Chapter 23
I WAKE IN DARKNESS.
Its thick, impermeable murk soaks into my eyes.
Hard stone lines my back. Except, that cannot be.
What of the plush mattress, the luxurious blankets and plethora of pillows?
I inhale a mouthful of air tasting faintly of mineral.
It chokes me, and I cough hard until my lungs clear, the first fragments of alarm stirring.
This is not my bedroom. This is not even the palace. The air stirs in a way that suggests I am outdoors. It lacks the autumnal, nutmeg-infused fragrance that clouds the City of Gods, and holds a chill reminiscent of exposed mountain peaks.
Moving slowly, I push upright into a seated position. I blink, blink again. The blackness does not lift. “Eurus?”
My voice carries, hits nearby walls, perhaps a ceiling. It folds onto itself and is gone.
Drip, drip—water in the distance. Where am I? What has occurred? Why do I not remember? I rub at my arms, for I have no coat, only a thin nightgown, no shoes, my hair falling loose down my back. Following my argument with Eurus, I slept, though poorly. Might this be a dream then?
Ears pricked for sound, I climb to my feet. My palm finds a damp wall. I pinch my arm, and the pain reveals my reality, all of it. Is this a cell? A burrow beneath the earth?
Slowly, I pick my way forward, one hand braced against the stone, the other outstretched as a precaution. My toes catch in a crack, and I stumble. Gradually, the gloom begins to lift. There, in the distance—a spot of gray.
The brightness coaxes me onward, and I lift a hand to shield my eyes as, at last, I emerge from a large cave into a cold and cutting wind.
It is day. High noon, according to the sun’s position. I stand on a hill overlooking a dell, movement luring my eye below.
In an open forest clearing, two immortals cross swords. A small, lithe woman with violet hair combats a strapping man with two-pronged antlers erupting from his skull. They move with a swiftness I cannot track. Their blades bleed silver.
Competitors. I recognize them both. The deer-like immortal hacks at his foe, again, again.
His next cut threatens to remove the woman’s leg, but she dances out of range, receiving a slash to the thigh rather than a severed appendage.
She parries his next attack, then sweeps under his guard.
Her blade sinks hilt-deep into his chest.
The man drops to one knee, expression agonized. Yanking her blade free, the violet-haired woman decapitates her foe swiftly, one finite blow.
As I look away, a bell tolls. Its mournful clang draws the hair along my body straight up, and I wipe sweat from my forehead despite the frigidity. I’m not sure what the bell signals, but I do understand one thing. This is the final trial.
Once more, the arena has been transformed, in this instance a large tract of forest, unending hills, a dense swathe of trees enclosed in that same hazy enchantment that temporarily blocks the grandstands from sight.
Beneath the wind, a muffled roar reaches my ears: the cries of a hundred thousand spectators.
Mother of Earth. How am I here? I assumed I would witness the event, but as a bystander. Surely I’m not a contestant? I’m certainly in no position to win. My presence must therefore serve a purpose, and there is only one I can think of for a mortal participating in these immortal games: prey.
Ducking behind a nearby bush, I take stock of my surroundings. Strange hoofprints mark the soil, overlapped by the occasional outline of a bare foot. At some point, some of the participants wandered this way, but there is no sign of them now, and—what is this?
A long strand of red hair is caught in my nightgown. No, two strands. The sight chills me. I know of only one—or rather, three—competitors with hair this shade of scarlet.
My presence in the arena is no accident. Here is what I know: only when the last competitor remains will the door appear. Regardless of the fury I feel toward the East Wind, allying with him is my greatest chance of survival. I must not delay.
As I slip toward the trees, however, I notice a large, dark shape sprawled across the forest floor.
A cloud of flies has already descended to feed on the goddess’ eyes. I gag, a hand slapped over my mouth. Her gown has been slashed, heels broken, legs pieced at unnatural angles. Had the contestants been taken unaware, as I was?
Something snaps behind me. I whirl around, scanning the area. Whatever it is that lurks beyond sight, I do not wait around to find out.
I run.
Except I do not run far. Puffing hard, I lurch to a stop, brace a hand against an aged tree. The wood is dark here, the understory veiled in obscurity. It boasts peculiar plants and pale-winged birds. Every so often, the bell peals and dies.
