Chapter 11
11
H ARPER AND I DEPART AT first light, laden only with our wits and whatever supplies fit into our rucksacks. We’ve donned our plain, everyday dresses. I’ve secured my hair into the tightest braid I can manage, a strip of red falling to my lower back, the heavy strands unlikely to move except in gale-force winds. Harper has arranged her own hair into an elaborate updo, something more appropriate for a ceremonial event than an extensive trek, but I hold my tongue. At least she had the foresight to wear boots.
Upon reaching the edge of the barley fields, I glance back, just once. The abbey, pale stone tucked into climbing ferns, appears in blurred pockets through the trees. I have never left Thornbrook for so long. I wonder if I will be missed.
My gaze flicks to Harper. She stares at me, blue eyes mistrustful beneath her smooth brow. We have until the eve of the tithe to return to Thornbrook. In less than two months, another seven-year cycle will reach its end. One of us will hold Meirlach in hand. And the other, unfortunately, will not.
“Do you want to leave anything behind?” I gesture to the straps cutting into her shoulders. “There’s still time to lighten your load.”
Harper rears back. As usual, I have affronted, insulted, offended. “If I were you,” she says, dropping her voice, “I would worry about your own ability to keep up.” She looks me up and down, smiles sharply, and shoves past me. “Come along, while we’re still young.”
Very well then.
We do not converse the entire morning. The unexpected blessing allows me space to ponder and plan. According to the map, the nymph-guarded entrance is located twelve miles south of Thornbrook. We should reach it by dusk, barring further delays.
Our route follows an abandoned foot trail through the forest, though none I have ever utilized. The air steams as the sun climbs, and the ground slopes into small hills where the trees have clambered over one another in search of sunlight. A glance over my shoulder reveals Harper struggling to navigate the numerous twisting roots.
“I warned you about the pack,” I say. My back aches, but I’m used to the strain.
Harper snarls something unintelligible and fumbles to remove her canteen. Sweat slithers down her face and neck; her updo has lost its shape. Sagging against the nearest tree, she gulps the liquid eagerly.
“Slowly,” I bark, hoping Harper took the necessary precautions. As long as we bless the water prior to drinking it, any taint will be cleansed, regardless of whether the fair folk poisoned the source. “We still have miles to go.”
Harper tears her mouth away from the canteen, gasps out, “I liked you better when you kept your opinions to yourself,” then drains the rest.
My face burns. Why do I bother offering advice when she refuses to listen? “We aren’t far,” I say, unfolding the map with shaking hands. At least I sound unaffected. “Only a few more miles. Do you want to break for lunch?”
“I’m not hungry.” A fierce proclamation, better suited for an extensive audience. The trees are a poor substitute.
I do not believe her, but I’m certainly not going to argue. “Fine.” I fold the map back into its square.
The motion draws her eye. “You say we have miles to go, but I question how much quicker we would reach our destination if someone more capable was in charge.” Thus she straightens, chin lifted, a rim of gold etching her slim frame. “I’ll take over from here.”
When the day is done, the world dark, my journal open on my lap, these are the moments I will remember: how my heart races at her barbed words; the feeling of falling from a great height despite the firm ground beneath my soles. But mostly, I will remember this: the whisper of parchment against my fingertips as it passes from my hand to hers. The conflict I wish to avoid. The words I did not say.
Harper smiles as I relinquish the map, tucking it into her pocket. “Much appreciated.”
By the time we reach the entrance to Under, the heat is well and truly boiling. Ferns carpet the bent path, each long, crenated tongue licking at our ankles. Harper pants heavily as she trudges through the green thicket. If she regrets taking on the effort of leading, she is too proud to admit it.
A few paces ahead, mushrooms encircle a massive boulder, which stands atop a grassy knoll. According to the map, this entrance will lead us to Under.
“We’re here?” Harper asks. Dirt coats the hem of her dress, and mine.
“Yes.” Upon further inspection, I spot a small, circular cutout in the rock. A door? Striding forward, I knock.
“Do you have an appointment?” An airy voice floats from somewhere behind the boulder. No, not behind. Within.
