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I chewed on my lip, imagining his plight. “You said Atlas bore ‘children’ through his harem of mer-wives. Do you not have sisters? Could you not appoint one of them?”

  Codexious gave a rueful chuckle. “It was their vicious vying for first-choice that originally spurred me to choose a wife instead of a sister. I assumed a larger selection and my freedom to choose would solve the problem, my prospects far-flung and diverse, but alas. I fear the opportunity for that much power has had a corrupting effect on the entire female population.”

  That was a conundrum. “How did Amphitrite die?”

  Coda’s gaze grew painfully wistful, his silver irises darkening to a stormy gray. “Though immortal, with no sea creature that could challenge her, Amphitrite has died of a broken heart.”

  Whatever I had expected, it wasn’t that. “How does the queen of the sea end up with her heart broken?”

  “It is not something that one can adequately communicate. I will have to show you. But, that is for another time.” He picked up the pace again–I hadn’t even realized we’d stopped, but apparently I’d trailed off, engrossed in the tale–and, feeling somber, I drifted back into motion beside him.

  “All right, then. How did Atlas die? I mean, forgive me if that is insensitive. It just seems…momentous and unusual, all these immortals dying.” Not to prolong the morbid subject, but…my curiosity was ricocheting a mile-a-minute off the walls of my over-stuffed brain.

  “Ah, yes–the inevitable demise of Atlas. Despite what Amphitrite did for him, his greedy disposition was not something that could be survived. Such a disposition eventually catches up with anyone.” Coda cast a sly, sidelong glance in my direction. “You think you have stumbled upon the center of underwater lore, here at the lost locale of Atlantis. You think this is the deep sea.” He shook his head mysteriously. “This is not the deep sea.”

  Awe peeled my brain back another layer. How deep did the lore go?

  Coda unspooled another branch of his fantastical tale for my rapt consumption: “My father never could quite accept his fall from power. He’d been granted life and still had his throne and his city, merely under the sea, but as I said it meant little as it fell under the blanket jurisdiction of Amphitrite. And, inevitably, his people lost respect for him as the king of a fallen city. There was a reason he was stripped of his power and his kingdom plunged to its supposed demise by Poseidon to begin with, and no one ever held my father in much high regard after that. So, desperate to regain their respect, he went on a conquest. Swam into the deep sea to battle the legendary beasts who lurk there. The kraken. Giant sea serpents. Killer, whale-sized sharks. But it was his end.”

  What a depressing outing this had turned out to be. “Wow,” was all I could think to say. “I’m sorry.”

  Coda made a dismissive gesture. “King Atlas had a great many things to concern himself with over his firstborn son. We never shared any great love, my father and I. It did not come as a personal blow, when he passed. In fact, at that point I was off on my own lesser conquests, running amok in the open sea. Seeking thrills I could no longer find in a palace that had awarded me everything my heart could ever desire. I became bored with it all and went on a bit of a…rampage of self-discovery.”

  “That’s one I haven’t heard before. A ‘rampage’ of self-discovery.”

  “What can I say. I had become indifferent to the gratifications of high society and became a bit of a searching thrill junkie.”

  I shot a considering glance in his direction. “The sea is lucky you mellowed out in time to make a responsible decision about the matter of a successor.”

  “Who says I’ve mellowed out?” Codexious posed with a wicked grin, then sobered. “I can only hope my singular noble effort in this life counts for something, given my prospects. No one will count themselves lucky if my only options end up being power-hungry mer-sharks. The sea will become a ruthless place indeed.”

  We swam in silence for a few moments, and then I had to ask, “Why are you telling me all this, anyway?”

  Codexious shrugged. “The sea granted you passage into our midst. It seems you are worthy of the secret that is our very existence, so you might as well have our common knowledge. And given the cryptic omens in your dreams…I assumed you would rest easier, having the pieces put together. I still cannot say why you dreamed of such things, other than the essence of the sea running in your veins, creating echoes… But it did not seem kind to leave you to go mad, wondering over the nature of what you saw. What knowledge I have, it seemed right to give. And with all of it astir in the city right now, you would have gleaned it in any case, in bits and pieces.”

