Chapter 15
15
I EAT LITTLE OF THE DINNER Zephyrus provides before rolling into bed, dragged into unconsciousness before my head hits the ground. My dreams grow talons. Sweat oozes from my pores, and a dull ache throbs alongside my bones. Then: dawn.
I pull myself upright, shivering as I store my belongings and shoulder my pack. Even in these early hours, the light glares potently, my eyes cracked to the barest sliver against it.
Cheese and apples comprise breakfast, but I do not partake, considering the awful metallic taste in my mouth. Zephyrus and Harper stride ahead, chatting merrily, unaware that each of my steps falls slower than the last.
Noon arrives and departs with equal lethargy.
As the afternoon wanes, the earth, springy and wet, begins to stink of rot. I find myself reaching for low-hanging branches, the treacherous ground pocked with holes. Blackness streaks my vision. I stop, swaying dizzily in place.
“I need a moment.”
Despite the softness of my voice, Zephyrus hears me. I would recognize that long-legged stride among the marching gait of a hundred men as he doubles back to help lower me onto a stump, worry creasing his face. “You’re pale.”
My mouth is so dry I fail to swallow. “I’m always pale.”
“Wan, I should say.” He shifts nearer. “When did you last eat?”
Yesterday returns in flashes of color, sound, and light. “Last night. Dinner.”
“Oh? You mean the single bite you took before falling asleep?”
I frown at him. “Yes.” I was not aware he had been paying attention to my eating habits.
Harper retraces her steps through the brush, glowering at me from a patch of sunlight. Zephyrus catches my chin. He stares into my eyes, but I struggle to focus, so I look at his nose. That impossibly crooked nose, a blight on his features. Strangely, it comforts me.
“You have lost your appetite,” he says.
What does that have to do with anything? “We’ve been hiking all day. I just need to rest for a bit.”
Prowling over, Harper circles me, black hair freshly combed despite the long, sweltering hours trapped in Carterhaugh’s humidity. “I said if you fell behind, I would not wait for you.”
“It’s probably a cold,” I say, slumping forward to rub at my pounding head. “It will pass.”
The West Wind continues to study me. He does not seem to notice Harper’s proximity, much to her frustration. “Are you injured?”
As usual, he thinks he knows things. “All my limbs are in working order.”
“You’re certain you weren’t hurt during the chase the other day?”
“Are you suggesting I don’t know my own body?” I’m too fatigued to put any heat behind it, though it irks me all the same.
“No.” He exudes a calm that is quite unlike him. “But it was dark. Our eyes miss things. And yours are very mortal.”
An oversight. No fatal wounds or severed appendages, but a scratch. A hairline cut parting the cotton of my dress.
Fumbling with the button at my collar, I slide it from the eye loop while the forest respires in great warm heaves around us. Harper leans closer despite feigning disinterest.
We’ve traveled so quickly, and I’ve been so weary, that I haven’t paid much attention to the ache at my sternum. My arm twinges as I awkwardly tug the sleeve over my shoulder, the skin across my chest tearing painfully. When I reveal the slice above my breastband, Zephyrus pinches his mouth closed.
Yesterday, the scab had been intact, stretched by the yellowing pus gathering beneath. It has since burst, widening to an open wound stuffed with graying flesh. A subtly sweet reek lifts from the sore. Harper gags.
My fingers quaver as I trace the sooty black veins branching from the glistening wound. The salve I slathered on it has cracked, leaving behind a white residue.
“It looks infected,” Harper states.
“It’s not infected,” Zephyrus says. “The creatures you fought are called darkwalkers. Brielle has been envenomated.”
This news… it sounds serious, and yet I feel nothing. I’ve been sucked dry of emotion. Not even Harper’s sharp gasp can rouse me.
“That explains why the salve didn’t work,” I murmur, carefully buttoning up my dress. I’d rather not look at the gruesome display. “How do we treat the wound?”
A restlessness stirs the air despite Zephyrus’ lack of movement. “There is no cure, Brielle.” A woeful tone. Harper’s gaze cuts to me, but I can’t look at her. I’m afraid of what I’ll see. Satisfaction. Pleasure, even, at my misfortune.
“How long?” I whisper.
He rubs at his jaw. “It takes around five days for the venom to work its way through the system.”
We have been traveling together for four.
Sadness passes as a cloud over my heart, for I am helpless to turn back time. It is done. Soon, I will be, too.
“These darkwalkers. What are they?” Not that it matters. With my fate carved in stone, knowledge for the sake of knowledge will make no difference. But it comforts me, knowing the what and how and when.
