Chapter 15 #3
“Oh, all sorts of things. Breads, muffins, pastries. We would bake croissants on Sundays. I preferred mine with chocolate, but Nan loved raspberry jam.” I smile, recalling how we would each sample the other’s creations, our fingers sticky with sweetness, and begin to knead, a forceful motion of the arm.
“Sometimes, Nan would sell her pickled vegetables in the market, along with her teas.”
“Teas?”
“Yes. My grandmother was a superb herbalist. She taught me everything I know about potions.”
The goddess slows her kneading, expression curious, more like her old self. “She taught you to make potions?”
Only then do I realize what I have uttered aloud. My stomach curdles, the apprehension sour in my throat.
Demi lifts the ball of dough, slams it down onto the table. I jump. She does it again, having fallen into quiet contemplation.
Stupid. No one must know that I am a herbalist, much less a bane weaver. Surely she would not think deeper on the matter. Herbology is not an uncommon trade. As far as she is concerned, I am just a mortal with a passion for plants.
“Can I ask you something?”
Demi smiles as she continues working the dough. Every so often, I catch a whiff of verbena and wonder if I am imagining it. “That depends, love. Is it a favor you’re asking for?”
“No. Well, not exactly.” I hammer my fist against the dough, as Nan taught me. “If I wanted to send a message to someone in the mortal realms, how would I go about doing that?”
“A lover?” The goddess winks at me. “There’s no shame in that.”
My face warms. “No lover,” I whisper. “Just someone back home who is worried for me.”
“Your grandmother?”
“No. Nan passed years ago. It’s… for an old acquaintance.”
With the dough properly kneaded, she sets it aside to rise in a cloth-covered bowl. “Seek out the Courier. He is the only one able to dispatch messages across realms.”
The Courier. “Where can I find him?”
“He’s usually found in one of the nearby taverns. I can take you to him.”
Too effortlessly, agreement rises to coat my tongue. Yes, I might say. That sounds perfect. Except Demi is close to Eurus, and I don’t want her knowing of my contacting Lady Clarisse. “Meaning n-no offense,” I say, “but I would really prefer to deliver it to the Courier myself.”
The goddess appears more curious than upset. “You are an enigma, Min from Marles. But… very well. Seek out a tavern called The Blind Oracle, west of the palace. And keep your wits about you. Eurus would have my head if you came to harm.”
I return to the suite, but only long enough to pen a message.
My lady,
If you have written to me since my visit to the estate, I have not received your message. Eurus has taken me to the City of Gods. He has his god-touched ax in possession, but I am not sure how to take it.
I pause, quill hovering over the last line. No, that will not do. I cannot give her ladyship a single reason to doubt me. I scratch out that last bit and replace it with: Please know I am doing all I can to return to St. Laurent with the weapon, as promised.
Unease slides through me. This was my purpose: to grow close to the East Wind. To build trust enough to gain access to his god-touched ax. But that was before a sleeping draught passed into his hand, that moment of hope and tentative surrender. Before I learned how deeply Eurus ached.
My hand trembles and the quill slips from my grip.
Why this guilt of betrayal? Eurus has done so much worse, having stolen Ammara’s rains, subjecting its people to drought, his plans to poison the council.
I would be saving lives by handing him over to Lady Clarisse.
If I am to one day open my own apothecary, then assisting her ladyship is my only means of seeing that dream realized.
The estate must remain in the family. It must become mine.
Quickly, I finish scrawling the message.
Any news about the estate? You have not sold it, have you?
Your humble employee,
Min
With the letter in hand, I go in search of the Courier.
Down the stairs, across the foyer, over the lush green lawn with its impressive topiaries.
The palace has three gates: south, east, west. Eurus and I entered via the southern gate, closer to a more residential area of the city.
I utilize the western gate and soon find myself wandering an area that has fallen into neglect.
Or perhaps neglect is not the right word.
Here, the two-story buildings are fashioned from the same white stone as the rest of the city, but murals have been painted across their textured surfaces.
One wall depicts a desolate wasteland of cold, a black citadel piercing its white canvas.
Farther down, the illustration portrays a muscled god facing a three-headed beast.
In what seems like an attempt to bring color to the area, many of the doors have been painted as well. Although the fountains have run dry, they have been repurposed as planters that now boast collections of anemone, narcissus, and climbing wisteria.
The road grows cracked. Stone disintegrates to dirt, dust, mud. Here, there are shadows and places to hide, hooded forms gathering in those lightless areas. Beyond the next intersection, I spot a wooden sign swinging from a porch overhang. The Blind Oracle. Relief propels me up the steps.
