Chapter 8 #2
A warm, lemony fragrance hangs like a cloud over the threshold. There is every manner of herb, flower, and root, all stored in jars, baskets, and tins. The chaotic nature reminds me of my workshop back in St. Laurent. It comforts me, even as homesickness roots deep in my belly.
A woman wearing wire-rimmed spectacles and a patched dress regards Eurus warily from behind the counter. “May I help you?”
He steps forward, the top of his hood nearly brushing the ceiling. One of the shelving units shudders from the might of his footfalls. “We’re in need of nightshade.”
The woman pushes her glasses up her nose. “Nightshade is under restricted use. Due to its hazardous properties, prospective buyers require the permission of the Bringer of Spring. This is to ensure the plant will not be used for any ill—”
“What did you say?” Eurus demands. Slowly, his wings open, ink-blot scales glittering like a thousand minute eyes.
The shopkeeper pales before him. “I s-said—” She swallows. “You need to speak with the Bringer of Spring. He is the bridge between Under and Carterhaugh and lives on the other side of town—”
“Let’s go,” Eurus snarls at me, spinning toward the door. One of his wings hits a shelf. Glass shatters in the wake of his departure.
I scurry after him. He strides ahead, shoving people left and right as though they are of no more significance than dead leaves caught in an updraft of wind.
But the throng is dense, my stature slight.
Soon, I am swallowed, his dark hood lost amongst the crowd.
By the time I turn the corner, I’ve lost sight of the East Wind.
Someone jostles me, and I hurriedly step aside, out of the immediate flow of traffic. Did he slip into a shop, maybe? Or would he return to the clearing?
Then I pause. Wait. He’s gone. For the first time in days, I am free.
Turning, I race in the opposite direction, cutting down a trail that veers into the forest and runs parallel to a broad, sinuous river.
After stopping to drink my fill, I hurry onward, picking my way over the root-strewn ground until I spot a building whose chimney belches smoke.
I dart toward the open double doors and duck inside, panting, hand pressed to my heart.
“Can I help you?”
I gasp, spinning around to face a curvy woman studying me with unexpected kindness.
“Sorry,” I whisper. Only now do I realize I’ve slipped into what appears to be a forge. A gray haze veils its large, stony mouth, white smoke drifting from its coals.
The woman lowers a mallet onto the anvil. Her hair is brightest flame. It tumbles over her broad shoulders in large ringlets, her pale, freckled face smudged with soot. A cowhide apron protects the cotton dress beneath.
“Are you in trouble?” She immediately shuts the wooden doors.
“Um.” I wipe the perspiration dotting my brow. The ash-soaked air sticks inside my lungs. “There’s a man looking for me. I do not wish to be found.”
The woman’s earthen eyes harden with distaste. “Then we will make sure he cannot find you. You’ll be safe here,” she says. “Let me find my husband, and then we’ll see what we can do for you. What’s your name?”
I lick my lips. “Min.”
“Stay here, Min. I’ll be back shortly.”
As soon as the door creaks shut, my thoughts plummet into an endless spin. I’m safe, or so that woman claims, but for how long? Can I trust her, or anyone in this town? I spotted no ring on her left hand. Does she have a husband, or was that, too, a lie?
I hunch lower to the ground, arms curled around my middle despite the sweltering heat.
Eurus has likely noticed my absence. Once he finds me, he will not let me go, not for anything.
It will take weeks, possibly months, of travel to reach Marles.
Though I still lack the East Wind’s god-touched ax, I know the location of his manor.
That should be enough to appease Lady Clarisse and convince her not to sell the estate, for now. Needless to say, I cannot stay here.
Easing open the door, I peek outside. Trees and swirling winds.
The river that runs clear. Keeping to the cooling shadows, I skirt the forest path until I return to the edge of Kilkare.
Its crowds have swelled beyond its muddy streets—men hauling sacks of grain on sweat-dampened backs, a harassed mother carting pails of fresh daisies.
I spot a merchant tossing crates into the back of a wagon—an ideal hiding place.
“Pardon, sir?” The gentleman lifts his head, squinting against the brightness. “Are you leaving town? Do you have room on your cart for me to hitch a ride?”
Abruptly, the sun goes dark. My hand lifts, eclipsing the scorching orb overhead. A winged creature circles above, as a vulture does over a fly-swarmed carcass.
Shrinking into the shadow of a nearby building, I watch the East Wind spin oh-so-slowly, low, lower. He searches for one thing only: the bird that has fled its cage.
