Chapter 17
17
T HE FOLLOWING MORNING , I’ M SURPRISED by the lack of insults from Harper.
She will not look at me. Neither will she speak to me. But her eyes, those lake water pools—I cannot shake them free. She knows. And I know. The kiss was a mistake.
But that is not the truth, is it? The truth is this: I wanted it. Deep down, in an old, abandoned corner of my heart, I wanted to know what it felt like, just once, to be desired.
Midway through the afternoon, we stop for a break. It could not have come at a better time. Carterhaugh is particularly dense, holding close to the warm, stagnant air, its walls of greenery shuttering any distant sound. Zephyrus strides off to relieve himself, leaving Harper and I alone.
She sags against a fallen tree, clothing bagging around her slim frame. Once again, Harper has run out of water. Since we cannot afford the delay of a potential collapse, I set aside my irritation and approach her, canteen in hand. “Here.”
To my surprise, she accepts it without argument, draining half the container in one swallow.
“Slowly,” I snap.
A gasp rings out as she rips her mouth free. “Don’t think this will stop me from informing Mother Mabel about that kiss when we return to Thornbrook.” She takes another greedy pull.
For a heartbeat, I’m caught in a free fall. There is the excuse, there is the lie, and there is the truth. “I can explain.”
A hair-raising cackle scatters the birds roosting in the trees. They soar off with raucous caws of distress. “By all means, go ahead. Explain how you were lured into a sexual act with a man. I’m sure the abbess will understand.”
I have always found Harper disagreeable, but here, now, I realize how horrible she truly is. She is bitter enough to drag me down into the blackest waters and let me drown. And I will, if I do not start fighting for myself.
“I thought I was going to die,” I say lowly. “It was harmless.”
“You think Mother Mabel cares about that?” Her mouth pinches. “You are sullied, and I will ensure she knows of it.”
Helplessly, my eyes begin to sting. What is worse, the venom she spews, or my belief in it?
Do I regret kissing Zephyrus? That, I cannot answer. For from his mouth, I received life.
“Go ahead and tell Mother Mabel,” I choke. “The only reason you’re doing this is because you can’t stand the idea that Zephyrus might find me desirable.” My fury crystallizes, a sharp, burning core alive inside me.
“He does not desire you,” she hisses. “Is that what you think? You are so simple, Brielle. I feel sorry for you. Honestly, I do. Zephyrus is playing you, don’t you see?”
Tossing the canteen at my feet, she hauls her rucksack across her back and dives into the brush.
My hands shake as I gather my belongings. To choose desire is to choose oneself, and to choose oneself is to walk a path separate from the Father. Zephyrus did not put his hands on me, but why should that matter? He kissed me. I wanted it. That is something I am unable to reverse.
By midafternoon, the sun screams with heat, and not even the shade can curb its oppressive weight. The canopy reveals pockets of white and blue. A rush of cooling air sweeps in, relief against my red, patchy skin, and I glance up in time to see Zephyrus drop his hand, fingers colored silver from the breeze he has conjured.
I offer him a grateful smile. “How much longer?”
Something softens his expression, if I’m not mistaken. “See for yourself.”
As we push through a break in the trees, my footsteps falter. A squall hits us from the east, and I gasp. Blue sky above, and beneath, rock of deepest red.
It is an ocean of emptiness. A gulf that continuously unfolds so its vastness seems to expand in countless directions. Sunlight hammers the striated rock, squeezing out veins of quartz and gold, stone splitting beneath the pressure of a thousand years. A layer of sizzling air skates over the landscape.
I have heard of the world’s endless stretch, but I never imagined this : the widest, deepest canyon, with plunging valleys and curved, mammoth walls. Look at how it bursts its seams.
Harper tromps up to my side, surveying the vista. Then she turns away, utterly unimpressed. Kneeling on the ground, she removes the map from her rucksack and opens the oiled parchment. “I don’t see a way to cross.”
“There is,” I murmur reluctantly, though it’s not inked on the chart.
She lifts her head to look where I point. A narrow rope bridge stretches across the ravine, creaking in the humid breeze.
Harper pushes to her feet, folds the map, and studies the hanging bridge. She appears neither frightened nor concerned. “This is the only way to cross?”
Zephyrus speaks from behind. “It is.”
