Chapter 6 #2
I hesitate, feeling suddenly uneasy by the direction of this conversation.
“That depends.” I link my hands together at my front, feeling much more grounded now that I am surrounded by plants.
“Some bane w-weavers claim Fable to be the deadliest. It works quickly to paralyze your n-nervous system.” Lady Clarisse favors Fable for its particularly agonizing deterioration.
Cruel, but effective. “Others s-swear by Eastern Blood.”
“What are their properties?”
I pause. What are the consequences of divulging this information? Eurus claims my knowledge of the herbal arts is significant, but only because he lacks it himself.
As though sensing my reluctance, the East Wind extends his wings, their massive shadow eclipsing me entirely. Scarred skin, stretched taut across hollow bones. He has received his fair share of hurts.
“Let me be clear,” Eurus articulates, in a voice that allows no argument. “If you withhold information from me, you are making your life decidedly more difficult. Grant me your cooperation, and you will not suffer here.”
I shuffle back a step to place distance between us, my gaze watchful.
Indeed, I have suffered enough these long years.
I am grateful Nan never had to witness it.
“Fable w-works quickly, and though it is not deadly, it c-causes the drinker such incredible p-p-pain that many seek to end their suffering through other m-means. Eastern Blood has n-no specific taste or scent. Once it is consumed, y-you may begin to feel dizzy, but a decent night’s r-rest will cure that.
The following week, your muscles m-might feel w-weak, you might have difficulty w-walking, but again, a hot meal will do wonders. ”
I lick my lips as the East Wind’s large hand drifts toward his thigh. Those long, pale fingers curve slightly, as though seeking something tangible to grasp.
“By the third week,” I continue, “you will lose y-your sense of smell, then your sense of taste. Your throat will feel s-sore, as though you’ve caught a cold. Days later, you will pass in your sleep, with no outward indication of the cause of d-death.”
“I see.” He rubs at his face. A lock of dark hair falls forward, which he tucks away. “What, in your opinion, is the most powerful of those three that you listed?”
His question takes me aback. “My lady believes—”
“I didn’t ask for her opinion,” he cuts in harshly. “I asked for yours.”
I blink at him, wide-eyed. This is a jest, no? Yet the moments pass, and he continues his uncomfortable scrutiny. He wants my opinion, for however little it is worth.
Nan would say Goldenrod. She always knew best. But having observed Lady Clarisse for a decade now, I have learned that pain has its place, it has its power, and that power should not be ignored.
“Eastern Blood,” I tell him. “It is slowest to t-take effect, but there is no antidote, and it is the only one that invariably leads to death.”
He gives me a slow once-over. At least, I think he does. I wonder what he sees. I wonder if he finds me lacking. “How long will it take you to produce each of those poisons?”
I make a mental calculation. “Goldenrod w-will be completed by tomorrow evening, so long as my w-work is uninterrupted.” This last bit, I speak with a pointed look.
“Fable will require at least two weeks to complete, though sometimes it takes up to f-four, depending on how much sap can be b-boiled out of the black pine root. Eastern Blood requires five to six w-weeks. This is, of course, dependent on whether I have all the necessary ingredients on h-hand.”
I sense his discontent and ponder how it might soften or harden his expression. “It is cutting things close, but… very well. You will produce each of those poisons,” he tells me. “But I want a triple dose of Eastern Blood.”
Dutifully, I nod, even as the knowledge that I will be contained here for weeks stirs my panic.
There must be a way to get in touch with my employer.
Perhaps I can use this time to find out where the East Wind has hidden his god-touched weapon.
“What is expected of m-me? Am I to remain in that tower until you call for m-me, or…?”
“I’m not here to monitor you,” he says. “You are free to explore the manor at your leisure. My only requirement is that you report to me with your progress at the end of each day.”
Admittedly, it is more freedom than I had in St. Laurent. Her ladyship only permitted me to venture into town once a week. “Where will you be wh-while I’m working?”
“I have some loose ends to tie up,” he says vaguely. “I will be gone most days. If you need something, the manor will see to it. But I want to reiterate that there can be no delay, understood? I will need these poisons as soon as possible, ahead of my return to the City of Gods.”
