to pull a stuck axe from hardwood. He grows redder and redder.

The Halonnesos man murmurs softly, “Do not spill blood on this sacred night.”

Sikyon finally glances up at him, lips curling into a retort. But whatever he sees in the Halonnesos man’s eyes, it gives him pause. Sikyon stops fighting. His chest heaves from the brief struggle.

The Halonnesos man releases his fist.

Sikyon rubs his hand as he curls and uncurls his fingers, as if his hand was crushed and is sore. His anger searches for an outlet. His furious gaze finally lands on Faesli behind me.

“You unfaithful liar,” he snaps at her. “You promised yourself to me. How dare you give yourself to a monster?”

Faesli says nothing.

I’d like to say a great deal, but I don’t think it’ll improve the situation.

In the cold silence, Faesli’s slight friend tugs anxiously on Sikyon’s forearm. “Sorry, Faesli. Um…”

“Congratulations, Petraya,” Faesli says neutrally. “Sikyon. I hope you’re happy together this year.”

His lips press together, turning white.

“Thank you. Um, you too.” Petraya smiles timidly. “Congratula—”

Sikyon jerks his arm free and glares at Petraya. “You will not.”

Petraya wilts.

The acolyte pushes Sikyon to keep moving. “Take your seats.”

He turns on her. “I can’t eat beneath the same roof as a monster.”

There’s a long silence.

The acolyte looks back at the head priestess for guidance, but she’s fallen asleep in her seat.

Sikyon’s anger morphs into a smirk. He crosses his arms. “Just the sight makes me lose my appetite.”

“Sikyon…” Petraya murmurs. “Please…”

The acolyte conferences with the minor priestesses. They gesture and whisper.

I rest on my heels. Dinner is far from over, and the night’s festivities have barely started. It’s not a great omen of what’s to come.

Faesli rustles behind me. The color is high on her cheeks, her eyes too bright from embarrassment. “I’m ready to leave.”

I lower my lips to her ear. “Our plate was barely touched.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Sikyon sneers at Faesli in the common tongue. “You have to live with the consequences for choosing a beast. I wouldn’t touch you ever again.”

I take a breath to tell him that’s not the punishment he thinks it is.

Faesli bumps me. “Let’s go.”

Keeping myself squared up to Sikyon, I let Faesli pass behind me and then follow her, again, without turning my back on him. I nod at the Halonnesos man, and he nods in return.

Zekso pulls Petraya away from Sikyon and catches Faesli at the exit. The three women link hands and touch foreheads. A final farewell. Then they part.

Faesli goes outside, and I follow. My sandals are where I left them beside the small tent. I lace them, then retrieve my dagger from one of the hunt organizers.

Visitors lingering at the edge of the tent stare at us.

Behind us, lone hunters emerge from the woods like hungry shadows. Malevolence creeps along the edges of my vision.

“You’re leaving?” a priestess asks Faesli with relief.

“Yes.”

I tell the priestess in the common tongue, cordially, “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Her mouth opens and closes in shock.

Faesli walks away from the tent, taking a deep breath. She lets it go as she looks up at the pale sky. The earlier clouds have moved on, and the first stars glow in the gathering darkness.

“It’s a nice night for a walk,” I tell her, switching back to the ancient language since we both seem comfortable with it.

“That’s right.” She stretches and groans, then shakes out her shoulders, arms, and legs. “Is there anywhere you want to see? The other towns, the main harbor, the temple?”

I stretch as well, my back popping in three places. Those tables force a weird posture. “What time does the next activity start?”

“The parade? When it’s fully dark, usually.”

“Then, not knowing how long it takes to visit any other places, I defer to my guide.” I give her what I think is a lighthearted grin.

She frowns and looks away, then hugs one elbow to her side. “Niq, I’ve been thinking…”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, but…” She nods once, resolute, and then she meets my eye fiercely. “I’ve changed my mind.”

Chapter 7

Niq

“I changed my mind,” Faesli repeats decisively.

I changed my mind. You’re not the man I thought you were. I don’t want you.

A strange shock goes through me, as if I’ve stepped off a cliff and my wings won’t unfold, so I’m hurtling out of control to the ground.

I manage to clear my throat. “About?”

“Staying for the celebration.” She glances over at the wandering shadow men, the gathering darkness, and the tension behind us in the grand tent. “We can leave for Ikaria now.”

Relief floods me. My breath returns as if I had my wind knocked out. “Oh. Okay.”

She nods and turns away.

I attempt to follow her and immediately stumble, wings flashing out for balance.

The people around us freeze.

Faesli doesn’t notice.

I quickly retract my wings again. They appeared for the briefest white-gold flash, but the unfamiliar display pushes anyone lurking in the shadows to hang even farther back.

A full moon peeks on the edge of the horizon. Faesli leads me along the path I must have taken earlier when I came from the seashore, but it’s utterly unfamiliar in the blurring dimness.

Shouts echo behind us.

“Faesli? Icarus? Faes…ah!” An acolyte catches up to us. She pants as she shoves a basket at Faesli. “Because you left early. We’re hospitable to all our couples. Rigania blesses you!”

The acolyte backs away and then sprints into the darkness.

Faesli’s expression is difficult to make out beneath the trees’ shadows.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Something warm.” She opens the pot. Scents of the wedding feast’s dishes waft out. “The rest of our dinner.”

“How kind.”

She glances up at me sharply, but I mean my words. My sudden arrival put the organizers in a difficult position. They didn’t have to send us off with a full meal, but they have.

Faesli closes up the basket again and takes the left fork of the branching paths. Her footsteps are nimble and confident. She leads me down to the shore.

A small bonfire lights the sand. Shadows of men stir.

“What are you doing here?” one calls gruffly.

“Leave us be,” Faesli replies. Her voice echoes with threads of a warrior’s firmness. “We’re from the bride hunt.”

A different one asks, with a new tone, “Still looking for a husband?”

The others chuckle darkly.

“How about it, then?” he asks, rising.

A prickle of danger causes me to slow, evaluating the risk.

Faesli’s voice deepens, potent with prophecy. “If you spill blood on Rigania’s night, Achiron will eat you!”

The others go quiet, rubbing their heads. The man sits down again, chastised.

But a large man, much closer to us, shuffles out of the shadows with a harsh laugh. “Not if I eat you first!”

Faesli jumps back, then sprints down the beach.

The man makes a startled noise. I snort with amusement. She’s gone so fast. That’s an effective way to avoid bloodshed.

Faesli hops into my boat, which, luckily, has not been harassed in my absence.

The man leers at me in the cloaking shadows. “What about you, sweetheart?”

“I’m good.” I spread my wings and let them lift me into the air. “Thanks.”

Both my unexpected male voice and my sudden flight causes the man to scramble backward. His friends shout with surprise.

I land on the sand behind my boat, push it into the lagoon, and hop in. “You’re quite used to solving your own problems.”

“Ah.” The boat rocks in the shallows, and Faesli scoots with the dinner basket into the center for better balance. “Sorry for abandoning you.”

“No, I was just making an observation.” I face shore, set my feet, and breathe out. Hot wind skips us across the lagoon and out into deeper water. “You’ve solved several problems today without ever once raising your voice. I just came along for the ride.”

“Well…” The moonlight casts uncertain shadows on her face. “I hate yelling. My family never yells. It makes me feel uncomfortable.”

My spread wings catch magical breezes. Our boat skips across the deeper swells into the open ocean. The island’s receded a bit when I suddenly remember to ask, “Didn’t you have anything you wanted to bring with you?”

She hesitates, then shakes her head.

“Are you sure?”

“Is it a problem?”

“I thought you might have things to bring back. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have bothered with the boat.”

“My trousseau was unfinished.” She gazes out at the water pensively. “I left it for my sisters.”

“How many siblings do you have?”

“Three sisters and two brothers.”

“You’re the oldest?”

“Now, yes. What about you?”

“One brother. He’s younger.” My throat tightens, but I force myself to sound normal. “He just got married, actually.”

“Oh, congratulations to him.”

“You can tell him when we arrive.”

“Is his marriage what led you to join the bride hunt?”

“No, I…well, yes, but I’ve been thinking about it anyway. I’m almost to my third decade. It’s past time to marry and become an adult.”

“I feel the same way!” Her eyes sparkle with encouragement. “Exactly the same.”

“Also, it looks bad to live at home if I’m unmarried.”

“What, really?” She sounds shocked. “On Riganos, it’s common.”

“It’s common on Ikaria too, but in my case…well, I’m in charge of the house, so people were saying…actually, it just made sense to get married right away. Ix told me about your bride hunt. It felt like destiny.”

“You’re the head of your family’s house?”

“It’s unofficial, but I fulfill all the duties.”

“Then am I the mistress?”

I never thought about having someone to share house duties. A warm feeling glows in my chest. “That would be great. If it’s okay with you.”

“It’s okay.” She straightens and folds her hands in her lap formally. “I’ll try to become a wife your house can respect.”

I chuckle, but she’s serious. I’m formulating my response—something like But then I’d have to become a respectable husband—when her expression abruptly changes to fear.

An answering sensation rocks my stomach. “What is it?”

She peers anxiously over the sides. “You said that you don’t have to worry about sea monsters because you’re fast, but this pace can’t possibly be fast enough to evade Achiron.”

“Who?”

“The monster who guards our island.” She sits back and points behind me, her face pale and washed out. “Him.”

I twist.

What I took to be moonlight reflected on the water is actually the undulating form of a water serpent. Over my shoulder, a great mouth yawns like a cavern, the white fangs glistening like stalactites, and we’re sailing right into its maw.

Faesli sees my shock and then opens her mouth and sucks in a deep breath, probably to scream helplessly in terror.

I act instantly, grabbing her and leaping off the boat, flying directly up. My arm crosses her belly, and the sudden movement compresses her lungs, knocking her breath out with an “oof.” We barely clear the monster’s upper lip.

Achiron lunges after us into the air. Water gushes out of its mouth. It snaps at my sandals.

I veer and pump my wings.

Height. I need height.

Faesli’s mouth opens and closes airlessly. She’s unable to suck in a breath.

The serpent reaches its maximum length soaring after us, hovers in the air, and plummets. Its long body slaps the water with a thunderclap that geysers up to us. Our small boat surfs on the massive wave.

Faesli finally gasps painfully, her chest heaving.

I float well above the highest point.

The serpent slithers and coils in the darkness beneath us. It overturns our boat and makes bubbling noises.

My heart finally lowers to a hammering rhythm where I can hear myself think. I still taste the fear on my tongue as I say, “I know you don’t like to yell, but you have to use that beautiful voice of yours to tell me these things, Faesli!”

“I thought…you knew….” She’s still struggling to get her breathing back to normal. “I thought you came because of him.”

“Why would you think that?”

“You share his blood.”

Again, she compares us to monsters. Still sweating from our near miss, I set her straight. “The icari are not monsters. We were human before we accepted wings from the gods, and we protect our fellow humans from creatures like your sea serpent. We battle monsters. We aren’t one of them.”

She eyes me skeptically. “You have a sun in you.”

“That’s a whole other thing. If you want to hear the history of my race, I’ll give you the highlights. Please don’t make any more guesses about what I know or don’t know, especially when it comes to surprise monsters!”

The serpent leaves my capsized boat and swims away.

I fly down and hover over the mess. “And now the boat is submerged. If it were mine, I would abandon it, but the man who let me borrow it is a good friend.”

“Then you really can’t go in the water?”

“I can’t,” I confirm, finally becoming as calm as she is. “I risked bringing a boat because I thought you’d have belongings.”

She frowns, then wipes something from my brow. “You’re a thoughtful man.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you really think my voice is beautiful?”

I trace back the conversation to where I got upset with her. “Uh…yeah, I guess I do.”

“Hmm.” She smooths my brow again, gently, like she’s tidying me.

A frisson of awareness tingles in me.

She wipes whatever she cleaned off me onto her own tunic. “I’ll right the boat. Let me down.”

The serpent’s ghostly glow is just visible on the horizon, while the island is a darker smudge against the deepening navy sky. But I don’t trust it. I don’t trust anything just now.

“He won’t come back,” she assures me. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have left. He just wanted to scare us, I guess.”

“I’m feeling pretty unnerved, so it worked.” I try to pass it off as a joke, but it’s hard to laugh. “Forget the boat. I’ll just try to get Ix another one.”

She’s silent for a long moment.

Then she turns her fierce blue eyes on me. Her nostrils flare. She doesn’t raise her voice, but it suddenly gets a deeper, more compelling quality with the force of a thunderclap. “Let me go.”

Electricity runs down my spine and zaps my hands. My muscles spasm.

She slips through my loosened grasp and falls into the waves with a surprised shriek.

My heart pounds like I’ve run a race. A high-pitched ringing sounds in my ears. I can’t believe I let her go like that. “Faesli!”

She pops up. “I’m okay. I’m okay. Ooh, that’s refreshing.”

I flex my hands, testing my finger strength. I think I could pluck her out of the water, but it’s dangerous to try. “You made me drop you.”

“It was a good test.” She kicks to the waterlogged skiff. “I’ll flip the boat.”

Her technique is good, and the small boat floats high above the waterline. She times her entry against the waves and then kicks hard and slides in. “Whew. Okay, you can land.”

I alight on the tip of the bow. I’m feeling a strange kind of way right now. I rub my chest where the zapping sensation lingers. “You did something to me.”

She scoops out small handfuls of water. “I didn’t know if I could. Use my voice on you, I mean. It only works on certain types.”

“Certain types of monsters?” I rub my chest again, bitter. “Monsters like Achiron. And me.”

“You’re descended from demigods.” She meets my eye. Proud, unrepentant. “The women of Riganos are descended from shrine maidens. When the world was filled with monsters, we stopped their rampages. We punished those who acted improperly. But now, in this era, there’s not much need for us. Our powers are weakened and limited. Anyway, it only works if a monster is acting improperly. If it’s acting properly, I can scream until my face is purple, and I won’t compel him to do anything.”

We don’t have shrine maidens in our temples. I’ve heard of them, but not of these powers.

Of course, Ikaria was isolated for hundreds of years. More than a few details of the outside world were forgotten.

Also, in the past, we were probably on the same side. The icari have always been a noble race.

Except…

“Just now, you compelled me to release you because I was acting improperly?”

“About not returning your friend’s boat.” She wrings water out of her black curls. “It’s a small impropriety, but you seem to value your friend, so I thought it would work.”

Huh. “What if I didn’t value him?”

“Then I’d have to insist you feel bad about it, and that’s a lot harder.”

I still feel confused. “The women of Riganos have the power to order around monsters, and you’re not spread across the islands, in demand, at every village? You have to join a bride hunt to marry?”

She pauses.

Then she looks up at me. “Are you going to send me back?”

“No.” I don’t think I behave that improperly as a general course. I try to live within my principles. “I’m just trying to understand.”

She frowns down at the water. “This power is not in demand. Perhaps you see the need because magical creatures are more drawn to Ikaria than to other places.”

Well, she’s right. Magic is drawn to magic. “Is there anything else you’re not telling me?”

She rubs her arms.

“Do you have a blood feud with anyone? Are you the subject of any god’s wrath or unfulfilled prophecy? Have you ever committed a crime?” Then, something else occurs to me. “Have you ever been married? Or close?”

She looks up, then away. So, one of those was a hit.

“What happened?” I push.

“You’re going to send me back,” she mutters.

“Honestly, it would be pretty hypocritical of me to do so. The only one that doesn’t apply to me is crime. I’ve never broken any laws that I know of. The rest, though, are my own burdens to bear. I wonder if they’re yours too.”

She looks up again. “You were married?”

“Engaged. My fiancée ended it.”

“Why?”

“She changed her mind.”

Faesli thinks about this answer. It’s the truth, though. I’ve tried really hard not to be bitter, and not because I want my ex back, because I don’t. I just felt bitter that she didn’t want me.

It helps a lot that Faesli does, though.

“Two years ago, I got engaged,” she says finally. “Not in a bride hunt. In the ordinary way of meeting and courting and asking the permission of our families. My fiancé had to perform one last merchant trip before his family would approve. On his way home, Achiron overturned the boat and ate everyone. It was a mistake. A tragedy. You can still see some of the wreckage at the tide line.”

Ah. “You couldn’t command Achiron?”

“I wasn’t there.” She frowns harder. “I’d asked to go with them. My older brother was going too, so I thought we could all leave the island and try new things together. But my fiancé was worried for me. It’s ironic, then, that he died from something I could’ve tried to stop if only…”

“If only you’d been there,” I finish.

She nods.

It occurs to me that just a few minutes ago when she realized I didn’t have a plan for Achiron, she was probably sucking in a breath to command him, not to scream helplessly in terror like I’d thought.

I’ve made quite a few wrong assumptions tonight.

We are all, in our own ways, living in the aftermath of our failures, our mistakes, our personal tragedies. Because of her past, she’s here, with me, now. Because of my past, I’m here with her.

I orient us to the stars and blow.

The boat leaps away from the island.

She grips the sides, catching herself, then scoops out newly exposed sloshing water.

“I didn’t mean to make you confess all that,” I murmur finally, my voice gruff in my throat. “I was surprised. I haven’t heard of your power. It seems useful, though. I’m glad you have it.”

She brightens. “For a moment there, I really thought you were going to return me.”

“Until you got in my boat, I was worried you’d change your mind about marrying ‘a monster.’ I should’ve realized you had a backup plan.”

“Well, as I said, I didn’t know if the rebuke would work. You really aren’t like Achiron.” She shivers.

I step into the center of the boat and push the heat within me outward. “Hold on to me.”

She obediently grabs my ankle, then makes a noise and curls around me, snuggling up with her head against my thigh. “You’re warm.”

“I’ll dry your clothes.”

“It’s marvelous, this inner sun.” She sighs. “Is that why you have four gold feathers in your back? Are they chips off the sun?”

“No,” I laugh, and tell her the truth about them. I tell her everything.

The night is warm and quiet. She rests against me in the small boat, not a single complaint about the hard floor or the dampness. When I look down at her nestled against me, a strange lump forms in my throat.

I was prepared to accept a much less agreeable bride. One who disliked me, or argued, or had lots of flaws. Most people must enter a bride hunt because they’re too repulsive to get a partner in the usual way. That’s what I thought.

But my thoughts were unjust. I did Faesli’s goddess a disservice.

Faesli is smart and capable. She saw me. Laid hands on me. Remembering her slipping her hand under my pants now while her forehead bumps gently against my thigh…it makes me harden again with unexpected heat.

I choose you.

She said those words, the exact thing I most wanted to hear, at our first coupling.

I left Ikaria at sunset with determination, but I’m returning to it at sunrise with hope.

As the sun rises, the boiling red sea frames my island like an ominous shadow on the horizon.

Chapter 8

Faesli

Niq murmurs stories to me about the icari all through the long night.

He called my voice beautiful, which still makes me feel funny when I think about it. His voice is reassuringly steady. It’s a treat to listen as the hours pass us by.

His race’s origin story is familiar, but forks sharply from our old tales.

Long ago, the world was filled with all-powerful gods who splintered off their magic creating servant-races and monsters. Creators known as the daedali were among the last to be born into that primordial world. As the gods’ magic seeped out, we humans were left vulnerable. The daedali gifted some of us great golden wings. These icari then ruled the ocean, spreading the daedali’s peace, justice, and learning.

But as the magic continued to seep away, eventually, the daedali and even the icari too faded.

“My four gold feathers are the last remnants of that original magic,” Niq says in the star-spattered darkness. “I’ll save them for life-altering wishes like births and deaths. When I use the last one, my wings will burn up and disappear, and I’ll be known as the fallen.

“Or, that’s how it used to be,” he says, and carries on, not explaining how it’s different now.

Magical creatures are attracted to magic, so throughout their history, the icari were targeted. One of their most famous early battles was against the god of the sun. Jealous that the daedali had made children and he hadn’t, the sun god, rather than using the last of his magic to make his own children, decided to destroy the daedali’s. But although he did much damage, he was ultimately unsuccessful.

“The only way to defeat such a god was to plunge him into darkness, but we didn’t have a big enough blanket,” Niq tells me, the rhythmic cadence subtly hypnotic, like listening to memorized temple stories. White magic zips around his irises. “So we tore off pieces of the god and ate him.”

But eating the sun god’s magic caused the icari to burn up inside. They drank the ocean until they all drowned, and instead of falling into the shadowlands of death, they were trapped by a vastly powerful ocean god. The remaining daedali bargained with that ocean god for their release. The ocean god agreed while secretly planning to betray them, but before he could act, the daedali cleverly betrayed him first. The icari escaped.

“To this day, the ocean god is enraged,” Niq continues. “That’s why the ocean is anathema to us. If we so much as dip a finger into it, the ocean god will wrap us in great manacles of seaweed and drag us straight to the bottom.”

As the years passed, the magic dwindled until only one daedalus remained. He slept in the main temple for hundreds of years, powering a magical barrier that isolated Ikaria, but also provided cloaking for all but the most powerful adversaries.

Then, when Niq was a child, the last daedalus awoke.

“He tore down the protective barrier.” Niq’s voice turns distant, and even though I’m still hugging his warm legs, a shiver goes down my spine. “The sky turned to night and the sea became black. Our homes collapsed from the cataclysm he made when he stood up. He split the sky with a rending scream…”

Niq is silent for several seconds.

I stroke his calf.

“Those who weren’t trapped flew to join his final battle against the ocean god,” Niq finally continues. His tone is still lighthearted, but there’s a dark underside. “You can still see them under the water.”

“See who?”

“The Summoned. They fight beside him in the final battle. Water geysers up sometimes, red with flames, just off our west shore.” He presses his lips together. “In one day, we lost our magic barrier, our guardian god, and our worthiest warriors. It was a very hard time.”

“And now you’re defenseless,” I murmur sympathetically.

“Not quite.” His tone changes. “The last daedalus chose one follower to receive our race’s magic.”

“He made a new god?”

“No, Ayanakalia is a mortal. We’re no longer under the protection of a god, but she could reverse natural disasters and turn aside armies, so I wouldn’t say we’re defenseless.”

He tells me other things, quieter and less epic stories, as my eyelids grow heavy. I stayed awake too late last night, tormented by worry and regret, so sleep is a relief. Niq’s words fade into the wind. I slump over his sandaled feet, warm as glowing coals, and give up on the myths of winged heroes and monsters.

My dreams are simple, but sleeping in such a strange position gives me a crick in my neck when the dawn light finally pushes open my eyelids, and it’s late morning when distant red smoke appears on the horizon.

“That’s from the site of the final battle.” Niq’s gold eyes are ringed by dark shadows of fatigue. He’s sailed all through the night. “The last daedalus and his summoned warriors battle the ocean god for the fate of our race once and for all.”

The smoke trail reaches for the sky, a beacon of wispy thread.

Hours later, the flaming battlefield appears and the island itself emerges behind it. The rocky cliffs seem bathed in red, but that’s just because it’s so close to the battle site.

“What happens if your god loses?” I ask nervously. “The last daedalus, I mean?”

“Our island will be destroyed,” Niq says matter-of-factly. “The ocean god has tried to destroy it many times. Without our guardian, he would succeed.”

Sobering.

We eventually pass the battle site. It’s farther out to sea than I at first thought, but still much too close.

The island looks normal without the red filter of smoke.

Ikaria is a long crescent with a thick base at the southwest, tapering to a sharp tip on the northeast. The southern shores are gentle and welcoming, with rolling fields and the distant bleats of sheep. A village nearly as large as Riganos’s main harbor stands on the shore closest to the smoking battlefield. It seems defiant, not afraid of the battle spilling onto its shores. Boats bob in the shallow docks.

Overhead, great winged birds cast shadows across our boat. They’re the largest birds I’ve ever seen, but then Niq waves to one, and I realize my mistake. “They’re icari!”

“Yes.” Niq angles the boat northward. “Welcome to Ikaria.”

The gentle shoreline changes from grassy fields to sharp cliffs and pine forests. Needle-sharp spires jut into the sky. The rocky shore turns harsh and demanding, with cliffs that yawn strangely and disturbed tides.

Niq points out areas of interest. “This is the temple where our ancestor slept. He broke out the whole mountainside when he stood. Ayanakalia repaired it so you can only tell when you go inside and see his empty throne.”

The massive, unbroken cliffs stretch up to the sky.

Along the north coast, homesteads perch on tall boulders like lookouts without defensive walls. On the northernmost tip, an open village fearlessly nestles in a narrow bowl between sharp mountains and the sea. Their rocky harbor is sheltered from rogue waves by an L-shaped break.

“You have no defenses from raiders,” I point out.

“Humans wouldn’t dare,” he replies, amused. “During the cataclysms, this village collapsed, burning, into the sea. Today it stands proud. We’re not worried about mortal dangers like pirates.”

Icari snooze in the bobbing boats. Unlike on Riganos, everyone is careful to keep errant feet and hands out of the water at all times, but as on Riganos, a few have fishing lines out for shallow reef fish. Winged children play in tide pools, which are safe because they’re cut off from the ocean, splashing and shrieking with laughter. Others fly alongside us, then veer off, shouting as Niq sails into the harbor.

Adults on the break do double takes at me and stare in shock.

I guess they don’t get many humans here…

Niq folds his white wings. We coast into a slip between other small craft. He hops out and ties the boat, then helps me step onto the break.

Wind whistles across the piled harbor rocks, warm and rough under my feet.

The icari cautiously gather around us.

They all have different colorations. Some have amber-gold skin and white-blond hair like Niq. Others have my olive skin and dark brown or even black hair, but no one has my island’s eyes. Their eyes are either honey-amber ringed with gold, or else some shade of brown. But, they all have white crescent moons in the center of their foreheads, and they all have wings. Some have white wings with scattered gold feathers, again like Niq’s. Others are solid white with no gold, yet the solid color is tinted, in the shadows, with shades of the rainbow like teal or apricot or purple.

Into the awkward silence, Niq announces, “This is Faesli of Riganos. She’s my bride.”

The crowd shuffles, pushing over each other to see me, but nobody gets too close. There’s no welcome, no smiling. No one speaks.

Nerves twinge in my belly.

When the boats glide in at Riganos’s harbor, we celebrate. They’ve made it past Achiron, so they’re not dangerous to us. The head priestess herself welcomes visitors in the commercial harbor. Captains receive her blessing and sailors drink from a cup of ceremonial wine at the miniature temple by the ships’ houses.

Here, no one offers me roasted nuts or spiced raisins. No one invites me to visit their homes or asks what news I’ve brought of the world.

But perhaps I’m being the rude one. I lower my eyes. Do the icari value or abhor eye contact? Niq met my eye easily, but perhaps he’s an exception.

He clears his throat awkwardly. “Well, Faesli, let’s go.”

I follow him up the fitted stone path through the harbor town.

Fragrant herbs spill from colorful terracotta pots and patterned window boxes. Lush fruit trees swell over stone courtyard walls. Street pests fight over fatty trash and heaps of peelings.

At our wedding feast, Niq told me that Ikaria’s bounty doesn’t depend on the weather, and that seems reassuringly true. Any place that tosses out such thick peelings and meaty bones must eat often and richly.

Niq stops in at a pretty little villa perched above the town. A chubby boy plays in the dust. Niq greets him, then taps on the wall beside the open door. “Ix? I returned your boat.”

An older man inside answers with a thick eastern mainland accent. “Ah, I knew you wouldn’t make it in time, but I hope you had fun paddling around the…”

Ix reaches the door, bouncing a baby girl in his thick arms. As his gaze falls on me, his sentence trails away with slack-jawed shock.

He’s human like I am. There’s no white crescent on his broad forehead, and his gait is heavy and at odds with the airy lightness of the icari. He has darker skin than me, dark eyes, wide nostrils and black freckles on his smile-lined cheeks. His woolen black hair, streaked with gray like his beard, is pulled into a top knot in the style of the men who live beyond the mountains. I’ve seen a few of them come by Riganos on their merchant trips.

Niq grins. “This is Faesli—”

“Of Riganos! Of course, the black curls, and those eyes.” Ix presses his palm to his plain, unmarked forehead. “You reached it? Honestly? I can’t believe it.” He peers at me curiously. “And you agreed to come here? With him?”

“Hey.” Niq laughs awkwardly.

“Should I not have done so?” I ask Ix.

“And you speak the ancient language.” Ix shakes his head. “Of course you do. It is Riganos. Well, this is a first. I’m speechless. I don’t know what to say.”

I manage to pull out the one phrase I know in the mountain language. My brother and Perthos were learning it because merchant boats would sometimes go up their rivers to collect their precious gems. “Your presence honors me.”

Ix’s jaw drops. He spews back a river of words, but when I shake my head that I don’t understand, he switches back to the ancient language. “Haha, that really takes me back! You must come in and eat my grandmama’s root cakes. I’ve just made some, they’re fresh. And stay for dinner, and for drinks. Do you have the time?”

I warm right up to him. He’s the first who’s offered any hospitality. “Thank you.”

“Ah…” Niq backs away. “We don’t, actually…”

“My grandmama’s ghost is screaming at me—I insist you stay, you must—but I know you won’t.” Ix shifts his baby, who has a crescent moon and ghostly juniper-green wings, in his arms. “I can’t believe you’ve brought home a bride. I just…no, I can’t believe my own eyes.”

“What are these doubts?” Niq chuckles gruffly, embarrassed. These two are clearly friends despite that Ix must be a decade or more older. “You were encouraging when you said to borrow the boat.”

“Well, I had to do something, didn’t I? You can’t let petty gossip cast a shadow on your house. But I never imagined you’d actually…” Ix catches himself, bounces the baby. “Have you taken her to the main temple? I wonder what the head priestess will say.”

“This was our first stop.”

“Of course, of course. Then, I bless you. Be a good husband. You will, I’m sure. May your first year together stretch to fill all your years with happiness, and don’t give her any reason to rebuke you.”

Niq’s eyes widen.

But I feel justified. “It’s well known, right? The women of Riganos rebuke monsters. It’s our heritage.”

“Yes, and yes.”

“And our rebuking powers are not so in-demand.”

“No, I suppose not.” Ix nods somberly. “Most problems nowadays are caused by other humans. It’s the dwindling magic. When my grandmama was a baby, her great-great-grandmama told of a visiting lilu that had to be invited into their house and offered bread, which he ate and left again without cursing anyone, lucky for us. But no lilu has been seen since, well behaved or otherwise. The world has moved on.”

I could hug this man.

Niq thanks Ix again and promises to come back soon.

I leave reluctantly. My throat is dry, and I’m starving. I haven’t eaten or drunk anything since the wedding feast last night because of stupid Achiron, and Niq just rejected Ix’s kind offer. An icarus may live on air, but I can’t.

Finally, I push aside my self-pity and say aloud, “Is there food and water at the temple?”

“Huh? Oh. Are you hungry?” Niq stops. “Yes. No, sorry. Put your arms around me.”

I step into his unfamiliar embrace.

His broad shoulders and tapered waist press against me, and his scent is like fresh spring rain that I want to inhale into my very soul. His arms tighten around me, and his wings flare out like a silken feather sail. He flaps gently, not working hard like an ordinary bird. We lift into the air, floating like a dandelion seed against the wind, his beautiful feathers ruffled by invisible countercurrents.

“You don’t strain,” I murmur. “When you lift me, I become weightless.”

“Because our souls align,” he confirms. “If we fought, you would become heavy.”

Instead, it’s like hugging him on the ground, but we’re breathless and in the air.

The rocky north village falls away, and the landscape spreads out beneath us in an amazing view. We fly into the central rocky spire area he calls the Reaches. Beneath us, footpaths weave past grand manors separated by stacked stone walls. Each manor has its own tiled courtyard, rustling fruit trees, and bolted vegetable gardens. In the upper floors, large windows allow in wafts of cooling breezes. Smoke drifts from the chimney, and the smell of roasted grains and breads almost makes me moan.

Birds fly past us, chirping and fat. The air is fragrant with herbs and cooking.

“There are three coastal villages. The north coast village was Kyrinia,” Niq murmurs in my ear against the high winds. “Rokastia is on the east coast and Mallonia is the first village we saw on the south coast.”

From this height, the sea battle doesn’t look as big or foreboding. Red lightning flashes beneath the waves, sharp and bright, and the surface churns, black and frothing, but it’s contained in one area, and from here, it looks easy to sail around.

“Inside the Reaches, we have three more villages. I’ll take you to them tomorrow.”

Niq flies to a beautiful two-story manor and lands on its smooth, intricately tiled rooftop.

“Don’t land like this anywhere except your own house,” he tells me as we step onto the colorful design. “To swoop down onto someone else’s property is bad manners. You should land on the road and enter via the gate.”

As if I’m about to sprout wings and go swooping down on anyone.

He dips a cup embedded with glittering rubies into a cistern, then hands it to me. The water is clear and has no scent.

I swirl it. The gemstones feel heavy but smooth in my hands. “You don’t need to treat it with wine?”

“Not this water. Other sources must be treated, though.”

I drink deeply. The pure, delicious liquid soothes my throat and fills my stomach. I feel like a dried-up plant coming back to life. “It’s good.”

He flashes a grin.

Niq’s manor grounds are extensive. Between the harvested orchards and well-gleaned fields lies a storehouse, drying racks, and an outdoor barbecue pit. As on Riganos, the hot summer has turned their fields brown, but the plants around the manor house itself are hardier and greener. The ground smells fertile and abundant. Bees buzz past my hair. Vines with purple and magenta flowers bloom over the main floor entry.

“It really is beautiful,” I murmur.

“This was my father’s favorite spot. He planned to expand our house and wanted to keep this part the same.”

“This is already so grand. It’s hard to imagine what he must have envisioned.”

He brightens even more. “Do you want to see?”

I drain the cup and carefully set it with others, then follow him.

He opens a small hatch hidden in the patterns of the tile and descends narrow stairs to the breezy second floor. “I keep his drawings in the chest by my bed. Here, you can…”

He trails off.

There are at least two rooms on this upper floor. The grand room we’ve stepped into—which is very beautiful, with floral frescoes, tapestries, and intricate mosaics—is empty. A few items of furniture, like a bed and a chest, are pushed up against the far wall.

Niq rotates in confusion, his sandals echoing. “Where…?”

Full-length windows open to an outdoor portico balcony overlooking the main courtyard. Trees form a screen of privacy. On lines outside, long white sheets rustle in the wind, blowing like fingers.

There’s noise from the smaller room behind us.

A man backs through the doorway into our grand, empty room, carrying half of a large sofa.

“Loqen?” Niq says.

The man jolts and drops the sofa with a crash. A woman carrying the other half cries out in distress.

“Niq!” Loqen quickly straightens his tunic and smooths his white-gold hair, then gives a nervous laugh. “I thought you’d left.”

“Where’s my stuff?”

Loqen scratches his head. He has a rounder face than Niq’s and he’s a little shorter, but otherwise, they look very similar. “Um…well…”

“It’s in storage.” The woman massages her lower back. She has long white-blonde hair styled in intricate braids, with dark-gold skin like Loqen and Niq, and a crescent moon on her forehead. We’re all about the same age, I think. “We had to move it out so I could move in.”

“You already moved in, Talassa.” Niq rests on his heels. He’s not unfriendly but is definitely cool in comparison to his manner with Ix. “I helped you move in before your wedding.”

“You moved my things into a shed, Niqalis.”

“Because you said they wouldn’t fit into Loqen’s room. Anyway, our cousins lived in the ‘shed,’ and they never complained.”

“The master of the house gets the master bedroom.”

“Our father—”

“And Loqen’s the master of the house.”

Niq’s mouth opens and closes. His voice goes quiet. “You’re the master of the house now?”

Loqen presses his lips together awkwardly.

“Officially, at the temple, the head priestess recognized him.” Talassa sits on the sofa. Her finely stitched purple-and-gold dress flounces. “How long are you staying?”

Niq’s chin drops. “I live here.”

“You know what everyone says about it.”

“This is my ancestral home,” Niq returns evenly. “I’m not leaving because of dumb gossip.”

“We don’t have to agree, but, given our history, how can you sleep under the same roof as me and Loqen when we’re outrageously happy being married and you’re not?”

“Well, that’s not a problem anymore.” Niq’s voice roughens, and red spots appear on his cheeks. He gestures at me. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Faesli.”

The other two notice me for the first time, even though I’ve been standing in the center of the empty room this whole time. Talassa jumps up in shock. Loqen gapes.

I try to pull my exhausted, sea-sprayed, and frizzy self into an appropriately noble first impression. “How do you do?”

The silence stretches.

Loqen’s mouth closes. He blinks rapidly, but finally produces a shaky smile. “Well, um, this changes things, I guess…”

“What were you thinking, Niq?” Talassa crosses her arms, evaluating me. “She’s a human.”

“So?” Niq says coldly.

“She won’t be much help to your mother.”

“I don’t expect her to—”

“She can’t fly to the coasts or the markets, or do laundry, or make herself at all useful.”

“I said—”

“Fine. If you’ve made your decision, no matter how stupid it is, there’s no arguing with you. Loqen’s officially the head of the house, which means I’m the woman of the house, and so, in support of your sudden marriage to a human, we’ll host a wedding feast.” Talassa points at her husband. “Loqen, go arrange a goat.”

Loqen and Niq both look at her skeptically. She’s moved on, but they’re still in the middle of the argument.

“Our decorations are still good.” She ticks off the practical concerns of hosting a sudden party. “Loqen, if you tell everyone now, there’s still time for a good turnout tonight.”

“Tonight?” Niq repeats flatly.

“The yard is a mess,” Loqen says.

“Niq will clean it up while you’re making arrangements. The new house of Ruqen hosts parties with style.”

Loqen looks unconvinced. Talassa pulls him close and murmurs in his ear. He glances back at me, then, smiling apologetically, strides out the window to the balcony and flies off.

Niq watches him go, then crosses his arms. “So, I’m cleaning up, huh?”

“It’s all your things anyway.”

He looks away. The muscles in his jaw tense, but when he looks back at his sister-in-law, he merely asks, “Where do you want them to go?”

“The shed,” she replies tartly. “Since you think it’s such a fine place for newlyweds.”

Chapter 9

Niq

I push a bench into the back of the stuffy, hot storage shed with a grunt and shove Loqen’s old bed with my hip.

My heart pounds in my throat, and a sleep-deprivation headache throbs in my temples.

I want to scream at Talassa. She throws me out of my room, yet conveniently keeps my bed, my father’s chest, the curtains my mother sewed for me, and my favorite cushions? We’re not kids anymore, and “declaring everything hers and herself the winner” hits differently when it’s my actual heritage she’s claiming ownership over.

Honestly, I thought she got over her anger before the wedding. What’s more surprising is that Loqen’s gone along with her this far. He knows what she’s like. How’s he going to feel when she asks the temple to transfer the head of household title back to my father? There’s no way they actually want to perform the duties. Hosting parties is one thing, but what about the work? Or are they not going to do that? It makes me feel a terrible itching inside, like my clothes are suddenly too loose on my body.

Faesli sets a chamber pot beside the door with the reverence of placing a funerary urn on an ancestor’s pedestal. She straightens, wipes sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, and studies the dim storage shed.

On top of my headache and irritation, I’m desperately embarrassed at having dumped Faesli into the middle of this.

I stand beside her. A little breeze comes in the doorway. “Don’t worry. This is only temporary. Talassa will ask us to come back into the main house soon.”

Faesli looks up at me. She doesn’t say a word but I feel hot.

“Maybe she’ll keep my room,” I amend. “It was her favorite. But she’ll give us Loqen’s room, which is also nice. In the meantime, I’ll make this place livable, but it won’t be long, you’ll see.”

“I don’t mind. This is a grand house to me.”

“This shed?” I feel a little better. I didn’t really see the houses on Riganos to compare. “We’ll clean out the other rooms. When you open all the doors, there’s more air and light. It’s not too bad.”

She clears her throat delicately. “What’s your history with Talassa?”

Nerves shoot through my belly.

I suck in a breath and sit down on Loqen’s old bed.

It slopes to the side, nearly throwing me off.

I get up again and turn it around so it’ll push me toward the wall. “Ugh. I’ll fix this tomorrow, when I fix everything…”

Faesli watches me.

It’s now that awkward stage where I’ve been silent much too long. I sit weirdly folded up against the wall and answer her. The least she deserves is the truth. “She was my fiancée.”

Her brows lift. I’ve surprised her. “The one who changed her mind?”

“Last year.”