This cannot be our only option. I study the canyon, every wide, meandering curve. A shaded copse shimmers on the opposite side of the gulf, a dark green border where the sweltering red rock ends.
Harper passes me the map. “Might as well get it over with.”
I tuck the parchment into my pocket. “You’re not afraid it will snap?”
She lifts those lovely, curved eyebrows in challenge. Even trekking through Carterhaugh, they are never less than expertly groomed. “Are you?”
Yes, because the bridge looks as if it hasn’t been repaired since its construction, however many centuries ago that was.
My palms begin to sweat beneath my gloves. “If we go the long way around—”
“We don’t have time. We’ve only until the tithe to return. We’re already behind.”
“Maybe we wouldn’t be,” I point out, “if you had bothered to help set up and break down camp the last three nights.” I gathered firewood, erected our shelter, cooked dinner, dug the latrine, despite my slow recuperation from my near-death experience.
Harper hefts her pack higher onto her back. “Spare me your righteousness, Brielle. I’ve done my fair share on this journey. You’re not the only one capable of contributing.”
I don’t bother mentioning that without my aid, she likely would have collapsed after the first few miles.
“Ladies.” Zephyrus steps between us. “Can we save the sparring until we reach the other side?”
Harper pays him no mind. She says to me, “If you’re too afraid to cross, you’ll have to go back alone. I’m going ahead with or without you.”
She’s right. If I cannot cross the bridge, this entire journey will have been for naught. And that is not an option.
As she brushes past me, I catch her sleeve. “Can’t you reconsider?”
She sighs. “Oh, Brielle. When will you learn? People act out of their own selfish needs, and I am no exception. Neither are you.” A hard yank rips her arm from my grasp. “I’ll be sure to put in a good word to Mother Mabel for you—or not.”
With a cruel smirk, Harper plants one foot onto the nearest plank. The bridge sags beneath her weight, creaking like an old door in the wind. I watch it all without taking a breath.
Plank by plank, she shuffles forward. Her hands clamp the rope railings strung waist-high across the gulf. The bridge holds, but Harper is half my body weight. The lines would surely snap if I attempted to cross.
I can’t do it. I can’t put my trust in this shoddy contraption, one sneeze away from collapse. Helplessness—a feeling I know well.
“Close your eyes.” The command flutters near my ear, brimming with unseen power.
I cannot. A few planks of wood bound together with fraying rope is all that would separate me from the drop, those vicious rocks jutting from the bottom of the ravine. A screaming gust wrenches through the canyon.
“Brielle.” Warmth at my back, followed by the wind’s cool caress. “Let me guide you.”
“I’m not crossing the bridge.”
“You are going to cross the bridge,” Zephyrus says. “And I am going to help you.”
“I just said—”
“Then why are you here?”
That stops me. Why am I here? I thought I knew. But that was before . Before the darkwalkers, my illness, each excruciating second spent in Harper’s presence, our unnecessary battle of wills.
“I shouldn’t have left Thornbrook,” I murmur. “I should have stayed where it was safe.”
“That sounds dreadfully boring.” Then he sighs. “What is it you want, Brielle?”
I release a shaky breath. Harper has nearly reached the other side. “To obtain Meirlach. To prove my worth to Mother Mabel. To give my life to the Father.”
“Then you will cross the bridge. If you cannot confront this fear, you will continue to feel small. Is that what you want?”
What can the West Wind know of fear? He is a god, immortal, prevailing. He could shape the world in his image if he chose.
“Close your eyes,” he repeats.
It is easier to speak truthfully when I am blind to other things, and yet—“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
The answer is an old wound, and I fear it has not healed as well as I had hoped.
“The dark,” I whisper. “I fear the dark.”
He falls quiet, yet the wind unleashes itself, a great, howling, emotive creature. I do not realize I’m leaning into Zephyrus until his breath stirs the fine hairs on my nape, and I lurch forward to put distance between us.
“Steady,” he murmurs, placing a hand on my hip. “The dark is not inherently dangerous on its own.”
I lick my lips, forcing out, “I’m aware.” By the Father, this will not be easy. “What do you fear?”
He makes a sound in his throat as the wind bleeds into a low hum. “I fear the fall.”
The hand on my hip remains, his touch muted by the fabric of my dress. It feels strange to lean on him. To lean on anyone, really.
