Chapter 36
36
T IME IS NOT MY FRIEND . Stars wheel overhead in the lengthening hours, yet despite Zephyrus’ presence, I’m unable to sleep. I know how this night will end. Eventually, moon will give way to sun. The star-dusted sky will brighten to a rosy hue, and my time with the West Wind will begin to reach its end.
Dawn, however, is still an hour off. Moving quietly, I retreat to the damp bank of the oasis, where I kneel, my journal resting beside me. The water sleeps.
The distance between who I was then and who I am now is vast. I am Brielle, changed. Brielle, transformed. The prayers I’d once spoken do not sit comfortably in my mouth. They pile up like sharpened rocks, cutting into my tongue.
“Hello, Father. It has been some time since we last spoke. I hope you will forgive me for the oversight.”
Eyes closed, palms pressed to the moist sand, I retreat inside myself. My heart is full of tiny, snarling knots. It hurts . That is something no one tells you. Faith is not separate from your life. It touches upon every aspect. When you begin to question how it fits, small tears form in its fabric, and the slightest pull threatens to unravel the painstaking weave.
“I returned to Under, Father, but not for the reason you might think. While the Daughters of Thornbrook awaited the tithe in Miles Cross, I stole away. My duty was to Zephyrus. But I fear I have come too late.”
Tears collect along my eyelashes, and I gaze upward, soothed by the sky’s paling hue. “His body fades. Today, the paralysis will likely reach completion. We have no choice but to return to the Orchid King.”
If I hadn’t killed off the nightshade… but how was I to anticipate the consequences of removing Zephyrus prior to the ritual’s completion? All I saw was a man in need.
“I have failed you, Father. You, who have never turned from me, even in my darkest hours. You see, I have given my heart to another.”
The night’s stillness claps upon my ears, yet I go on. I cannot stop a flood in motion.
“It was not my intention,” I murmur, staring into the glassy water, “but in opening my heart, I realized I have grown beyond Thornbrook’s walls. I ask, can I not keep the faith without giving all of myself to it? Can I not be your Daughter and Brielle?”
I am no singular entity. I have spread beyond my bounds. But I am not afraid. For that is an even greater strength, to look at something you once valued and decide, That is not for me.
A subtle breeze skates across the water, stirring the surface into shallow waves. It smells of the incense used during service. It settles over my shoulders, the warmest, thickest cloak. I do not know what this day will bring, but I’ve learned the difference between what one should be and what someone is. I will only ever be Brielle. It’s time I embraced that.
I end the prayer with a softly uttered, “Amen.”
To the east, a sleek object arrows over the dunes, shadows rapidly evaporating in light of the rising sun. Quill and journal in hand, I inscribe my thoughts about last night. Silence does not necessarily mean peace. I have learned the distinction over the years. Silence lacks, yet peace is full.
There is no peace within the desert.
With a heavy heart, I return to find Zephyrus sitting upright, knees drawn to his chest, peering across the oasis in contemplation. “How are you?” I whisper, kneeling beside him.
“As well as one can be when returning to captivity.” He looks me over as I slide my journal into my pack, and his expression softens. “I do not regret this time spent with you.” His hand rests on mine, no gloves between us. His fingers tremble. “Whatever awaits me back in Under, I will face it without fear. I have you to thank for that.”
He will not face it alone. Not if I have anything to do with it.
Zephyrus clears his throat. “How do you feel after last night?”
The memory of his hands marking my skin draws heat to my cheeks. “I feel somewhat nauseated from the herb,” I admit, dropping my eyes. And yet, I do not regret what we shared. How could I when my heart beat alongside the West Wind’s, peaceful at long last?
“What will happen when you return to Carterhaugh?” he asks. His fingers tighten over mine. “Where will you go?”
I stare at our intertwined fingers, their pattern of wheat and cream. “Once Mother Mabel learns I am no longer a virgin,” I say, “I will be dismissed from service, my title stripped. I may never again serve as a Daughter of Thornbrook.”
