Chapter 11
IT TURNS OUT THE CITY of Gods is not a place one can fly to—unless you’re one of the divine.
It exists seemingly on a different plane of existence, one separate from the mortal realms. Unfortunately, the journey is long, and according to Eurus, we haven’t the time to fly.
Our only option is the nearest doorway leading from the East Wind’s island, which can only be accessed by boat.
Thus, we have descended into the lowest level of the manor, where the sea has flooded its stony core, and the slop of the tide tunnels down into my teeth.
“It’s all right, bird.” Seated on the bench of the small vessel rocking to and fro, the East Wind offers his hand. “The journey will not take long.”
Perhaps, but it takes only a few minutes to drown.
My fingers tighten around the strap of my rucksack, which contains my clothes and the supplies required to complete Eastern Blood.
Reaching out, I allow Eurus to pull me onto the boat.
The vessel dips, and he stiffens. Only then do I realize I’ve clamped onto his shoulder, the scalloped edges of his left wind brushing my forearm.
We push off. Huddled in the bottom of the hull, I inhale through my nose, exhale through my mouth. Twin oars cut the opaque water. My teeth begin to click incessantly as my grasp on reality weakens.
A sudden heat blankets my form: the East Wind’s wing, splayed over me.
The scales are slender, coated in a high shine, and hard as small, overlapping coins.
My breathing eases; the chattering of my teeth tapers off.
I want to cry for this kindness. It is wrong, I think, to feel gratitude toward my captor.
The tunnel splits. We ease right, eventually reaching another waterlogged stairwell. I practically fling myself onto the steps, the slickened stone solid beneath me.
“This way,” Eurus says.
I stumble after him. At the top of the stairs, we reach a locked door carved of wood. It pulses with a strange energy.
I lick my lips nervously. What awaits us in the City of Gods? Nothing good, I fear. “Will your brothers be participating in the t-tournament?”
“No.” He brushes the handle, a curl of aged brass. “The tournament is open only to the divine. Had my brothers been of sounder mind, they could have used this opportunity to return home—permanently.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I told you that whoever wins the tournament is granted a favor from the Council of Gods.” His voice grates subtly, bristling with sudden aggression. “I intend to win, and when I do, I will ask the council to end my banishment so that I may return to the City of Gods at will.”
I see. “It seems we both w-want to return home.” And if I speak a little more forcefully, well, surely he cannot blame me?
Silken laughter slips around my limbs and spikes the hair along my neck. He then gestures to the door. “My brother, Boreas, helped fashion this entry for me. Since he was responsible for our banishment, I demanded payment from him, a means to our homeland. I haven’t used it since.”
The door opens with an aged squeal. I blink against the sudden brightness.
Across the threshold lies a vista worthy of a painting, for there are brushstrokes of deep green; blots of rose, apricot, and peach; a palette of wildflowers whispering in a sweet wind.
No rock, no gray, no churning storms. No water as far as the eye can see.
In marvel, I trail Eurus across the threshold, vaguely aware of the door shutting at my back.
We stand on the rise of a grassy knoll overlooking a shining city nestled in the surrounding foothills, the air possessing a subtle bite.
A skinny footpath sketches a line through the high grasses.
Autumn dusts the trees in red and gold, orange and brown.
The brittle light exhibits the waning days, their descent into winter.
“If I’m to aid you in your m-mission,” I say suddenly, “shouldn’t I know more about what I’m getting myself into? What exactly does the tournament entail?”
He gestures me forward, and we stroll shoulder to shoulder down the path, amber reflecting off the city’s peaked rooftops as if from a multi-faceted jewel.
“The tournament will be split into three trials. Only a certain number of contestants advance to each subsequent round,” he says as we pass through the shade of the surrounding forest. “Many perish in the attempt.”
“You can be killed in the tournament?” Shock and dismay.
“Yes.”
“But doesn’t that throw the w-world out of balance?” If a god is lost in the games, how will the crops grow? Who will regulate the weather, the currents? And what of fertility, or those dependent on the hunt?
Eurus leaps over a fallen tree. I’m forced to clamber up and over, dropping onto the other side.
“I suppose,” he concedes. “Being one of the divine is a little like what you mortals call having a profession—new deities are born every day, and there is always someone willing to fill an empty role.”