  “Then I thank you, for shedding light on what you could.”

  Codexious looked at me, his eyes glimmering bright silver once again. “You know, I never thought I would find myself drawn to anything of the upper realm like our dearly estranged Vel-Di’yah. But looking at you, I think I might feel a breath of what she did, playing in the light of the Surface. There is a…warmth…” His gaze searched listlessly back and forth across my face, trying to peg exactly what it was. Not quite able to put his finger on it, he trailed off, but not before the sentiment had sent that very essence–warmth–fluttering all through my limbs.

  The cold-blooded Atlantean royal was drawn to my warmth. And I burned hotter and hotter the more time I spent in his presence.

  Chapter 17

  I had the distinct urge to fan myself when Codexious delivered me safely back to my turret and went on his way, but that only accomplished flushing my face with more water and reminded me of how Coda had awakened me that morning, so I left off.

  Sayler, my girl, you’re in trouble.

  I was wonderstruck out of my mind in a place that catered to every definition of a ‘fantasy’ I could ever have lusted after, being courted–however casually–by a sultry merman who was the definition of an exotic hunk if I’d ever seen one, and everything was new and exciting with the exact flavor of falling in love for the first time. So it was difficult–no, impossible–to separate the regent of Atlantis from those giddy sentiments. He could have been warty and blubbery, and I still would have felt like I was in love with him. But he wasn’t those things. It just so happened he was gorgeous and charming, which did nothing to help matters.

  I just wanted to…study him with a fine-tooth comb like an old relic. He was immortal, after all. He pretty much was an old relic. It was the archaeologist in me, that was all. You made a miraculous discovery dating back thousands and thousands of years, you wanted to study it. Pick it apart. Caress–I mean dust–every muscle, er, crack and crevice. Yes, that was it, Codexious son of Atlas regent to the Atlantean throne was a regular old relic in need of studying, my curiosity perfectly justified.

  Then I had to snort, likening him to an old relic. That made him sound like someone’s grandfather.

  Just as quickly I sobered, wondering if he was someone’s grandfather. He could have…thousands of children of his own, and they could have thousands of their own.

  He could be grandfather to millions.

  I caught myself in a grimace, imagining. That rather put a cork of perspective in my erstwhile fantasies.

  It didn’t bear thinking about, Coda and his possible millions of grandchildren, so I put it from my mind and decided to spend the day hunting down writing utensils so I could make use of my wax slate.

  Did they have, I don’t know, stores or something of that nature in Atlantis? What did they use for currency? Was it more of a trading post type civilization?

  My best bet would probably just be to ask someone, but how would that even go? Excuse me, hi–yes, I’m the new girl. Yes, the human. Well I have gills, you see. What am I doing here? Oh, you know, I’m just your average deep-sea tourist. Seeing the sights. Meetin’ some ’maids. Speaking of which, do you have a pen? Oh, great! Thanks so much! Be seeing you. Tootles!

  No. There would be far more questions and I’d be far more obligated to elaborate on my presence and purpose a
nd the essence of my nature and things, and how could I just casually ask for a pen when there were so many touchy and complicated and all around loaded topics swirling around me in a cloud of bombshell shrapnel at any given moment?

  You didn’t just show up as a tourist in Atlantis and ask for a pen.

  So, then, what were my other options? Two came to mind. I could find some substitute utensil and syphon my blood into it to use for ink, or…I could merely find something sharp, and write in the wax without any ink at all. It would still be legible, in the right light–or filled in with ink later, when I took my research back to the Surface.

  If I returned to the Surface.

  I mean, of course I would, right? And yet how would I ever decide it was time to just pack up and leave this place? This spectacular treasure trove? Like, Okay! I’ve seen all there is to see. Time to be on my way.

