Chapter 22
I STEP OUTSIDE THE TAVERN into pouring rain. It slicks the cobblestones, drips furiously from the porch eave. Thunder cracks. The sky whitens, cleaved apart by lightning.
Head ducked against the onslaught, I carefully pick my way over the slippery ground, water smearing the city lights’ reflections. In seconds, my coat is drenched, as well as the gown beneath. It is a chilled rain, a frigid soaking. Unfortunately, that can’t be helped.
Few lamps illuminate the flooded roads. My eyes sting in the next chilly gust, and I bring my hands to my mouth, huffing into the cupped space to thaw them.
As I exchange one shadowy intersection for another, my shoulder knocks someone in passing.
Before I can apologize, they stride off, vanishing into the downpour.
While A Thousand Ships was festooned with customers and merriment, The Blind Oracle is all but dead, smothered in deep shadow.
Only a handful of immortals occupy the space, most having congregated by the fireplace.
Here, the music is of a more rudimentary nature: the grate of glass sliding along a tabletop, the crack of a log eaten by flame.
I shiver, water dripping from my coat onto the floor. At least it is warm here.
Near the back, I spot the Courier’s head of snowy hair. None have noticed the arrival of a soaked-to-the-bone woman—except for the barkeep. He scans me head to toe with those slit-pupiled eyes, but I do not flinch. Betrayal has lit the fuse, and oh, how I burn, and burn, and burn.
“Hello again.” Approaching the counter, I offer him my sweetest smile. “Do you by chance have a quill and parchment?”
“Is it a love letter you’re looking to pen?” he asks as he polishes the countertop. Another customer enters and selects a stool at the end of the bar. Without looking at him, the barkeep pours him a tumbler of liquor, sending it straight into the god’s beefy hand.
“Of a sort.” Though his gaze unnerves me, I force myself to maintain eye contact. “Well?”
Wordlessly, he passes over the requested supplies, but not without a healthy dose of suspicion. I quickly scribble my message.
My lady,
I apologize for the delay. The East Wind and I will not be returning to his island, but rather to the estate in two days’ time, along with his god-touched ax. I am very much looking forward to returning home.
Sincerely,
Min
Message: folded. Wax: melted. Seal: pressed. Eight, nine, ten steps across the room, and I slide into the chair opposite the Courier, who is tossing dice with two ancient crones.
“Eurus’ mortal,” he says without looking at me. “Was wondering when you’d be back.” He drops the dice onto the table. Both land on the number five. With a frightening grin, he collects his winnings, his competitors groaning at their misfortune.
“I’ve a message to send. It’s urgent.”
“And on the eve of the final trial, too,” he says drolly. After counting his earnings, he takes a drag from his pipe, then blows a smoke ring into my face.
My eyes water, and I cough, batting aside the repulsive fumes while the Courier again tosses the dice. Double sixes. Either he has excellent luck, or the game is rigged.
“And what of my payment?” he asks after a time. “What of the strength tea you promised for my wife?”
I hunch lower in the chair, hands clamped in my lap. “It is r-ready. But I forgot to bring it.”
“A likely story.”
When one of his companions wins the next round, gleefully piling gold into their lap, the Courier’s mouth pulls in dissatisfaction. He swipes the game pieces. “If you can make a double batch of the tea and deliver it by the end of the week, I can send the message tomorrow. Will that suffice?”
On the morrow’s sundown, either the East Wind will have claimed victory, or he will be dead. Do I wish him to win? Yes, but only because it will mean a swift journey home. As for what he will face when we return to Marles, that is no longer my concern.
“It will,” I say in relief. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” the Courier murmurs. “I’m just the messenger.”
I return to A Thousand Ships, drenched head to toe in rainwater, yet with heightened spirits, fresh conviction.
I’m not sure why I convinced myself Eurus felt anything for me.
That kiss we shared, though only a brush of lips against cheek—might it have been part of his plan to soften me, persuade me to see this bargain through?
I suppose it doesn’t matter. Soon, I will have returned home, the City of Gods a distant dream.
Thunder rocks the tavern as I shake cold droplets from my coat.
The ensemble continues to perform onstage, a few couples swaying to the easy rhythm.
I tell myself I will not search for Eurus, but unfortunately, I spot him and Demi slotted together against the wall, their heads ducked conspiratorially.
He laughs. She laughs. How euphoric they appear, together again at last.