She’s even more surprised. “So recent…”

“I don’t hold a grudge, but there’s stupid rumors that I’ll go crazy with jealousy, so they asked me to leave until I could come back with a bride.”

“But they’ve still kicked you out.”

“This is just changing room assignments.”

Faesli frowns.

“Talassa has a habit of taking people’s things when she’s throwing a…when she’s upset, but it doesn’t last. After she calms down and reflects, she’ll ‘generously’ give our things back and make us promise never to upset her that way again. We just have to wait her out.”

There’s a long silence.

Faesli plops down beside me on the bed, then rolls backward into the wall with a squeak of surprise.

“I’m going to fix that.” I help her straighten. “I’m going to fix everything. I promise.”

As soon as I let her go, she flops backward again.

“Sorry.” I try to help, but then I hear it.

She’s laughing.

“Whee.” She lets me pull her up, then rolls back with a giggle. “Whoo!”

I snort. My chest lightens. She’s legitimately having fun and doesn’t mind any of this. Not the hostility, not being exiled to an outbuilding, not this ridiculously broken bed.

“How is this bed so broken?” I ask the ceiling. “Did Loqen just sleep on a broken bed? The world has gone crazy, and nothing makes sense.”

Eventually, she lies back at a weird angle, her giggles giving way to more normal breathing. She says, in a low tone I can barely hear, “This was your brother’s bed?”

“Yeah, this one.” I lie beside her, on one elbow, looking down on her. The smile still races across her face, flickering like a candle, giggles coming and going again. Maybe she too is hysterical from lack of sleep. “I would’ve traded if it bothered him that much. A bed is just a bed. He never said anything, and I liked mine, so it never occurred to me to ask.”

Her amusement fades. She touches my cheek, strokes it with her cool fingertips. “You are kind.”

“It’s not kindness. My father used to say, ‘My family is my happiness.’ Loqen and Talassa are my family, and I want them to be happy.”

A strange expression crosses Faesli’s face. Her brows lower, and then she curls a hand around my neck and she draws me down. Her lips press mine, soft and sweet.

Heat flares across my body.

She’s soft and lush beside me, yielding and wet, and her fragrance is addictive. Her teeth nibble my lips, exploratory, and I have the urge to chase her down, thrust into her again, wrap us both in a shield of physical pleasure, and forget all the things that vex me.

I roll on top of her, pressing her into the bed.

She opens to me with a soft moan.

I deepen our kiss—

“Niq?” My brother stomps up to the door, bangs on the outside wall. “Guests are arriving, and you’ve still got stuff out.”

I pull back from Faesli.

Her blue eyes shine, and her lips are damp and inviting.

Even though it’s embarrassing that she has to meet my family at their worst, I’m grateful she’s here.

I rest my forehead against hers. “To be continued.”

She giggles in agreement, and this time when I help her up, she rises and straightens her tunic. “If anyone can become head of house just by asking at the temple, can you go and ask for it back?”

“I can’t ask for it back. I was never head of the house to begin with. I just performed the duties.”

“Can you ask for it, though?”

“You sound like Talassa.”

Faesli frowns.

“Sorry.” I scrub my face. “But neither of us should take a title that rightfully belongs to someone else. I can’t imagine what the main temple is thinking.”

She remains silent.

I clear my throat, but the gruffness remains. “Yeah, okay. I can at least ask for the reason. I’ll ask tonight. One of the temple staff or council members will probably attend our party. They’ll tell me the truth.”

She nods and starts to turn away.

Then she turns back and says plainly and firmly, “I don’t care if you’re head of the house or not, or if you live in a palace or a hovel or a great house that needs a little cleaning. You are you. So, those other things don’t matter, I think.”

My throat tightens. My cheeks tingle, and I struggle to push out even the tiniest response. “Oh?”

“Yes.” She nods again, decisive, then she adds, “It’s just what I think.”

And all my words dissolve into the vivid truth of her intoxicating blue eyes…

“Niq!” Loqen calls.

I release the moment and stand with a heavy sigh.

Faesli goes outside and gathers up small objects that were spilled earlier during the move.

Talassa glares at me and gestures to get back to work, then puts on a big false smile as she greets the arriving guests and directs the incoming food and celebrants.

I really hope her tantrum ends soon.

The guests peer curiously at Faesli, but she sticks to her work.

A fierce wave of protectiveness flows over me.

Somehow, Faesli is exactly who I need right now. My value to her isn’t my family’s great house or my title. The string around my chest binds me tighter. I close my eyes and lean against the doorframe as the silent vow rushes through me.

I will treasure her. I will follow Rigania’s laws.

I brought you to this island, and whether it’s only for a year or for the rest of your life, I swear you will not regret it.

Chapter 10

Faesli

I pick up Niq’s boxes and baskets with my rough, dirty hands while finely dressed icari arrive, laughing and chattering.

Fragrant flower-strewn dishes are placed on the long feasting tables, and wax seals are removed from wine casks with pops. Someone plucks a stringed instrument like our lute, but in a different shape and with more complex and delicate sounds.

Talassa watches my progress and tsks, collars some youths, and presses them into helping. With loud complaints about how bossy she’s gotten, they haphazardly dump Niq’s precious things just inside our door and then run free, laughing.

I come out looking for Niq and notice one last basket spilled behind a tree. Kneeling, I scoop the small items back inside.

“…then you didn’t hear anything?” Niq says on the other side of the tree.

“No.” A man about his age or maybe a few years older speaks. Their backs are to me. “But it can’t come as a surprise. You should’ve demanded to be made the head of your house when you took over the duties years ago.”

“But that was…I was a child, Vyren.”

“When you became an adult, then.”

“How could I? It’s disrespectful.”

The man, Vyren, grunts in agreement, but he says, “So instead, you cede the house to Loqen and Talassa, and string along a human for a year?”

“It’s not stringing her along. And it’s only for a year if she asks to dissolve our marriage. She could want to stay.”

Vyren is silent.

“What’s the problem?” Niq says defensively. “Her island suffered from a bad harvest, and we can easily afford another mouth. Plenty of mouths. Our house is large. We could have a child and—”

“You’d string her along even after she has your child?” Vyren snorts and shakes his head. “You do like taking on other people’s problems, don’t you?”

“I’m telling you, it’s not stringing her along. Human ways are different from ours.”

“So?” Vyren’s tone is inflexible. “You were wrong to take her and wrong to promise a year. Get rid of her as soon as possible.”

“She’s grateful to be here–”

“Does she know the truth?”

Niq doesn’t answer.

“Then you have to return her, Niq. It’s cruel to keep her knowing she’ll never truly be your wife.”

The words echo in my ears, and suddenly, I can’t hear anything over the sound of blood rushing in my head.

She’ll never truly be your wife.

…never truly be your wife…

…never…your…

“Faesli!” Talassa calls me from across the garden, causing both men to straighten and swing around to look at me. “Niq’s supposed to clean so you can get dressed. You don’t want to attend your own wedding feast in grungy travel clothes.”

I stand awkwardly with the basket and straighten my tunic. “This is all I have.”

She looks shocked. Then she waves at Niq. “Find her something.” Talassa stomps away.

The two men stare at me.

I hold the dusty basket to my chest.

“Faesli.” Niq clears his throat. “This is my oldest friend, Vyren.”

Vyren is a serious man whose expression doesn’t change as he greets me. Large daggers are sheathed at his belt, and he has almost a military stance. Gold threads appear at his white-blond temples. His cold amber eyes regard me with disinterest.

I say nothing.

Niq takes my basket. “Here, I’ll help you find some clothes.”

I follow my new husband back to the palatial room, which has its own brazier for heat and cooking, that he calls a storage shed.

He sets the basket aside and digs through one of the many chests. “I’m sure there’s something you can wear in here…”

I clear my throat. “You don’t have to bother.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter what others think of me if our marriage is only going to last for a year. Right?”

Niq slows, then stands. His face is pale. “You’ve already changed your mind?”

“It’s not really up to me, is it? Since I’ll never truly be your wife.”

He sucks in a long, low breath, then squares up to me. “I can explain.”

“You should know that disrespecting Rigania’s laws will bring misfortunes on your house.”

“We respect Rigania’s laws. Icari marriage vows are different. More binding.”

“How?” I say fiercely, biting back a completely unnecessary prickle of tears. “What’s not binding about ‘until death do us part’?”

“Yes. Exactly. Human spouses are bound until death. Not us.” A white sparkle of magic circles Niq’s irises, first one and then the other, bright in the dimness of the storage shed. “When icari marry, they tear out their own magic—a gold feather, if they still have one—and bind souls. Icari are married in this life and after.”

“That’s–”

“Our sacred vows are a chain. Even sentenced to different fates, the binding remains. And I’m not doing that to you. I’m not pulling a feather to bind your soul to mine.”

Yet.

The word is on my tongue, but not on his.

Maybe I was the only one who felt a connection to him on Riganos. Maybe I’m the only one who was excited and hopeful about our future. Maybe only I thought my new magical husband was handsome and interesting and a good person and father material.

Maybe I’m a silly little child.

I’m suddenly very tired. I rub my eyes.

“Please understand, this isn’t meant as an insult,” he continues more quietly. “In the past, no icari marriage was valid without pulling a gold feather, but we’ve seen the horrible effects of diverging fates, and so there’s no requirement to pull a feather anymore. Loqen and Talassa didn’t pull any at their wedding. Vyren’s a traditionalist. He calls us cowards, but I’m not dooming someone I care about to a horrible life. And Vyren can say we’re ‘not really married’ if he likes, but no one else cares. No one except the gods, maybe.”

Icari remain married after death…

In the shadowlands, family and friends and everyone you ever cared about is just beyond your fingertips. You’re filled with tasty food and share in the best conversations, relaxed from the most comfortable naps. Your loved ones are right beside you, chatting and eating and sleeping, warm and together and safe, forever.

But Niq doesn’t want that with me. It makes me disappointed in a way I can’t fully describe.

And yet I’m aware of my luck, still. How dare I feel disappointed over this small thing? I should be singing praises to Rigania that Niq hasn’t been revealed as a villain or a con man or a type to settle arguments with his fists.

I just feel like I was shown something lovely, and then before I even got the chance to reach for it, the box snapped closed on my fingertips.

This is nothing. I’ll get over it very soon. I’ll reset my expectations and become his good human wife.

I sigh heavily.

Niq rests his forehead against mine and echoes my heavy sigh. His white wings emerge and enfold me, sealing us into a soft, magical shelter. Outside are excited strangers, laughter, and music. But inside it’s just us. Me, and the man I thought I chose who just told me he’ll never choose me back.

He eventually releases me and returns to hunting through the chests, but the clothes must be buried too deeply. He gives up on his quest. “I guess we should attend our own wedding feast.”

I tug on my sweaty, dirt-stained, seawater-stiffened clothes. “I don’t suppose there’s time to do laundry.”

“The wash bin is in view of the courtyard.” He brushes his fingertips over my frizzy hair. “You look good anyway.”

My throat tightens.

He holds out his hand. “Shall we?”

I take a deep breath, hold my head high, and take his hand.

The garden has been transformed with rugs, benches, and long streamers of festive ribbons hanging from trees. A roasted goat sits proudly on a gold platter crusted with jewels. Men and women in important robes and purple sashes crowd the tables. They sip from gold-and-crystal goblets.

Niq introduces me to countless people, and I strive to memorize their names. Then he identifies feast dishes for me. Subtle cherries in cream, barbecued goat with a mild vinaigrette, soft rolls filled with pistachios and honey. Not knowing what’s good, I take a small bite of everything, and am glad I did so. The flavors are mild but rich and fill me right up.

“Is Vyren a member of the temple?” I ask under my breath while we stand to the side of the festivities.

Niq waves at a passing friend, then murmurs in my ear, “No. But I’m beginning to think—” He straightens abruptly as two older men approach us. “Head Councilor Jeren, it’s an honor.”

The head councilor rests his food plate in one hand and grips Niq’s upper arm with the other. “My congratulations on your match.”

Another older man leans over the head councilor’s shoulder and teases Niq. “Sudden though it is, and to a human, Head Councilor. Can you believe it?”

The head councilor, carefully balancing his plate, raises one white-blond brow.

His older friend has bronze skin, darker hair, and brown eyes rimmed with threads of gold, whereas the head councilor has Niq’s coloration, white-blond and amber.

Head Councilor Jeren says to me kindly, “Forgive my friend’s joke. In my youth, I too took a human wife.”

“In your youth, I was a human,” his friend jokes, jostling him.

The head councilor ignores him, still addressing me. “I hope your early relationship will be less fraught.”

“And less sudden!”

Niq pushes out his chest stiffly. “I apologize for the late notice.”

“Oh, I am teasing.” The jokester grins at me, but I can’t tell whether I should be taking offense or returning his easy smile. “Marriage breaks down everything you know. I’m predisastering you. If you’re embarrassed now, just wait until you have children.”

“Okay, okay.” The head councilor pats the other’s back, then picks up a meaty bone. “The old married men can share the ‘hard truths’ with Niq on a less festive night, and not directly in front of his lovely bride. Even we can have that much grace.”

“Well, it’s not like she understands.” The man grins at me. “Do you?”

I glance at Niq.

He presses his lips together and subtly nods.

“Thank you, honored elder, for your treasured wisdom,” I tell the older man using the most formal and archaic words I know. His smile freezes, and his brown eyes fly wide. “I will inscribe it in my heart, like the welcome I received from the head of this house, and never forget it.”

He blinks.

Then he sucks in a breath and murmurs into the head councilor’s ear, “She understands our language.”

The head councilor chews on bone marrow. “Yep.”

The jokester clasps my and Niq’s hands. “I wish you both the sincerest and most genuine happiness.”

“Thank you,” Niq says, and I repeat his words.

The jokester then turns on his heel and trots away.

“She understands!” he announces to the groups behind us. “Only say what you want her to hear, because she understands our language.”

“Sorry,” I murmur.

“Don’t be.” The head councilor sets his bone on his plate. “Those who tease others must be prepared to handle a little teasing back. Anyway, this celebration comes at a good time. I’m happy to be a part of it.”

Niq straightens.

I like this man, Jeren. He seems gruff but trustworthy. If this is the head councilor, then perhaps Ikaria is a fair and uncorrupted place.

“Head Councilor…” Niq clears his throat. “Do you know why my brother was made the head of our house?”

“No.”

There’s an awkward pause.

“You have no idea at all?” Niq asks weakly.

“The head priestess insisted,” Jeren tells him regretfully. “She sees things I don’t, so I hesitate to interfere.”

Niq frowns at his feet.

The head councilor wipes his fingers on a cloth and pats Niq’s arm encouragingly. “Why don’t you address your guests? Say a few words, thank them for coming. Or, if you like, I can do that on your father’s behalf.”

“Ah, thanks. I can.” Niq schools his expression and steps into the center of the festivities, raising his arms.

The musicians see him and wind down with a flourish. Everyone turns toward him expectantly.

He opens his mouth and inhales.

“My good friends!” Loqen shouts from the benches, standing abruptly and raising his arms in a near mirror of Niq. Food crumbs tumble off his shirt, and when he brushes back his white-blond hair, he leaves a sauce streak by his hairline. “Today, Talassa and I decided to host our first official celebration as the new head of house. As you eat our food and be merry in our garden, let this mark the first of many such celebrations. You are witnessing the start of a new era. We’re going to have a happy and wonderful future here.”

There’s polite clapping.

“Thank you.” Loqen sits down.

The clapping peters off.

“And also it’s his brother’s wedding!” one of the guests shouts from a back corner, and laughter rolls across the clearing as if Loqen just got flustered and forgot.

Loqen clambers back to his feet. “Niq, ah, it’s true your marriage swiftly followed mine. They say older brothers are supposed to lead the younger, but in our case, it’s the reverse.” He chuckles, and there’s an echo of support in the crowd. “Family comes first, you always tell me. So…” Loqen raises a glass to him. “You are, and always will be, my brother.”

He drinks.

The rest of the crowd toasts and drinks as well.

Niq has no drink, and neither do I nor the head councilor. No one offers us one either.

Loqen sits down again.

Niq waits a respectful beat, then clasps his hands together. He smiles, a genuine smile that makes his eyes crinkle, and I feel a welling up of good feeling in me that I know the others in the crowd are feeling as well.

“I know this wedding feast is a bit unexpected,” Niq tells the gathered well-wishers. “Growing up, as many of us did in my generation, missing parents and relatives and fathers, we relied even more on community, on all of you, to be the guides we needed. For your patience with us, your wisdom, and your help leading both me and Loqen to adulthood, I deeply thank you.”

The night air stills with emotion. Tears of gratitude glisten in Niq’s eyes, and in the eyes of the many watching.

“Now, tonight, I ask for your patience and kindness once again as we take our first steps into adulthood.” He turns toward me. “I’m honored to present to you my wife, Faesli, of Riganos.”

I acutely feel their stares on every frizzy, misplaced fiber on my head and body. But their gazes are warm, transferring their good feelings from Niq to me.

“She knows our language!” that one jokester councilor shouts, and everyone laughs.

“She does know our language,” Niq agrees, grinning at me. “And she is human. But her island also has monsters, and their god also walks among them. We may look different, but the more time you spend with her, the more I believe you’ll see how very similar we actually—”

“Niq!” Talassa cries, rushing out of the house. “Your mother’s calling for you!”

Chapter 11

Faesli

In the middle of Niq’s heartfelt speech, Talassa’s rude announcement causes a ripple of uncertainty.

But Talassa repeats herself, insisting it’s an emergency. “Your mother’s asking for you.”

Niq hesitates. “She is?”

“Mm-hm.” Talassa gestures urgently for him to come. “Right now. And you still haven’t introduced your wife to her. Don’t be disrespectful just because she’s a little out of it. Come on.”

He looks at me.

I automatically go to his side.

He ends his speech with a quick “Please enjoy tonight’s festivities,” that finishes on a discordant note. Conversation and music starts again. Talassa points urgently up the stairs while she remains in the doorway.

The main floor of the house is sprawling and filled with riches. Off to the left is a huge kitchen with two massive stone hearths. In front of me are multiple grand rooms adorned with fabrics and wealth. We turn to the right, climbing narrow stairs lit by flickering wall sconces. The walls are stucco and covered in designs of purple flowers, saffron, and colorful birds. It’s like a palace, but it’s only a single house.

At the top of the stairs is a small and stuffy alcove that’s been converted into a bedroom. An elderly woman with white hair and sunken features sits up on a bed inset in the wall. She’s bundled in wool despite the evening heat.

Niq sits on a bench beside her bed and takes her pale, thin hand. “Mother? Talassa said you were asking for me.”

She gazes sightlessly at the bare wall.

He raises his voice. “Mother?”

But she does not respond.

He sighs, tells the unresponsive woman all about me, then finally says to me, “Faesli, this is my mother, Sennalia.”

I greet her.

She suddenly blinks and focuses on Niq, then turns her head to me. It’s unsettling, as if her body is reanimated. Her eyes are amber like Niq’s. A magic white light zips around her irises. “Niq, you married a human?”

“From the island of Riganos,” he repeats patiently, starting to tell her everything again.

Partway through his repetition, she unfocuses on the wall.

He trails off midsentence, then tries to smile at me. “She’s pleased to meet you.”

Ah, I feel bad for him. “Where does her mind go?”

“To my father.” He points out the window at the distant, smoking red patch of ocean that glows in the darkness. “He’s one of the Summoned.”

My mind whirls. Niq had said their warriors were still fighting under the water, but I thought they must be fighting as spirits. “He’s alive?”

“No, but he’s also not dead.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He’ll fight until the ocean god is defeated or our ancestor is. Perhaps then, in ten thousand years, my parents can once more be together.” Niq glances at his mother’s sightless face, then flicks his gaze back to me. “Such is the cost of binding souls.”

His grimness touches my heart.

My disappointment from earlier seems insulting in the face of this painful reality. I didn’t understand at all. I want to apologize for being upset, but he turns away and goes to the narrow stairwell.

I follow him down, my mind going to something else that bothers me. “I think Talassa was lying about your mother calling for you.”

He glances back and up at me. “Why? It’s a petty thing to lie about.”

“Yes, but you’re missing something…”

But I’m the one who misses the last step.

Between the newness of everything, my exhaustion, and all the recent stresses, I simply miss the last step. My foot swings out for a floor that isn’t there, and I tumble wildly, whacking my forehead against the thick metal ball on the end of the marble railing. My head rings like a bronze cook pot. I can’t hear for a moment. The world fades out and then back in again. I’m sitting in a heap at the bottom. Blood pours down my face and spatters my clothes.

“She fell! She fell!” a woman shrieks. The room fills with strangers murmuring about my mother-in-law Sennalia, but the woman clarifies, “No, his wife is the one who fell.”

“Oh, Faesli.” Niq kneels in front of me. I don’t remember sitting up on my own. His expression puckers with concern. He dabs at my forehead with his sleeve, then pulls off his whole tunic and bunches it against my wound, leaving his torso bare.

My head pounds. I can barely feel the rest of my body. “I’m sorry.”

He chokes. “You’re sorry? No, I should’ve…I’m the one who’s sorry.”

The world gets hot and damp, and I feel woozy.

“Excuse me. Everyone, get back.” Talassa pushes through. She hands Niq a damp linen and shoos the crowd outside. “Give them room.”

Niqalis pulls me onto his lap and presses the damp linen to my forehead. His arms are warm, and his chest flexes with muscle. With everyone outside, a little breeze goes through the small entry, and it’s no longer so hot.

Talassa kneels at my side. “Let me see.”

Niq moves aside the linen, makes a face, and quickly reapplies it. “It’s bad.”

“Luckily, it’s mostly skin,” Talassa answers, distracted. “What happened?”

“We were talking about…” He focuses on me, then folds his lips. Concern mixes with guilt. “About…”

I close my eyes.

“I’m sure it doesn’t matter,” Talassa says matter-of-factly. “Use a feather.”

Niq materializes his wing, pulls the largest, longest white feather, then frowns. “Should I use one of the gold?”

“She’s not dying.” Talassa stares at him with a wrinkled brow. “And even if she were, you’d do that for a human? Really?”

“Well, I’m responsible for at least a year. I vowed to their goddess I would take care of her, so if she needs a gold feather–”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Quick, apply it.”

He whispers to the long white feather and quickly moves the damp cloth out of the way.

Burning pain sears my forehead. Black ash curls in my peripheral vision. I moan.

He mirrors my pained expression. “It’s still bleeding.”

“Use another,” Talassa says heartlessly.

A second wave of excruciating burn-pain strikes me, then Talassa gets a fresh linen and binds my forehead with brisk expertise.

Niq looks uneasy. “Are you sure that’s enough?”

“For now.” Talassa focuses on me. “No nausea, no blurred vision?”

I shake my head.

She shrugs and rises. “Keep it bandaged and have her sleep it off. It’ll probably scar.”

Niq carries me through the party, past the noise and kindly concern of the wedding guests, and into our private room. He sets me on the hard floor with apologies, yanks the wonky bed apart, and hauls out broken slats, then rebuilds it. He helps me strip off my bloody clothes and wraps me, nude, in a thin blanket.

He comes back with a cup of water and a plate of food. I am a little hungry. He watches me eat with a frown and won’t meet my eye.

We have too many unspoken words between us.

After I finish eating, he carries the dishes out. Then he helps me into the lumpy but leveled bed and stretches out beside me.

I sit up. “Are you going to finish your speech?”

“Nah.”

“But it’s your wedding.”

“Yours too.” He gently pushes me into the cushion beside him. “We’ll make up for it later, when you’re feeling better.”

A lump forms in my throat. First, Loqen tried to commandeer his speech, then Talassa interrupted him, and now my injury is keeping him from finishing. I feel like all of us have stolen something vital from him, even though in my case, it was an accident.

“Fair warning,” he murmurs. “I’m not used to sleeping with other people. If I elbow you in the middle of the night, just roll me off the bed, okay?”

I close my eyes.

He strokes my cheek. “Okay?”

My head throbs.

But the pressure of everything—that I’ve embarrassed myself and he’s now missing the party to stay with me, that our marriage is only temporary to him and there’s no hope he might ever want to make it permanent, that I haven’t demonstrated my value or done anything worthy of respect—it makes me ask honestly, “Did you want to try to make a child right now?”

His gaze travels up to the ugly bandage where I’ve basically disfigured myself, then back down to my watering eyes. “You’re injured.”

“That’s okay.”

His brows pull in as if he’s caught between a laugh and a sob.

But I’m the one who feels like crying. “You don’t want to?”

“Faesli.” He pulls me—gently—onto his chest, careful of my injury, and snuggles me. “I’ve been awake for three whole days. I do want to. But I don’t think I can.”

“Oh.”

I understand his words, but emotionally, on top of everything else, it’s devastating.

His breathing evens, and his fingers let go of me in little twitches. He gets heavier and heavier beneath me, and then his arms flop and he makes a moaning sound that eases into a snore.

I sniff back my tears.

Don’t feel this way, I order myself. Stop it right now. Niq’s kind, and I’m a wreck. My head throbs. In this weird position atop his bony elbows and ankles, tender bruising emerges on my palms and shins.

I’ve got a year to live up to my own standards and prove myself a good wife. It doesn’t have to be proved on the first night. I’ll prove it tomorrow.

I’ll prove it…

* * *

Faesli

Unease jolts me from sleep.

Somehow, I’ve gotten out of Niq’s bed and left his family villa. I’m in the middle of a dry, grassy field we passed over earlier today. The sky is a strange color. Night, but not dark. There’s no moon.

The ground is rough beneath my bare feet.

It’s weirdly silent out.

A sudden rushing sound, like a waterfall, bubbles on the horizon and surges up the hill toward me. Molten gold? It oozes and slithers like a living creature, glittering and monstrous, up the wall of a collapsed temple and then surges across the grass, flooding toward me.

My breath catches in my throat.

A ghostly spirit appears before me. A familiar young man toes the grass, crouches down, and prods at a stone.

Oh, no.

“Perthos?” I murmur.

He glances up at me.

“You’re dead,” I tell him.

His voice is soft. “I know.”

Grief wells up in me. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I would’ve tried to use my voice to save you.”

“Yeah?”

The gold liquid buzzes like insistent bees. It wells up behind Perthos, yawning like a monster’s open mouth.

I gasp. “Look out!”

But Perthos doesn’t hear me.

I scream his name. Scream at him to run. Scream anything.

Nothing comes out of my open mouth except a hiss of air.

He remains in the grass, unaware of the looming danger.

The gold pours over the top of him, swallowing him.

He disappears.

But it’s not liquid metal.

It’s a tidal wave of iridescent gold beetles.

Chapter 12

Niq

Faesli twitches and murmurs in her sleep. The movements wake me even though it’s dark and quiet outside. She makes a panicked sound. “No…no…run…”

“Faesli.” I gently shake her arm.

She shudders awake, then bolts up, blinking. Her face is pale, her eyes shadowed beneath the thick bandage. “Wha…? You…huh?”

“You were having a nightmare.”

“Ah?”

“A nightmare,” I repeat softly, and stroke my thumb across her cheek.

She relaxes slowly, then lowers on top of me, squeezes me like she needs comfort. “Thank goodness.”

I hold her. Her small body feels natural against mine. Even though I’ve only held her a few times, I’m already finding the places she fits. “Do you have them often?”

“No, never.”

“What was it about?”

“Something came up from the water.” She rises onto her forearms and peers out the doorway in the direction of the main temple. “A tidal wave crashing down.”

It’s probably because I told her about the ancient ocean god.

On top of forcing her to sleep in this lumpy makeshift bed in a dusty shed, not feeding or giving her water on our entire return journey, and letting her fall and severely injure herself on her first day in my home, now I’ve given her nightmares. How am I failing so badly at being a husband? I’m usually better at caring for others. Perhaps because I want to be extra careful with her, I’m behaving in stupid ways and making mistakes. I need to treasure her more. A lot more.

I stroke my finger along the edge of her bandage. “The ocean god won’t come on land. The Summoned will keep you safe in the water, and…” I snuggle her. “I’ll keep you safe right here.”

She settles against me with a sigh.

Then she shifts and rolls, struggling to get comfortable. The lingering night’s heat has made us both sweat, but her damp scent only reminds me of the last time we were sweaty and entangled. My member awakens with a pulse.

It’ll go away as soon as she settles. I’m still tired, and she’s been through a lot.

Faesli nuzzles my shoulder, then rolls so she’s facing away from me, toward the wall, with my body fully between her and the door. She shifts again. Then a third time, muttering something.

“Not tired?” I murmur, yawning.

“I am, but the nightmare was vivid.”

“It wasn’t real.” I stroke a long finger down her spine, over her thin blanket, the comforting way my father used to stroke my back when I couldn’t sleep. “Everything’s okay. I’m here.”

“You are,” she agrees firmly, like she’s telling herself, and she reaches back and rubs my leg to confirm my presence is real. Her wrist brushes my waist and, through the thin sheet and my pants, my lower region.

Her gentle motion grazes my hardened member.

She stills.

Of course that only makes me fill with heat.

I say nothing. I don’t even breathe.

It’s the middle of the night, and Faesli’s rest has been broken by a nightmare caused by my careless words. The last thing I should do is compound that by keeping her awake.

She slides her hand down to my knee, then back up again. Her inner arm strokes down to my firm tip and back up to the root.

The deliberate motion wraps around my maleness, enveloping me in heat. I pulse against her wrist, hardening with readiness.

She circles me through the blanket. Soft, delicate, exploring.

My breath hitches. I have never been so hot, so focused in my life.

She tightens around me with a decisive squeeze.

I moan and thrust into her hand. “Faesli…”

She turns to face me, her chin lifted, lips seeking mine.

I capture her mouth.

Liquid heat pounds into my maleness.

I grip her hips, pulling her on top of me as my tongue meets hers, thrust for thrust.

She straddles me, then breaks off and tears the blankets out of the way.

I shimmy out of my pants, and her thin blanket falls, baring her small breasts. I cup them, seeking the sensitive points that made her moan last time.

She kisses me until I can’t think of anything but her mouth, and then she settles herself against me. Her desire is liquid on my maleness. I throb, fit to bursting.

She shifts, centering us in the bed, and then her clever hands wrap my maleness again and position us. I enter her, and she tightens her grip, then releases me again. I push more slowly, savoring every inch of her wet heat. She pulls away, lowers again, taking me deeper, and then a third time, taking me deeper yet.

Every inch of her feels amazing. I can barely catch my breath. She’s magnificent on me, a goddess with wild hair and mussed clothes, and I am her chosen consort.

Our pubic bones press firmly, and she arches over me with a shudder. “You…”

I hold myself taut. “Take it.”

“…take…?”

“Your pleasure. All of it. Take it from me until you can’t take any more.”

She rocks against me, her moans increasing with her rhythm, and she embeds herself on me so deep, I can’t breathe. Her body clenches mine, desperately milking my seed, and it’s all I can do to hold it in. She gasps out with happiness, then moves even faster, her breasts gliding across my chest, and then she gasps again. “…so good…with you…”

“I will be the husband you need.” I say it through clenched teeth, sweat dripping into my eyes and stinging. Her hips rock beneath my hands, and if I hold her any harder, I’m afraid we’ll both break. “I will be better.”

She grips my face. Her eyes burn holes in mine, glimmering in darkness. “I like only you.”

Shock rushes through my system.

How does she keep saying the one thing I most want to hear?

Instantly, my seed releases into her womb. I arch, groaning with the force of it leaving my body and entering hers. She gasps, and then gasps again. I unload a lifetime’s worth of male dreams into her yielding dark embrace, and she shudders with lingering moans. And then, the life-giving spirit drains out of me, and I collapse.

She collapses on top of me.

A droplet from her forehead drips into the corner of my mouth. She tastes of salt, like the sea. I take her in, licking my lips to make her a part of me.

“I thought the first time was good because of Rigania.” Her lips print the words against my shoulder as if she’s too exhausted to even rise up to speak. “But maybe you’re really skilled.”

Then, it’s not my wishful thinking or ego. I try to keep the smirk out of my voice, but I do feel proud. “And yet I just lie here while you do all the work.”

“Because you let me.” She kisses me. “It’s one of the many things about you that I like.”

My chest aches.

She shifts to move away, probably to let me sleep, but I tighten my grip, keep her right here. Yes, it’s hot and we’re both sweaty and damp, but I want to prolong this tenderness with her. She gives up and settles back to sleep, her breath turning even and then subtly snoring. Adorable.

I will take better care of her.

I’ll take such good care that she’ll forget about things like troublesome family and rude friends and binding souls. She’ll want to stay here, married to me as a human, beyond our year and forever.

Chapter 13

Faesli

I wake up in Niq’s arms.

He was so cute and comforting in the night, sheltering me from the nightmare, that I gave in to exhaustion and let myself be wrapped in him. In the morning, his embrace is still nice, but I need to get clean. Stealthily, I try to wiggle out without disturbing him.

His white-blond lashes flutter, and his gorgeous golden eyes focus on me. He smiles, beautiful, and his arms tighten around me. “Hey.”

My throat constricts. Before Niq, I never awoke in the arms of someone I felt this intensely for. “Good morning.”

“Is it?” He squints at the sunlight making dust motes dance by our open door. “Mm. Good being with you.”

His hard member brushes against my inner thigh.

And even though my mouth is dry and the bandage is too tight, all annoyances fade away. I want the security, comfort, the feeling of being deeply and completely centered by him.

I reach under the blanket, grip his hard member.

He stills, then his sleepy smile flashes at me.

These are the moments I want to keep with me. The moments of him I will never forget, no matter what happens to us.

I wet my hand, even though I’m still damp from last night, and guide him into my passage. He stretches me, and I’m a little sore, but our togetherness feels good. He sucks in a breath, shifting beneath my subtle pushes until he’s in the perfect position. This time, he teases my hair as I take my pleasure, runs his hands down my back, closes those gold-amber eyes when I take him roughly, snaps his eyes on me when I call his name.

He’s so present with me, so much mine.

Then he grips my hips, and his maleness kindles my deepest pleasure. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. He takes away all the world, wraps it in liquid sweetness, thrusts and thrusts and thrusts. I can’t catch my breath. His member inside me is the root of the world. I am earth and he is the heavens, and he pulses glimmering starlight into my womb, over and over, until it coalesces into sunlight and I glow.

“You are everything,” I tell him between gasps. “Everything…I’ve ever wanted…is you.”

A sudden frown crosses his face again, that expression like he’s going to cry. He’s sensitive to these words. I don’t know why. All I know is that saying them aloud is magic and pushes him past his limits.

He rocks his hips. His eyes squeeze shut as he releases his seed into me with a groan. “Faesli.”

And then I am flooded with pleasure.

Eventually, my body collapses atop his, throbbing and tingling.

He breathes slowly and evenly, making me rise and fall on his chest, but his eyes are open, staring in his own thoughts at the brightening ceiling.

“This is a great way to start the day,” I tell him.

He cocks his brow at me, a smile on his face. “Yeah?”

“I could do it again.”

His smile deepens with interest.

My stomach growls as loudly as a rumble of thunder.

His eyes widen, and then he laughs aloud and helps me up. “Maybe after breakfast, huh?”

“Or a bath,” I suggest hopefully.

“We have a bath. A private tub here on the manor, or public baths on the seashore of Rokastia. There are also holy caves by…”

He opens the door and trails off.

Piles of dishes are crusted over and buzzing with flies, streamers are tangled in grape vines, fruit tree limbs are smashed, and rugs are muddied and trampled.

“How?” I ask, because it wasn’t like this when he carried me to bed. “Are icari wedding feasts always so destructive?”

“Some of Talassa’s cousins don’t respect others’ property.” He sets his jaw. “We’ll deal with it later. Come on.”

The bathing room is a small stone building next to the main house. It’s like a temple, beautifully tiled and lit by light wells, with fitted rainwater spouts and a drain. Spiny bougainvillea spills through the windows with a sweet floral scent.

Niq adds sun-warmed water, helps me unwrap the bandage, and grimaces all over again at what he sees on my pounding forehead. “We’ll ask them to look at it at the temple.”

I cover the wound with my hand so he doesn’t have to see. It feels rough and ugly. “Okay.”

While he combs and washes his hair, I scrub myself all over with a soft brush and cloth, then we switch positions. I sit in the sunlight and oil my curls with a pick. He washes himself, turning the water a darker shade of brown, then opens the drain. It gurgles out to the kitchen-waste water barrel to be reused on the manor gardens.

Then he disappears.

By the time I finish, he’s returned with a new, clean tunic and pants for me. The hems are decorated with flowers stitched in purple and gold, and the weave is so smooth, it feels like silk. I can’t stop touching it. “These are the finest clothes I’ve ever worn.”

“Good.” He gives me a pistachio roll hardened from sitting out all night, but still delicious for breakfast, and we fly away from the mess to the central village of the island, Daedakros.

The manor houses are large and extravagant like Niq’s family villa, but their ornate stone fences are fitted more tightly together and they overflow with flowering trees and gardens. Curtains of precious stones wrapped with silver wire clink as window shades.

We pass over the main square of Daedakros. Large gold-and-marble icari statues look up and open their wings.

“They’re alive!” I gasp. “The stone men are alive!”

“No, no. They’re filled with gears and pulleys. The earliest icari were inspired by the daedali, and using techniques lost to us, they created many moving things, but none have the spark of life.”

Perhaps their eyes are sightless white stones.

Still…

“Magic,” I murmur, and he squeezes me.

Slightly lower in elevation from the village is the temple complex. Huge religious buildings are covered in gleaming marble and gold. They face the main temple, which is carved into the very mountain. Two massive stone icari statues hold open the gargantuan doors. On the mountain behind them, intricately carved statues of monsters and demigods shift and move, reenacting histories unknown to me.

Niq lands on a stone labyrinth medallion carved into the center of the complex. He hails one of the temple workers. “Where’s the head priestess?”

But I don’t hear the answer.

A shock of recognition goes through me.

I thought the nightmare took place on an open field, but now that we’ve landed, I’m absolutely certain it was here. There’s no grass, but the gold insects definitely surged up from the horizon, and Perthos would’ve been sitting with his back to them…

Niq starts to pull me, then notices my preoccupation. “Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “I’ve never had prophetic dreams, but this ground feels…thin.”

“A lot of things have happened here,” he replies soberly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the history affected you. We do have a pretty good protector these days. Come and meet her.”

We walk to one of the smaller temples, up the marble steps, and Niq shows me how to make the proper obeisances at the door. In the waiting atrium are carved and painted portraits of icari.

He points to one. “That’s my father.”

The portrait is of a serious man with Niq’s coloration and a broader face but narrower nose. It’s labeled Councilor Ruqen.

I stroll past the hundred portraits, men and women, young and old. Many are elders or celebrated members, including other councilors.

A priestess beckons us into the temple. “The head priestess will see you.”

Inside the temple, at the far back of the main ceremonial room, is a moving statue of an ibis, a holy white bird. Another thrill runs through me. Niq insists it’s only pulleys and wires, but the lifelike movement defies ordinary understanding. It clacks its beak and rustles its feathers at us.

Standing in front of it is a middle-aged woman with brown hair and olive skin like mine. She has brown eyes and midnight-black wings. A black crescent moon glows on her forehead, and unlike all the other icari, it’s ragged like a scar. Magic pulses from her so powerfully that it almost warps the air around her and the stone beneath her feet.

Of course, she’s the head priestess.

“Please wait here for the head priestess to arrive,” our escort tells us, and leaves.

I look again at the middle-aged woman practically vibrating with magic.

She’s not the head priestess?

The magical woman leans into a back room. “Head Priestess, your visitors are here. Come out and minister to them.”

An indeterminate cry sounds in the back room.

“Well, hurry then. Honor your devotees by not keeping them waiting.” She smiles at us awkwardly. “Sorry. My daughter will be out any moment.”

Huh.

“We wanted to see you as well,” Niq assures her. “Faesli, this is Ayanakalia, our guardian chosen by the last daedalus.”

I make the obeisance he taught me, but she interrupts, clasping my hand in an informal greeting. “It’s nice to meet another human. Welcome.”

My heart thumps. When she says “another human” my first impulse is to assume she means me and Ix, but her tone and manner suggest that she means herself, which is very hard to believe.

Niq carefully unwraps my bandage. “We had an accident and I used two white feathers. Talassa said it might scar, so I thought, if it wasn’t too much trouble, you could, maybe, heal her?”

