I swallow, staring at the vial of clear liquid: the answer to my freedom. It has always felt like a dream, to return home, but now that dream is tangible. It holds shape and weight. “You got it.”
His fingers brush mine as he places the tonic in my hand. “It’s not what you wanted, but it’s the best I could do. This tonic is made from valerian root. Not nearly potent enough to put him to sleep.”
We both freeze at the same time.
Him.
I never told Zephyrus the real reason I needed the tonic. I claimed I was having difficulty sleeping. Boreas was never mentioned.
Dread thickens inside me. He knows. What am I going to do?
“Wren.” Zephyrus speaks in a soothing tone. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I swear I’m not. What you’re doing is admirable. Think of everyone you’ll save.”
His apathy at the prospect of his brother’s death shouldn’t matter to me, but it does. And it makes no sense, considering I’m the one who will end the Frost King’s life.
My fingers curl around the vial. “If it won’t put him to sleep, then how—”
“If you want guaranteed slumber, you’ll need the flowers of the poppy plant. Unfortunately, the vendor I usually buy from has gone missing. I can get you the flowers, but I won’t be able to do it alone.” He gives me an expectant look.
“What do I have to do?”
“There’s a cave where the light from neither sun nor moon penetrates. Within this cave grows the Garden of Slumber, tended by…well, technically he is a distant relative of mine, but to you, he is Sleep. His powers are exceptionally strong. I will need assistance in gathering the flowers, on the chance that I succumb to Sleep’s influence.”
“Wouldn’t I be in danger as well?” I’m assuming this very powerful being is a god.
“Normally, yes, but seeing as you are under the protection of my brother, Sleep’s powers are muted for you. You might fight some drowsiness, but it shouldn’t be enough to pull you under completely. His powers are most potent to other immortals. A form of defense, if you will, so that we are unable to strike against one another with our full strength.”
Zephyrus takes one of my hands in both of his. His fingers are far more slender than his brother’s, elegant and refined. “Wren.” My name, paired with a soft, almost pained, smile. “I wouldn’t ask this of you unless it was the only option.”
“I understand.” This is the right decision. It has to be.
“Don’t feel bad,” he says, as though sensing my distress. “My brother had every opportunity to banish winter, yet he only grips it tighter. He will not yield. So long as winter persists, our world dies.”
It is true. Only the North Wind’s death will bring about life.
“Wren?” Boreas calls from nearby, his voice carried on the wind.
Zephyrus tightens his grip on my hand before I can pull away. “I’m barred from the fortress. Can you find a way to meet me a mile north, near Mnemenos?”
The River of Forgetting. I vaguely recall its location. “When?”
“Tomorrow. No, wait.” He tilts his head. “Three days from now. Dawn. I’ll wait for you.”
Boreas calls my name again.
“Do not let him cow you,” Zephyrus whispers urgently. “Remember who you are. Remember what he has taken from you—and from the world.” With that, he releases me, but the ghost of his bruising touch lingers long after he is gone.
20
IT IS COLD ENOUGH FORthe air to crawl beneath my skin. Little wind, but frost crystallizes at the corners of my eyes, coating my nostrils in white that cracks with every exhalation. Wrapped in my furs, I’m protected well enough, but my lungs and belly harden from the chill, absorbing the cold that is eternal.
Zephyrus has yet to arrive. I slipped out the door before Orla could wake me for breakfast. My dear husband will have to eat on his own, though I’m not certain he will even attend. Three days have passed since we returned from Neumovos, and I’ve yet to see him. Orla claims he has been feeling poorly, and thus keeps to his rooms.
Something doesn’t sit right. The king cannot die. He cannot fall ill. Why lie? What is it he hides from me?
A twig snaps to my right. When Zephyrus emerges from the thicket a heartbeat later, my shoulders relax. He must have purposefully alerted me to his presence, since he is usually silent.
He beams upon sighting me, white teeth against golden skin. His coat clings to his lithe frame. “Wren. You look lovely this morning.”
