Chapter 31
WE RUN.
Zephyrus dogs my heels, with Boreas and Notus bringing up the rear.
Farmland and vineyards frame the dirt road, their grasses rippling in a brute wind.
In the distance, St. Laurent pokes through the cover of dense forest. The single spire of its chapel rests as a white scar against the gray.
When the lane splits, I veer right, the low growl of thunder warning us away from the coast. By the time the harbor comes into view, the first pelting droplets have begun to fall.
A shout draws my attention toward the town. Through the hazed drizzle, I spot robed figures herding St. Laurent’s denizens down the main thoroughfare. Arcs of fine metal ornament their hands: swords.
“The soldiers.” I turn toward the brothers in alarm. “They’re taking the town.”
People flee into shops and homes. Someone falls beneath a blade.
Notus looks to the harbor, the storm, back to me. “What do you want us to do?” he asks, fingers tightening around the hilt of the sword he carries.
They await my decision.
That old voice, the one that casts me as something insignificant and overlooked, makes itself known.
It tells me in no uncertain terms that I haven’t the right to direct these men.
Who am I to dictate our next steps? I am no leader.
I have erred, not once, but countless times in a thousand different shades.
It turns out, that voice knows nothing. I shunt it into an abandoned room and promptly shut the door.
“Eurus comes first, but I don’t want to leave my people vulnerable.
” We are farmers and bakers, vintners and weavers—unfamiliar with combat.
“Is it possible one or two of you could stay behind to defend the town?”
Zephyrus steps primly forward. Two daggers hang from his belt loop. “I will stay. Truth be told, I’m not particularly thrilled with the idea of facing another great evil.” He shrugs, suggesting it’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. “And someone needs to protect all those delicious baked goods.”
“Whoever stays behind needs to be able to fight,” Boreas snarls, his frustration cutting through the hiss of falling rain. “You’re useless with a sword.”
“Now useless is a harsh word.”
The North Wind glowers down his long nose at his brother, having acquired a spear for himself. “You should have asked Brielle to come in your stead. At least she knows one end of a blade from another.”
“Funny you should mention it. I did ask my wife to accompany me. She refused, told me this was our mess to fix. Well, Eurus’ mess.” He crosses his arms, blinking droplets of rain from his eyelashes. “It’s not like we have many options.”
“Enough of this,” Notus says, softly but not weakly. “Boreas, you and I will stay here to protect St. Laurent’s people. Zephyrus, you go with Min. At the very least, you can swim, right?”
The West Wind wrinkles his nose. “Of course, though I don’t know the first thing about sailing. I assume that is how we will reach his island? By boat?”
I glance between the brothers, their expressions fixed into various degrees of vexation.
“Yes,” I say, “but I don’t know how to sail either.
” The thought hadn’t crossed my mind, truthfully.
I suppose I thought the vessel would miraculously direct itself through the storm, straight toward Eurus’ manor. Stupid.
“See?” Zephyrus waves a hand. “It would be better if someone who has experience with this sort of thing accompanied her. Notus, you have that sailer of yours—”
“But I don’t have my winds,” he snaps.
“Well, I don’t either!”
My attention shifts to the rain-shrouded harbor below. Its waters claw high. The vessels lurch, ramming against the docks.
One brother will not do, I realize. We four must brave the storm, the sea. The sooner we’re able to defeat Prince Balior and Lady Clarisse, the sooner we can return to help the townsfolk.
“We will all go,” I say. “Notus will man the boat. Zephyrus and I will help with the sails. And Boreas…”
The North Wind, who is drenched head to foot, glares at me with all the rancor of an irate kitten. I clear my throat. “Keep watch and have your spear ready.”
Moving toward the cliff-side stairs, I carefully pick my way down to the harbor, the Anemoi bringing up the rear.
The roaring tide sucks at the slickened docks, and the shutters of the harbormaster’s cottage slam open and shut.
Every so often, one of the waves manages to breach one of the creaking boats, dousing the contents inside.
As I scan our options for transportation, the North Wind strides to the end of the dock where the salt-encrusted boards sag underfoot. “How far away is this island?”
“Difficult to say,” I reply. None of these boats appear capable of withstanding the squall’s onslaught. They are too small, too wobbly, too decrepit. “It took Eurus less than an hour to fly there.”
“Which means it will take us hours yet,” Notus says, scrutinizing a nearby skiff. “And that is without sailing directly into the wind.”
