Chapter 34
34
T HE TIP OF THE MAN ’s blade rests level with my throat. Mine points directly between his eyes.
An impressive physique strains against the long, sapphire robe the man wears. Its slitted hem hits knee-high, revealing cream trousers and soft, worn slippers. This man is wide, dense, compact. Zephyrus is practically anemic in comparison.
My attention remains locked on the man’s sword. Curved, thinly hammered metal arcs toward the tip—an unusual design, to be certain. My old bladesmithing mentor had one hanging in his forge. A scimitar, I believe it’s called.
“Are you the South Wind?” I do not lower my blade. I do not dare.
He only stares. His black eyes, set beneath heavy lids, remind me of small, glinting seeds.
A scouring wind stirs the ochre sands. Even on the hottest days in the highest altitudes, Carterhaugh always offers shady reprieve. With no trees for miles, the heat cooks my flesh. “Do you understand me?”
With a dismissive glance, he sidesteps me and strides toward Zephyrus. I plant myself between them, dagger raised, eyes cold. “Not another step.”
The man’s gaze narrows above the white scarf concealing the lower portion of his face. A length of equally pale cloth swathes his skull. “I received a message from my brother.” His voice rumbles with the resonance of bass church bells.
“You are the South Wind?” He looks nothing like Zephyrus. His skin is the deep brown of baked bread.
“I am.” After a moment, he lowers his weapon, and I follow suit. “Is he dead?”
Days of travel without stopping for rest, and my exhaustion outstrips any intruding fear. “Paralyzed, or nearly so. Will you help him?”
He regards my unsightly appearance, then Zephyrus’ disheveled state, evidence of our arduous trek.
“I will not.” Turning on his heel, he strides for the dunes.
My mouth parts in surprise. “Wait!” I stumble after him. It’s so hot the heat seeps through the soles of my boots. “Where are you going?”
“Home.” He keeps walking. For a man of shorter stature, he has an impressive stride.
“But he’s your brother.” Lifting my shredded emerald skirt, I pick up the pace, knees to chest as the cracked ground transitions to soft sand. I slip sideways, which allows the South Wind to put additional distance between us. “Don’t you care for his life?”
His scabbard slaps the outside of his thigh. “You obviously do not know Zephyrus.”
“A manipulative, selfish ass?”
His footsteps slow, revealing a trail of shallow indentations leading back to the West Wind. Hours from now, the depressions will smooth, the winds filling what is empty. How many pass through this realm, all evidence of their presence cleansed come morning?
“However he has wronged you,” I say, “Zephyrus is changed.” Somewhat.
The South Wind cuts me a sidelong glance, then shakes his head. “My brother is many things, but changed is not one of them.” He begins to climb the nearest dune, veering toward what appears to be a small sailing vessel ahead. The distance between brothers grows, and with it, my own feeling of hopelessness. Though I feel myself shrinking beneath the prospect of confrontation, I am no longer that person.
A burst of speed plants me in his path, palms lifted to halt his progress.
I do not see the man move. A sword point pricks the rise of my cheek. I flinch from the sting of it. “Stand aside, girl.”
“Please.” Hands clasped, I fall to my knees. Pride means nothing to me. I will beg, I will plead, I will explain my case however many times is necessary. “We came all this way. You wouldn’t believe what we have been through, what Zephyrus has endured.” What I have endured.
The man peers down his nose dispassionately. “That is not my concern.”
“Then why did you answer his call for aid?”
He gazes beyond my shoulder. When he speaks, the response is one of fine craftsmanship, each word tucked deliberately in its place. “I did not know whether I would help until I saw him. But when I looked upon him, I remembered his past transgressions. Brother or not, my time will not be wasted on a man who lacks honor.”
The South Wind does not bid me goodbye. He simply strides off, a figure swathed in jewel tones, shrinking beneath the wavering heat.
When he vanishes behind a dune, I return to Zephyrus—because it comforts me, and because I will stand by him, even at the unfortunate end. Tomorrow, the paralysis will likely claim him. I must decide what to do next.
I kneel, cracked clay hard against my creaking knees. This realm, strange and alien to me. Dry where Carterhaugh is damp, sandy where the soil is firm, scalding where the forest is cool. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, fighting tears. Clutching his hand to my chest, I bow my head. “I tried, but it was not enough.”