“Hmm.” Ayanakalia regards me, tilting her head one way and then the other. She smells like a woman of the temple, linen and incense, but also vaguely electric, like the ground just before a thunderstorm. “This is a suspicious shape and placement. How exactly did the accident happen?”

Niq tells her, blaming himself for distracting me, which is pretty generous considering I slipped. “Can she be healed?”

“She can, but I think…” Ayanakalia steps back and folds her hands. “I think we should see how it scars first.”

Disappointment surges through me.

Niq is shocked. “You won’t heal her?”

“Islanders of Ikaria are born with the white crescent moon on their foreheads. We who arrive later sometimes also receive it.” Ayanakalia points to her own jagged black crescent-moon scar. “Faesli too may have been marked for a higher destiny. I won’t erase it.”

My heart beats louder in my chest.

Do you ever think, if you’d been born a hundred years ago, you might’ve been god touched?

“It doesn’t look anything like a crescent,” he says doubtfully. “It looks angry.”

“Give it time.” Ayanakalia’s eyes swirl, dark magic rotating over her brown irises.

Do not forget what you are.

Niq said Ayanakalia’s a mortal and has no godlike omniscience or senses. She’s only guessing that this scar is meaningful. What if it’s just ugly? I shouldn’t be so vain, but it’s on my face…

Then she sees movement in the back room and straightens. “Head Priestess Irinia, Niq and his new wife, Faesli, are here to receive your blessing.”

The head priestess minces out.

She’s a child, about the same age as my youngest sister, with unusual black-rimmed brown eyes. Her white-gold hair is shot with black streaks. She has a black crescent moon on her forehead like Ayanakalia, but its edges are smooth and unscarred, like Niq’s crescent and those of the other icari. Ayanakalia and Irinia are the only two icari I’ve seen that have black crescents instead of white. And only Ayanakalia’s is jagged as if it were made at sword-point rather than at birth.

Forehead designs are common on Ikaria, so maybe my injury blends in better than I think…

Irinia stops suddenly and curls her lip. She points at my forehead in horror. “Ugh. What made that?”

Ayanakalia smooths the girl’s hair, tucking it more securely into the too-large gold diadem. “The island.”

“Gross.”

“Irinia, no.” Ayanakalia murmurs in her ear.

Irinia pushes her lips to the side, enduring the chastising with ill grace.

I’m humiliated, but my mind overlays the image of my blunt youngest sister so I can’t feel offense. She also received many whisper-lectures from our embarrassed parents, but that was in front of the temple staff, not as the highest member of it.

After the whispered lecture, Ayanakalia helps me rewrap the bandage.

While we do that, Niq clears his throat. “Yesterday, you made my brother the head of the house, and I came to ask why.”

Irinia brightens. “Because it’s funny.”

“What is?”

“The expression on his face.” She breaks into gales of delighted laughter. “When he…loses it…”

Niq looks at me and Ayanakalia. I shrug, and Ayanakalia shakes her head. We have no idea what’s funny.

“He loses it,” Niq repeats. “Loses what? His temper? The house?”

She shakes her head, laughing helplessly.

“Do I, ah, find ‘it’ and take over the duties again?”

“No.” Irinia giggles. “You only go by because you have no bath.”

“Go…what?”

But Irinia can’t answer. Every time he prods her for more information, she breaks into shrieking laughter again. She really reminds me of my youngest sister.

“I don’t understand,” he finally says, stilted. “Councilor Ruqen was an honorable man and he devoted his life to protecting our island. Why is this talk about his house and his descendants funny?”

“Because of how he looks!” Irinia makes a bug-eyed expression and chokes with laughter. “It’s too funny.”

Niq appeals to Ayanakalia.

Ayanakalia glances at her daughter, troubled. “Irinia has seen very clearly that your brother holds the title for your house.”

“Because you and the council gave it to him,” Niq insists.

“She told us it would happen some weeks ago. When Loqen approached us, it was exactly like her vision. The time had come.”

“But he handles it badly? She said he loses something.”

“Irinia sees no harm coming to the house or to anyone who lives there. In fact, everyone is in better health than before. We asked her that specifically.”

“Everyone is in better health?” He frowns. “Even my mother?”

“Sennalia is active and involved in the household.”

“I can hardly believe it.”

“That’s what Irinia saw.”

“But Loqen loses something?” He shakes his head. “Can’t we skip to making me responsible again?”

“No,” Irinia says, her mirth finally subsiding.

High spots of color appear on Niq’s sunburned cheeks. “Why not me?”

“Because that’s not how it happens.”

“Not how what happens?”

Soft chimes sound in the back room.

Irinia brightens. “Okay, bye! It’s time for my sweet roll.” She skips into the back room, leaving us in front of the clacking ibis.

“Irinia!” Ayanakalia goes to the doorway with a huff. “I’m sorry. We’re working on transitions.”

“Mama! Come on!”

“Ah, please wait.” Niq holds up his hand.

Ayanakalia pauses.

“I’ve done everything for the house. No one ever asked me to assume the title.” Niq opens and closes his palms. “Did I do something wrong?”

“This isn’t a judgment on you.” Ayanakalia faces us with solemn earnestness. “When I was young, I saw possibilities, but Irinia sees what actually happens. She focuses on your brother making a funny expression because that’s her childish interest, but it’s not the only thing she saw, and she’s had several other prophetic visions come to pass. This is the first one Jeren and I have had a direct hand in. Even if we’d recused ourselves, or if we gave the title back to you right now, I believe circumstances would arrange themselves to make the vision come true. So, I am acting to support it, especially if it means a good result for Sennalia.”

Niq compresses his lips in frustration.

Ayanakalia bobs her head to both of us, bidding us farewell, and hurries into the private room after her daughter.

Acolytes escort us out and down the steps. Niq looks back at the small temple with distress. He asked Ayanakalia for two favors and was turned down flat for both of them. A lesser man would throw a fit, curse the temple and shout about unfairness. Swallowing down his frustration takes incredible strength of character. It makes me think, again, that he’s a good-natured person in his heart.

I put my arms around his neck so we can go to our next destination. “Maybe it’ll be okay.”

“How?” he asks flatly and heaves a giant sigh. “You saw the state of the grounds this morning. Is Loqen going to wake up and take responsibility? I would love that, but I don’t see it happening. The house will collapse first. And somehow my mother gets better? I would let the house collapse if that’s what it took, but I just can’t believe it. And anyway, they said there’s no damage to the house!”

“Maybe…” I hold on as he lifts us, careful with me despite his understandable agitation. “You said Ayanakalia has the ability to repair things. Mountain temples, whole villages. Repairing a manor house should be nothing.”

“She does it all the time,” Niq confirms morosely. “If you perform a special service for the temple or council, she’ll recognize it by using her magic for you. She’s fixed up plenty of manors.”

“I wonder how much of the future the head priestess sees,” I murmur into his ear as the winds whistle past. “If it’s just a glimpse, then maybe there is damage but it gets repaired, and that’s why she thinks the house is unharmed.”

“Him earning a favor is about as unlikely as him taking responsibility.” Niq grinds his teeth. “I feel the temple has been tricked. I must have offended a god.”

“Ayanakalia said it wasn’t a judgment against you. It sounds like a judgment against Loqen.”

“How?” he asks again in a flat tone.

I smooth the worried wrinkles crossing his forehead. “On Riganos, we have a curse. ‘May you get exactly what you wish for.’ It’s from a fable about a hedgehog.”

He’s silent for a long moment.

Then he allows himself to be distracted. “A hedgehog?”

“He’s blinded by his desire for big clusters of juicy green grapes. His well-meaning friends and family offer to help, so he sacrifices them, literally, and stands on their bodies to reach the fruit. Then the succulent-looking grapes, which he does end up reaching, only taste like the blood of his many victims whose bodies have watered the vine.”

“Grim,” Niq remarks. “Loqen has never harvested grapes in his life, unless it’s to harvest them into his own mouth.”

“Then he’s about to learn the full meaning of the curse.”

“You think the temple is right, then? I have to let go of the duties and let Loqen be the head of the house, regardless of what happens?”

I don’t answer.

We fly back to his family’s manor. The household is still quiet, even though it’s nearly afternoon. Niq hovers over the mess-strewn, damaged garden, untouched from when we left. His expression is filled with disgust, rejection, and anger.

Then, his voice grows heavy with begrudging acceptance. “Long ago I swore to the gods that if my mother’s grief could be eased, even a little, by anything I did, I would do it without question. Yet here we are, and I’m fighting against it with all my will.” He chuckles without mirth. “Of course I would trade the house and anything in it for her recovery. I just can’t believe…I can’t understand how…That this is the method is unfathomable and infuriating…”

Birds twitter and happy insects buzz in the sun, unaffected by our small dramas.

“That’s why it’s a judgment against Loqen, not you,” I suggest.

“Oh, this is definitely a judgment against me,” Niq mutters, then rises again. He promised yesterday to show me around the other villages, and I think he’d rather be anywhere but here. “This is going to be one of the hardest trials of my life.”

Chapter 14

Faesli

My husband spends the first three months of our married life trying very hard not to go absolutely crazy.

His brother and sister-in-law have parties almost every night, to which we’re not invited, but even if we were, I don’t think Niq would be in any mood to participate. They sleep late, allowing us to eat breakfast in solitude. Niq usually ends breakfast by tidying up our brazier and setting aside the preparations for the evening meal, then spends several minutes staring out the door at the increasingly messy grounds with despair.

The manor grounds are so large that the mounds of detritus aren’t too high in any one place. I only notice them because it was so clean on my first day. I think it’s going to have to get a lot worse before it bothers Loqen and Talassa, but it’s already far exceeded Niq’s tolerance.

Luckily, there are harvest events to join everywhere this fall, and each is fascinating and hard work and very distracting.

Niq takes me to a quince-processing work party, a pomegranate shucking, the big sheep shearing before the first winter rains, a pressing of aged olives into rich oil, a honey collection event with savory smoke and buzzing, and a seasonal fish fry.

Because of the angry ocean god, icari can’t dip a single toe into the waves, but humans regularly sail past the island following fish migrations. They dock their ships at the break in Kyrinia or the wooden port at Mallonia offering mollusks and clams and nets of fish. At the seasonal fish fry, Niq does the boring job of gutting fish on the stinky shore. Ix shows me a good spot off the Kyrinia break to dive for local oysters. I contribute a bucket for steaming, and some even delight us by containing grainy pearls.

We’re not the only islanders to attend every harvest this fall, but the others doing so are all older. Citizens are only required to help for a quota of harvests in our local area, which for Niq’s manor is around Daedakros, so traveling across the island is noticed.

“Councilor Ruqen’s son is doing his duty,” the older icari tell him approvingly.

Niq rubs fish guts off his nose and cheeks with an easy smile. “I’m just showing Faesli the best of our island.”

“So humble, eh? You’re a responsible citizen, you are.”

He grins, embarrassed. “I mean it.”

“A good husband, then.” And the icari nudges me in a friendly way, getting my agreement.

In fact, I do think Niq’s doing some of this for me. He’ll ask, “Have you ever boiled up quince jam? Did you want to try?” or whatever plan he has, and off we’ll go. Sure, he’s avoiding the situation at home, but I once told him I’d wanted to travel and have new experiences with Perthos and my older brother, and he’s trying to give me those. His thoughtfulness makes my chest ache.

Niq also takes home a small share of each harvest or gleaning or preserves. He tracks supplies in the cavernous pantry, even though I’m pretty certain that’s a head of household duty. Then one day Talassa pours out his entire bottle of pomegranate syrup right before he was going to use it. His nostrils flare as he sucks in deep calming breaths. That night, he builds pantry shelves in our shed.

One harvest event takes place on a different island, Sklerios, where the icari graze additional sheep and goats. Niq has to leave for four long days on a work crew processing wool and meat.

While he’s gone, I test my knowledge of Ikaria. I jog up and down the narrow footpaths to visit Ix’s family, the eastern seashore, and the different towns. It takes all day to get anywhere. Flying has made me lazy, and I’m surprised by the true size of the island and how out of shape I must be.

The four days pass quickly, and Niq comes home with a big mutton thigh. It’s so large that Talassa leaps into action. Putting our silent differences aside, she washes a heap of dishes, clearing out a space at the main house’s hearth, and together, she and Niq cook a tasty stew.

Niq says Loqen and Talassa get along better, but when he and Talassa work together in the kitchen making bread and steamed vegetables and a sweet dessert, I can glimpse what it must have been like in the years they were engaged.

Everyone’s in a good mood at dinner, laughing and breaking open wine. Even Sennalia pays attention and compliments the meal. Night falls on our merry group. Loqen plays a hauntingly beautiful high-pitched flute, and Talassa sways with the music. I sit on Niq’s lap while the hearth smoke curls up toward the stars. This must be how Niq grew up. It’s probably how he envisioned married life at home with his family, and I can see why he’d sacrifice a lot to try to return to this cozy dream.

But in the harsh light of morning, the previous night’s dishes are piled up right where they were abandoned. The only clean ones are ours and Sennalia’s, which Niq washed before turning in.

He stares at the new piles for longer than ever. His jaw flexes.

I soothe the muscle. “You’re doing great.”

“Am I?” He rubs his hair, his distant gaze fixed on the grounds, shadows deepening around his beautiful amber eyes. “I keep asking, what’s the limit? I never tied back the grapes after they were torn down during the wedding feast, and no one else did either, so we’ll have a half harvest or less next summer. Our house has fewer mouths now, so we won’t suffer, but I wonder. Will Loqen plant the kitchen garden this winter? I use those herbs. Am I letting him receive what he wants, or am I just punishing myself?”

I have no answer.

The first drenching winter rain arrives, which shifts the island into a new frenzy. We plow the rolling fields above Mallonia, seeding them for barley and emmer wheat, and Niq helps sow patches of fava beans and lentils, chickpeas and field peas. Then an unexpected rain washes the seedlings away. It’s just like what happened on Riganos last year, but instead of despairing, the farmers summon Ayanakalia.

She walks into the first field, the ground almost warping away from her and the damp steaming off her clothes, and kneels in the muck, closing her eyes. The crescent on her forehead glows somehow like it’s an even darker black.

The ground trembles.

It does that at other times, too. Niq says it’s their ancestor landing a particularly effective blow against the ocean god.

Now, however, the ground rumples like bunched-up cloth and writhes with strange worms and centipedes, then smooths again. The washed-away seeds travel over the earth and wriggle back into their long rows.

Farmers walk along the rows, checking and adding seeds where some were eaten.

Ayanakalia opens her eyes and stands, brushes her fingers off on her muddy tunic, and drifts to the next field to magically fix it.

This is what Niq meant long ago at our wedding feast when he said Ikaria’s bounty didn’t depend upon weather.

“You’re so lucky,” I murmur, watching with a mixture of relief and jealousy.

“We are, and we know it.” Niq squeezes my fingers. “Ayanakalia will be the first to tell you that we won’t have this forever. Someday, broken things will stay broken, and washed-away fields will stay barren. But not today.” He fixes my hair under my woolen cap. “Not for us today.”

I’ve told him I wear the cap for warmth, but mostly it’s because whenever he looks at my uncovered forehead, he frowns. The old wound causes him guilt, so I keep it covered.

In spite of the stresses, I have some of my happiest memories from this time. The days slip away too fast to hold, poignant and sweet, until finally, it’s the last day before the winter solstice festival.

Niq and I stroll through the main town, Daedakros.

He uses an IOU chit from some past favor to buy me his favorite candy, a crunchy shard of boiled honey rolled in pistachios. It’s too sweet for adults. He holds his belly, moaning. Finishing my shard hurts my teeth and gives me a gut ache, but I am glad to experience this sliver of his childhood.

Along the streets, artisans twist and pound precious metals into thin wires and sheets. Jars are filled to the brim with glittering hunks of gold, sapphires, emeralds, rubies, and tiger’s eye.

“This is like the stone you gave me on Riganos.” Niq shows a translucent purple stone. “Maybe it’s not impressive for you, though.”

“Where do you find it?”

“Just off the shore,” the workshop manager tells me. She’s an older woman with a hard face and a permanent squint, but her tone is friendly and knowledgeable. “They get tumbled smooth in the waves.”

In the main square, soldiers test their strength against wiry farmers, and young adults drill their elders in skill games. Moving around them, the five moving icari statues’ sightless marble eyes follow me. One circles the square on a track, the grooves perfectly aligned in the fitted stone.

“Its position tells the time of day,” Niq explains.

The other four move on similar tracks but in a more limited range. How could mortal hands accomplish this? They’re unnerving but also strangely beautiful.

We share a communal meal and head to bed early so we can be up before sunrise.

The dawn of the winter solstice festival is as quiet as a held breath.

Winter rains have started greening the trees and softening the grasses. Chilly mist rises from the dark dirt. Niq and I are early risers, so he bundles me up in a finely woven purple cloak that’s stitched with gold and gemstones. I feel like a queen.

There are temples in every town, and today’s festival is celebrated all across the island, but we are privileged to attend the main temple.

We land on the steps with the other icari and walk between the two giant stone icari statues holding open the monstrous doors. Inside, acolytes in white robes and gold armbands perform a welcome ritual and hand us sprigs of winter blossoms.

We descend into a stone labyrinth.

It’s open at the top, so the icari could fly right over the curling stone if they wanted, but we walk reverently in the same winding pattern as the flat labyrinth medallion outside. The stone walls are covered with symbols and glyphs, some of which I know and others that are unfamiliar.

At last, we emerge into the inner sanctuary.

The sanctuary walls are carved with pictograms from icari history. A sun god appears at the apex, then monsters, and then the seaweed ropes of the angry ocean god on the lowest portion of the wall.

We cross a smaller flat labyrinth medallion, worn smooth by thousands of boots, and stop at the edge of a chasm. I toss my flower sprig into the giant, empty stone chair, carefully, because the chasm has no safety rails, and the cliff plunges down the dark, inner mountainside. A small bit of light at the distant bottom shows jagged rocks and the crash of incoming ocean.

If I fell, I would definitely die, but safety rails aren’t necessary for an icarus, I guess.

Everyone clumps into family groups facing the empty throne. Loqen and Talassa stand in front of us. Sennalia gazes off into space.

Once again, as outside, I get a strange prickling feeling that the ground here is thin. A mere crust separates our world from something unseen—and malevolent.

But no one else reacts that way.

Irinia stands on an elevated rock beside other priestesses. She shifts her weight like she’s bored. The eldest priestess intones ritual words and leads us in song. I mouth the unfamiliar words and sing a beat behind everyone else. Sennalia fades in and out of the ceremony, singing normally and then falling silent, and then singing normally again.

The icari’s godly ancestor sat on this empty throne right up through Niq’s early childhood. Raised voices direct blessings toward the empty throne of the now-absent god. Energy crackles out, making the hairs on my arms stand up and shivers travel down my spine. Potent energy is channeled here from all the simultaneous ceremonies across the island, and it has nowhere to go, so it swirls around and grounds into the empty stone.

And yet, I feel the community swelling around me. I am united with these people. A beat behind and off tune, perhaps, but united.

The last note sounds, and everyone falls quiet.

Niq smiles down at me. He appreciates my effort. It makes my chest warm.

Suddenly, tremors shake the ground beneath our feet.

His smile is wiped away.

There’s an unsettling cracking sound, but tremors are small today and stop after just a moment.

A long silence follows.

No one moves or speaks.

Apparently, the tremors are done.

Head Councilor Jeren hops up onto the rock beside the head priestess, stops her from spinning (another favorite hobby she shares with my youngest sister), and gives a short speech about thanks and bounty. Then he makes announcements, including one that I don’t immediately realize is bad.

“As you know, our flocks on Sklerios Island need tending,” Jeren intones. “Volunteers are lacking so we’ve reinstituted the rota. The following houses are called forth to do their duty.” He lists houses that must send workers for the spring equinox, which ends with “and House Ruqen.”

Niq’s brother and sister-in-law look at each other.

Then they both turn around and stare meaningfully at Niq.

Uh-oh.

Everyone else shuffles toward the exit. They edge toward the exit too, keeping their eyes on Niq.

Niq returns their gazes evenly. “I can’t.”

“You have to,” Talassa says. “You said Sklerios wasn’t so bad.”

“For four days,” Niq snaps back. “Not twelve weeks. I can’t leave Faesli for a whole quarter.”

My chest swells, heart straining against the confines of my ribs.

Perthos easily left me for a year. The fact that Niq can’t leave even for three months, that he needs to be with me, makes the entire sanctuary feel warm. Holy energy zips through my veins like blessings. I’m essential to Niq. I’m that important–

“I swore a solemn oath to her goddess that I would take care of her this year,” Niq continues angrily. “I have a duty to perform. Responsibilities. I can’t ignore them whenever they become inconvenient.”

Ah.

My heart sinks painfully, and the light fades.

I swallow.

It’s not that he can’t leave me because of his own desire. When he looks at me, he sees duty, responsibilities, and inconvenience.

Well, our pantry is stocked, the wood is stacked high outside our shed, and I can get around the island even though running takes a lot longer than flying. I’d be fine.

But even if I am nothing but a god-sworn burden to him, I don’t want him to leave for twelve weeks, so I say nothing.

“One of you has to go,” Niq finishes.

“As the head of house, Loqen decides,” Talassa argues.

“As head of the house, Loqen has to go if no else does.”

Loqen heaves a sigh and rubs a hand through his white-blond hair, turning to face the crowded exit. “This is a mess.”

But I miss what happens next because a shiny insect lands on my cloak.

Just as in my nightmare, it’s a gold beetle.

Chapter 15

Niq

I’ve hit my limit with my brother.

“This is what you wanted, Loqen,” I say, trying to keep my tone measured as I follow him in slow shuffling footsteps across the sanctuary medallion toward the exit. “Take responsibility and ensure our house fulfills our duty.”

Loqen pales.

“He is, by delegating the responsibility to you,” Talassa replies, taking his side like always. “We have to stay home and care for Sennalia.”

“Care for Mother how?” I demand. “Make her a daily snack tray? She’s absent, not infirm.”

Our mother stares vacantly into the distance.

“Niq, you have to go,” Talassa insists.

For one instant, I imagine a world in which I say If you want me to go so badly, make me the head of house again.

Little fizzes of nerves bubble in my blood.

But it also feels dangerous.

Ayanakalia’s warning in the priestess’s temple–that if I should get the title before Irinia’s vision, circumstances will rearrange themselves to rip it away from me again–sticks little claws into me, pinching and needling.

And isn’t it a strange coincidence that we’re being forced to do a task that will earn a favor? The mess and neglect of my house infuriates me, but it would only take a few days to clean up. Must the house get a lot worse before Irinia’s vision can come to pass?

What I want doesn’t matter. I’ve thought that my whole life, but it’s never felt as horrible as it does right now. Thorny vines of duty and responsibility are closing in, forcing me toward an inescapable fate…

Instead, I focus on an important truth. “I can’t fulfill my oath to care for Faesli if I’m on another island for a quarter of the year.”

“You get days off,” Talassa argues at the same moment Loqen says, “Send her to your friends’ house then.”

Send her to my friends’ house?

I come to a full stop. The world gets very quiet. “Faesli is my wife and an honored member of House Ruqen. Where she goes, I go. Are you asking us to leave?”

“Well, she can’t take care of herself without you…” Loqen averts his eyes. “It was just an idea.”

Talassa grimaces at him.

No one speaks.

I don’t get mad often, but I’m already on edge because I don’t like being indoors when the island quakes. It reminds me of our god rising from this very throne, breaking apart the mountain, and the villages collapsing in his wake. Being trapped in a tiny air pocket with Loqen and my mother, her trying to keep us calm, the horrible sky-rending cry piercing the stuffy darkness. My mother screaming and tearing out her hair because she couldn’t answer the god’s horrendous summons, then, abruptly going catatonic. We didn’t know, but that was the moment our father answered and disappeared forever. Her breath got shaky and loud, and I was left trying to keep Loqen calm by myself.

We were dug out and rescued, but we essentially lost both parents that day, and ever since, I haven’t liked stuffy air or enclosed spaces or darkness.

“Let’s talk to the council,” Loqen suggests as the crowd thins. “We’ve both been married less than a year. It’s unfair to separate newlyweds. They should delay our service until later.”

It’s a reasonable suggestion, but I don’t feel reasonable right now.

I want to get away from both of them before I say something I regret.

They continue out the exit with my mother.

Faesli’s been left behind, not moving. She brushes at a shiny object on her cloak. A metal rock or something. She was quiet during the argument just now. I’m not sure how much she registered it.

I call, “What are you doing?”

She looks up. “Something is wrong.”

The hair on the back of my neck lifts. I fly to her side. “What’s wrong?”

She opens her palm. The metal rock is an iridescent gold insect.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“You don’t know?”

“I’ve never seen it before.”

It bites into her palm, and she quickly grasps and yanks it off, holding it so its legs wiggle helplessly, wings flickering out, trapped, against her fingers. “It’s an ill omen, I think.”

My stomach rolls.

Beneath our boots, a long crack has split the labyrinth medallion. Probably it happened during the little quake just now. It zags across the platform ominously.

I hook an arm under Faesli’s elbow and raise my voice. “Ayanakalia?”

Ayanakalia floats over the cracked medallion pensively.

Her husband, Head Councilor Jeren, waits with their daughter Irinia on the rock platform. Irinia hangs off his arm and whines. “I don’t want to do the feast now. I want to do it later.”

“Sorry, but the head priestess has to attend. It’s her job,” Jeren tells her firmly but not unkindly.

“Daaad.” She draws out the syllable angrily, stomps her feet, and shakes her intricately braided hair. “Don’t wanna.”

“Then we’ll assign the duties to someone who does want to.”

“Ugh. Why?”

Ayanakalia rests her fingers on the stone. She traces the crack thoughtfully, her brown irises covered with whirling blackness. “The fault appeared again? Very strange.”

“How often does the medallion crack?” Faesli asks, pinching the gold bug so its legs wiggle, unable to reach her.

“Before this year, never, and then in the last few months, it’s cracked after every tremble.”

“The ground is thin here.”

“Hmm.” Ayanakalia kneels. “At least I can fix it.”

Suddenly, a great roar echoes through the chamber.

In the chair in front of us, a shimmering gold vapor swirls into the massive shape of our ancestor god. His ghostly form is as giant as the statue of my memories. His wings shimmer against the rock dome, his face gazes sightlessly at us, and his sandaled feet rest against the ocean rocks far below.

Terror spears me.

“Where are you going? Jeren,” the gigantic shimmery man says with a sharp laugh.

My heart pounds. He sounds nothing like the horrible screams of my memory. This is not our god. His voice is rich, resonant, and amused.

It’s also strangely familiar...

Jeren’s face blanks with horror. “No.”

“You do know what’s coming to you?”

Faesli gapes at the transparent golden man. She asks me, “Is this part of your solstice ceremony?”

I tighten my grip on her elbow. “It’s not.”

“Siqaris?” Jeren squints. The former councilor was my father’s late friend and an honored champion of Ikaria. “You can’t possibly be alive.”

“I can do anything I want. I’m beloved of the gods.” The giant Siqaris ghost grins savagely at us. He doesn’t turn to face Jeren. He sits facing forward as though affixed. Only his eyebrows and mouth move. “The gods will get their revenge.”

That sounds bad.

I edge myself in front of Faesli and ease backward, silently urging her toward the exit. She resists, holding her ground.

Jeren unfastens his dagger. “You earned your fate, Siqaris. Go back to the hell you crawled out of!”

Ayanakalia makes a slashing motion.

Rocky spikes emerge from the throne and stab through Siqaris’s ghostly body.

Small puffs of gold explode. The giant’s grin freezes. His unmoving image stutters.

Then, Councilor Siqaris animates again, grinning even more broadly. The spikes poke out between his ghostly teeth. “Why the scared face? Any icarus who has a human companion cannot be a councilor. The true god of this island is me!”

Alarm courses through me.

Most worshippers have left the sanctuary, including my family. The few who hadn’t quite left fly back in, shocked by the former councilor’s return.

“See what happens when you defy the will of our gods!” Siqaris announces, his smirking tone very different from the noble, heroic man I remember. His taunts echo off the rock. “I take no pleasure in removing your wings.”

Ayanakalia attacks the vapor.

Jeren shoos Irinia to the exit and motions furiously to me. “Take Faesli out of here.”

I am too willing to obey. My hand closes over my own ceremonial dagger.

But Faesli resists. “He’s a monster?”

“He’s supposed to be dead,” Jeren tells her tautly, his dagger at the ready.

She raises her voice to the ghost. “If you are indeed a monster in this holy sanctuary…”

Siqaris snarls at her, “Get out of here, human.”

“...Be silent!”

Tingles go down my spine. It’s her compelling voice. Jeren rubs the back of his neck and shakes himself. There’s a rustle in the small gathering at the exit.

The transparent gold man grimaces and falls silent.

Oh.

That’s good.

Ayanakalia floats down to us. Her black eyes whirl on Faesli. “What did you do?”

“I established that he is a monster, and he’s also not supposed to be here. The question is, how did he escape his confinement?” Faesli leans over the big crack. “Do you see a vein of gold?”

Ayanakalia and I hunker down, peering at the cracked medallion.

“Confinement?” Jeren never changes his ready stance, guarding us from the twitching eyes and bared teeth of the otherwise unmoving, transparent, and now silent, giant. “What confinement?”

“The last quake must’ve made an opening large enough for these beetles to wiggle through. I saw several of them get destroyed in the spikes. Can you break open the rock and expose the chamber? We have to check the wards are intact.”

Ayanakalia’s irises turn black as she gestures at the rock. The medallion parts, its two edges peeling back. She tunnels into the solid rock like cutting into a thick wedge of cheese. The edges seep gold from microscopic bore holes like a weevil makes inside a crust of bread, but it’s solid rock. Nothing resembles a chamber.

Faesli peers down the long crevasse Ayanakalia has tunneled. It must go nearly down to the ocean. “Hmm. It’s hard to believe this isn’t one of the entrances.”

“Entrances to what?” I ask.

“The decaying spirit,” she says, which only raises more questions. “Maybe it wasn’t an original entry but it got connected over the years because it’s such a holy place? Let’s seal this up again and see what happens.”

Ayanakalia moves her hands together.

The rock seals up to where we started.

Ayanakalia kneels and presses her palm to the original crack. The medallion shifts and moves, black energy from Ayanakalia’s palm seeping in and knitting together the very stone. Just as when she fixed the washed-out fields, it rumples the flat stone, then smooths it.

Faesli stares at the statue. “Tell us how you escaped.”

He grins at her. “Why won’t you just die?”

“Be silent. He doesn’t know,” she tells us conversationally. “Or he’s not able to say.”

“I don’t care about where he came from.” Jeren grits his teeth. “I just want to know how to send him back again.”

“Oh, well, if the escape routes got sealed off, there’s probably just enough magic stored up in the servant.”

“The servant?”

Faesli throws the gold bug on the ground and stomps on it.

Gold dust poofs from underneath her boot.

Siqaris disappears in a shimmer like gold dust in a sunbeam.

The throne is empty.

Behind us, the watchers chatter excitedly. “Councilor Siqaris returned…he’s terrifying as our god…”

Jeren, still gripping his ceremonial dagger and facing the empty throne in a ready stance, glances back at Faesli. “You’re not human.”

Faesli straightens, lifting her chin. “I am.”

“She’s a shrine maiden from Riganos.” I step behind her. “They can compel monsters. It’s a well-known fact.”

Jeren looks at Ayanakalia.

She shrugs.

“You can ask Ix,” I insist. “Everyone knows about it.”

Faesli leans against me, silently appreciating my support.

She’s strong and brave and amazing.

I loop my arm around her waist, appreciating everything about her.

“Ikaria was isolated for years because of the barrier,” Jeren murmurs to his wife. “We didn’t get much outside information. Nor did we seek it. But you’re from the islands.”

“Halonnesos had its own isolating barrier, and we, too, were focused inward.”

Faesli perks up. “You’re from Halonnesos? But you were able to leave?”

“Yes, and not by choice.” Ayanakalia rubs her booted toe across the smooth rock. “I was chosen by the gods.”

And then she was chosen as a vessel by our ancestor.

It’s funny how similar that sounds to the giant’s words. I can do anything I want. I’m beloved of the gods.

The silence stretches.

Jeren peers over the side of the cliff to the crashing ocean far below.

Ayanakalia puts out her hands, eyes closed, silently communing with this last resting place of our race’s ancestor.

Faesli pulls free and walks the outer rim of the medallion, studying the smooth patterns and pointing at symbols only she can see.

More and more icari gather in the entrance chattering about the shocking appearance.

“Do you think it was really Councilor Siqaris?” I ask Jeren. “His painting is in the Hall of Remembrance like the other Summoned.”

“That was his mother’s doing.” Jeren finally sheaths his dagger. “He died after the cataclysm, or should have. His body disappeared down there.”

He points far below, at the break in the mountain, where waves crash against the rocks.

“Then maybe that’s where the entrance is,” Faesli says from her position just outside the medallion.

I’m about to ask again, but Jeren beats me to it. “The entrance to what?”

“The decaying corpse.”

“Of Siqaris?”

“No, I’m sure his soul must have fused with the primordial monster beneath the island.”

Jeren looks at me, then at Ayanakalia.

Then he looks back at Faesli. “The what?”

Chapter 16

Faesli

“Every island has a decaying corpse beneath it.” I repeat the simple facts we all learned in childhood to the council and priestesses gathered in their packed private meeting room. “Because every island used to be a living creature. Right?”

They look at me blankly.

“But long before humans were created, when there were only gods and titans, the island monsters were slain. As their corpses ossified, their decaying spirits sank deeper and deeper within the rock. You, um, have heard of this, haven’t you?”

“It hasn’t been relevant before now,” the jokester councilors says into the silence, his expression very much not joking now.

“Right, well, obviously magic that potent doesn’t just go away. Closest to the surface, you get sanitized magic spaces like holy springs and caverns, but inside fumaroles or fissures, the corrupted and decaying residues can leak out. If a living creature comes into contact with that, it will mutate into something unnatural, or, if the living creature is already weakened to the point of death, its body will die and its soul will ‘melt’ onto the decay. That’s why we marked such exits with wards. Wards quarantine the corrupting magic within and warn living creatures to stay out.”

Jeren holds his clasped fingers to his lips, listening hard. “And how do we kill it? The fused soul, I mean.”

“We can’t.”

“Everything dies, Faesli.”

“Yes, someday, the residue will decay enough that even trapped souls will fade.”

“And when will that be?”

“One of our ancient priestesses had a divine vision that it would finish in about ten thousand years.”

His brows lift in shock. The room is absolutely silent.

“That’s kind of long,” I admit. “The real problem is that once one creature is sucked in, the monster gains a new source of energy to lure in more victims.”

There’s another pensive silence.

“Siqaris disappeared years ago,” a councilor muses. “He’s only reappeared now because something’s happened to these wards?”

“There have been a lot of quakes recently,” another councilor points out. “Probably something got knocked loose.”

Jeren eyes me shrewdly. “You can repair them?”

Nerves hum through me. But also, excitement. We could’ve been god-touched. A council of powerful monsters is asking me for help? This is already a bigger destiny than I imagined when I left Riganos. “If I can’t, we can send for one of my priestesses. They’re blessed by Rigania.”

“So we need to find the entrance.” Jeren inhales as he straightens and looks at the elder priestesses. “Do we have entrances marked in the archives?”

The elder priestess respectfully looks at the head priestess, but Irinia is curled up on Ayanakalia’s lap, so bored she’s taking a nap.

So, the elder priestess answers diplomatically, “We’ll research it.”

“Why didn’t we know about them before now?”

“Ikaria is not like other islands,” the elder replies with mild disapproval. “We’re the chosen of the daedali. Our biggest threats have always come from external monsters drawn to our magic, not from within.”

“Then we have no idea where to start?”

Everyone is silent.

“Okay,” Jeren starts to say. “Then we’ll have to search all over the…”

At the exact same moment, I say, “Forgive me if this is stupid…”

We both stop awkwardly.

Jeren gestures for me to continue.

“I’m sure this is obvious,” I say, my tongue tangling against my mouth from nerves. “But Siqaris disappeared where your ancestor used to rest his feet. That’s not an easy place to get to, and your ancestor would’ve made an incredibly powerful guardian. Much more powerful than even our wards, I’m guessing.”

“You think the entrance is at his feet?”

I nod.

Jeren looks at Ayanakalia. “Can you…?”

She gently moves their daughter into Jeren’s arms.

Irinia suddenly jerks awake. “We found them!”

“Hm?” Jeren holds Irinia gently, soothing her like she’s in the middle of a nightmare. “Found the entrance?”

“Them!” She stares vacantly. Her unnaturally black eyes swirl with magic. “Grandma and Grandpa. We finally met them! You fall asleep, too. They’re inside.”

“Inside? Inside what?”

Irinia’s eyes close and her head tips back. A small snore emerges from her lips.

“She’s had another vision.” Ayanakalia gives Irinia a little shake to make her dark eyes open again blearily. “Tell us everything while it’s still fresh in your mind.”

The councillors mutter to each other while Jeren and Ayanakalia try to tease out Irinia’s vision, but she mumbles few details. Just that Jeren’s parents, who disappeared mysteriously when he was a little child, are “inside” something and she’s going to “meet” them.

“My parents disappeared long before our ancestor awoke,” Jeren tells me as Irinia drifts back to sleep. “They couldn’t have gotten past our ancestor without disturbing him, so they must be ‘inside’ elsewhere, whatever that means. I can’t believe her new vision has any relevance to our current crisis.”

He tucks the head priestess against his chest. “Do not let what we’ve talked about leave this room. With any luck, we’ll find the entrance quickly and stop Siqaris from returning. The last thing we want is to start a panic.”

Ayanakalia weaves to the doorway. We exit their private room.

Niq, waiting outside, instantly arises.

The rush of happiness I feel at seeing him steals my breath.

He’ll never bind our souls.

I shove the thought aside. I like him. We’re bound in a human marriage. That has to be enough.

“We’re going to go look for the entrance,” I tell him as we trot after Ayanakalia. A young priestess hurries behind us. “But we’re not supposed to tell anyone because we don’t want to cause a…”

Outside, a riot of noise ascends to a roar. Hundreds of icari from across the island fill the temple grounds and fly overhead.

Ayanakalia stops abruptly.

“…panic,” I murmur to Niq.

“Is it true?” a man with haunted eyes demands of Ayanakalia. “Siqaris is back?”

Ayanakalia looks away. “I’m sorry, Pivarin.”

The man blanches.

“And he’s a god?” someone shouts from the crowd.

“He’s beloved of the gods,” a different icarus cries. “He always told us! He’s returned to make us as powerful as in the old days!”

The energy is as chaotic and terrifying as a storm in search of a target. It’s dangerous. Jeren was afraid of a panic? I think this is worse.

Ayanakalia leans back and murmurs to the priestess, “Get Jeren.”

The young priestess disappears inside.

Ayanakalia unfolds her midnight-black wings and leaps into the air.

Niq grabs me and follows her.

We’re trailed over the complex by agitated icari, but when we go down the backside of the mountain instead of into the main temple, they assume we’re going on an errand and return to the upper complex to interrogate the councilors.

We descend the rocky cliffs to the crashing ocean and alight on tall, spiky boulders. Waves swirl well below us. At this level, the temple cavern gapes. Their ancestor’s foot must’ve been fully exposed, like someone who’s pulled up a blanket and left their toes out in the cold. The water surges against the inner walls and ebbs again, chaotic but rhythmic.

“What are we looking for?” Niq asks after a long moment.

Honestly, I have no idea. “Maybe gold veins. Like disease or fungus spreading outward from a cavern that’s just large enough to pull in a human body.”

We’re all silent longer.

“I don’t see anything like that,” Niq admits finally with a dry chuckle. “Sorry for being useless.”

“It’s okay,” I murmur. He’s warm against the damp breeze and the chill of the winter winds. “The labyrinth medallions are suspicious. They’re such obvious seals. But, this is where the body disappeared, so…”

Ayanakalia makes a noise and taps her temple. “This is not what it looked like when Siqaris disappeared. I repaired the temple to the state it was in the day before the cataclysms. When he fell, it looked like this.”

Her hands glow black, but so brightly, they seem a strange kind of off-white.

The cliff face peels back like a sausage that’s split its casing. Boulders tumble into the ocean around us, causing Niq to quickly lift us off. Our spire crumbles, and the waves foam. The bottom side of the mountain shatters and sags.

There’s a great outcry from above.

