Chapter 32
32
I N THE LIGHTLESS WOMB OF the bog, I run.
Leaping over collapsed vegetation, I plow through the murk, doing my best to avoid the deepest waters, the areas of marshland devoid of risen earth. My stomach cramps, snarling into a knot beneath my right hip bone. It is beyond pain, beyond the most excruciating agony. Rest, my body demands. I cannot.
I’ve pushed myself to the very edge of what I can sustain, yet my weighted legs continue to move. I crash through stagnant pools and rotten debris, my dress in tatters. The air lies dead against my skin.
Ahead—a break in the trees. Light punctures through every gap and hollow, sweeping wide across a long plain of short yellow grass elevated above the waterlogged grave of the swamp. As the baying reaches new heights, I glance over my shoulder. Shapes crowd the undergrowth, too many to count.
I careen forward with a choked sob. Death awaits. I’m not ready. I cannot die here, so far from the sun.
Halfway across the clearing, my boot catches on a depression in the soil. I hit the ground hard, rolling twice before slamming onto my back.
My dagger appears between one breath and the next. Pushing to my feet, I face the pack, iron blade steady despite my heaving lungs. The hilt bites into my palm, and the pain grounds me. I am not dead. Not yet, anyway.
The hounds close in, beasts wrought by the realm’s insidious darkness. Nothing remains of their snouts except small cavities. Their rib bones gleam white, bare of muscle or skin, revealing the scooped-out hollows of their stomachs. I glance between them in rising panic, for the circle closes at my back, cutting off my escape.
The first hound lunges with a snarl. I pivot, slashing across its eyes. It yelps and falls back, riling the pack into a great howling mass that snaps at my legs.
I kick out, catching one in the snout, then punch my blade through another’s back. There must be thirty surrounding me in total. They take turns nipping and retreating, stirring me into blackened terror, where there is neither thought nor clarity, where the blade is all that matters.
Another hound strikes my leg. I spin away from its attack and kick out. As my foot connects with the ribcage, its teeth sink into my thigh and I scream, driving the blade into the back of its skull. The creature drops, twitching.
I whirl to catch another hound mid-leap. It slams into my chest, and I go sprawling, the dagger knocked from my grasp.
A spiraling squall whips through the clearing, and the pack scatters.
Something slides beneath my arms. “It’s me,” Zephyrus whispers. “Hold on.”
Up we go, the wind dragging us into the trees. I’m too exhausted to protest, allowing Zephyrus to maneuver my feet upon a high branch, my back to the wide, sturdy trunk. He’s a mess. Mud still cakes his ripped trousers, and his tunic hangs limp and dingy around his frame. A cut on his chin, newly opened, weeps blood.
“Thank you,” I whisper. At the base of the tree, the hounds plant their paws onto the trunk, yelping their protest.
Crouching at my side, the West Wind relieves me of my rucksack, setting it aside. He then adjusts the fabric of my dress so it covers my bare legs. “It seems I’m not the only one who is lured by your scent,” he whispers.
“I’m tired, Zephyrus.” My voice strains. I could sleep for a thousand years if given the opportunity.
“I know.” He tucks a damp red curl behind my ear, the tips of his fingers brushing the heated skin there. “I’ll take care of it.”
I catch his hand in mine. “There are too many.” Wan is his face, and drawn. Hour by hour, the West Wind fades.
“You worry too much, darling.” He offers me a smile, however forced. “Am I not the West Wind? Do I not call forth spring in all forms?” Yet those mossy eyes have dulled.
Quietly and with feeling, I whisper, “I don’t want you to die.”
“Brielle.” Equally quiet and aggrieved. “At this point, I would welcome death.”
He is gone within the next heartbeat, dropping onto the grass below. Out punches four spheres of air in rapid succession. Three hit their marks. The fourth veers wide as Zephyrus sidesteps, evading a rogue beast.
I’ve never seen anything like it. He is music in tangible form. The wind is his to forge, and he hammers it effortlessly, noosing another two beasts, decapitating a third with a sword hewn from the air itself. But immortal or not, the West Wind is unwell. I cannot allow him to face this alone.
As I drop into the meadow, the air—fashioned into two massive, circular blades—careens forward, slicing the grass to bits. Blood sprays as the dogs scatter. When the aftermath settles, four are dead, sliced to ribbons. Their white bones dissolve into dust.
The baying spikes with newfound hunger. As the drove regroups, Zephyrus retreats until his back hits a tree, legs sinking into a half-crouch, hands raised. Air erupts, then dies to a mere breeze that goes no farther than his reach. His eyes widen as the hounds surge toward him and he disappears from view.
Terror like I’ve never known surges through me. “Zephyrus!” Snatching my dagger from the ground, I race toward him.
Under shudders in warning. I manage two more steps before my ears pop, and out sweeps a roar that buckles my knees. There is a scream.
Gale-force winds pound upon me. I lift my head, pushing against the force as entire trees are uprooted, tossed far and wide. Through my slitted vision, I watch the West Wind unfurl. Flowers blossom at his feet, a blooming field infusing color throughout the land.
He hums an eerie tune set in a darkly minor key, the wind tearing at his hair, snaking around his arms in protective bands. The air alters scent: sweetest honey and warmest sunlight. His eyes, no longer green, glow liquid silver. He is something I cannot comprehend.
Zephyrus flings out his arms, tossing the hounds skyward. Then he brings his hands together with a world-shattering crack.