“Brielle—”
My smile strains. “It’s all right, Zephyrus. I’m at peace with the choice I made.” When I imagine myself departing Thornbrook’s pale stone walls, I do not despair. My skill as a bladesmith will allow me to begin again elsewhere. Kilkare, perhaps.
“And if I am not at peace with it?”
I appreciate his willingness to shield me from the consequences of my actions, even if his efforts are wasted. “What’s done is done,” I say. “There’s no use dwelling on the past.”
“But—”
The hiss of sand draws my attention. Twin canvas sails snap with fury as the South Wind speeds toward us. The arrow-shaped sailer hits a peak, soaring an incredible distance before skimming across the cracked ground. He leaps from his vessel mid-slide.
“We must go.” He is breathless, dark eyes bright above his white scarf. “I’m needed back at the palace.”
“The palace?” Zephyrus scans his brother’s face, intrigued. “Whatever for?”
As the South Wind glances between Zephyrus and I, my hand lifts to my burning cheek. He can probably infer what occurred last night, if the wild state of my hair is any indication.
Notus climbs aboard his sailer without answering Zephyrus’ question. He may have agreed to help his brother, but that doesn’t mean he has forgiven him, or even likes him.
“Well.” Zephyrus sighs. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
Even if I wanted to move, I cannot. A part of me recoils at the idea of leaving the desert haven. I do not know if I can handle another loss.
“Brielle,” he murmurs. “It’s time.”
So it is.
Slipping an arm around his lower back, I help Zephyrus hobble onto the vessel. Once settled, the sails bow with wind, and we’re off.
The return journey passes too quickly. Sitting mute beside me, Zephyrus observes the passing dunes with faraway eyes. Mother Mabel always claimed prayer did not hold the world’s answers. It couldn’t make water into wine. It couldn’t change what had been done. Turns out she was right.
We sail until the sand recedes and the earth splinters into fine cracks. Ahead, the cliffs climb to impressive heights, beneath which lies the cave entrance—the boundary between realms.
We disembark, lurching from the boat as Zephyrus’ right knee gives out. I pull him tight against my side, absorbing the tremors running up his legs. He regards the South Wind for a moment, head bent in rare humility.
“Thank you, Notus, for your help. I will not forget this.” Weak and disheveled he may be, but he attempts to straighten, to stand tall despite what it costs him.
The South Wind dips his chin. “Be well, Zephyrus.”
He springs onto his vessel. Moments later, he vanishes beyond the shimmering lines of heat.
Zephyrus turns to me. Resignation sharpens his somber expression. “Once we cross back into Under, it will not take the hounds long to pick up my scent, if they are not already waiting for me.”
I slip my hand into his, palm to palm, flesh to flesh. “Whatever happens,” I whisper, “never forget that you are good.”
It is not enough, but it is all I can offer.
We cross into Under with heavy hearts. An uprising of grass springs beneath my boots, and scarlet-tinged light blurs the gloom of the underground. Tucked against my side, the West Wind limps forward, panting, curls askew. The sweet aroma of rotting flowers drifts from the passage, along with a sound I know well.
Zephyrus braces a hand against the wall where a roselight flickers. “The hounds.”
The baying is close. The air shudders with their thunderous approach. It hits me then—what I have gained, what I will lose.
“Zephyrus.” I grab him by the shoulders. “Were you lying when you said there wasn’t another way to break the curse?” When he does not respond, I give him a shake. “Were you?”
Fingers clasping my wrists, he lowers my hands, perhaps the last touch we will share with one another. “It would make no difference, for it will never come to pass.”
I search his green eyes. How dear this color has become to me. “Why not?”
He smiles sadly. “Because I broke your trust, and that was an unforgiveable offense.”
What was broken has now been mended. The heart endures. This I know. “I forgive you, Zephyrus. I do.”
“Brielle,” he whispers. “It’s too late.”
A tear slips from the corner of my eye. He catches it with his thumb, the watery track wiped away as if it had never been.