If I had stayed in Thornbrook, if I had remained where it was safe and familiar, perhaps my heart would have remained unbroken. I’d hoped for a more encouraging outcome, but it was not meant to be. If we cannot go forward, then we must return to Under.
What will occur when we cross back into Pierus’ realm? Will I be able to return to Thornbrook content and purposeful after what I have experienced, the West Wind in chains beneath the earth?
“You care for Zephyrus. Why?”
My head snaps up. The South Wind stands over me, sturdy legs braced, one hand clasping the hilt of his sword. That’s twice I have not heard his approach. The sun sinks at his back, and what a glorious sight it is to behold.
“Because he is lost,” I say. “Because he has made mistakes. Because he is hurting. Because he has embraced the gray areas of himself.” And maybe I have, too. “Because he is too clever by half. Because of his infectious smile. Because a lonely life is not easy.” Tenderly, I wipe a smudge of dirt from Zephyrus’ jaw. “You question your brother’s ability to change, but I have seen it. So I ask you again. Will you help him?”
“A god’s memory is long,” he says in that low, resonant tone. “I cannot forget all the ways in which my brother wronged me.”
I pull my dagger from its sheath. “You claim Zephyrus lacks honor.” I lift the blade so its dark taper catches the light. “But what of me?” When he does not respond, I press, “A duel. Let me prove my honor in Zephyrus’ stead.”
The South Wind examines the dagger’s iron glint, perhaps more curious than he lets on. “There is an oasis not far from here,” he relents. “Its waters have the potential to heal Zephyrus, but there is no guarantee.”
I don’t need a guarantee. Hope is enough to sustain me.
He steps back, sweeps those black eyes over the West Wind’s disheveled form. “I will aid my brother, just this once. And when he awakens, we will duel, and he will watch you die.”
My expression remains neutral despite the twist in my gut, but I nod. The South Wind likely underestimates my capabilities. I can use that to my advantage.
“Gather Zephyrus. Meet me at my sailer.” He gestures to the contraption in the distance. “Do not delay.”
As I watch the South Wind turn to go, I haul Zephyrus into my arms and struggle to my feet. His limbs swing freely, like those of a corpse.
I’m panting by the time I reach the South Wind’s strange apparatus. It looks like a sailboat, yet instead of a curved hull, the bottom is flat, cut into the shape of an arrowhead. Two masts jut upward, sails secured to the wooden beams. As the South Wind unties the canvas, he calls over his shoulder, “Sit at the bow. Don’t touch anything.”
Climbing toward the vessel’s tapered nose, I lay Zephyrus near a stack of boxes secured with rope and settle beside him. The sails snap open, wind filling their hollow bellies as the South Wind takes the large rudder in hand.
“Hold on.”
The boat jerks forward, lifting clear of the sand. A scream wrenches free of my chest. We are climbing, hurtling, careening. We soar with breakneck speed.
At the dune’s apex, we drop, the nose plunging sharply into the trough, my stomach dragged in its wake. A glance at the stern reveals the South Wind shifting the rudder, feet planted firmly despite the swift motion, eyes thin over his face scarf. If Zephyrus is an errant breeze, his brother, Notus, is the most stable of substances—the rigid, unbending earth.
Wind shrieks past my ears, and my fingers clamp the boat’s frame as I brace for another ascent. We release our hold on the earth, which sizzles in patches of brown, violet, and gold. The sky is endless, blue in perpetuity brushed by the whiteness of intense sun.
After a time, the terrain flattens, rolling into soft, wet sand. Trees with sword-tipped fronds cast meager shade across a body of water flanked by boulders and sparse greenery. The South Wind curbs the strength of his winds so that the vessel coasts to a halt near the bank.
He leaps from the boat, and I follow, Zephyrus in my arms. The South Wind spares no concern for his brother, merely waves me over to the water.
“Submerge him up to his chin,” he instructs.
The water is shockingly cool, and seeps greedily into Zephyrus’ filthy clothes. I roll up his sleeves, his trousers. Shallow waves lap against the shore.