“I believe fear lies in all of us,” he continues. “We ask ourselves if it will hurt. We wonder if we could have done something differently.”
What does he refer to? Here, now, me, this bridge, something else, something more? I do not believe he speaks of falling in the physical sense. More of a fall from grace. That is a fear I know well. “What part of falling do you fear?”
“What comes after.”
“And what comes after?”
His hand tightens on my hip. “The understanding that what has been broken can never be repaired.”
My surroundings fade, and I feel only a man’s body against mine as my eyelids flutter shut. “You know this from experience?”
The fingers on my hip squeeze slightly. I’m startled by the tingle of heat in my belly. “Where are all these questions coming from?” He presses against my back.
I shuffle forward, peeling away from his slender strength. “You redirect.”
A soft, wry laugh. “I underestimated you, I think.”
“You think me meek.”
“I did. But I’m learning.”
Rocks scatter beneath the toes of my boots. I do not understand how he can smile and laugh so freely, while beneath resides a darkness I cannot see, only sense in waves of sadness, frustration, guilt. Against all odds, it is those lightless places I’m drawn to.
He pushes me forward another step, and the plank beneath me shudders. Somehow, we’ve made it onto the bridge.
I stiffen, but the hand at my hip directs me ahead, always ahead, the West Wind’s body acting as a barrier against my retreat. The contraption sways wildly. My legs quiver, on the threshold of collapse.
“Take me back,” I croak.
“We can’t turn back.” He continues to nudge me along. My heart hammers so ferociously its pulse hums against my sweat-coated skin.
“We can. We absolutely can.” My voice ratchets to a shrill pitch. “Zephyrus!”
“Quiet your mind, Brielle.” A subdued incantation, meant to soothe. “It will all be over soon.”
I grab hold of that promise and cling to it for dear life. The quiet place nestled in my heart brims with overflowing roses in a tranquil garden, a sweet perfume, a swing upon which I sit, swaying beneath the shade of a massive tree. When the world is obdurate and cold, I return here, to an evergreen spring.
“You asked me of my experience.” Zephyrus draws me in step by step, shepherding me across the vast canyon. “There’s not much to say, for it was long ago. I was an insecure, selfish fool, and someone paid a terrible price.”
What terrible price does he speak of? Death? Injury? Loss? This person he mentioned sounds important to him.
“How much farther?” My right hand slides along the rope as the bowed planks wobble beneath me. I can’t think. My mind spins.
“Don’t worry about the distance. Think only of the next step.”
“You are the least helpful man I have ever met.”
He crows a laugh. “From you, I think that might be a compliment.”
The bridge falls quiet as my feet pass onto solid ground.
“Well done,” Zephyrus says, and releases me.
My eyes open. Harper leans against a collection of boulders, arms crossed, nonplussed at our arrival. In the distance, trees erupt to brush the sky. She glances between us, yet says nothing.
Zephyrus skirts the rise of massive stone, gesturing for us to follow. Those long, limber strides flow without interruption to a patch of grass shaped in a perfect circle. A stone well squats in its center. Surrounding the grass: baked red rock, the wavering air of a place where little flourishes.
“This,” Zephyrus says, resting a hand on the structure’s rough edge, “is the Well of Past. Each of the Wells requires an offering to the Gods of Old in exchange for entry.”
“You mean the Father,” I clarify.
“No,” he replies. “I mean the deities the fair folk have worshipped for centuries.”
I bite my cheek in an attempt to hold my tongue. “There is no mention of this in the Text.”
Harper emits a low sound of derision. I ignore her, maintaining focus on the West Wind, who studies me with frustration.
“Who the fair folk worship has nothing to do with your liturgy. They may not be your gods,” he says, and his gaze is old in this moment, and sad, “but they are someone’s gods. The fair folk have their beliefs, too.”
It’s not intended as an insult, but it feels like one nonetheless. “How can the fair folk possibly have something as advanced as organized religion?” I argue. “They’re vile, wretched—”
“Different?” Zephyrus counters.
I fall silent. The thought of offering anything to a god other than the Father sits like an abrasion upon my skin.
Harper brushes me aside. “We do what we must. Either accept it, or don’t.” She turns to Zephyrus, fingers curled around the straps digging into her shoulders. “After the offering, what then?”
