Chapter 34
34
T HE TEMPLE IS A brEATHLESS expanse, hewn from white stone. Fluted columns reinforce a peaked rooftop. The stairs leading to the entrance are wide, reminiscent of curved bands of moonlight. Beyond the temple, laurel trees cluster in the valleys between great mountains, a shining city nestled in the distant foothills, glimmering like a golden coin.
Now matter how proud I am of Ammaran architecture, Ishmah’s temples pale in comparison to this. I can all but feel the land pulsing beneath my feet. This stone is ancient, and this land, and this forest. I never thought I’d have the privilege of visiting Notus’ homeland. I’ve never seen so much green in my life.
But I can’t delay the inevitable. Rallying my courage, I press forward, climbing the temple stairs until I reach the top.
At the back of the temple, atop a broad dais cut from the same white stone, there is a long dining table surrounded by what I assume to be the Council of Gods. Laughter pings against the pillars. Animated conversation chases the sound into the surrounding trees. If the divine are anything like Father, they will find my late arrival impolite at best, offensive at worst.
My slippers whisper against the hand-tufted wool rug leading toward the dais, though no one notices my approach. They have much to distract them. The table itself is heaped so abundantly with food it noticeably sags in the center. There are at least five types of meat, including an entire roasted boar, its belly split open. Freshly sliced fruit piles in fine ceramic bowls. The breads are equally varied, accompanied by an assortment of spreads: butter and hummus and marmalade and soft cheese. An enormous cake topped with berries perches on one end of the table. A sizable chunk has already been carved away.
And paired with food is wine. The divine drink from their goblets with abandon. As soon as a bottle is depleted, another materializes to take its place. Some have discarded propriety entirely and eat with their hands, leaving scraps scattered across the gilded surfaces of their plates, utensils be damned. I spot a burly god whose face is spattered in blood snagging the thigh bone of a roasted turkey and slurping the marrow from inside.
Now that I’m closer, I count twelve deities total, their chairs designed specifically for each individual. A goddess dressed in a long white robe sits on a winged chair, an owl perched on its back. A god with blue-gray skin lounges on a throne studded in shimmering jeweled scales, a three-pronged weapon resting casually against his chair arm. Each god is uniquely striking, lovely beyond words.
My focus shifts to the opposite end of the table, then backtracks. I was mistaken. Not all are lovely. There is one individual, skin marked by soot, whose features are so unsightly that I question whether he truly belongs.
Steps away from the dais, I stop. A glass shatters; a shriek of laughter grates upon my ears. I stand for so long, I wonder if the council can, in fact, see me, but eventually, a god draped in red silk pauses mid-chew, having detected my arrival. “A mortal ?”
The clinking of cutlery abruptly cuts off as twelve pairs of eyes take me in, painted every shade of horror and disbelief.
It is a pox, that word. Mortal . It sweeps with brushfire swiftness across the table between one breath and the next. My knees wobble. I cannot afford to falter now. I may be mortal, but I, too, was born into greatness. Sarai Al-Khatib. Princess of Ammara.
“How did you come to our place of council, mortal?”
The question comes from a hulking, broad-shouldered god seated at the head of the table. Candlelight gleams along the curves of his smooth, muscled torso, dark ink tattooed upon his golden skin. His gaze is watchful. A tall basket of flickering lightning bolts rests at his enormous sandaled feet.
My eyes meet those of the lightning god. Their leader, if I am correct. Both god and king.
“How I came here is irrelevant,” I say, for I will not betray Wren and Boreas. “But I come with goodwill and a request.” Not a plea. The last thing I need is for the divine to take advantage of me.
“A request!” One of the gods barks out a laugh. He hunches over his meal, mouth stained red. No less than seven goblets are cluttered around his plate. “What delightful impudence you bring to our table.” Easing his chair onto its back legs, he laces his fingers behind his head. The goddess sitting across from him, a dark-skinned woman with softly lined features, rolls her eyes.
The lightning god regards me curiously. “Obviously, someone told you how to find us. Did they mention that our business is with the divine only?”
“They did.” His gaze, I hold squarely. “I chose to ignore it.”
A few eyebrows creep upward. Still, I do not fold, no matter how I tremble. Only fire can contend with fire. I’m likely the best entertainment they’ve had in centuries.
“I may not be of divine origin,” I say, “but my business concerns someone who is. If you would—”
“Silence, mortal.” This from the blood-spattered behemoth. “Or your next words may be your last.”
My teeth clench. My scalp crawls beneath the touch of so many eyes, yet I lift my head, meet their disdainful expressions. I’ve held my tongue for too long. The years I have wasted, standing idle. They are proud, these deities, blinded by their own eminence. I will not make myself smaller, or less than, or other. I can ask nothing more of myself than to remain true of heart.
“I ask that you allow me to speak,” I say, a crisp declaration. “Or do you fear the power of a mortal’s voice?”
The lightning god straightens in his chair with a dark glower. No one speaks, though if I’m not mistaken, the lightning bolts sizzle and pop with increasing vigor inside their basket.
He lifts a hand. “Take her away.”
