Chapter 37
37
A N ALTAR HAS BEEN ERECTED in the center of Miles Cross.
Lush grass cushions the slab of pure white marble. Surrounding the field, the amphitheater rises in three tiers where the fair folk have gathered, partially shielded by shadows where the moonlight pouring through the ceiling cannot reach. The third tier is so high it hangs behind wisps of fog.
Vines cling to the archway of an abandoned side entrance. It is there I crouch, having navigated the network of tunnels in near darkness. I do not see Zephyrus, nor Mother Mabel. Only the altar, the glen, tendrils of thickening night.
A set of massive wooden doors heaves open in the back of the cavern.
First come the roots. Their white, waxy coating, the small, bristly hairs. Soil sprays the air as the Orchid King slides his bulk over the threshold.
It is so quiet I can hear the spit of candle flame. Breath held, I watch Pierus slither toward the altar. His muscled abdomen flexes with each sinuous movement. Upon reaching the altar, he turns to face the audience.
A bell chimes. Again, the doors open. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard blood marks my tongue.
The five members of Pierus’ council drag Zephyrus into the cavern, jewel-toned cloaks hissing in their wake. His head hangs. Rusted chains bind his wrists at his back. A roar of approval shudders through the cave walls.
Fury is a hard, pointed star inside my chest. His garb hangs off his frame in precarious threads, and filth coats him from head to toe. He’s tossed at the base of the altar, a crumple of limbs, while Pierus’ council departs. After a moment, Zephyrus manages to prop himself upright using his knees. Livid green eyes glare through the dirt-caked curls hanging in his face. It eases the tightness in my throat. He is not defeated. Not yet, anyway.
“You remember this altar, do you not?” The Orchid King runs a hand across the gleaming marble surface. “You will be reacquainted soon enough.”
The West Wind regards the structure coolly. Meanwhile, the crowd’s eagerness continues to climb, tearing free of the earth’s restraint.
“Look alive, Zephyrus,” drawls the Orchid King. “You have a visitor.”
A disembodied voice drifts through the heavy fog. “All rise for the Abbess of Thornbrook.”
The doors at the rear of the cave groan as they’re pushed open a third time, allowing a small procession to enter: twenty cloaked acolytes and novitiates, and lastly, the face of one I know well.
She glides forth, the sleeves of her alb swathing her delicate wrists, hands clasped solemnly at her front. The sleeveless gold chasuble envelops her body like loving hands.
A hush seeps into the cavern. The Daughters of Thornbrook position themselves against the far wall in a half-moon at Mother Mabel’s back. I spot Harper at the rear, hunched beneath my white cloak. What have they done over the last few days? Did they return to Thornbrook, or sleep in Under’s vast belly? Did anyone notice my absence, or care?
As if scenting iron, the fair folk retreat deeper into the shadows, stony eyes wary. The sight of my peers passes like stillness through me, this troubling pairing of faith and blood: all these women, shepherds of the Father, blades seated comfortably in their palms.
With soundless footsteps, Mother Mabel approaches Zephyrus where he kneels, head bowed, back bent, hands bound. She lifts a hand, and the silence deepens.
“Bringer of Spring.” Here, the sound of her voice is peculiar. It lacks resonance, hitting as abruptly as a rock chucked at the ground. “For centuries, you have been bound to Under, the realm fed by the power of your lifeblood. Tonight, we celebrate another tithe and call in your debt.”
Zephyrus lifts his head to study the abbess. “Only the truly conniving twist faith to their own advantage.”
The fair folk stir like a nest of worms, their interest piqued by the unanticipated malevolence. Nausea continues to churn in my belly, for I am familiar with Mother Mabel’s expression, the polish coating the surface of her flat, ebony gaze. She is far from pleased. “I do not take advantage of the Father,” she says. “It is because of His mercy that I am alive to this day, standing before you.”
Zephyrus chuffs a laugh. A trickle of blood oozes from his split lip. “Then you deny the corruption of your faith?”
