What From the Water Rises #25

In which Azar changes his mind.

Even in the pink-orange light of early dawn, the docks at Zeunos’s harbor were bustling with activity. People—sailors, fishers, and probably pirates among them—carried bulging sacks onto their ships, or rolled barrels up the gangplanks, or loaded supplies into smaller boats to row over to the vessels docked further from the shore.

Azar regarded all of this without much interest. He’d just been passed off from the Mesaanoti woman who promised him amnesty to a young sailor; the two of them stood together in silence as the sailor squinted toward the water, frowning, waiting for the ship’s boat to return and ferry Azar away. 

The magnitude of Azar’s choice had not yet hit him; it would, he thought, once he boarded the ship. For now, as he stood in wait, everything felt distant and unreal.

It didn’t help that he hadn’t slept at all the night before. He hadn’t even tried; it would have been too easy to sleep through this opportunity, and he needed to think his decision through until the last possible moment. Besides, he’d wanted to wait until the dead of night to return the documents he’d borrowed from Zuenos’s archive. He left them on the work table with a note reading, Thanks — A. 

That had been a harmless enough gesture. The note he left for Phaeon, however—

A jolt of regret pierced through him, but the young sailor beside him suddenly stepped forward, beckoning him to follow. The boat had arrived.

Azar followed the boy obediently to the end of a dock and accepted his help into the boat. Only once the oarsman began to row away did Azar realize that the freckled young sailor was not a man, like he’d assumed, but a woman with her hair shorn. 

Unsure what to do with himself, Azar turned to continue watching the bustle at the docks until the forms of the workers were obscured by the light morning fog and their voices grew indistinct below the rush of the ocean. Still, he stared behind him, looking at nothing in particular.

The last time he’d been on a ship—the last time he’d slipped away in the early hours of the morning to flee to some new, unknown place—Phaeon had been there to guide him. Azar was always braver in his presence; then, he’d happily handed off a selection of the palace’s jewels to a stranger and boarded a ship without knowing if it was manned by pirates. Now, he found himself tense and trembling, his heart pounding louder with each turn of the oars away from the shoreline.

It was Phaeon who occupied his thoughts as they drew closer to the ship, then as he climbed the rope ladder with shaking hands to the deck. The young sailor woman followed and guided him belowdecks to his cabin before disappearing.

For a long moment, he stood alone in the room—which, though it was cramped and musty, he was relieved to find unoccupied. He took in a deep, steadying breath and sighed it out, but Phaeon’s absence weighed on him more heavily by the moment. He’d been right in his assumption that the reality of his choice would hit him once he had boarded, but it wasn’t the thought of leaving Isle Ezu that struck him. It was the thought of leaving Phaeon.

The cabin suddenly seemed too small, the air too stagnant to breathe, and he emerged from the room without thinking, his head spinning. As he traveled abovedecks, he thought of Phaeon’s advice to avoid speaking to the crew on their journey to the island in case they’d pick up on the status he’d held in Sehmera. Would it be wise to maintain his silence here, too—or were those shuttling him to Mesaanot aware of who he was, of what they were doing?

Better to emulate Phaeon’s caution in this instance. The crew was, fortunately, too occupied to pay any mind to Azar as he burst onto the deck, taking in desperate gasps of the fresh air. They all swarmed the ship, preparing to depart—hauling up the anchor, running supplies to their destinations, readying the sails, coordinating tasks that were beyond his understanding.

He slipped by them, unnoticed, following the railing to the afterdeck, which was empty but for a tangled pile of fishing nets stored there. Azar gripped the railing, leaning toward Isle Ezu as the ship began to inch forward. The sounds of the sailors shouting to one another seemed to fade as Isle Ezu drifted further away.

There was nothing he could have done differently—no better choice available to him. He had nothing tangible to regret, only the loss of a future that he’d long dreamed of.

So when the thought came to him that he shouldn’t have left Phaeon the note, he let that guilt consume him. He should have left cleanly; he couldn’t even remember now if he’d taught Phaeon enough to recognize the words as a goodbye.

He’d comforted himself, as he wrote it, thinking of how he could write Phaeon another letter when—if—he safely reached Mesaanot. But that, he now realized, was selfish in its own right. Phaeon, careful as he was, would never let someone else read its contents aloud; Azar’s words would remain torturously unknown to him. Even if he did discern the message, Azar worried that he’d uproot whatever life he built for himself on the island to find and join him. Not out of forgiveness or desire, but obligation to serve.

