Chapter 28
28
I’ M BUSY TENDING THE FIRE when Zephyrus wakes.
A lick of warm air stirs against my back. My heart quickens, lifting free of its prior weight. Breathe, Brielle. My hand tightens imperceptibly around the stick I’ve been using to stoke the fire. A dagger is preferable.
Turning, I find his eyes resting on me. The slash of his eyebrows forms a bridge above his nose, which I swear appears smaller, less crooked, though the wavering light may be to blame.
I’m not ready. That is immediately apparent. I assumed I’d have more time to decide what, exactly, I would say to Zephyrus when he regained consciousness. I’d gathered my thoughts, penned them onto the pages of my journal, harvesting them one by one: thorny anger, the bruised trappings of hurt, heartache’s shredded tatters. I would lay out every fault, every wrongdoing, before prying him apart. The West Wind would learn the game had changed. I, Brielle of Thornbrook, was a lamb no longer.
Fury sears my throat with violent velocity. Now, I think. Now is the time to strike—when the man is down. It would be nothing less than Zephyrus deserves.
But looking into his face, I see the weariness of a man who has built cities, only to watch them crumble.
The fire in my heart banks to a simmer. He and I are alone in Under, without friends or allies. We have only each other in this wretched place. Unfortunately, navigating its underbelly will require trust in the West Wind—and in myself.
“How are you feeling?” I ask quietly.
Zephyrus pushes upward with a wince and rests his back against the overhang. Harper’s cloak gapes at his chest, revealing the many puncture wounds, livid against his paler skin. “Tired.”
What does it mean that I have missed his voice?
He peers beyond the fire, scanning the shadowed hillside at my back, the dark of isolation. His fingers shape into a fist, and the air pops in my ears.
“I’ve created a sound barrier around the camp,” he explains, appearing even more fatigued following that display of power. “We may talk freely.” His gaze pins mine. “What happened?”
He can probably guess, given his lack of clothes, but I fill in the larger holes.
Eventually, those bright green eyes return to mine. “What of Pierus?” he asks.
I poke the fire to keep my hands occupied. “He was already at Miles Cross. When I found you in his cavern, there was a woman in a white dress. Dark hair, dark skin. She was accompanied by five individuals wearing jewel-toned cloaks.”
The corners of his mouth droop in unhappiness. “Her name is Oly. She assists Pierus when he is elsewhere. The others you saw are akin to Pierus’ council, though they’re more like lackeys than anything else.”
“What did she do to you?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“I think she dispensed something into your mouth, but I didn’t see what it was. A tincture, maybe.”
“Ah.” He nods in understanding. “Usually, I’m given something to numb the pain. Well, most of it, anyway.” The cloak hem disappears inside his fist. He holds it there, like an anchor. “I would not have wished you to see me this way.”
He thinks me prudish. “I have seen nakedness before.” Granted, only the other Daughters in the bathhouse, never a man, though he doesn’t need to know that.
“I meant the wounds.” He pokes the underside of one wrist. A clear substance oozes from the opening. “I don’t understand how I’m awake. I should be unconscious.”
“You know this from experience?”
The West Wind peers into the fire, tugging on his beard in a preoccupied manner. It has clearly been weeks since he shaved. “Twice before,” he says, “I attempted to escape the cleansing ritual prior to its completion. I did not get far before I blacked out.” He frowns and turns to me. “There remains the question of how I’m here, conscious, and—if I’m not mistaken—quite far from Pierus’ lair.”
“I had help from a friend.” Better to keep Lissi’s identity a secret. The less Zephyrus knows, the less Pierus can use against me. And I owe Lissi a great debt. She even surprised me a few hours ago by dropping off clean clothes for my charge, in addition to a pair of boots in his size. Then she’d left. For good this time, the sprite had said.
His hand twitches atop his thigh. I recognize the motion for what it is: the desire to grasp a weapon. “I thought better of you, Brielle.”
“Excuse me?”
A low growl of frustration darkens his response. “You have everything you could ever want. A home. A purpose and a place. You obtained Meirlach,” he says. “You’re an acolyte.”
