11. Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Zeph
H imureal's long, pointed nails drum loudly on the wooden top of the desk in my new office.
The very same desk I watched Mace fuck Viola on.
But a desk is a desk, and this is the office of the head of the Patricians. So here I am, in my new position, even though it's interim until a special election can be organized. One I have no intent on losing.
A few Patricians resisted my taking over the position so easily, but there is something to be said about having the support of the most feared God. It turns out they did not want to go against his wishes.
It worked out well for me.
I haven't changed the office much from Mace's time here, just a few small personal touches. I refilled his decanter with amber liquor instead of red wine, organized the haphazard collections of paperwork that were shoved into every corner of his bookshelves and desks, and threw a red rug on the cool marble floor.
I installed a few sconces so I didn't need to activate the grid for light, the noise of the magic likely to give me a headache, and now I sit at my chair, the window wide open and a warm breeze lightly ruffling my auburn hair.
"We have made no progress on returning the Shadowweaver," Himureal drones on.
Pulling my crystal glass to my mouth, I sip slowly enough to stave off the headache that seems nearly permanent lately. Alcohol has not been agreeing with me much as of late, and my chest burns when I overindulge, but I find myself needing it whenever the Frostweaver is around. Small sips throughout the day seem to be the magic formula for me to keep a clear head and minimize the pain.
"I can't speed up the process anymore, Himureal," I say with a wince, expecting his blowback. "The people are mourning Stone and pushing back against the idea that Mace," his name leaves my mouth with a sneer, "could do anything like this. He was well-loved by the city."
"I don't care if he was well loved, Zeph. You're supposed to be my high priest." I startle as his fist hits my desk. "I need followers. Without their offering of fealty, my magic cannot possibly be enough to sustain this realm on my own. That is why I need the Shadowweaver. I need to share the burden."
I lean forward, elbows resting on the smooth wooden top of the desk. "Then let's bring back the other Gods. It would probably be easier than trying to tame someone as feral as Viola."
I'm not sure why I'm defending Viola against Himureal. This was always the plan. Frame Mace for everything, get Viola back. When she rules beside Himureal, I will have the chance to show her just how much I care about her. That's been the goal the whole time.
What I didn't count on was Himureal being as volatile as the legends foretold.
"Bringing them back would guarantee war, Zeph. As loath as I am to admit it, I cannot win a war on my own at this point. I need the devotion of followers to increase my power. Viola is working to bring my siblings back, and I am going to stop her, but in the meantime, we need to prepare for the worst. And you are not sending me believers!" He punctuates his words with a slap down on the desktop, and ruefully I flinch back.
"You have to have patience, Frostweaver," I say placatingly. "Things like this take time. We're forcibly changing the view people have had of their lives for centuries." I try not to let my frustration bleed into my voice, but it is hard. Dealing with Himureal has been more difficult than anticipated. I constantly worry that the wrong word will have him lashing out, but at the same time, I am supposed to show him the deference and reverence of a priest.
He jumps to his feet, leaning over the table and snarling at me. "I have waited long enough. Centuries in that pocket realm. Do you have any idea what that was like?" I shake my head, meeting his furious glare. "Of course you don't. It's a fucking void. Everything is black, and you cannot hear, speak, or eat—complete sensory deprivation. For centuries, I felt nothing, my only company the roaring of my thoughts as I fought against whatever was binding me there."
I shudder, not at his aggression this time, but at the idea of being left completely suspended in stasis like that, my only option for entertainment my own worst nightmares.
"And one day," he continues, his voice softening as he lowers himself back onto the chair, "I felt something. I finally felt something outside of my own mind. It was a spark, an ember burning within me." His hand falls to his chest, and he rubs it, the phantom feeling bothering him. "It was her. It was her. The day she picked up the Witch's Ladder. It wouldn't have sung to her if it wasn't supposed to be her. She is born of my magic as I was born of her blood. She is meant to be beside me. I have waited long enough."
My feet fall to the floor, and I lean forward on my elbows, facing him. "You really care about her, don't you?"
He grimaces and spits at me, "She is my daughter. I need her to rule this world efficiently. Care has nothing to do with it. Get me followers, high priest. That's an order from your God."
Shoving to his feet, he looks down his nose at me. "We were done here." He stalks out the door, loose white hair billowing in his wake. I don't know where he goes when he's not with me, but I suspect it's the apartment in the basement of the Palace where Viola used to stay.
I sink back into my chair, my shoulders slumping.