“I assume you know where we’re going?” Boreas says to me dubiously.
“Of course.” Sort of.
Zephyrus paces up and down the docks, rubbing at his arms miserably.
“Over here,” the South Wind calls.
The sailboat he has selected boasts two masts and is surprisingly spacious above deck. Elegant script marks the wide stern: Ma femme.
After the brothers embark, Zephyrus offers his hand to help me aboard. Despite the racing of my heartbeat, I step onto the deck. While the Anemoi stow their weapons and bicker over who does what, I crouch near one of the masts and grab hold.
And we’re off. As soon as we leave the shelter of the harbor, the first roaring wave slaps us sideways. The vessel pitches. I scream, salt dousing my eyes as Notus adjusts the sails and orders Zephyrus to steer us into the wind.
The Bringer of Spring clutches the rudder in borderline hysteria. “I don’t know what that means!” Another wave sloshes onto the deck, and he yelps.
“Turn it to your left!” he shouts.
Deeper and deeper we venture into the storm. The sea grows so rough that half the time we are being smacked in some nameless direction. I cling to the mast with both arms, knees drawn to my chest and loafers soaked through. Twice, I nearly spew bile.
And all the while, I pray to the Master of Sea as lightning rends the sky in two and the wind builds to an ear-shattering wail. To our right, a rising wave collapses onto itself. It reforms moments later, having swelled taller than before. Terror cuts my heart clean through.
“Min!”
My head whips around. I blink through the sea spray as the South Wind climbs from below deck and strides toward one of the masts, a coil of rope slung over one shoulder. Of us four, he alone is able to maintain his balance as we’re pitched and tossed without end.
“Take hold of the rudder,” he orders me. “Zephyrus and I need to patch the holes in the sails.”
I glance upward, trying not to vomit. One sail has a large tear near the corner. The other, a few smaller nicks in the canvas.
I swipe at my wet face with frozen fingers. “What about Boreas?” I manage through chattering teeth. “He is stronger than me.”
“I need him to keep the sails open while we repair them.”
A reasonable request, I suppose.
Despite my wobbling knees, I push into a standing position, clutching the mast while the boat pitches down the valley of an incoming wave.
Higher the wave rises. Its black wall seethes before my eyes.
I whimper, my airway squeezing so tightly it crushes my scream to dust as the wave breaks over our creaking vessel, soaking us to the bone.
The North Wind, who has snagged one of the ropes attached to the front sail, shifts his weight to the opposite side of the hull to prevent us from capsizing. His arms draw taut, the muscles of his back contracting as he pulls open the slashed canvas.
My arms do not wish to part from the sturdy wood, this pillar of stability. But these men are counting on me.
Unlocking my fingers from around the mast, I begin shuffling toward the stern, clutching the gunwale to maintain balance.
The sea-soaked floorboards are treacherous, slick where algae has bloomed.
Then the boat dips, launching over the curved shoulder of a great wave.
I gasp and seize the closest thing in reach—Boreas.
We are airborne, if only for a moment. We hit the sea in a spray of icy droplets.
Scowling, the North Wind pries my fingers loose and directs me to the rudder. Once I’ve grabbed hold, Notus and Zephyrus refocus their attention on patching the sails.
The rudder fights me, wanting only to follow the sea’s current. I do my best to keep it straight. Meanwhile, I hunt the waves beyond the thick cloud of rain, seeking rocky crags. A brilliant white bolt cuts the sky, followed by an ear-shattering boom. I flinch, stooping closer to the deck.
“Turn the rudder to the right!” the South Wind bellows. Somehow, he has managed to tie himself to the mast with rope and struggles to sew a patch onto the sail. Zephyrus works on the other sail with equal effort.
I shove my weight against the mechanism, each wave heaving higher than the last.
“Your other right,” he barks.
The stern rolls. My feet leave the ground, fingers yanked from the rudder. I’m launched skyward, and then I am falling, plunging through the roiling black sea.
All this time, it has been waiting. Its pointed nails grasp at my kicking legs, the tangled strands of my hair, for it remembers me, a child, a sacrifice made so Lady Clarisse could exchange my life for that of my father. Is it fate that brought me here, after all this time?
Another wave bowls me over. I’m spinning, grasping desperately for an anchor. My lungs twinge in warning. A furious kick in some senseless direction, and something grabs my hair and yanks. I break the surface, retching sea water.
“Pull her over!” Notus shouts.