Epilogue Sadaré
ONE HUNDRED YEARS LATER
DAESRA AND I weave our way through the market, passing unrecognized through the mortal crowd.
We appear mortal ourselves, if well-to-do: Daesra in a tunic of deep midnight blue with a gold-embroidered, wine-red cloak that would match his eyes if he hadn’t glamoured them to look brown, and me in a forest-green tunic with a stole of red fox blanketing my shoulders, the fur blending in with my long, loose waves of hair.
The air is crisp despite the sun, even in this moderately tempered coastal city—the winter solstice is upon us.
Our breath puffs in wispy clouds from our lips, and the scents of spices, donkeys, bodies, and food mingle not unpleasantly around us.
Daesra takes my hand and rubs it between his own, exhaling warmth into our fingers with a sly grin, even though I haven’t gotten cold in nigh over a hundred years. Perhaps he does it as a show of being human, or more likely because he simply wants to hold my hand, even after all this time.
I keep my fingers laced with his as we peruse the market stalls, Leus close on our heels.
There’s no danger of the chimera tearing through the crowd or flying off at the sight of a bird, not only because his wings, horns, and spiked tail have been masked by Daesra, but because he actually listens to us, for the most part.
Fourscore years ago, he did eat one of our cows nearly whole, though he was already slinking around guiltily, shrunken smaller even than he appears now, before we even found out why.
He’s far more Pogli than Bereus, we discovered for certain, but at least now he can learn a thing or two, thanks to the dutiful underworld guardian. Even if he likes eating large animals.
“Ah, what about this?” Daesra stops, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’ll wager this would make a great solstice gift for Horizon.”
We stand in front of a stall with delicate iron cages that contain various exotic insects nestled in straw, surrounded by brightly glowing lanterns to keep them warm. He nods specifically at one that holds a giant black scorpion, its wickedly curved tail and claws raised in threat.
I snort behind my hand. We’re not actually on the hunt for solstice gifts for anyone, let alone Horizon, though it’s a mortal tradition to give them at this time of year.
We’re here simply to breathe the life of the city—to maintain the ties to our own humanity, however stretched they are now. And what better place than a market?
While the first time I took Daesra to a market didn’t go so well, he’s handled them much better since.
I eye the scorpion. “I rather think such a gift would better suit our far distant friend, don’t you?”
Daesra raises his brow. “Thinking of getting him something in return, finally?”
I grunt in vague response.
Every year, on the exact day that we escaped the underworld, gifts have arrived at our home, wherever we’re living or no matter how far we’ve traveled.
They’ve ranged from glittering jewels to shining swords and daggers of the highest quality, from matching black mares to sumptuous clothing and perfumes.
They never come with a note, but we both know who sends them—on what would be the anniversary of our divine marriage, if we had one.
He first gave us a house on that day, after all.
Are the gifts a form of congratulations, or a poor attempt at an apology? Or, worse, some kind of reminder that he can always find us? It was never anything definitive, in any case, so I’ve never deigned to respond.
We ignored the gifts themselves for a long time, in fact, shoving them unused into storage rooms or giving them away, because I couldn’t stand the sight of them, no matter how precious they were.
Other than the house, which we lived in for a while mostly for the sake of convenience, the first gift I kept were the horses—they were simply too beautiful.
I adored my glorious, fiery mare, and I sobbed the day she finally died.
Perhaps because of her, who was so uniquely herself, I was able to separate the rest of the gifts from the giver.
Throughout the following years, Daesra and I went on to keep several more items if they had particular appeal, though he always waited for me to keep something first.
Even now, Daesra is wearing one of last year’s deliveries: a pair of boots, crafted from the softest brown leather and open at the toe despite the chill.
I lift my hand to the fur ruff at my neck.
The fox stole wasn’t a gift, but what’s hidden under it was, from a few years back.
I hesitated for a long while before deciding to keep that one.
“No,” I say finally, dropping my hand. “I wouldn’t do that to the poor creature—and by that, I mean the scorpion.
” The words are light, even though there’s a tightness in my chest that I try to ignore.