“I’m not an acolyte,” I mumble.
He stares, green eyes blank beneath his mess of curls. “Yes, you are.” He gestures to the scarlet cloak concealing his nakedness.
“It’s not mine.” My voice softens further. “It’s Harper’s.”
Slowly, Zephyrus shakes his head. “I’m not following. You bested the Stallion. You acquired Meirlach. The title was yours to claim.”
“Harper delivered Meirlach to Mother Mabel, not I.”
There are words, and then there are the spaces between words—that which has not been said. The only way Harper could have delivered Meirlach to the abbess was if I gave up the sword. Zephyrus knows this. “Why?”
“I have my reasons.” I jab the stick into the logs. The tip catches, and I shove it into the ground, cool, moist clay extinguishing the flame in a curl of smoke.
“You’ve worked toward the position for ten years, yet when the time came to claim it, you gave the opportunity to someone else. Tell me why.”
Leather creaks as my gloved fingers curl inward. Rancorous, spiteful, cold-blooded, my ire possesses many faces, not just one. “I did what I thought was right at the time. I would have rather given the position to Harper, who held no uncertainty about claiming it, rather than take it for myself when I had begun to question my faith.” Even though it broke me to do so.
A muscle pulses in his jaw, its slow tic mirroring my agitated heartbeat. “You were free, Brielle. Free. Yet you returned to Under, placing yourself in unnecessary danger, and for what? To save the skin of a disgraced god?” The words prod, a knife to the spine. “It was foolish.”
“Saving your life was foolish?” Of all the boneheaded things to say. “A thank-you would be more appreciative.”
His expression shutters, closed and cold. “You are wasting your time.”
“You’re an ass.” I chuck the stick into the fire, and sparks flare like dying stars against the overhang. “Do you know what I went through to get here tonight? The emotional turmoil I’ve experienced?” If he did not look so pathetic lying there, I daresay I would leap over the fire and bash his head into the rock. “But maybe you’re right and this has been a complete waste of time. Should I have left you to Pierus’ cruel ministrations? Perhaps you wouldn’t be in this situation had you not deceived me. I—” My throat closes. “I thought you cared for me,” I whisper. Strong in conviction I have been, but not strong enough.
“Brielle.” He lets out a long, weary breath. “I do care. I promise you, I do.”
“Not enough to put someone else’s needs before your own.”
He clenches his jaw, fights to neutralize his features. “All right,” he says. “Maybe I deserved that.”
“That is the least of what you deserve.” My voice roughens with rising emotion, the desire, like a frenzy, to tip back my head and howl, sound shattering up my throat. “You—” I must say it. “You are the cause of my misfortune.”
His hand drops. “ I’m the cause of your misfortune?”
“Spring, ten years earlier. You do not remember?” How easily my fingers curl, driving deep into the flesh of my thighs. “Think back, Zephyrus. Remember the story I told you. Remember the storm that destroyed Veraness, my home. Remember that my mother will never return.”
Fire—chaos and light—is all that separates us. “Veraness.” He frowns at the hands clenched in his lap. “I have not heard that name in a long time.” Then he looks up. “Veraness was your home?”
I’m shaking. Had the Orchid King not gifted me Mother Mabel’s journal, I would never have known the part Zephyrus played in my abandonment. And yet, I am here. I’ve sacrificed much to save him. I fear my own motivations despite the hurt harbored in my heart. “Do you deny responsibility of its demise?”
He appears dazed. “I tried to sever the bond that day.” His recollection rolls forth with slow contemplation. “I used all my strength. There was… much destruction.”
His attempt at escape left thousands dead, my home unsalvageable. Three days later, my mother was gone. It was then that I learned love was temporary.
“Your mother died?” he whispers, searching my gaze.
I look away, let the void overhead soak my vision black. “She isn’t dead,” I mutter, “or she wasn’t. I don’t know where she is now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You have no idea what it means to be sorry. To you, sorry is a scapegoat, a means to avoid accountability for your actions. It’s no wonder you are alone.”