  As if I could ever absorb all there was to discover down here.

  And then what would I do once I returned to the Surface? Share all my findings with others? Exploit the secret of Atlantis so that others could invade it too? Because that was undoubtedly what would happen if any of my research was accepted as legitimate or proven as such.

  The place would end up overrun by scientists.

  That would be one thing if it had proven to be just a graveyard of ancient ruins. But it wasn’t. It was the capital of a magical underworld, teeming with fantastical creatures that, if also discovered, would be exploited just like the city itself.

  My heart sank as it became increasingly clear my discovery was not one to openly share with the masses. It wasn’t that I cared to go down in the history books, really, just…not being able to share something so paramount, so invigorating with a community that would be just as excited as I was… It was a tragedy.

  Just swallow the secret, and pretend you didn’t make the most miraculous discovery the modern world has ever known. Talk about the greatest discovery since landing on the moon.

  I’d essentially landed on the moon, and very well might not be able to tell a soul.

  In which case…what would my research even matter?

  But I couldn’t just not research. It was against everything that had ever been drilled into me, against the uber-conditioned fibers of my nature. An insult to the sacred integrity of my profession.

  But there were other things that were sacred, here.

  Jellyfish, for one.

  A sanctuary–a protected habitat–for unthinkable life, for another. If ever something had been a haven for an exotic, endangered species, this was it.

  Well, I could decide later what to do with my research. In the meantime, it didn’t hurt to collect information for my own study, certainly. Eager to get something down in my log, I extracted my single little wax tablet from its slot in the wall and decided to go back to the submarine-like vessel I’d discovered wrecked in the rubble, and take what notes I could. I scratched at the current message scrawled in the wax as I swam toward the outskirts of the city, and once I’d gouged off the written layer, I smoothed out the remaining wax with my thumb, creating a blank slate.

  It wasn’t much, but it would get me started.

  Buzzing with excitement, I scavenged a shard of rubble from the crumbling mound and used the sharp end like a pencil, crowding around the half-buried sub to start my inspection.

  Utensil hovering over the wax, I balked. Come on, Sayler, just describe what you see. Observe some basic features. Make a hypothesis. Collect a sample. Sketch a sketch.

  But the enthusiasm went out of me, as I couldn’t shake the feeling that I would be violating something sacred, or at the very least disturbing it, if I were to go probing about committing it all to record.

  I couldn’t do it.

  Disheartened, I touched the shard to the wax, and what came out was:

  Atlantis Expedition, Day 1: Still searching. No sign of the lost city.

  Heavy with resignation, I let my arms fall back to my sides and left it at that. The secret intact, the treasure trove undisturbed.

  Oh, beautiful minefield of delectable discoveries. How I wish I could turn you inside out.

  But alas.

  I went back to my turret and lay there, defeated, questioning my place in the world and purpose in life and everything I’d dedicated all my time to in the last decade, ever since the Petroglyph Pathfinders Summer Camp solidified my archaeological obsession when I was eleven. All those years for what? To forfeit my shining moment.

  Oh, hey, Atlantis. That’s cool. Moving right along now.

  I slung my arms over my face, a dejected mood coming on. I was a disgrace to my field. Was there even any point in living, after passing by the greatest achievement that would ever come my way? After committing the atrocity of covering up the discovery instead of spreading knowledge and wonder to the rest of the world?

  Having lost all reason to carry on, I drifted into a despondent, melodramatic sleep.

  * * *

  A chord of brassy, majestic notes filtered into my dreams, rekindling one of the chief taunts that had lured me to Atlantis. It seemed my dreams were the source, at first, but there was a distance about it that set me seeking, chasing, fighting through the unconscious haze until I was blinking awake in conclusion.

  The sound warbled through the city, muffled but unmistakable. I hadn’t gotten around to investigating the existence of that specific hook since arriving at the gates, but the curiosity was as ripe as ever.

  Was the pipe organ a real entity, something physical that resided in Atlantis? Who played it?