The empty throne is exposed to daylight, as is the platform with the labyrinth seal where we stood for the morning’s solstice ceremony. Scared faces peer down at us. Ayanakalia looks up at them, then refocuses. “The temple roof and walls also collapsed onto the platform, but I won’t do that now. This area down here is how it looked when Siqaris fell.”

We alight on new rocks.

The ocean currents have changed, swirling around the new boulders. Every few minutes, the waves crash into each other and make a guttural sucking noise, but that’s just air. No symbols, no vents, and no gold fungus appear.

To be thorough, Ayanakalia rolls back the ocean floor itself, and then she gouges deep handfuls out of the rock wall, scooping into the cliff faces like it’s clay, questing in an irresponsible, dangerous way for a suspicious pocket.

But there’s nothing.

Just solid, unbroken rock.

“If he fell in the water, he should’ve become one of the Summoned, surely,” Niq tells Ayanakalia. “Right?”

“He’d already lost his wings before he fell.”

“Oh, I see.”

This has come up too many times, and I feel like it might be an important point. “What exactly are the Summoned?”

Niq looks over at Ayanakalia. “Should I show her?”

In answer, Ayanakalia puts the cliff wall back and fixes the ocean floor to how it was when Siqaris fell. The crashing waves make the guttural noise again. She hangs back at a respectful distance.

“The ocean god only pursues icari that still have their wings.” Niq hops us down to a low, slippery rock and kneels at the edge. He grins back at me. “Think your compelling powers work on a god?”

“Um…”

He grips my hand tightly and plunges his other hand into the rising and falling ocean.

Nothing happens.

Niq’s gaze skates over the rippling water.

Then the darkness moves.

Tendrils of slimy black seaweed wrap around his submerged wrist like manacles. He braces, and so do I, setting my feet. Despite that, the black seaweed jerks him inexorably deeper, up to his elbow in the suddenly frothing waters.

He strains against the pressure, his muscles shaking from the effort. “Ayanakalia!”

“They’re coming,” Ayanakalia tells us tautly. “Here they are.”

Lights flicker like fireflies under the water.

The pressure breaks. Niq tumbles back onto the center of the low rock with me. The black seaweed on his fingers writhes and flops like severed tentacles, the cuts clean and almost cauterized. He flicks them into the waves, shuddering. “So if you peer over the side, you should see—whoops!”

A wave splashed up on the rock, carrying more black tentacles. They wrap around his ankle and drag him toward the edge.

He scrabbles for me.

My heart thuds with terror. I shout at the black seaweed, “Get back.”

It coils around him more tightly, winding up his calf to his knee.

“Faesli!”

I hug him as we’re both dragged over the side and plunged into the chaotic shallows.

The ocean is shockingly cold. Niq and I struggle.

Bright lights flash past my closed lids.

I force my eyes open.

The salt water is filled with blur and bubbles, but I can still see with surprising clarity. Thick ropes of tentacles wrap around Niq to drag him through the narrow rocks and out into the open sea, back toward the battle site.

But around him, hacking at the tentacles with flaming swords, swim icari warriors. One woman in shining armor slices the biggest tentacle clear through. Her sword lights the monster on fire despite them both being underwater.

Niq scrambles back up onto the rock. Another icarus cuts the thinner tendrils binding Niq’s feet, and he slides to safety.

The monster quests around the water, tentacles ghosting over me without touching, apparently still looking for Niq. Giving up, it abruptly oozes back to the open sea. The icari warriors chase it, swords still slashing.

I pop up beside him. He offers his hand and pulls me, drenched and shivering, from the water. He uses his inner sun to steam-dry, and he cups my cheeks with his warm palms. “Hold on to me.”

I hug him for all I’m worth.

Every part of him is warm and delightful.

“That was terrifying,” I finally chatter. “How could you go in a boat knowing that creature is just on the other side of the wood? Or is it not around Riganos?”

“It’s everywhere,” he confirms soothingly. “It’s a god. I guess you couldn’t command it.”

“It isn’t doing anything wrong, apparently, so don’t you ever go in the water again.” I shudder. “It’s ‘allowed’ to eat you.”

“It did strike a bargain for our souls.” Niq floats up to Ayanakalia, still cuddling and soothing me. “Did you get a good look at the Summoned? I didn’t see my father this time.”

Ayanakalia shakes her head, studying the scene below us.

Niq lowers his voice to my ear. “I see him, sometimes. He doesn’t see me and can’t respond. All he does is his duty, which is to fight.”

“Siqaris can’t be one of the Summoned.” Ayanakalia follows the clusters of lights battling below us. The small lights streak back toward the smoking battle far out to sea. “If he were, he wouldn’t be able to speak or move above the water. It must be as you said, Faesli. His spirit was captured by the island somehow.”

Niq’s chilled trembles stop long before mine. “The decaying magic really corrupted Siqaris’s spirit. He sounded nothing like the noble and well-respected man he was alive.”

Ayanakalia gives him a sidelong glance.

We rotate to study the cliffs.

They’re solid rock.

“We should ask one of my priestesses to come here,” I say finally. “Or someone who’s more sensitive than I am, like Petraya. She finds forgotten old relics all the time. It was a game to us as children, but now, it would be really useful.”

“We can send for both,” Ayanakalia says. “It would be good to have a priestess who can read.”

“I can read,” I tell her.

Her brows lift in shock.

“A bit,” I qualify. “I didn’t finish my training. I recognized most of the symbols in your labyrinth.”

“Well, then, I would love it if you could help us search in our archives.” Ayanakalia smiles.

An answering excitement sparkles in my chest.

I’m more than a duty and an inconvenience. I have a bigger destiny. And it’s normal for someone like me to be unsatisfied with a till-death-do-us-part human marriage. I’m becoming important…

Clouds rumble overhead. Large droplets of rain chill us on the cold wind.

Just audible over the waves are the roaring crowds of icari, some inside the now-opened temple, others in the main complex plaza. “Siqaris…Siqaris…Siqaris…”

Ayanakalia asks in a quiet voice, “What do we do in the meantime?”

There’s nothing we can do, and I hate that. “Wait and see if he comes back.”

Chapter 17

Niq

Siqaris’s ghost inhabits our ancestor’s throne multiple times during the gloomy season. Ayanakalia comes to get Faesli every time, but it’s impossible to trace his appearance to anything but the labyrinth seal, which is definitely embedded in solid rock.

“How can this be?” Ayanakalia asks quietly as Siqaris’s ghost booms out behind her. “If this isn’t the entry, why does he only appear when this medallion cracks?”

“The only thing I can think…” Faesli winces as Siqaris gets especially loud.

In irritation, Ayanakalia makes a clapping gesture. The beetles flying in front of the ghost explode in poofs of gold dust, and he vanishes.

Faesli rubs her ear thankfully. “My guess is that there’s only a tiny break in the wards. It widens a fraction during the earthquakes when he appears, and your fixing the labyrinth medallion cuts it off again. The escape route can’t be much larger than these bugs.”

“But it allowed in his body?”

“Different entrances, probably.”

“And we can’t find either.” She sighs in frustration and leads us out of the sanctuary, squeezing through the main temple doors quickly and into the excited crowd.

“Do not deny us!” Siqaris’s new followers scream as they try to rush the closing temple doors. “We are beloved of the gods!”

“He’s not a god,” Jeren tells them tiredly, helping the temple staff to push them off. “He’s a monster, and always has been.”

A lone voice shouts, “You’re just jealous your wife is no longer the only one with power!”

He stares dumbfounded into the crowd.

They glare back defiantly.

Jeren grimaces and shoos them. “Go home, all of you.”

Eventually, the silence and temple security get them to disperse, but they mutter resentfully and don’t go far.

Mid-winter, an elderly priestess from Riganos arrives on the Mallonia docks. We gather to welcome her, but the council is unprepared for the size or anger of the uninvited crowd. Siqaris’s new followers riot behind the temple guards hurling insults.

“Go back!” they shout at the Riganos priestess. “We don’t want you! Leave our savior alone.”

A rock whizzes past her ear and clatters against the boat.

The elderly priestess stiffens with shock.

Temple soldiers disperse the crowd while Ayanakalia apologizes profusely to the elder, but the impression is made. Her stay is suddenly curtailed to a week. Siqaris makes no appearance, and she leaves again without uncovering anything. Of course, Siqaris reappears a few days later, his loud booming voice driving his followers into new frenzies.

I can’t understand their fervent worship.

Siqaris shouts, “Humans don’t belong in the Reaches.” His followers outside repeat it, chanting.

But why don’t humans belong in the Reaches?

How does Faesli or Ix living here affect anyone else? Ix isn’t even in the Reaches. He lives in Kyrinia. But some icari spit it at him, and, even more horribly, teach his kids to chant it too.

In addition to that, my house’s duty to Sklerios Island looms over our heads. The council is too busy to hear our petition, but we manage to catch Jeren mid-emergency to listen to our request.

“Ask the master of the rota,” Jeren tells us, halfway through the door. “If he agrees, you have my permission to delay. But–”

“Head Councilor!” An acolyte pulls at his tunic urgently. “The rioters are tearing down portraits of the Summoned and threatening to put everyone except Siqaris into the sacred fire.”

“Excuse me.” Jeren jogs down the hall after the acolyte. The noise gets louder as distant doors are thrown open, and then it quiets again.

Loqen and Talassa look at each other uncomfortably and thread hands.

We turn away from the noise and go deeper into the council chambers.

The councilor who’s in charge of the rota shuffles around a quiet back room filled with maps, tallies, weather reports from every day for the last fifty years.

He enthusiastically explains his logic behind the current rota. Loqen, Talassa, and finally Faesli drift outside to the halls, leaving me in this slightly too-warm records room filled with light wells and candles.

Finally, he pauses, even though he could clearly go on for another good hour, and folds his hands. “The thing is, Niq, people don’t volunteer the way they used to. Ayanakalia fixed up too many manor houses already, and only a few people, notably your friend young Vyren, are still in need of her favors. No one’s going to be a shepherd on a hot island for three months to get a new teakettle or a pretty dress, are they? We’re out of tasty figs, so we’re having to change back over to switches.”

“It’s just really bad timing,” I say morosely. The argument that there’s no one else but you, so you have to suck it up and get it over with is one I’ve been saying to myself for my whole life, and I feel it working on me even though I absolutely hate it. The thorny vines draw tighter, binding me to the unwelcome path. “I have a higher duty to take care of Faesli.”

“Loqen is really the one who should go,” he muses. “I suppose you don’t have many options if he refuses. Your only alternative is to, I don’t know, establish your own house. Then Loqen or Talassa would have to fulfill the duty for House Ruqen. You’d be added to a subsequent rota, but it would be after your year of duty to Riganos.”

Outside, Faesli is slumped over on a bench by the office, her eyes drifting closed sleepily. She straightens.

I help her stand. “Loqen and Talassa got bored and left?”

“Some time ago,” she admits.

The crowd in front of the council building is still noisy so we exit out a narrow back way. Soaring into the gray, chilly sky is refreshing. I tell her how the conversation ended.

“You can start your own house?” she asks, startled. “Is it that easy to find a new manor?”

“Vacant properties are all over Ikaria.” I fly to a higher position and point into the eastern edge of the Reaches. “Vyren’s got his own place there. The whole strip has been empty since before my parents were born. Some past disaster, when we were attacked by a monster called a drakina, decimated the area and the land is just waiting for new owners to move in.”

She peers thoughtfully at the shadowed peaks. “How did they stay empty for all this time?”

“Most would rather take over an active house like ours, or one that hasn’t stood neglected quite so long.”

She seems really interested. “We could just start our own house…”

“But you’d be left in a falling-down house, alone, when I was inevitably sent to Sklerios a quarter or two later.”

“Could I go with you to Sklerios?”

“No.” I veer away, returning to my family’s well-established manor that glows with evening lights and warmth. “Sklerios has open pits, blind cliffs, and concealed monsters. Humans that anchor in its bay and climb around the interior rarely escape with their lives.”

“How is it safe for you, then?”

“We have wings and magic. Our animals are the ones that suffer. There’s an ‘acceptable amount of winnowing’ that happens in the flocks every year.” I hold her defiant gaze. “I won’t allow you to be ‘winnowed’, Faesli.”

She slowly softens, her shoulders lowering, and heaves a sigh. “I just want to help.”

“I know, and it’s crazy to me that you, an outsider to our house, has more sense of duty than the so-called head of our house or its mistress.” I fly back to the safety of our shed and lead her inside. “Loqen and Talassa will have to do their duty. They just have to.”

Faesli strokes my cheek, anxious and skeptical.

But even as I fight not to go, as I search frantically for signs and opportunities to refuse, the thorn manacles slip around my limbs and neck, tightening likeI have no other option.

In the last two weeks before the spring equinox, it feels inescapable, like a cursed destiny.

“Faesli.” Ix’s wife, Marine, leans on her elbow across the table. She was visiting the lands beyond Ix’s people and tonight is her welcome-home party with family and close friends. “When Niq’s on Sklerios, I could come by once a week and fly you around. I know how hard it is to run everywhere.”

Faesli’s cheeks flush. “Thank you.”

“She might not need it,” I tell Marine anxiously. “I’m not planning to go anywhere. I have to prioritize my duty to Faesli’s goddess.”

Faesli pokes her food.

“That’s right.” Marine pats my hand reassuringly. “Where are Loqen and Talassa?”

“They’re hosting a gathering at our house.”

She tilts her head. “Without you?”

“It’s a party in honor of Talassa’s uncle, Eraqen.” I lower my voice. “He’s one of the main founders of the new Siqaris cult.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Ah, yes. I go away on one little diplomatic mission and the entire island collapses. Or, at least, good sense has collapsed.”

“Luckily, you have returned to put things right,” Ix says grandly, his eyes and nose red from good cheer.

The married couple touch foreheads, sharing a sweet moment. My chest thumps. Marine and Ix make me feel it’s possible to live the rest of my life with Faesli, human and icarus. It’s not only possible, it’s also the safest and best type of relationship. Marine has no gold feathers, so I doubt she ever pulled one for Ix, and yet, anyone can see how contented and happy their household is.

Eventually Ix has to go entertain the other parts of the table. Marine returns to the more serious topic on her mind. “I can’t understand how quickly this cult has grown. And it’s sucked in so many people I never would’ve guessed. Eraqen’s a reasonable man. Now he’s leading them?”

“Eraqen was trapped under rubble when our ancestor awoke,” I point out. “He’s not going to miss being summoned a second time.”

“Okay, but following Siqaris? People who look like you”—Marine gestures at my dark-amber skin and white-blond hair—“I get, but people who look like me?” She points to her own wavy black hair, threaded with tiny strands of gold. “We would’ve been killed in the Reaches during Siqaris’s endlessly planned but never-enacted purge. How dare his targets and victims parrot his own talking points?”

Ayanakalia shakes her head in agreement. “The last time I flew out of the temple after dispersing his image, they booed.”

“I was shocked when I saw how many people were wearing those gold strings.” Marine crunches tender, fresh horta with a drizzle of sweet vinegar. “And not only kids who’re too young to know better. We adults were there. It’s like some collective amnesia.”

Ayanakalia glances at me. “I think most people did like Siqaris, though.”

“Most icari, sure.”

“Blah.” Marine’s daughter plops into her lap. “Siqaris blah. Look, Mama! A mud puppy!”

“Do you know that he broke my wrist?” Marine tells her middle daughter, pushing the disintegrating mud sculpture onto a plate before it dirties them both. “We’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but apparently I should’ve been reciting his crimes daily. This man tore the wings off any icari he disliked. This man attacked humans. He killed himself rather than join them. How can anyone worship such a horrible person?”

Marine isn’t asking this question of me, but she is staring directly at me when she asks it.

I swallow. “I don’t remember any of that.”

“You were a literal child,” Marine reassures me. “Anyway, you were also never his target. Humans filled all the coastal villages, but now, the only humans on the whole island are Faesli and Ix.”

Faesli swallows. “What happened to the others?”

“They became icari.”

Faesli blinks. “You can become icari?”

“I did.”

Faesli is stunned.

Marine smiles cryptically.

I explain. “Ayanakalia can give anyone wings.”

“How?”

“Our ancestor’s power wells up in her and then wings burst out. I’ve only seen it a couple of times in my life.”

“Right?” Marine pokes Ayanakalia’s elbow. “You should be worshipped on that throne, not booed. You can see dead people. I don’t know anyone else who can do that. And Faesli’s quite popular, isn’t she?”

Faesli blinks. “I am?”

“Spiritually,” Marine clarifies. “Tell her, Ayanakalia.”

“You’re followed by six spirits right now.” Ayanakalia lists four men and two women. Faesli recognizes names, beloved relatives that preceded her in death, and of course her former fiancé, but is shocked by some of the others.

“I can’t believe my parents’ old neighbor is dead. I was happy to leave him behind on Riganos. Isn’t it weird he’s followed me to Ikaria?”

“Location means nothing to spirits. Often they approach the living due to their own unresolved issues, but whether the intention is good or ill, they can no longer affect us.” Ayanakalia smiles sadly. “No matter how much we might wish they could.”

Faesli mirrors her smile, then leans against me.

My body fills with heat.

We lie together often in the morning or night, and yet these small touches, these little things she does to seek my support every day, make me feel like a husband.

This moment, right now, surrounded by friends and warmth and delicious food, is perfect. I want to pin it in time and make it last forever.

“…is upsetting!” Jeren gets louder, and we all look down the long table at him. “Because we already battled these ideas, and now they’re coming out of the mouths of children! And adults who should know better. People I’ve known my whole life! I want to shake them. Don’t you understand what we sacrificed to defeat this?”

Marine flexes her healed wrist, nodding.

“How is it that this monster has reappeared and converted them all to his side so easily? Is it my fault for not raising them well? Did I not impress them enough with the danger?”

Jeren notices we’re listening and glances down the table, easily including us.

“I can’t help believing…” His gaze catches on Faesli. He frowns, but then he pushes through with his original thought. “…if everyone had stormed in at his first appearance and shouted at him to get out, to dissipate and die off, I almost believe that he would have gone. But instead, he’s grown himself a new army. They search for him, sing to him, make these gold ties, call him a reborn god. And they say I’m the jealous one!” He shakes his head in frustration.

The other men pat his shoulder, pour more of Ix’s special liquor, and try to reassure Jeren.

“They’ll figure it out,” Ix prophesies.

“Will they?” Jeren accepts the refill. “Even if they do, the desire to be right is so strong, and the ability to be wrong, to admit fault and grow and change, is rare. But…”

Ayanakalia meets his gaze.

Jeren hesitates, then lifts his cup to her. “In the end, I suppose, all we can do is learn from our mistakes and speak out when we know the truth.”

She smiles.

He smiles back, then sips his drink.

They’re a couple that has pulled feathers, Ayanakalia and Jeren. When one was dying, they bound their souls, I’m told.

Even at the point of death, that will never be me. I’d rather die than doom someone else–doom Faesli–to live the rest of her life in chains.

Their confidence is awe-inspiring and a little arrogant, I think. But maybe arrogance is okay for people like them. Jeren’s the most important man on the island and Ayanakalia’s basically a living god.

Maybe I’m just envious because I lack their strength. If I can’t stop myself from getting separated on a three-month assignment to Sklerios, how dare I think of promising Faesli that I’ll stay by her side, inseparable in spirit, for this life and beyond?

I am starting to think about it, though…

As the chilly, wet days warm and we race toward the spring equinox, and Faesli touches my cheek and kisses my lips and tells me she thinks I’m great in spite of everything, I think of it over and over and over again.

Chapter 18

Faesli

The week before the spring equinox, Talassa raps on our door.

I open it cautiously. “Niq’s gone on a quick errand. He’ll be back soon.”

“Oh, I don’t care about that.” Talassa holds out a large, finely stitched bag. “I was going through some old things and I thought you might like these.”

I let her in.

She pulls out a long pitch-sealed cape with a hood. “For rainy days.” And two buttery-soft lambswool caps. “Because I know you like hats.” She also includes a small cup, some lotion, and a pebble of salt. “So life without Niq isn’t too rough.”

These items are thoughtful and beautiful.

But I murmur, guarded, “I thought Niq still hadn’t agreed to go to Sklerios.”

“Oh, he hasn’t, but you know he will.” She looks around the rooms admiringly and walks to the smoking brazier. “Loqen was right. Niq’s improved this place pretty nicely. It barely looks like a shed at all.”

I smile with a closed mouth.

“He’s stocked up your pantry, I see. You’ll be fine while he’s gone.”

“I guess we’ll see what happens next week,” I start to say.

She cuts me off with a laugh. “Of course he’ll go. Niq will sacrifice anything to do ‘his duty’.”

Heat suffuses my face. “He has a duty to stay with me.”

“You think you’re different then?” Her amber eyes slide down to mine. The white-gold magic circles her irises. “You think, between a duty to everyone else and a duty just to you, he’s going to choose you?”

An ember pops in the brazier.

Talassa kneels down, rolls up her sleeve, and reaches between the grates, fearless of the superheated metal, and picks up a glowing coal with her bare fingers. She twists it, studying it with her amber eyes.

The wool caps no longer feel so soft in my hands. They feel scratchy.

The silence stretches.

“Yes,” I say finally.

“He’ll never love you as much as you love him.” She eyes me. “Then again, you got married at a bride hunt, so maybe you don’t care about love.”

She’ll never be your wife.

Anxiety streaks through me. “At least he cares about your house. You don’t care, and yet, Loqen’s the head.”

“Loqen’s doing more for House Ruqen right now than Niq ever did for it in his entire life.” She flicks the now-darkened coal back into the brazier with the others and stands. “Well, you’ll see. And when your year of duty to Niq is over, you can escape just like I did.”

“It’s not…”

It’s not a duty is what I want to say, but she doesn’t care, and I don’t waste my breath.

She walks away into the drizzling rain, her white wings with their four vibrant gold feathers materializing, and she stretches them up into a natural rain shelter over her intricately braided, white-blond hair. Her gold-stitched white slippers barely seem to touch the ground.

As soon as she disappears into the main house and I shut the door, I’m overwhelmed with everything I should’ve said.

First of all, she doesn’t know anything. Niq’s reliable and honest. His word is a contract. He doesn’t break it. I love that about him so much.

And on top of that, he does love me. He’s never said it, but I’m his favorite person. His amber eyes light up when he sees me. He always offers me the bigger or nicer half of a treat, and in bed, he never takes his pleasure until after I do. At our wedding feast on Riganos, he murmured to me that he likes to see my expression when I’m enjoying myself, and he’s proved that to be true countless times since.

Niq breezes in the door shaking his damp hair. He automatically seeks me and grins. My heart stumbles, and I feel hot.

He’ll never love you as much as you love him.

His welcoming grin changes to concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Talassa came by with gifts.”

“That’s generous.” He frowns as he looks through them. “Why?”

“It’s a bribe.”

He glances at me sharply. “For?”

“To keep me from troubling her and Loqen while you’re gone.”

“They’re still saying that I’m going to go to Sklerios?”

I nod.

He sighs heavily and scrubs his face. “Why can’t they just…” He makes a strangled noise.

I let him feel his feelings.

Then I say neutrally, “Just keep refusing. What’s the worst that can happen? They’re not sending you off at sword-point. This is Loqen’s house. Let him feel the consequences, and don’t water his vine with your blood sacrifice.”

He shakes his head silently, still covering his face. “House Ruqen has to fulfill its duty.”

My stomach twists. “You also have a duty to me.”

“I know.” He abruptly drops his hands, expression despondent. “But don’t you feel like everything is coming together to make it easier for us to separate? We filled the pantry long before the rota was decided, but now it’s going to serve in my absence. Talassa’s giving you gifts. Marine will fly you around to run errands once a week. And I know you’d be fine anyway. You’re great at solving your own problems. Every excuse I can think of is cut off, every alternative is ripped away, and I have no choice. The thorns are wrapping around my neck, reminding me that I am a faithful son, that my behavior will determine the respect my children receive, and choking me with my duty…”

You think, between a duty to everyone else and a duty just to you, he’s going to choose you?

“I don’t want you to go,” I say calmly.

“What choice do I have?” Niq sits heavily against the bedframe and tugs me into his arms. “Doesn’t it feel like fate is pressing my feet into the earth? Tell me how to fight and I will. I feel like I’m going crazy and then I think it’s just three months. Just three months anyway. Am I wrong for being this upset? I just want to know how to fight…”

I already told him, specifically, how to fight. “Talassa’s really mad at you.”

“Talassa’s been angry ever since her sister became the mistress of House Qayarinthos and I refused to make her the mistress of House Ruqen. She should be happy that Loqen’s gotten her everything she wants.”

I almost accept that.

But then, a perverse part of me says, “Maybe she wanted to do the soul-binding ritual with you—”

“Pull gold feathers?” He rears back. “No, she would never.”

“Did you ask?”

“She’s even more vehement about it than Loqen and I.”

“Why?”

“Her grandmother was summoned. She watched her grandfather wither and die. No matter how much she cared for him, no matter how she encouraged or begged him to live, it was for nothing. He was already gone in his mind. No, Talassa would never have gotten engaged if she’d thought I’d want to bind souls. And back then, I was the same. I was sure there’d never be any reason strong enough to change my mind, but then I…”

He breaks off and stares into the distance.

I feel like I’m looking over a cliff. Breathless, like one small gust of wind will nudge me off the safe ground and plunge me into an abyss.

Niq licks his lips. “It’s irresponsible, isn’t it? Pulling a gold feather, binding souls for all time. Like bragging about your happiness before the gods.”

A crushing sensation presses on my ribs and a painful lump forms in my throat.

“It hurts a lot, I’m told,” he says, in a more conversational tone. “I never feel the white feathers, but the gold ones are supposed to feel like ripping out your teeth or your fingernails. They ache for months and leave behind a terrible scar. I always thought I’d do it for my children. If you have to go through pregnancy and childbirth, tearing out a quarter of my magic for a life’s blessing is the least I can do.”

My heart thumps and thumps.

I feel like I’ve fallen off the cliff and Niq thinks he’s caught me, but I’ve actually slipped through his oiled fingers and am still tumbling for the ground.

Why am I so upset? He’s never misled me about his intentions. He wanted to be bound to me as a human. He’s been honest from the beginning.

My problem is that I want more. I want everything he could possibly offer and more.

I acutely remember the expression on Sikyon’s face at the bride hunt. The earnestness in his too-bright eyes as he scratched his fingernail down my cheek saying we were meant to be together.

His sickness has gotten inside me. It’s roiling around like gold bugs, biting me up.

I am Niq’s favorite. I am his queen.

And it is not enough.

I want him to tear out his magic and bind his soul to mine. I want him to suffer for me, screaming in agony from the pain, and I want to scream in agony too. I want him not just to smile for me, but to give me every other expression too. I want him to be unable to look away.

I didn’t feel this obsession when Perthos left. He didn’t want me to travel with him, and I was disappointed, but I thought we’d have the rest of our lives together. Maybe that’s colored my perception of Niq. I like him so much more, so I don’t want to make that mistake and take our time for granted.

But Niq has told me from the beginning that he would never bind our souls.

We met at a bride hunt. He’s been more than amazing. I’m just greedy now.

The problem is me. I need to get over it.

Or…

“If I get wings…” I say aloud, slowly. “Then I could go to Sklerios. Couldn’t I?”

Chapter 19

Faesli

My question hangs in the air, heavy and uncomfortable.

Niq’s expression seems to be split between a smile, like he’s trying to agree with me, and a frown, like he’s unconvinced. “You? Get wings?”

“From Ayanakalia. Like the humans in the coastal towns.”

“Ah, I don’t know. It could be a favor or a blessing or…Ix doesn’t have wings.”

“He also doesn’t have this.” I shift up my cap to point at my forehead.

As always, Niq averts his eyes, wincing.

That hurts too, but I push through it, sliding the cap down again to disguise my ugliness. “If I’m marked by the island, that has to mean I’m supposed to be an icarus too. Then I’d have my wings, and I could go with you to Sklerios.”

“I guess you must be right.” His lips twitch and he stares off over my shoulder. “Again, everything seems to arrange itself so there’s only one path…”

He’s not as happy as I want him to be.

If I were more important to him, if I could see inside his mind and make myself more desirable, then this love wouldn’t be as one-sided…

“Hmph.” He finally shakes himself out of his thoughts and focuses on me. “We’ll ask at the temple.”

“Okay.” I pull apart his tunic and stroke the long center line from his collarbone down to the white-gold treasure trail on his sucked-in abdomen. “I’m not mad at you.”

“I’m very pleased to hear that,” he rumbles in a warmer tone, and then he finds my lips, and we unite our bodies in a way that I very much like.

We go to the temple afterward. Ayanakalia isn’t available, but we receive word that she agrees to our request and will give me wings after the big ceremony at the spring equinox. There shouldn’t be any recovery time needed so I can go to Sklerios right away.

The last days pass in a whirlwind of nervous excitement.

If we go together to Sklerios, I don’t know how many opportunities we’ll have for intimacy. Niq says there’s one cabin, which is barely more than a rough shelter that no one but the captain sleeps inside. So I try to take every opportunity to be with him, as if the very hourglass of time itself is draining against us, as if every speck of sand is one less moment of our lives.

The day before the spring equinox, we haul a bag down to the main temple complex.

It’s quiet.

We leave it with the others heading out to Sklerios, then we stroll through the streets of Daedakros.

Unlike before the winter solstice, the air is tense. Laughter is cut short. The same workshops and tents and games are set up, but there are no cheers or wild songs. The followers of Siqaris wear gold ties and share meaningful glances. They’re sure he’ll appear tomorrow, at the spring equinox festival, and fully ascend as their god.

The council is also worried about it.

After the communal evening meal and twilight rituals in the Daedakros square, Jeren stands before the five moving white-and-gold icari statues and announces, “Due to the expectation of larger-than-usual crowds and the risk of distractions, tomorrow’s ceremony will take place here in the square rather than in the main temple.”

Dissent erupts across the gathering.

“This is an outrage,” Talassa’s uncle Eraqen, a man I’ve only seen in passing, shouts. “It’s never been in the square before.”

“It’s been here many times,” Jeren corrects him, unmoved. “You don’t remember because you usually go to the festival at Nikellios. Where you live.”

Talassa’s uncle glares back.

Grumbling accusations that Jeren’s a coward who’s afraid his wife’s going to be overthrown by a more powerful icarus god causes him to grimace. He doesn’t grace those accusations with a response, but he’s clearly bothered. We disperse early and head home.

In the morning, the air is breathless. Low clouds threaten rain.

Knowing that we aren’t coming back, Niq and I take too long closing up our little home, putting out the brazier, and ensuring everything is scrubbed clean and locked up. We leave late for the ceremony.

When we arrive at the square, we’re stuck at the back. So many extra people have come from the other cities, Niq can’t reach the spot Loqen and Talassa have chosen with Sennalia. The colorful crowd is hemmed in by the five icari statues in the square.

Luckily, the start is also delayed. The priestesses have set up and are ready, but nobody’s begun the ceremony.

“They can’t find the head priestess,” a woman squeezed in front of us murmurs to her friend. “Again.”

“She’s just a child,” the friend replies impatiently. “They should assign another priestess and get on with the ceremony.”

Jeren and Ayanakalia conference with other priestesses at the front. They must come to the same decision because finally, the eldest priestess begins the ritual.

Just as during the winter solstice, we sing and chant, but with new songs and words, and I do my best to follow a beat behind everyone else. The hopeful spring air hums with magic. The hairs on my arms tingle under the fine cloak Niq gave me. The gold seal at the center of the square gleams with gold.

And so does the sixth icarus statue looming behind the ritual ground.

Wait.

Six statues? Weren’t there only supposed to be five?

I stop vocalizing.

Niq leans down to me. “What’s wrong?”

“Has that sixth statue always been there?” I ask, pointing. “It gives me the creeps.”

“We only have five…” Niq breaks off.

The normal five statues twist and move along their tracks, gleaming white and gold. The sixth statue looms, stationary, behind the priestesses. It’s a shimmery iridescent gold.

Everyone seems to become aware of it at the same moment.

Jeren holds up his hands, stopping the priestess and interrupting the ceremony. “Who brought this sixth statue?”

A breeze whistles across the courtyard.

Thunk.

On the breast of my cloak, a gold beetle lands, clattering and heavy.

Dread seeps into me.

“Is it a prank?” Jeren demands of the crowd.

The crowd answers, drowning out any one response.

“It’s not a prank,” I tell Niq, urgently showing him the gold beetle. “We have to get to the front and tell them.”

Niq pales, then pulls me closer and, since the crowd is so thick here, pushes toward an area with clearance so he can spread his wings. The crush of visitors from the other villages makes it impossible for us to get by.

“Continue the ceremony!” an elder in the front cries out at Jeren. “We’ve delayed enough. The feast is going to get cold.”

Jeren holds up his hands. “We will resolve this afterward. Continue.”

Behind him, the statue’s eyes glow gold.

“It’s sucking up the power,” I shout over the noise at Niq. “It’s growing stronger right before our eyes!”

“Let us through!” Niq pushes against the crowd, unable to get free to spread his wings.

The priestess stops the ceremony again.

Dissent starts immediately, louder.

And at the front, the gold statue moves.

Not like the mechanical statues on their tracks, the parts clicking or wheels clattering, but like a person with gold muscles flexing, hair and fabric rippling, irises focusing. Gold lips stretch across gold teeth. “So what, Jeren? You think you’re good enough to fight me?”

The square goes silent.

Jeren looks back at the statue with dread. “You’re supposed to be stuck in the main temple.”

“That’s a lie. The true god of this island is me!”

Jeren’s hand closes over the pommel of his ceremonial dagger. “I will kill you as many times as I have to—”

The crowds erupt in protest.

Niq barks an alarm, grabbing me, as the rioters around us surge for the statue, rushing the stage.

Jeren hops back and floats out of range of the crowd’s shrieking, bare-handed, violent rage. Ayanakalia floats beside him. She studies the crowd implacably. But Jeren looks hopeless.

“Congratulations.” The statue chuckles and strides toward the crowd, kicking and stomping the unwary. “You’re in time to see another of your women die.”

The crowd instantly changes directions and surges away with screams of alarm.

Niq presses me against a column as the crowd flees the square. Decorations and poles crash over us. Niq presses me harder against the stone, groaning from the crush.

“Where are you going?” the gold Siqaris statue taunts Jeren and Ayanakalia, chuckling. “You can’t even finish the cowardly act that you’ve started? For shame. You made so many attacks and landed not one fatal blow.”

Niq pulls me off the column. Escape is blocked. He creeps toward the statue to get to the open sky.

The statue picks up the ritual cauldron and throws it at Jeren.

Jeren dodges.

Niq freezes and makes a noise. “I thought he was vapor!”

“Something changed,” I tell Niq grimly, my heart thumping with nerves. “His power has grown.”

The statue heaves a ritual table at Jeren and Ayanakalia like a child tossing things in anger.

Ayanakalia holds up her hands in a blocking gesture.

The table hits an invisible wall and falls in front of her with a crash.

Siqaris throws more things, which are easily blocked, until a pile forms in front of Ayanakalia and Jeren, so tall they can’t be seen.

“Everyone you touch is devoured by your curse,” the statue tells the pile. “You are weak, cursed, a bad specimen of the icari.”

“Siqaris!” Talassa’s uncle, Eraqen, lands in the middle of the square. He bows low. “We’ve been waiting for your return. We welcome you as our true god.”

The statue turns smugly to Eraqen. “My legacy will not be sullied.”

“Guide us, oh revered one.”

“You’ve been concealing a human in the Reaches.”

The uncle’s mouth opens and closes. “Not me, my honored lord.”

“Step forward and answer.”

“It was…” Talassa’s uncle looks around wildly and happens to spot Niq. He points. “It was him!”

The statue rotates its head unnaturally to Niq like an owl that can swivel too many degrees. The rest of the gold body follows a moment later.

Niq stiffens and puts himself in front of me.

The statue advances, focusing fully on Niq. “You know the punishment for bringing a human up here. Ruqen?”

Niq holds his ground, wings out to shield me. “It’s not a crime, Councilor Siqaris.”

The statue winds back. “See what happens when you defy the will of our gods!”

Niq’s going to get hurt.

Nerves twang in my body as I step out from behind Niq’s shelter. The power of my ancestors surges into me, giving me the will, the authority, and the grandeur of a bigger soul to force my whim on a monster. “Halt!”

The statue freezes, its gold irises fixed on Niq, arm still pulled back, hand curled into a fist.

“You are not a protector of Ikaria. Dissipate,” I order it.

A metallic shiver goes up the frozen statue from sandaled feet to the top of its head. The statue blinks. Its mouth is stuck in a rictus. But the eyes force themselves toward me.

My order must not have been confident enough. I feel Niq’s worry and the twisted emotions of the spectators.

Eraqen shouts at us, “What are you doing?”

Behind us and to the side, the giant pile of things that the statue threw moves aside. Ayanakalia pushes it away, clearing her path. Jeren stands beside her.

No, I can’t be distracted by any of them. Channeling my ancestors, I yell with my full lung capacity, “Disintegrate!”

A rattling sound starts at the crown of its head. The statue collapses from the top downward, separating into little gold bugs.

The dreadful hissing noise increases as their wings activate and they fly toward us.

Niq shifts his weight uncomfortably. “Faesli…”

“Go away!” I shriek.

The cloud of insects scatters like soap suds meeting oil. They fly out and away from us. The uncle ducks, and the bugs fly over his head and back toward the main temple complex, like an ancient plague.

I gasp for breath, my chest heaving like I’ve just run a race.

“You’ve done it!” Jeren waves, overjoyed.

Standing where the insects were is the missing head priestess. Her dark eyes flicker weakly, and she staggers toward me. Her throat works like she’s going to be sick.

Her small mouth opens.

Gold insects pour out.

“Irinia!” Jeren cries, running for her.

She doubles over, heaving up bugs, then collapses into her father’s arms.

Chapter 20

Niq

The spring equinox ceremony devolves into chaos.

Across the island, elders fly in from the other villages to the council chambers to learn what happened. Everyone felt the shift in energy. While Faesli is locked in the private conference with all the important people, I repeat what I witnessed to the new arrivals until I’m breathless, again, from the shock of it all.

A sixth statue appeared in the square. We didn’t notice it at first. It sucked up our ritual power, attacked Jeren and Ayanakalia, then it came after me. And then…

Then I lie.

I say…

The statue suddenly broke apart into a swarm of gold beetles. Inside was the head priestess. She threw up bugs—they got inside her!—and she passed out.

I show them a deceased beetle from the square for emphasis.

The grossness of throwing up bugs consumes everyone’s attention, and I luckily don’t have to deflect many follow-up questions. Irinia woke up just before the conference began, and they think she’s going to be okay.

I tell the lie of omission for one reason.

Talassa’s uncle and his followers are shouting in front of the main temple complex. They’re seething as they wait for their turn to go before the council and excoriate us for daring to stop their savior’s return. I doubt they care in the least that their savior trampled multiple people and shouted about killing women before attacking us. Eraqen was right there, and I can already imagine what version of the story he’s told to his followers.

Instead of focusing on Faesli’s role in stopping their savior’s return, I hope to distract everyone with the grossness of throwing up insects. And so far, that strategy seems to be working.

“There are fissures in the labyrinth medallion by Kyrinia,” Marine tells me, listening in as I regale yet another group with what happened. “A gold substance started seeping upward, out of the cracks.”

“It’s the same in Nikellios,” an elder says.

“And in Mallonia!” another tells us.

“It’s not quite the right viscosity for gold, though,” Marine says. “It’s more like insect blood, you know? Like goo. It’s good that you and Faesli are leaving today.” She glances meaningfully at the resentful crowd across the plaza and then presses her lips together, thinking. “Maybe I should find a way to send Ix away too.”

My heart thumps. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not ideal, but if he’s targeted by a bug monster…” She pokes the shiny, dead beetle on my palm. Its insides got removed so it’s hollow. “Are any of us safe? I wonder.”

The council doors open, and councilors and priestesses stream past us. They go out the main doors where temple guards are holding back crowds. The followers of Siqaris surge forward with an outcry.

A respected elder manages to calm them.

“Now isn’t the time,” an elder chastises Eraqen and the other followers. “It isn’t the time! This is a festival day. Go back to your villages and honor your ancestors.” Siqaris’s followers disperse reluctantly.