“They hail from the Deadlands—my eldest brother’s realm. In simplest terms, they are the corrupted souls of the dead.” He toes the ground with his boot. I’m watching his face, witnessing pain he seeks to keep hidden. What tortures him? “Last I heard, the darkwalkers had been cleansed from Boreas’ territory. It seems some managed to cross into Carterhaugh.”
Deadlands. Darkwalkers. I’ve never heard of this place, these creatures. “The Deadlands? They don’t come from Under?”
“They do not. The Deadlands is where those who have passed on await Judgment. There, they find their final resting place.”
What absurdity. Everyone knows the dead ascend to the Eternal Lands—those who are worthy, at least.
“What will happen to me, as the venom spreads?” What a question to ask, and so matter-of-factly. But I’d prefer to shed the veil of this unknown.
Zephyrus squeezes the bridge of his nose. “It will not be pretty.” His response is subdued, tight with reluctance. “Your fever will continue to climb. You will crave water no matter how much you drink. Your flesh will blacken with decay.”
Harper stumbles backward in horror. “By the Father.” She retreats among the ferns, arms wrapped around her torso.
My attention returns to Zephyrus. “Go on.”
“Brielle—”
“Do not spare me, Bringer of Spring.” My eyes sting, but I refuse to let the tears fall.
The Text teaches us not to fear death, yet I am afraid of departing this good earth having failed the task I’ve been given. I’m too young, too untried. I question what lies beyond this day, not in fear, but in tentative curiosity, even wonder. My hands shake as I straighten. No. I will not shrink in light of this reality. I will face this upright as I should have faced all my trials, days, weeks, months ago.
Zephyrus hangs his head. His hands spear through those honey-brown curls. “The venom will reach your organs last. It will be… very painful. They say a quick death is preferred.” He swallows, lifts his eyes. “Do you taste metal at all?”
I nod.
“Then the final stages have already begun to take effect.”
Is this where I will die? In the depths of Carterhaugh, a place crawling with unspeakable horrors, not even a candle to bring me comfort?
“I wish you would have said something,” murmurs the West Wind with far more compassion than expected. “This could have been prevented, had your wound been treated within the first forty-eight hours.”
How was I to know? It makes me twice the fool, I suppose.
“You’re sure there’s nothing we can do?” I hate how my voice shakes. “No cure? Nothing at all?”
His expression tightens in what I believe to be conflict, or pain. Perhaps my imminent demise upsets him. I did not think Zephyrus cared for me. Indeed, I believed he cared for no one. “I wish there was something I could do for you. Because the darkwalkers hail from another realm, the fair folk lack the proper ingredients required to nullify the beasts’ venom. You ask whether there is a cure. Unfortunately,” Zephyrus says, “there is not.”
Hearing it aloud, without ploy or trickery, guts me. I swipe at my eyes, yet one tear manages to escape, sliding down my feverish cheek. Zephyrus frowns. He leans forward, reaching toward my face. The pad of his thumb brushes my cheek, catching the droplet. I meet his gaze. Together, in this moment, we are still.
Eventually, he leans back, though the frown remains. “Is there someone you’d like me to inform afterward?” he wonders. “Family?”
“No.” I stare at the ground. “I’m an only child. I never met my father. As for my mother…” I’ve little to say about my mother. Dead or alive, I know not.
I shake my head. “There is no one. The abbess has acted as my mentor for the last decade. She will want to know of my passing.” I look to Harper. Once I’m gone, she can claim Meirlach for herself.
Zephyrus follows my gaze, then nods. “I will make sure your abbess learns of this. You have my word.”
It is the smallest reassurance. “Thank you.” I lick my painfully dry lips, the cracks stinging where the skin has peeled free. “Will you continue onward without me?”
He lowers himself onto the ground beside me, one leg extended outward, the other pulled to his chest, an arm wrapped around his shin. “I will not leave you.”
Relief courses through me, though I try to hide it. That he has considered my comfort is more than I expected from him.
“Plus, I’m terrified of being alone in Harper’s presence,” he tacks on.
Against all odds, my mouth curves, and I snort. Harper, a vague shape in the fringe of my vision, walks away, head bent while Zephyrus’ chuckle softens into a smile.
“Her presence does not appear to have bothered you until now,” I point out, more harshly than I intend.
He shrugs. “Any conversation is better than no conversation.”
His tone gives me pause. “What are you implying?”