In answer, he draws up the wooden bucket from inside the well, the metal pulley creaking with each rotation. “You will need to be lowered down.”
The West Wind is fond of jests, but I do not think this is one of them.
“The rope was recently replaced.” He flicks the braided twine. “Within the last hundred years, at least.”
Harper blanches. A cold sweat slides down the groove between my breasts.
“The longer we stand here, the more time we waste.” He claps his hands encouragingly. “Let us begin. We must all make an offering—something we have kept close to our skin.”
It means nothing. The offering is but an object. It holds no importance, no symbolism. I must remember that.
Following Zephyrus’ lead, we circle the well, then each toss in an object. I pull a button off my dress. Harper gifts a coin. Zephyrus tears a strip from his cloak hem, the dark green fabric fluttering as it drifts into the cavity.
The ground shudders in response, then stills.
“Lastly, since this is the Well of Past, you must offer it a story from your life.” Zephyrus tosses my companion a warm smile. “Harper?”
“Brielle will go first,” she states, chin angled my way.
I’m too overcome with nerves over the upcoming descent to argue. “When I was seven years old, I accompanied my mother to the market one morning. We lived in a small town, and figs were only in season for a few weeks during autumn.”
This memory, I remember, does not end favorably. It ends in tears, the hoarse screams of the conflicted. And now I question why I chose to speak of it. How long will it take Harper to weaponize this story against me?
“Later that night,” I continue, “my mother accused me of eating the figs she bought, having forgotten she had traded them for a block of soap. When I tried to explain, she grew angry.” My hand lifts to my right cheek.
The West Wind’s pupils narrow to pricks of shade. “Did she hit you?”
Never before had my mother laid a hand on me. Looking back, I think I knew something wasn’t right. The rage. The rapid, often incoherent speech. The exhaustion and mental fog. Business had grown slow in recent years, yet I do not believe that to be the underpinning of her change in behavior. The source of her sickness seemed to originate from within, the slow deterioration of her own mind.
“She apologized a few days later,” I mumble.
A gust of hot air slithers mournfully through the canyon at our backs. Zephyrus’ focus is so acute I turn away. I’d believed that I had buried that memory ages ago, but it remains. I wish I had asked my mother why. I am your daughter , I would have said. It is too late now.
“Harper—your turn.” Zephyrus’ quiet command.
She sucks in a breath through her nose, then peers into the well. “There’s not much to say. I grew up in a household where I wanted for nothing. My father was a silk merchant, my mother a florist. My sisters and I attended the most prestigious academy for women’s education. They sought to become great seamstresses. I was on track to become a healer.”
I frown at this new information. Why did Harper dedicate her life to the faith? Generally, a woman seeks the church during times of hardship. Harper’s childhood sounds positively idyllic.
“As a girl, I had always wanted a dog, though my parents would never allow it. I found one abandoned in the old mill the summer I turned twenty. I named her Lily, because of her white coloring.” She folds her hands at her front, voice subdued. “I loved that dog and spent many months secretly nursing her back to health. But there came a day when I found the mill door open, and Lily gone.”
Harper drops her eyes. To my surprise, tears cling to her eyelashes.
“For days I searched, but I could not find her. One morning, however, as I passed by the church, one of the acolytes offered to help me search for her. We combed the woods left and right, and eventually found Lily, caught in a bear trap.”
I gasp, the cincture squeezed tight in my grip. Harper glances at me before continuing. “She was near death. Nothing could be done. But the acolyte was kind to me. She gave Lily a draught to ease her passing. Never had I witnessed such compassion toward a stranger. I believed it was a sign to give my life to the Father. The following month, I joined Thornbrook as a novitiate and haven’t looked back since.”
She sniffs, brushes her hands across her front. Whatever sadness she expressed moments ago has dried up along with her tears. I turn toward Zephyrus expectantly.
He lifts a sly brow. “Yes?”
“You claimed the Well of Past requires a story—from each of us.” When he does not volunteer his thoughts, I wave a hand. “Doesn’t that apply to you as well?”
Another broiling gust screams over the scorched red rock. I am ashamed to discover my attention slipping toward Zephyrus’ mouth, its slight upward curve. As though noticing my ogling, his smile deepens, a flash of white, even teeth.
