“Zephyrus.” Reluctantly, his gaze meets mine. “Do you think I would come all this way, go through all this trouble, to turn back?” My mouth quirks. Brielle ofthenwould never have taken such a risk.
He appears tentative, unsure of his place. “I would not blame you if that were so.”
“It’s my choice.” My tone will not yield, and neither will I. “I don’t care what youthinkyou deserve. You have atoned for your actions, and now is the time to forgive yourself.” Then I add, as if speaking to a small child, “You can have good things, too, you know.”
“What is the point of having good things,” he whispers, “if I fail to care for them?”
He blinks, and I’m shocked by the tears slipping down his cheeks. Here, at the end of days, the West Wind falls to pieces. My heart aches at the sight. “Zephyrus.”
“I sabotage,” he goes on. “I do not know how to do otherwise. I take and I take until nothing remains. It is a sickness in me.”
“You are not your past.” And then, gently, “You are so much more than your mistakes.”
Shame colors his skin a dull pink. “You are perhaps the only good thing in my life, and I treated you no better than a dog called to heel.” A hitch in his breath. “I am sorry,” he says. “For everything.”
Cupping his face in my hands, I brush my mouth across his damp cheek. “Do not cry for me, Zephyrus,” I whisper. “Cry for the girl who had yet to meet you, who did not realize how small her world had become.”
No matter the ways Zephyrus wronged me, my heart is a cup filled to brimming. I let him purge these hurts. This, I understand.
“I forgive you,” I murmur into his cheek. “For all that you have done, I forgive you.”
He turns his head, studying the cave opening as the barking nears. Even with a head start, I question whether we will be able to outrun the hounds. “Are you sure you can carry me? I’m a grown man. It will not be easy.”
I pull away, give him a dismissive once-over: lean musculature, a distinct lack of fat. “Please,” I scoff. “Don’t insult me.”
Carrying the West Wind, as it turns out, isn’t nearly as bad as the long days spent carting barley from the fields. Guided by the roselight pulsing dimly in my hand, we venture through the carved network of tunnels below the mountain. The light grows more feeble with each passing hour, small clots of what looks like blood held suspended inside the glass.
We round a bend into yet more darkness. My back twinges as Zephyrus’ weight drags at me, but I heft him higher where he hangsagainst my side, tightening my arm around his waist. Another step, a slow shuffle against the hard-packed soil. Eventually, the dim begins to recede.
Gasping, I pick up the pace. First mauve, then gray, the pinprick of brightness ahead guiding me onward despite my body’s exhaustion. And then I am running, dragging Zephyrus forward, slipping through the narrow vein to emerge, unscathed, into the world above.
The light is a flood, and I recoil from its intensity, the cool darkness driven back by a swell of unbearable heat. In the distance, mounds of sand shimmer like great heaps of gold coins, their gleaming peaks slanting into strips of violet. At my feet, the earth is baked red, cracked like a turtle’s shell. After days belowground, the sun—therealsun—warms my weary soul.
“Zephyrus,” I breathe. “You were right.” The world is vast, and what a shame it would be to know only one piece of it.
East to west and beyond, there is the sky. It is sapphire, cerulean, cobalt, azure. At our backs, cliffs of smooth clay interrupted by pale striations act as a soaring wall enclosing the desert realm, their massive shadow stamped onto the fissured ground. Even my lungs prickle from the heat.
There is no sign of Under’s twisted roots. Only salt. Only sand.
“Will your brother meet us here?” I ask.
A scorching gust screams over the dunes, and in the ensuing silence, I realize I have not heard my companion speak in some time.
I look down. Zephyrus sags against my side. His face is slack, eyes closed. “Zephyrus.” I shake him hard. His head lolls.
I lower him onto the sizzling earth. My hands tremble as I check for a pulse. It is too faint.
A glance around the gold and ruby landscape. What of the South Wind, whom we have need of? Did he receive his brother’s message? And what will become of us if he has not?
As I brush the curls from Zephyrus’ clammy forehead, a shadow falls over me. Springing to my feet, I whirl, drawing my dagger in a seamless motion to meet a pair of dark, glittering eyes.
34
THE TIP OF THE MAN’s blade rests level with my throat. Mine points directly between his eyes.
An impressive physique strains against the long, sapphire robe the man wears. Its slitted hem hits knee-high, revealing cream trousers and soft, worn slippers. This man is wide, dense, compact. Zephyrus is practically anemic in comparison.
My attention remains locked on the man’s sword. Curved, thinly hammered metal arcs toward the tip—an unusual design, to be certain. My old bladesmithing mentor had one hanging in his forge. A scimitar, I believe it’s called.