His shoulders roll inward, and I vow not to display a shred of pity for him. He may be a beaten dog on this night, but weeks before, he held the leash.
The fault is yours, I nearly cry. It will be the club I wield, brought down with shattering force.
But that is simply not true.
I try to swallow, yet despair lodges in my throat, a snarled old knot. The West Wind was the perfect scapegoat. If he is responsible for my sad tale, then I do not have to accept what I have feared all along: I was not an important enough reason for my mother to stay.
“My mother had been ill for a long time,” I begin. “Her mind lacked the clarity necessary to make sound decisions.” And when Veraness had been ripped from beneath our feet, who can say how severely it damaged her fragile mind?
Zephyrus drags a thumb along his lower lip, studying me as he did on our very first meeting, when he had yet to decide who I was, who I might become. “The story you told at the Well of Past. Was she of stable mind then?”
“Mentally, I think she was beginning to degrade, but I did not know it at the time.” I was only a child, without the answers to life’s problems. Back then, she did not mumble nonsense about the end of the world. Neither did she hoard tinctures, convinced of her premature death.
“She hit you.”
“She did.” I do not excuse my mother’s behavior, but she was troubled. If she could not help herself, I could not help her either.
“She abandoned you.” As he searches my gaze, I witness in him another realization, like a candle taking flame. “That’s why you’ve been at Thornbrook for so long.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. A trembling manifests in my core, rippling outward, and tears well before I’m aware of them, salted tracks sliding down my face.
“My mother was sick,” I choke. “She was sick for a long time, and I could not help her, could only watch as she deteriorated, and changed.”
“Brielle.” The West Wind’s tone gentles. “You were a child. It was not your responsibility to care for your mother.”
The dam has broken. The flood will not cease. “She wouldn’t seek help. I tried. Every day, I tried. But over the years, it grew worse. She claimed she never had a daughter. Said I was a liar, that I was only pretending to love her to steal her money, though we had none to spare. Business slowly declined, and eventually, she was forced to shut down the shop.” No employment, no means to support a family. And when the storm hit, no home. My mother could not differentiate between reality and illusion. Her mind was too far gone.
My chest caves, and my head drops into my palms. I remember the gates, their glinting iron points, Thornbrook’s massive front doors, the church bell ringing so sweetly. Finally, my mother’s retreating back as I stood upon the rain-slickened stoop, a child of eleven.
“I try not to think about that day,” I sob into my hands, “but how can a mother treat her daughter so cruelly? How could she leave me?”
I was defective. I wasn’t enough. Not for my own mother to choose love over fear. I am, a decade later, still mourning.
Rising to his feet, Zephyrus circles the fire to crouch at my side, placing a hand upon my back. The gesture wrenches open the wound, my heart in pieces.
“I loved her. And yet, some days I loathe her. I hate her.” Spite licks at my skin, seeking an outlet, even as my shoulders curl forward, attempting to repress that foul emotion. “But as much as I loved her, she didn’t love me.”
“I do not believe that.”
He is wrong, I know it in my soul, yet I can’t help but ask, “How can you know?”
“Because—” He catches my chin, draws it upward so I’m forced to look into his eyes. “If anyone is deserving of love, Brielle, it’s you.”
Deserving of love. What does that even mean?
“How can I feel this way about the woman who birthed me?” My chest heaves. “She gave me life. Is that not the greatest gift?”
Zephyrus takes my hand in his. Our fingers lock, an effortless slide. “We do not have the privilege of choosing our parents, unfortunately. Not everyone is adept at the job. As such, we must sometimes carry this pain throughout our lives.”
His face loses focus behind my swimming vision. At times, the West Wind is unbearable. Now he is knowing, sage.
“I understand why you hold to faith so tightly,” he says. “In your darkest hours, your god did not abandon you. He offered you light when you had none.”
Yes. It is exactly how he describes. It is everything.
“I also understand why my actions hurt you. How poorly I treated you. Why your trust in me was broken.”