Four burly immortals clasp me by the arms, having suddenly materialized around me. My pulse leaps, and their grips tighten. I struggle to no avail.
“By the gods, let the girl speak.”
My head swings in the direction of the voice. A towering, buxom goddess wrapped in an elegant dress cuts an impressive silhouette where she lounges at the end of the table, one hand propped on her hip, the other pressed to the tabletop.
“You would think, after millennia of this shit, you would have better things to do than claw for petty wins against mortals.” She speaks in a soft, rolling purr, her yellow cat eyes slitted against the sun. “Pathetic.”
Whoever this goddess is, I decide she is someone I would absolutely love to know.
The lightning god does not share the sentiment. He sighs and lifts his eyes to the vaulted ceiling, long blond hair falling in waves across his chest. “Do you have something to say, Demi?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
There is a round of groans from the table. A few pour themselves another drink. The goddess with the owl perched on the back of her chair plucks a cherry from a bowl and feeds it to the raptor, gray wings folded across its back.
Lifting her arms in a dramatic display of passion, the goddess Demi exclaims, “I know we love to think ourselves courageous, worldly, resolute. But this woman has obviously traveled far to speak with us. Not only that, but she has crossed realms , a feat few mortals have accomplished.”
“Yes,” snaps a pointy-chinned goddess with luscious black locks, “because it is forbidden .”
Demi’s head whips toward the other woman. “When was the last time you did anything so heroic, love? And no, gazing into the mirror without face paint doesn’t count.”
A round of snickers sweeps the table. The black-haired goddess sneers, arms crossed in defiance.
“At the very least,” Demi goes on, “we should hear her plight.”
“Smells like a mortal sympathizer,” someone mutters.
She ignores the comment. “Why punish bravery when we can reward it? The girl doesn’t ask for much. She just wants the opportunity to speak.”
With a loud sigh, the lightning god bows his head, the bridge of his nose pinched between two tattooed fingers. No one is more surprised than me when he lifts a broad hand and says, “Speak then.” His attention cuts to the goddess. “Sit down, Demi.”
Her yellow eyes capture mine, and she winks at me before taking her seat.
With her performance complete, everyone turns to face me. I release a slow, inaudible exhalation. Now or never, do or die.
“I’ve come to save the life of the South Wind,” I proclaim. “He was pierced by Sleep’s own dagger, and will not wake.”
A hollow wind slithers between the pillars. “South Wind?” someone whispers. The wine-addled god pours his eighth—ninth?—glass of wine with a muttered, “And the day keeps getting better.”
The lightning god leans forward in his seat, perhaps considering whether to hurl one of those jagged bolts through my chest. The council members look between us nervously, a few avoiding eye contact.
“Unfortunately,” the lightning god thunders disdainfully, “we no longer recognize the South Wind in the City of Gods. You have wasted your time.”
I anticipated this. I am aware of Notus’ banishment. He told me his story, just once. I have not forgotten. Following their banishment, the Four Winds were struck from the books. Their titles were stripped. To the Council of Gods, they no longer exist.
I’m not normally one to yield, but this is no ordinary meeting. I am a mortal woman who has come to beseech these highest deities for their assistance. Argument will not get me far. My pleas will not sway them. There exists only one thing I can offer: myself.
“Where is the god Apollo?” I call. My voice echoes against the stone and flees beyond the temple, into the sunlit greenery.
A handful of the council members descend into fits of laughter. A dark-skinned goddess with a braid crowning the top of her skull manages, “Who does this mortal think she is, making demands?” Her hazel eyes lock onto mine in revulsion. So strong an emotion for someone she has never met and knows nothing about.
“You misunderstand,” I say once the commotion has calmed down. “I ask because I wish to offer him a gift.”
The council members lean inward over the table while speaking in hushed tones, darting occasional glances in my direction. As mortals, we beseech, we pray, we plea. Demand, we do not. Eventually, someone pushes back their chair and comes forward.
This god possesses a fair complexion and is dressed in a flowing white robe that hits mid-thigh. A circlet graces his brow, glinting against the threads of his yellow hair. Apollo: god of sun, music, and light.
Notus has spoken of how this golden god once crossed paths with his brother, the West Wind, who lives in the forest-cloaked realm of Carterhaugh. According to Notus, Apollo lost a loved one many centuries ago and never quite recovered. It is this break I seek to heal, this rupture I hope to repair. Grief, after all, is seasonal. It may abate for a time, yet when the rains arrive to douse the parched land, it inevitably springs up until the weather again turns.
Apollo circles me, hands behind his back. The goddess, Demi, steals a berry from her neighbor’s plate without their notice. “What do you wish to gift me, mortal?” he asks.
What a musical voice he has. Light in its purest form. “If it’s not too much trouble, I require a violin. To demonstrate.”
A brief whisper of conversation peaks and dies. A mortal playing the violin—for the god of music himself? The divine shake their heads, having already decided that I will embarrass myself, in addition to wasting their time.
The lightning god angles toward me with an expression of unexpected intrigue. “A violin? Why?”