“My story is one of brotherhood, I suppose.” Zephyrus shifts his weight, as though uncomfortable being the center of attention. “It was on the eve of a great battle, the coup that would bring change to my homeland. I remember standing with my brothers beneath the starry sky. Boreas, our leader. Notus, quiet and withdrawn. Lastly Eurus, who craved blood. We gazed at one another and promised to always stand as one.” There is a pause. “It was the last time my brothers and I were together as a family.”
“How long ago was that?” I ask. Though I do not have siblings, I recognize the longing marking his expression.
He says, in a melancholy tone, “Many centuries ago.”
A beat of silence passes before I hear it—a low drone from the well’s center.
Zephyrus nods. “We’re in. I’ll go first. Brielle will follow. Harper, you bring up the rear.”
“I’m not going last.” She steps forward, regards him with a sultry expression. He meets it openly. “I’ll be in the middle.”
I bite back a retort. Is my sanity worth the argument? Probably not. What do I care if they ogle each other? I don’t.
Zephyrus manages to fit into the bucket with ease, crouching on the balls of his feet as he takes the rope and lowers himself down, curling hair vanishing from sight. A few minutes pass before the empty bucket reappears.
As Harper grips the rope, I reach out, snagging her arm. “Wait.”
I’m fully anticipating a counterattack, but here, a rare glimpse of weariness, a momentary doubt, each stamped onto my companion’s pointed face. “What?”
“There are things you must know before passing into Under.”
She shrugs off my hand, yet gives me her undivided attention—an unprecedented occurrence.
“Firstly and most importantly”—I lower my voice so it doesn’t carry—“you cannot speak your name, or my name, aloud. If any of the fair folk overhear it, they will forever have power over you, and me. Understand?”
“If this is so important,” she snaps back, “why didn’t Zephyrus mention it before?”
That is a valid question. Do I dare take it as a sign that the Bringer of Spring cares more for my safety than Harper’s? “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Very well. Is that all?”
“Secondly, you must not eat or drink anything offered to you.”
“Fine.” Her eyes narrow at the delay. “Anything else?”
“You cannot trust Zephyrus.”
Harper inclines her chin, fingers clamping the rope, but I do not miss the way her gaze darts to the well’s opening. “You’ve already said this.”
“There are things he wants,” I say. “Things he has not made known. He is tied to Under, and he wants out.”
“Why should I care about that?” Harper asks.
And she calls me the naive one. “You are a tool to him. We both are. At some point, he will manipulate the situation to his advantage.”
She rolls her eyes. “If you had bothered to read anything other than the Text, you would already know of his reputation, the stories of all the women he’s lured into Under. His depraved behavior does not surprise me.”
I’m still reeling when Harper climbs into the well without comment and lowers herself down. Again with Zephyrus’ reputation. I do not want to believe he’s lured women into Under, but I have lived the experience.
The empty bucket returns to the top. I wait a moment longer, but eventually, I, too, climb inside. My thighs are too large to fit, so I perch on the lip, my boots resting in the bottom of the container. It lurches with a squeak, then begins to descend.
The light above shutters. Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I hang suspended in eternity, my hands cramping from how tightly I cling to the rope, the chill of the underground radiating through my clothes. When the bucket hits the ground, I exhale and climb out on wobbly legs, my boots settling onto the springy soil of the grassy path.
It is dark like a mouth, dark like the world before the Father. Shades of coal smudge the stone chamber—walls, ceiling, floor. A darker strip, shimmering slightly, can only be the underground river, which the grassy path leads to. Water laps against the cave walls, womb-like.
Zephyrus stands at the bank, nudging an arrow-shaped boat with his boot. “We will reach the Grotto via the River Mur.” He lifts the long, slender pole resting atop the vessel’s bench seat. “Sit toward the back, near the stern.”
“The River Mur is located many miles east of here,” I point out, failing to smooth the tremors in my voice. “Surely you are mistaken.”
“Am I?” He sweeps a hand out in front of him. “This, too, is the River Mur. It flows in the opposite direction of the one aboveground, but its waters are the same.”
And that, I decide, is officially too confusing for words.
Harper and I scramble into the vessel. It is cramped, forcing us into close proximity, but for the time being, I accept the solidity of her back against mine, her warmth an odd, if undesired, comfort as we push off into the swallowing dark.