Chapter 27
27
B LACK SKY, BLACKER WOODS . T HE deepest, lightless pockets of the forest quiver ominously as I race along the twisting path, following the river beyond the bridge. Clamped in my hand, the roselight pulses weakly. Feeble, to be certain, but bright enough to avoid tripping over any lurking creatures. Depending on which direction I hold it, the light either flares or dims. If the roselight is connected to Zephyrus, surely it will help guide me to his location?
Eventually, a cave comes into view. My legs twinge with fatigue, yet I increase my pace, diving into the cave’s dark mouth blindly. With the Orchid King preoccupied at Miles Cross, I’ve time yet.
The tunnel opens into a moonlit cavern—Pierus’ lair. The mound of soil where he normally holds council is vacant. For whatever reason, the field of pink flowers appears wilted and gray, as though it sags beneath a coating of ash.
Across the way, a motionless lump draws my attention to the floor.
Zephyrus? My mouth shapes his name, but no sound emerges. The sight before me has killed it, wholly and completely.
He is pale. So, so pale, that resplendent, sun-kissed skin having bled of color. Limp lashes droop against wan cheekbones, curls of hair plastered to his clammy skull. A short beard darkens his jaw. He is naked as the day he was born.
I stumble forward, dazed. Carnivorous blossoms have fastened their small, searching mouths to his body: arms, stomach, even the insides of his muscled thighs. They drink in prolonged swallows, the attached vines undulating with each mouthful. The skin where the tiny spines have taken root bulges, sore-like with irritation. It’s subtle, but his chest stirs. Breath in his lungs? I’ll take it.
My hands hover near his body, but I don’t dare touch him. If I listen closely, I can hear the sound of draining fluid. A ring of white cakes his mouth from how tightly his lips press together, and I watch, repulsed, as a collection of rust-colored petals wrenches free from his ribs with a wet gurgle, revealing the small tattoo I’d spotted months ago—a trio of hyacinth blossoms.
My concern surrounding the vines deepens. I wonder, yet again, why Zephyrus is subject to this horrid anguish. I fear he has been here all this time, hours, days, weeks. I’ll need to safely remove the parasitic flora. Then distance. Shelter. A place to rest until I can figure out the next steps.
The flowers, however, are deeply imbedded. When I attempt to pry one of the buds free, the needles slide deeper into flesh, sucking eagerly. Black veins distend his parchment-pale skin.
The scuff of what might be a shoe echoes through the tunnel—someone approaches.
I spring toward a niche in the far wall as a tall, willowy woman glides into the moonlit chamber. She wears a flowing white dress and carries a pack across one shoulder. Mortal, she is not. A luminescent glow brightens her deep brown skin.
Five cloaked creatures trail the woman. Their raised hoods shimmer like the purest jewels—ruby and citrine, emerald and sapphire and amethyst. Flat, stony eyes sit within heavy folds of copper skin, and large, ornamental rings hang from their noses. Their faces bear eerie resemblance to goats.
The dark-skinned woman crouches at Zephyrus’ side before retrieving something from her leather satchel. With her back to me, I cannot see what object she removes. The cloaked individuals observe her from afar.
I’ve half a mind to fling my blade into the woman’s spine, but she departs the cavern as quickly as she arrived, along with her colorful companions. When her footsteps fade, I return to Zephyrus. Nothing appears to have changed.
Gently, I tug on the vine attached to his right shoulder. The West Wind twitches and falls still.
This plant is a living organism. Even if I were to sever the vines, the mouths would likely remain fixed to his body. If I disentangle Zephyrus, will Pierus sense it? He is connected to this horrible plant, after all. But I suppose it matters not.
Sliding the pack from my shoulder, I rummage through my supplies, pushing aside my journal and cache of food until I find the flint and steel, a piece of cloth, and a small vial of oil. All combine to create a torch in miniature, which I set ablaze.
Orange light fills the space as I hold the torch beneath one of the vines. Flames lick hungrily, the waxy skin beginning to char.
A scream shatters through the cave. Its blood-curdling pitch sends me to my feet, the nightshade roots lashing toward me.
I sidestep, driving my dagger in a vicious downward swipe. Sharpened iron peels through the vine’s flesh. Blood—Zephyrus’ blood—spews from the incision. The root recoils with a desperate shriek.
Screams compound as the blaze leaps from vine to vine. Smoke, dense and roiling, stings my throat. Within a few moments, the nightshade plant disintegrates. What remains? Red-bitten skin and a half-dead god.
I shrug off my cloak and maneuver Zephyrus’ arms through the sleeves so the garment conceals his nakedness. Then I crouch low and heave the West Wind’s body over one shoulder. Bladesmithing has its benefits. Tonight, I’m able to carry both our weights.
We reach the mouth of the cave without incident. Village lights shiver in the distance, but I continue onward, plunging through the impermeable forest with blind fear. There is no grassy path to guide me safely. Eventually, the soil fissures and the trees transition to the exposed clay deposits of an eroded cliffside. By the time I stumble upon adequate shelter, my back aches fiercely and sweat soaks my underarms.