I thought I could do this. In my mind, it was going to be easy to support Himureal, help convince the people of Ytopie to worship him, and then collect Viola when she came back to the city. But I can barely handle supporting this God. His mood swings and his sensitivity are so difficult to predict and adjust for.
Why is this the only option he's willing to entertain? If we went to the Lowlands and talked to her with kindness, would Viola come back to Ytopie and rule alongside Himureal?
When I ask myself that, I know she wouldn't. She is not someone who would tie herself to another.
Despite how much I wish she would.
I wrap my face in my hands with a groan that gets cut off by a rap on the door. I look up to see a small head of blue hair poking through the crack in the door.
Nimh smiles warmly but doesn't enter. "Am I interrupting anything?" she asks gently. Her voice is like a calm wave crashing upon the shores of my frustrations. We haven't spoken since the day I caught Mace and Viola together. My face heats at the memory of how I reacted.
"No, please come in, have a seat," I say, gesturing at the dark leather chair opposite me.
She slides into the vacant seat and stares me down. "You've made some serious accusations here, Zeph."
I knew this was coming, so I should have been more prepared, but it takes me off guard just a bit. I blink and stare at her in silence.
"I mean it, Zeph." Her normally soft voice is edged in razor blades. "I saw you after, you remember? After you spied on the two of them and had your heart broken. You have to know that she wasn't Influenced."
The pain is back, centered over my sternum, necessitating me to take a few more sips of my liquor. "I do believe it. She and I were fine until she started spending time with Mace." I push myself to stand and move around the desk, leaning on it in front of Nimh. It's a position I have seen Mace adopt countless times. "Regardless, the fact remains that he killed Stone and took off with Viola, Plume, Morrow, and Tulip."
As she shakes her head, her hair, always looking perpetually wet, falls over her shoulders. She pushes a strand back behind a delicately pointed ear. "Mace wouldn't, Zeph. I know him." Her voice is pained, and I bristle, thinking again of the rumors of them sharing a bed. "I just can't believe he would do that. When we last spoke, you were furious. You were threatening to take Viola yourself. How did it get to this?"
"I…" I stutter, trying to get my brain to catch up to my mouth. "I showed up trying to stop the ritual, but it was too late. Mace was distraught. Apparently, Viola almost died during it. He took off with her when he saw Himureal and how badly Viola wanted to be by his side. Stone tried to stop him, and he… he killed him. The man was as good as a father to us." The lies are beginning to roll easily off my tongue now with all the practice I'm getting. They only taste slightly sour now.
Her face contorts with grief. "I just can't believe that, Zeph."
"Believe it, Nimh. Himureal was there; he saw it all."
I ruffle my hair, uncomfortable in the silence. Nimh still probably does not forgive me for chasing after Viola instead of revealing the nature of the Race to Ytopie, but I wouldn't change a thing.
She meets my eye and sighs, resting one elbow on the arm of the chair to cradle her face in her hands. "So he's really him, then? Like, really, actually the God of Winter?"
Over the past day, I've had some version of this conversation with every Patrician, which allows me to relax in the familiarity of it. "Of course he is. Who else would he be?"
"He hasn't shown us any magic! How are we to know?"
I move closer to her and put my hand on her shoulder. "Do you not feel it, Nimh? Do you not feel like your power is richer and more responsive?"
Nimh chews her lip and shrugs, my hand falling off. I don't take it personally. "I feel… something. But I can't tell what it is."
"You feel whole, Nimh. Water falls under Winter." Himureal hasn't confirmed this, but Nimh has always suspected this to be the truth. A little push in the right direction could win Himureal many followers.
If I'm wrong, it's not like the other Gods are around to dispute.
She gasps, pushing backward into her chair, the legs squeaking on the marble floor. "I was right?" Her cheeks pinken with excitement. A lie can't be bad if it brings this much joy, can it?
Taking her hand in mine, I look into her eyes, reading the trepidation there that has a glimmer of excitement. "You were right. You finally have a God to worship."
At this, tears trickle down her cheeks. Nimh has always felt particularly displaced, not knowing what God her powers derived from. She wrings her hands in her lap and then looks up at me, her eyes deep pools rimmed in tears. "What does this mean for the Nereids?
I guide her to her feet and embrace her. Her body is small and frail against my bulk and shakes with tears of relief. "Go gather them. The Frostweaver will hold court with you. You can ask him all the questions you've ever wanted to know. He's willing to sit with you all tonight in the ballroom."
She pulls away from me and looks up at me. Her face is red from the tears but shining in joy. "Why are you doing all of this, organizing meetings for him?"
"It's my vocation. I'm his high priest."