Chapter 22
22
I RUN STRAIGHT FROM THE cave to the boat moored at the village’s edge without stopping. The rope thumps against the bottom of the hull, and I’m off, using the pole to direct the vessel across the water, pushing as quickly as I dare. When Harper wakes, she will notice my absence, but I intend to return. I will not abandon her to the fair folk. As for Zephyrus, he will know I have gone, perhaps sooner than I would like.
When the River Mur branches off, I steer the boat into the dark tunnel. Then I settle onto the bench, roselight squeezed tightly in hand, and pull the book from my pocket, letting the current carry me toward the Grotto.
A small piece of cloth has been tucked between the pages. I flip to the bookmark, squinting down at the markings. Inked words bleed beneath the roselight’s faint pink glow.
Day eleven, second month of spring.
I was right. It is a diary. And if I’m not mistaken, this is Mother Mabel’s elegant script. So how did it fall into the Orchid King’s possession?
Hunching nearer to the page, I begin to read.
Tragedy has struck Carterhaugh.
A message arrived from Veraness. Seemingly overnight, the entire population was wiped out, having succumbed to a storm the likes of which I’ve never seen. Days ago, I watched the tempest approach Thornbrook. Low, roiling clouds swelled with thunder and the bright clap of lightning.
My charges were frightened. I told them to pray, that the Father would take care of the rest. But sometimes, His kindness comes at a price. For though we were spared, the people of Veraness were not.
My eyes snag on a single word: Veraness. The town that had once been my home.
Once the storm cleared, I took my charges to Veraness, or what was left of it. We searched for survivors. There were few. I sent a message to Pierus, asking if he knew the storm’s cause. Supposedly, the West Wind had attempted to sever his bond. As one of the Four Winds, his power was unsurpassed. Although he was unsuccessful, the damage Carterhaugh sustained was immense.
A sense of foreboding slinks through me. The Four Winds. I wondered why the name sounded familiar when Lissi first mentioned it. I have read of this event not in the Text, but in the history books held in the abbey library.
My hand shakes as I flip to the previous page and note the date inscribed on the top right corner—three days prior to my mother’s disappearance. According to Mother Mabel’s personal account of these events, Zephyrus is responsible for my home’s destruction, the event that triggered what followed: a harrowing journey through a storm-drenched night, waiting in the hollow of an old tree, my abandonment on the abbey steps.
I shove the diary into my pocket, my breathing choked. Curse Zephyrus. Curse the Orchid King. Curse this vile place, its rotten core. And curse my own frustrating naivete. Is that what Zephyrus saw upon our first meeting? Was it then that he decided to exploit my goodwill?
“Eternal Father.” The strained plea comes unbidden. “Lead me to your quiet waters.”
Pushing to my feet, I reclaim the pole and steer around a corner where the current drags. The tunnel curves ahead, cast in the glow of the flickering roselights. My vessel drifts past the open gate the Orchid King mentioned. The air smells of old growth and decay.
“Grant me protection, and in your protection, strength.”
As I round the bend, the current slows, and a shallow strip of beach comes into view. Once the boat bumps against the sandy shore, I scramble onto dry land.
The rush and retreat of the river has dissolved the tunnel’s limestone walls into vast pockets and warped pillars, the ceiling scooped hollow. Ahead, the Grotto lies partially submerged in the black water of high tide. It boasts an impressive archway inlaid with rubies, their color darkened to rust in the frail light. I cannot see what lies within. It begins and ends in obscurity.
“May your light be my guide,” I whisper. “May you walk with me through darkness. In your name I pray. Amen.”
The tips of my boots brush the water’s edge. I will have to swim across. I have no choice. I’ve come to meet my fate, whatever form that might take.
But first, an offering.
The point of my dagger produces a spot of blood on the pad of my finger. I let the red bead drop into the water, shallow ripples disturbing its glassy stillness.
Toes, ankles, shins, thighs—the icy water drags at my dress. Beneath, sharpened pebbles line the riverbed like teeth, the smallest bones. My boots skid along the bottom. As the water hits my waist, the roselight tucked inside my pocket gutters.
I’m halfway across the channel when a long, shallow ridge of water emerges, hurtling toward me in an elongated, unbroken wave.
My heart leaps, and I scramble forward, my arms cutting through the chest-high water, which crashes against the walls of the echoing chamber.