Carefully, I set Zephyrus beneath an overhang. He should be safe until I return. After one last look at his face, I race back the way I came, my sights set on the distant village.
A rapid rat-a-tat-tat against the door, knuckles on wood. Three heartbeats later, the door eases open. A round, black eye peers through the crack.
Lissi’s pale skin drains to a bloodless hue. “What are you doing here?”
“I need your help.”
“No.” The word spikes with fear. “You must leave.” The door snicks shut.
“Please.” I lay my gloved palm against the wood, its rough grooves catching the leather. My heart limps from the long, arduous run. Lissi is my last hope.
“The tithe has begun.” The door muffles her voice, though not its bite. “The rules are plain. We cannot interfere.”
“I would not come to you unless I had need.”
“You are mortal, sweet. I will not stretch out my neck for you.”
A cool wind stirs at my back, coaxing me to turn. The village is steeped in a fog of desertion, windows shuttered, the river an oily pool in the distance.
“I know I’m endangering you by returning,” I say lowly, tightening my hand around the knob, “but I swear, this is the only time I will ask for your help.” She cannot know what it means that I am here at all, placing my trust in the fair folk.
“Unfortunately, the answer is no.”
The hollow moan of a woodwind instrument carries from a great distance, and a wave of cold sweeps through me, pebbling my skin. It sounds like a dirge.
My voice croaks out. “What if I were to offer you a trade?”
Silence hangs between us. “A trade?” Lissi’s girlish voice brightens with excitement.
I slide open my pack, pull out the old, worn pages of the Text. “My most prized possession,” I say. “It’s yours if you help me.”
The door swings open. Lissi’s eyes dart over my shoulder, side to side. She has exchanged her usual waistcoat for a cherry scarf and lumpy wool hat. “Come inside.” Grasping the front of my alb, she hauls me over the threshold.
A hiss of pain escapes me as my head knocks the top of the ceiling of the single-roomed structure. A pile of blankets identifies Lissi’s sleeping area. It smells of herbs, a bright, clean scent.
Lissi tugs my arm impatiently. “Show me.”
As I hand over the Text, I understand this is the last I will ever see of it. I’ve no room in my heart to grieve. The decision has been made. A steadfast comfort, now passed on to another.
Lissi stares at the heavily bound manuscript, unimpressed. “Your prized possession is a book?”
I try not to take offense. “Don’t you like to read?”
“Read?” She giggles. “How boring. I prefer the more salacious activities, if you know what I mean.” Lissi offers an impish wink, and I can’t help but smile in response.
“I suppose it’s not that salacious,” I admit, although the Book of Night contains a few hair-raising tales.
“What about that?” She points to my chest.
My necklace? I catch the pendant between two fingers, the pad of my thumb pressed into the trinity knot. Mother Mabel said to never take it off. “It’s not for trade, I’m afraid.”
She pouts, yet glances between the necklace and the Text. “I do not care for a book, sweet. Keep it.” She returns the Text, much to my surprise. “Now, what need do you have of me?”
I sag beneath the most profound relief. “Zephyrus is injured,” I say, shoving the tome back into my rucksack. “Will you tend to him? You mentioned you were knowledgeable in the healing arts.”
Her mouth curls, stretching around those dull, slime-coated gums. “You are a good girl, sweet. Why risk your life for the West Wind? I’ve warned you he cannot be trusted.”
“I’m not here to have my decisions questioned,” I state flatly. “Will you help me or not?”
Lissi considers me beneath lowered eyelids. The sprite is tiny, but no pushover, if the fire in her gaze is any indication. “Very well. Let me grab my supplies.” She brushes off her hands, selects a nondescript bag by the door. Pulling back the heavy drapery, she peeks through the window. “How far away is he?”
“A few miles.”
“Then we will move quickly.”
Lissi wastes no time herding me back through the forest. I lead her to the overhang, beneath which lies an unconscious West Wind. She halts, a childlike hand covering her mouth. “Oh, dear.”
The red cloak gapes at his chest, revealing livid teeth marks where the flowers had been attached. Filth clumps his head of curls. He has not moved since I left.
The sprite kneels next to Zephyrus while I hover in the background. She passes a hand over one of the wounds, traces a black vein running up his inner forearm. “These are from the nightshade plant.” She lifts her gaze to mine, wary, questioning.
I hesitate, unsure of what information to divulge. I do not wish to endanger Zephyrus further, or Lissi, but I fear the consequences of withholding vital information, so I nod. “I took him from the Orchid King’s lair.”
She exhales sharply and removes her hand from Zephyrus’ body. “Foolish of you, but there’s nothing we can do about it now. Do you know how long the flowers were attached?”
Though the guilt ebbs, inevitably, it returns. If I had known of his torment sooner, would I have come? “I fear it has been many weeks.”
I explain the roselight’s change in color, why I believe that it signals Zephyrus’ declining health. Lissi takes the glass orb in hand, her expression grave. “That is a perceptive observation, sweet. You may be correct.”
“He cannot die, can he? He is immortal.”