Faesli remains inside the inner chamber with Jeren’s family. Once more, Irinia is curled up in her mother’s lap, and Ayanakalia strokes her hair and rocks her.

The father of another person on the rota bursts past us. “Jeren! How dare you insist on sending my child away to Sklerios now, at this critical time?”

Jeren stands wearily and intercepts the father with a placating tone. “We have to think about the future, not just the current crisis.”

The father is unconvinced, and Jeren uses all his best arguments to ease the man back toward the door.

I go to Faesli. Soon this crisis will be behind us and we’ll be far from here. “Did you want to eat something before you get wings? They cleaned up the square and are laying out the feast.”

She turns her solemn, sky-colored eyes on me.

Even before she opens her mouth, my stomach drops.

She’s not coming with me.

Aloud, she asks, “If you had to choose between your whole house and me, who would you choose?”

My heart thumps. I swallow.

I must be wrong. It was her idea to get wings. She’s coming with me, and I’m just nervous because of everything else that’s happened today.

I try to make a joke. “I can’t choose both?”

She shakes her head.

I lick my suddenly dry lips. I can’t quite catch my breath. “But with your wings, we’re going to Sklerios together…”

“I asked her to delay.” Ayanakalia’s voice, though soft, cuts into our discussion. She settles Irinia more comfortably on her lap. “Faesli is the only one beside me who can stop Siqaris. I don’t think giving her wings will affect her power, but I can’t afford to be wrong.”

“Can’t you send for more women from Riganos?” I ask, my voice cracking.

“We’ve requested them, but no one has been willing to come. And with the current attitudes, I don’t blame them.”

Faesli watches me without emotion.

I feel like a petulant child, and I have to clench my fists to keep from throwing a very un-adult fit. Ironic that it’s here, in the exact same chamber where I was told my father wouldn’t be coming back, and that I had to put aside my childish desires forever. I couldn’t scream like my brother or go catatonic like my mother, and if I did, then I was only delaying the inevitable work that I would still have to do, so I might as well just get it over with as quickly as possible.

“You have to be the man of the house now,” they told me. “If you cry and fall to pieces, the house will collapse. You’re the oldest son. Be strong.”

But since Faesli’s come, everything’s changed.

Instead of focusing my whole attention on my duty, I’ve been forced to expand my interests and explore what I actually do want to do. The other icari made fun of me, elders joking that I was an over-achieving citizen, but I truly liked going to all those harvests this fall and winter. They were fun. Faesli’s engagement made the work delightful, and I felt my worth in my countrymen’s gratitude.

So when Faesli suggested getting her wings and coming with me to Sklerios, I thought maybe we would have fun there, too. I’d no longer have to choose between duty and desire. I’d get to have both.

But that was a mistake. She can’t come. I don’t get the things I want, and I should’ve known that all along.

“I…” My heart thumps hard, out of rhythm. “I don’t want to leave you here while I’m gone.”

Her brow lightens.

“I can’t leave you with that spirit on the loose,” I say, mentally reaching for the unfamiliar handholds to keep myself from getting swept away by responsibility and destiny. “There’s no telling what he’ll do next.”

A hopeful smile blossoms across her face.

“Faesli is immune to him,” Ayanakalia points out to me. “So she’s perfectly safe here. She can get rid of him more effectively than I can.”

“Even so.”

“Faesli’s the most important person on Ikaria right now, which is another reason we can’t have her going a day’s flight away.”

Faesli takes my hand. “Then you’ll stay with me instead of going to Sklerios?”

“What?” The father at the door with Jeren erupts with indignation. “You’re letting House Ruqen skip going to Sklerios but not my family?”

“I haven’t heard anything about that.” Jeren glances back at us, annoyed, but he focuses on placating the man. “Let’s talk outside.”

“Every house has to do its duty, you said. Even in times like these, you said. Everyone except House Ruqen?”

“I’m sure Niq isn’t deserting us. He’s a man of his word, so–”

“If you don’t send House Ruqen but you send my house, that’s favoritism!”

“Let’s continue this conversation outside with your child.” Jeren all but shoves the angry father out of the council chambers.

The silence is heavy.

I suck in one breath after another.

The weight of the entire island crushes down on my shoulders.

I knew this was coming the moment the rota was announced at the winter solstice.

From the moment Loqen and Talassa looked at me and said I had to go, I’ve felt thorny vines wrapping around me, but I kept convincing myself I’d think of another argument, a way to get out of it. And then when Faesli solved the problem, like she always does, I was afraid to trust it yet I still tried to convince myself it would all work out.

But that dream was stupid. Trying to avoid responsibility is pointless.

The ancestor’s scream summons all worthy warriors.

There is no escape.

Faesli doesn’t get wings. She can’t come to Sklerios. I have to go alone.

This is just another thing I have to accept. I’m not allowed what I want. I have to do what’s required or else the house will collapse, only this time, “the house” is the whole island.

Faesli’s hopeful smile fades.

I rest my hand on hers. “There are five seasonal workers on Sklerios, and we rotate vacation leave. I’m newest, so you can expect me in the afternoon in a little over two weeks.”

Chapter 21

Faesli

I watch Niq from the edge of the cliff until he disappears into the gloomy afternoon. A light rain stings my cold cheeks.

Then I turn away.

I like that he keeps his word. Even when it goes against my desires, he cares about others and about fairness. He’s only doing what he feels is right.

But for one heart-piercing moment I thought Talassa was wrong and Niq was about to choose me…

Bitterness seeps into me.

He didn’t want to leave, at least. He wasn’t humming under his breath like Perthos did packing on the last day.

Of course, if a monster had come back to terrorize Riganos, I doubt very much Perthos would’ve wished me good luck and sailed off. He would’ve changed plans at least.

Then again, monsters cause chaos on Ikaria all the time. Achiron sometimes wrongly eats people, but when was the last time he got onto land and rampaged? Not in our living memory. Something called a drakina wiped out an entire neighborhood of Ikaria families within a recent generation. Today, a corrupted spirit returned and temporarily kidnapped their own child and yet the Council head and temple staff are making everyone go about their chores like it’s any other equinox. This really is just another day for them, I guess.

I don’t want to leave you here while I’m gone.

Niq didn’t want to, but he did anyway, in the end.

At least the others said nice things.

Faesli’s the most important person on Ikaria right now. Warmth glows in my chest. Ayanakalia said that. We can’t have her going a day’s flight away.

More than someone’s “useless human” wife, more than a girl who studied and failed to qualify to become a priestess, more than a woman with unneeded abilities, I’m important. I’m a descendant of shrine maidens, I fight monsters, and I’m being recognized for that. Isn’t that great? Maybe I, too, can have a larger destiny than my birth.

Even if Niq doesn’t care to bind himself to me…

Happiness and bitterness swirl inside, dimming the outside world.

I eat a subdued afternoon meal in the square. Temple staff collect trash and pull down the wrecked decorations. There’s no music, only short murmured conversations with collars turned up against the incoming mist and gloom. Nobody looks at me.

Afternoon fires flicker in the sconces and the windows above the tightly packed houses of Daedakros. Everyone is sheltering inside after the strangeness of the day. The walk home is long and twilight is darkening the sky as I finally reach the familiar road.

The outer walls of Niq’s family property are piled stones covered in chalk marks. The boundary markers won’t keep out a criminal or monster who’s determined to get in, but they do keep away casual mischief. Niq used to refresh them every day, he said, but now Loqen does it.

On the far edge of the property, where it goes down into a small ravine, Niq’s stoic friend Vyren is working. A few days ago I overheard Niq tell Loqen that he’d offered the asparagus starts outside the wall to Vyren. Now, Vyren sticks in a long pike and rocks it back and forth, then pulls the straggly starts out of the ground, shakes off the dirt, and lays them on an old piece of fabric.

I raise my hand to wave.

He ignores me.

Oh well. I haven’t seen him much since our wedding feast. He spends most of his time on Sklerios earning favors or working on his mansion.

I reach the main gate and stop.

The wooden gate doors, which have never been closed in all the months I’ve lived here, are shut. I press on them. They’re latched on the inside and don’t move.

I set back on my heels.

Were Loqen and Talassa so frightened by today’s events that they flew straight home and locked the entrance? But this gate wouldn’t keep out any icari. It’s only useful for keeping out people that can’t fly.

Like me.

The distant sound of conversation floats over the closed doors.

“Hello?” I raise my voice. “I’m locked outside.”

It’s suspiciously quiet, as if everyone has frozen in place.

Down the road, Vyren resolutely ignores me.

I step back, across the road, and hop up on the biggest rock. Standing on my tiptoes and leaning against a tree, I can just see the main house’s roof.

Tonight, as on past evenings, Loqen sits on the roof in a lounge chair. Homey smoke curls from the kitchen hearth fire. He sits under a fabric awning with Talassa and his mother. They have their backs to me.

“Hey!” I jump on the uneven rock and wave my arms. “I didn’t go to Sklerios after all. Let me in!”

Talassa glares at Loqen.

Oh.

My heart thumps.

Dread seeps into me as I slowly understand.

Then I harden myself.

I’m not helpless. I’m not a victim. I’m not stupid or gullible or overly trusting. Loqen promised Niq he’d take care of me.

I lower my voice, drawing upon my inner powers, and issue the order. “I am your brother’s wife, member of your house, and tied to you by the gods if not by blood. You will fulfill your responsibilities and let me in.”

Loqen twitches.

Talassa hugs herself.

Loqen’s mother doesn’t react.

“You cannot kick out your brother’s wife the very day he leaves to perform your house’s duties!”

They continue to ignore me.

Technically, the head of a house can eject any member at any time. Usually it’s done when a person threatens or commits a crime, or is otherwise dangerous to the house.

While Loqen’s allowed to do it, it’s morally wrong to kick out helpless dependents like elders, the infirm, and children. Certainly his brother’s human wife should fall under this category. My powers should have more of an effect on him.

“Everyone will know the head of House Ruqen has no honor!” I shriek helplessly. “Bonds and responsibility mean nothing to you. You’re leading a house of garbage.”

Talassa covers her ears and says something to him.

He stands and disappears into the house.

The gate does not open.

I am stupid. So stupid.

I arrived on the day they kicked Niq out of the main house. Talassa’s gifts tricked me. The times she and Loqen were normal, even nice, were a facade. This has been their plan all along.

“Breaker of contracts!” I rage, jumping off the rock and stomping back to the door. “The gods will punish you. Breaker of oaths, breaks of vows! The erinyes will harry you until you go mad!”

The rain falls faster. It plops loudly on my arms and legs. My cloak gets heavy as the water soaks in. Cold shivers into my bones.

“I don’t owe you anything,” Loqen says unexpectedly from the other side of the thick wooden barrier. Apparently, one of my accusations pinched him sharply enough that he’s come to defend himself. “Shut up and move along.”

I lick my lips. “Be reasonable. Please. Niq is doing what you asked–”

“Go away.”

Fury crackles in me. “You’re betraying Niq and betraying his house!”

“I’m doing more for this house than he ever did,” Loqen tells me archly, echoing Talassa’s phrase from her visit. “In my first year as head of house, I could become a councilor, just like our father was. But Eraqen can’t nominate me if I’m housing a human, can he?”

“If you violate the laws of Rigania, you’ll suffer. Your fields will wither and—”

“Niq’s the one who took those vows, so he’s the one who’ll suffer.”

Shock makes me sputter. “You lazy, selfish—”

“I will be selfish,” Loqen snaps through the thick wood. “Unlike Niq, I’m not afraid to look selfish to improve the status of my family. You’re not his real wife, you’re a charity case who has sullied the noble reputation of House Ruqen. He’s going to realize his mistake, dump you on Riganos, and marry a pure-blooded icari.”

My chest squeezes.

She’ll never be your real wife.

“He and I will stand together, the two honored sons of Ruqen, and the entire island will see how powerful we are. I’ll be made head councilor. The people will demand it.” Loqen’s tone turns venomous. “Niq will never think of you except with embarrassment.”

The rain spatters me.

Loqen actually seems to love Niq in his own weird and twisted way. That shocks me. He’s living in a delusion, but there’s no telling whether it’s any less grounded in reality than my own fantasy where I become so essential that Niq can’t stand for us to be separated even by death.

“Okay. I understand,” I say finally. “It’s dark and cold. Let me in for tonight. I’ll leave in the morning.”

“No.”

“At least let me get my things–”

“What ‘things’? You came with the clothes on your back. I’ll let you leave with the same. Ours are of better quality.”

I slam my palms on the gate. “Come out and face me.”

“Goodbye, Faesli.”

I swear at him.

The other side of the gate remains quiet. Loqen must have walked away.

I sink down onto the cold grass.

Marine and Ix’s house is far. Even the temple feels far away at this exact moment.

Exhaustion presses me into the frigid earth.

I feel stupider now than at any other time in my entire life. Stupider than when I got kicked out of priestess training, despite my aptitude, because I couldn’t stand still during worship or be studious enough with my memorizing. Stupider than when I let Perthos convince me he needed to have one more bachelor’s experience, and I agreed to stay at my parents’ home and work on my trousseau for the year, even though it felt deeply wrong.

If I could say the right thing to Loqen, he’d realize how badly he’s behaving and let me in. But my brain feels like it’s pushing thoughts across a lake of sludge, and when I reach the other side, my mind is empty. I have nothing to show for the effort.

I have to get up and move. I can’t sit outside overnight. I’m already getting dangerously chilled.

It’s been so long since I’ve had to worry about the cold. Niq’s always within arm’s reach and welcoming me into his embrace, squeezing me and filling me with heat.

I’m not pulling a feather to bind your soul.

Niq is gone. He didn’t choose me. Talassa said he wouldn’t. And now I’m suffering the consequences.

Vyren bundles and shoulders the plant starts, adjusts his hood against the increasing rain, and glances at me almost as if by accident.

His stern face is an unfriendly mask. We are true strangers. Unlike Loqen and Talassa, he really does owe me nothing.

He turns away.

Rain trickles down my neck.

I shiver and turn up my collar.

Grace. I just need a little grace to figure out what to do. A little kindness, and warmth…

Vyren stretches his wings, his back to me, poised to leave.

The white feathers glisten in the twilight. Unlike Loqen, Talassa, and Niq, Vyren has only three gold feathers, two on his left shoulder blade and one on his right. There’s a gap where a fourth is missing. Only a black mark, like a scab or the scarring after a burn, remains.

He lingers in position for a long moment, not taking off.

What’s he waiting for?

I’m waiting for inspiration. For the urgency to push off this sapping chill and go to another place. I shiver harder, unable to think.

After a long hesitation, Vyren turns toward me. His soft voice is barely audible over the rain. “Come here.”

I force myself to my feet and stumble toward him. “What?”

He, very unwillingly, offers his arm.

Instead of doing the smart thing, which is to thank him and accept, I look askance. “This is an annoying burden to you.”

“I’m used to it.”

“And you also think Niq shouldn’t have married me.”

“His problems tend to become other people’s problems,” Vyren replies evenly, unaffected by my tone. “Often, my problems. Anyway, I could use a goddess’s favor on my house.”

He means the new starts. Rigania is a fertility goddess. If he gives me shelter in my time of need, maybe she’ll bless his fields.

It’s pretty low odds, though.

He looks annoyed with himself, as if he hopes I don’t accept his offer.

The night breeze is cold.

I take his arm.

He lifts off into the air and points east into the driving rain.

Chapter 22

Niq

Vyren waits until the night before my first vacation to tell me what happened to Faesli.

We’re eating dinner while the two most annoying members of our crew are being dressed down by the out-of-patience captain.

“Rake out that fire,” the captain snarls at the two men as they obey his orders. “You’re going to light up the whole island with your idiocy. Do you understand the consequences of that?”

Dayaris leans on his rake and loudly whispers to his co-conspirator, “We’ll eat roast lamb and go home early.”

His friend Zakarin cracks a smile.

“Oh, you’ll go home early, you think?” the captain sputters. “And nobody will mind that you torched our flocks for a prank? Someday, you’ll anger the wrong man and he’ll crack your heads. Then we’ll find out if you have a brain inside or only emptiness.”

Dayaris laughs frantically.

Zakarin smiles lazily. “Oh?”

“Oh?” the captain mimics him but higher pitched, then spits. He grabs his bottle of un-watered-down wine and stomps back into his semipermanent cabin.

The men get their soup and hardened rolls and plop down across the fire from us. The evening campfire is bright as a beacon on a big field of shale. Beyond the edge of the hot firelight, the shadows of sheep and goats shuffle.

“Hey, Niq.” Zakarin smirks as he scrapes his bowl of stew. “When’s the little wifey coming?”

Dayaris chokes on his food, he’s laughing so hard.

“When’s she getting her wings and flying on over?”

Ugly dread churns in my guts. “Forget it.”

“Nah, I was just wondering.” Zakarin leans back, crossing his ankles. “Does she make you dinner every night?”

Dayaris smirks.

Vyren scrapes his bowl loudly, then sets it down on the rocks with an authoritative crack.

The men ignore him.

“She make you a little midnight snack? Huh?” Zakarin has an ugly grin. “A little sweet treat for her favorite man?”

I wish something very bad would happen to him. “No.”

“Because if you’re getting a treat in front of your boys, you better be ready to share—”

Vyren bolts to his feet.

Zakarin straightens.

Dayaris’s laugh cuts off.

They both look up as Vyren strides to them and leans over Zakarin. The fire crackling and popping makes his threat hard to hear, but I think Vyren says something like “You’re not the only one who’s single. Knock it off.”

Dayaris makes a nervous laugh. “You lonely, Vyren? Want me to cuddle you and keep you company tonight?”

Vyren, still keeping his gaze on Zakarin, shoves Dayaris backward off the log.

“Oof. Hey, I was just being nice.” Dayaris gets up on the log again, rubbing his chest where Vyren shoved him.

Zakarin drops his cocky gaze first.

Vyren stalks away.

I gather up his and my dishes.

“So, how about it?” Zakarin says, returning to me.

Irritation flashes through me.

“Niq?” he drawls. “Hey, Niq, does the little wife…”

I fly away.

Vyren is down at the shore.

I clean our dishes and hand his back. The others laugh about me being Vyren’s work wife, but I don’t mind. Anyway, we don’t trust them not to prank us, so we keep our dishes separate from the communal wares.

I sit next to Vyren, staring off in the darkness toward Ikaria.

The fifth member of our rotating work crew is an older woman who barely tolerates any of us. She’s on vacation right now.

My first vacation starts tomorrow, thankfully, and I can’t wait to get home and see Faesli and sleep with her in my own bed—well, in Loqen’s fixed-up old bed—in the storage shed that we’ve converted into a comfy, cozy little home.

I still have mixed feelings about how we parted.

She was disappointed in me.

But if she’d never offered to get her wings, I would’ve refused Loqen to the end. I refused constantly for the previous eleven weeks, and I only agreed in the last week because she was supposed to get her wings and come with me. That promise was ripped away in the final hour. It’s not my fault. They said it was too late to change my mind, and they all strong-armed me. It was unfair. Faesli should’ve pushed back harder. Despite the promise of her coming, I never should’ve agreed.

I’m not going to think about that, though. I’m going to think about seeing her, and how great that’ll be, and how many times we’re going to lie together in our shed.

Vyren stares out at the dark sea. “The day you left, I was picking up those starts, and something happened at your house.”

“Oh, did Loqen try to stop you? I told him I offered them to you, and he said he didn’t care.”

“No.” Vyren frowns. “Something happened that day to Faesli.”

I listen while he tells me, in his usual clipped tone, the worst story I can possibly imagine.

“I let her sleep in my kitchen,” he continues tersely. “The next day, she had me drop her in Kyrinia.”

“She went to Marine and Ix’s?” My stomach churns. “Why didn’t you tell me this weeks ago?”

He eyes me with his usual implacable gaze. “Would you have done anything besides worry?”

The churning increases.

If it was Vyren’s wife, he’d throw aside friendship and promises and even the law to go to her.

I’m not like that, though, and we both know it.

“I could at least have…” I jump to my feet, sliding in the shale. “I’d have asked someone to switch vacations.”

“No one would’ve done that.”

“Or asked them to check on her.”

“Dayaris?” He lifts a skeptical brow. “Or Zakarin?”

They’re the ones who had vacation slots before me. If I’d waited until the older woman who’s on vacation now, I wouldn’t have gotten the news any sooner than finding out for myself.

I collapse again with a sigh of defeat. “Thanks for helping her.”

“Are you taking her back to Riganos after the year?”

“If she asks.” Anxiety pangs me. My brother and Talassa’s betrayal, and my stupidity and blindness about it, might have permanently damaged our relationship. “You still think I should?”

“If you’ll never bind souls, yes.”

“Well, maybe…I don’t know. Someday, I might.”

His chin drops. He’s shocked. “You’d pull a feather for a human?”

“Faesli wants it, but she’s not likely to need it, if you know what I mean. She solves her own problems. I’ve always thought that if something happened to me, I wouldn’t want her to get stuck living a half-life. I’d want her to be free. But probably she would be, anyway. She’d figure out something that I never thought of. And if so, if she’d really be fine no matter what, then…well, then the only reason not to give her the feather she wants is because I’m afraid for me. So…yeah, I’m thinking I’ll give it, probably.”

Vyren stares at me.

Then he looks out at the dark sea. “Maybe I’ll go to the bride hunt.”

Vyren’s interested in a wife?

We’re nearly the same age—in fact, Vyren’s slightly older than me—and he’s got his own house. He pulled a feather once for a reason he never talks about. He should be starting his own family.

But I’ve never seen him even talk to a woman.

Of course, he doesn’t talk much to men either.

Vyren’s always serious, so if he decides to hunt, he’ll give it his full effort. Will it turn out okay for him? Building relationships is different from building a home.

“I’ll support you however I can,” I tell him. “Or you can ask Faesli. You can trust her advice. Maybe she’d even go back with us. Encourage other brides by showing everyone that her marriage turned out okay.”

“She might not want to leave again.”

“I know. I just…” I sigh, scrubbing my temples. “I’ll give her good reasons to stick with me, Vyren.”

He looks out at the water. “You’ll see her tomorrow.”

“I’ll see her tomorrow,” I agree, and settle back, staring up at the stars and dreaming of her face and feeling my most powerful feelings.

But when I wake up in the morning and get ready, the captain announces an emergency.

“No one can leave,” he says gruffly, his bloodshot eyes morose. “Zakarin is missing.”

Chapter 23

Faesli

Niq is due today.

I check the north sky every hour to look for him.

The temple grounds, where I now spend most of my days, are filled with dissenters. They thump on the closed main temple doors and demand access to the empty throne. I keep away from them, and they ignore me. But my constant checking finally draws their attention. A big group of followers bustle up to me by the north cliff, a big woman in front.

“You can’t keep our god from returning,” she shouts, fists on her hips.

I pause at the edge of the cliff. If they rush me, there’s a narrow walking path and a ledge just below, so I think I can jump down safely.

“We’re keeping you out of the main temple," she says imperiously.

“Okay,” I say neutrally.

“You leave our god alone or we’re going to have problems.” She frowns at my lack of reaction. “You do hate Siqaris, don’t you?”

“I don’t care about him at all.”

“You don’t?”

I shake my head.

“Well, then what are you doing in those archives? Aren’t you searching for how to destroy him and re-enslave us?”

“I’m searching for how to get access to the monster beneath the island.”

“Siqaris is the true reborn god of the icari! He’s not some monster. When he gains back his full power, he’ll elevate us, his true followers, and crush the betrayers!”

The others shout and cheer.

I again check my position. In the worst case, I can always jump into the ocean. It will be cold and possibly dangerous but the icari can’t follow me there.

“So you can’t destroy him,” she tells me triumphantly.

“Okay,” I say again, because I heartily agree that “destroying” their avatar is beyond my and anyone else’s abilities.

The crowd is dissatisfied with my answer.

A different person demands, “If you’re not trying to destroy Siqaris, why do you keep looking out here, then?”

“I’m looking for Niq,” I say.

“Oh! That’s right, Niq’s due to come back from Sklerios today,” someone remembers, and the crowd chatters with surprise and gossip, changing tone quickly. “There’s a good boy. Remember this winter when he slipped in the mud carrying those big sacks of seeds? He saved the grain but I have never seen a boy more covered. The only clean part was his eyeballs.” Laughter follows.

The big woman crosses her arms over her chest, but she has a friendlier tone and manner as she says, “Well, don’t get in our way. We’ll let you know when Niq’s spotted.”

“Um, thank you.”

The crowd moves aside, still reminiscing about happier times with Niq, and I scurry back to the safety of the archives.

But that afternoon, Niq doesn’t come.

“Niq’s wife?” An older man from the crowd comes looking for me in the archives. “Niq didn’t have vacation this time. It was Zakarin.”

“Oh?” I leave my records behind–I had a terrible time concentrating anyway–and follow him out to the stoa.

He rejoins the dissenters in front of the main temple. A man I don’t recognize is landing in the square and, after trading words with the crowd, strides arrogantly up the stairs to the council chambers.

I hurry after him.

By the time I reach him, he’s in the hall conversing with the master of the rota. “Niq didn’t want to come back from Sklerios so he gave me his spot.”

“That’s highly unusual, Zakarin,” the council elder replies doubtfully.

“He’s a weird one, all right,” Zakarin says with a calculating grin. “I asked him plenty of times but he was firm. He wanted to keep working.”

“Well, Niq is a very responsible young man, I suppose.”

“So I’m having his and my days together.” Zakarin strides away.

“Ah, wait! That’s not how we do things!”

The elder chases him to the door, but Zakarin flies off without waiting. The elder huffs with annoyance.

“I don’t believe him,” I tell the elder.

The elder’s face goes through some complex expressions. “Well, Zakarin comes from a good family, so it would be awkward to accuse him of lying.”

“I can compel him to tell the truth.”

“Eh…surely there’s no need for that. Perhaps we’ll send a message.” The elder pats my hand anxiously. “This will all be straightened out by Niq’s next vacation. Hm? Let’s wait until then.”

I accept unwillingly. Marine, when I tell her that night, is equally skeptical. “That doesn’t sound like Niq, does it? I can’t think of any reason he wouldn’t want to come home right away to see you.”

But when the weeks pass and again a different man comes home instead of Niq, doubts settle in.

Every day, Marine flies me to the temple in the morning and back to their house in the evening. Spring on Ikaria is lovely. Lambs frolic and kids play in the fields below. Is this what it’s like on Sklerios too? Lovely and green and full of life? Niq said it was too dangerous without wings. But that also means I can’t check on him myself, and everyone else is sure there’s nothing to worry about, so does that mean Niq really doesn’t want to come home?

Niq will never think of you except with embarrassment.

Loqen’s a liar. But what if in this case he’s right? We’ve been apart so long Niq’s feelings for me could have changed.

When I’m not at the temple, I carefully thread smooth purple beads onto a silver wire and twist it, anchoring them into place. I do this every evening after we return and every morning before we fly over.

“Faesli?” Marine knocks on the wall outside the room I’m sharing with her daughters. “It’s time. Ooh, that’s looking pretty. It’s really coming along.”

I fold my necklace into its pouch and rise.

She herds me toward the window. “We’ll sneak out so Ix doesn’t get into a loop about offering you food.”

I smother my smile. “He’s a good host.”

“He’s an excellent host, and his generosity is something I love about him, but it makes the simplest things take forever. I want him to be himself, so that means taking measures.” Marine pulls me into her arms, hugging me as if I were one of her daughters, and we lift off.

Her family has been nothing but nice to me. The villagers in Kyrinia, while not overly friendly, have also not been unkind. But I feel so alone here. I miss Hesioni, Petraya, and Zekso so much. I miss my parents and my brothers and sisters. If Niq has turned his back on me and doesn't want to stay married, I won’t remain on Ikaria. Even if I have a higher destiny, even if I’m their most important person, I’ve never felt so sad as I have these past weeks without Niq. Never in my life have I felt this alone.

Marine banks over Daedakros.

Gold cracks gleam threateningly on the labyrinth seal in the Daedakros square and again in the plaza of the main temple complex. It’s like they’ve been dropped and shattered. Unearthly molten gold seeps out.

Today, the ghost of Siqaris holds court in the main temple. Not enough bugs have come out to possess another person to escape the temple, so only his vapor form appears off and on in the big, empty throne.

“Who cares about the humans?” he booms, rattling the closed stone doors, his shouts leaking out of the cracks and gaps in the mountain. “We are icari. Our great ancestor ordered us to rule over them. After we make our plan, we’ll tell them how they can serve us.”

Guards brace before the closed doors. Siqaris’s fans gather just beyond them and shout.

Marine veers away from the main temple, muttering, “What a nightmare.”

We land on the stone steps of the archives building.

Ayanakalia drags her daughter through the doorway toward us. “Destroying records is a crime.”

“No, no, no!” Irinia pulls against her. Then she sees me and rushes forward, breaking free of Ayanakalia, and swings her leg to kick me. “Go away, stupid human!”

I dodge.

Marine pushes the child back. “Whoa, now. Kicking is not head priestess behavior.”

“Shut up!” Irinia bursts into tears. “Hate you…Aunt Marine…”

Marine wraps her arms around the girl, hugging her securely from behind, and shushes her while rocking.

Ayanakalia straightens her tunic, flushes, and clears her throat awkwardly. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”

“Riganos priestesses…ruining everything…”

“I’m not actually a priestess,” I assure them.

“Faesli is your faithful subject,” Ayanakalia tells Irinia.

“No, she’s not!” Irinia makes a snipping motion that’s both rude and magically severs all connection between us.

I am no longer a citizen of Ikaria.

Chapter 24

Faesli

“You’re nothing to me!” Irinia shouts.

Ayanakalia gasps and makes a dispersing motion to clear away what’s essentially a curse. “You can’t do that, Irinia! You can’t exile one of our citizens without a judgment of the council. Faesli’s a member of our temple. You’re her priestess.”

Irinia just turns away and buries her face in Marine’s chest.

“Sorry, Faesli,” Ayanakalia murmurs, still wafting the air. “Irinia had a vision of you banishing Siqaris, which is very encouraging to me, but Siqaris hasn’t yet told her where to find her grandparents, so she’s afraid you’ll banish him prematurely.”

“Well, that’s easy.” Marine rubs Irinia’s back. “Why not just ask him right now?”

Irinia shakes her head, still sobbing.

“He doesn’t seem to answer questions, if you’ve noticed,” Ayanakalia points out. “Eraqen will plead for his blessing or to rule on some issue, and Siqaris will say something vaguely related or even complete nonsense. It’s strange.”

“Like conversing with a pre-written poem?” I suggest. “Or a music box where there’s only one melody?”

“Yes, exactly. Like now…” Ayanakalia pauses.

“How dare you steal our precious medicine for a mere human?” Siqaris’s ghost demands, muffled, from inside the empty temple. “See what happens when you defy the will of our gods!”

His followers float around the guarded entrance repeating his phrases by rote.

“No one has recently stolen any medicine, but Siqaris once used that excuse to judge and punish a family,” Ayanakalia says. “I was there, and I saw it happen. Why is he saying these words now to an empty temple?”

“And his followers are just echoing the nonsense.” Marine shakes her head, then raises her voice. “Hey, Irinia. Siqaris was a child when your grandparents disappeared, so he probably doesn’t know what happened to them, anyway.”

“Yes, he does,” Irinia sobs. “He does too know!”

Marine looks at Ayanakalia.

Ayanakalia tries again. “Irinia, are you sure this new vision where ‘Faesli ruins everything,’ is still about Jeren’s parents? The way you described it makes me think–”

Irinia screams.

Ayanakalia clicks her teeth together.

Irinia sobs violently again into Marine’s chest.

“She’s been upset about it ever since she woke up,” Ayanakalia murmurs apologetically.

Marine strokes Irinia’s hair. “Where’s Jeren?”

“An emergency meeting of the council. The newest councilor, Eraqen, is trying to impeach him again.”

“…and you’re…ruining…everything…” Irinia snuffles.

“Hey.” Marine pats Irinia firmly. “Nobody wants to know what happened to your grandparents more than your dad, right? He’s been searching for them, off and on, his whole life. I ask at all the places I visit too, just in case someone remembers two perfectly healthy icari visiting about three decades ago. So, let’s let your mom and Faesli do their thing, and we’ll wait for his meeting to be over and then ask him about his investigation. Okay?”

“Okay,” Irinia hiccups, calming down. “While we wait, can we get a sweet roll?”

“Sure, that’s a great idea.” Marine grins at us meaningfully and guides Irinia toward the kitchens.

Ayanakalia leads me into the archives building. “I caught her trying to wash the letters off the parchment you were reading yesterday.”

Oh, no. “The list of your more complicated symbols?”

“Yes. I don’t think she noticed what it was. She just wanted to destroy something in anger.”

Irinia is one of the few children on Ikaria who can read. Most icari, including Ayanakalia, can’t read anything but rudimentary symbols. On Riganos, every girl is trained to be a priestess, even though not all are invited to complete the upper levels of training to become acolytes.

The day is hot already, but in the archives, cool breezes blow from the water and through the arched halls.

“I’ve been thinking again about Irinia’s visions.” Ayanakalia passes into the rocky darkness punctuated by light wells heading down. “How I was so excited that she has ‘true visions’ where mine were only what I wanted to believe. But when Niq was leaving for Sklerios, he mentioned that he already knew his favor would be used to fix up House Ruqen. ‘It’s the only way Irinia’s vision comes true and there’s no damage to the house.’ He said you’d made that point. And I must admit, it’s something I didn’t think about until right then.”

She stops on a sunlit stair and peers forward and back.

“Irinia’s visions might be true, but they’re like this patch of light. It’s impossible to say where, exactly on the stairs I am from only this little vision. I could be at the top or bottom or the middle. The rest is darkness, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” I say.

“We have to guess at so much. And Irinia’s never had a vision where Siqaris tells her the location of Jeren’s parents. She’s decided it must happen based on one patch of light illuminating his appearance, and another patch of light illuminating their appearance. But what if these two patches are separated by twenty years? Even quite different places can look identical if they’re the only bright patches in darkness.”

Tingles of excitement go through me at her recognition. Niq told her about my insight and she thinks I’m right? My ideas are useful and smart. I’m becoming important.

Ah, I wish he was here so I could tell him about it.

We continue on. Ayanakalia stops in front of a collapsed tunnel and sighs. A child’s hand has smudged some of the ward marks. She hands me the chalk, and I fix them.

“Has anyone heard from Niq?” I ask her as I work.

“Heard what from Niq?”

“Is he really never going to take a vacation?”

“Hm?” She looks at me in confusion. “What do you mean?”

I tell her everything, nerves twisting. I know he’s still alive, and he’s missed two vacations supposedly of his own volition, and the elder sent a message that was never answered. Vyren’s vacation is due to start in a couple days, so even though we’re not close, Marine has promised to take me to his manor to demand answers.

At the end of my explanation, Ayanakalia frowns. “I didn’t notice that Niq hadn’t come. I’m so sorry. There’s been a lot of other distractions. Of course he should tell us in person if he doesn’t intend to take his vacations. I’ll follow up on that today, I promise you.”

The anxiety releases. I can finally take a full breath. “Thank you.”

She makes a sound. “Oh, I am afraid I might know why we never got a response about your friend Petraya. You’ve picked up a seventh spirit.”

My stomach sinks. “Oh?”

“It’s slinking after you in a strange way, so I haven’t been completely certain whether it is actually a man or a woman, but it’s repeating the name ‘Petraya,’ and seems quite mournful.”

New waves of sadness crash into me. Tears well in my eyes. I sniff hard and wipe at my eyes with dusty hands.

I knew when we girls hugged goodbye on Riganos last summer that it might be our final meeting in this lifetime. For women especially, the task of bringing the unborn from the shadow realm into the land of the living is too dangerous.

Still, this is unexpected.

I clear my throat, striving to sound normal. “It’s really too bad. Petraya could probably find the entrance just by closing her eyes and touching the walls.”

“Irinia was playing here on the morning of the spring equinox, before the bugs came pouring out and captured her, so we’re certain there is some kind of entrance this way.” Ayanakalia carefully rolls a stone out of the collapsed tunnel. “I hesitate to use my powers or I might accidentally erase any buried parchments.”

“Didn’t you assign priestesses to unbury and collect them?”

Ayanakalia presses her lips together. “Irinia reminded them she’s the head priestess, not me.”

“Ah.”

“Jeren and I did foresee the possibility that we would have to remove her if she couldn’t handle being head priestess, but we did not foresee the council, temple, and the very island tearing us apart due to loyalty to an undead spirit. We're going to wait until things stabilize and Siqaris’s threat has passed before we ask her to step down.”

I heave a big rock to one side.

“Your help is much appreciated.” Ayanakalia picks up a small, ornate gemstone-encrusted bottle, removes the stopper, and sniffs it with a confused frown. “Hm. This doesn’t belong here.”

“What is it?”

“Ritual medicine for going into a trance.” Ayanakalia sets it aside and scratches her head. Her long brown hair is braided neatly in the icari style. “I guess I’m a bit lost. I don’t have many other people to talk to besides you and Marine. I thought my friendships were more secure. So many have accused me of fighting Siqaris out of jealousy that I must admit, I’m feeling more alone than I have in quite some time.”

I’m still feeling sad about Petraya, bitter about Niq, and I miss my family and friends so badly. “Yeah.”

“The problem is that Irinia is too much like me. My mother, who didn’t have a prophetic bone in her body, tried to give me the same warnings I’ve been trying to give to my daughter, also to no avail. As a child, I refused to see any possible consequences to my brash actions but the ones I liked. But when my ‘visions’ came to pass, they were nothing like what I’d imagined. People who trusted me got hurt, and I didn’t do any good for Halonnesos either.

“So when I think back to that time, I ask myself, ‘What could my mother have done or said that would’ve made me understand?’ And I can’t think of anything. I want to protect Irinia so she doesn’t have to carry my same burdens, but she fights me at every step.” Ayanakalia sighs heavily. “Even Siqaris would be more reasonable if I could figure out how to communicate with him.”

“Sadly, he’s just an avatar of the monster,” I agree.

“Yes, but if I could figure out what he wants, maybe we could strike a bargain.”

“A monster’s last thoughts will always be something simple like hunger, revenge, admiration, or a desire to be worshipped.”

“Siqaris always wanted to be worshipped.”

“But his desires are gone.”

Ayanakalia sits back on her heels. “Oh. Right. Because ‘he’ isn’t there anymore. You’ve said that several times, and yet, I think I didn’t fully understand. When the ghost says ‘I’m beloved of the gods,’ Siqaris isn’t saying that. He’s like you said, a pre-written poem or a music box, and the monster is simply selecting his phrases and turning his crank?”

“Yes. And the monster’s servant, the gold beetles, don’t have many complicated feelings, so my guess for the monster’s last thought was hunger.”

“Hunger?” She bites her lip. “Siqaris sits in that empty throne and sings out his ‘music,’ drawing his followers to him…it’s a bit like a siren drawing sailors into a dripping maw, them thinking it’s only a damp cave and all stalactites and stalagmites are actually teeth…”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what it’s like.”

She stands abruptly. “I’m going to go over every bit of that inner sanctuary with my fingertips until I find the entrance.”

“Be careful of the bugs.”

“Oh, I like them. They’re something I can use my powers on because they’re real. I like them a lot better than vapors and sunbeams. I hate feeling like I’m shouting at a wall.”

She’s right. Shouting at a wall—or at a latched entry gate—is too frustrating.

Ayanakalia leaves.

I work for a few more hours until Marine comes to find me and we go home. I lie in my borrowed bed at their house that night and stare at the dark ceiling. A thousand thought-fragments rattle around in my head. Thoughts about anxious Petraya, her fragile and hopeful smile, and her fierce sister Zekso. Comforting Hesioni, and the awful neighbor who’s now apparently dead, and my older brother and Perthos, who are dead as well. About Niq’s mother, who’s only present in her right mind part of the time, and Ayanakalia, who speaks to the living and to the dead, and who’s lost all her friendships because even after twenty years–or however long it’s been since she arrived on Ikaria and become a living god–she’s thought to be an outsider who’s just jealous.

I don’t come to any conclusions, and I wake up with tears dried in the corners of my eyes.

What’s wrong with me? Perthos was gone a year and I was fine, and Niq’s been gone barely a month and I’m waking up in tears?

I scrub my face, sit down to breakfast with the rest of Marine and Ix’s children, and help them get ready for the day.

