A bell chimes. Again, the doors open. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard blood marks my tongue.
The five members of Pierus’ council drag Zephyrus into the cavern, jewel-toned cloaks hissing in their wake. His head hangs. Rustedchains bind his wrists at his back. A roar of approval shudders through the cave walls.
Fury is a hard, pointed star inside my chest. His garb hangs off his frame in precarious threads, and filth coats him from head to toe. He’s tossed at the base of the altar, a crumple of limbs, while Pierus’ council departs. After a moment, Zephyrus manages to prop himself upright using his knees. Livid green eyes glare through the dirt-caked curls hanging in his face. It eases the tightness in my throat. He is not defeated. Not yet, anyway.
“You remember this altar, do you not?” The Orchid King runs a hand across the gleaming marble surface. “You will be reacquainted soon enough.”
The West Wind regards the structure coolly. Meanwhile, the crowd’s eagerness continues to climb, tearing free of the earth’s restraint.
“Look alive, Zephyrus,” drawls the Orchid King. “You have a visitor.”
A disembodied voice drifts through the heavy fog. “All rise for the Abbess of Thornbrook.”
The doors at the rear of the cave groan as they’re pushed open a third time, allowing a small procession to enter: twenty cloaked acolytes and novitiates, and lastly, the face of one I know well.
She glides forth, the sleeves of her alb swathing her delicate wrists, hands clasped solemnly at her front. The sleeveless gold chasuble envelops her body like loving hands.
A hush seeps into the cavern. The Daughters of Thornbrook position themselves against the far wall in a half-moon at Mother Mabel’s back. I spot Harper at the rear, hunched beneath my white cloak. What have they done over the last few days? Did they return to Thornbrook, or sleep in Under’s vast belly? Did anyone notice my absence, or care?
As if scenting iron, the fair folk retreat deeper into the shadows, stony eyes wary. The sight of my peers passes like stillness through me, this troubling pairing of faith and blood: all these women, shepherds of the Father, blades seated comfortably in their palms.
With soundless footsteps, Mother Mabel approaches Zephyrus where he kneels, head bowed, back bent, hands bound. She lifts a hand, and the silence deepens.
“Bringer of Spring.” Here, the sound of her voice is peculiar. It lacks resonance, hitting as abruptly as a rock chucked at the ground. “For centuries, you have been bound to Under, the realm fed by the power of your lifeblood. Tonight, we celebrate another tithe and call in your debt.”
Zephyrus lifts his head to study the abbess. “Only the truly conniving twist faith to their own advantage.”
The fair folk stir like a nest of worms, their interest piqued by the unanticipated malevolence. Nausea continues to churn in my belly, for I am familiar with Mother Mabel’s expression, the polish coating the surface of her flat, ebony gaze. She is far from pleased. “I do not take advantage of the Father,” she says. “It is because of His mercy that I am alive to this day, standing before you.”
Zephyrus chuffs a laugh. A trickle of blood oozes from his split lip. “Then you deny the corruption of your faith?”
“I’m not sure I understand.” She surveys him as one would a stain upon a pristine robe. Meirlach shimmers star-bright at her waist.
He bares his teeth. “What of your vows, your Seven Decrees? Or do you only abide by them when it is convenient?” A few of my peers gasp at the implication. “Your willingness to participate in this violent ritual reveals how debased you truly are.”
A fine, bloodless line shapes her mouth. As Mother Mabel begins to circle him, she says, “Thornbrook’s preservation depends on Under’s health. That is why your blood is necessary, why my charges’ blood is necessary.”
“It is cruel.” His gaze cuts to Pierus. “I am not who I was centuries ago.”
One of the Orchid King’s vines reaches out to stroke Zephyrus’ hair, tugging on a wheaten curl until it springs back into its tight coil. “How precious that you believe such things,” Pierus drawls.
Mother Mabel continues to survey the West Wind. “All gods are unchanging, eternal. It is a truth of the world you know well.”
“I disagree,” Zephyrus says quietly.
“This does not have to be difficult,” she says. “You know the law. Another cycle has reached its close, and your curse remains unbroken. An unfortunate occurrence, but according to the Orchid King, unsurprising.”
So thereisa way to break his curse. What must Zephyrus do? Is it as impossible as he suggested, or merely improbable?
“The time has come,” she announces. “Kneel, and let your power empty into Under.”
A smile stretches wide across the West Wind’s mouth. “I will not bow to a false god.”
Mother Mabel bristles. “Considering your current position,” she snaps, “I would suggest you mind your tongue.”
“Look at you. Look at these women at your back. They have offered their lives in service, placed their trust in you, and you’ve led them into a viper’s nest.”
“Do not speak of my charges,” she warns.