I see. “It makes sense then, to win.” Or at least stay alive long enough not to lose.
The East Wind nods, cloak swirling around his legs. “A favor from the Council of Gods is a boon. There is very little they cannot—or will not—do.”
Then it is a boon indeed. If I were granted a favor, I would wish to have Nan back. Life was easier with her alive, the air impossibly sweet with potential.
“Understand this,” Eurus says. “You are a mortal in the realm of gods. They will see you as easy prey. They will try to bend you to their will. By the time you realize what is happening, it will be too late. Trust no one.”
I press a palm to my cheek. My skin is warm—too warm. Why did I agree to this again? “I have no p-p-protections, is what you’re saying?” Only a flimsy promise, the hope of a day without shackles.
“You will be safest in the palace, where the competitors are housed. You should not venture beyond the grounds unless I accompany you.”
By the time we reach the city proper, perspiration dampens my neck and underarms. Residential properties lay claim to these farthest corners of the valley, all constructed of gleaming white stone, complete with hidden courtyards, tamed lawns, and wrought iron balconies.
The air smells musky, like overripe fruit.
Residents of every shape, culture, and complexion roam the wide, cobblestone lanes, each some nameless goddess or god.
We merge with the flow of traffic. I do my best to take everything in without stepping on anyone’s foot. Before I met the East Wind, I’d never traveled beyond the boundaries of St. Laurent.
Across the street, three deities take refuge in the shade to share their most recent purchases.
A few steps later, a drunkard wearing a loose white robe stumbles through the throng, slurring something about kings and gold.
I do a double take. He has hooves in place of feet and long, furry legs.
I scurry after Eurus, wondering if I am going mad.
And the structures fall away, and the cobblestones stretch forth.
There, a burbling fountain. And there, a small park edged in mist. A crooked lane boasts the large glass windows of a bakery, a collection of tables and chairs occupying the front porch.
There, the divine gather, fingers curled around steaming mugs, some swathed in elegant silks with unique prints, others clothed in blood-spattered armor or threadbare rags as they chatter amongst themselves.
It seems even the gods love their gossip.
We pass through a crowded square where many have set up shop, including a long-haired sculptor who chisels a slab of marble into the curve of a woman’s waist. The detailing is exquisite.
Lifelike, almost. At a neighboring stall, an intricately carved box rests on a stone plinth.
Without understanding why, I reach for it.
“Don’t touch.”
I flinch back. My hand drops, and I fold my fingers against my palm where they will not do harm.
The East Wind snaps the lid shut. “A music box. Harmless to the divine, potentially deadly to your mortal ears.”
I nod, though my throat has cinched tight, allowing neither word nor breath to escape. Don’t touch. Lady Clarisse was especially fond of that phrase.
The crowd thickens around the entrance of an impressive two-story temple, bougainvillea crawling up its cracked facade.
Many place offerings on the steps, the stone smoothed by the press of a thousand feet.
I wonder how that works, exactly. Surely the gods do not worship themselves? Or… maybe they do?
It is only after we’ve turned down a less crowded street that I realize none glance in our direction. “They don’t see us,” I remark, “do they?”
“No. My brothers and I were struck from the books following our banishment, which means we are undetectable to those around us. Once we reach the palace, however, my name will be reinstated for the duration of the tournament. As for you, Min—you are mortal. Too insignificant to attract notice.”
I’m opening my mouth to respond when Eurus halts, and I blink in bewilderment.
Two gargantuan gates stand open. They are forged from hammered bronze, sculpted into elegant curls.
Beyond lie substantial, grass-cloaked grounds.
Pebbled footpaths crisscross the rolling hills, and a manicured lane stretches from the entrance gates to the palace, circling the marble fountain planted at its front.
Then there is the palace itself: extensive, stately, refined.
A collection of pearled walls, delicately crowned towers, and shaded verandas appear to have been woven from moonlight’s glowing threads.
It stretches eight—no, nine—stories. Each boasts wide balconies and capacious terraces, arched windows dressed in filmy curtains, and bridged walkways occupied by deities whiling the afternoon away.
The East Wind’s manor is downright diminutive in comparison.