Harper and I exchange a look. She waves her hand as if to say, Do something. “Um… yes?”
“Name, please.”
“Brielle of Thornbrook.”
There is a pause. I bite my lip, worrying its flesh between my teeth. “I do not see your name on the list,” the voice states.
Harper shoots me a mutinous glare, because of course it’s my fault my name isn’t on the list. Mother Mabel gave me no additional instructions aside from informing me to knock and offer a loaf of bread to whoever answered the door.
“Are you sure?” My question teeters on shaky legs. When did the lies become default? “It should be there.”
The round cutout cracks open and pushes outward like a door. I squint into the opening, then stumble back as a creature emerges on four spindly legs, scuttling forward like a spider. Harper yelps and dashes into the safety of the ferns.
The nymph rises to stand on its hind legs, back bent. I believe the creature is male, for he appears akin to a little old man. His bald, rounded skull possesses three measly hairs, which sprout from furrowed gray skin. A white shift falls to his knees.
The nymph’s bulging eyes thin. “You do not have an appointment.”
“No,” I admit, “but we were informed you would accept an offering to enter Under?” I present him my most sincere smile.
He blinks slowly. Sleepy, or suspicious? “We?”
Scanning the forest at my back, I spot Harper peeking out from behind a tree. I wave her closer. She hesitates, but soon picks her way over to the ring of mushrooms, upper lip twitching at the nymph’s shriveled appearance, the shift’s gossamer fabric shivering in strips around his bowed legs.
“We are novitiates from Thornbrook,” I explain to the creature, trying my best to articulate confidently. “We seek entrance into Under, if you please.”
“You and everyone else,” he mutters. “So what’ll it be? What is your offering?” He looks to Harper, coarse brows low, mouth mulish.
“Bread,” I say.
“What flavor?”
“Rye.”
He huffs and crosses his arms. “Very well.”
Harper slips her hand into her pack, where the bread awaits. “But we only have one extra loaf.”
“We still have fruit and cheese,” I point out.
“And how long will that last us?”
We’ve a week’s worth of food. Though we must conserve it, eventually we’ll need to forage for more. Once we reach Under, we cannot consume any food or drink but our own.
“It’s the only way,” I whisper.
She bares her teeth. “Spoken like Mother Mabel’s blind follower.” Turning sharply on her heel, she regards the gnarled creature. “Will you take another offering instead?”
That stony gaze rakes Harper, then me, before settling on the dagger hanging at my waist. “What about the blade?”
“Done,” announces Harper.
“Not done!” I snap.
She scoffs. “I’m to give up my meal just so you can keep your stupid knife? I don’t think so. Why can’t you give something up?”
The nymph glances between us. I bite the inside of my cheek until it bleeds.
“Because—” I suck in a shaky breath, praying for patience. “We need weapons. We need protection.”
“Then what about those special salves you’re hoarding? Don’t deny it. I’ve seen them.”
As if I would give up my mother’s poultices. She never taught me how to make them, despite touting the honor of Veraness’ head apothecary. By the time I was old enough to work in the shop, her days were often marked by apathy or impetuosity or both, her emotions too volatile, the clarity necessitated to run a business far beyond her grasp. Once these poultices are gone, they cannot be replenished. “You agreed to this,” I say. “Give him the bread.”
“Why does it need a loaf of bread? The thing looks seconds away from keeling over.” She flips her long hair over her shoulder, daring the nymph to argue. He stares at her with distaste.
“Angry mortal woman,” he croons, “I do not appreciate your insults. Whatever it is you seek, you will not find it here.” The small round door slams shut, dust and pebbles rattling loose in the aftershock.
Harper’s gaze swings to mine, dark with reproach. “Well that was a waste of time.” She pats her hair into place.
The smallest, hardest lump of coal sears my chest where my heart should be. This mission is impossible enough without another obstacle tossed into our path. “If you had offered your bread to the nymph, we would have passed through. Now we’ll have to find another way in.”
“Why am I to blame? You had the opportunity to give up your salves.” Hands planted on her hips, she lashes back, “You are equally at fault.”