The ship’s sails caught the wind as Azar wallowed in his guilt, and it started through the ocean at a fast clip. His gaze settled on Isle Ezu as it receded on the horizon—soon diminishing to nothing more than a vague green form behind the morning fog. The crew settled, their voices too quiet for him to make out their words.

And Azar was struck by the sudden, harsh reminder that he was truly alone now.

He screwed his eyes shut and let his head fall forward. His fear and regret and loneliness all coalesced into something indecipherable, something that curled in the pit of his stomach and dizzied him. He drew in a deep breath of the salty air and tightened his grip on the railing, struggling to know what to do with himself.

He was little more than a stowaway on a fishing vessel, soon to arrive in a foreign country with nothing to his name but a vague promise. “My master will meet you when you arrive,” the Mesaanoti woman had told him cryptically, with a meaningful look he could not interpret. At the time, he hadn’t given much thought to who her master was; she was an agent of the Mesaanoti government, but it was dominated by their religious cult—so who would meet him? Another spy? A priest?

A god?

That was absurd, but not so absurd that he could dismiss it outright. There was another reminder of how alone and small and vulnerable he was. On the island—and now, still on the ocean—he knew Anvashe was watching, whether he found the god’s promise of protection reliable or not. Once he stepped into a rival god’s territory, though—

A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and his stomach dropped.

Every muscle in his body tensed as he jerked his head up to look at the sailor who had silently sidled up next to him. It was the short-haired woman again, and she was pursing her lips at him—looking not angry, but gently irritated.

“Why did you do this?” she asked, dropping her hand. Her voice was low and hoarse, but she spoke with surprising gentleness, almost a murmur.

“Why—?” Azar echoed, his voice emerging as a squeak. He cleared his throat and took in a deep breath, hoping to suppress his fear before he continued. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

The woman sighed and turned to face the water, her eyes narrowing in Isle Ezu’s direction. “So someone knows you,” she said in that same unexpectedly soft tone, “other than Valieta. I had not realized.”

For a long moment, Azar just stared at her, almost forgetting to breathe. Valieta, he easily identified as the old noblewoman; it was an old-fashioned Sehmeri name, unfamiliar to him. But how did this stranger know—?

When the realization hit him, he gasped in a breath and put a hand to his mouth in embarrassment. It was hard to believe—given the admission of fault, of ignorance—but he understood now that this was Anvashe.

When the god had possessed Phaeon during the storm as they first traveled to his island, it had so unsettled him to see Phaeon’s body move—to hear his voice speak—with someone else’s mannerisms. The sailor before him was a stranger, but something about the way she looked at Azar was both familiar and off-putting.

“One other,” Azar murmured hollowly, “at least. If you’d wanted to stop me, I thought you would’ve done it by now.”

“I knew you wanted to leave,” Anvashe said without acknowledging his words, “but I couldn’t read the shape of your emotions. Today, your motivations—your fear—were hidden beneath this… preoccupation with your guard.”

Azar kept his eyes pinned to the horizon, too, unwilling to meet Anvashe’s gaze when his face burned with embarrassment. He didn’t want to think of how intimately the god knew his desperate loneliness.

“When I spoke to him,” Anvashe continued, “he didn’t know what was happening with you, either.” At that, Azar spun to stare at him in shock, but every question he had about that interaction died on his tongue when Anvashe’s borrowed, freckled face hardened. “You had me convinced—almost as well as you had yourself—that this was your choice. Not one I approved of, but I’ve never stopped anyone from leaving.”

“It was my choice,” Azar insisted at once, but it sounded false to his own ears, and he reminded himself that there was no point in lying. “It was the best choice I could see,” he tried.

“Because you were manipulated.” The god’s tone was matter-of-fact, his expression unreadable. “That woman is a spy of the Mesaanoti state—an agent of Aameja.” 

Unwilling to admit that he not only knew this, but also took it as evidence of her authority, Azar simply nodded. 

“But why did you decide you were unsafe under my protection?”