“If you chose to speak with me, maybe I wouldn’t feel the need to talk to Harper.”
I stare at the West Wind with dawning realization. Perhaps he enjoyed our discussions as much as I did. “I didn’t know,” I say. Disappointment hits, unwelcome and uncomfortable.
“You didn’t know?” A small, rather sad smile flits across his mouth, then is gone. “And here I thought I was being obvious in my affection.”
My throat tightens with an odd, bereft sensation. Though I do not think Zephyrus lies, I cannot be sure. We must have a different interpretation of the word affection .
He scans my face. “Is there anything I can do to make your time left more comfortable? Anything you need?”
I bite my lower lip. Rest. Blessed slumber croons in my ear, but if I am to die, it seems pointless to rest, knowing the hole into which I will fall contains no bottom. “Could you just stay? And talk?” A blush scours my face. “I don’t have many friends to converse with.” I consider leaving the thought unfinished. “Actually, I have no friends,” I admit. Not one.
“No friends?” He frowns. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Making friends doesn’t come easily to me.” I never know the right thing to say, how best to connect with my peers. Many of the older acolytes don’t even know my name. “But you—” The West Wind can draw people in, make them stay. Make them want to stay. “It is easy for you. The way you interact with others… I can’t do what you do.”
“Easy?” A bark of startled laughter claps the air. “My darling novitiate, nothing comes easy to me. It never has. I’m just adept at appearances.”
To my eternal frustration, another tear slides down my face. Baring my soul was never the plan, yet my defenses have caved, my exhaustion is too great. So be it. Let Zephyrus see. I no longer care enough to pretend otherwise.
“Do you have regrets?” I ask.
A weary sigh escapes him. He appears bent in this moment, as though a great burden rests upon his back. “The better question, I think, is what do I not regret.” When his eyes catch mine, I forget to breathe for a moment. “What are your regrets, Brielle?”
I shouldn’t say. Even the thought is too wicked to conceive. My mouth, however, has other ideas, and promptly runs away from me.
“I’m thinking of that couple we stumbled across during our visit to Willow.” Their twined limbs and insatiable hunger for each other.
Zephyrus emits a low rumble in his chest. It is less of a sound and more of a sensation. It sweeps low through my stomach, and despite lying on solid ground, I experience a feeling of falling, however brief.
“You regret not partaking in sexual acts?”
“No!” By the Father, I should not be having this conversation. “But the kissing…” My mouth is so dry it is difficult to swallow. “I suppose a part of me wonders what it would be like.” I feel my ears burn.
“Is that what you want?” he asks, gaze unreadable. “A kiss?”
If I do not acknowledge it, perhaps the desire will leave me. But no. I want this. Of that, I am certain. “If I am going to die, what does it matter if my vows are broken?” Though that is not entirely true. Perhaps this is the selfishness in me. “I would like to experience it, I think. Just once.”
I have not yet seen this sadness in him. Indeed, I could not have believed Zephyrus could feel with such depths of sorrow toward my plight, but I cannot recognize the emotion that shifts his features as anything else. He nods, and leans forward. “Then I would be honored to bestow this gift upon you.” He lifts his hands and, deliberately, rests them on either side of my head, effectively caging me in.
A small sound squeezes past my tightening throat. Fear? Despair? Humiliation? My teeth chatter as a rising cold licks through my chest. Deliver us from temptation. With this touch, I will never know peace.
Slowly, he lowers his face to mine. As always, he smells of sun-warmed grass. I will miss his scent when I am gone.
“Brielle,” croons the West Wind. “Let yourself unwind.”
I’m too spineless to keep my eyes open. Lack of sight heightens the forest sounds: the rough, coursing river; leaves rustling fragile as moth wings; and the wind, sightless and scentless, winding knots through my hair.
Something brushes my mouth. I pinch it shut on reflex.
Obedience, purity, devotion. Here, on the eve of my demise, my vows will shatter into a thousand unknowns. I feel sick with shame, but I want to live, fully, with whatever time remains.
“Trust,” he whispers against my mouth. “Let your heart guide you.”
My lips part of their own volition, and I inhale. Lemon and herbs. My pulse gallops wildly, a slow flush suffusing my overheated skin. His tongue slides against mine, fleeting, before he pulls away.
My skin tingles with the aftershock of his touch. All the world is darkness until I open my eyes to find the West Wind staring down at me.
“I see it in your eyes,” he whispers.
All thoughts have fled. I am a woman made vacant. “See what?”
Leaning forward, he touches his mouth to my ear. “The hunger.”