“Do you? My dear, let me explain. As soon as Zephyrus gets his hands on Meirlach, he will no longer have any use for you.”
A chill creeps along my skin. “He wouldn’t betray me. We had an agreement.”
The Orchid King shakes his head in mild sympathy. “You do not know the West Wind as I do. For a chance to free himself from his captivity, he would stop at nothing.”
Zephyrus knows how much becoming the next acolyte means to me. Whatever my reservations, I’ve moved past them. I have given him pieces of myself. Was that a mistake?
“I told him he could accompany us to the Grotto, but I could leave him behind, right? He wouldn’t be able to follow us.” Since he is neither mortal nor a woman, he would be barred from entering the Stallion’s lair. I could ensure Harper and I reach Meirlach first.
“That depends. Does he have access to your blood? Entering the Grotto requires an offering of mortal blood to the River Mur.”
“Of course not.”
Pierus inclines his chin, as if he anticipated the pushback. “Are you certain?”
My pacing slows. Something nags at me, sliding deeper, so deep I am forced to peer inward, down and down and down. My sickness. Zephyrus mentioned requiring my blood to barter for the remedy needed to heal me after I was attacked by the darkwalkers. I thought nothing of it.
“I don’t understand. Why blood?”
The tips of his talons connect, forming a bridge in front of his mouth. “The blood of a mortal,” he says, “contains powerful properties. You humans and your beliefs. They are strong enough to take a life. Strong enough to save one, too. If the Stallion is feeling generous, your blood would appease him, for however short a time.”
I brace a hand against the wall. I feel old in this moment, the years of a bygone era pressed upon my shoulders. I’m not sure whether to cry or scream, deny or repent. How could I have known this was Zephyrus’ plan? If I cannot trust the Orchid King, if I cannot trust Zephyrus, or Harper, then who can I trust?
Pierus must know how I’ve grown to rely on Zephyrus. He has his reasons for planting this uncertainty. What does he seek? Control. He will do whatever is necessary to keep those spidery fingers wrapped around the West Wind’s neck.
“No.” I push away from the wall. “You’re trying to manipulate me.” Raised chin and crossed arms. Why, I can almost imagine myself as Harper in this moment.
The Orchid King wrenches his roots free of the soil and slithers forward, pushing upward to give himself additional height. “I am not trying to deceive you, young novitiate. Zephyrus is a god, and gods do not change.”
Quiet: a place where doubt takes root.
More frightening than standing here alone with Pierus is the knowledge that the West Wind, the person I have come to know these past weeks, has revealed only a shade of his true self. What has been true? What falsities have erected the image of Zephyrus in my head? With no evidence to hold its shape, my image of him begins to crumble.
The Orchid King crawls toward a shelf carved out of the damp, glistening rock. He removes a small book, saying, “From what I understand, you suffered a great loss as a girl. It is a terrible thing, wandering the earth motherless.”
I did not think it possible to shrink further. “How do you know that?”
“I have known Mother Mabel for years. At times, she has confided in me. She has told me of her loyal, red-headed bladesmith, and speaks of you fondly. Your abbess is concerned for your well-being.”
I’m not sure how I feel about Mother Mabel informing the Orchid King of my painful past. He offers me the book, which appears to be a diary. “I’ve marked the page. Read it. Let history guide your decision.”
Curling my fingers around the soft leather, I slip it into my dress pocket.
“There is good in Zephyrus,” I say, more to myself than Pierus. “I have seen it.” With that, I take my leave, striding toward the exit.
“You have seen what he wants you to see,” the Orchid King calls to my retreating back. “You and I both know your trust in the Bringer of Spring is tenuous at best. What has he given you except his lies?”
Something splinters in my chest, a great fissure within me. The world is vast, and there is much I do not know. The tithe nears. Harper and I must return to Thornbrook, Meirlach in hand. I cannot presume Zephyrus has been telling the truth. If I am wrong, everything I’ve fought for will be lost.
I turn to face Pierus, his long, angular face awash in wan moonlight. “What is the quickest way to the Grotto?”
He seems pleased by my question. Those scarlet blossoms gush from his alabaster skin like fresh wounds. “You will need to take a boat upstream. When the River Mur diverges, go right. Eventually, you’ll pass through a gate and reach an island of sand, where you must disembark. It marks the boundary to the Grotto.” He takes me in a moment longer. “Another word of advice? Offer the river your blood. The Stallion will at least hear you out before deciding to kill you.”
22
IRUN STRAIGHT FROM THEcave to the boat moored at the village’s edge without stopping. The rope thumps against the bottom of the hull, and I’m off, using the pole to direct the vessel across the water, pushing as quickly as I dare. When Harper wakes, she will notice my absence, but I intend to return. I will not abandon her to the fair folk. As for Zephyrus, he will know I have gone, perhaps sooner than I would like.
When the River Mur branches off, I steer the boat into the dark tunnel. Then I settle onto the bench, roselight squeezed tightly in hand, and pull the book from my pocket, letting the current carry me toward the Grotto.
