The river was a sanctuary. The cool, crisp water washed away the sweat, the swamp muck, and the lingering indignity of being nearly eaten by fish people.
Syris floated on his back, his long black hair fanning out around him like a dark halo in the current. He dipped his head back, letting the water rush over his face, scrubbing the dried mud and the stench of decay from his pale neck. He closed his eyes, savoring the weightlessness that eased the ache in his muscles from hours of rowing.
His pale skin gleamed in the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees. He looked serene. He looked majestic. He looked like a painting of a water god taking a break from divine duties.