My throat squeezes, and I choke out, “I did trust you. I didn’t want to, but I did.”
“I know,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.” He releases a slow exhalation. “Selfishness is a flaw in me, one I have long recognized. It is difficult for me to nurture honest relationships.”
Difficult, or impossible? “Why are you bound to the Orchid King? And I would like the truth.” If ever there was a time to be honest, let it be now.
Zephyrus holds my stare. I’m satisfied when he shies away first. “The truth has never come easily to me.”
“Sounds like a coward’s life.”
He snorts, yet the sound holds no humor. “I suppose you’re right.”
Pulling away, he returns to the opposite side of the fire, settling the cloak around him. The flames have burned low, and I appreciate the whole of his face, every ridge and curved bone, the angles more harmonious than I have seen previously.
“Will you tell me why you run?” I ask the West Wind.
Emotion tautens his features. I recognize it instantly. Am painfully familiar with the reluctance of having to claw away something rooted deep. “All right, then. I will start from the beginning.”
Easing back against the stone, Zephyrus stares into the fire and begins.
“I was born in a realm far from here called the City of Gods. My brothers and I mastered the changing seasons. Boreas, the eldest, is the North Wind, and controls the north’s brute chill. Notus, the South Wind, reigns over the hot summer winds. Lastly, there is Eurus, the East Wind. The storms do love him.”
Boreas, Zephyrus, Notus, Eurus. The Anemoi.
“There’s not much I can complain about in those early years. Wine flowed and our great city blossomed. I was, above all else, beloved.” His entire demeanor softens, and for a moment I can imagine the man he used to be, prior to his banishment. “And then I met Hyacinth.”
I’m appalled by the spike of jealousy that shoots through me. In all the time I’ve spent in Zephyrus’ company, I’ve never heard this quality to his voice, as if he speaks of something so precious it must be cherished, shielded from the world’s harsh winds.
“He was a prince from a neighboring realm, visiting our city to bargain with the Council of Gods. Those first few months, we spent every possible second in each other’s company. The smell of his skin, the sound of his laughter. It was overwhelming.”
My stomach twists uncomfortably, for the yearning in his gaze is plain. Yearning for someone else.
“I loved him,” Zephyrus says. “But unfortunately, I was not the only one entranced by the youth.” Strain folds the corners of his eyes, that capricious mouth. “His name is Apollo. God of music, truth, and light. One afternoon, I discovered Hyacinth and Apollo tossing a discus in the park.” He drops his gaze, takes a long breath, dredging up strength for the tale’s end. “Watching them interact, I questioned everything. The way Hyacinth looked at him… It hurt,” he says, “to think that what we had was something he could find so easily with another. It pained me to realize he would leave me for Apollo—bright, shining Apollo—and that, ultimately, I was not enough.”
I feel the sadness in him, which in turn draws me in, petals unfurling, naked heart exposed. If ever there was a time when I felt connected to Zephyrus, it is now, all walls tumbling down.
“It was my gravest mistake,” he murmurs. “The moment in time I wish I could reverse, but not even gods are all-powerful.” A beat of silence passes, and I wait.
“As Apollo released the discus, I sent a strong wind through the park. I was aiming for Apollo. But when the wind caught the discus, I lost control. It slammed into Hyacinth’s skull instead.”
Wet and torn, the breath catches in his chest. I don’t move. I can’t.
“Hyacinth fell,” Zephyrus whispers, “and did not rise.”
“You killed him.”
Zephyrus swallows, and his eyes swim with tears. “It was not my intention.”
“Then what was your intention? You claim you loved this man, yet putting someone in harm’s way is not love. To give up everything you are, to choose another’s life over your own? That is love.”
“You are correct,” he says dully. Shadows slither nearer to our depleting circle of light, but I’ve run out of fuel to feed the flames. “It was not love. It was possession.”
Against my better judgment, the indignation softens in me. No use beating a man already down. At least he’s aware of his wrongdoing. “There was nothing to be done? Even in the City of Gods?”