A rounded snout breaks the surface. Two large nostrils flare, exhaling steam. I bite back a scream and plunge blindly through the churning river. My boots gain traction. I shove upward, ripping free of the water’s hold. My knees fold. I collapse onto the shore, shivering, puffing hard. At my back, the River Mur settles.
A mortal woman. It has been a long time.
My skin pebbles in the stale air, for a voice blossoms inside my mind.
Pushing to my feet, I glance around the expansive cavern, its smooth floors laden with gold: mounds of sloping hillocks, towering peaks crowned with gem-studded collars and tarnished diadems. All gleam beneath the rosy glow pulsing from the roselights in the main chamber. The most lovely tapestries paint the walls, their colors undimmed. One section contains an extensive array of shelving stuffed with bound manuscripts, piles of loose parchment, scrolls secured with velvet ribbons, precarious stacks of dusty tomes. Silk garments drape a coat rack in one corner. And still, there is more. Cluttered arrangements of chalices, goblets. Gold-spun thread. The treasure of a thousand lifetimes.
Pulling my eyes away from the collection, I search for whoever spoke. The weight of my dagger reminds me I am not without defense. “Are you the one they call the Stallion?”
I am. A thread of intrigue colors the voice—male, I believe. But I admit I do not know who you are. Why have you come, mortal woman? It is a long way from your abbey.
A half-turn toward my right. I’m certain something moved, but upon closer inspection, nothing appears out of the ordinary. An ornate mirror leans against a heap of purest emeralds. It reveals a scene, almost as if I peer through a window: the climbing white spires of a city perched atop a mountain’s crown, a shadow cloaking the base of its valley.
“How do you know I’m from the abbey?” I ask, continuing to scan the area, my every sense heightened. No sign of a sword that I can see.
The Stallion makes a light humming sound. You smell of the incense they burn on the Holy Days.
“We burn it,” I explain, “to clear the air of impurities.”
So I have heard.
His voice fades as abruptly as it manifested. Water patters from my soaked clothes, chipping away at the silence.
“Will you show yourself?” I ask. “I have traveled far to meet you.”
As do many who believe they are capable of besting me. They send the strongest, the swiftest, the cleverest. None can. You seem neither strong nor quick, unfortunately.
I force myself to stand tall. “It is true I am not the swiftest, or strongest, or cleverest,” I state, backing toward a wall, “but I have made it this far. Surely that is a testament to my will.”
Your will means nothing to me. You, Daughter of Thornbrook, are not welcome. Pray to your god, girl, for your death will be neither quick nor painless.
So the Orchid King was right. I am not welcome here. It seems my blood didn’t appease the Stallion either.
“Why do you wish to kill me?” I search the water again. I’m certain something lurks beneath the surface. “Does my faith offend you?”
It is not your faith that offends me. It is your interpretation of it. A faith that sanctions stealing from others? I will have no part of it.
“We do not steal,” I snap. Formidable creature or not, I will defend the Father by any means necessary. “We spread good and kindness through His teachings.”
Then why must I defend my cache against yet another Daughter of your faith?
I glance upward, peering into the chamber’s farthest corners. “I do not understand.”
Only once before has a mortal entered my Grotto and escaped with their life, a stolen treasure in hand.
No wonder the Stallion doesn’t trust me. “I’m not here to steal from you. I’m here to bargain.”
Nothing you offer interests me. You are young, girl. Untried. Too innocent for this world. I will extend to you this mercy: leave, if you cherish your life.
“I won’t go.” Not without Meirlach.
Then you have welcomed your own demise.
The river shatters into a thousand lapping waves. I stumble back, retreating farther into the cavern as the Stallion emerges in pieces: long snout, tapered head, water pouring from its massive hindquarters, and an impenetrable coat of glossy pitch. River grass hangs from its equally dark mane and tail.
The towering steed extends perhaps twenty-five hands, maybe more. Its rheumy eyes are filmed in white, without pupil or iris. Zephyrus was correct. It is blind.
The Stallion clops toward me. Muscle shifts beneath the coal flesh encasing its musculature. I scuttle backward, dagger in hand.
“You will not even hear what I have to offer you?” I stutter, wide eyes pinned to its sleek, oily coat. “I thought kelpies enjoyed a good bargain.”
