Lissi wastes no time herding me back through the forest. I lead her to the overhang, beneath which lies an unconscious West Wind. She halts, a childlike hand covering her mouth. “Oh, dear.”
The red cloak gapes at his chest, revealing livid teeth marks where the flowers had been attached. Filth clumps his head of curls. He has not moved since I left.
The sprite kneels next to Zephyrus while I hover in the background. She passes a hand over one of the wounds, traces a black vein running up his inner forearm. “These are from the nightshade plant.” She lifts her gaze to mine, wary, questioning.
I hesitate, unsure of what information to divulge. I do not wish to endanger Zephyrus further, or Lissi, but I fear the consequences of withholding vital information, so I nod. “I took him from the Orchid King’s lair.”
She exhales sharply and removes her hand from Zephyrus’ body. “Foolish of you, but there’s nothing we can do about it now. Do you know how long the flowers were attached?”
Though the guilt ebbs, inevitably, it returns. If I had known of his torment sooner, would I have come? “I fear it has been many weeks.”
I explain the roselight’s change in color, why I believe that it signals Zephyrus’ declining health. Lissi takes the glass orb in hand,her expression grave. “That is a perceptive observation, sweet. You may be correct.”
“He cannot die, can he? He is immortal.”
After returning the roselight to me, Lissi begins unpacking her supplies. “You forget Zephyrus is not from this realm. His body reacts differently to Under’s influences. He will not die, but he can be harmed, and scarred.” A variety of tools, jars, and bandages stuff the many leather pockets of her bag. She selects a small flask, pulls away the stopper. A viscous substance clings to the container. “How were the flowers detached from Zephyrus? Was the ritual complete?”
Ritual? A frisson of nerves wends itself through the confusion. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Lissi frowns, mouth pinched beneath the overwhelming vastness of her great stony eyes. “You are not aware of Zephyrus’ circumstances? Why the tithe is necessary for Under?”
I shake my head. Our participation is required to ensure the continued lease of Thornbrook’s grounds, but I’ve been told nothing beyond that.
“In order for Under to thrive,” the sprite explains, “a pool of energy must feed the realm. Long before the fair folk were driven belowground, the land produced its own energy from which we drew. It powered Under’s enchantments, its weather patterns, the cycle of its sun and moon. But since the Orchid King’s arrival, Under’s power has weakened. He has absorbed that power into himself, leaving little for the realm. Thus, we require a donor.”
As her gaze catches mine, a sense of foreboding trickles through me. “Zephyrus,” I whisper.
“Yes. His blood provides the power necessary for the realm’s existence. But mortal blood is powerful, too, in its own way, especially those of the faith. Only the blood of the truly devoted is able to draw forth the power of a god, especially one who has fallen so far from grace. After all, what are gods without disciples? This is why the Orchid King has manipulated the abbess into contributing to the tithe.”
She knows of Zephyrus’ suffering. They all know, all choose to shy from it, and reap the rewards at the cost of another.
“And you do nothing to stop this?” I grind out, unable to hide my disgust.
She shrugs her thin shoulders and says, “What can we do? The Orchid King is formidable. No one would dare challenge him. As for our more immediate concerns, the West Wind’s declining health likely explains the diminished roselight. The Orchid King is voracious. He knows the tithe will deplete Zephyrus of his power for the foreseeable future, so he drains as much as he can for himself in the days leading up to the ceremony.”
So Zephyrus is essentially a sacrifice. This must be how he pays the debt owed to the Orchid King—his power used to perpetuate the realm. Centuries of enslavement, no better than worm fodder.
I had no idea. None.
“What happens during the tithe if he’s too weak to give his power? How does that work?”
“I don’t know,” Lissi says. After soaking the cloth in salve, she begins to dab at his wounds. “Based on these markings”—she gestures to the thin, sickle-shaped discolorations on his neck and chest—“it appears the ritual finished prematurely.” Her eyes shift to mine with disconcerting gravity. This I know: whatever I have done, I will likely live to regret it.
“What is it?” I whisper. “Tell me. I can handle it.”
“I am not certain of that, sweet.”
She removes a second bottle from her supplies. “During the cleansing ritual, a small dose of venom is injected from the flowers’ spines into the host. This ensures he or she remains unconscious, thus mitigating any pain. However, if the flowers are removed prior to the ritual’s completion, the nightshade plant injects a high dose of venom into the bloodstream—enough to kill.”
“I thought you said he couldn’t die!”
“He will not die,” she repeats, “but for some, death is a welcomerelief. Once the venom reaches his heart, it will paralyze him indefinitely.”
This cannot be. How was I to know the consequences of my actions? I could not let the West Wind weather that gruesome state a moment longer. “How long until the paralysis is total?”
Lissi untwists the cap from the second bottle before setting it aside. “Difficult to say. I have a tincture that will bring him to a conscious state, but eventually, he will succumb to the venom.” She places a third bottle full of green liquid on the ground, a clink of glass on stone. “I estimate we have a handful of days, at best.”
What, exactly, defines a handful? Three days? Four? Do we measure the time aboveground, or below? All is obscured, and I cannot bear it. “There’s nothing you can do?” I urge. “No cure?”