Eventually, Eurus veers off. Only when I lose sight of him do I sag against the wall, knees knocking.
“Miss?” The merchant peers at me in worry. “Were you still wanting a ride?”
I press a hand to my stomach. I feel sick. “No.” Too risky, with the East Wind circling overhead. What to do, what to do? The ginger-haired woman and her forge at the edge of the forest—I should have stayed. It may be too late now, but… I have to try.
Keeping to the shadows proves difficult at high noon. The alleyways provide temporary shelter, but eventually I’m forced to cross the road, the forest just ahead.
It is the scent of brine that alerts me. My gaze snaps upward where the East Wind searches, and I freeze—my first mistake. His hood angles toward me, and he dives.
I dart for the nearest alley. Hide. Run and do not stop. For this is a hunt, and the East Wind seeks his prey.
I am crashing through gatherings, hurtling around beggars, leaping over carts.
A cooling tendril snags my ankle, and I stumble, hitting the ground.
But I’m up, pushing myself to the brink of what I can sustain.
Around another corner, across a busy intersection.
I duck into a shop smelling strongly of leather and crouch beneath a shelf.
The woman—a book binder, judging from all the parchment and thread—gapes at me from her position behind the counter.
“Please,” I pant. “Pretend I’m not here.” I was not meant for running. I was meant for slicing, grinding, stirring, crushing, boiling. With a shaky hand, I wipe the sweat dampening my face and neck.
The door opens. I freeze.
“Where is she?”
The shopkeeper licks her lips nervously. “Good day to you, sir.”
The East Wind crosses to the counter, searching with those unseen eyes. The door stands open. A crowd has begun to gather in the streets.
“We can make this easy, or difficult,” Eurus says in his coarse rasp. “I’m looking for a young woman with black hair and brown eyes. Where are you hiding her?”
“I have seen no such woman. As you can see, my shop is empty.”
“What of that curtained doorway? What are you hiding behind it?”
“Sir, please—”
As the East Wind slips behind the curtain, I dash outside, but as I hit the muddy road, the door explodes behind me.
I scream, darting between two buildings. Dust puffs beneath my flashing soles. The steady whump whump of his wings vibrates like thunder through me. I duck as the East Wind swoops low, his hand just skimming my shoulder.
He snarls a curse, the narrowness of the space between the buildings forcing him upward, lest he crush his wings.
Spinning, I flee in the opposite direction and find myself at another intersection.
Which way was the forest path? I choose a course at random.
My lungs strain, each heaving gasp collapsing into the next as I turn down an alleyway, then stop.
Dead end.
A wave of air slams me against the ground. Dirt crunches underfoot. I flinch, eyes squeezed shut. My muscles lock, body curled inward for the cut of the lash, a swift kick to the leg. Whatever the punishment, I will endure it, as I have always done.
An unexpected warmth washes the entirety of my spine in heat. A helpless whimper slips out as the East Wind’s broad hand comes to rest at the base of my nape, his fingers shaping the curve like a heavy collar.
“Why do you flee, bird?” The dark, velvet-wrapped croon sends a shiver skating across my skin.
My molars grind together so hard they squeak in protest. I am many things. Brave, I am not. “Why d-d-do you th-think?” I whisper, and wonder if I have secured my own doom.
Slipping his hands beneath my arms, he lifts me to a standing position. I struggle to catch my breath.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” someone drawls from behind us.
The East Wind stiffens. Rather than face the newcomer, he eases closer, the length of his torso plastered to my back. My heart skips a beat. When I try putting space between us, his hand keeps me in place.
“If even a word of our arrangement is spoken,” he whispers to me, the heat of his breath tickling the shell of my ear, “I will return to your pitiful town and flatten it without a thought. Do we have an understanding?”
I am acutely aware of how small I am in comparison, how frail. I nod jerkily, and he releases his hold. A cooling wind sweeps between us, drying the perspiration beading my skin.
The East Wind turns to regard the newcomer, a slight man with springing, gold-streaked curls and skin kissed by a summer sun. He wears an olive, thigh-length tunic, brown breeches, and calf-high boots. His eyes are the pale shade of jade.
“Zephyrus,” the East Wind clips out.
The man is all smiles, though his gaze flicks to me curiously. Beyond the mouth of the alley, people have begun to congregate. “Eurus! Is that any way to greet your own brother?”