You wish to bargain? Climb onto my back, the Stallion’s voice says inside my head, and I will gift you a treasure from my cache.
Indeed, I have heard the tales. Water-horses that prey on women. Once I mount its back, it will return to the river and drag me down.
“I wish to fight you for the opportunity to win an object from your cache,” I say. “A duel. That is fair.” And by the end, my blade must be buried deep into its heart. “Will you flee?”
Flee? The horse shakes its head. Water sprays, flecking my cheek. What have I to flee from? Come, girl. Climb onto my back. Let the bargain be fulfilled.
I retreat until my spine hits the wall. “I will not.”
Water drips in the quiet pooling between us. Very well. You request a duel? Then let us fight.
Air ripples around the creature, and when it settles, I blink in surprise. The Stallion is neither a man nor a terrifying beast. He is a child, on the cusp of adolescence.
He wears brown trousers and a thin white tunic. He stands with a relaxed posture, hands loose at his sides. A flop of pale hair falls across his brow. He is all bones, yet staring into his white eyes, I understand that I am quite young in comparison. For those eyes are old. They have seen things.
The kelpie pads forward on bare feet. “Are you frightened?” His attention rests slightly to the side of my face.
A trickle of sweat slithers down my neck. “Yes.”
The boy smiles. “Good.” His teeth are small and square. “You should be.”
Killing a kelpie is one thing, but a boy? I will not do it. I do not care if the Stallion merely wears a human skin. Somehow, I will have to gain Meirlach without slaying the beast.
I push off the wall to face the Stallion.
Tucking his hands at the small of his back, he begins to circle me. “Before we begin, let us discuss particulars. What treasure of mine do you seek?”
“Meirlach.”
He shakes his head, continues his circling. I turn, reflecting his movements. The last thing I want is to expose my back. Despite his lack of sight, I sense the boy would strike with precision. “Meirlach is not for the taking, I’m afraid, but you are free to select something else.” He flutters a small hand toward the eclectic display.
I readjust my grip on my dagger. Its leather wrapping clings to my damp glove. “I came here for Meirlach,” I state. “I will not leave without it.”
“Then you will not leave,” the Stallion cries, expression twisted in irritation.
Calm, I think. Yet my heart thunders with the knowledge that things are not unfolding as I imagined they would. “You said I could choose any object in your collection.” Round and round and round he goes.
“Any object,” he counters, “but Meirlach.”
“Why?”
“Because it is mine. That is reason enough.”
I swallow, squinting through the half-light in an attempt to locate the shining pommel of a sword. Mounds of treasure pile against the Grotto’s curved walls. A few precarious towers extend all the way to the stalactites overhead. “Do you fear I will beat you in a duel?” I dare ask.
Silence stretches and reforms around this statement, as if the Stallion considers the question from all angles. He stops, his arms crossed, mouth mulish. “It has been long since I have battled.”
If the Text has taught me anything, it’s that we are all born with equal potential. I am but kindling that has yet to burn.
“Don’t you tire of your loneliness?” I press. “Don’t you seek to connect to another, however briefly?”
The Stallion releases a crow-like laugh. “I have lived a thousand lifetimes, girl. What you offer is nothing I have not already experienced.”
“You seem certain. But I ask you this: what do you know of me aside from my mortality and faith? I may surprise you.”
There is a pause. “I cannot decide whether you are brave or merely foolish.” He shakes his head. “At the very least, you are entertaining. Very well. I will give you the opportunity to win Meirlach, Daughter of Thornbrook.” A sword appears in his childlike hand. The long, elegant blade pulses with an ethereal light. “Lovely, isn’t it?”
It is a weapon worthy of a song. The hilt has been shaped from gold. A ruby winks from the disk capping the pommel, and the guard, a collection of spiraling strips, shapes a protective sphere around the Stallion’s hand.
“If you draw first blood, the blade is yours.” The Stallion gives Meirlach a twirl. “However, if I draw first blood, you will climb onto my back and dwell within my Grotto forevermore.”
Never have I desired anything more than Meirlach in this moment, with the aftermath of recent betrayal roiling hot in my belly. I have the will. Of this, I am certain. But if the Stallion draws blood first, I am as good as dead.
Slowly, I raise my blade. He studies me with that adolescent face, those primordial eyes. In his mind, I am a child. Even when my body becomes dust, he will likely still be here, guarding his cache.