Because I have dearly missed it. Because it was where I first learned to tell stories. Because I am not Sarai Al-Khatib without it.
But I only say, “Because it is my voice when I cannot speak myself.”
Apollo regards me for a long moment. Unlike the rest of the council, he doesn’t immediately dismiss my request. Does he recognize our shared grief? Does he see the holes alongside my heart?
In his hand appears a violin case, which he sets on the ground at my feet. I crouch, open the case, remove the violin and bow. After sliding the shoulder rest onto the body of the instrument, I tighten the bow hair and push to my feet.
I look to Apollo as the council watches on. A few whisper to their neighbors with light sniggers. I ignore them. “If it’s acceptable to you, I’d like to perform the Unfinished Concerto.”
“The Unfinished Concerto.” Apollo rubs at his jaw thoughtfully. Sunlight gilds the tips of his bright hair. “It’s been some time since I’ve heard it, but—” He nods, just once. “Very well. If you think yourself capable of the task.”
My mouth quirks. It would be fate that brought me here to present this piece to Apollo. Having remained incomplete due to the composer’s untimely death, it’s not widely known. And yet, it was the concerto I sought to perform at the King Idris Violin Competition, were I to have attended. The last piece I ever played prior to Fahim’s death.
I begin on the lowest string as my eyes flutter shut. No matter the years that have passed, my fingers remember. It is a slow build toward the emotional climax. It is the rising sun, the setting sun. It is the erosion of stone. The slow topple into love, security, trust. These moments of creation and wonder and completion, all shaped from musical notation. Sound bleeds out, not even vibrato capable of smoothing it, but I let it come. This farewell to Fahim, and to Father. One last I love you and goodbye. And when it is done, the last note fading, I turn toward my audience.
Tears stream unchecked down the twelve deities’ faces, as they stream down mine. Even the lightning god, with his hardened exterior, wipes the corner of his eyes, the tip of his nose red. For that is the power of music. To reach into our hearts and touch those pieces of ourselves we are too afraid to acknowledge.
Carefully, I return the instrument to its case, saying, “This is what I offer you, should you wake Notus from his eternal sleep: my gift of music.”
Apollo regards me with the eyes of a man who could not conceive of such an idea. “Your mastery over the violin is unlike anything I’ve ever encountered.” He appears torn between confusion and awe. These emotions toward a mortal, of all people, likely leave him feeling uncomfortable. “You would sacrifice your gift for the South Wind?”
“I would,” I say.
“Why?”
“I would choose a life without music if it meant a life of love,” I say. “Wouldn’t you?”
Apollo looks to the violin, clearly hesitant. It is another moment before he finds the proper words. “After Hyacinth’s death, I feared music was forever gone from my life. But to hear the things you can do with that instrument…” He shakes his head in wonder. “The way you played portrayed exactly how I felt. How I still feel, at times.” Another tear wends down his cheek, a clear droplet against his golden skin. “You may be mortal,” he says, voice wavering, “but you also understand the pain of a broken heart, a broken spirit.”
“I do,” I whisper. More than he can possibly know.
Apollo dips his chin, tugging at his lower lip in thought. He glances at his fellow council members, who watch on in doubt and disbelief. “Your performance was everything I could hope for, but I am only one voice of the council. I alone cannot decide.”
“It’s not enough,” states the lightning god, stepping off the dais. He towers over me by at least two feet. I have to crane my neck to look at him. “The South Wind’s life for a mortal’s musical gift? You are forgetting that Notus was banished because neither he nor his brothers could be trusted not to work against us, after the old gods were overthrown. Why should we grant him this favor for so little?”
“Because you’re a decent person?” I suggest with an expressive shrug.
To this, the lightning god throws back his head and releases a great, booming laugh. The council cackles in response. “Who knew mortals had a sense of humor!”
Right. These are the divine I’m dealing with. They are not swayed by promises of power or love or security. They already have everything they need. So how to convince them to agree?
“What more do you want?” I ask.
Apollo exchanges a wordless glance with the lightning god, who says, with a knowing smile, “To gain his life, Notus must give up something in turn: his power and immortality. He will live out his days as a mortal man.”
The thought of what would be taken from him… I feel sick, knowing he will be stripped of these things. It would be a true sacrifice.
Would Notus agree? Is it right for me to make this decision for him? If our positions were reversed, what would I want him to do? What would he want for himself?
You are my heart in every sense of the word. The woman I imagined I’d spend my days with… in leaving, I denied myself the person that was most precious to me.
A surety settles over me. Notus would do everything in his power to share a life with me, as I am doing now. I can picture our life so clearly. The places we will go, the things we will see, the love we will nurture. I would not have to age while he remained in his prime. We would have the privilege of growing old together.
“All right,” I say. “I accept.”
Apollo turns toward a god wearing a bronze helmet, two wings shaped over his ears. “Send a message to Sleep,” he orders. “Tell him to reverse the effects on the South Wind, by order of the Council of Gods.” He then turns toward me. “Once done, mortal, the action cannot be undone.”
Notus will live. It is enough. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“On the contrary, it is you I should thank,” Apollo says, “for giving music back to me.”