Clutching the front of his tunic, I draw him forward, hips notched, legs aligned. My mind is a sieve. There is much I desire to say. I adore you. I understand you. I see you. I need you. Loving someone is no imprisonment, as I had once believed. It is the cool, bracing relief of clean air within the lungs. It is, at its heart, a choice.
But as the yelps magnify to a crashing uproar, my confidence flags, and I yank him forward, crushing my mouth to his. All that I cannot say, I tell him with lips and tongue and teeth. I kiss him for the maybes and could have beens . I kiss him because his taste is the only one I have ever known, and I do not want to forget it.
Zephyrus breaks away first. “There’s not much time.”
He is not yet gone, and already, I miss him. “I promised I wouldn’t leave you,” I choke. “I promised.”
“I know.” Beneath the wailing of the hounds, the clop of hooves echoes sharply. Horses—many of them. “But I would have you live, Brielle. I would see you happy, free of this wretched place.”
“Zephyrus.” I caress his cheek with one hand. “I am happy. I am free.”
He kisses me then, hard and swift, barely a taste before he pulls back. “Forget this,” he says. “Forget me and do not return.”
Does the sun not sink to the west? Do rivers not flow downhill? These are truths, and here is one more: I cannot forget the West Wind. I would always remember him.
As his head whips toward the darkness, he shoves me toward an opening in the wall. “Shelter there until it’s safe,” he says. “The grassy path will lead you back to Thornbrook.” When I regain my balance, he has vanished from sight.
If he expects me to watch him martyr himself, he is sadly mistaken. Dagger in hand, I lunge through the opening.
Pain shatters through my face, and I recoil with a sharp cry. Something trickles from my nostrils. I swipe at my nose in bewilderment. Blood. By the Father… I press my palm against the smooth, transparent partition erected at the niche’s opening. Zephyrus has constructed a wall fashioned of air, a barrier to keep me out of sight until the immediate danger passes.
Crouching down, I seek out a crack or seam that might collapse beneath the right pressure. Nothing. I stand and pace in the narrow space, wondering if the hounds have arrived, if Zephyrus has collapsed, if Mother Mabel has been searching for me. Sooner or later, the barrier must fall.
The click of claws on stone reaches me, followed by the sound of gnashing teeth. Zephyrus lurches into sight, thudding into the rock as the hounds surround him, their emaciated bodies hanging in tatters of old skin. A shudder wracks his body, and he curses, sliding to the ground as the paralysis claims him.
“Zephyrus.” I pound the barrier, my voice muted. “Zephyrus!”
Either he cannot hear me, or he ignores my call. I pace again, the iron blade hanging between my useless fingers, for it’s all I can do. Am I to watch his demise? He went to enormous lengths to protect me from the hounds, yet I cannot do the same for him. I must sit here, bound by this cage.
A sharp whistle draws the beasts to heel. As one, they arrange themselves in a tidy line, awaiting whatever lurks in the shadows.
A handful of roots slither into sight, their paleness reminiscent of bloated flesh. They coast over the stone with an awful hiss, dragging the Orchid King into the shining red glow. Beneath the curled fronds of his eyelashes, a set of pitiless blue eyes examines Zephyrus where he has collapsed, head lolling, face drawn with fatigue.
“Zephyrus.” He tsks in disappointment. “I’d hoped you would have learned by now you cannot escape justice.”
My palm connects with the barrier. “Pierus!”
The Orchid King gives no indication that he’s heard me. While I can see him, hear him, I might as well be locked in an airless box.
“To be honest, I am not surprised by this foolhardy attempt to evade me, though I do not appreciate the tithe being delayed.”
Zephyrus regards his captor blankly.
“You are aware of the contract. The Daughters of Thornbrook are only required to give their blood on the promise that you provide the majority of Under’s power. Should you fail to sacrifice yourself, the contract between Under and Thornbrook is null.”
I wasn’t aware of this loophole. I assume Mother Mabel isn’t either. She loathes the tithe.