Today I work alone in the archives, which isn’t that unusual. I spend until the late afternoon uncovering scrolls, dusting them off, and skimming their content. They’re only a few centuries old, much too recent to pertain to the monster beneath the island, so I set them aside and stretch. My stomach growls.

The temple complex has two defined meals, but anyone can go to their small feasting area and make a late lunch from what’s left out. The priestesses eating snacks there eye me. Some of these women think badly of Ayanakalia after working together for almost two decades. What must they think of me? I carry my food outside.

A quiet patch of shade covers an ornate bench. The cool stone is a nice contrast to the sweltering late afternoon heat. Siqaris is quiet at the moment, so it’s peaceful.

I lay out my necklace, spreading the translucent purple stones.

Niq mentioned liking these at the winter solstice, so when Jeren said he’d give me anything as thanks for saving Irinia from the bugs, I got a small bag of these stones and finely stretched silver wire.

Ikaria doesn’t have a tradition of making an apology necklace. It’s something unique to Riganos.

Each stone I wrap with wire is one apology.

I’m sorry for shouting at you when you said that we weren’t really married. I’m sorry for making you have that tortured expression when I said, “Then you’ll stay with me instead of going to Sklerios?” I know you can’t choose between your house and me. I just hope, someday, you see me as more than a duty.

I finished the apology necklace before he missed his second vacation, and when Niq still didn’t come home, I started thinking of more things to apologize for, and I had to get more wire.

If he misses his third slot, I’ll have to start a whole second loop.

Niq doesn’t wear jewelry, so he can hang it on a mirror maybe. The important thing is he knows my sincerity and devotion.

My empty bowls rattle distractingly.

I trot around to the compost pots to dispose of my rinds and return my dishes to the priestess quarters for acolytes to wash. I did plenty of that when I was an acolyte on Riganos, so I do try to scrape them clean. I return to the bench to tuck in the ends and wrap up the necklace.

The bench is bare. My necklace and its carrying pouch are gone.

Huh?

I search under the bench in the scraggly dried-out grasses as if it could’ve been blown off by the wind, but of course, it’s too heavy for that.

My heart thuds in my throat, anxiety mounting as my search becomes more frantic. Eventually, I sit back on my heels. Tears prickle my nose. I try very hard not to cry.

It’s not here.

On any other island, an unattended necklace theft wouldn’t surprise me, but Ikaria is super rich, and I’m genuinely surprised someone would bother to steal my unskilled, clunky, heartfelt design. Who would dare to wear it? Finer jewelry hangs as windowshades in the poorest manors of the least important citizens. My effort would be too embarrassing and ugly to display, surely.

Maybe the thief plans to disassemble and remake it.

Or, maybe they thought it was so bad, they decided to throw it away…

I trudge around to the front of the temple building.

Irinia scurries across the main plaza away from the cliff.

She sees me and makes a noise like So there!

I pivot to approach her.

Fear flashes across her face. Her dark wings materialize, and she darts across the grounds and disappears into the council chambers.

Suspicious.

I retrace her steps to the edge of the cliff and look down.

In one of the pools below, between the crashing waves, something shiny winks like glimmering silver.

Aha.

“Looking for Niq again today?” an older fisherman from the crowd asks. “I don’t think anyone’s due for a couple more days yet.”

“No, I lost something.”

“Oh yeah?” He squints into the distant pool. “Bad luck, that.”

“Hey there!” A different icarus, further away, brandishes his fist at me. “Humans don’t belong in the Reaches!”

“Ah, I’ll take care of it.” The older fisherman heads the angry man off. “This isn’t the Reaches, this is the temple.”

“The temple’s in the Reaches,” the angry man insists.

“Yeah, but that’s Niq’s wife. You remember her. She dove for oysters that one time, gave a little pearl to my kid for a trinket.”

“Humans don’t deserve to live on Ikaria.”

“Yeah, I know, but she’s one of the good ones…”

While they’re distracted, I hop down the lumpy path from the cliffs to the water’s edge.

Ayanakalia smoothed out the gouges from her excavations at the spring equinox, but she’s kept the area the way it looked after the cataclysms when Siqaris disappeared in case it helps our investigation. I hop along the tumultuous water’s edge. Waves spray me with cold salt.

Down here, the necklace is obscured. Wasn’t it in the center of the main pool? I can’t tell.

Every few waves, a bigger crashing wave is followed by the funny noise, a choking gluk-gluk burp, by the largest boulder.

I slide across the slimy rocks, careful of the sharp barnacles and mussels, and dip a leg into the pool.

It’s about the same temperature as it was during the winter solstice, which is to say, chilly. I’ll wait until I’m certain of the necklace’s location before going in…

A rogue wave washes me right off the rocks.

I plunge under the chaotic waves. Strong currents push and pull me.

Diving lower, I clear my squeezing ears.

In the water, the shapes and movements are blurry, and I no longer see the winking silver. I paddle to where I thought I saw it last and quest for the necklace bag, but I’m shoved back and forth over the rocky bottom by the tumbling currents.

When I’m at the limit of my breath, a green chunk of seaweed floats beneath me. Not the black ropes of the ocean god that tried to drag Niq in, but ordinary seaweed that can be dried and eaten. It bounces along underneath me, crosses the area where I’m sure I saw my necklace from the top of the cliffs, and is carried around the backside of the boulder.

I kick to the roiling surface, inhale a huge breath, and dive down to the boulder.

The currents here are even stronger. They blow the seaweed chunk back at me, then inhale it again.

Just beyond the large boulder, wedged against a smaller rock, is my cloth pouch!

Kicking hard, I squeeze into the narrow gap between boulders. As I reach up to my shoulder, my fingertips brush what feels like fabric.

The current reverses, dragging me in the direction of the pouch.

That would be good, but it acts even more strongly on the pouch and rips the fabric well out of my grasp.

No!

I quest for it blindly, but it’s gone. Disappeared somewhere along the bottom.

My lungs spasm. I’ve been submerged too long. I need to surface.

I try to push off, but the current presses me in place like a cork stuck in a heated bottle. I struggle. My lungs pulse in my chest. Fear pounds in my throat. There’s a terrible gluk-gluk noise, and the boulders shift beneath me…

Chapter 25

Niq

The previous night…

I have finally, finally hit my limit.

Dayaris and Zakarin have stolen two vacation slots from me. They think it’s hilarious to take turns sneaking away before sunrise leaving me impotent and stranded.

The first time, nobody realized what had happened. The captain made us search the island. We thought the missing Zakarin had been taken by monsters in the night and were at the point of sending me to Ikaria with a message to announce his disappearance when Dayaris broke down and confessed. Zakarin returned after two vacation slots, his and mine, relaxed and chortling over his super-clever prank.

The second time, I was again too naive. Dayaris set off in the middle of the night so when I awoke to set off at the normal time, it was already too late. He was already gone.

“I don’t care which of you goes,” the captain told me when he refused to let me chase after Dayaris. “But if you go when another man’s already gone, you leave me short-handed, and that’s a problem. We’re all working hard. The flocks’ health depends on a full crew. You can’t leave the rest of us in the lurch. You have to do your duty to your fellow icari.”

I want to punch the sodden-faced captain so hard.

What I want to do to Zakarin and Dayaris is much worse, of course.

Instead, I do my stupid duty, and I brood.

I’ve always considered myself a person who does the right thing. Despite unfairness, despite challenges, despite exhaustion. I’m a person who acts with honor, helps others when I can, and picks up slack.

But being an honorable person means I’ve lost six full days, four partial days, and eight nights I could’ve spent with Faesli.

And honestly, I’m starting to think the problem isn’t with my bullies.

Their treatment of me mirrors the treatment of my brother and Talassa. There, too, I tried to do the right thing. I tried to work within the rules. I went to the temple, I went to the council, I argued my case, and no one cared.

It’s the same now with the captain, who swigs the wine full strength without even a little water, and staggers back to the cabin to have an early night.

I’ve hit my limit not just with my brother and Talassa, Dayaris and Zakarin, the captain and the council, but also with myself.

That’s what I’m thinking that night while bitterly chewing my dinner. In the middle of my brooding over the crispy fried mutton and stewed horta, Dayaris unexpectedly lands.

Zakarin stands in surprise. “Did you forget to take your days?”

“She sent me back.” Dayaris is pale. He avoids my gaze as he stammers. “N-Niq has to go to Ikaria next, or else.”

I stand.

“Or else what?” Vyren asks, remaining seated. He’s supposed to have the next slot, so if I go to Ikaria now, he’s the one who’ll suffer, not them.

“Or else whoever goes instead of him loses credit for the whole month and has to stay longer.”

Vyren clenches his jaw.

He’s right to be mad.

But I’m not losing this opportunity. “Sorry.”

Vyren avoids my gaze as he bolts to his feet and storms off.

I watch him go. His taut shoulders silently berate me. You do like to take on other people’s problems, don’t you?

He’s right about that too.

I took ownership over the captain’s problem of being short-handed, so I didn’t chase after Zakarin and Dayaris and force them to give back my slots.

I took on the problems of Jeren and the council and the master of the rota, so I didn’t revolt when every instinct screamed that going to Sklerios was a mistake.

Faesli even asked me, begged me in fact, to stay with her.

I took on the responsibility for our house’s reputation and everyone else’s expectations for the oldest son of an honored father, including my own idealized childhood version of what I should be.

I could’ve failed everyone else’s expectations at any time.

And actually, it’s not too late.

I struggle to fall asleep, finally catching a few hours, and startle awake when Vyren shakes me in the predawn. He eyes Dayaris and Zakarin, who appear to be sleeping, and strides away without acknowledging my thanks. He’s still mad. My shouldering of others’ problems helped the wrong people and punished him.

I stretch my wings wide and rise. The first rays of dawn glimmer off my gold feathers.

This morning, I feel different.

The solitary trip is much different from traveling in the big group of us that flew over on the equinox, but the farther I get from Sklerios, the lighter I feel. The winds are cool, but the sun is hot and makes me sweaty. Finally, in the late afternoon, I soar over the north coast of Ikaria, tired but with a new surge of energy. After all these weeks, I’m coming home!

I stop first at Ix and Marine’s house. Their kids tell me Faesli’s at the main temple, so I take right off again. Flying high over the center of the island, I focus on the main complex, but my eye is drawn beyond it, over the dangerous cliffs, to the rare sight of a dark-haired human swimming in the rocky ocean.

I veer down. “Faesli!”

She doesn’t hear me. Faesli gulps a breath and ducks under the water again.

The tide is in, so the waves are high and rough. Cautiously, I alight on the tallest boulder.

She doesn’t come up.

The water makes a guttural clunking as it rushes around the large boulder into shadow on the lee side. Her body twists and morphs under the reflective water. I wait impatiently for her to surface. How long can she hold her breath?

Tension walks up my arms. I hop down to the much lower, slippery rocks. “Faesli? Faesli!”

This can’t be okay.

The waves bend toward me, and black shadows ooze into the rugged shallows.

I’ve gotten too close. If I touch the ocean, the angry god is going to catch and drown me.

But I can’t stand here and watch my wife drown either.

I tense to plunge my arm in.

The glugging sound stops.

Faesli bursts to the surface. She opens her mouth wide to gasp. A fresh wave hits her in the face, and she chokes.

I snatch her like an eagle catching a fish and beat my wings, gripping her heavy, slippery form as I struggle for lift. She coughs and gags helplessly. I land atop the biggest boulder. Faesli collapses against me, gasping.

The oily black seaweed tentacles slap the low rocks, seeking me. Flaming swords zigzag into the shallows, and the god’s tentacles ooze back into the water. The sea smokes.

Faesli tries to talk, but only coughs. Finally, barely above a whisper, she says, “You came.”

“What happened?” I stroke her wet hair. “What were you doing down here?”

Her eyes redden, and she sniffs. Tears well up.

Oh no.

I rock her gently. The time apart has gone by terribly for me, but it’s clearly been a hundred times worse for her. “I’m sorry. Shh. I’m here. Just breathe.”

“I lost it,” she gasps between brave sniffles. “I made you an…apology necklace and she…threw it over the side and I…had it but then I lost it…”

I have no idea what an apology necklace is. “It’s okay. I don’t mind. We’ll make another one. I’ll help you.”

The sun closes on the horizon, turning the sky pale. The smoke of battle is red and vivid like a scar against the white.

Eventually, she hiccups and breathes raggedly. Faesli gives a huge sigh. And still we remain in place, unmoving.

For my part, I’ve missed her a lot, so just holding her like this is good for me. The windy dampness is pleasant with the evening breeze. If Faesli wants to stay here all night, I can do it. As long as she wants, I’m here for her.

My stomach growls.

“You’re hungry,” she murmurs.

“I left at sunrise and flew straight here.”

“You were due weeks ago, but you never came.” She pulls back, her cheeks and eyes still red. The hooked scar on her forehead is like a sword’s slash. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean for the first words out of my mouth to be accusing you.”

“No, you deserve an explanation.” And anyway, I’d much rather her be upset than uncaring about my long absence. I trace the scar. “I won’t let it happen again.”

She claps a hand over her forehead. “I lost my hat too.”

“We’ll get another one before it gets cold.”

She manages to hold my gaze for a minute, then reddens and looks away. “Ix has food.”

I laugh. I’m just so happy to see her after all this time. “I’m sure he does.”

“We made a welcome-back feast for you.” She loops her arms around my shoulders as I pull her against me, soaring up and enjoying all her curves pressed to my body. “Twice, so, I don’t know if this one will be as big.”

And the guilt of not coming for my own welcome-back feast—twice—slices into me. “I won’t repeat my mistakes.”

“No, I just want to prepare you in case it isn’t what you’re expecting.”

I squeeze her. “Being with you is already the best welcome. Everything else is a bonus.”

She catches my cheeks and lifts up, orients her mouth on mine.

Liquid heat floods my lower body, tightening my muscles and hardening for her. Her tongue curls around mine, demanding, and the entire world falls away. We drift on the evening air, rotating gently over Ikaria. Faesli owns my soul. I am only catching up to her like this.

I desperately need to be alone with her.

“Hey, Niq!” someone calls, flying past. Others titter. I don’t know who they are, but I regret their interruption.

Faesli pulls back, licking her lips, her eyes too bright. “Um, dinner…”

“Right.” I squeeze her hard. “But I missed you.”

She nuzzles me.

I manage to land us at Marine and Ix’s. Faesli changes into dry clothes, a pretty tunic with blue stitching that matches her beautiful eyes. Marine brags that she took Faesli shopping, which is great because this looks stunning on her. With her sitting beside me and brushing hips and thighs and elbows, we get through a perfectly festive dinner.

“Was Sklerios as dangerous as we all thought?” Marine asks at one point in the meal.

“Yes,” I admit, filling up with Ix’s delicious food. “We recently had to fend off a hydra.”

“I hate those,” Marine says with feeling.

“The east side of the island is supposed to be their nesting ground, so we avoid it, but this one keeps trying to come up from the west and go overland. He has three heads, and apparently, none of them has any brains.”

Faesli snickers.

“But the real problem is the other people I’m stationed with.” I regale them with some of the more life-threatening poor choices Zakarin and Dayaris have made during our service. “They also colluded to steal my vacations as a prank.”

Marine flattens her lips. “Other people are the worst. Are you going to get their time, then, to make up for it?”

It hadn’t occurred to me. “Yes,” I say with intense determination. “Actually, I am.”

“Good. Ooh.” Marine leans toward Faesli. “Did you show him what you made?”

“No.” Faesli’s voice cracks. “Irinia threw it off the cliff, and it got lost.”

“The head priestess?” I repeat sharply, because she didn’t say that earlier. “The head priestess is bullying you?”

“Again?” Marine says at the same time, and grimaces. “I’m disappointed to hear that. Did you talk with her parents?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay, well, she’s my godchild so thanks for letting me know. Um. Niq, you must be tired from your long flight. Aren’t you?”

I’m still upset about Faesli being bullied by our head priestess. On top of being pitted against a giant vaporous monster with gold beetles and being discriminated against by some of her own in-laws, this is not what I ever dreamed would happen when she left Riganos with me. “Yeah, I guess.”

Faesli bumps her shoulder against mine. “Did you want to see where I’m sleeping?”

“Sure.”

Marine stands abruptly and claps her hands. “Kids! It’s time to go to the communal bathing pools!”

Noise skyrockets as everyone rises.

One son clings to me. “I want to go in with Niq.”

“Okay,” I say easily.

“No, no, next time. Niq isn’t going tonight.” Marine unpeels her boy and walks him, protesting, toward Ix while she winks at me. “Niq has to stay and stir the cherry preserves so when we get back, we can have dessert!”

There’s a chorus of disappointment and excitement. Marine and Ix are better friends than I deserve. They get everyone out, leaving the entire house to us.

As soon as it’s quiet, I press Faesli to the wall. “Yes. I’d like to see where you’re sleeping.”

Her eyes sparkle.

We eventually make it into the sleeping room, tangled on the floor. I fill my senses with her, coat myself with her, become wrapped in and lose myself in her. She embraces me needily with her arms, with her legs, with her body. Our hearts race, one running after the other. My heat explodes into her, and she arches, holding me tighter as she cries with ecstasy.

I have craved her so much and so long that after a short rest, I’m ready again, and even though she smiles at me sleepily, she lets me awaken her with my surging. We lie against each other a second time, trembling. I think I could even go a third. I have so much hunger for her bottled up in me, so many nights when I dreamed of her and mornings when I awoke alone.

But we hear Marine and Ix coming back—very loudly—and so we scramble into our clothes and are messily dressed in the kitchen by the time the family stomps in, calling excitedly for dessert.

Faesli usually sleeps in the room with the other girls, but Marine kindly makes us a special bed on the roof, under the stars. I cuddle Faesli beneath a thin sheet, feeling delightfully full and comfy. She snuggles in my arms.

I press murmuring kisses to her neck. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. I’m lucky that you always have a backup plan.”

She replies, more awake than I thought, “Vyren let me sleep on his kitchen floor.”

“Yeah, he told me.”

“I thought he didn’t like me.”

“Everybody thinks that. It’s Vyren’s curse, I guess.” I squeeze her. “Because the others bullied me, we’re out of order. I’m here during part of what’s supposed to be Vyren’s time, and he’s worried about his crops, so I want to go over and check on them tomorrow, if that’s okay.”

“I want to help him too.” She turns slightly in my arms. “Are you going back to your house?”

“What is my house?” I ask faintly.

She doesn’t answer.

“You’re my house.” I kiss her nape, and she hunches her shoulders and giggles, pressing her buttocks into my hardening front in a way that’s very attractive. I’ve missed all this.

But I also give her a real answer. “I’m so angry at my brother. The anger’s flowing out of me uncontrollably, like Ayanakalia’s powers that you can almost see warping the stone beneath her feet. And not just at him. I don’t recognize the world. Everyone has gone crazy. I don’t recognize a single person. Leaving you was my biggest mistake.”

She turns fully in my arms and draws a tiny circle on the center of my chest just above my tunic collar. “I’m sorry I asked you to choose between me and your house.”

“Hm? But it wasn’t between you and my house, it was between my wish to stay with you and the crushing responsibility I felt I had to go. I’m too used to ignoring my own wants and shouldering others’ burdens, and I realize, now, that’s the mistake. You’re my desire and I’m allowed to prioritize you. You’re my house.”

“I’m not a duty?”

“Everything is a duty. Living means acting properly toward my fellow icari, my island, the gods. But duty to you is the only one I truly want.”

A sweet smile dawns across her face, and answering warmth blossoms in my chest.

“You’re the one I want,” I repeat, murmuring.

She moves her fingertip slightly and draws another tiny circle. “I’m sorry I wanted you to suffer and feel pain for me.”

“Did you want that?” I snort. “I guess I can’t blame you.”

“You said pulling out gold feathers hurts.”

The warmth intensifies. “Oh, I…want that too.”

It’s funny how confessing my desires in her arms feels irresponsible, taboo even. I mustn’t speak my wishes aloud, much less plan to make them come true.

She continues, drawing little circles and starting each sentence with an apology, and eventually, she loops back to my front again. I try very hard to blink back the emotions overflowing from her onslaught of little confessions. She makes me relive little moments of our relationship I’d forgotten, turning each one into a new expression of her love. I have to swallow hard, too choked up at the end to say anything into the silence. Instead, I cup and stroke her cheeks with feeling.

“That was the apology necklace,” she tells me, tracing the necklace’s path again on my collar. “I’ll make you another one, and then you’ll know how much I think about you.”

My chest aches so hard. I squeeze her. “Faesli. You are…”

She waits.

I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Something about how she’s my most important person and also the only one I want to come home to, and that my entire life is better because she’s here, and I want to bind her, not just with a child, but with a feather in our souls, because I never want to ever be without her.

But then I think of my mother with her soul half stolen by my father, and I’m afraid.

I finally manage to clear the lump in my throat, but my voice is whisper-soft. “I’m always the one trying to run after you.”

“As long as you’re running in my direction, I’ll let you catch up.” She kisses my forehead and my eyelids and my cheeks and then my lips, and then I don’t think about things again for a while.

Eventually I hold Faesli tight and close my eyes and exist in this moment.

No past, no future.

Just now, in her arms, beneath the stars where we’re together and everything is perfect.

Chapter 26

Faesli

The first time I awaken, it’s barely sunrise and snuggling with Niq turns into a very sweet private time that exhausts me and puts me back to sleep.

The second time I awaken, I’m alone in the makeshift bed. The sun is much higher, and the household and village are stirring for the hot, early summer day. I sit up, pulling the thin blanket to my nude shoulders.

Niq stands on the edge of the rooftop, staring in the direction of his family’s house.

I pinch the sheet and pad barefoot across the sun-warmed tile to his side. “What is it?”

He automatically puts his arm around me and squeezes me close. “Nothing important.”

“What is it that’s unimportant?”

“Oh, I was just wondering if anyone planted the kitchen gardens at my old house.”

His old house…

“I didn’t till it in winter.” He rubs my shoulder. “It’ll be a lot harder now that the ground has dried. I was waiting for them to say something, but they never did.”

“They probably didn’t notice.”

“Why not?” he demands. “I mean, I’m sure you’re right, but I don’t understand how I can look at a thing and see what needs to be done, and others can look at the same thing and ‘not notice’ the required work. It can’t just be laziness. Do Loqen and Talassa think the pantry fills itself?”

“Maybe they’re expecting you to come back.”

He flexes his jaw and stares off into the southwest. “They really should’ve thought of that before they kicked out my wife. And only to ingratiate themselves with Eraqen? Really? I’d reject a nomination from him to the council on principle.”

I lean into his solid presence. “I hope your mother’s okay.”

“If they run out of food, she can eat at the temple. And despite her ‘absence’ of mind, she never actually risks her health. I had mixed feelings about it as a kid. If she could choose to be present and take care of herself, she could choose to be present for us, right? But we weren’t enough. It was hard.”

I hug him.

“Listen to me ramble.” He rests his cheek on my head and sighs. “I don’t want to spend all my vacation complaining about my old house.”

I lick my lips. “Have you thought about your new house, then?”

“It’s with you.”

I warm again, remembering his heartfelt words last night.

“After that, I’m pretty flexible. We can tour abandoned houses today. There are options.”

Once Niq decides on something, he moves fast. By the time I get my clothes on, he’s already snagged a quick breakfast from Ix’s kitchen, and we soar off.

Some abandoned properties are still nominally owned by families who can no longer manage their upkeep, such as when there are no descendants, or the last heir is infirm. Some are in terrible repair, but they’re still better than houses that have stood empty for decades.

“You’re surprisingly upbeat,” I note as we bank away from the southern Reaches where we explored several of these properties. “You’re having fun right now.”

“Every falling-down house is a potential problem I could take on, right? And I just love taking on problems.” His tone is wry, but he lightens again. “Actually, my father had the same interest. Evaluating properties, planning rebuilds, making improvements. Ever since I was a young child, I’ve thought a lot about these properties. The next house is the first one I ever pretended to own.”

“Oh? Which one?”

Niq unexpectedly banks toward the highest peaks in the east.

My stomach drops from the sudden movement. I laugh in surprise and exhilaration.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“No.” I cling to him. “Do it again.”

His brows lift, and then he twirls and dives, soaring and plunging while I gasp and laugh, until the day shines brilliantly and we’re both breathless. I love rocketing through the air, caged by his strong arms, seeing the ground overhead and the sky beneath my feet.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, breathing hard.

“This is the most fun I’ve ever had in my life!” I gasp.

“Okay.” He grins, determined. “Hold on!”

He skims over treetops and swoops around jutting cliffs. The island twinkles below. Not far away is the dark, smoking red shadow of the ancient battle lurking like an evil omen. But right here and right now, there’s only us and the wind and the wild blue sky.

Eventually, Niq steadies and catches his breath, a wide grin stretching his lips. “Ah, I haven’t done that since I was a child. Still okay?”

“It was fun,” I assure him, stretching my own sore muscles from clinging on so tightly.

He grins wider, then veers over Vyren’s house in the east and lands on the road. Niq retracts his wings.

The air is thick with sun-dried pine needles and dust, the morning already unseasonably hot. Spring is quickly turning into summer.

“When we were kids, Vyren chose the left manor and Talassa chose the right.” Niq points to a leaning house farther to the east. He stops at the manor between them. “I chose this one.”

Niq pulls on the crooked gate.

This manor is similar in size to his family’s house outside Daedakros, but it’s been abandoned for generations. The formerly proud front door hangs off one hinge. A wall has collapsed, exposing two floors to the elements. The plaster is cracked and faded. Bushes and trees grow through the overturned furniture. Bits of moldy cloth smell like earth and damp leaves.

I scratch the moss, exposing pretty purple floor tiles. “It must’ve been beautiful.”

“You haven’t seen the best feature. This way.” Niq leads me around the back.

A dried, cracked fountain is tiled with disintegrating mosaics of dolphins and flowers and suns.

“Water came from an underground spring, through pipes.” Niq dusts off accumulated silt and polishes the tile with the corner of his tunic, making the colors glint. “You could bathe in it, I guess. Talassa’s grandfather said it was surrounded by flowers, so it looked like an oasis. He used to come over and play in it all summer.”

The tiling is pretty, even cracked and partly dispersed. I brush my palm over the fountain. “It’s still smooth.”

“There’s a vineyard up the hill, and a twisty old orchard. This was all potted herbs, though. You could see it, right? How they would’ve had parties and filled the oasis with music, like in the times of old?”

“Yeah.” I take his hand. “It would be fun to rebuild it with you.”

He beams, then he frowns and looks away, rubbing his free palm against his chest. He clears his throat. “Uh, I guess we should check on Vyren’s house.”

Rather than hopping directly over the fence, Niq flies me back to the road and pulls open Vyren’s uneven, creaking front gate like any polite visitor. We walk down the too-quiet path. Shadows loom ominously, and I rub my bumpy arms. “Maybe we shouldn’t be here.”

“You’re feeling his wards. If he’d been here more recently, then you’d really be feeling them. But we’ll be respectful and stay out of his actual house.”

The path is overgrown and the front gardens are wild, but Vyren’s main house is in much better condition than Niq’s pretend manor. The entry has been squared and freshly plastered, and the walls, although cracked, stand strong.

“He’s put in a lot of work,” Niq admits, studying the patches. “He’s gone to Sklerios for almost two solid years, and so Ayanakalia lifted the roof and leveled the floor and made everything livable. For people who don’t have a supportive family, her powers are the only way to get anything done.”

Vyren’s back garden has been worked, but it’s patchy and dried out. Niq critiques the irrigation system and tweaks it, then we haul water and pick bugs and uproot weeds. The small amount we accomplish before the day becomes unreasonably hot is sobering.

Niq sits back on his heels and looks over at the other house. He wipes his sweating brow. “It’d be a lot of work. Maybe too much.”

“We can do it.” Impulsively, I jump to my feet. “Let’s ask.”

“Ask?”

“The council. Or the head priestess, or whoever it is that reassigns the empty houses. Let’s ask right now!”

Galvanized by my enthusiasm, Niq lifts me into the air, and we fly across the island. The breeze feels wonderful against my sweat. Our path happens to take us over his old house, and I do see him looking down. A party is gathered on the roof. Music and laughter drift up to us.

I stroke his back.

“I’m okay.” He banks away, putting more air between them and us. “Even if we still lived there, we wouldn’t be invited.”

It makes a coal burn in my chest.

Niq always does these thoughtful little things. Like this morning, while I was still getting dressed, he neatly folded our blanket and put the cushion on it to keep it from blowing away in any gusts of wind. He floated across the roof in the night so our footsteps wouldn’t disturb the sleeping household. It reminds me of how sweet he is. When I think about those who took advantage of him—those men on Sklerios, Dayaris and Zakarin, and before them, his brother and sister-in-law—it makes me so mad. I wish my voice worked on them. I want to drop in right now and make them regret it.

At the main temple complex, we first speak to the master of the rota, then luckily catch Jeren coming out of a council room. Despite looking like he has a thousand things on his mind, Jeren breaks off his urgent conversations and ushers us into a private room to hear our request.

Niq opens his mouth, hesitates, then clears his throat. “Sorry, this isn’t an emergency…”

“No, no. I mean, good.” Jeren grins tiredly and scrubs his cheeks. “I’m happy to hear that. I don’t think I could handle any more emergencies right now. What is it?”

Niq takes my hand. “You might have heard that my brother abdicated responsibility for my wife, after promising he would care for her, on the very day I left for Sklerios.”

Jeren’s expression turns more and more somber as Niq recounts the details of me being kicked out. When Niq builds up to his request to establish a new house at the abandoned manor beside Vyren’s outside Rokastia, Jeren’s brows shoot for his hairline. Whatever he was expecting Niq to ask, this is not it, by miles.

“The master of the rota would count my service on Sklerios toward a newly established house,” Niq finishes. “Although then, House Ruqen would owe another service.”

“But that’s not your problem,” I remind him.

Niq inhales like he’s fighting an internal war, but he returns my finger squeeze. “You’re right. It’s not.”

Jeren’s pensive for a long moment. His deep frown returns. He gazes off into the distance.

“Unless you have a problem with it…”

“No, I think it’s fine,” Jeren replies absently. “I’d recognize your new house in a heartbeat. If you’d asked a month ago, even three weeks ago, I’m sure I could’ve pushed it through the council and been done with it. But now, I’m afraid, having my support would actually be detrimental.”

Niq and I shift uncomfortably. Niq says, “What do you mean?”

“How well do you know Eraqen? You’re related on your in-laws’ side.”

“Talassa’s uncle?” Niq sets his jaw. “We don’t speak.”

“He tried to get Niq killed at the spring equinox,” I say hotly. “Because of me.”

Jeren’s face flattens. “So much has happened, I’d honestly forgotten about that. Eraqen’s gotten himself onto the council, and he’s blocked every single resolution I’ve put forth, even ones unrelated to the current crisis. I can only assume it’s out of spite. The councilors who aren’t outright on his side are afraid to act against him because of his rabid followers. If I could engineer someone else to put forth your request, he may still block it for the sole reason that Faesli is a human.”

“Why does he care?” Niq’s voice sharpens. “Who cares if humans are in the Reaches or in the coastal villages or anywhere?”

“If I never hear that phrase again in my entire life, it’ll be too soon.” Jeren sits heavily on the bench.

“It’s unfair and it makes no sense. The daedali created us to protect humans.”

There’s a long moment of silence.

“Does that mean the councilors are violating their vows?” I ask suddenly. “If they’re behaving improperly, I could rebuke them, especially if they’re only blocking resolutions out of spite.”

Jeren looks thoughtful.

“I can sway councilors who’re acting against their own morals,” I say again, feeling out the possibilities. “They’ll already know they’re in the wrong. If you tell me what arguments you think would be the most effective, I’ll call them out.”

“Actually…” Jeren goes to the doorway and looks out into the halls. Then he returns and lowers his voice so only we can hear. “Can you come the night before the summer solstice?”

“You want Faesli to use her powers on a holy day?” Niq murmurs, shocked.

“I’m going to try everything in my power to resolve the issue before then. But.” Jeren focuses on me. “You think the monster is trying to lure victims into the throne room. It’s working, because I’ve spent all my political capital to keep Siqaris’s followers out, and it’s reached the crisis point. The council has gone over my head to agree to hold the summer solstice festival in the main temple.”

“Oh no,” I murmur.

“Oh yes, and it means two things. One, that on the summer solstice, a huge group is going to gather inside the temple, and two, that if the big gathering doesn’t trigger the monster, I’m very likely to be kicked off the council immediately after. Then the zealots will have free reign to try every method to awaken it.”

“I could try to compel the councilors to fight back against Eraqen now.” I straighten. “I could go to the next council meeting. I could come tomorrow.”

“That’ll only make you a target.” Jeren is grim. “If there’s no other option, I’ll summon you on the night before the summer solstice. In the meantime, I’ll try my hardest to convince them using reason. Ayanakalia will search for the entrances inside the temple. You focus on the archives.”

“I’ll go back to Sklerios and pretend nothing is wrong,” Niq says unhappily.

“I’m sorry, Niq. If I had it to do over, I’d make different choices. But.” Jeren shakes hands with us both. “Here we all are. Should the time come, I put my faith in you to save us.”

It’s a sobering end to a conference, and we go back to Marine and Ix’s quieter than usual. Niq clearly feels the weight of the world on his shoulders.

I don’t.

I feel ready. Eager, even. I’ve been hiding from Talassa’s uncle and the other followers for too long. I’m almost itching for my chance to give them a real piece of my mind.

The rest of Niq’s short vacation passes too quickly, and he reluctantly heads back to Sklerios.

But now, during our time apart, I’m no longer depressed and lonely. I feel hopeful and determined.

And each time Niq comes back, he’s firmer in his goal and more commanding. He forces Dayaris and Zakarin to give up their vacations to him, so he enjoys two extended trips. We spend the extra time working on our future broken-down manor house with the dry fountain. It’s fun and purposeful, and it feels like we’re building something together that’s uniquely our own.

The rest of the quarter passes uneasily.

Four days before the summer solstice, Niq flies in early, surprising us at dinner.

He drops his bag, accepting everyone’s excited hugs, and while squeezing me, explains. “This is Zakarin’s vacation, and I never repaid him for his original prank.”

“He let you take his time?” Marine says in surprise while Ix hurriedly gets him a plate.

“I gave him as much choice as he gave me.” And Niq gives a very un-Niq-like grin.

Marine looks impressed.

He scoots in beside my seat, keeping me pressed up against him, and we all have a festive dinner.

Late that evening, in the quiet on our roof after we’ve properly greeted each other, I comment on it. “You seem different. More confident.”

He traces a line down my nose. “I always wanted to be a respectable man like Head Councilor Jeren. Our father was a councilor, so surely I would become one too. But I don’t want to be Jeren. I don’t want to be responsible for the icari or the fate of our island or anything like that. I’d work myself to death taking on everyone’s problems. I’d rather be a father and a husband and a good man.”

“I think you could lead the council, though.”

“I don’t want to,” he repeats without a hint of doubt. “If they came to me and begged, I could figure it out. But I used to want them to come to me and beg. I used to think, if I worked hard enough, then someone would notice and I’d get what I was craving. If I were a better son, my mother would choose to be with me and Loqen rather than with our father. If I’d been different, my father wouldn’t have chosen our ancestor over his family. I wasn’t subtle about it either, and it drove Talassa to choose Loqen.”

“I always chose you,” I murmur.

“I know, and I think that’s why I’m finally able to choose myself. Other people are going to solve their own problems. I’m not the only capable man alive. You showed me not just that it’s okay to choose my own happiness but also what that happiness looks like. It’s this, right here, with you.”

I cup his cheeks. My heart swells up so big, I feel like it’s barely contained by the pressure of my ribs. “I feel exactly the same way.”

He buries himself in me, and together, we share with our bodies what our words can no longer fully convey.

I stroke the shell of his ear as he surges into me, his whispered voice breaking on my name. And then his pleasure tangles with mine, and I curl up, fully satisfied and tingling, in his arms. I really, truly love him.

We pass the last days of spring working on our future mansion and playing with Marine and Ix’s kids.

The last day of spring dawns hot and sweaty.

Unfortunately, during this last quarter while Niq was away on Sklerios, I never found a map to the warded entrances in the archives, Ayanakalia never found any entrance in the main temple, and Jeren never convinced the council to throw out Siqaris’s ardent followers.

Which means today, Niq and I have to meet with Jeren and execute our plan.

Jeren has tried to distance himself from us for my safety. I saw him last at the temple with a hunted expression, his wife and daughter never more than an arm’s length away from him. Through Marine, he promised to send a message when it’s safe to meet him in the council chambers. We’ll plan what arguments I should try to win back the council.

Niq eats breakfast, his gaze drifting up in the direction of the main temple. As the day passes, we try to act normal and help with Kyrinia’s preparations for their own summer solstice festival. We ferry supplies while Marine and Ix carry a huge cauldron down to the local ceremony grounds. The clearing has an ancient, shattered labyrinth medallion carved into the rock.

“I’ve never attended another village’s festival,” Niq says, anchoring shade tents while I and the children tie up decorative sprigs of flowers. “It looks fun.”

“They expect it to be smaller this year.” Marine puts her hands on her hips and grimaces over in the direction of the main temple. “Much smaller.”

A shadow falls over the hot day.

Anxiety spirals through me.

Niq catches my eye, and I take a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm.

“We’ll be here, though,” Marine says, rallying. “And we’ll make it fun. It’s guaranteed to be less chaotic than the main temple. Quieter, more introspective, and significantly less dangerous…”

“With all that dancing?” Niq grins at her kids thrashing energetically while the musicians tune their instruments. “It looks exciting to me.”

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

Villagers join in throughout the afternoon, and we allow everyone to think we’re attending their festival tomorrow without actually saying we are.

Kyrinia’s day-before festival will be smaller because it’s only attendees who’ve decided not to attend any potential awakenings of Siqaris. Tasty early summer foods grace the evening tables, the sun descends and cooler breezes prevail, and finally the sun kisses the horizon, casting vivid orange beams across the sky. Then the pale sky darkens and the moon rises like a portent. The hour grows later and later.

And still Jeren’s message never comes.

Niq takes my hand and draws me away from the crowds, his voice low. “I’m going to go.”

My chest tightens. “You saw a message?”

“No, but I can’t believe he’d send for us this late. Something must be wrong.”

I’m afraid he’s right.

“You stay here,” he says. “I’ll go check and come back.”

I tighten my grip. “I choose you.”

He frowns for a long moment.

Then he sighs. “Okay. Together, then.”

He lifts me into the air.

Lights flicker, and ceremonial fires are visible in all six villages across the island. The largest is the ceremonial fire in the main temple complex grates.

My heart thumps. If I were to get wings, I’d be able to float like this too. What would it be like? I can’t imagine it.

“If there’s danger, though, I’m taking you back to Kyrinia,” he murmurs into my hair.

I don’t answer.

Don’t forget what you are.

Unease twists in my belly.

The Daedakros square is almost empty, which is unheard of on the night before a festival. Booths are abandoned and food is spilled out.

Niq continues on to the main temple complex.

It’s even emptier. Lights glow in the building windows and the ceremonial fire burns bright in its large brazier, but no one is around.

Goose bumps go up my arms.

“Something is wrong,” Niq mutters, circling before he lands cautiously on the stoa of the council building. He ducks his head in, trots down a few corridors. “It’s completely empty.”

The quiet is unsettling.

I look around the empty plaza, and my gaze catches on something I do not expect to see. Beyond the two giant icari statues is a deeper darkness.

My fear squeezes my stomach.

“Niq,” I hiss.

He hurries back. “What?”

I gesture at the main temple in a panic. “The doors are open.”

Chapter 27

Niq

The empty plaza, after months of being filled with crowds near rioting, and the open doors while the temple itself is silent, paints a grim picture.

All my countrymen, people I may not agree with but who I’ve tilled fields and stomped grapes and gutted fish with, might already have been lured down the monster’s gullet.

I feel sick.

Faesli swallows grimly. “If it’s already happened, the entry will be exposed. We have to repair the wards.”

“Okay.” I harden myself. “You stay out here.”

She gives me a look. “I’m the only one who can do this.”

I don’t like it.

But I’m also not a complete idiot. I pull her to me. “If I get covered in bugs and start talking like Siqaris, command me to walk off the cliff, okay? Don’t let me do anything I’d regret.”

“I will.” She tucks herself against me as we fly. “I promise.”

I cautiously enter the open temple.

