5. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Zeph
I t's odd being at The Harsh Butcher sober.
The number of times Loris scraped me off the sticky floor here is ridiculous.
Memories of our exploits swirl around me. It's my first time in the tavern since Loris died four days ago.
Has it really only been four days?
Every second is an hour, every hour a day since he's been gone. I don't think I realized how much he was holding me together. Without him, I feel like a collection of loose parts tossed in a box and pushed under the bed.
Bracken leans across the bartop towards me, resting his rag on its scuffed surface. "Your usual?" he asks quietly. I know he feels culpability for the tournament's deaths, and his personality has been subdued since then.
"I don't think so," I say, pretending to be fascinated with my nails. "I'm trying to cut way back."
Bracken nods and turns around, heading into the kitchen. "Got something else, then." When he returns, he slides a mug of lukewarm cocoa broth before me. "S'not warm, but I figure you can handle that."
It takes no effort to warm the mug with a quick blast of fire, and I take a hearty sip. "It's good, thanks, Bracken." He grunts and walks away to grab a few mugs of mead for a group of young fae sitting in the booth Loris, Plume, and myself used to commandeer most evenings.
Despite the sun still clinging to the horizon, the Butcher is starting to fill up with people coming to relax after a day's work. A few greet me with nods or pats on the back, but most give me a wide berth.
When Cirrha slides onto the seat next to me and orders a glass of red wine, I've long since finished my cocoa broth, and liquor is calling to me. I push through that feeling, not allowing myself to numb the pain of my loss with something that I worked hard to reduce consumption of.
But I can't say I'm not tempted.
"Hey, Zeph," Cirrha says. Her voice is gentle, and her hand rests atop mine on the bar. With a sideways glance, I can see she's wearing a deep green dress that flows around her wide hips and brings out the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. Her natural hair sports a silver headband, and she's wearing sandals with straps that wrap up her legs. She always looks so put together, so graceful.
I smile at her, shifting sideways to bump my shoulder to hers. "Hey, yourself."
We sit in companionable silence while she drinks her wine, and then she stands. "Walk with me?" I nod, tossing a few coins on the counter for Bracken. I follow Cirrha out of the tavern, and she loops her arm in mine as we walk .
The sun has sunk down now, but there are still errant rays of colored light streaking the sky.
"I'm so sorry about Loris, Zeph," she says quietly. I can't bring myself to look at her. She was there. She saw what it was like. I feel her holding something back, a thought stuck in her chest. "I…" she starts, then shakes her head.
"No, tell me, please," I implore her. "I want to know what you're thinking."
"How are you still supporting Himureal, Zeph?" When I turn my head to look at her, I don't see judgment in her eyes. I see sadness, fear, and worry—all of the emotions someone would want another person to feel for them in this fucked up situation I have found myself in.
We're still very public, walking down the main street of Ytopie, so I pull us towards my home. "We'll talk in private." Cirrha doesn't fight my pull, and within ten minutes, we're up the stairs to my top-floor flat.
"Zeph," she says tentatively, "why did you bring me here?"
"It wasn't safe to discuss this openly. Drink?" She nods, and I grab a bottle of wine shoved in the back of one of my cabinets. After I pour her a glass, I sink onto the plush couch. "I have a lot to tell you."
So I do.
I tell her every ugly detail, from planning to announce the truth of the Race to beating up Mace, kidnapping Tulip, lying about Mace killing Stone, working with Himureal, planning the tournament, and pretending like I didn't care that Loris died.
When I lay all my transgressions out like a merchant's wares in front of her, I expect her to be disgusted with me. I expect her to put her glass down, shake her head, and leave, never to speak to me again.
But Cirrha has been a continuous surprise, and she shakes her head. "And how are you going to fix this?" is all she says.
That begins the second spiel, the plan with Taegan, the realization that I am Viola's high priest, what Himureal believes and has planned for Viola and Kon. By the time I finish, Cirrha has placed her glass on my table and crossed one long leg over the other. She rests her elbow on the knee and props her head in her hand, thick lips pursed.
"How can I help? Let's take this fucker down."
"Can Air get a message if it doesn't know the destination?" I ask, cutting right to the chase.
"Theoretically," she taps her finger on her chin before sighing. "However, there is a high risk of the message being intercepted, and maybe it will not get to the person at all. There's no real way we'll know."
I run my fingers through my auburn hair and throw my head back against the sofa. "Well, we need a response, so I think we'll know."
"You cannot possibly expect a response back!" Cirrha shrieks. "Anyone in Ytopie could intercept it!"
"We don't have a lot of choices here, Cirrha," I sigh. "The Shadowweaver cannot escape without knowing where her companions are."
