Chapter 12
“SO. WHAT INTEREST DOES THE East Wind have with a mere mortal?”
I angle toward the brown-skinned goddess who questioned me, face tightened by a smile that fails to reach my eyes.
She sits across the long dining table that seats over a hundred competitors, in addition to the Council of Gods.
Tonight’s welcome banquet has been set in one of the palace gardens, beneath a pergola intertwined with small rosebuds.
It is, to be fair, lovely, if a bit brisk.
I’ve managed to make it through three courses unscathed, but the goddess now pins me with a set of violet eyes. Their coloring is remarkable, like shadowed caverns with hidden depths.
“I’m not sure what you mean?” I whisper in confusion.
“Oh.” She frowns dramatically. “Don’t tell me you mortals are as stupid as you look.”
A bark of laughter erupts from somewhere down the table, and I flinch. All evening, I have endured slurred gossip and scathing remarks, the smiles that assure friendship, the eyes that promise suffering. Maybe if I ignore her, she will leave me alone.
“He’s gotten you pregnant, hasn’t he?”
I startle so badly my fork clatters against my plate. “Wh-what?” I peer at Eurus, who sits directly to my left, but he doesn’t give any indication that he overheard, focusing solely on shoveling kale into his mouth. He hates this dinner nearly as much as I do. “No. That’s n-n-not, um…”
The goddess smiles, then shakes her head. “Don’t sound so appalled. It is more common than you think.” She shrugs. “But you’re right. You’re too meek to catch the East Wind’s interest.” She slips a cube of squash between her lips, severing the flesh with a snap of teeth.
I watch her chew in unease. My nerves began to fray hours ago, my system so flooded with vigilance I cannot even properly enjoy the meal.
After sipping from my glass of water, I glance at the impressive, bare-chested deity sitting at the head of the table.
Long, white-blond hair hangs over his muscled shoulders.
His sun-kissed skin ripples as he gesticulates to his neighbors, and a set of what appear to be lightning bolts rests in a basket near his chair, within reach.
Might he lead the Council of Gods? He is certainly formidable enough.
“So. What realm do you hail from, mortal?” the violet-eyed goddess asks me. She dabs at her mouth with her scarlet napkin.
“Um.” I poke at the pile of vegetables with the tines of my fork. “Marles.”
“Marles. Yes, I can hear it in your accent. You’ve a lovely voice, has anyone ever told you that?” Before I can respond, the goddess peers at the East Wind. “Do you not think she has a lovely voice, Eurus?”
His utensils smack the edge of his plate with a harsh clang, and he clears his throat. “I… suppose.” Through the gloom coiling within his hood, the intensity of his gaze hits. “It is quite nice,” he murmurs.
I’m so taken aback by the admission that I hurriedly shift my attention back to the goddess, asking, “Who are y-you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Her grin stretches wider than is natural. “Let’s just say I’m someone who deals in a bit of witchcraft now and then.”
“Don’t talk to the witch,” Eurus murmurs in my ear.
The heat of his breath feathers the curve of my nape, and my awareness of his proximity sharpens. Thankfully, the woman—witch—shifts her attention elsewhere. “What am I supposed to d-do?” I mutter. “I can’t be rude. She’s just making small talk.”
“Small talk counts as talking.”
Imagine that.
“If you want m-my cooperation,” I say, surprised by the irritation lacing my tone, “I would appreciate it if y-you stopped trying to control everything and everyone around you.”
I can all but feel the East Wind’s scowl as I sip from my goblet of wine. Well, too bad. There is more at stake than this tournament. As I have come to learn, home is not guaranteed.
The fourth course is served: pork tenderloin roasted in an apple glaze. I dig in, if only to avoid the many eyes cast my way. The duller my actions, the swifter they will grow bored.
“You didn’t answer my question,” the witch says. Lifting her silver goblet, she drains its contents, licking a droplet from the corner of her wine-slickened mouth. “What interest does the East Wind have with a mortal?”
“If you m-must know,” I reply, ignoring Eurus’ warning growl, “I’m his assistant.”
“His assistant? How darling.” Her lips peel back, revealing two extremely sharp canines, thin as sewing needles. “Why, exactly, would a god need assistance from a mortal?”
I regard the woman over the rim of my goblet. Could this be one of Eurus’ targets? What could she have done to him that would drive him to murder?
In the end, I play the game the divine dearly love to play: I gift her an answer without information. “I suppose you will have to w-wait and find out.”
