“We can’t turn back.” He continues to nudge me along. My heart hammers so ferociously its pulse hums against my sweat-coated skin.
“We can. We absolutely can.” My voice ratchets to a shrill pitch. “Zephyrus!”
“Quiet your mind, Brielle.” A subdued incantation, meant to soothe. “It will all be over soon.”
I grab hold of that promise and cling to it for dear life. The quiet place nestled in my heart brims with overflowing roses in a tranquil garden, a sweet perfume, a swing upon which I sit, swaying beneath the shade of a massive tree. When the world is obdurate and cold, I return here, to an evergreen spring.
“You asked me of my experience.” Zephyrus draws me in step by step, shepherding me across the vast canyon. “There’s not much to say, for it was long ago. I was an insecure, selfish fool, and someone paid a terrible price.”
What terrible price does he speak of? Death? Injury? Loss? This person he mentioned sounds important to him.
“How much farther?” My right hand slides along the rope as the bowed planks wobble beneath me. I can’t think. My mind spins.
“Don’t worry about the distance. Think only of the next step.”
“You are the least helpful man I have ever met.”
He crows a laugh. “From you, I think that might be a compliment.”
The bridge falls quiet as my feet pass onto solid ground.
“Well done,” Zephyrus says, and releases me.
My eyes open. Harper leans against a collection of boulders, arms crossed, nonplussed at our arrival. In the distance, trees erupt to brush the sky. She glances between us, yet says nothing.
Zephyrus skirts the rise of massive stone, gesturing for us to follow. Those long, limber strides flow without interruption to a patch of grass shaped in a perfect circle. A stone well squats in its center. Surrounding the grass: baked red rock, the wavering air of a place where little flourishes.
“This,” Zephyrus says, resting a hand on the structure’s rough edge, “is the Well of Past. Each of the Wells requires an offering to the Gods of Old in exchange for entry.”
“You mean the Father,” I clarify.
“No,” he replies. “I mean the deities the fair folk have worshipped for centuries.”
I bite my cheek in an attempt to hold my tongue. “There is no mention of this in the Text.”
Harper emits a low sound of derision. I ignore her, maintaining focus on the West Wind, who studies me with frustration.
“Who the fair folk worship has nothing to do with your liturgy. They may not be your gods,” he says, and his gaze is old in this moment, and sad, “but they are someone’s gods. The fair folk have their beliefs, too.”
It’s not intended as an insult, but it feels like one nonetheless. “How can the fair folk possibly have something as advanced as organized religion?” I argue. “They’re vile, wretched—”
“Different?” Zephyrus counters.
I fall silent. The thought of offering anything to a god other than the Father sits like an abrasion upon my skin.
Harper brushes me aside. “We do what we must. Either accept it, or don’t.” She turns to Zephyrus, fingers curled around the straps digging into her shoulders. “After the offering, what then?”
In answer, he draws up the wooden bucket from inside the well, the metal pulley creaking with each rotation. “You will need to be lowered down.”
The West Wind is fond of jests, but I do not think this is one of them.
“The rope was recently replaced.” He flicks the braided twine. “Within the last hundred years, at least.”
Harper blanches. A cold sweat slides down the groove between my breasts.
“The longer we stand here, the more time we waste.” He claps his hands encouragingly. “Let us begin. We must all make an offering—something we have kept close to our skin.”
It means nothing.The offering is but an object. It holds no importance, no symbolism. I must remember that.