My fingers tighten, bunching the fabric of my dress. City of Gods? But I do not ask. It is unlikely he would respond anyway. “Understood,” I whisper, head bowed.
He pivots, striding back down the corridor from which he emerged. I watch him go, until there is no distinction between darkness and god.
Five oleander cuttings, pale pink blooms crowning long green stalks, line the weather-beaten worktable.
It has been shoved against a wall carpeted so thickly in moss, I cannot see the stone beneath.
Overhead, the stained glass has dulled. Its fiery reds grow clouded, its mustard hues reduced. The air smells of a storm.
Carefully, I snip away the leaves to collect the chalky sap oozing from the stems, taking care to avoid agitating my wounds.
My stomach growls. I ignore it. After the East Wind’s departure, I took it upon myself to explore the garden—mostly searching for a way out.
It was more expansive than I first assumed, containing all manner of vegetables and herbs, common and rare, cultivated in realms distant and near.
A smaller, secondary antechamber housed a variety of grain, including wheat, rye, and corn.
There was even a greenhouse fashioned from panes of glass.
Inside, three rare orchids tilted their painted faces against the steaming air. Two I recognized. The third I did not.
I snip another leaf, catching the dripping sap in a round jar. Unfortunately, my only exit seems to be the boat. The other two existing passages have been bricked up for reasons unknown.
In the hours that follow, I collect enough sap to fill the entire jar, perhaps three cups’ worth.
I slice and crush and blend until my hands cramp, my half-frozen fingers tipped blue.
The changing seasons are born from the Mother of Earth, who demands the land fall dormant in order to bring about rebirth.
Many claim the goddess is fickle, delaying or expediting growth depending on her moods, but I have never believed that.
So long as I extend gratitude for each plant harvested, I trust that she will provide.
In truth, I enjoy the solitude. It is my only opportunity to fully relax. Though I have been stolen from my home, I cannot deny the slow rhythm of my heart in her ladyship’s absence. There is no threat amongst the moss and weeds. They demand nothing of me.
A sharp clatter startles me. I jerk around, scanning the area. On a nearby work bench, a bowl of stew has appeared, along with a hearty slice of bread. The manor. It must have sensed my hunger.
I pick my way toward the hot meal curiously. No sign of the East Wind. He made his point earlier—why would he seek to harm me when he requires my services? And I am hungry.
The stew is filling, seasoned with rosemary and thyme.
Chunks of meat melt in my mouth, and I eagerly munch through a few softened potatoes before dragging the bread through the rich broth.
It warms me from fingertips to toes, and I consume the entire bowl before setting it down with a gratified “Thank you.”
The bowl vanishes. A glass of water appears in its place. I take a tentative sip before draining it. Moments later it, too, fades. I feel a swell of gratitude toward this strange, enchanted place. It cares for me, which is something I have rarely encountered over the last decade.
“Do you happen to know a way out of here?” I ask the manor.
The small stream splashes once, twice, thrice. A shallow wave curls toward the garden’s entrance, as if gesturing me to follow. I’m led to the flooded corridor, where the boat dips with the current.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “Is there another way that doesn’t involve water?”
A few leaves stir around my ankles. They sweep behind me, coaxing my attention back to one of the walls in the main chamber. The leaves scatter upward.
“I can’t go through,” I explain. “The passage is blocked off.”
The leaves stir again.
I shake my head in confusion. “I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.” My attention flicks upward, and I pause. The manor isn’t directing me to the wall. It’s directing me to the small opening in the upper corner, wide enough that I may be able to squeeze through.
I stare at the hole in frustration. Too far to reach. Even if I were able to slip through the opening, where would I go? I remain trapped on this island with no means of escape.
A soft scuff of sound sends me darting back to the worktable. I stand with my back to the wall, scissors clenched in hand: a pitiful weapon.
Eurus emerges from the open corridor, wings tucked against his back, long, faded cloak snapping around his legs. Worn, calf-high boots of black leather thud against the uneven stone, and I bite the inside of my cheek. The sting grounds me.
The East Wind stops a stone’s throw away. “Well?”