“The oasis contains special properties,” states the South Wind, staring at the dark veins running up his brother’s arms, “but its powers cannot heal everything. If it is successful, you should expect to see a reversion of whatever ails him by sunrise.” He then gazes westward. A strip of gold clings to the horizon. The sun, nearly gone. “I’ll build a fire.”
The night is colder than any I have experienced, but the fire crackles pleasantly, a red-gold ring sitting flush against the surrounding darkness.
Zephyrus lies on the sloped, muddy bank of the oasis, submerged neck-high in the water. The South Wind and I sit higher up the incline, my hair still damp from having bathed earlier. If the oasis fails to reverse the nightshade’s paralysis, then I’m not sure what comes next. We have traveled all this way. But life, I’ve learned, has its own rhythm, one I cannot always foresee.
The moon brightens the darkened dunes, cutting the South Wind’s silhouette into defined shadow and light. Following the sun’s descent, he’d removed his face scarf, though he has left his head scarf intact. The man appears to be hewn from granite.
“You mentioned Zephyrus wronged you,” I say, knees drawn to my chest. Beneath the crusted fabric of my emerald gown, the wound I sustained from the hounds is now freshly bandaged, the oasis waters having cleansed it of infection. “What did he do?”
The South Wind tips back his head to study the dark basin overhead. He appears at home beneath its spread. I, however, am unused to such unfiltered vastness. If I were to lift my hand, the tips of my fingers might stir the stars from their distant nest.
“Early during our banishment,” he says, “Zephyrus sent out a call for aid. My brothers and I were to join forces against Pierus, who had crossed into Carterhaugh to oversee Zephyrus’ punishment. The plan was to kill him. Unfortunately, I was the only one who showed. I am lucky I was able to escape Pierus alive.”
“Zephyrus didn’t show?” I murmur.
“He did not.”
While I am tempted to defend his behavior, the Zephyrus of before did not hold himself to the same level of accountability he does now. “Did you ever ask your brother why he failed to show?”
“I was never granted the opportunity,” he says.
“You didn’t visit him?”
The South Wind at last shifts position, one hand pressed flat against the sand, perhaps calling back the heat that has leached away in the passing hours. “People fall into their lives, and their world narrows to the walls they’ve built. The desert is my realm just as Carterhaugh belongs to Zephyrus. There is order in separation.”
I wait for him to go on, but he seems content to let the silence stretch. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
“My brother talks enough for the both of us.”
I smile, mostly because I agree. The West Wind is fond of the spoken word. And I suppose I’ve become fond of him, too.
The realization sobers me. Fond ? Or is that too weak a word? Would I have risked everything to help someone I was merely fond of?
The South Wind tosses a stick into the fire. “It has been a long time since we were children, a long time since we first became men. I do not know how my brother has changed.”
“Did you know about Hyacinth?” I ask.
“Zephyrus and I were never close,” he replies. “He kept to himself when it came to matters of the heart.” He turns to me then. “I commend you for helping my brother. Not many would.”
“Perhaps he only needed someone to show they cared for him.”
“Perhaps.” With that, he rises, the hem of his sapphire robe fluttering behind him, his silhouette etched against the expansive desert.
Hopefully he will not go far. We need his sailer to return to Under safely.
I doze for a few hours. It feels as though I’ve just closed my eyes before I waken, body stiff with cold. Day breaks to the east. Since I have never experienced a desert sunrise, I watch the realm warm to blush, the dunes sparked with gathering light. Carterhaugh, with its clambering vines and slithering roots, rarely allows for space to breathe.
After brushing sand from my dress, I check on Zephyrus. Pulling open the tunic at his throat, I examine his chest, stomach, and arms with impending dread. The veins remain blacker than ever, a green tinge to the surrounding skin.
Blowing out a breath, I brush the wet curls from Zephyrus’ face. He stirs at my touch. “Brielle.”
“I’m here.” At least he’s awake. At least there’s that.
“You’re sad,” he murmurs, eyes still closed. “I can hear it in your voice.”
The knot in my throat thickens. It is a deeper sadness, one stitched into my heart. “We reached your brother’s realm. He brought you to an oasis last night. Supposedly, it has special healing properties.”
“Let me guess.” He cracks open his eyes. Fatigue clouds the emerald rings. “It didn’t work.”