“Due to your insolence”—Pierus smiles thinly—“I was forced to extend Thornbrook’s lease of Carterhaugh to assuage Mother Mabel. Why, you might wonder? Because you were not there, Zephyrus. And without the West Wind, the tithe remains unfulfilled. But we will rectify that situation soon enough.”
From the blackness beyond, a small herd of white horses emerges, fair folk with goatlike faces perched in fine leather saddles upon the horses’ pristine backs. Each newcomer wears a jewel-toned cloak: emerald, ruby, sapphire, amethyst, citrine. I recognize Pierus’ council immediately. The large, ornamental rings hanging from their snouts glint in the low light.
Pierus shifts closer to his captive, his bulk engulfing the much smaller West Wind. “You smell of the desert sand. A visit to Notus, then?” When Zephyrus fails to reply, Pierus frowns. “Ah. Allow me.”
The flowers on his shoulders unwind, suctioning themselves to the West Wind’s face and neck. His green eyes brighten in the harsh glare. Even the stutter of his breath smooths. After a time, the nightshade flowers detach, slithering back to their nests across Pierus’ muscled torso. When I fumble for the roselight in my pocket, I find all signs of hemorrhaging gone, its hue having returned to a clear, pale blush.
“Better?” asks the Orchid King. “That must have been uncomfortable for you.”
Zephyrus pushes himself off the ground, quiet with defeat.
“By the way, how did you escape the cleansing ritual?” He gives a bird-like cant of his head. “Where, might I ask, is your sweet, red-headed friend?”
I shrink, make myself as small as possible, though I am well shielded. When Zephyrus does not reply, a smile crawls across the Orchid King’s mouth. “Your silence is telling. But no matter. Come,” he says. “Under is expecting you.”
By the time the barrier vanishes, Zephyrus and the Orchid King are long gone.
The air hangs stagnant, any trace of Zephyrus’ scent—loam, fresh roses—crushed beneath Under’s rot. Standing alone in the darkened passage, I weigh my options. The grassy path twists to my right. According to Zephyrus, it will lead me safely back to Thornbrook. But that is not where my heart lies.
I’m no god, but I’m overcome by the desperation that sends mothers into burning buildings to save their children. What would I do to spare Zephyrus from his fate?
Anything.
As I follow the tunnel at a run, the strangest thing occurs. Grass erupts beneath my boots, carpeting the ground ahead, guiding me in the opposite direction to Thornbrook. Under must sense my intention, the urgency to reach Miles Cross in time.
The cave empties onto a grassy knoll, which perches above a wide green field. Gasping, I survey my surroundings. I’ve been here before. There is the bridge my peers and I crossed days earlier, the spread of the River Mur beneath. Tucked amongst the woods edging the opposite bank lies the cave leading to Miles Cross.
Movement draws my eye to the distant shore. Five white steeds surge forward like snow rolling down a mountainside. The Orchid King sits at the head of the party. His gruesome load of roots dwarfs the poor beast forced to carry him. I spot the West Wind at the very back, tied to a man wearing a ruby cloak.
Palming my dagger, I take a running start downhill. Cutting them off before they reach Miles Cross is the only way to save Zephyrus.
The horses are still a mile away when I cross the bridge and reach the wall of trees. There I crouch, awaiting their arrival. With Zephyrus seated atop the last horse in the group, I should be able to drag him down without being trampled. I have my blade and my conviction. It’s all anyone really needs.
But I have overlooked the West Wind’s inherent inquisitiveness. Despite his weakened state, he continues to ponder; he questions why. Even the slightest disturbance draws his focus, for as I push aside the ferns and prepare to leap, his keen eyes find mine with startling ease, and widen with unmistakable terror.
Zephyrus manages to yank the reins, steering the horse away from me, toward the river. I cannot reach him now, not unless I wish to be trampled by the herd. The cloaked man snarls, regaining control of his mount and cuffing Zephyrus into submission. By the time I realize what he’s done, the party has already galloped past, five white steeds disappearing into the darkness of Miles Cross.