I blink in stupefaction. “Well wh-what?”
“Are you done?”
I decide that I do not like this immortal. Not only did he abduct me and force me into his employment, he seems like someone who finds little pleasure in the world.
“I told y-you,” I reply, “some of the poisons will require many weeks. It has only been a f-few hours.”
A crude wind tugs at my braid. He is displeased by my response. I need not witness his expression to know that. But what, specifically, displeases him? That I have the gall to challenge him? I retreat a step, gaze wary.
But he only grunts and says, “Tell me of your progress.”
With effort, I force my fingers to loosen around the scissors.
Stupid. As if I have the courage to use a weapon against him.
“Right n-n-now, I’m gathering the ingredients for Goldenrod.
I’m nearly done extracting the s-sap from oleander.
Once that is complete, I’ll grind peppercorn and two roots from the b-bashling sedge. ”
He approaches the worktable. The air wavers around him, but it is softer, this emotion, his winds humming not with impatience, but intrigue. I suppose I never realized how unusual my skillset is. Lady Clarisse frequently reminded me that everyone and everything is expendable, including me.
“This bashling sedge.” He points. “What is its purpose?”
Not a test. Not a means to put me in my place—I think. “It paralyzes one’s n-nervous system.”
“Paralysis?” He considers me. “That could come in handy. You are quite certain you cannot complete the poisons sooner?” he asks, angling toward me.
“Quite,” I clip out. He stands so close I’m forced to tilt back my head to meet his enshrouded gaze. When I shift slightly to the right, I catch the pale crescent of a cheekbone emerging from the shadows of his hood.
“Why do you n-need these poisons anyway?” I ask him.
And why so urgently? “You’re a god. Why not kill whoever has w-wronged you with your god-touched blade?
” Though it goes against my every instinct, I turn my back on the East Wind and return to extracting the oleander sap.
The curve of my nape tingles from the weight of his stare.
“Or have you misplaced it? Is that why you’re r-r-resorting to poisons?
” I prod with a nonchalance I do not feel.
I am not expecting him to respond. Less than a day I have spent in this deity’s company, yet I have already pinned him as closed and cold. But the East Wind surprises me by saying, “Do not worry yourself about my ax. It is well hidden under layers of enchantments.”
So the weapon is somewhere in the manor. Where might the divine hide their beloved weapons? Surely not under their mattresses?
“As for the poisons,” he continues, “it is not just one god I wish to kill. It is twelve of them.”
My hands still. No, I did not misunderstand. The clarity of his words was a sharp-edged blade.
Setting down the paring knife, I turn to face him. “You seek to kill y-y-your own kind?”
Except… I frown at him. What am I missing? Gods are eternal. It is they who dictate life’s currents, whether rainfall or drought, a bountiful catch, an abundant hunt. They cannot be killed by something as insignificant as a collection of chopped buds and crushed roots.
“I do,” he says with no hint of remorse. “And you will help me do so.” Without a farewell, he heads for the flooded corridor.
I blink at his retreating back in indecision. Beyond the garden walls, there is the overwhelming roar of rupturing waves. “Wait!”
He halts, an ear cocked over his shoulder.
“How am I s-supposed to get back to my room?”
“Use the boat,” he rasps tonelessly.
“But—”
He’s gone.
A brown flutter cuts across the space. I track the sparrow, watching in longing as it plucks a blade of grass from the tangled growth and returns to its nest. My grip on the knife coils.
Tight, tighter, white-knuckled, fingers crushing the wooden hilt.
Every second that passes is a second closer to Lady Clarisse selling the estate.
This god thinks he can demand things of me?
It is time to work. Time to return to St. Laurent.
Slamming the knife against the table, I stride for the hole in the wall. Utilizing the cracks between the stones, I heft myself higher—shredded back be damned—grappling for any nook or ledge. My fingers slip across small pebbles, then grab hold.
When at last I reach the top, I peer down into a walled courtyard below. Three large birds with ink-tipped wings sit on tall, wooden perches. It is then I notice the colored rings circling their slender legs: courier birds.
Lady Clarisse will be hearing from me, and soon.