There is little I can do now. I’m committed. From the moment I stepped beyond Thornbrook’s walls, I vowed to return with the sword or die trying. I have trained for this. Besting the Stallion is but the last obstacle on this journey.
Planting my feet, I take stock of my opponent. His sword offers greater reach. A dagger, however, is the most versatile of weapons, a many-faced foe. What I lack in speed, I make up for in strength. Let him think me untried.
I do not see him move.
A rush of air stirs to my right. I swing on a half-turn, meeting his blade. The clang peals out.
The Stallion deflects, lunging for my left flank. Our blades kiss before he spins away in a ripple of darkness. He returns, hacking at my neck with frightening calculation. A complex pattern of counter cuts keeps the Stallion at arm’s length, but he is ancient, this creature. He is no mere boy. I must remember that.
His next strike whacks my blade with back-breaking force. The impact rattles my arm, the roots of my teeth. Once more, he whirls away to enfold himself in the shadows. I scan the cave, weapon raised, my heartbeat marking the passing time. He has disappeared.
A droplet of sweat rolls with aching slowness down my spine. Tumbled gemstones, gold bricks, and shimmering silver ripple in waves of color beneath the roselights.
I am a blade.
A dark shape rushes from a murky corner. I pivot around his strike, yet slip on a few scattered jewels, crashing into one of the golden mounds. Coins plink across the floor. The Stallion lunges. I spin out of reach. A glance over my shoulder reveals his sword buried in the mound up to the hilt. By the time he yanks it free, I’m already across the room.
He reconvenes, brushing a lock of hair from his sightless eyes. His other senses must be highly attuned if he’s able to pinpoint my location so accurately. At the next attack, I leap sideways, stabbing toward the Stallion’s thigh. He skirts free with a high, tinkling laugh.
“You’ll have to do better than that if you wish to escape this place alive,” he says.
Again, he disappears. My attention leaps from mound to mound, blade at the ready. By the time I sense movement, his sword hacks with brutal severity toward my unprotected neck.
A clash rings out. Shock roots my feet to the ground, for Zephyrus has inserted himself between me and the kelpie, a sword hewn from air in his hand.
As they rain blows upon each other, I look beyond them. Harper stands in the arched entryway, eyes wide, a cloak clutched around her slender frame. I turn my back on her.
Zephyrus cuts toward the boy, who swipes low, nicking his opponent’s thigh.
“This fight is mine,” I snarl, striding forward.
Zephyrus attempts to gain the upper hand despite his poor swordsmanship. His strategy is to continually evade, never landing a blow directly. It reeks of cowardice.
“Your fight,” I call to the Stallion, “is with me!”
As Zephyrus pivots toward the archway, I ram him from behind, and he slams face-first into the wall, his sword clattering on the ground. He claps a hand over his face, blood pouring from his nose.
Positioned between two piles of gold, the Stallion advances, his nostrils flaring, taking in the coppery scent. I meet his aggression with equal fervor. The West Wind’s presence changes things. My strikes land with greater weight, my parries fleeting, memories before they’re made known. Blade to blade, we battle for dominance. Meirlach will be mine. It is a symbol, after all. And symbols hold power.
The Stallion ducks, and the flat of my dagger passes over the warm heat of his skin. I complete the drive upward, cutting across his face, forcing him into retreat. His back hits the wall, my dagger at his throat.
The boy pants through his teeth. Sweat sheens his skin, the color feverish in the low light, but he is not the one I wish were on the receiving end of my blade.
He must recognize this. “You will not kill me?” the boy whispers, and he does not seem so old now, with dirt streaking his ripped trousers and a slice reddening his cheek.
Wrath boils holes into my stomach, and yet, the Stallion is not my foe. Merely a scapegoat for my fury.
“A life is a life in the eyes of the Father.” Stepping back, I lower my dagger. “I will not kill you.”
Something like respect lines his features. “It is clear you are no helpless mortal.” He hesitates a moment. Then, holding out his hand, he offers me the blade. “Meirlach is yours.”
As soon as the hilt touches my skin, a warm current licks at my fingers and slithers up my arm. The sword is far lighter than it appears, its pommel a perfect counterweight to the steel blade.
