“To be honest, I am not surprised by this foolhardy attempt to evade me, though I do not appreciate the tithe being delayed.”
Zephyrus regards his captor blankly.
“You are aware of the contract. The Daughters of Thornbrook are only required to give their blood on the promise that you provide the majority of Under’s power. Should you fail to sacrifice yourself, the contract between Under and Thornbrook is null.”
I wasn’t aware of this loophole. I assume Mother Mabel isn’t either. She loathes the tithe.
“Due to your insolence”—Pierus smiles thinly—“I was forced to extend Thornbrook’s lease of Carterhaugh to assuage Mother Mabel.Why, you might wonder? Because you were not there, Zephyrus. And without the West Wind, the tithe remains unfulfilled. But we will rectify that situation soon enough.”
From the blackness beyond, a small herd of white horses emerges, fair folk with goatlike faces perched in fine leather saddles upon the horses’ pristine backs. Each newcomer wears a jewel-toned cloak: emerald, ruby, sapphire, amethyst, citrine. I recognize Pierus’ council immediately. The large, ornamental rings hanging from their snouts glint in the low light.
Pierus shifts closer to his captive, his bulk engulfing the much smaller West Wind. “You smell of the desert sand. A visit to Notus, then?” When Zephyrus fails to reply, Pierus frowns. “Ah. Allow me.”
The flowers on his shoulders unwind, suctioning themselves to the West Wind’s face and neck. His green eyes brighten in the harsh glare. Even the stutter of his breath smooths. After a time, the nightshade flowers detach, slithering back to their nests across Pierus’ muscled torso. When I fumble for the roselight in my pocket, I find all signs of hemorrhaging gone, its hue having returned to a clear, pale blush.
“Better?” asks the Orchid King. “That must have been uncomfortable for you.”
Zephyrus pushes himself off the ground, quiet with defeat.
“By the way, howdidyou escape the cleansing ritual?” He gives a bird-like cant of his head. “Where, might I ask, is your sweet, red-headed friend?”
I shrink, make myself as small as possible, though I am well shielded. When Zephyrus does not reply, a smile crawls across the Orchid King’s mouth. “Your silence is telling. But no matter. Come,” he says. “Under is expecting you.”
By the time the barrier vanishes, Zephyrus and the Orchid King are long gone.
The air hangs stagnant, any trace of Zephyrus’ scent—loam, fresh roses—crushed beneath Under’s rot. Standing alone in the darkened passage, I weigh my options. The grassy path twists to my right. According to Zephyrus, it will lead me safely back to Thornbrook. But that is not where my heart lies.
I’m no god, but I’m overcome by the desperation that sends mothers into burning buildings to save their children. What would I do to spare Zephyrus from his fate?
Anything.
As I follow the tunnel at a run, the strangest thing occurs. Grass erupts beneath my boots, carpeting the ground ahead, guiding me in the opposite direction to Thornbrook. Under must sense my intention, the urgency to reach Miles Cross in time.
The cave empties onto a grassy knoll, which perches above a wide green field. Gasping, I survey my surroundings. I’ve been here before. There is the bridge my peers and I crossed days earlier, the spread of the River Mur beneath. Tucked amongst the woods edging the opposite bank lies the cave leading to Miles Cross.
Movement draws my eye to the distant shore. Five white steeds surge forward like snow rolling down a mountainside. The Orchid King sits at the head of the party. His gruesome load of roots dwarfs the poor beast forced to carry him. I spot the West Wind at the very back, tied to a man wearing a ruby cloak.
Palming my dagger, I take a running start downhill. Cutting them off before they reach Miles Cross is the only way to save Zephyrus.
The horses are still a mile away when I cross the bridge and reach the wall of trees. There I crouch, awaiting their arrival. With Zephyrus seated atop the last horse in the group, I should be able to drag him down without being trampled. I have my blade and my conviction. It’s all anyone really needs.
But I have overlooked the West Wind’s inherent inquisitiveness. Despite his weakened state, he continues to ponder; he questions why. Even the slightest disturbance draws his focus, for as I push aside theferns and prepare to leap, his keen eyes find mine with startling ease, and widen with unmistakable terror.
Zephyrus manages to yank the reins, steering the horseawayfrom me, toward the river. I cannot reach him now, not unless I wish to be trampled by the herd. The cloaked man snarls, regaining control of his mount and cuffing Zephyrus into submission. By the time I realize what he’s done, the party has already galloped past, five white steeds disappearing into the darkness of Miles Cross.
37
AN ALTAR HAS BEEN ERECTEDin the center of Miles Cross.
Lush grass cushions the slab of pure white marble. Surrounding the field, the amphitheater rises in three tiers where the fair folk have gathered, partially shielded by shadows where the moonlight pouring through the ceiling cannot reach. The third tier is so high it hangs behind wisps of fog.
Vines cling to the archway of an abandoned side entrance. It is there I crouch, having navigated the network of tunnels in near darkness. I do not see Zephyrus, nor Mother Mabel. Only the altar, the glen, tendrils of thickening night.
A set of massive wooden doors heaves open in the back of the cavern.
First come the roots. Their white, waxy coating, the small, bristly hairs. Soil sprays the air as the Orchid King slides his bulk over the threshold.
It is so quiet I can hear the spit of candle flame. Breath held, I watch Pierus slither toward the altar. His muscled abdomen flexes with each sinuous movement. Upon reaching the altar, he turns to face the audience.