“I’m not sure I understand.” She surveys him as one would a stain upon a pristine robe. Meirlach shimmers star-bright at her waist.
He bares his teeth. “What of your vows, your Seven Decrees? Or do you only abide by them when it is convenient?” A few of my peers gasp at the implication. “Your willingness to participate in this violent ritual reveals how debased you truly are.”
A fine, bloodless line shapes her mouth. As Mother Mabel begins to circle him, she says, “Thornbrook’s preservation depends on Under’s health. That is why your blood is necessary, why my charges’ blood is necessary.”
“It is cruel.” His gaze cuts to Pierus. “I am not who I was centuries ago.”
One of the Orchid King’s vines reaches out to stroke Zephyrus’ hair, tugging on a wheaten curl until it springs back into its tight coil. “How precious that you believe such things,” Pierus drawls.
Mother Mabel continues to survey the West Wind. “All gods are unchanging, eternal. It is a truth of the world you know well.”
“I disagree,” Zephyrus says quietly.
“This does not have to be difficult,” she says. “You know the law. Another cycle has reached its close, and your curse remains unbroken. An unfortunate occurrence, but according to the Orchid King, unsurprising.”
So there is a way to break his curse. What must Zephyrus do? Is it as impossible as he suggested, or merely improbable?
“The time has come,” she announces. “Kneel, and let your power empty into Under.”
A smile stretches wide across the West Wind’s mouth. “I will not bow to a false god.”
Mother Mabel bristles. “Considering your current position,” she snaps, “I would suggest you mind your tongue.”
“Look at you. Look at these women at your back. They have offered their lives in service, placed their trust in you, and you’ve led them into a viper’s nest.”
“Do not speak of my charges,” she warns.
From where I crouch, I observe the women exchanging worried glances amongst themselves.
He goes on, pressing his advantage. “What is it that bothers you, Mother Mabel? That I speak the truth, or that you are not strong enough to weather it?”
She halts her circling. My peers hold tight to dark iron at her back. Had I understood what purpose the blades served in perpetuating this bloodletting, I would have set down my hammer long ago. “I will not tell you again.”
“Punish me as you see fit.” He shrugs. “My life is forfeit anyway.”
Her eyebrows crawl all the way to her hairline. Then the abbess smiles, face contorting into punishing angles. “You want your life?” She draws her sword. “Then fight for it.”
The Orchid King lurches forward with a scowl. “That is not in your power to decide, Mother Mabel. Zephyrus is mine.”
Mother Mabel maintains her focus on the man bent before her as she says, “You have seen me spar before. Do you doubt my ability to win this bout?” With his silence, she indicates the audience overhead. “Your subjects came all this way. Why not give them a tithe to remember?”
Jeers cut the air, and shadows flex in the darkest corners. The Orchid King considers the abbess, then the West Wind, blue eyes watchful.
“Very well,” he relents. “I suppose there is little harm in it.”
My fingers curl into the grass, hooking me in place so I will not intervene. Aside from our weekly training, I’ve witnessed Mother Mabel duel a handful of times during my apprenticeship. She handled the blade with remarkable mastery.
“Well?” She peers down at the West Wind.
He stands. How can he not? Many centuries he has run, but today, Zephyrus, Bringer of Spring, will fight.
“You have a blade,” he states evenly, “but you will not grace me with one?”
Mother Mabel swings Meirlach overhead, testing its response to a new master after centuries gathering dust. It unsettles me. A blade is a tool, a method of defense, yet Mother Mabel, a woman of station in the faith, intends to shed blood for sport.
“You are a god,” she replies. “You have your winds, your wit. Let that be enough.” Hilt enveloped snugly in her grip, she nods to the Orchid King. “Break his bonds.”
Tonight, I understand fear is personal. It manifests in twenty iron daggers held in the hands of the pious, the clank of chains clattering onto softened grass, a heart ceasing its beat. Meirlach is god-touched. If he falls beneath this blade, he will not rise.