It is foolish, this plan. Find the East Wind, yes, but how? He is one god amongst trees that number in the thousands. By calling out for him, I risk alerting the other contenders to my presence. Then again, even if he did know of my presence, why should he search for me? Why should he care?
Say nothing, Min.
Useless girl.
A waste of space.
My fingernails dig into the lined bark. My head threatens to burst its seams. All the years of my life, I internalized these words.
I regarded them as truth. I was neither strong nor clever, prolific nor useful.
I was stupid Min, useless Min, impudent Min, burdensome Min. And it was simply not true.
How many mortals would have survived this realm of gods, a flimsy bargain their only armor?
I am not useless. I have my strengths. They may be different than those of Lady Clarisse, but that does not make them trivial, less than.
She was wrong. I am capable and innovative and intelligent.
I have the grit required to see difficult tasks through.
If Eurus is out there, I will find him. This I vow.
A piercing cackle snaps my attention upward. A cutout in the leaves reveals the blue sky, its edges brushed the pink of coming sundown. Something flits past—something with wings.
I climb a nearby tree, hefting myself into the highest branches until my head breaks the canopy. As I catch sight of a figure in the distance, my heart surges, then plummets in equal measure. Not Eurus. Rather, it is one of the Fates, bow and arrow clasped in hand.
She circles the wood slowly, dropping gradually lower. No sign of the other two sisters. After a time, a strong beat of wings carries her west, and she dives. Three, four, five heartbeats pass. Then, a familiar scream of pain.
My blood runs cold.
I descend the tree as swiftly as possible.
Quickly, quickly now. The light wanes, and the sky loses color.
Fear that I will not find Eurus before night cloaks the wood drives me faster, farther over the spongy earth.
I leap over a fallen tree, crash through thorn-tangled brush.
A collection of sharp stings graze my back, arms, and chest.
But I do not falter. Darting through a grove of ferns, I spot dozens of arrows buried in the trunks of adjacent trees, in addition to one lying in the dirt.
No blood coats the carved head, which means it missed its mark.
I gingerly untangle it from the undergrowth, grasp it tightly in hand. This singular weapon, my only defense.
I follow the river for a time, then climb a hill rising from its bank. As I round a great, gnarled tree, I halt in surprise. A pair of trouser-clad legs stick out from the brush, and draped over the thighs: the threadbare fabric of a patched cloak.
The blood drains from my face so quickly I sway. “Eurus?”
Leaves crunch as I shove through the bush to where the East Wind lies, a scarlet pool seeping into the dirt beneath him. Blood oozes from the arrow lodged in his left shoulder. He was lucky it did not pierce his heart.
But why has he fallen unconscious? The loss of blood is too minimal to warrant this state.
Pushing back his hood, I examine the face that has begun to haunt me in my waking and sleeping hours.
The slightly rounded nose and square chin, between which rests his mouth, parted wide enough to reveal a glint of white, even teeth.
His eyes, closed, short lashes fanned across high cheekbones.
The scars marking his visage, revealing a story of horror and neglect.
Gently, I trace one such eruption, the place where healthy and healed skin meet. The East Wind is naturally pale, but there is a sickly tinge to his complexion that worries me. I press a fingertip against his lips. They are unexpectedly chilled.
“Eurus.” I shake him, hard. His head lolls.
I sit back on my heels. If he cannot wake, then something must be preventing him from doing so.
Leaning close, I inhale as he exhales, dragging the scent of his breath into my lungs. It smells of anise. I frown. Eurus despises anise. He told me once, after I brewed one of my stronger morning teas.
Carefully, I tug back one of his eyelids. In the white of his eye, the blood vessels appear engorged, like bloated worms. I study the sight with growing dismay. Many poisons utilize the plant, but only one causes this specific symptom.
Again, my attention returns to the arrow lodged in his shoulder. A murky substance coats the splintered wood. I brush my finger through it, lift it to my nose. Now I am certain.
Gray Snare: a freezing poison that lowers one’s core body temperature. Should he face a contender in his weakened, hypothermic state, it is unlikely he would survive. Because the poison entered his bloodstream through a god-touched arrow, it could prove fatal.
Something rustles behind me then. I spin around, the second arrow clenched inside my trembling fist.
The wood has changed. Its shadows have lengthened, and a tree drops its leaves.
I squint into the distance. A fog-like substance slips through the understory. It swallows a second tree, and that, too, withers beneath its touch.