The abrupt delivery startled Azar, and he took a long moment to find the words. “I-I just didn’t know if…” He trailed off. Admitting doubt in Anvashe’s omniscience and infallibility struck him as unwise—even if the god could sense it in him on some level—but he had other reasons, too. “I found an old file in the archives, from—I don’t remember when—years ago. Someone was stoned to death. You didn’t stop them. You didn’t punish the murderers.”

A lengthy pause stretched between them.

“I had not promised him safety,” Anvashe said. “Your position is… unique.”

“I didn’t know—” Azar began.

“Not everyone in my domain is offered my protection,” Anvashe interrupted. “I have kept you safe. Neither of the women who learned your true name intended for you to come to harm; there was no danger for me to protect you from. And yet you are running away.”

Azar opened his mouth to question—to object—but the words did not come to him. Maybe the god was right. Valieta had claimed she did not want to see his blood spilled, and he was inclined to believe that it was true, given how she clung to her roots in the Sehmeri nobility even on the island. The Mesaanoti had wanted him alive in her country, not dead on Isle Ezu. He wanted to ask if he could rely on the assumption that neither had told anyone else before Anvashe intercepted them—wanted to ask what had become of the Mesaanoti if Anvashe had discovered her for what she was.

The words that spilled from his lips, though, were, “Why did you ignore me when I tried to talk to you?”

“You didn’t know what you wanted, and I had no intention of helping you figure it out. I knew you’d make your own decision; I didn’t expect you to make it so soon.”

Azar nodded slowly, a new kind of regret flooding into him. He stood, studying the woman’s face wearing Anvashe’s expressionless stare, trying to decide what he felt. “The Mesaanoti woman,” he said. “If she—if she hadn’t succeeded, would she have told anyone? If I go back, will she tell?”

The slight smile pulling at the corner of the sailor’s lips told him both that the Mesaanoti would never tell and that he probably didn’t want to know how Anvashe had wrought the promise from her—if he’d let her live.

Azar’s gaze went to the horizon, where Isle Ezu had vanished. Everything Anvashe had said was true—his situation was unique, the case he’d read irrelevant to him, the risk of harm less than he’d assumed—but it was too late to do anything about it. The relationship he’d formed with Anvashe, with Isle Ezu, had been something new—uncharted. And he’d let his fear drive him away from it.

Now he was in open waters, well on his way to Mesaanot, where they’d never let him return to the place they’d pried him away from.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words tumbling out of him before he could stop to think. “I’m so sorry I ever doubted you. I never should have done that.” He lowered his voice and murmured, “I want to go back. I made a mistake.”

“Yes,” Anvashe observed. He leaned over the railing, studying the wake of the ship. “So jump.”

Azar leaned forward, too, staring in horror at the water far below. Though he knew how to swim—having been raised beside the very same ocean—he was far from the coast now, far enough that Isle Ezu had been swallowed by the mist.

“Will you help me?” he asked in desperation.

The woman beside him blinked at him slowly, her lips parting as her brow furrowed. The ship abruptly hit a patch of rough water—the first since they’d left shore—and she stumbled back, then staggered forward. One hand gripped the rail while the other rubbed her eyes.

Azar swore under his breath, drawing the dazed attention of the sailor. It wasn’t the first time Azar had seen the confusion in the wake of Anvashe leaving a body he’d possessed; he remembered Phaeon falling to the deck, dropping his sword—

But there wasn’t time to think of Phaeon. Anvashe had given him an order. Was his silence at Azar’s question offense that he’d even asked? Was this some twisted revenge scheme—getting Azar killed for leaving him?

Better not to overthink it. Here was his cue from Anvashe—perhaps his only chance. If he waited too long, the sailor beside him would stop him.

So he lifted one foot to the railing.

“What…?” the sailor asked, her voice sounding thick and heavy as if with sleep. She took an uncertain step toward Azar, but she was unsteady on her feet and quickly toppled by another sudden wave. Azar slipped down but landed on his feet, gripping the railing until the water calmed—and then he climbed up, one foot, then the other—

The sailor shouted after him, but her words were lost under the rushing in Azar’s ears. He gave the water only a glance before squeezing his eyes shut.

The roaring in his ears pitched up, and he couldn’t hear his own voice when his lips parted—at first to ask Anvashe for help, until he realized how absurd that was. Instead, he said, “Thank you.”

And then he jumped.