Once free, Zephyrus rotates his wrists, massaging away the stiffness with a bland expression. An air-carved sword materializes in hand, its silvery curve haloed in milky light.
Shadows stretch and bend around the fair folk as they grow unruly, electrified by the promise of blood. The altar, an eruption of white stone, smolders at Zephyrus’ back. But as Mother Mabel lifts her sword, black eyes remote, she whirls toward the Orchid King instead.
Pierus has anticipated it. That is abundantly clear as his own sword appears, driving upward to catch Meirlach with a startling clash. My peers scramble backward, press into a huddle, their backs to the wall. The fair folk howl and shriek and collapse into squeals of delight.
Between the cross of their blades, Pierus gifts Mother Mabel a close-lipped smile. “All these decades I’ve wondered when you would make your move. I’m relieved the time has come at last.”
Strands of blond hair hang around her reddened face. I’ve seen disappointment disturb that cool serenity, exasperation, even moments of outrage, rare though they are. Never true abhorrence as I witness now. “I have indeed bided my time.” Despite the Orchid King’s overwhelming height, her stance remains unbending. “I have endured your horrendous nature and repulsive proclivity for violence, your parasitic bloodletting, the disrespect you show toward my charges. I have endured it all for this moment: an end to an era.”
The Orchid King’s eyebrows wing upward. “You seem confident of this end.”
“Seven years you kept me captive.” Mother Mabel speaks no louder than is required for intimate conversation, yet in the silence that has fallen, every word rings clearly. “No matter how I pleaded— begged —for mercy, you refused to listen.”
“You knew the consequences of a broken contract. You failed to show up for the tithe with the required twenty-one donors. It was well within my right to steal away a few of your women.”
Teeth bared, she leans into the stance. “I approached you multiple times concerning the tithe. I wanted change. You agreed it was a barbaric ritual, to force my charges to give blood, only to grow your power. We agreed Thornbrook’s participation in the tithe would be no more.”
“You chose to endure the punishment in your charges’ stead,” he argues. “I did not make the decision for you.”
“I do not regret taking the place of my charges all those decades ago. They would not have survived the abuse.” Her arms begin to shake, yet she pushes against him so he’s forced to give ground. “But I did.”
“You did,” the Orchid King concedes. “You were strong for a mortal woman. No matter what cruelties you endured, your faith never wavered.” Two pale vines curl around her ankles, slinking toward her stomach, up to her breasts. “I admire conviction.”
“Don’t touch me,” Mother Mabel hisses.
“May I remind you, Abbess, that you entered my realm? What did you think to accomplish by revealing your hand?”
She sneers. I’ve never seen such outright revulsion. “Once you’re gone, my charges, and all of Thornbrook, will be free of you. Your death will burden me less than your life.”
From my position in the tunnel entryway, I look over at Zephyrus, who lounges against the wall, arms crossed, calmly observing the fortuitous turn of events. I’ve half a mind to drag him away from this place, but I stay put. As silly as it sounds, I fear Mother Mabel’s wrath. Tonight is about more than the tithe. Tonight is for cleansing, for vengeance.
“You wish to end my reign?” Pierus considers her with an insulting lack of concern. “I welcome the challenge.”
Mother Mabel breaks away with startling litheness. He blocks one, two, three blows before hacking at her stomach. She pivots sideways and slashes low, lopping off a vine at its base and darting out of reach.
A high-pitched cry shivers from the severed appendage. Dark fluid oozes from the flowers, which whiten, then crumble to fine powder.
The Orchid King stretches taller, using his tangled roots to draw himself up. “You may carry a god-touched blade,” he says, “but so do I.” The steel in question protrudes from a wire and leather hilt. “The necklace you stole from the Stallion may prolong your years indefinitely, but it cannot protect you from a sword in your gut.”
Until this moment, I’ve acquired information only in pieces. Together, they forge something whole: clarity at long last. What do I know? Mother Mabel was held captive by the Orchid King after taking the place of three novitiates decades ago. For seven long years—an entire cycle—she was imprisoned, until the day she managed to escape.