It no longer feels like pain, exactly, or the dread weight of old memories I’d rather forget.
It’s harder to define—almost like a simple pressure, waiting to be free.
“Besides, nothing came this year. Maybe the gifts have finally stopped.”
Maybe he’s finally stopped, I don’t say. Finally given up, after a century. For some reason, the thought doesn’t ease the pressure beneath my breast.
Daesra’s brown eyes fix over my shoulder, so intense they gleam a deeper red in the sunlight. “Somehow,” he murmurs, “I doubt that.”
At the strange, almost stunned look on his face, I spin around.
And I see him.
The dark figure stands out from the crowd like a blot of ink on parchment. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t seen him in a hundred years. I would recognize him anywhere, anytime, at any distance, as if I’d only seen him yesterday. Such has he haunted my dreams.
And not nearly enough of those dreams are terrible.
The crowd parts around him like water around a stone, as if he were shifting them with his mere presence, even though he moves in our direction.
I don’t know how he walks among mortals without them immediately understanding who and what he is and either screaming and running in terror or throwing themselves at his feet in worship.
He wears a long black robe and a rich sable cloak, which does nothing to disguise the raw power in his body.
Or maybe it’s just that my eyes can see what mortals can’t.
Maybe to them, all they see is a man. A stunningly beautiful man.
So beautiful that it hurts to look upon him.
Or at least the sight of him makes me ache.
Only the top half of his long black hair is pulled up in a tail, leaving the rest to drape in a luxurious, silky curtain over his shoulders.
His beard is cut even shorter than usual, accentuating the chiseled line of his jaw with brushstrokes of shadow.
Under those high cheekbones that could be carved from marble, a small smile lifts one corner of his sensuous mouth.
And yet, he’s not looking at us, his eyes downcast under thick black lashes.
For a moment, I can’t breathe.
Daesra, however, groans under his breath—a sound that’s both frustrated and bordering on carnal, stirring a surprising reaction in me. “Why does he always have to be so fucking perfect?”
I blink at him, a smile breaking out onto my face despite myself. “Why, my love, you sound almost more affected than me.”
His eyes tear away from the approaching figure to search mine, both concerned and curious at once. “And how are you affected, exactly?”
I swallow, bracing myself. “I don’t know. Exactly.”
It’s only then that I notice the boy dressed in a smart tunic and a short cloak of his own at Isha’s side, such has my attention been captured by the god. Isha bends his head to the boy’s ear, a gentle hand on his shoulder, while he points out something, and the boy goes scampering off.
Maro. Alive. Brimming with the vibrant excitement that a seven- or eight-year-old child would have.
And he runs to Melé, who appears as human as the rest of us, standing before a stall filled with carved and painted wooden toys.
We’ve seen her many times over the years, since she likes to visit Daesra whenever she can, but Maro obviously hasn’t.
He careens into her, and she gathers him up in her arms, laughing through her tears.
After burying her face in his dark curls, she gives both me and Daesra a smile over his shoulder, and then turns to the stall with the boy, murmuring to him and nodding at the toys.
He looks delighted over the array. He probably hasn’t seen many toys in the underworld.
Any words I have are caught around the lump in my throat.
Now Isha closes the distance between us—alone. Looking almost tentative, as if he might be intruding.
Daesra stands as frozen as me, his gaze fixed upon Isha with a mixture of apprehension, bemusement, and undeniable fire.
Leus, however, trots right up to Isha to sniff the hem of his robe, his tail wagging, which fortunately for Isha is still lacking spikes.
Isha smiles faintly down at him. “We meet again… Leus, is it?”
Leus’s tail waves a little faster, and the sight softens something inside of me, even if I still can’t believe what I’m seeing.
“How?” is all I manage to croak at him. The first word I’ve spoken to him in over a century.
Understanding, Isha glances in Maro and Melé’s direction, the iron of his irises glinting in the wintry air. “It took a long time. Much cajoling and many deals with Horizon—also begging, as much as it galls me to admit—before the god would grant a new mortal body for his soul.”