My eyes lift to the Stallion as his bloodless lips curve. “Take care with that sword. Power is a dangerous temptation, after all.”
I am well aware.
“Farewell, Daughter of Thornbrook.” He transforms back into his equine form, eliciting a gasp from Harper. A blink of those sightless eyes and he vanishes into the river.
Footsteps, carried on a loam-soaked breeze. I turn, sword in hand, to study Zephyrus, who halts a few paces away.
“Are you all right?” There’s a harried look about him, the curls of his hair clumped with sweat and blood. Fool. He’s lucky he can wear his immortality like armor.
“Fine.” I brush past him. Harper and I will need to return to Carterhaugh as quickly as possible. I only hope we have not lost too much time to Under—months or, dare I think, years.
“Wait,” Zephyrus calls.
There was the old Brielle, the green, narrow-minded novitiate of Thornbrook. But the Brielle of today is a much wiser creature. She understands the difference between choice and obligation.
Slowly, I pivot to face the Bringer of Spring. His features have altered in such a way that they bear little resemblance to the man I rescued in Carterhaugh. The skin is smoother, the bone structure sharper, with an agreeable symmetry that wasn’t previously present.
“If it is a fight you seek,” I clip out, trying to mask my surprise, “you will have to look elsewhere. I earned Meirlach fairly.”
“You did,” he concedes. I do not fail to notice how his attention fixates on the weapon. “You fought well.”
I already know this. Ten years ago, Mother Mabel put a blade in my hand. I have not wasted that time languishing. “What do you want, Zephyrus? Be honest, for once.”
A muscle flutters in his jaw. Anger? Not quite. It is something decidedly more deadly. “Why did you leave for the Stallion alone?” He searches my face. “You are not usually so rash.”
It seems I will have to spell it out for him. “Ask me what I learned, Zephyrus. Go on.”
His pupils dilate, swimming against the mossy rings surrounding them. A hare, I think, caught in the eye of a snake. “What did you learn?”
Admittedly, I’d believed myself capable of civil conversation. In my mind, I would lay everything out, every hardened fact. Information would be picked over, torn apart, arranged in its proper location, where all made sense.
But it cannot be done. Between one heartbeat and the next, tears sting my eyes, and my breath comes short.
“The Orchid King told me of your plan. How you would lead us to the Grotto. How you would use my blood to gain Meirlach for yourself. How you would then kill Pierus, thus breaking the curse that binds you to him.” How you would betray me.
“You sought him out?” Zephyrus seems frightened— for me , I think. “Pierus is dangerous.”
“How dangerous can he be when he speaks the truth?” The words grow broken and coarse. “Do you deny it?”
He steps forward, palms lifted in repentance. “I can explain.”
“You lied to me.” The accusation spews out, thick and sour enough to choke me. “You lied, and you lied, and you lied! I trusted you.”
For that is the true hurt, after all. I warned Harper of Zephyrus’ motives. I reminded myself to maintain distance. Daily, I thought, Do not trust him. Yet I could have sworn I’d witnessed change in him. I believed, truly believed, my feelings for Zephyrus were reciprocated. If I cannot trust my own heart, what can I trust?
“All this time I thought you were here to aid us in our quest, to repay your debt, to gain your own prize. But you weren’t, were you?” I weep openly. “You wanted Meirlach. It didn’t matter that we wanted it, too. Needed it. Everything was for your own gain.”
For the first time, I see the West Wind clearly. The promises that break, the vows that bind. “I have given you every opportunity to show your true self,” I whisper. “Why—” My throat closes as I stare into his eyes. “What kind of person manipulates someone who has only ever been kind to them?”
His expression falls slack. Mourning something that will never come to pass? It matters not. Meirlach will remain in my possession until I present it to Mother Mabel. Zephyrus will have to pry it from my cold, dead fingers before I ever let him touch it.
“Nothing to say?” I demand. “I want the truth. Tell me that the only reason you agreed to help us was to acquire Meirlach for yourself.”
“It’s not—”
“Say it!”
He looks physically ill as he replies, “Initially, that was my intention. When I learned you sought Meirlach, I planned to go along until the opportunity presented itself. But as time went on, as I came to know you, I began to question what was right.”
A likely story. “It didn’t stop you, though.”
“You have to understand my dilemma. I have been captive for centuries. I would have done anything to free myself.”
