A sharp breath cuts into me at the touch, and I rip my stare away, looking to the floor.
Pull it together, Orlaith. He’s not the same man.
“I’m fine,” I rasp, clearing my throat. “Apologies. Please, lead the way.”
* * *
The stone doors look big enough to take a chunk from the moon, bracketed by sconces that cast gold light and airy shadows across their rough surface. Armored guards flanking either side crank twin levers in perfect synchrony, making deep clunks vibrate through the floor and up my legs as the doors begin to shift—spewing a stormy tumult from between the widening crack like the howls of a caged tempest.
Frowning, I peek back at Kolden.
“Just the ocean,” he says. “The arena’s partially underground. The sound beats down from above.”
Oh.
I follow Elder Creed through the doorway, taking in the sphere-shaped amphitheater, so huge I could imagine a sun rising and setting across its vast ceiling. A crown of holes are punched through the lofty roof, stamping the moon’s full cycle around the arena like an illuminated halo—the main source of light meant to drag the eye to one place only: a central stage with a pool scooped into the floor, round and wide as Stony Stem.
The Bowl.
My heart sits in my throat as Elder Creed guides us down the wide stairway lit by flaming bowls of oil, feeling my body grow heavier with each step.
There is nothing I like about this place.
Nothing.
I’m following a living relic of the night I lost everything, descending hundreds of steps past rows of empty seats waiting to be filled, heading for a stage girdling a basin of water that glistens just like the one I almost drowned in.
A handful of my nightmares, starring the worst of them all.
Me.
I shake off the noxious thoughts, tightening my fists and hardening my heart.
Get the job done.
Get the ships.
We step onto the arena floor etched with a sea of scripture, the words small and packed together.
I look down the steep blue sides of The Bowl half-filled with eerily still water, inky and foreboding in the confines of its dark surrounds. An arched beam saddles the pool, and hung from the highest point is a rope with a small, golden bell attached to the end, almost brushing the water’s surface.
Illuminated by the dull beams of light reflecting the day outside, my gaze is drawn to the tall, clear, cylindrical tanks sitting on stone plinths around the rim of The Bowl. Each contains a different sort of living creature, swirling, crawling, flitting …
Inspecting each, I move from one to the next while Elder Creed watches me from The Bowl’s edge.
“Jellyfish,” he says as I pass a creature pulsing through its watery cage like a pellucid heart. “Electric eels ... piranha ... turtle …”
I pause by one, mesmerized by its writhing inhabitant. Eight slithering tentacles paw at the glass while a big, eclipsed eye stares at me.
Intome.
The creature suckers onto the side like a splat of white paint.
“Octopus,” I whisper, flattening my hand on the cool glass in the center of its star-like shape.
Flinching, it shifts from sea-foam white to jet black in the blink of an eye, as though my hand dropped paint upon the thirsty canvas of its skin. It shoves off the glass, spitting vines of ink that muddy the water, contorting into a tangle of texture amongst the murk.
“Which are you most drawn to?” Elder Creed asks, his voice a scathing drawl.