But she did not return to Thornbrook immediately. She sought out the Stallion, stole the serpent necklace now resting against her collarbone. Not a piece of pretty jewelry, but an artifact, a gift of everlasting life.
She must have then returned to Thornbrook, carrying the trauma of her enslavement with her, whetting it, oh so slowly, until it bore a sharpened point. For years it must have eaten at her, carved out all the joy until it turned to rot. If she was going to one day enact revenge on the Orchid King, she must live long enough to do so.
And Meirlach? How long had she planned to acquire it? Did she hone me as a blade so I might one day duel the Stallion and win?
The Orchid King lunges, slicing a line through her chasuble. Mother Mabel meets the next strike, parries nimbly and returns. A few vines lash out toward her legs, but she skips aside, far more agile than the Orchid King, whose nest of bramble weighs him down. By the time she slips around his front, quick as an asp, her blade rests at the base of his throat.
“Tell me where you go when you die,” she demands, “so I may ensure you never return.”
His jaw clenches, and a vein pulses at his temple. Pierus would likely chew off his own tongue before caving in to the abbess’ command. But Meirlach demands the truth, and eventually the compulsion to speak overtakes him, the words emerging as a snarl.
“Your people call it Hell. Where I come from, we call it the Chasm.”
He winces as she sinks the tip into his neck. A bloody droplet trickles down his skin.
“The thought of your death,” she says, “is the only thing that got me through the days. Today, I begin anew—”
A vine slams into the backs of her knees. The sword flies from her hand as she hits the ground.
I fail to muffle my horrified scream as both opponents dive for Meirlach. Blessedly, Mother Mabel reaches the sword first. A blink, and she’s back on her feet, slicing through vines, lopping off the vicious flowers. Pierus bellows in pain, attempting to deflect as he scurries from her reach. Her next swipe goes wide, hacking through a pillar that drags the ceiling into partial collapse. Though I have read about the blade’s extraordinary power, it is still a strange thing to see it cut through solid stone.
“You tire, Pierus,” she pants coarsely, spinning to avoid a slash to the thigh. “Such is the lot of a man fatted on power.”
A wall of vines erupts in a wave of deadly points. The abbess severs two. A third clips her on the shoulder, spinning her toward the altar. She hits the corner with shattering impact, crumpling to her knees.
Terror locks me in place as the Orchid King descends. She’s not moving. Face slack, eyes closed. Pierus is within striking distance, arms lifted, as she lies motionless. The women gasp. His sword falls, a precise crescent toward Mother Mabel’s neck.
Her eyes fly open. Snapping upright, she thrusts Meirlach through his heart.
The long, steel blade protrudes from the Orchid King’s back. Blood patters onto the grass like soft rain. With a twist, she yanks the sword free. Pierus sags forward with a groan, collapsing at the altar’s base.
Shock ripples through Miles Cross.
I look to my peers. Their pale faces glow beneath their shadowed cowls. Someone faints near the back, toppling the nearby women into a heap.
The fair folk are oddly mute, their movements stiff with uncertainty. Do they mourn the Orchid King? Or do they, too, feel free? But through the unholy quiet, a new realization emerges, one of breath and a life not yet lived. My heart lightens in the most profound relief. For with the Orchid King’s death, the Bringer of Spring walks free.
Without the slightest unease, Mother Mabel promptly wipes the sword clean with the hem of her alb. She then mops her clammy face before turning to Zephyrus, her expression as cold and closed as ever. “If I am correct, the debt between you and Pierus is now void, is it not?”
The West Wind pushes off the wall he leans against, yet keeps a healthy distance between them. Flowers spring from the press of his heels against the grass, and his green eyes possess an immortal glow, flush with unleashed power.
“It is.” He stares a touch too long at Meirlach, which she still holds. “I thank you for the favor.”