I consider how best to phrase my response, but in the end, the truth is best. “No,” I reply. “It didn’t.”
There are many forms of pain, after all. The pain of heartache. The pain of grief. The pain of unrealized dreams. The pain of regret, wasted time. But I think this might be the worst pain of all: the pain of what could have been.
“Then I will need to return to Pierus,” he says.
Did I expect this? Was my attempt at saving his life always a fool’s errand, a mortal woman battling powers too strong, too strange, to comprehend?
As soon as the West Wind steps foot into Under, the hounds will descend. The Orchid King will drag him back to that cavity in the ground, his lifeblood consumed by nightshade. I do not want Zephyrus to suffer. It frightens me how far I would go to prevent that. “Can you move your limbs at all?”
He lifts his arms, his legs. Even if the oasis wasn’t able to nullify the venom, it seems to have temporarily reversed its effects. There’s no telling how long the reprieve will last.
Quietly, I ask, “You truly wish to return?”
“Wish? No.” He gazes upward and sighs. “Pierus will enjoy his punishments, but after a few centuries, he will grow bored and lift the chains again.”
I believe what he says, despite the precarious lies he has built his life upon. “You deserve more than a cage.”
Zephyrus sits up, and water streams from his shoulders. His soaked tunic molds like a second skin to his frame. I can’t help but notice the fine carving of his torso.
“There are many things I deserve, Brielle. I’m not saying this to attract pity. I’m saying this because the world may work in mysterious ways, but debts are never truly forgotten. People like me?” A cold smile curls his mouth. “We do not deserve happiness.”
I sit beside him on the shore. “What is the point of an immortal life if you spend eternity in misery?”
“Easy to say when one is mortal.” When our eyes meet, I recognize his resolve, the acceptance of the hand he has been dealt. “As much as I yearn for another life,” he says, “I will return to Under, and I will accept Pierus’ punishment. Such is my fate.”
I cannot accept that. I won’t.
The sound of approaching footsteps draws my attention. The South Wind has returned, face scarf back in place. A hot, dry wind blows, turning my mouth to dust.
The West Wind peers upward at his brother, expression guarded. From this position, the South Wind appears massive, a giant among the sands. “Notus.” Zephyrus then notices the curved sword his brother carries. “I hope you’re not here to use that on me.” He offers his most charming smile.
The South Wind tosses me a small bundle stuffed with fresh fruit, and a waterskin. “It is time, mortal.” He gestures to an area of cracked earth located between two palm trees. “I will await you,” he says, and strides off.
As Zephyrus watches his brother depart, his suspicion deepens. “What was that about?”
I palm the dagger tucked against my back. “Your brother’s assistance came at a price,” I admit, watching the West Wind’s eyes narrow. “A duel.”
Blood drains from his face, whitening it to a ghostly hue. “Tell me you speak in jest.”
The South Wind completes a pattern of exercises in my peripheral vision, sword a blur in the patchy shade. For a man so bulky, he moves with understated grace.
“He wouldn’t have agreed to help you otherwise.” My thumb passes over the blade’s smooth base, its lack of a touchmark stamp despite the metal having been fired, cooled, and hammered by my own hand. It feels dishonest that I would not claim this work as my own with pride.
“The only reason Notus agreed to the duel,” Zephyrus argues, “was so he could have his revenge on me for leaving him to fight Pierus alone all those centuries ago.” His mouth pinches. “I urge you to reconsider. Think of the risk. Think of all there is to lose.”
I stand, brush the sand from my gown, and take a deep, satisfying swallow from the waterskin. “I weighed the risk days ago. And anyway, it’s not your decision to make.”
“His strength will overpower yours tenfold.”
I do not think it will. I’m stronger than I look.
Zephyrus closes his eyes and murmurs, “I would not see him hurt you.”
Something inside me softens. “You forget that I have trained, too.”
“He is a god.”
“And?” I hold his gaze until he looks away. “I am the Father’s servant.” It may not be enough to convince Zephyrus, but it’s enough for me. The weight of my dagger confirms this decision is right. Blade to blade, I will face the South Wind.
The West Wind tries to catch my hand as I pass. “Brielle, wait.”
“This is my life, Zephyrus. It’s time I start living it.”