“And whose fault is that?” I fire back. While I do not know the reason for his captivity, I am almost certain it is justified. “You have only yourself to blame.”
“I know.” His voice has never been smaller. “But Meirlach was my last hope. Only a god-touched weapon can fell a god.”
“You’re saying you have no access to any other god-touched weapon? What of your dagger?”
“It is a mortal-made weapon. I had a bow once. I told you this. But I gifted it to my brother’s wife.”
For a good, long while, I stare at this man. Freedom: a captive’s greatest, most elusive hope.
“It didn’t have to be this way,” I quaver, fresh tears wetting my cheeks. “Had you simply asked, I might have agreed to part with the sword.” For a time, at least.
He stares at me. “You wouldn’t have given up Meirlach.”
“You don’t know that!” I cry, flinging up a hand. “You assumed things of me. You shoved me into a box and your mind did not change. Instead of being honest from the start, you deceived. You thought little of me.”
But I am not through with him. On the contrary, there is so much I might say, had I the time to do so. But I strike where he is weakest. Fell him with a single blow.
“You once asked if anyone could love someone like you,” I whisper. “Me—I could have, had you given me the opportunity. But you are a bird so enchanted by its own song that it remains deaf to the calls of others. That is why you are alone, why you will continue to be alone for the rest of your long, miserable existence.”
Pain fractures his expression. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry you were caught,” I spit. “Sorry you will return to the Orchid King empty-handed, no nearer to freedom.”
“Brielle, please.” He eases forward, yet I raise Meirlach, its blade luminous despite the darkness of the Grotto. He is too careless, tossing around my name. He must be truly desperate for my attention.
“One more step, and I will slit your throat, immortal or not.” My voice trembles with restrained rage. “Let this be your final warning: if you ever show your face in Thornbrook again, I will kill you. I don’t care what it takes or how complicated the steps. I will find a way to end your life.”
His eyes widen. Zephyrus, however, says nothing more.
After today, I will return to Thornbrook and I will not think of the West Wind ever again. With Meirlach in my possession, I can move on with my life. I doubt Zephyrus will be let off his leash anytime soon, if ever. A just punishment if I have ever heard one.
His attention slides to the blade, perhaps debating the likelihood that I will carry out my promise. “You need me to guide you back to Carterhaugh. It’s not safe.”
“I don’t need you, Zephyrus.” A lesson I have learned too late and at the cost of my trust in another. “I never did.”
Turning my back, I wait until his footsteps recede. And when stillness coats the Grotto’s every darkened hollow, I break. My knees hit the ground. Dagger and sword slip from my grip, impacting the stone with a harsh clatter as my hands lift to cover my face, sound shattering up my throat.
Why must I suffer so? Have I not been a dutiful servant? I think of that eleven-year-old girl left on Thornbrook’s doorstep. I am still that girl, even now.
Something warm and heavy settles across my back. I startle, peering up through my fingers in confusion. Harper stands above me. I did not hear her approach.
“You’re shaking,” she says before looking elsewhere, as though uncomfortable at the sight of my distress.
I then realize Harper wears only her gray cotton dress. The cloak she wore earlier warms my body—the same cloak I bestowed onto Harper last night near the fire.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
Sorry . I’m growing sick of that word. “Did you know?” Tears continue to slide across my knuckles, down into the grooves between my fingers. “What he planned to do with the sword?”
“I swear to you I didn’t. I honestly believed he cared for you.”
I scoff. “Right. And I’m sure Zephyrus told you to say this, considering you two are such close friends now.”
A prolonged pause follows. “I know I’ve given you no reason to trust me,” she says, voice soft with what I believe to be regret, “but that is the truth of it.”
Then we were both fools.
“Here, you dropped this.”
I glance at the object she offers me. The roselight throbs like a pale rosette in the center of Harper’s palm. It must have fallen from my pocket during the match.
Something goes cold within me. Snatching it from her hand, I heave the orb far into the darkness. It hits the stone with a chime, then bounces, rolls, before coming to a stop somewhere in the murk. I wish it had shattered.
Harper studies me in concern. “What now?”
I have traveled farther than I could have dreamed in my lifetime, but I am tired. I believe I could sleep for years if given the opportunity. “It’s time to return to Thornbrook,” I whisper flatly. “We have been gone long enough.”