I turn from them, feeling shaky and nauseated. I need a drink. Something strong enough to take me from this place and this dark cloud of unhappiness.
Thankfully, someone vacates their seat at the bar.
As soon as I claim the stool, those nearest me move off, muttering something about the stink of mortal.
At least the barkeep offers me a glass of ale.
I take a large swallow and nearly spit it out.
Bitter—extremely. But an accurate reflection of my mood.
“May I sit here?”
I tap a finger against the glass with a shrug, not bothering to look at whoever is speaking to me. “I hold no title over an empty chair.” As long as it’s not Demi. Or Eurus. I don’t think I can handle sitting next to either right now.
“How am I to know that?” the man replies, an indistinct shape in my periphery. “You mortals and your strange customs.”
My ears strain in an attempt to pick up Eurus’ laughter, but the racket is too overwhelming. “Our customs are no stranger than yours,” I mutter.
He sighs. “I must be a bore if I cannot even get an attractive woman to look at me when we’re talking.”
His words pierce the fog of my foul mood, and I shift to face the stranger, whose crooked smile suggests amusement at the situation.
I straighten in interest. He is quite comely, with dark skin and black hair curling around the collar of his white tunic.
His eyes are an arresting shade of hazel green.
“Apologies.” I wince. “My mind was elsewhere.”
“I can see that.” He gestures to the stool. “May I?”
“Please.” I scoot over to make room, and he settles in, angling toward me so our knees touch. “My name is—”
“Min,” he cuts in, warm hand overtaking my own. “You’re a popular topic of conversation.” We shake. His hand is broad, though still smaller than the East Wind’s. And I am immediately irritated by the direction of my thoughts.
“Dare I ask what the gods are saying about me?” I have overheard my fair share of opinions. Incompetent mortal, too stupid to live. Some are convinced aligning myself with the East Wind will lead to my own demise. Others believe I will offend the wrong deity and be struck down.
He signals the barkeep. A glass of ale appears so quickly it may as well have materialized from thin air.
I quirk an eyebrow. The motion feels as though it belongs to someone else, someone far more daring than I. “Do you actually enjoy the taste of that?”
“This?” He holds up the glass, face scrunched.
“Oh, no. This is horrid, truly. But that’s the fun part.
” He grins cheekily at me, and my face heats, much to my embarrassment.
“But to answer your question, the gods are saying all manner of things, really. Here I was thinking you were some old woman, too infirm to be of any use. But you are neither old nor infirm. You are,” he says, “lovely.”
I tighten my grip around the glass as a group of stools are overtaken by a gaggle of goddesses swathed in white. “What do you want?”
“Pardon?”
“There must be some reason you approached me in a crowded tavern. Do you and your friends have a bet to woo the mortal? If so, I do not appreciate the deception, Master…”
“Call me Kip,” he says.
“Master Kip—”
“No Master,” he says with a laugh. “Just Kip.”
“Well, just Kip,” I say, surprised by my own brashness, “if you’re here to humiliate me, you’re far too late for that.
” I gesture to the multitude of deities gawking my way.
They underestimate me, all of them. They judge and they belittle.
They know nothing of what I’m capable of.
“And I would prefer to finish my drink in peace, if it’s all the same to you. ”
His eyebrows climb all the way to his messy hairline. “Are you sure you’re the same mortal everyone’s talking about? Because you are not timid at all, as far as I can see.”
It is definitely the ale. “Perhaps I was too harsh.” This Kip fellow regards me without a hint of malice or cruelty, only a willingness to listen. Which is more than I can say about my employer. “I’ve been warned time and again about trusting immortals. I was quick to make assumptions.”
“You do not have to explain anything to me, Min.” He flags down the barkeep. Seconds later, two full glasses of wine appear before us. “You’re right about the gods. We’re a horrible lot. I don’t blame you for your suspicion.” He gestures at the wine. “You might find this more to your liking.”
“You’re not one of the tournament finalists, are you?” I ask Kip, lifting the glass and taking a satisfying swallow.
“No, thankfully.” This, paired with an impish smile. “I’m happy enough as a spectator. Though a betting one, if I’m being truthful.”
He is not the only one, that’s for sure.
A sudden uproar draws my attention to the opposite end of the tavern. An immortal with the face of a lion has begun to waltz atop one of the tables. The crowd cheers him on.