Is she truly comparing risen flour to my prized possessions? “Those salves were my mother’s,” I retort. “I would never give them up.”
“And yet she didn’t extend the same courtesy to you.”
I can feel the shape of my face as it collapses, dropping into my stomach, then lower, splattering at my feet. My deepest wound, torn open afresh.
Tears slip down my cheeks, hot against my cool skin. Harper turns away, oddly quiet.
I’ve wondered whether my peers knew of the circumstances surrounding my arrival at the abbey. Mother Mabel would never betray my privacy. Harper must have heard it from someone who spotted me on that storm-drenched night.
“We should get moving,” I mumble. Somehow, we will have to find another way in to Under.
Many hours later, we stop to make camp. Harper drops her rucksack and sinks onto a stump, drenched in sweat. Two strips of dampened fabric mark where the straps have cut into her shoulders. What is she carrying in there? The pack is nearly twice her size.
Tucking my supplies between the tree roots, I pull my canteen free and take a deep swallow. Harper drained hers hours ago, and we haven’t passed a stream since. The ruby sheen of her skin snags my eye. Her lips, too, are heavily cracked.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I glance upward, seeking the spread of violet overhead, a band of cooling calm. This same sky reaches down to Thornbrook’s fertile earth. Why, then, does it appear so different?
“Here.” Crouching down so I’m eye level with Harper, I hold out my canteen.
She is watchful as her attention lands on the container, a bur unwittingly hooked in a stocking. “I’m fine.”
“You’re near collapse. Take the water.” The last thing I need is an unconscious traveling companion.
“I told you I don’t need it.”
“You do,” I reply with forced calm.
She peels away the hair plastered to her neck. It is a subtle thing, that quavering hand. “Why are you being kind to me?” A low, waspish tone whetted by fatigue. It takes everything in my power not to chuck the canteen at her head. It would certainly make a satisfying thump.
“You ask a question I do not have an answer to,” I respond, equally prickly. I’m reminded of every vile word, every scornful laugh, every hurled insult I’ve ever endured. Ten years’ worth of malice. “Is it my assistance you snub, or help in general?” Our gazes clash and hold. “Do you want the water or not?”
Harper recoils as though I have demanded she amputate a limb, so alive is her fury. But she accepts, downing every drop until it’s gone.
“I’m going to search for water,” I say, taking the canteen when Harper hands it back to me. “We should build a shelter once I return.” Night will fall in less than an hour, and the cold will sweep in, harsh from the mountain peak. Unfortunately, fire is out of the question. It attracts the fair folk.
Newly revived by the water, Harper straightens on her perch. “I do not believe I agreed to building a shelter. Or have I suffered loss of memory in the last hour?”
Patience, Brielle . But oh, this woman surely tests it. “Unless you want to spend the night shivering, we need to build a shelter. A lean-to is simple enough to construct.” If we work together, it shouldn’t take longer than a few hours.
“If you want to build a lean-to,” she responds, “I won’t stop you. But do not think traveling together means working together. You focus on your needs, and I’ll focus on mine. Deal?”
There is so much I might say were I not so cowardly.
We need to take protective measures , I might state. Or perhaps, I will not carry you through this journey . Or even, You need to pull your own weight . Yet I say nothing.
I stride off, denying Harper the pleasure of witnessing my flaming face. A scream hammers blows upon my ribs, but I refuse to let it escape. Harper’s presence won’t stop me from acquiring Meirlach. This I must remember.
After blessing a nearby stream, I refill my canteen and begin gathering larger branches for the roof and walls of the shelter. Dark descends with startling speed. At one point, I’m certain I spot something moving in the brush, but when I peer closer, I find the area empty, nothing to disturb the undergrowth. The buzzing beneath my skin intensifies. I regret leaving my lamp back at Thornbrook, having wanted to avoid carrying its extra weight. A light would be a blessing. They are unfamiliar, these trees. They do not reach. They loom.
It’s likely nothing. Fear of the unknown etches shadows where they do not exist, yet the wind carries a scent, and I know in my bones I am not imagining it.
“Will you continue to lurk out of sight like a coward,” I call, “or will you step into the light, stranger?”