One basic dagger is strapped to my waist. My father’s armor and long swords are hanging uselessly at my family’s house. Loqen’s house now, I guess. I never practiced with them. I’m not a warrior. But right now, I wish I was wearing all of it. I need my father’s spirit guiding me, and it’s trapped under the ocean. He can’t help. Everyone is gone. It’s just me and Faesli now.

It’s darker than the darkest night over the temple labyrinth, but flickering light spills from the inner sanctum. Muffled noises sound like unhurried talking. No cries of alarm.

I soar over the empty labyrinth and land at the entry to the inner sanctum. Leaving Faesli behind me in shadow, I creep forward into the light.

It’s a midnight ceremony.

Torchlights give the carved monsters on the walls unnatural life.

The chamber is filled to the brim with icari. Families, elders, priestesses from Daedakros and all the other villages. All hold candles.

Everyone leaves a respectful opening around two shrouded figures lying on either side of the cracked labyrinth medallion. Liquid gold seeps along the shallow carvings. I’ve always thought the gold looked like metal, but now, for the first time, it looks to me like saliva…

The giant throne is empty. Hence the silence.

Talassa’s uncle Eraqen stands on the elevated platform. His adult children stand proudly beside him. Further out, and slightly lower in elevation, stand Loqen and Talassa.

Eraqen’s in the middle of speaking. “…we are the favored, we are the blessed, we are the faithful who are rewarded by being the holiest ones chosen by our true god…”

Irinia leads a procession of priestesses around the outside of the medallion. She kneels by one shroud and touches it.

The covering shifts and exposes a human profile.

It’s Jeren.

Behind me, Faesli gasps.

Which means the other, smaller bundle, has to be Ayanakalia.

I’m so shocked that words pop out. “What are you doing?”

It happens to be in a momentary dip between Eraqen’s chants, so my question sounds loud as an explosion.

The ceremony stops.

Everyone looks at me.

I stare back at them.

Probably I should fear for my life. But I can’t believe my own people, my fellow icari, would do what this looks like. I gesture at the unmoving forms in utter shock. “Are they dead? Did you kill them?”

There’s an uncomfortable shuffling.

Eraqen mutters something to Talassa.

She flies over to us and lands in a huff. “No, Niqalis, they’re just sleeping.”

“Then why are they laid out like corpses?”

“They’re not…” She lowers her voice as Eraqen loudly restarts the chanting. “They’re not corpses, they’re witnesses.”

“Their eyes are closed!”

“Don’t be stupid. Look. The head priestess had a vision of our god ascending. This is ‘what happens’ in the vision. Jeren and his wife lie here sleeping while we chant.”

Jeren and his wife? How intensely disrespectful to Ayanakalia.

“It’s how it has to happen,” Talassa insists. “Don’t look so upset. They’re completely unharmed.”

I shake my head. My whole life I’ve been told that the most important things are outside my control. I just have to live with other people’s decisions and accept my role.

But this is a step too far. It’s way, way too far. “You’re supposed to impeach Jeren, not do whatever this is. Did you hit him over the head? And Ayanakalia?”

“Niq, you don’t understand anything.” She crosses her arms. “We’re about to be sworn in as kings of Daedakros.”

“Daedakros doesn’t have kings. It has elders.”

“This is why you’re not head of house.”

I choke. “Because I haven’t lost my mind?”

She frowns mightily, then gestures at Loqen. “I give up. You explain it to him.”

“They’re just sleeping,” Loqen insists, keeping his voice low and glancing surreptitiously behind him as though I’m embarrassing him. “It’s not really your problem.”

“You’ve honestly hurt them?”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“Someone did!”

The closest families look at us again and shift uncomfortably.

“Hey, you…” Loqen gestures at the exit. “You’ve got to go. You’re not welcome here.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“You go, or…” He draws himself up. “Or you’re no longer a member of my house.”

Shock goes through me.

Then, dull acceptance. This moment has been coming since I brought Faesli home. Probably since long before then, too, but I was just blind to it.

Bitterness stains my tone. “You’re kicking me out because I’m the only one who has the guts to do what’s right? I’m sure our ancestors are looking down on our house with pleasure tonight.”

“Come on, Niq. You didn’t do hardly anything for our house. Not like I’ve done.”

I stare at him. “I did everything.”

“Anyone could do chores. You didn’t improve our standing at all. Not like the big, political actions I’ve taken. Because of you, we were merely surviving, but because of me, House Ruqen matters again.”

His eyes water and he stands taller beside Talassa, who’s in total agreement with him.

“And once you get rid of your useless human wife,” he gestures at the shadow where Faesli’s standing, “you can move back in again. I’ll even let you live in the main house after we use your favor to expand it and make it even grander than before.”

Somehow, Loqen is just like me. Working blindly toward some goal, certain of his rightness, never checking in with anyone else about whether that’s what they want or need.

He’s also right that I was only focused on survival. I focused on keeping things the same, on maintaining the house and everyone in it exactly as they were from the moment I took over for our absent father. I thought if I could just do that well enough then I’d take care of everyone and they’d be happy.

But “just surviving” never made Loqen happy. If I’d checked in with him even once before he married Talassa, maybe I would’ve found that out.

It doesn’t matter.

I start toward the shrouded figures.

Loqen grabs my arm, Talassa helping. “Where are you going?”

“Eraqen is dancing on a monster’s teeth and tickling its tongue. When it snaps, the rest of you can run away. Jeren and Ayanakalia can’t.”

His eyes flash. “You’re so desperate to take on other people’s problems you’re making them up so you can be the hero. Don’t you get it? Nothing’s going to happen.”

Suddenly, the ground shudders.

Talassa shrieks and Loqen barks with alarm.

I instinctively grab for Faesli, dropping to the shaking stone and sheltering her with my wings.

The stone roars like a beast awakening from slumber. Over the screams, a great cracking sounds, and then the medallion splits open like a jagged maw. Liquid gold coats the inner cliffs. Icari slide toward it, get coated, and kick helplessly against the slick. Candles are dropped and roll around. Rocks break off the ceiling and tumble, revealing the starry night sky overhead. They clatter into the hole.

The earth-noise quiets.

But the icari hanging onto the medallion edges kick desperately and cry for help. “I can’t fly!”

Others help pull them out. Wings dripping with gold substance, they shake and gasp, panicked about their loss of magic.

“The wards are exposed,” Faesli murmurs beneath me, her eyes fixed on the scene. “That’s the entrance there. The monster’s gullet.”

I help Faesli rise.

Jeren and Ayanakalia still lie, enshrouded and unmoving, but now on opposite sides of the gaping crevice.

They’re not my responsibility. Not members of my house. I’ve sworn them no fealty.

But someone has to help them. And if no one else will save them, I have to.

Maybe that’s a flaw. A hero complex, like Loqen thinks.

But right here, right now, I can’t agonize about why I need to save them. I just need to do it.

Faesli, beside me, reads my unspoken words. “Let’s go.”

I start toward them, pushing through the crowd, my heart hammering in my chest. The magical wards press my feet into the stone like I’m already carrying twice my own weight. This must be how humans feel because they can never fly. Faesli keeps right behind me.

“Niq!” Loqen cries. “Don’t ruin our house’s ascension!”

A strange hissing noise fills the sanctuary.

We freeze.

It’s coming from the crevice.

Eraqen lumbers down to the edge. He lifts his arms and spreads his wings to embrace it. “Welcome our new god!”

Gold light erupts from the hole like a celestial geyser. It hops over Eraqen’s upturned face and fills the empty throne behind him.

Siqaris’s ghost sits on the throne.

But he’s no longer see-through. Ripples of a thicker gold substance move independently across his skin and eyes, his teeth and lips.

Siqaris bellows, “I am the son of the head priestess, and soon I’ll lead the council. I’m first among the icari, and I have never been a father!”

“Yes, my god!” Eraqen turns to him and uplifts his face and arms, his gold-and-white wings spread wide. “Fill me, your most faithful follower, with your power to rule over this land!”

Siqaris’s smile widens, and his voice lowers. “Then Pivarin will be judged!”

Huh?

Eraqen is the icarus who’s supplicating him. Pivarin is a whole different man who lives in Janakros. Some of his kids are here, but Pivarin himself is not present.

I’m so distracted by Siqaris’s mistake, I miss when his statue stands.

Or, it seems like he’s rising. The hissing noise increases. Gold cascades from the statue like a waterfall. It pours over Eraqen, coating him. Droplets fall near us. Faesli makes a noise and flicks a droplet away, into the crevice.

It’s an iridescent gold beetle.

Eraqen laughs as the gold beetles coat him, turning him to gold just like they once coated Irinia at the spring equinox.

But then he stops laughing.

He starts screaming.

The bugs flow over his body as he staggers. Fire ignites across his back, and his screams reach a higher pitch. At the second burst of flame, I realize what’s happening. The shape of his wings ignites, curling around his gold-coated body as it immolates to burning-red coals, then blackens to ash that blows away.

He’s just lost his wings. Eraqen’s one of the fallen now.

His scream chokes off to a hiss, and his gold-crusted hands bat at his throat. Uneven footsteps teeter away from the now-transparent, glowing ghost. Parts of Eraqen’s face, arm, and clothing reappear, which seems good, but then his clothes and cheeks bulge unnaturally. His bloodshot eyes protrude. Gold pebbles move within his silently screaming mouth. He falls to pieces on the ground, writhing on the broken labyrinth medallion near Jeren’s shrouded body like a landed fish. Eventually, he goes still. But his body continues to move, seething, like a living pile of clothes.

We are all transfixed with horror. Even the smirking ghost statue remains silent.

Then Eraqen thrusts forth his arm, palm on the ground, to push himself up.

But the exposed forearm is more bone than meat, and the face that lifts to look at us is in no way still living.

Everyone gasps.

What’s left of Eraqen’s jaw drops open.

Bugs pour out.

They fly right at us!

Everyone screams, including me.

Icari stampede for the exit behind us.

But Faesli holds up her hand to the bugs, fearless and commanding. “We do not belong to you. You will leave us alone.”

The bugs veer away, breaking around us like a river breaking around rocks. They buzz after the others, who frantically run away. Outside our sanctuary room, screams echo off the walls of the labyrinth. The exposed wards aren’t as effective there, so it’s still possible to fly.

The jagged teeth of the medallion crumble.

Faesli drops to her knees and stretches out. Her fingertips close on the edge of Ayanakalia’s shroud.

The ground roars, medallion pieces bouncing, and the edges around the crevice tilt further inward.

Faesli slides toward the maw.

I grab Faesli’s ankle, arresting her.

Ayanakalia rolls free of the shroud, leaving it fluttering in Faesli’s fingertips. Her unconscious body hurtles into the gold-coated crevice. Jeren’s still-shrouded body tumbles in on the other side. Rocks and stones clatter after them.

I drag Faesli back from the edge. We crawl over the buzzing pebbles and loose rocks to the more stable edge of the platform. It’s uncomfortably near the cliff, actually. I never worried much about that before, but with the heaviness in my limbs and my wings feeling unnaturally weighty, I peer over the side. Way down below, the ocean waves crash, but it’s too dark to see them.

A hissing buzz returns.

The bugs, unsuccessful at chasing down the other icari, pour in a cloud back into our sanctuary. Some reenter Siqaris, while others land on Eraqen’s trembling form. But unlike before, Eraqen doesn’t seem to notice. Sightless, he’s unmoving as they crawl across his face and into a hole in his cheek and root around inside.

A sick shudder rolls through me. I will never be able to close my eyes without seeing this horrible image.

Now it’s down to us. Me and Faesli versus the undead Siqaris and Eraqen. We were too late to save Ayanakalia and Jeren. All we can do is save ourselves.

We just have to escape…

Across the crevice, in the much dimmer light, Irinia steps on a rock and slips.

Oh!

The priestesses left her behind?

They just left her? A child?

I lift Faesli to her feet.

The exit is partially blocked with rubble. We’re going to have to scramble over it and squeeze through, and now we have to also figure out how to rescue Irinia and still escape.

“Okay,” Irinia calls up to the ghostly Siqaris. “I gave you what you wanted. How do I find my grandparents?”

Dread seeps into me.

Irinia gave the monster what it wanted?

I carry Faesli backward toward the exit. “Irinia, what are you doing?”

Siqaris animates, gesturing at us. “Give me those.”

Bugs pour off Eraqen. They make a cloud and swarm us.

Panic electrifies me like bolts of lightning.

Faesli holds up her hands again. “Back.”

The bugs swirl around us as if they’re held off by an invisible barrier.

Thank all the gods for Faesli’s strength.

The bugs swirl over the crevice, buzzing for a target.

As we pass, I peer down the narrow crack. Darkness lies far at the bottom. Ayanakalia and Jeren are gone.

Irinia looks annoyed and grossed-out by the bugs but otherwise unbothered.

“What’s wrong with you?” I shout at her, heart pounding as I continue to pull Faesli cautiously toward the exit. Our feet slip, and shale clatters down the crevice. “I would give anything to have my parents back. You just killed yours!”

“Nu-uh. They’re not dead.” Irinia peers down where her parents disappeared. “They’re just sleeping.”

“They’re not just sleeping.” I edge us another step closer to the exit.

“Um, I’m the one who sees the future.” She presses a bejeweled hand to her chest. The jewelry is too large, and she has to adjust to keep the rings on. “And I saw it already. They’re both fine. Everyone’s fine.”

My voice cracks. “Is Eraqen fine?”

Irinia rolls her eyes like I’m being dramatic. “He got what he wanted. Hey!” She again shouts at the ghost. “What about what I want?”

“Give us those,” Siqaris repeats, his voice booming.

“I guess you can have her.” Irinia waves at Faesli.

“Irinia!” I cry.

“She’s always trying to ruin everything.”

The bugs swirl around us endlessly making no move to close in.

“You can’t ‘give me’ to anyone,” Faesli tells Irinia in her normal voice. “You’re not my priestess. You welcomed me with a halfhearted blessing and then took it back in a fit of anger. I’m a guest in this land. You have no authority over me.”

“That’s true.” Irinia sighs with exasperation. “Fine! Ugh. It’s just a little sacrifice. Niq’s not anyone that matters. You can have Niq.”

Gold beetles fly at me.

I let go of Faesli, throw my arms up, and stumble back.

They stick to me heavily, crawling across my clothes and hair, and then they find my skin.

And tear in.

Faesli shouts. “Leave him alone!”

But they do not.

I smash and scrape them off, but they keep coming. I can’t shake them. They burrow into my mouth, down my throat, up my nostrils, and into my ears.

Faesli shouts again.

I stumble mindlessly. My wings automatically materialize even though I can’t use them. I flap helplessly. Away. I have to get away.

A horrendous wrenching sensation draws me onto my toes. The worst pain of my life flames across my skin.

One of my gold feathers was chewed down to the nub.

My greatest source of magic is torn away.

The magic expels in a fiery immolation that engulfs my whole body.

The gold beetles in front of me disappear in a crackle of fire, but reappear instants after the fire passes, unaffected.

Beetles tear into my muscles, dig into my organs, and darken my eyes. They consume my magic feather by feather. They gnaw on my very soul.

I scream.

But all that comes out of my mouth is a silent hiss.

Chapter 28

Faesli

“Leave Niq alone!” I scream at the beetles.

But they do not obey me.

The clacking gold bugs chew into Niq’s torso. Blood flows down his chest, drips off his fingers. His skin pulses weirdly. He extends his wings instinctively, trying helplessly to fly away, and now chunks of his beautiful, delicate white feathers disappear before my very eyes.

I gather up all my power, my strength, and the strength of my ancestors, and force my will onto the monsters. “Let him go!”

The beetles scuttle away from his face and chest.

Yes! I’ve done it, I’ve ordered them…

A puff of fire erupts from his back, making him arch and scream.

The beetles aren’t going away. They’re drawn to the gold feathers that are the most powerful source of his magic. Blood-spattered shreds of white feathers float off, curling into flames as they eat his magic down to his skin. A second wave of flames immolates his body. He arches backward in pain, still screaming.

Behind me, the twitchy pile of what used to be Talassa’s uncle is an inanimate lump.

That’s what will happen to Niq if I don’t do something.

Panic beats in my chest. I don’t understand why my order isn’t working. I should be able to command them. “Stop it! Now!”

A third wave of flames erupts over Niq.

He only has one feather left!

The head priestess hunches her shoulder to Niq’s torment, trying not to look but unable to fully look away.

“Stop it!” I cry again, but this time, I direct my shout at her as well.

She twitches. “Sorry.”

Shock and then understanding electrify me.

I can’t command the beetles to get off Niq because the head priestess has given them permission to do this. To eat his magic. Maybe even eat him.

Helpless anguish gushes through me.

What can I do? What can I do?

Niq’s not anyone that matters, Irinia said.

That’s what she thinks. And Loqen, and Talassa. Plenty of people agree.

Who cares about his hopes, his plans, his dreams?

I love him more than he loves me. I know that.

But stomping on him just to please my hurt feelings is something I will never, ever do, and the fact that so many others think it’s okay absolutely infuriates me.

It’s just a little sacrifice.

I honestly think Niq repeats that to himself all the time. Every time he puts his own desires to one side and fulfills someone else’s wish, I’m sure he thinks that.

But I don’t.

I’m not as good a person as he is.

Okay, then. If the head priestess has given permission to eat Niq, the monster isn’t violating any contracts, and I can’t command it to stop. The bugs seem immune to fire. They’ve been unaffected by three bouts of flames.

He still has one gold feather left.

I grab Niq and drag him backward off the platform.

We plunge down the cliff.

My stomach vaults for my throat.

His wings are spread, as much as they can be, so I have to shout in his ear, over his thrashing and screaming, “Dive! Dive for the water!”

I don’t know if he hears me. He makes the worst guttural groan.

Hurtling through the darkness, end over end, we smash into the riotous waves. The landing almost knocks me out. Underwater, I scrape across mussel-covered rocks, and the broken shells lacerate my shoulder. The pain shakes me awake. Swimming in the black waters despite the disorientation, I fight for the surface.

Gold bugs stream away from Niq. They can’t survive underwater!

But from the open ocean, fierce lights streak for us. Otherworldly flames illuminate our shallow pools.

The Summoned!

They’re too late.

Thick black ropes twine around Niq’s body. They coil like a sea serpent around and around. He thrashes.

I break the surface, gasp one breath, another.

Lights flash below me.

I dive back in.

The Summoned warriors slice through the gold bugs as well as the coiling black seaweed. The bugs fall to pieces and disintegrate.

Yes! I’ve saved him—

Niq arches with a watery scream.

The world turns shockingly bright.

Lightning streaks down from the sky and strikes our pool.

My heartbeat sounds loud in my waterlogged ears, and my chest hurts.

Gold fire dances across Niq’s body.

He goes limp.

The water makes a gluk-gluk noise, and the current suddenly yanks us toward the boulder where I almost got stuck and drowned.

The ocean god’s black grip on Niq loosens, its seaweed tentacles unwinding.

The boulder rocks in place, the narrow passage widening. Niq’s dragged over the small boulder and into a narrow underwater cave. I grip his tunic, my back scraping the rough walls. I press my face against Niq’s limp torso. His shredded clothes flutter against my cheek like loose feathers. We rush through the pressurized darkness into what feels like a tinier and more confined space before finally being ejected into a bubbling pool.

I scramble out of the deep water, gasping for breath, and then I drag Niq to the shallows. My joints shake and I collapse, every ounce of strength completely gone from my body. My ears ring like they got boxed.

Beside me, water pours from Niq’s mouth. He coughs and hacks for a long time, moans, and coughs more.

I fall unconscious.

Hours pass.

At least, that’s what it feels like. I have no way of telling the time. The pool we’re still half submerged in occasionally makes a geyser spray and fills up, dampening to my crown and almost making me float, then it drains away again, down until only my ankles are still in the water. Then another geyser fills up the pool and mists my cheeks and closed eyes.

Wherever we are, it’s within hearing distance of the main temple, because I become conscious of Siqaris’s booming voice. It echoes faintly nearby. “I’ll have the most beautiful, respectable, subservient wife, and together, we’ll produce legendary children. They’ll worship me, and we will all, as a family, ascend to the stars like the demigods and heroes before us.”

He pauses for a moment.

“Nothing you’ve ever done has mattered. You protected no one, helped no one. The gods pulled a trick on you. They gave you an illusion instead of gold feathers, and I’m going to cut the last one out.”

Another pause.

“The acolytes say you’re too stupid to be a holy woman, and I don’t sense any specialness. All you’ve done is fatten up Raqessa’s brat. I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

Who’s Raqessa? I don’t recognize the name. Siqaris says a lot of strange things. I wonder what any of them mean.

I force my eyes open.

It seems just as dark as when I fell asleep, whether it was minutes ago or most of the night.

The only source of light is a distant corner of the cavernous ceiling.

I’m still in the water.

Gathering my strength, I take a deep breath and roll from my back onto my side. My hand hits something stringy. It tangles my fingers like matted hair, but something glassy in it clinks.

…what?

I sit up.

Separated from its pouch, it’s my lost apology necklace.

I clutch it to my chest as I sit in the wet shallows.

The water in the pool drains behind me.

I look around.

This cavern is not large.

Beneath the lit area is a pile of rubble. Dust motes float heavily. There’s been a recent collapse.

On the walls proper, faint symbols glimmer, so ancient the paint is barely visible, but the power remains. They radiate with a terrible presence. I feel it heavily, and I’m just a human. I can’t imagine the pressure it must apply to anyone with magic.

Niq coughs hard.

I touch his leg in sympathy. Coughing is good. Coughing is alive.

To my right, the dark cavern leads down into an abyss. Air makes a subtle whistling, like breathing, and the jagged rocks around the inner gullet look like teeth.

That’s a no-go area.

I squint at the distant light. That has to be an exit, right?

Staggering to my feet, I strike out onto the dry, bumpy rock floor.

With the very first step, instantly, pain lances my foot as if I’ve stepped on knives.

I stumble back and sit with a plop in the pool. Blood flows out of my instep. I whimper. Something cut me pretty deep. I compress the painful injury, rocking and willing the agony to subside.

The little “rock” I stepped on rolls over and flutters its iridescent gold wings with a crackle.

My heart stops.

It faces me and clicks its mandibles.

Then it launches at me.

I swat it away.

It latches onto my palm and bites.

“Ow!”

I plunge my hand—with bug still attached—into the shallow pool.

The bug releases me and swims for the edge, but for some reason, it can’t escape the water. It twitches and dies again. Its body circles a slow drain in the middle of the pool, then it’s sucked out. A few minutes later, the geyser sprays and its body plops onto the edge of the pool near where I found my apology necklace. Then it drifts out, circles the slow drain, and disappears again.

I tuck my bitten palm into my armpit, squeezing the stinging bite, and use my remaining good hand to compress my throbbing foot.

The ground, in every direction, is covered in bumpy pebbles, which I now see are glittering, undead bugs.

Luckily, I was too weak to drag Niq far. He’s still mostly in the damp pool, and I didn’t accidentally dump him on any bug corpses.

In fact, close to him is a strange corridor that’s smooth and without bugs. It’s about two body-widths wide, as if someone lay supine, then rolled over and crawled on their front. The path goes a few bodies’ lengths to a skeleton.

The bones are wrapped in a purple fabric with a gold sash.

“Siqaris,” I murmur.

My word hisses across the glittery field. The walls shimmer. Saying his name aloud excites his trapped spirit.

Something moves at the edge of my vision.

I whip my head toward it.

Nothing.

I scan the area. Something shadowy and ticklish lingers just out of view, biding its time. It’s going to try to trick me into doing something stupid, like running in a panic and reconstituting a hundred undead bugs, or something even more stupid, like going deeper into the dark abyss.

I limp to Siqaris’s skeleton, careful not to accidentally bleed outside the cleared corridor around his body. The bones are stuck with bits of gold-brown skin and white-blond hair. There’s no stink. He must’ve rotted away a decade ago.

From here, the light of the ceiling is much too far away to reach.

“And my legacy will not be sullied by a momentary insanity with a cursed woman,” Siqaris’s ghost intones distantly.

On the pile of collapsed rocks, I’m certain I see something. A man’s wrist hanging down, maybe, from a shroud.

“The gods agree,” Siqaris booms. “That’s why they punished her. They killed her for daring to get in my way.”

If that’s Jeren, how could he sleep through this? My bad feeling intensifies, and there’s no way I can cross the carpet of undead bugs to check.

I shuffle back to the safety of the pool.

The water is lower now. It’s past Niq’s foot. In comparison to how fast it yanked us inside, it drains much, much more slowly. I don’t think we could escape that way. I couldn’t hold my breath long enough to swim against the current, and I’d definitely drown.

“Her weakling son was supposed to die as well. You interfered.” Siqaris waits for a few minutes, then repeats himself. “I’ll have the most beautiful, respectable, subservient wife, and together, we’ll produce legendary children.”

I don’t see any way out of here.

Niq moans again, coughs gutturally, then finishes his moan. His voice comes out dry and cracked. “Faesli.”

I sit in the silty puddle beside him. “I’m here.”

“It didn’t work. Your powers.”

A lump forms in my throat.

I swallow hard. “Sorry.”

He rests his shaky palm on my knee. “It’s my fault.”

“No,” I assure him. “We underestimated our enemies. It’s a common mistake.”

“I trust too much. Everyone loses patience. Vyren. Loqen.”

“No, it’s not true.”

His eyes are closed, and red tears streak his cheeks.

I feel angry and sad and sick all at once, but I try to make my voice normal, and I kiss his forehead. “It’s because you don’t do nasty things yourself, so you never expect others to. I’m not mad. I love that about you.”

His lips part.

Then he licks his lips and frowns, shrugs one shoulder a couple of times.

I focus on the walls again. Is there some way I could use these worn-down wards against the bugs? If I had some paint, maybe I could think of something…

Niq shrugs his shoulder again, then tries the other and winces. “I can’t… Faesli, will you check my back? Something’s wrong with my wings.”

I carefully roll him over and move the shredded clothes to see in the dim, reflected light.

“There will be some scars,” he murmurs into the shallow water. “I felt at least two feathers go. I saved them all this time for children someday, but I should’ve used them, I guess. I should…I should have two left, and that’s enough.”

There are four harsh, blackened, and bloodied streaks radiating from his spine across his shoulder blades.

My heart sinks.

A part of me knew this. I saw the gold lightning underwater, and even though I didn’t understand what it was, I knew it was unnatural. Fire erupted over his body three times in the air and one final time on his submerged body. And, most tellingly, the ocean god released him. It only hunts the icari, they told me. The fallen count as human. They became fishermen on the coast because, without wings, they could dive and swim without danger. Once Niq lost his wings, he was no longer icari, and the ocean god let him go.

But it’s too painful.

“You can’t use your magic inside the wards,” I lie to him. “So you can’t draw your wings out here.”

“We’re inside the wards? I thought we were on the shore. Are we safe? It’s so dark here.”

Oh no.

His eyes are closed, but he doesn’t realize it.

I touch a smooth, uninjured spot on his cheek. “We’re safe for now.”

He smiles. He can feel my hand. Then he frowns again. “Faesli, I don’t feel so good.”

My throat tightens.

I try to keep my voice even. “Yeah?”

“I was afraid to bind our souls because I was scared to end up like my parents. But now I think I was wrong. Being separated and forced to live a half-life doesn’t scare me as much as thinking we might never see each other again.”

A lump forms in my throat. “Same.”

“If you’ll let me, I want to bind our souls. But I can’t…I can’t seem to get out my feather to bind us…”

I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry. “It’s okay. I’ll get my own wings and pull out my own feather and bind us.”

“Would you do that?”

“First thing,” I promise.

He smiles again.

Then his smile fades. “I have four scars on my back, don’t I?”

I don’t think facing reality will help anyone right now. But I don’t know what else to say.

He swallows hard. “You should’ve married someone who was smarter. Less gullible.”

“I don’t need anyone like that. I’m descended from shrine maidens. I’ll fight off the monsters. Together, we’ll get your wings back.”

He’s silent for a long time.

Then, he says, “Are they dead? Ayanakalia and Jeren. Did they die when they fell down that hole?”

“We’re all going to get out of here, and your living god will give us wings, and the false god will die for real, and I’ll redo all the wards, and we’ll live happily ever after.”

He wheezes.

“Don’t you dare die on me down here,” I warn him fiercely. “Because I will not spend the next ten thousand years waiting patiently for the island’s spirit to disintegrate enough for your souls to separate. I’ll wait very impatiently, actually.”

“Sorry.” He clears his throat of phlegm. “I was just thinking that the one time I want to be selfish, I can’t be. It’s probably some kind of message. A reminder not to lose myself.”

“You can be selfish with me.” I press kisses to his forehead, to his cheek, to his cool lips. It’s such a hot night, and he’s not warm at all. “I want you to be selfish with me.”

“I’m sorry, Faesli.”

Sadness stabs me, then anger and sadness again. I use my powers. “Do not die.”

“I’m…really sorry…”

My powers don’t affect him now that he’s lost his wings and become a human. Ayanakalia said the fallen weren’t really human, but this proves he is.

“Do not die,” I murmur again, just in case it helps, and then I stand and face where Ayanakalia and Jeren are lying.

What I’m about to try is dangerous.

Not much can get past the wards, but my powers can echo within the broken-open chamber and maybe even get amplified to the outside world.

Or potentially find a listener much deeper…

It’s a risk, but I don’t see any other choice.

Niq is the best and most heroic person who’s ever lived, and he’s not going to die because I didn’t try hard enough.

He’s generous and trusting and sweet, and those traits must never be used against him ever again. In fact, he should be encouraged to be even more generous and trusting and kindhearted.

He needs someone selfish and guarded and bitter like me to protect him so he can be who he is.

I will be his hard outer shell. I will be his protective shield. I will be the armor for this beautiful, precious, heroic man who the entire rest of the world considers disposable.

Because to me, he’s not disposable. He’s everything.

And anyway, I’m a shrine maiden.

If I awaken something terrible trying to save the man I love, I will just have to handle it.

I set my feet, dig deep into my power, and order Ayanakalia and Jeren, “Awaken.”

Chapter 29

Faesli

My order to Awaken echoes off the walls of the cavern, growing louder and louder with each bounce and causing the wards to glow with an unnatural sheen.

A hiss and clatter echoes throughout the chamber. Simultaneous twitching of thousands of undead beetles moving their legs and stretching their wings. Deeper, a subterranean yawn sounds. The ground trembles.

I clasp my hands in front of my chest.

Luckily, luckily, the echoes finally go quiet.

On the pile of rock, I can’t tell whether Ayanakalia or Jeren has so much as twitched.

I clench my jaw.

Don’t forget what you are. When I left Riganos, the head priestess told me this. It’s been impossible to forget I’m a human in the land of icari, but now I feel strongly that she meant the warning differently. I’m a shrine maiden. I compel monsters to do my bidding. And the icari of this island, all of them, have a lot to answer for right now.

Starting with Ayanakalia and Jeren.

“Wake up,” I order them, louder. “Answer for the monster you created.”

The hand dangling off the rock pile twitches.

They’re not dead!

For the first time, hope rises in my chest.

Even though, again, my order echoes disturbingly off the wards and a louder rumble sounds deep within the island. The ground shifts, and pebbles clatter ominously.

“Hey!” Irinia’s voice floats down from the lighted chamber above. “You’re not supposed to do that.”

We must be right beneath the labyrinth seal. The light must be coming from the crevice in the main sanctuary. Ayanakalia and Jeren rolled down it and fell onto the previously collapsed ceiling rocks. Considering how much Ayanakalia tunneled in this area, it’s really surprising she missed this chamber. But the chamber is small and probably easy to miss by being just a few finger widths the wrong direction.

“Go get help,” I shout at Irinia in my ordinary voice. “Go before you get attacked!”

“The bugs are gone,” she calls back. “They went over the cliff with you and never came back.”

I flex my fingers helplessly and imagine shaking her. I never shook my youngest sister no matter how she frustrated me, but for Irinia, I will make an exception. “Get help, Irinia.”

“Siqaris just needs a little more energy, and then he can tell me where my grandparents are.”

“He’s not a conscious thing! ‘He’ is a top, and you wind up the string and let it fly, and it spins and spins until it runs out. It’s like your moving statues. He’s not going to tell you anything.”

“That shows what you know.”

“And if you don’t go and get help now, your parents will die. We all will.”

“Nuh-uh. You don’t know. I can see the future.”

“You see the future where they’re okay because of what I’m doing and because you go get help.”

“You’re stupid. I’m the head priestess.”

Helpless anger shakes my hands.

I form them back into fists.

Okay. Fine.

“Awaken,” I order Ayanakalia and Jeren, descending into my deepest and most powerful core. “Help us now lest you gaze upon the cracked and poisoned earth. Your excuses sowed the seed. Harvest the bitter fruit, feast on it, and despair!”

The ground abruptly shifts beneath my feet.

I lose my footing and stumble backward into the shallow pool. Niq rocks in the splashing shallows. Up on the rubble pile, Jeren rolls dangerously close to the edge. His whole arm flops off, his fingertips almost brushing the bug corpses piled up around it. In the far distance, Irinia shrieks.

The ground stops moving, and everything goes quiet.

Niq moans softly beside me.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “But I have to try, okay?”

He sighs.

I kiss his forehead.

If I can’t awaken Ayanakalia and Jeren to handle their daughter, maybe I can try something different. Something gentler, more peaceful.

One that’s infused with my love for Niq.

I rise onto my knees and hold my palms outward. “If those within earshot will not answer this summons, those who are beyond earshot must do so. You owe Niq your bond. As a brother, as a friend, as an icarus. He needs your help. Come now and help him.”

This time, the ground does not shake.

Perhaps it’s because I’m doing the monster’s work. I’m luring people to this chamber.

I push all my love, all my memories, all our good and happy times into my appeal.

“Remember when he tilled your fields after the first rains? Remember when he sheared your sheep and washed the sticky wool? Remember when he carried your burdens and asked for nothing in return? You must repay him. He does not ask for this. I ask on his behalf. Niq needs you badly. If he called out to you, what would you say? You come here, now, and give Niq your answer.”

Over and over, I plead, bringing up specific examples, summoning people by name. The icari we worked with in the fields, the elders we respected in the villages, the kids we played with in the harbors. I name them and remind them of how much they love Niq, how much he needs their love right now.

The light overhead brightens, and the wards turn dusky.

Morning has come.

My throat grows raw from commands that no one else might ever hear.

Eventually, I give up and sit. My head pounds with effort.

Niq and I are alone.

I was wrong and Irinia was right, I guess.

No one cares about Niq.

No one will come to help him.

Siqaris’s ghost holds court above our chamber. “…my legacy will not be sullied by a momentary insanity with a cursed woman…”

Today is the summer solstice. Rituals and prayers started before dawn.

Does their wild influx of energy weaken the wards and strengthen Siqaris?

I wonder how long we can stay down here before we die.

“Hello?” an unfamiliar male voice calls from the ceiling. Gruff, older, not someone I know. “Is someone alive down there?”

I get up on my knees, hope rising. “Yes. Me and Niq!”

“Niq?”

“He’s badly hurt,” I call. “They tore out his wings.”

Surprised and worried shouts of multiple people echo down to me. “Niq’s hurt. Niq is? He’s down the hole. He’s in a bad way.”

This is hopeful.

“We need a rope or something,” I call up. “And metal boots or stepping stones, because the ground is covered in undead bugs.”

“Can you see me?” the first man asks, raising his voice.

“No. We’re too far in.”

Siqaris’s ghost chimes in annoyingly in the background. “Too bad. If you weren’t born to that woman, I might have kept you.”

“Are you lying on those rocks?” the man asks. “Tangled up in robes, as it were?”

“No, we’re by a pool. On the rocks are Ayanakalia and Jeren. They’re unconscious, though.”

More surprised murmurs reach me. These new people did not know Ayanakalia and Jeren were down here.

“We’re bringing in tools,” a different woman calls to me. “We can’t fly here, and we have to rig something to come down to you.”

“There’s magic wards,” I warn them, my voice warbling with anxiety. We’re so near to rescue. I don’t want to mess up now. “You’ll need pulleys and rope, I think. And stone shoes!”

Clanging echoes in the chamber, and rocks clatter down. They bounce off the rock pile directly beneath the hole. Ropes dangle, and wood, then a bucket filled with tools. Down shimmies a slender, wiry man. He balances on the rock pile, stepping around the bodies. Other icari clamber down the rope as well, and then a man in a big harness. Two carpenters hammer out a wooden walkway. The blows echo through the chamber. Others harness and lift out first Ayanakalia’s limp form, then Jeren’s.

I really hope they’re okay.

The rescuers reach us. The slender man follows my advice to stand in the pool where I show him it’s safe from the bugs. He kneels and lifts Niq.

Niq groans.

“Oh no. Be careful, men. He’s in a bad way.” He eases Niq into the arms of the icari on the wooden walkway.

They carry him gently, harness him in, and watch him ascend.

I finally notice that the slender man is holding his arm out to me. I take it. He helps me up onto the walkway. I hobble unsteadily to the light.

The crack is so far away. It looks even thinner than I expected.

“You have to bind my foot,” I tell them as I notice I’ve left bloody prints on the wood. “I can’t drip on any bugs. They’ll come to life.”

The slender man takes off his own belt and binds my cut.

They cinch on the harness—it hurts a lot, so I think I must’ve cracked something—but I appreciate that they don’t want me to slip out. The trip up is jerky and unpracticed, which also isn’t good, and I feel light-headed from the blood pooling in my feet.

When I pass through the crevice, though, I finally see how Siqaris and the bugs escaped.

The wards in this section of the ceiling were worn off by moisture and the stone fractured. It’s an easy fix. I just need a little paint.

And to not die in the next few minutes.

“No one wants to hear your jabber,” Siqaris rages as I ascend. “You have no proof of that. Lies! That was stolen from me by these lying humans.”

My harness ropes are indeed affixed to a pulley system. A crew of icari operate them. They hauled in logs to cross the span and set up the structure.

I recognize these icari. Farmers and orchardists and shepherds and beekeepers. People we helped with planting and harvesting this past year. The exact people I summoned, or tried to, before my throat gave out. Emotion swells in my chest and tears prickle my eyes.

Niq lies on the flatter, larger side of the broken labyrinth medallion closest to the exit. He’s surrounded by worried friends.

Ayanakalia and Jeren are surrounded by priestesses and elders debating what to do. The couple isn’t waking up from ordinary methods. The would-be healers glance over at Niq. Urgency pushes their debate.

My rescuers pull me over to the edge near Niq and undo my harness. They help me to Niq’s side.

He murmurs, “Faesli…”

“We got her,” a man assures him.

Another adds, “Don’t worry, kid. She’s here.”

“Are you really trying to stand against me?” the ghost of Siqaris demands from the throne. “I’m touched by the very gods. Ridiculous.”

Niq grimaces.

I slide down to sit next to his head.

An elder carefully wipes Niq’s pale face while others put lumpy clothes beneath him to make him more comfortable. From their quiet murmurs, it’s been sixteen years since someone this injured has been unable to be treated by Ayanakalia’s magic. They have to get out the old remedies.

“Faesli.” A girl offers me a water bowl and bandages. “For your foot.”

I swallow my emotions back along with some long pulls of water. It makes me feel much better, then a bit worse. I sit back to clean and wrap my injury. Despite its unnatural origin, it’s an ordinary cut, and washing it stings.

Marine hurries to Niq’s head, stumbling a bit, as though she’s not used to being forced to walk when she wants desperately to fly. “Oh, Niq. Oh, no. How did this happen?”

“Ah, well, apparently there was a gathering here last night,” a man says. “And it got a bit hairy. At least, my cousins said so. Their kids barely escaped with their lives. There’s no telling who did this.”

I interject sharply, “Irinia sacrificed him.”

Marine’s head snaps up. “Irinia?”

“She said ‘nobody cares about Niq’ and then she unleashed the bugs on him.”

Marine presses her lips together so hard, they whiten. “Where’s Ayanakalia?”

“Over there.” I force myself to stand. My injured foot is badly bruised, and my shoulder stings.

Marine blinks in shock. “Faesli, you’re hurt.”

“I’ll survive. But I don’t know if anyone else will.”

Ayanakalia and Jeren are laid out next to each other. Despite everyone’s best efforts, they remain motionless.

Marine kneels beside them and touches their lips. Small red bubbles, like froth, appear at their nostrils and the corners of their mouths. Marine lifts their eyelids. “Their pupils don’t react to the daylight…” She sits back on her heels.