A group of deities stumbles out the door. Two dark-skinned men drag a half-conscious immortal across the porch and down the stairs. A rush of stale, smoky air follows. My nose wrinkles, but I push inside the dimly lit tavern.
It is all gloom but for a few strategically placed candles.
The tavern itself is half occupied, veiled behind the smoke unspooling from slender pipes.
It smells a bit sour, like spoiled milk.
Discreetly, I scan those gathered at the tables.
A few patrons take notice of my presence.
Most continue their gambling. This would be far easier if I knew what the Courier looked like.
“Taken a wrong turn, mortal?”
I turn toward the man behind the bar. God, rather. He is spindly, with arms like a spider’s legs. He dries the inside of a copper mug with a rag, seemingly unperturbed by my presence. When his eyes lock onto mine, I stumble back in horror. His pupils are slitted, like a snake’s.
“Um.” I lick my lips and take a step forward. The soles of my loafers peel away from the layer of dried liquid coating the buckling floorboards. “I’m looking for the Courier. I was informed he might be here?”
The creature—beast, immortal, whatever he is—peers into a far corner. “He’s here.” He jerks his head at a man with short white hair, seated with his back to me. “He expecting you?”
“Not exactly.”
The serpent-eyed barkeep studies me for a time. Is that a tattoo peeking from his shirt collar? “Takes bravery to venture into these parts,” he says. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Y-yes.” Absolutely not.
He grunts, sets aside the clean glass. One of the patrons seated at the bar signals him, and the barkeep pours whiskey into a smudged tumbler, sliding it down the counter into the man’s awaiting hand.
As I begin weaving toward the Courier, the barkeep calls, “Wait. Take this with you.” I turn. He offers me a glass filled with ale. “A bribe,” he explains.
“I don’t have coin.”
“It’s on the house.”
“But—”
“I’m not in the mood to scrub blood off the floors tonight,” he clarifies. “Give it to the Courier. You’ll be glad you did.” Then he returns to his drying.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Head held high, I cross the room, skirting lopsided tables and deities playing darts, more than one patron passed out across a bench or chair.
The snow-haired god plays cards with three others covered in tattoos.
I curl my arms against my chest, feeling distinctly out of place in my dress and loafers. “Excuse m-me.”
It is chilling how immediately conversation dies. Not just this table, but the whole of the room falls beneath the hush.
The snow-haired deity turns in his seat, and my throat clamps down on a budding scream. I’ve never seen such eyes: pools of liquid silver lapping at half-sunken eyelids.
He wears a scarf that is every color and no color at all—green, yet when I peer closer, it seems to shift hue: blue, indigo, deep orange. An intricately carved pipe rests in a shallow dish to his left, smoky remnants uncurling from the burned leaves within. His companions watch me unnervingly.
“Are you the Courier?” I ask.
Those silver eyes slide down to the glass of ale I hold. Recalling the barkeep’s warning, I offer him the drink.
He lifts an equally white eyebrow, but accepts the offering and takes a sip. “Eurus’ mortal.” His blurred voice pours past a thin, unsmiling mouth. “I have heard of you.”
I swallow as the back of my neck tingles beneath the scrutiny of those in the tavern. “Good things, I hope.”
“That depends on your definition of good.”
That is fair, I suppose. Though I elect not to ponder the matter too deeply. “I apologize for disturbing you, but I was advised you were the person I must speak to if I wanted to send a message to the mortal realms.”
“Indeed.” This intrigues him. I intrigue him. “And you wish to send a message?”
In answer, I pass over the letter, secured by a wax seal.
The Courier lifts the parchment to his nose and inhales, his eyes flickering like moonlit pools. “Salt, yeast, aged cheese, wine. Marles, but… east Marles.” He takes another sniff. “Brine. Hmm. St. Laurent?”
Slowly, I nod, my apprehension too great to be impressed.
He taps the folded parchment thoughtfully against his palm. “I can deliver this for you. But it comes at a price.”
“I haven’t any coin,” I whisper. If he refuses to deliver, how am I supposed to get in contact with Lady Clarisse?
“Oh, it’s not coin I want.” He picks at his nails. Both his wrists are tattooed with snakes. “Perhaps we can come to some arrangement. I will need to think on it. Mortals have their uses, after all.”
I do not like the sound of that. But what choice do I have, really? It is the estate, or nothing. “The message is urgent,” I press. “It can’t wait.” Perhaps I should have accepted Demi’s request to accompany me. I doubt the Courier would demand payment from her.
He tucks the letter into his cloak pocket. “Tomorrow, I will deliver it. I expect payment upon my return.”