“No. His death arrived far quicker than I anticipated. Anyone who might have been able to reverse what had occurred did not wish to help me.” Parting the top of the cloak, he points to the marking near his ribs. “When Hyacinth’s blood fell to the earth, flowers bloomed in its wake. This tattoo is in memory of him.”
I stare at the tattoo, its trio of flowers. Beneath lies his skin, dusted gold, and flexing muscle. I drag my focus away, though it takes effort. “And Apollo?”
“Apollo was inconsolable. I had not considered how deeply his feelings for Hyacinth ran.”
As I shift these details into their proper places, the image grows clearer. What was it Pierus once said? It will never be enough. I had hoped you would realize that by now. “Does Pierus have any relation to Hyacinth?”
He sends a gentle stream from his fingertips to wake the dying fire. It flares, painfully bright, then gutters. Nothing remains to catch and burn. “Hyacinth was Pierus’ son.”
At last, I see the whole of this tangled web. The reason for Zephyrus’ enslavement. A father’s vengeance stretched eternal.
“What happened afterward?” For I sense that we have not reached the end of this tragic tale. Hyacinth’s death is the dawn, but the day is long.
Zephyrus studies the glowing coals. “At first, nothing. I expected Pierus to demand a trial, but months passed, and the Council of Gods did not send for me. Over time, Hyacinth’s death weakened my resolve. I lost sleep. I was not eating properly. The grief was too fresh.”
He drags at his lower lip in thought, then says, “To keep my mind occupied, I joined Boreas’ efforts in organizing a coup with my brothers. We attempted to overthrow our parents, who reigned over our great city, but we failed. Once the dust settled, we were banished from our realm, cast off to the four corners of this new world, never to return to our shining home.”
“And how long ago was that?”
He shrugs. “Centuries? Millennia? Time passes strangely in Under, as you know.”
It is another moment before he goes on.
“Although I was exiled to Carterhaugh, Pierus did not believe my punishment was just. After appealing to the Council of Gods, he was granted permission to cross over and oversee my sentence. They gifted him my name, the power to control me. He essentially stole Under from the fair folk and proclaimed himself its king.”
There is so much information here my mind struggles to process it all. Does Mother Mabel know of this? And did the tithe exist prior to Pierus’ arrival, or did he implement that on his own?
“For killing his son,” Zephyrus croaks, “I am forever in Pierus’ debt. The power in my blood feeds Under so the realm may continue to exist, and at the close of every seventh year, I am sacrificed. I do not die, not in the sense that mortals do, but I am emptied. I become a shell, a god made vacant of power, until the dawn of a new cycle, when I am revived.”
“There’s nothing you can do? No way to sever the ties binding you?”
Leaning forward, Zephyrus drags the pile of clothes Lissi provided onto his lap. “No methods worth pursuing. Once the tithe is complete, I will be bound for another seven years.”
I can’t accept that. If he’s bound, why in seven-year cycles? What else must I know to get to the bottom of this mess? Fumbling in my pocket for the roselight, I pull it free. “Look.” Its feeble glow is but a ghost of color on glass. “Do you see what Pierus is doing to you? What this horrible ritual perpetuates? There has to be another way.”
Yet the West Wind stares at the roselight as though it is the sun rising after the longest, darkest night. “You threw it away,” he says quietly. “Weeks ago.”
I’ve carried the roselight since Harper’s visit to the forge, though I’ve considered flinging it down a well. Twice, I nearly did. My fingers refused to let go. “Harper retrieved it,” I say, and leave it at that.
Still he watches me, expression guarded. “Why did you come for me?”
There is no singular answer. Because of the way he is in this moment, all defenses brought low. Because he is more than his faults. Because beneath that shining immortal skin, Zephyrus is just a man. Despite all that he’s done, I believe, as the Father believes, that people can change. They can begin again.
“Everyone leaves me,” he murmurs, “but you…”
My heart squeezes in response. “I came back.”
His throat dips, and I watch the tension ease, and settle into a deeply profound peace. “You came back.”