“Their sleep is unnatural,” the elder priestess confirms. “The question is whether it’s of a spiritual or medicinal origin.”

Marine looks at me.

“I couldn’t wake them,” I tell her. “I ordered them with all my might.”

“They must’ve eaten or drunk something. Irinia!” Marine storms to the head priestess, who I suddenly realize is watching anxiously from the edge of the crowd. “What did they take?”

Irinia averts her eyes and puts one foot behind the other. “Um…”

Marine grips her arm. “Did you do this?”

“Ow!”

“What did you give them?”

“Nothing. Ow. I didn’t do it. Stop it, Aunt Marine.”

But Aunt Marine is relentless, and she demands answers. Eventually, impressed with the seriousness of the situation, Irinia tearfully goes to the pile of remains that used to be Eraqen, digs around, and holds up a familiar bottle. Ayanakalia picked it out of the collapsed tunnel in the archives. It’s small, ornate, and gemstone encrusted.

Marine whitens. “How much did you give them?”

“I didn’t give them anything. Eraqen asked me for it. I gave it to him."

“This is very dangerous,” Marine announces with a rising pitch. “A drop too much can cause permanent paralysis.”

The priestesses quickly react, wrapping the sleeping couple’s heads and feet in white cloths smeared with spicy yellow paste, thumping their chests and heads, and chanting strange words in an unfamiliar rhythm.

“They’ll be fine,” Irinia insists stubbornly, but her eyes well with tears. “I saw it. They turn out okay.”

“Pray for it,” Marine growls at her.

“Aunt Marine, I know they get better—”

“Maybe they get better because you pray for them.”

Irinia’s chin wrinkles. She looks around wildly to argue. Her gaze snags on mine. Then she looks away, frowning, and joins the elders praying. Since ritual medicine has sent her parents’ souls out of their bodies, both the physical and the spiritual illness have to be treated at the same time.

Marine kneels beside Ayanakalia and brushes her dark hair away from her face, her fingers lingering on the rough crescent moon scar. “I’m sorry. You said you were feeling alone. I should’ve been here for you.”

I return to Niq’s side while they work on Ayanakalia and Jeren. He’s still breathing. That’s what matters.

Finally, Marine calls me over again. The priestesses have done all they can. She squares her shoulders. “Say the ‘wake up and taste the bitter fruit’ stuff again.”

I startle. That was almost the first thing I shouted inside the cavern, and I was so certain nobody noticed but the monsters. “You heard me?”

“Your voice echoed through the labyrinth seals. That command didn’t necessarily seem meant for me, but…” She gives a short laugh. “If you live long enough, and especially if you have kids, you’ll always have doubts and regrets. So, yeah, the order stabbed me a bit through the heart. But I heard the other things you said too. I do want to help Niq. I love that kid.”

And I feel emotional all over again.

I interweave some of Marine’s words in my order to Ayanakalia and Jeren. “Wake up and atone for your actions. Do what must be done to make things right.”

Jeren remains still.

Ayanakalia’s lashes flutter, then her lids part.

Marine hugs her. “Ah! I’m so sorry.”

Ayanakalia pats her, blinking rapidly. “Huh? Me too.”

Marine tells her everything that’s happened while Ayanakalia slowly regains full consciousness. I let them talk. I’m exhausted.

Siqaris is still an annoyance shouting in the background, but we’re all used to him, so we tune his noises out.

“Can you heal yourself?” Marine asks when it seems like Ayanakalia might be feeling better. “Niq’s really hurt.”

“Let’s try.” Ayanakalia licks her cracked lips and rests her palms on her stomach. The black crescent on her forehead glows a strange, unnatural gray. She takes a deep breath, and another. Color returns to her face, and she looks more awake.

Irinia runs to her, crying. “Mom! Mom, you’re all right.”

Ayanakalia hugs Irinia with one arm. With the other, she reaches over and touches Jeren.

Jeren groans and clasps his wife’s hand, then holds his head as he sits up. He looks hungover and ill.

“Dad!” Irinia leaves her mother and strangle-hugs her father.

Jeren holds Irinia while Marine starts the story over again for him.

Ayanakalia stands unsteadily. She touches her head, takes a deep breath, then turns her swirling black eyes on me. “Take me to Niq.”

I lead her to him. The crowd parts for us. She kneels at his side.

Niq’s breathing is ragged.

She touches Niq’s chest with both palms. White light zips around him like miniature lightning bolts. He twitches and moans.

“I’m sorry about this, Faesli,” Ayanakalia murmurs as she heals Niq. “When I was your age, the head priestess at that time wouldn’t parent her son, and he committed all sorts of atrocities. When I got these powers, I tried to avoid politics so I couldn’t be accused of the same.”

She glares back at Siqaris’s ghost, who’s jabbering on.

“Yet now, because Jeren and I didn’t parent properly, you and Niq have been hurt. In the shadowlands, I’m sure, the former head priestess is laughing at the irony.”

“Is Niq going to be okay?”

“Yes.” She sits on her heels. “His torso is whole, now. His spirit is firmly lodged inside his body. He’s not well yet, but he’s no longer standing on the ledge before the shadowed realms, teetering, as though he’s going to fall in.”

His eyes are still sunken, though.

“What about his eyes?” I ask worriedly. “Or his wings?”

“I’m going to take a small rest, if that’s okay. The ritual liqueur made me too woozy.” She frowns at her hands and flexes her fingers. “I feel like I’m pushing a boulder up a hill. Usually, the magic flows out of me effortlessly. I can’t seem to fly either, and I’m not quite sure why.”

Oh! “I know why.”

She peers up at me. “Have I become permanently drained by this encounter?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I can fix it.” I take a painful breath against the clawing in my ribs. “I just need the harness and a jar of paint.”

Chapter 30

Faesli

Although I am beyond tired, full of aches and anxieties, and a dull throbbing fogs my brain and blurs my vision, I clutch the paint cup and grip the harness. “I’m ready.”

Strong icari lower me back through the narrow crevice into the monster’s chamber.

“Stop,” I tell them. “Lift me back up a tiny bit. I have to be able to reach the ceiling.”

They do so, then tie off the ropes. I hang over the rock pile beside their hastily constructed wooden platform.

The intact warding marks shimmer like optical illusions, but the wiped-off or too-faded ones are dull and gray.

I dip my brush, wiping the excess, and retrace the lines. My white strokes are vivid and new, and as I complete the simplest symbol, it glimmers, connecting with the rest of the ward-symbol web. That’s heartening. I complete a second symbol, then a third. The more intricate designs increase the difficulty, but I feel more and more confident. Memories, not just mine from tracing these designs on cave sanctuary walls in training as a child, but from more ancient hands, flow through my fingers into the paint. Across the crevice, I complete the tracing on the opposite side of the gap, and the two sides shimmer, unaffected by the open space.

Gaps like this are no problem. Our earliest use of warding magic was to seal off cave entrances to the underworld. The physical rock remained an open cavern, but the descent was magically closed off.

Behind me, deep in the black cavern, a low moan of discontent fills me with melancholy.

I can only imagine how the world must have been when this monster was alive. Stomping through a fiery sea, bashing against the other island monsters for supremacy, bellowing at an unfamiliar moon in a black-red sky… Now that world is gone. All that’s left are the memories of its final emotion, hunger, animating its residue like the muscle twitches of a corpse past death, grasping at air after the soul has already moved on, echoing through time.

“Where are you going?” the ghost of Siqaris demands from the throne up above. “You haven’t won. The gods will get their revenge.”

It’s unfortunate that I can’t simply pull his skeleton out and give it a proper burial and free Siqaris’s spirit, but he’s stuck to the monster like a fly trapped in flowing pitch.

It means his last words and ideas, like the monster’s, will be trapped here for ten thousand years and there’s nothing I or anyone else can do about it except leave cautions and instructions for our descendants.

Because any future time the wards fracture, any time the cracks appear, his ideas can slither out again and poison the listeners.

Magic is fading from our world, but it still exists everywhere and in everything, in little bits, and these symbols make it physical and real, capturing the invisible lightning and fixing it here into a woven cage.

Someday, maybe, we’ll forget the wards or no longer have the power to reinforce them, but that doesn’t mean we’ll be helpless. As long as his poison is there, so is the antidote. There’s still hope and community and kindness. People take advantage of it and abuse it, but love can change anyone’s mind given enough time.

I finish the last symbol. It glimmers, and light flashes across the entire interior of the cave and descends down the black gullet into the depths I can’t see.

Above me, Siqaris’s voice is cut off midsentence.

His spirit, like the monster’s, is now sealed into this chamber and below with the warding symbols.

All these symbols need to be reinforced for safety, but I will do that another time.

I take a painful breath and call, “Bring me up, please!”

The ropes lift me just above the crevice.

Siqaris’s throne is empty.

I was right. He’s been banished.

Helpful priestesses fly to me and collect my paint and brush as I’m raised the rest of the way out. Now that the wards are resealed, the icari can use their magic again. Their expressions are lighter. Things are returning to normal.

I stagger painfully out of the harness, and a slim acolyte catches me. She’s younger than I am, but wiry, and she holds me up until I feel steady.

“Thank goodness you banished him,” she tells me conversationally. “I’ve never been so scared in all my life as I was last night. Um, do you know what we’re supposed to do with the gold strings we all got for worshipping him?”

“Sorry,” I murmur tiredly, leaning on her a little longer. “I don’t.”

“The head priestess said we had to wear them, but not everybody did, and I think the others already took theirs off. I don’t want to throw mine away. If it’s an official uniform, I’m not supposed to lose it. I’m already at two demerits this week.” She sighs. “There’s just a lot to keep track of, and it’s so hard to do everything right.”

I remember that anxiety from my own training. Trying to remember where to stand, what to say, and always feeling behind or out of step.

I square my shoulders, stepping away cautiously on my own two feet. “I’m just glad you don’t still hate me.”

“Hate you?” She looks genuinely confused. “Why would I hate you?”

“For being human.”

Her brows wrinkle. “Huh?”

“That’s what the gold strings stand for. They symbolize the superiority of the icari over humans.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Did you never listen to what Siqaris said?”

“Well, he talked an awful lot. You had to tune it out after a while.” She pulls off the gold string and throws it in the crevice. Then she sighs. “That might be my third demerit.”

“Sorry,” I say, only for having to be the one to tell her.

“What? No, it must be awful to be a human. I didn’t mean to make your terrible life even worse.”

She says it so sincerely, with wide-open eyes, that I can’t even be offended. One of the higher-level priestesses calls her, and she leaves me again with a panicked apology. I’m not surprised that she’s already gotten two demerits.

But I also appreciate the apology.

The dead can’t change what they are. Their last thoughts and feelings, the sum of their actions and existence, are fixed. Stamped into the clay of their descendants, baked into history.

Change, growth, and moving on is for the living.

I stagger toward the small group gathering around Niq.

* * *

Niq

I become conscious of the muffled sounds of a crowd. My body feels heavy, and dread warns me against waking up.

At least Siqaris’s voice is gone. The peaceful silence is wonderful.

Small, unfamiliar hands touch my face. Warmth seeps into my cheeks, and brilliant light glows inside my mind.

Ayanakalia murmurs, “Open your eyes, Niq.”

And then I wake up with a gasp, as if I were doused with a bucket of water.

The harsh light blinds me, then softens, and I can see.

Ayanakalia leans over me. She has dark rings of exhaustion around her swirling eyes but is clearly relieved.

Friendly villagers from all over hover kindly, as if I collapsed of exhaustion in the middle of a festival, and they’re relieved I’ve woken up. They wait with bated breath for me to speak.

But I don’t see the one person I’m most worried about.

I croak out, “Faesli?”

“She’s doing me the great favor…” Ayanakalia takes a deep breath and rolls her shoulders and her neck. “…of fixing the wards and sealing in the monster.”

“Did you heal her?”

“Heal her?”

“Faesli got hurt too.”

Ayanakalia purses her lips. “She didn’t say anything.”

“That’s just like her. She forgets to mention the important things.” I struggle to sit up. Warm lightning from Ayanakalia’s magic zips over my straining limbs and soothes away the sharp pains as she helps me. “You have to ask…”

The crowd parts.

Faesli shuffles forward.

Relief flushes through me.

Hair messed up, fingers knitted with anxiety, she’s covered in blood-streaked grime, and she looks like she’s been through a war, but when our eyes meet, a tired smile cracks her lips. “You’re okay.”

I reach for her.

She kneels, wincing because she is injured, just like I knew she was.

I pull her into my arms, confirming that she’s whole, and murmur, “Where are you hurt?” in her ear as I rub at the obvious scrapes and scratches.

She cups her ribs. “I think I broke something when we fell off the cliff.”

“Please help her,” I beg Ayanakalia, but she’s already doing it, the dark-white energy flowing into Faesli’s torso, down her legs, across her feet, and over her hands.

Faesli takes an experimental deep breath in my arms and then nods. “It’s better.”

“Thank goodness.” I bury my nose in her hair.

Ayanakalia rises and heads off to fix someone else. The crowd closes in around me and Faesli. Their smiles stretch wide, expectant, like it’s our wedding feast again and this is my chance to make a toast.

I’m disoriented. The last thing I remember is being stuck in a cave-chamber. “Did you save us?”

The crowd nods, everyone beaming.

I was so upset when only Faesli and I were trying to save Ayanakalia and Jeren. I had some unworthy thoughts. But look at everyone who came after us, despite the dangers, and rescued us.

So I mean it when I say, “Thank you.”

The floodgates open, and everyone talks at once.

“We couldn’t let anything happen to you,” a sweet grandmotherly beekeeper from Nikellios insists. “You always help us.”

“We came right away when we heard you needed us,” a gruff shore fisherman says. “We always say ‘Niq’s one of the good ones,’ you know.”

“We had to come help Niq,” his wife agrees, and the chorus echoes, adding how quickly they came when they found out I was the one in trouble.

A lump forms in my throat. The more they pile on, the more it affects me. I try to thank them again, but I can’t seem to draw a full breath. It keeps escaping me with emotion.

“I didn’t know that you felt that way,” I finally manage. “It means a… It means a lot.”

They laugh and elbow each other, satisfied that they’ve nearly made me cry.

“You must be hungry,” a farmer says, slapping his thighs and rising. “We’ll ready the feast.”

The others linger, touching my knees and wishing me well, until I really do think I’m going to cry. Then they too go off to help with the events that are supposed to happen after a solstice ceremony.

Faesli stays with me, stroking my back and shoulders until I recover my composure.

Then, together, we rise.

It’s strange trying to balance without my wings. The world no longer feels as heavy as it did when the wards got exposed, preventing us from flying, but this wingless gait is not quite natural for me either. My scarred shoulder blades feel tight.

At least I’m no longer broken.

Across the medallion, Ayanakalia kneels next to the lump of Talassa’s uncle. She’s speaking to his dead body.

“Those don’t look like funerary rites,” Faesli murmurs to me.

A young priestess overhears us. “He’s still alive.”

Faesli looks shocked.

I feel the same. “How?”

The priestess shrugs. “The will to live is a powerful force. She’s offering to fix his body if he’ll dedicate the rest of his life to atonement.”

Ayanakalia reaches out her glowing palm toward the lump, then abruptly, she sits back and looks up as if she’s watching something rapidly fly away. Her face blanks with surprise.

“Eraqen does not wish to atone,” the priestess guesses. “He has died.”

That’s what it looked like to me too.

Ayanakalia stands.

The priestess joins the others wrapping the lifeless body in a shroud. They begin more familiar rites to send wandering spirits to the shadowlands. So, that’s the end of Eraqen, I guess.

Ayanakalia rejoins us, dusting off her hands. “It’s amazing what a difference fixing the wards makes. It feels unsafe to leave the crevice open, but do you have more reinforcements to do?”

“You can seal the crevice for now,” Faesli replies. “We’ll tunnel in through the ocean cliff.”

“Are you sure?” Ayanakalia leans over the weeping gold sides. “I can’t tell you how frustrating it is to know the chamber was right here all along. I split this platform open a hundred times, but I must never have gone deep enough or at quite the right angle.”

“I can find it again,” Faesli assures her.

The wood and ropes I saw earlier across the crevice have been cleared away. Ayanakalia kneels and touches the ground. The earth trembles. Everyone hops, alert and floating with caution. The rock sides move together, sealing from below upward like a scab healing. Ayanakalia rises and walks forward, cinching up the broken labyrinth stones. She floats the fallen ceiling into place and smooths the gashes. Then, with everything back much as it was before, she nods with approval.

“I feel almost back to normal, so I can give you your wings back. Are you ready?”

I brace unsteadily. “Faesli wants wings too.”

“Oh, but I want to reinforce all the wards first,” Faesli tells me.

“I’ve thought about this some more, and I honestly don’t think getting wings will affect your ability,” Ayanakalia tells her. “When I drank the cauldron of powers for the icari race, I never lost anything. I only gained. But it’s also fine to wait.”

“I’ll wait too,” I decide.

Faesli tilts her head at me. “Why?”

“It used to be that an icarus who lost his wings was doomed to be wingless for the rest of his life. Any children he fathered afterward would be wingless too. Maybe I should try living that way for a while. I could understand our race’s past, and humans like you, better. Plus, it could bring us closer.”

Faesli smiles shyly. “You already understand me plenty.”

She’s touched. It’s adorable. I kiss the top of her head.

“Well, I’ll be here when you’re ready.” Ayanakalia glances uncomfortably back at the now-sealed labyrinth medallion again. “Most likely.”

Hmm.

If anything happened to Ayanakalia while I was practicing being wingless, the condition would become permanent, and even though she’s basically a living god, this experience has taught me not to take anything for granted.

I release Faesli and brace. “Okay, Faesli says I understand her well enough, so I’m ready.”

Ayanakalia points at me.

Power swells in my body, filling me from my toes to the top of my head. It blows up like an air bubble that overstretches its boundaries until it pops, erupting out of my shoulder blades. I stumble, off-balance, and my usual automatic movements to catch myself only send me further off-balance.

New white wings glimmer at the edges of my vision. They’re larger than my old wings and hard to manage.

Faesli strokes them, smiling softly.

“Thank you,” I tell Ayanakalia. “They’ll take some getting used to.”

“I experienced that too.” Jeren spreads his own pure white wings that have a warm golden undertone in shadow. “You will get used to them. I–”

“Dad!” Near the other priestesses, Irinia stomps her foot. Her face is red with fury. “I almost found Grandma and Grandpa! You’re the ones who ruined it!”

Jeren folds his wings and glares at Irinia. “Come over here and apologize.”

“No!”

“You’re no longer head priestess, Irinia.”

“That’s so unfair!”

Ayanakalia ushers Irinia over to us. The girl’s expression is a black-bottomed storm cloud. She hmphs.

“Irinia,” Jeren says in warning. “You tricked us, and you betrayed Niq to an ancient evil. He lost his wings and nearly died.”

She grumps. “He’s got his wings back now.”

Her parents look at each other in shared disapproval.

Irinia is barely older than Ix’s middle daughter, who likes to build mud sculptures and play with dolls.

Children lack an adult’s understanding of their actions. Her parents, who do understand, suffered at least as much as I did. They’re taking it seriously.

I inhale and set my feet.

“It’s okay,” I tell the parents.

“It’s really not,” Jeren replies gruffly.

For some reason, his refusal to dismiss my suffering pushes my emotions to the surface. I swallow the lump in my throat. It’s been a rough day for all of us.

“Mom killed somebody on Halonnesos when she screwed up,” Irinia argues. “She didn’t apologize.”

“Your mother was forced to leave her home—”

“Irinia.” Ayanakalia stops Jeren’s defensiveness and kneels down to look her daughter in the eye. “I regret what I did so much that I tried to save you from making the same mistake. I feel sad every day for what happened to Hadmete.”

“But Niq’s alive.”

“He got hurt just as badly. If Faesli hadn’t woken me up, Niq would have died. And everyone loves Niq. They would’ve been so sad.”

“And angry,” Jeren puts in.

“Mad at you,” Ayanakalia says. “Because you decided it was okay for a monster to hurt him. They’re mad and sad. What do you say?”

Irinia picks at her lower lip.

“You mustn’t do this to anyone ever again. If my words aren’t enough…” Ayanakalia looks up at Faesli. “Can you please help Irinia to feel the consequences of her actions?”

Irinia glares at Faesli.

I edge between them. I don’t want anyone to look at Faesli that way, no matter who they are.

But Faesli ignores Irinia’s anger. She uses a calm voice filled with compulsion. “Look around at all the people who love Niq.”

Irinia glances around at them uncomfortably.

“All of them know that you hurt him. Now look at Niq.”

Irinia looks unwillingly at him.

So do Ayanakalia and Jeren.

“Feel his pain that you caused. Feel it as if it happened to you. Feel the hurt and the terror and the helplessness as you betrayed him.”

Tears pour out of Irinia’s eyes. She breathes raggedly. Jeren’s face also hardens. Only Ayanakalia looks unaffected.

“Know that everything you feel, and everything they feel, is a result of your actions.”

Irinia buries her face in her dad’s torso and wails.

Jeren hugs her tiredly.

Irinia sobs and sobs.

It’s sad that our choices have collided into this. But it also feels like a release, like she’s crying for all the mistakes and decisions that led us here.

“Thank you,” Ayanakalia tells Faesli sadly. “I didn’t want my daughter to have to carry this guilt, but surely it’s more dangerous to let her escape. If I’d grown up with someone like you, who could make me feel the consequences of my mistakes before they got out of hand, my life might’ve taken a different course.”

“You were human then. My powers wouldn’t have affected you.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Ayanakalia smiles faintly and touches Faesli’s forehead. They have matching scars. Faesli’s curves the opposite direction, but it’s the same rough crescent as Ayanakalia’s. “Someday, perhaps, I’ll go back and see if there’s still any chance for me to atone.”

Jeren picks up Irinia. She collapses on his shoulder.

Over her sorrow, he says to me, “Once again, my family has wronged you, and you’ve only ever helped us. I’d like to discuss reparations after we’ve all recovered. Next week?”

My chest rises.

Sometimes, people avoid those they’ve wronged or try to pretend the wrong never happened. Jeren’s truly a great man to own up to it. Maybe that’s an aspect of Faesli’s power, or maybe it’s Jeren’s innate honor, or maybe it’s both.

“Sure,” I tell him. “Any time.”

“You can consider the abandoned manor to be yours, and your service on Sklerios will count toward your new house, meaning that House Ruqen will still owe a tour of duty. But that…” He smiles. “Is not your responsibility.”

I straighten. “No, sir, it’s not.”

Faesli leans her head against me.

“Jeren.” Another council member hurries to him. “The council would like to formally reinstate you as council head.”

He lifts a brow, talking over Irinia’s grief. “I didn’t realize I’d been impeached.”

“Ah, well, yes, it somehow happened when you were asleep…”

“Usually the impeached councilor has the right to defend himself against his accusers.”

“Eraqen convinced us there wasn’t time.”

“That doesn’t sound very lawful to me.”

“Several of us did point that out.” He taps his fingertips together, then gestures toward the other councilors gathered. “Perhaps you can strike down the unlawful decree and everything can return to normal?”

Jeren hands Irinia over to Ayanakalia and strides to the councilors with a big tears-and-snot stain on his shoulder.

Ayanakalia carries her daughter to the gathered priestesses. I think a similar conversation about lawfulness is happening there. Although Eraqen poisoned Ayanakalia and Jeren, others wrapped and transported their bodies, and while the younger acolytes may have obeyed orders without thinking, the older priestesses should’ve asked more questions.

It’s complicated by the fact that they too, were supposed to be under the command of a child.

Can everything return to normal? The councilor’s question echoes in my mind.

The reformed council approves Irinia’s demotion and elects the eldest priestess to the role of head priestess. She was previously in the role before Irinia demanded it for herself.

The new head priestess performs the necessary ceremonies for the summer solstice on the repaired labyrinth medallion.

It’s almost an ordinary ceremony. Mixed with Ayanakalia’s healing, I feel a pleasant, buzzing wellness that suffuses me from fingertips to toes. Although the gathering is scattered and distracted, with families absent or members missing, the songs fill me with purified energy. I’m surrounded by my community, as I was when I was a child, uncomplicated by adult concerns.

Faesli and I leave a little early—with permission—and stumble through the temple doors into the blinding sunlight.

Outside the temple, Loqen leads a group of well-armed icari in their finest robes. Significantly fewer than last night, these were the core followers of Eraqen, and the shock and betrayal I feel seeing my brother still standing with them makes my heart contract in my chest.

“Niq.” Loqen holds out his hand in a gesture of brotherhood, his helmet slightly askew on his head. “I’m glad you’re okay. I want you to know there are no hard feelings about you ignoring my advice last night. I hope we can put this behind us and heal the rift.”

I do not take his hand.

There’s a strong current within me that wants to. I want to reaffirm we’re brothers, that I forgive him, and I’ll always love him.

But the gold string he wears shows there’s no healing this rift because we’re still standing on two opposite sides.

And I’m no longer willing to be the one to bend to the point of breaking in order to reach him.

So instead, I keep myself between him and Faesli, the shreds of my tunic and pants fluttering in stark contrast to their finery. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah…” Loqen straightens awkwardly and adjusts his armored breastplate. “We’re an important group now. Things have to change, and someone has to take Eraqen’s seat on the council.”

“And that’s going to be you?”

“Well, I’m a respected head of a household.” Loqen grimaces and glances behind him, lowers his voice. “Niq, come on. It’d look better for our house if you’d publicly forgive me.”

“I’ll never forgive you.”

He bites his lip. “Last night was—”

“This isn’t about last night.” I gesture at the crowd. “Yeah, Faesli and I could’ve used your help crushing the bugs and saving Ikaria, but running away was a natural reaction.”

Loqen snorts. “Only an idiot would’ve stayed behind.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t come back with help. In fact, while we were fighting for our lives, it looks like you got a good night’s sleep.”

Loqen frowns. The others shuffle uncomfortably.

“But I can’t forgive how you treated my wife. She’s the reason the island wasn’t overrun with magic-eating bugs. And you’re still wearing that ‘superior’ gold string?”

Several in the crowd untie their gold strings or tuck them out of sight.

Loqen doesn’t. “It’s a symbol of nobility—”

“It’s a symbol of entitlement,” I snap back. “You want respect, but you don’t earn it. You put down others to feel smug, absolutely blind to your own inadequacy.”

“Not all of us are bleeding-heart morons. We were planning a battle on our terms. You’re just lucky your brash, glory-hogging actions didn’t cost you anything.”

I go still. “Didn’t cost me anything?”

“Yeah.”

Shrugging my shoulders, I spread my pure white wings, stumbling a little off-balance from the unfamiliar feeling.

He blanches. Even he can see my gold feathers are gone.

Wind whistles across the ancient temple grounds.

Still, he doesn’t apologize. He hardens. “As a member of House Ruqen, I order you–”

“You kicked me out,” I retort, my blood pumping as if I’m in the middle of the fight all over again. “And you get your wish, Loqen. I’m no longer part of your house.”

I reach out to Faesli, and she takes my hand.

Loqen coughs. “You’ll come crawling back when I’m head councilor.”

“Well, that may be.” I pull Faesli to my chest. “You’ll have to take it up with Jeren.”

Loqen’s mouth opens and closes. Then he whips to look at the temple. “He’s still alive?”

“Because of me and Faesli, yeah.”

My brother no longer looks so cocky.

More followers remove or hide their gold cords.

I’m sure each person had their reasons for following Siqaris, some that I might understand and others I absolutely wouldn’t. But I’m not going to sit each person down and parse through them. Their faces are known to me, and their punishments will be decided by the council.

With that, I lift off and take Faesli home.

Chapter 31

Niq

By “home,” I don’t mean we return to our new manor, which is still unlivable, or to Marine and Ix’s house, where Faesli’s been living.

I take her to my family’s house.

My only goal is to get my things—whatever’s survived Loqen and Talassa—and say goodbye to my mother.

The gate stands open for anyone to enter. Faesli’s chin lifts. We cross the threshold hand in hand.

The path to the manor is overgrown.

Uncollected harvests have broken off fruit tree branches and rotted in piles. Garbage stinks beneath windows and defaces the walls.

A loud crashing echoes from the back garden.

Faesli looks at me strangely.

I grimace.

We hurry around the manor.

In the back, furniture lies cracked and broken on its side.

Talassa’s cousins must’ve been on a real tear last night–

As Faesli and I watch, my old bed is pushed out the window. It slides a few feet at a time, squeaking across the portico tile, and then tips off the balcony and lands on the stone garden, shattering.

I shelter Faesli from any shards. “Talassa?”

“Gone,” my mother says, straightening from pushing the bed off and dusting her hands.

Shock goes through me. “Mother?”

“Talassa and Loqen came home late this morning, well after we were supposed to have gone to the summer solstice ceremony.” She shoves a trunk over the balcony. It hits the bed with a heavy thunk. “They were complaining about you ruining everything. And I said, ‘Speaking of ruining everything, it looks like you two have quite a bit here to clean up.’ And then Loqen made the mistake of muttering, ‘Oh, just go back to sleep, you old bag,’ and I must admit, I’m not used to being spoken to that way. I lost my temper.”

She goes inside.

Faesli mirrors what I’m assuming is my stunned expression.

My mother flings cushions over the side. They bounce off the bed and trunk and spring toward the dormant burn pile.

“Um, uh, Mother? I came by to tell you that I’m leaving.” Even though this is a surprising change, I can’t trust that we have more than a few minutes of clarity, so I have to convey the important points now before she fades again and I miss my chance. “Faesli and I are starting a new house.”

My mother tilts her head. “Where?”

“One of the abandoned manors above Rokastia. By Vyren’s place.”

“Vyren got a place?”

“A couple of years ago, yeah.” I shift my weight awkwardly. “The only thing is that our new house is in kind of bad shape, so I was hoping we could borrow your bath, and also, maybe some tools to fix it up?”

She goes back inside the second floor.

“I can help you,” I call up to her. “With throwing things out. After bathing, if you don’t mind?”

“None of this is yours.” She pushes the love seat frame off the balcony. It lands with a crash. “I don’t know how they lived with these broken things.”

Now that I’m looking closely, I see she’s right. The love seat landed on its side, but a different corner is smashed. A trunk, which landed on its front, is missing a back hinge. The cushions she threw out onto the dry, dusty ground are heavily stained, and some of them appear to be mildewed.

“Not too long,” I say. “They were fine when I lived in the main house nine months ago.”

“Your things are in the storage shed. I woke up to find I had been moved out there for some reason.”

“I can still help.” I cough. “Sorry to leave you like this, Mom.”

“What do you mean?” She tilts her head like she genuinely doesn’t know. “My only role was to raise you, and given the state of the house, I’m suddenly feeling my shortcomings.”

“I know, but I’m asking to use your tools and this isn’t even my home anymore…”

“If you built a new house on the mountains beyond the sea, this would still be your home. You’re my son.”

Uh-oh. I sniffle, the tears once more welling up. Today really is an emotional day.

I manage to clear my throat. “Oh, um, Loqen made himself the head of the house.”

“I’ll stop by the temple tomorrow and change that.” She grimaces, her tone dry. “I should’ve made myself the head years ago, but it was one of the many things that I let slip by. And then this morning, while I was waiting to be picked up to go to the summer solstice festival, this epiphany washed over me as clear as if the gods themselves murmured in my ear. ‘Harvest the bitter fruit, feast on it, and despair.’”

Faesli makes a startled noise.

“I just kept thinking about that all morning as I looked, really looked, around the manor house and saw what it had become. ‘Feast on it and despair.’ Then, of course, Loqen and Talassa came home, and we argued.”

These are the most coherent words she’s spoken in a row in years. “What about Father?”

“Your father’s not going anywhere.” She frowns. “When you were a baby, we both agreed that if something should happen to one of us, the other would put aside our worldly concerns and devote themselves to raising you and Loqen into men. I haven’t upheld that agreement, and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to awaken to the truth.

“But life is not over. You’ve raised yourself into a fine man, Niq. Faesli, I don’t really know you, but Niq seems happy, so that’s encouraging. And Loqen, no matter his age, is still my son. He’ll come crawling back, no doubt. I have to answer for the monster I created, and I will do so.”

My chin wrinkles. I’m afraid to trust this. It’s a dream. “Mom. It’s really good to talk.”

She waves me toward the bath. “Go get clean. I’ll be up here. And if you insist on helping, there’s plenty of work to go around. You won’t believe what they damaged.”

I obey, leading Faesli around to the back. The bathing room isn’t too messed up, luckily.

Faesli hauls out mildewed towels while I scrub the scummed clay tub, rinse it, and then refill it from the rain barrel. The coals beneath are disintegrated and the grating rusted, but we don’t need to use it. The ambient sunbaked water is perfectly warm.

I get in with my clothes—they need the wash too—and submerge, turning the water reddish black.

Faesli submerges fully clothed as well, and we make a bit of a mess washing the big chunks of grime off, then I drain the water, and we laugh at the dirt ring. She gets out. I scrub it down and refill the tub, remove my clothes, and wash my body.

Ayanakalia’s healing powers are strong. Small cuts that I got on Sklerios are smoothed over without even a scab to show where they were. The solstice ceremonies always fill me with energy too. I feel reborn, revitalized by my ancestors’ magic, and wondrously connected. I have so much to be thankful for.

Faesli disrobes but remains outside the tub. She runs her fingers along the decorative octopus-and-seaweed designs.

She’s so beautiful in the daylight. My throat goes dry.

But she seems pensive, almost sad, as she hesitates to meet my eye.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I didn’t think anyone heard my voice, but…” She flicks her fingers over her shoulder, where, through the wall and around the side of the house, my mother’s working. “I ‘awakened’ more people than I meant to.”

I rise, water sluicing off me, and match her somber tone. “I’m afraid to trust it. But if it’s really true, then you’ve done a great service for our house.”

She shrugs a shoulder. “It’s frustrating. Could I have ‘woken people up’ at any time? Then surely you didn’t have to get so badly hurt for us to reach this outcome. And last night, I used my powers but seemingly misdirected them. I wanted Ayanakalia and Jeren to awaken, and I wanted everyone else to save us, and it got mixed up.”

I pick a shard of broken seashell out of her frizzy hair. “You did save us. Whether it was the first thing you said or the hundredth thing, you summoned help and got us rescued.”

“Well, actually, you’re the reason we got rescued.”

“I was unconscious, Faesli. I didn’t do anything.”

“People came because of everything you’ve done. If I’d been stuck down the hole alone, or with Loqen, I could’ve screamed until I was purple and no one would’ve cared. All your good deeds, all your hard work, all the goodwill you’ve built up are why people answered my summons and we got saved. It was because of you.”

Her eyes are so clear and her words so passionate. She truly believes this.

My heart constricts in my chest, yet I feel light, like I can do anything in the world.

“May I join you?” she asks, because I’m standing in a daze, blocking her from reentering the washtub.

“Always.” I help her in, and we sink into the pleasant, clean water. “Turn around.”

She obeys.

I take the cup of floral-honey soap and spread it across her smooth skin, her bony ridges and plump curves. Once she’s completely clean and softened, then I soap her up all over again. She’s filled out in our weeks apart. Even though she’s always been lush and strong, the roundness of her bottom cheeks makes my member swell.

At the second soaping, she glances over her shoulder. “Am I that dirty?”

“No. I just want to put my hands all over you.”

Her lashes flutter, and heat steals across her cheeks. “Oh.”

I move aside her hair and press kisses to the back of her neck, enjoying the bumps it raises on her smooth olive skin. “I don’t want to leave you again.”

“I don’t want you to leave me either.” She bites her lip. “When we’re apart, it’s harder to make children.”

I laugh. “I’ve fallen down on my duties.”

“It’s a reason I joined the bride hunt.” She looks back at me, her clear eyes removing any sting. “I want to have a child with you.”

Every time she says this, I want you, I choose you, and now I want to have a child with you, I feel that twisting sensation like an intense emotion is being wrung from my heart. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. All I know is that she fills me up with feelings.

I pull her back against me so she can sense my maleness, hard and ready, against her buttocks. “I’ll take every opportunity to give one to you.”

She glances down at my mouth, licks her lips. “I trust you.”

“I’ll be worthy of your trust,” I promise, and take her mouth.

Our tongues twist and roll, tangling and wrestling. Her buttocks swell against my abdomen as I press her to the side of the tub. I capture her breasts in my hands, and she moans against my mouth.

I swallow her moan. I swallow all her flavors and scents, her noises and her very soul.

Her nipples pearl against my palms, and I pinch and tease them. She comes half out of the water, lifting her buttocks to me. “Oh, please.”

I bend over the top of her, my hands spanning her hips. My hardness slides between her thighs, up to her wet cleft.

“Yes.” She reaches back to find me, urges me on. “Please.”

I press against her entrance. Her slickness sucks me in.

She whimpers against my mouth. “Yes.”

Faesli is everything wonderful in the world.

I surge into her, coating myself in her enveloping liquid heat, and she clamps down on me hard. We’ve done this position a few times before, but never when I’ve needed her this intensely. I thrust into her, again and again.

And then she rotates to face me, rising out of the water to sit on the rim, and hooks her calves around my buttocks, drawing me into her yielding softness again. “Niq…yes…”

She flexes, controlling my angle and depth with expert precision, losing herself to pleasure. The water splashes wildly. I plunge in my tongue with my thrusts. She cries in rhythm with me, then braces against the wall and cants her hips to take me even deeper.

I cover her hands, sandwiching them to the wall, and interlock our fingers, sliding between hers and clenching.

She arches with a groan of pure satisfaction, her bliss the best face I’ve ever seen.

Her climax pulls mine from me.

I pour myself into her, unleashing my seed into her fertile earth. For a white-hot moment, all I feel is the pure holiness, the shared magic of creation. She takes me in, takes all of me. Our life-giving essence mixes together in the cauldron of our joined bodies. This is why we exist, why we were made.

And then the feeling is gone, and my effort drains out into the water. I unlock one hand, pull her hair aside, kiss her cheek. She shivers, and her lashes flutter as she looks sideways at me. I love how we fit together. She is everything and more.

In the stillness, we lie against each other, half in and half out of the water.

I should take the soap and clean her again, make her soft and perfect, and then do what I can to help my mother, and take inventory of her house. There are a lot of things I should do. But I just want to stay here, like this, where everything is right.

Faesli threads her fingers in my hair.

I use it as a signal to rise.

She stops me. “I told you that I would get my wings and unite our souls, but I want to reinforce all the wards, and so it’s going to be a while.”

I stroke her perfect cheek. “I’ll wait.”

“I’m giving you a warning. When I get my wings, the first thing I’m going to do is use one of my feathers on you. I want us to be married in every way. If you don’t want it, you really do have to return me to Riganos, because I can’t be satisfied with anything less than everything from you forever.”

There are all sorts of logical reasons that I should refuse her.

She might change her mind about me someday, like Talassa did. I might not be good enough or smart enough or man enough for her. A disaster might take me away, forcing her to live a half-life alone. All are good reasons for hesitating, for having caution.

I materialize my unwieldy new wings and take hold of the largest feather.

It’s hard to know which is the most magical now that they’re all the same color. They’re pure white, but in the shade, they seem to reflect the undertone of another color. Royal purple, like the richest gemstone of kings. They all hum equally with powerful magic.

With the fresh memory of the terrible wrenching pain of losing my gold feathers, I brace and pull it out. Maybe because it’s new, it doesn’t hurt. It pulses in my hand, obviously connected to my deepest ancestral magic.

I hold the large white feather between us.

“I don’t ever want to be apart from you again,” I tell her solemnly. “I want to bind your soul and make you mine for this life and forever. Even though it’s selfish. Even though it’s dangerous. Even though if something happens to me, you’ll be doomed to a half-life. I want us to be one for all time.”

Her chin wrinkles. Her eyes are vividly blue, the sky captured in her irises.

She puts her hand over mine. “Bind us.”

“Numinthos,” I say, intoning the deepest magic of our race. My soul outside my body. “Daminthos.” My heart outside my chest. “Qilinthos es.” My blood outside my veins.

I touch the feather to her chest.

It blackens.

White-gold magic zips out, wrapping us both in painful lightning. I grunt, and she shrieks. The magic buries into our two chests, tightening around my heart and tugging me forward, linking us with my vow for this life and the rest.

We are one.

She cups my cheek and presses her lips to mine.

Faesli has always chosen me.

And I truly feel the joy of what it is to be her chosen.