Mother Mabel studies him with icy disinterest. At some point during the duel, her bun must have loosened, for now her hair hangs freely—the first I have ever seen it unbound. “I did not do it for you, Bringer of Spring.”
“I’m aware.” One of his hands slides into the pocket of his filthy trousers. “Nonetheless, I benefited, as did you.”
She glances down at the mythical blade. Zephyrus’ attention returns to the sword as well. “Yet I find myself in a curious predicament,” she clips. “My duty is to Thornbrook and my charges. It has always been so.”
“I understand.”
“I’m not sure you do.” Meirlach cuts through the air with a high whine as the abbess tests her swing. “Unfortunately, your presence complicates matters.”
He quirks a brow, at ease to all outward appearances, but I have spent enough time in his company to recognize the subtleties of mounting concern. My feet bid me to go to him. I would stand at his side as I promised to do, yet I’m reluctant to show myself. “Enlighten me, please,” Zephyrus says.
“Your life is a hazard to all I have built. I cannot allow you to further tempt the women under my protection.” She holds the gleaming steel steady. “It’s nothing personal.”
I am still. This is something I had not foreseen.
Zephyrus angles toward her, for she has begun to approach. “I have no need to tempt anyone now that I am free.”
“Really. Then tell me where my bladesmith is. Brielle,” she snaps. “Where is she?”
“I do not follow.” Yet his eyes flicker.
Another step forward. “She was accounted for when we arrived,” Mother Mabel says, voice low with rage. “Now she is missing. Am I to believe you had nothing to do with her disappearance? You, who lured her into Under to begin with?” She halts a stone’s throw away.
“Perhaps,” he says with a glance in Harper’s direction, “you should ask your other charges where she is.”
“Do not place blame on these women. They are innocent. But you, Zephyrus of the West? You are a god, and gods do not change.”
She leaps, hacking toward his neck with brutal ferocity. He springs sideways, aided by a rush of air beneath his boots, and touches down on the other side of the pond. Grass rushes upward around his thighs, long stalks looping into multiple braids, which lash out at Mother Mabel’s legs.
She cuts them down. But Zephyrus’ reign over all things green tears up walls of roots, individual blades of grass arrowing toward her exposed skin. Small, weeping cuts color Mother Mabel’s face and neck. I flinch as another wound peels open her cheek.
A sphere of air punches out from Meirlach’s tip, barreling toward the West Wind, who diverts its path with a gust of his own. The sphere slams into the wall, spraying grit.
Enlivened by the entertainment, the audience cackles and screams. I had completely forgotten about Meirlach’s ability to command the wind. It gives Mother Mabel an advantage.
The duel intensifies before my eyes. Both hurl wind at each other with increasing force. I’m not sure what I fear more: Zephyrus’ death, or Mother Mabel’s. At one point, they veer frighteningly close to the Daughters of Thornbrook. Harper shoves the younger girls behind her, iron dagger held aloft. I force myself to remain in place as the fight progresses toward my position.
Blow by blow, the cavern crumbles to dust. Deflected gusts pummel the ceiling and walls. The West Wind rams Mother Mabel into a pillar, which cracks, the rock groaning. A massive chunk plummets from overhead, missing the abbess by a foot.
She struggles to stand, seething. Sweat drips from her face. No matter how much effort she exerts, Zephyrus is always one step ahead. She will never be able to reach him on foot. He is simply too powerful.
As Mother Mabel lifts Meirlach, wind explodes from the blade, sending Zephyrus soaring across the room. Moments before he lands, she takes aim, readying herself to throw.
In hindsight, it was all meticulously planned. For I understand that, with Mother Mabel already in motion, it is too late for him.
Her wrist snaps forward. And as the sword’s gold-plated hilt leaves her hand, I spring from the corner, hurling myself into the path between god and blade.
The sword hits my left breast, sinking deep. Blood pours from the opening as I stumble, then fall, hands scrabbling at the protruding hilt, Zephyrus lurching forward with a roar.
And just like that, I have come undone.