After returning the roselight to me, Lissi begins unpacking her supplies. “You forget Zephyrus is not from this realm. His body reacts differently to Under’s influences. He will not die, but he can be harmed, and scarred.” A variety of tools, jars, and bandages stuff the many leather pockets of her bag. She selects a small flask, pulls away the stopper. A viscous substance clings to the container. “How were the flowers detached from Zephyrus? Was the ritual complete?”
Ritual? A frisson of nerves wends itself through the confusion. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Lissi frowns, mouth pinched beneath the overwhelming vastness of her great stony eyes. “You are not aware of Zephyrus’ circumstances? Why the tithe is necessary for Under?”
I shake my head. Our participation is required to ensure the continued lease of Thornbrook’s grounds, but I’ve been told nothing beyond that.
“In order for Under to thrive,” the sprite explains, “a pool of energy must feed the realm. Long before the fair folk were driven belowground, the land produced its own energy from which we drew. It powered Under’s enchantments, its weather patterns, the cycle of its sun and moon. But since the Orchid King’s arrival, Under’s power has weakened. He has absorbed that power into himself, leaving little for the realm. Thus, we require a donor.”
As her gaze catches mine, a sense of foreboding trickles through me. “Zephyrus,” I whisper.
“Yes. His blood provides the power necessary for the realm’s existence. But mortal blood is powerful, too, in its own way, especially those of the faith. Only the blood of the truly devoted is able to draw forth the power of a god, especially one who has fallen so far from grace. After all, what are gods without disciples? This is why the Orchid King has manipulated the abbess into contributing to the tithe.”
She knows of Zephyrus’ suffering. They all know, all choose to shy from it, and reap the rewards at the cost of another.
“And you do nothing to stop this?” I grind out, unable to hide my disgust.
She shrugs her thin shoulders and says, “What can we do? The Orchid King is formidable. No one would dare challenge him. As for our more immediate concerns, the West Wind’s declining health likely explains the diminished roselight. The Orchid King is voracious. He knows the tithe will deplete Zephyrus of his power for the foreseeable future, so he drains as much as he can for himself in the days leading up to the ceremony.”
So Zephyrus is essentially a sacrifice. This must be how he pays the debt owed to the Orchid King—his power used to perpetuate the realm. Centuries of enslavement, no better than worm fodder.
I had no idea. None.
“What happens during the tithe if he’s too weak to give his power? How does that work?”
“I don’t know,” Lissi says. After soaking the cloth in salve, she begins to dab at his wounds. “Based on these markings”—she gestures to the thin, sickle-shaped discolorations on his neck and chest—“it appears the ritual finished prematurely.” Her eyes shift to mine with disconcerting gravity. This I know: whatever I have done, I will likely live to regret it.
“What is it?” I whisper. “Tell me. I can handle it.”
“I am not certain of that, sweet.”
She removes a second bottle from her supplies. “During the cleansing ritual, a small dose of venom is injected from the flowers’ spines into the host. This ensures he or she remains unconscious, thus mitigating any pain. However, if the flowers are removed prior to the ritual’s completion, the nightshade plant injects a high dose of venom into the bloodstream—enough to kill.”
“I thought you said he couldn’t die!”
“He will not die,” she repeats, “but for some, death is a welcome relief. Once the venom reaches his heart, it will paralyze him indefinitely.”
This cannot be. How was I to know the consequences of my actions? I could not let the West Wind weather that gruesome state a moment longer. “How long until the paralysis is total?”
Lissi untwists the cap from the second bottle before setting it aside. “Difficult to say. I have a tincture that will bring him to a conscious state, but eventually, he will succumb to the venom.” She places a third bottle full of green liquid on the ground, a clink of glass on stone. “I estimate we have a handful of days, at best.”
What, exactly, defines a handful? Three days? Four? Do we measure the time aboveground, or below? All is obscured, and I cannot bear it. “There’s nothing you can do?” I urge. “No cure?”
“None that I’m aware of. The venom can only be flushed from his system if Zephyrus returns to the Orchid King. Only nightshade can reverse the effects.”
“He can’t go back.” That is not a life. That is not even existence.
Lissi peers at me as though I am a particularly petulant child. “You would risk your life, your livelihood, for a disgraced god?” When I fail to respond, she continues, “Once the Orchid King realizes Zephyrus is gone, he will do everything in his power to find him. The tithe remains incomplete without the West Wind.”
A difficult decision? Not particularly. A foolish one? Absolutely. My mind, however, will not change.
Reclaiming the second bottle, Lissi pours what appears to be ointment onto his wounds, and there are many. The inflamed skin begins to scab with hardened blood. Afterward, the sprite tips the green liquid down his throat, clamping his jaw shut so he’s forced to swallow.
“He should wake within a few hours,” she assures, returning the empty bottles to her satchel. “I cannot stay.”
As I expected. Nevertheless, I am sad to see Lissi go. “Thank you,” I say. “You have done more than I have a right to ask for. I will not forget it.” As she pushes to her feet, I catch her hand, waiting until her eyes meet mine, curious, amused. “If ever there’s a need, you will always have a friend in me.”
A smile ghosts across her wide, lipless mouth. “A mortal and a sprite, friends?” The chime of her laughter shivers through me as she takes her leave. “These are strange times indeed.”