She drags her hands down her face, groaning low in her throat. The sound tightens my skin in a way that's entirely inappropriate for how dire of a situation we are in. "What if we leave the city? Go to the winner's village or something to send the message? Hopefully, then, it won't be intercepted." She uncrosses her legs and slumps back on the couch. "This is a huge risk, Zeph."
I place my hand on her thigh. Her eyes flit to it briefly, but she doesn't say anything. "I know. But as high priest of the Shadowweaver, I have to do what I can to get her out of here safely so we can get the other Gods back. We have to overpower Himureal. He is…" I suck in a breath, closing my eyes briefly. "He's deteriorating, Cirrha. He's rambling, repeating words, stuttering. He is an icicle hanging precariously above our heads."
Her long, slender fingers wrap around mine. The rich, dark skin is soft against mine, and the contrast in our skin tones is strikingly beautiful. "Then we will go to the village."
I've been discretely digging through the bookshelf in the corner of my office for at least an hour when I hear the door behind me open.
"High priest!" Himureal's cold voice calls. "You have not come to see me today."
I straighten my back, plucking a random book off the shelf to hide my erratic search. "Frostweaver, my apologies. I have had many petitions to approve today." I gesture to the pile of paperwork on my desk.
There is always paperwork.
I can sign fifteen requests, and by the time I look back, there are twenty more to take their place.
No wonder my father was always in a mood when he got home at the end of the day.
Himureal grabs a sheet from the top of the stack and peers at it. "This is what the citizens of Ytopie deem worthy of bringing to the attention of their leaders? A Bayal is petitioning that Nereids not be allowed to live in the same housing block as them because it 'dampens their powers'?" He puts the paper back down on the desk. "This can't be serious."
"Unfortunately, it is," I say, grabbing a pen and declining the petition with prejudice. "But it won't go to debate with the Patricians. It's garbage."
Himureal perches himself on the edge of a chair, and I sink into my own behind my desk. He looks oddly eager. Being around him makes my skin crawl. Now that I've seen Viola and how the magic lives within her, I want nothing to do with his. Pretending to be his high priest feels like blasphemy.
"Zeph, I know we've had our differences as of late," Himureal begins, steepling his fingers, "but I want you to know I have reconsidered things and have made a very magnanimous decision."
"Oh?" I respond, resting my chin in my hand. "What decision is that?"
"I have had countless high priests; did you know that?"
The sudden change in subject wrinkles my nose. "I made that assumption, yes."
He clicks his tongue and nods. His eyes go unfocused momentarily, his tongue clicking in a pattern I can't quite grasp. When his tongue stills, he shakes his head and draws my attention again. "Yes, I suppose you would. Out of all my high priests, you've been the most useful."
Wow, how terrible were these previous priests?
"Well, I suppose, except Lucinda, but she was… special." He leans back in his chair, a wistful expression on his face. "But never mind her. I am impressed with your loyalty. As such, I'd like to let you know that I am officially returning my trust to you."
I blink. "I'm sorry. Your decision is that you trust me again?"
"Yes, aren't I generous? Your friend attempted to poison the city against me. You were lucky I spared you at all." His voice grows deeper and colder as he speaks. There are times when Himureal seems closer to fae than God, that maybe humanity lies under the surface. Others, like now, I can see the darkness that's coiled inside him, ready to strike.
"But," the God says, tilting his head to the side. A thick white braid falls off his bare shoulder. He favors a bare chest lately.
"But?" I ask hesitantly. "But what?"
"My trust comes with one condition. "
"And that is?"
He reaches into the side of his pants and withdraws a knife from his waistband. It's got a thin, curved blade that is black as night. The handle appears to be made of ice, yet it doesn't drip or melt in the room's warmth. Himureal turns the blade over in his hand, and I notice tendrils of black trailing off the blade like shadows.
"Do you like my blade?" he asks, turning it over in his hands again. "I made it myself."
"It's spectacular," I answer honestly. "Viola would love it."
His eyes brighten and meet mine. "Do you think? Maybe I could make her one as a gift. A gift. Yes, I think she would like a gift."
Sighing, I scrub my beard with my hands. "What is your condition, Frostweaver?" I ask, bringing him back on track.
"Of course. The condition is that I read your blood, high priest."
My breathing has switched to manual, my body locking up at the implication of what he's saying.
In. Out.
I can't decline this. Of course, I can't decline this. If I do, he'll know I'm hiding something.
In. Out.
But when I do this, he will discover what we're hiding. What we're planning.
In. Out.
Who will protect Viola? Taegan? Cirrha? All of them will be collateral damage, taken out with a drop of blood.
In. Out.
Can I trick his magic? Is there a way to guide it away from the truth of the matter?
Of course, there isn't. He's going to read my intentions.
In. Out.
I'm fucked.