An errant gust lifts the hem of my skirt. I slap it into place, surveying the darkened area with straining ears, heightened senses. The sky, too, is masked.
I drop the branches and draw my dagger. A twig snaps, sharp like a fracturing bone.
“A woman wandering alone after dark? Foolish of you.”
He materializes before me, shaded by the encroaching night. The West Wind.
Flanked by two rotting trees, he strides forth with unfettered confidence, an arrogant waltz. Darkness mutes the emerald tunic to an ash gray. It is strange, but I swear something appears different about his unsightly face. I cannot put my finger on it.
“It’s a long way for you to wander,” I state with a calm I do not feel. “Won’t the Orchid King come looking for you?” The West Wind has been following me. For how long? I must not shrink as a mouse would in the presence of a hawk.
“I’m curious by nature, as you know. And no, Pierus will not seek me out. Not yet, anyway.” He saunters forward. “Where do you travel?”
I retreat a few paces. “My business is my own,” I say, and leave it at that.
Beneath the bow of his mouth lies a duplicitous cunning. “You run from me, Brielle, yet is there not a debt I owe you?”
My grip on the dagger loosens in surprise. “There is no debt.”
“Isn’t there?”
“The salve you provided me was repayment enough.”
“Ah, but I speak of the first debt, not the second. I gave you the opportunity to seek answers to questions in your life. A chance to change your future. But, if I am correct, you did not like the answer you received, which means my debt to you saving my life remains unfulfilled. I insist you allow me to do you one last favor.”
What is he talking about? “I never asked for favors. You took me to Willow. You . So you could repay the debt you owed me after I saved your life!” His miserable, frustrating life.
Again, he steps forward, and the green of his eyes blackens in this lightless place. “Ah, but you agreed to the bargain. And to a god, one’s word is binding.”
How fearless might I be if I were a man caught unaware in this situation rather than a woman? I tighten my grip around the dagger with renewed vigor. “And if I refuse repayment of this supposed debt?” What will Zephyrus do, steal me away into Under? I will cut off his hand before he can touch me.
He angles his head. “Do not fret, my darling novitiate. Just allow me to fulfill my obligation to you. It is in your best interest to agree. I will not take no for an answer.”
I choke on a surge of fear. “You—” The word dissolves to dust in my mouth. Why is he so adamant about repaying this debt? Why can’t he accept that my aid was given without any expectation of recompense? I shake my head, growing tired of his veiled threats. “No. This is ridiculous.” My hand cuts the air. “Do not engage with me again.”
“Then you accept the consequences.”
It is no bluff. The words carry no carefully crafted loopholes to snag the unsuspecting, no hidden nooks. But I know this: I regret saving him that night.
The Orchid King was right. I cannot trust Zephyrus.
“We are done,” I whisper, turning from the clearing.
“Brielle—”
The weight of his hand on my arm zings through me. I spin, dagger unsheathed, the blade slicing in a practiced arc toward his face. Zephyrus recoils, a hand flying to his cheek. Blood seeps between his fingers as he stares at me incredulously.
I have marked a line of blood on the West Wind’s cheek, yet I feel no shame for it.
“I have told you,” I growl, my voice a wisp of cold. “I have told you again and again not to touch me. This is your final warning. Next time, I will carve a line into your heart.”
Zephyrus blinks, slow with shock, as my heart hurls itself against my sternum. I do not have to be kind. Not to someone who has shown so little consideration toward me.
“Perhaps, had you seen me as a person and not a tool,” I say, “you would have recognized my boundaries sooner.” Without a backward glance, I stride off, the branches forgotten.
Running into Zephyrus only serves to remind me how alone I am. The West Wind is no ally, and Harper is no friend. I have carried my weight, and hers, this entire day. So it is no surprise that I find Harper asleep back at camp, limbs sprawled, lines of exhaustion engraved in her face.
There is no dinner. There is no shelter. And I am too tired to care.
After unpacking my bedroll in the chilly, rot-damp night, I settle in, pulling my blanket around my body. An owl coos as I rest my head in the crook of my arm and close my eyes.
But I do not sleep.