Of Poseidon

before Galen, but it’s Galen who feels humble. “Ah, my favorite of the Royals,” Romul says. “How do things go with you, young Galen?”
    “I’m well, Romul. Thank you.”
    “What brings you to this distant part of existence, my prince? More importantly, how may I be of service to you?”
    “I need some information about the humans again, Romul,” Galen says without hesitation. He’s still wary of Romul’s involvement in Grom’s search for Paca, but asking about the humans is one of Galen’s most common requests. Romul isn’t likely to suspect anything unusual, especially since Galen is ambassador to the humans.
    Romul smiles and nods, his black hair long and wispy. “Of course, my prince. What can I do for you?”
    “I’d like to view the Tartessos remains. I have questions about the half-breeds.”
    Romul raises a surprised brow. “As you wish, young prince. This way, please.”
    Galen follows his mentor deeper into the cave. They pass the Scroll Room, which is an inaccurate title for what’s contained there. The fragile papyrus scrolls of mankind’s lost civilizations have long since disintegrated, but the freezing waters of the Arctic keep the other records—tablets, pottery, jewelry, and sometimes whole walls of hieroglyphics—well-preserved.
    The freezing temperatures also keep the Tomb Chamber—the giant catacomb of Syrena dead—intact. Galen has never been in the tomb himself, but Rayna used to visit their mother in the first few years after she died. The tomb ensures that Syrena remains will never fall into human hands. Galen shudders as he thinks of the worldwide search that would surely ensue if a Syrena body—or even a bone—were to wash up on a beach somewhere.
    They reach the Civic Chamber, the biggest of all the chambers where the ruins of cities are kept. Galen has been here before, many times, but never with a human eye, so to speak. Or rather, the eye of a Half-Breed. Emma could get lost in here for days, maybe months. And he’d love to bring her here to do just that.
    Romul leads him past the large remnants of Alexandria, Egypt, and artifacts from Cleopatra’s quarters. Past some ancient temples of Thailand, painstakingly removed from their underwater site and rebuilt here in the Cave of Memories. Past a towering pyramid deconstructed centuries ago off the coast of the island called Japan and reestablished here for a well-deserved eternity. Finally, they reach Tartessos, perhaps the most important of all the cities here, because of its connection to their kind.
    Out of them all, Tartessos is the most intact city. Built like an enormous target, the metropolis would have been circular, with streets curving around the central structures. Romul and Galen cross the first salvaged bridge, whose water now flows over it instead of under it. They swim past statue after statue of Poseidon himself—or at least, the humans’ version of him. Even fractured and chipped, missing pieces of tails and parts of his trident, the statues are striking.
    The Syrena commissioned for the task of re-creating the roads proved meticulous in placing each recovered cobblestone paver into a perfect sphere of winding paths leading to the palace in the middle. Though gliding through the water above it, Galen and Romul follow the fragmented road as they pass buildings and fountains and public baths. Galen can easily imagine an ancient population bringing life to this desolate, inanimate place, exchanging their abundance of gold, silver, and copper for food, clothing, and services. But what about people who look like Emma?
    Galen gets his answer as they round the last bend to the palace. His breath catches as they approach a wall he’s seen a thousand times before but never really looked at. Images of humans sacrificing large bulls in honor of Poseidon. Most of them have black hair, olive skin, violet eyes. Rigid lines are drawn on their torsos, probably to emphasize their physiques. But in the corner of the panorama, there are other humans. Humans he’s never noticed before because their outlines almost blend in with the wall. White skin. White hair. Violet eyes. Humans who look like Emma.
    Galen clears his throat. “These humans here,” he says, running his finger over one whose soft curves remind him of her. “Who are they?”
    “My prince, none of the images on this wall are of humans. These are our Syrena brethren in their human forms. And these,” he says, his voice filled with disdain,