A massive stem erupts from the clearing’s center. I stumble back, losing my balance as another tremor rocks the ground. Long, vicious thorns rupture through the stalk to pierce the hounds on their descent.
The melody eases into a collection of haunted chords, the gentle rise and fall of modulation. As it changes key, new shoots penetrate the beasts’ shadowy skin, gouging into flesh as worms carve through earth. With another crack, what remains of the hounds dissipates.
“Zephyrus!” I do not recognize my voice, its shrill cry. I hurry toward him. Blood stains his clothes black.
He stumbles, face taut with pain, and stares at me with those odd, silver eyes. He is strange and he is a stranger.
“It’s me,” I whisper. “Brielle.”
Silver dims, giving way to sweeping green. “Brielle.” He scans my body, the lines of grit and blood crisscrossing my skin, the scabbed sores. “Are you hurt?”
“My thigh.” I gesture to the teeth marks. Blood collects at the wound’s edges.
He studies it for a moment, then says, “It will need to be cleaned. My brother might have something for it.” As if sensing my distress, he adds, “The hounds are not venomous. I’m more concerned with infection.”
I nod, drop my dress, though the ground feels unstable. A small miracle, really, that we both escaped the hounds alive.
“The antidote?” Zephyrus asks.
My eyes snap skyward. There, to the east—a thin line of gold. “Here.” I pull it from my pocket and pass it over.
The West Wind studies the clear liquid, twisting the vial this way and that. “This isn’t the antidote I gave you.”
Grave is his expression. Grave and frightening. “Yes,” I reply cautiously, “it is.”
Crushing the vial in his grip, he turns away. “Then we have been deceived.”
“What do you mean?” When he does not reply, I grab his shoulder. “Zephyrus.”
His muscles lock beneath my fingers, wooden and inflexible. “I mean it’s a fake!” he roars, hurling the vial into the brush. Glass shatters against the hard corners of the forest.
“Are you sure?” How exactly can he know? “Maybe there’s an explanation.”
He shrugs off my touch. “I’m certain, Brielle. We need bezoar grounds. This is water, nothing more. I’m not sure if he changed the contents somehow or…” What follows is the low, tortured sound of the helpless and the broken. “I was so focused on deceiving Yakim I didn’t stop to consider whether he would do the same.” He’s shaking, a fist pressed to his forehead. “ Damn him! ”
Numbness begins to branch through my body, heavy and cold. The journey, the deceit, the charade, yet our actions have made no difference. We are only miles nearer to Zephyrus’ total paralysis.
The West Wind limps off a few steps before one knee folds and he’s forced to use a tree for support. Seconds later, his other knee buckles. He collapses with a cry of pain.
Rushing to his side, I take his hand in mine. We had days, he and I. In another life, perhaps years. But the venom permeates his body with increasing rapidity. I do not know how much time remains.
“Can we talk about this?” I ask.
Zephyrus pinches the bridge of his nose. “What is there to discuss? The entire mission was pointless.”
Gently, I draw Zephyrus’ hand to my heart. His palm splays to absorb the throbbing beat.
“Do not give in to despair,” I whisper, pressing my cheek to his. “You are alive. We both are. The day is not yet done.”
His swallow clicks near my ear. “I appreciate the sentiment, but this is the end for me. I can’t escape this fate.” A hard breath shudders out of him, and he pulls away, rubbing at the wetness trickling down his cheeks. “I might as well wait for the paralysis to set in. It’s what Pierus expected anyway.”
Curling my arms around his waist, I draw him deeper into my embrace. He is stiffer than a plank of wood, but our warmth blends, and he eventually sags into me with a small sound of relief.
“Every moment spent in my company is a risk to your life,” he argues. “Forget this, Brielle. Let us return to Carterhaugh in the time we have left.”
“I’m not giving up.” How could I sleep knowing he has used his waning strength to ensure my safety at the detriment of his own life? If he cannot carry himself, then I will carry us both. “We still have a few days before the paralysis takes effect.”
“It’s not days,” he responds, the words flat. “It’s hours, and I need rest.”
Panic continues to pummel the door. I will not let it in. “Then you will rest.” As much as we must push onward, sleep would benefit him greatly, even if it’s for an hour. “How much farther until we reach Notus’ realm?”
Again, Zephyrus pulls away, but doesn’t go far. “Fifteen miles? Forty?” He shakes his head. “Whatever the number, it is too far and too much to ask of you.”
“It’s not,” I reassure him.
“You’re not listening to me. I’m telling you it’s dangerous. I’m giving you an out. Why won’t you take it?”
He reminds me of a captured bird, too fearful to fly when the cage stands open. “What is this truly about, Zephyrus?”
His emerald eyes meet mine. “Why won’t you leave me?” he whispers, low and agonized. I grasp his hand again and refuse to let go.
“Because I know how it feels to watch someone you care for walk away from you, and I would spare you that pain if I could.” With our hands locked, I squeeze tighter. “And because we’re in this together.”
His throat dips. “Together?”
I nod. It doesn’t sting as it once did. It feels fresh, like newly healed skin.
“Lie down,” I say, and help him settle into the grass, his head resting against my thigh. “I’m going to tell you a story from the Book of Fate.” My fingers slip through his hair, separating the damp curls, and Zephyrus sighs, leaning fully against me. “The story begins, as all stories do, with a dream.”