I return to my meal, but not before catching her smile that is not a smile. Hopefully my insolence will not elicit her wrath.
Every so often, my attention drifts to the goddess from earlier—Demi, now clothed in an exquisite crimson gown softened by orange and ochre pleats. She sips daintily from her glass, observing the attendees with a keenness that reminds me of Lady Clarisse.
As though sensing my gaze, she glances sidelong at me.
I drop my eyes, wipe my fingers on the cloth napkin.
By the time my attention returns, she is looking elsewhere—at the East Wind, though he does not appear to notice, his hood turned toward the lightning god.
My eyes fall to Eurus’ hand. It is curled white-knuckled around his fork.
The lightning god pushes back his chair and stands. He is, quite simply, gargantuan.
“Friends, council members, competitors—welcome.” Deep and resonant, his voice carries out over the garden hedges. “You all know why you’re here. Soon, the tournament will commence. One hundred and ten of you will have the opportunity to gain what few are granted: a favor from the Council of Gods.”
Demi raises an eyebrow, mouth pursed as she regards those seated.
The air is a muddle of hope and desperation, trepidation and wonder.
The trio of ginger-haired goddesses I spotted earlier exchange whispered discourse.
The largest bears a shaved head and small, beady eyes.
Her sharp-toothed grin is positively terrifying.
“As you well know, there will be three trials,” the lightning god continues. “The first is trial by combat. In order to move on to the second round, you must survive long enough to pass through the door located in the arena.”
His gaze sweeps the table, his eyes ancient, like eroded stone.
When it comes to rest on me, I swallow hard, but it moves onward, lingering on Eurus.
“The only rule is this: once you enter the arena, you cannot leave until the round is complete. Whatever happens on the field is permanent—even death.”
A sudden rise of murmurings unfolds.
The lightning god gifts his audience a close-mouthed smile. “The first trial will take place in four days’ time,” he goes on. “Best of luck to you all.”
The fifth course is served: roast duck dusted with gold flakes. A small mountain of potatoes accompanies the protein, as well as sugar-glazed carrots, their scraggly green tops crisped from roasting.
The divine dive into their meals, some forgoing utensils entirely.
One broad, muscled god wearing dented armor snaps a thigh bone in half and sucks the marrow from within.
Internally, I wince. No one appears disturbed by the behavior.
Indeed, even a few silk-draped goddesses follow suit.
Meanwhile, the East Wind continues to observe the lightning god long after he has taken his seat.
The din of conversation resumes. I tune in for a time, both fascinated and appalled by the in-depth discussion surrounding the quickest way to fell a god depending on one’s weapon. Then another dialogue catches my attention.
“He couldn’t possibly reach our realm,” one god explains to his neighbor a few seats down. I strain my ears. His voice is but one thread of a hundred. I pluck it from the masses. “Only the divine have the ability to enter the City of Gods.”
“Then what of the mortal woman breaking bread with us right now?” one of his companions—a withered-looking deity with gray hair—snaps.
I hurriedly wipe my mouth with my napkin.
“Good point,” the god concedes. He frowns, nudging the scraps across his plate.
“Apparently, this mortal prince travels with a beast that was once one of our own. Do you remember when it was exiled, confined in the mortal realms? Well, it has since escaped the labyrinth where it was detained and seeks revenge on whoever imprisoned it.”
Wait. Didn’t Zephyrus mention this beast to Eurus? He claimed it was looking for him. Is that because Eurus imprisoned it in this labyrinth?
The withered gentleman—gentlegod?—sips his wine thoughtfully. “Not that I’m dismissing your story,” he goes on, “but I don’t ever recall one of our own who was physically abnormal or beastly, as you say. Unless you count Eurus!” The ancient deity wheezes at his own joke.
My eyes cut to the East Wind. He gives no outward indication of having overheard the comment, but I understand this immortal as one who shows nothing of himself, not even his countenance. What do they mean by abnormal? His wings?
“But there was!” a goddess cuts in. “Remember the sacred bull?” She drops her voice, juts her chin toward a figure dressed in dark green robes overlaid by fishing nets, who is seated in a chair carved from coral. “He gifted it to that mortal king.”
A one-eyed crone clothed in a threadbare shawl points a long, jagged fingernail at her dinner companion. “The bull copulated with the king’s wife, and a monstrous child was born. Do not forget who advocated for this child to be exiled from the city.”