A Painted Goddess Read Online Free Page B

desperate, about to give up on ever tasting air again, they broke the surface into total darkness. Maurizan sucked in ragged breaths as the Fish Man dragged her out of the water and dropped her on a dry patch of gravel.
    She’d heard a splash and then silence. Gone.
    Now she waited, wondering if the Fish Man would ever return. She dozed, started awake, dozed again.
    Finally there was another splash, and she held her breath, listening, waiting.
    Footsteps on the gravel. Movement.
    Her hands fell to the daggers at her belt. The Fish Man could have left her. Could have let her drown. Could have done anything. Maurizan held tight to the hilts of the daggers but didn’t draw them.
    A scraping, more movement.
    Maurizan slowly and quietly kept backing up until her back was pressed against the cavern wall.
    A sharp sound and something flared in the darkness. A spark. The sharp sound again, flint striking steel and then a bright-orange flare of light.
    And there stood the Fish Man in the glow of the lantern he was lighting.
    He wasn’t so tall. A couple of inches taller than Maurizan. The broad shoulders and thin waist of a swimmer, someone who spent a lot more time in the water than he did walking on land. Legs muscular, skin white and smooth. Hairless except for the unkempt thatch of blond on his head and another between his legs.
    She realized where she was looking and turned her head quickly, but her eyes darted back for a peek without her meaning it. “Who are you?”
    “Kristos.”
    Kristos. It seemed a strangely ordinary name for the legendary Fish Man.
    “Could you put something on, Kristos?”
    “Sorry.” He gestured at himself. “This is the best for swimming.” His accent was heavy and unfamiliar, and the words came out Dees iz bezt for sweeming .
    “Where are you from?”
    “Helva, like you,” Kristos said.
    “You don’t sound like it.”
    “I have been many years with the Moogari,” he said. “My accent is like how they talk.”
    Moogari. Terrific , thought Maurizan. Probably what they call the local cannibals .
    But so far the Fish Man hadn’t been eaten. Maybe he’d gone native.
    He turned to reach for a long stretch of dry, rough cloth hanging from a hook on the cave wall. It had a pattern on it of leaves and vines, a wrap like she’d seen natives wear in the South Sea islands. Well, in paintings anyway. She’d never been there.
    Kristos turned away from her as he tied the wrap around himself, and that’s when she saw it and gasped.
    Kristos’s head jerked back to her. “What is it?”
    “The Prime,” said the gypsy. The tattoo down his back, the ornate circle between the shoulder blades, and the runes trailing down either side of the spine.
    “You know this word?” Kristos said. “You’ve seen this tattoo before?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where?”
    “My mother,” Maurizan said. “And grandmother.” She’d seen Rina’s too but didn’t see any need to mention it.
    Kristos’s eyes narrowed with curiosity. “Who are you?”
    Maurizan tightened the grip on her dagger hilts. “Who are you ?”
    “I saw you fall from the boat, rescued you, and brought you here,” Kristos said. “I went back to find the others, but the boat had sailed away. I have lived here a long time. You are safe here. I saved you.”
    “Thanks.” She didn’t ease the grip on her weapons.
    “When I was a child, my family and I traveled by sea from the Red City to Fyria. My father was a merchant. We were caught in a storm like you, and the ship went down. I washed ashore and the Moogari found me. I’ve been a man of the Scattered Isles ever since. What about you?” Kristos asked. “You are far from home. And you know the Prime. I think you have a story to tell, yes?”
    She nailed him with her eyes, looking him over, deciding. She let go of her daggers.
    The gypsy reached into her vest, came out with a piece of parchment. It was still damp, and she unfolded it carefully. She held it out to Kristos. “Bring the