  I twisted slowly out of my sleeping position, meandering to the window to peer out. I saw no sign of the instrument from my tower, and so went in search of the source, fulfilling the prophecy in my dream.

  The water was still and cool against my skin, bathing me in tranquil chills. I frog-stroked my way down into the empty streets, wondering where everyone was, following the sound of the music. It grew louder in the direction of the palace, and I tracked it up to an open skylight that looked down into a cavernous cathedral of jade ruins. Cracked pillars and the ruptured, unintended mosaic floor crumbled toward a steep cluster of stairs that rose against the back wall, and atop the landing–which was pitched at a severe slant from whatever upheaval had affected the chamber–was the beast in question.

  The pipe organ.

  The same mother-of-pearl keys and unicorn-horn shell pipes I’d seen in my dreams and that lifelike mirage stood in ultra-real majesty before my eyes. And who stroked those mottled iridescent keys than the regent of Atlantis himself, rather than the ghost I half expected.

  Codexious. He levitated regal and upright before the instrument, no need of a bench when you could just float, the five-tiered keyboard a perfect span for his full drawn-up height.

  His back to me, my gaze trickled down the chiseled crevices of his torso, appreciating the way his dusting of scales glinted wherever a muscle bulged, catching the light. Second to that, of course, I appreciated his musician’s artistry, the way his fingers pressed a heartfelt, precise dance across the changing landscape of keys. The tune he played was dramatic but sad, a keening ballad that ramped up to a soaring ache and tip-toed back down into a wistful, solitary despair. It lanced through me, clenching my heart in an iron fist. I loitered above the skylight, absorbing the ache. It was a powerful instrument, no matter what might be drummed from its keys, but Codexious had a way of leaning into it, weary and purposeful, hitting each note on the head.

  When he reached the dramatic, final chord, his back tensed, his shoulders bunching with the intensity of landing the notes. Along with everything else in Atlantis, his performance was captivating. I hardly realized I had pulled myself gradually head-first down through the skylight, slipping into the upper reaches of the architectural cavern. A gold-fissured, ornately ribbed ceiling loomed above me, and I was careful to duck under the jutting lattice-work.

  Codexious remained hunched over the keys even after the song was finished. I knew that
feeling–what it was like for the delivery of an emotional song to really take it out of you, as if transferred from your very soul through the instrument, your own emotion the backbone of the song. I’d taken piano during the angsty years of my teens, those musical years when I really first began to get in touch with my raw emotional side, my deeper self, my passionate side. My fascination with history and secret ruins had ended up overshadowing my interest in pursuing the instrument further, but I would carry what it had awakened within me forever. I’d felt like a woman, after dredging up that soulful, carnal aptitude. In many ways it had marked a turning point from my youth into enlightened womanhood.

  “I wondered if you might come,” Coda’s voice throbbed across the cathedral’s yawning expanse. I was startled at how close it seemed. Sound traveled so differently through water.

  Feeling like I’d been caught eavesdropping, I cast around for an excuse but found none, and if he’d half expected me, why did I need an excuse?

  “It was just like in my dreams,” I admitted.

  Slowly, gracefully, Codexious arched upward and backward, flipping to bring me into view upside-down. “I was counting on it.”

  “You wanted me to come?”

  “Hoped you might.”

  I bit my lip to keep a lame smile from blubbering across my lips. “You could have just sent another invitation by swordfish.”

  “Not nearly as fun as luring you out mysteriously.”

  “All right. I’ll bite. What was so pressing, or tempting, that you had to ‘lure’ me here mysteriously?”

  “Seemed a fitting way to invite you to have a look at the instrument that’s haunted your dreams for so long.”

  I pursed my lips, considering the hulking instrument. It was a work of art all by itself, never mind the music that could be charmed out of it.

  “You play well,” I observed.

  “Just not well with others, I’m afraid.”

  A dimple pricked my cheek at his quip. “Speaking of which, where is everyone? The streets were empty.”