“It’s none of our business,” the North Wind adds.
“Really?” I say. “Because from what I’ve gathered, the beast that escaped the labyrinth knows of you… and has a bone to pick with your brother, Eurus.”
“Eurus?” This from Boreas, his suspicion suddenly whetted. “What, exactly, is this darkness you speak of? What beast?”
“In my realm, there’s a labyrinth that was constructed a quarter of a century ago, built to imprison a beast that hails from the City of Gods. The beast blames Eurus for its imprisonment and has allied itself with a prince named Balior, who has now gained a dark new power. Prince Balior intends to help the beast enact its revenge, and spread darkness through the realms. Darkwalkers have multiplied in Ammara over the decades. We believe there is a doorway connecting the Deadlands to the labyrinth, which has allowed the darkwalkers to escape.”
Stillness swathes the vast chamber of books. Wren stares at me in horror. Boreas is more difficult to read—I suppose that runs in the family. After a moment, Wren turns to her husband and whispers, “I thought the darkwalkers had been cleansed.”
“They were.”
She gives him a pointed look. “All of them?”
“As far as I know, yes.” Boreas’ confusion gives way, makes room for a distressing realization. “The Chasm.” At his wife’s puzzlement, he elaborates, “All of the darkwalkers were cleansed—except those imprisoned in the Chasm. I assume that’s where they’re escaping from.” He runs a large hand through his hair. “I remember this beast. I remember how deeply Eurus’ loathing for it ran. I’m not sure how he managed to cast it out from the City of Gods, considering we’d been banished for centuries at that point. But I suppose he found a loophole.”
“Regardless of how your brother managed to imprison the beast,” I say, redirecting the conversation back to the issue at hand, “there are very few people powerful enough to fight this darkness. Notus is one such person. If there is any hope of defeating it—”
“You love him,” Wren says, eyes soft.
A harsh breath unspools from my chest. Gods, do I ever. “Yes.” After a moment, I go on. “I understand that we’ve only just met, and that you have no loyalty to me, but I’m begging you to help restore Notus to a conscious state. Is there anything you can do? Anything at all?”
Wren taps a finger along the arm of her chair, head canted, expression ponderous. The rhythm pauses. “The Council of Gods.”
Boreas scowls with more animosity than I have ever witnessed in a single person. It’s quite impressive. “They’re not an option. You know this.”
She shrugs, completely unperturbed by her husband’s reaction. “It’s worth the attempt.”
“It is a waste of time.”
“Ever the pessimist.”
I slide to the edge of my chair. Eurus mentioned them as well. “How can I speak with this Council of Gods?”
“You misunderstand,” Boreas replies with a glare in my direction. “Speaking with them is not an option. It’s prohibited.”
Which is exactly what the Lord of the Mountain told me. But if the labyrinth sent me to the Deadlands, there must be a way around that. “Why are you so reluctant to help your own brother?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to help him,” Boreas snaps, his cheeks flushing in irritation. “Ican’thelp him. We were banished from our homeland, all of us. Our pleas will fall on deaf ears. There is nothing I can do.”
Though I am much smaller than Boreas, I lift my chin, peer down my nose at him. Former deity or not, the North Wind will know of my displeasure. “So what you’re saying is you’re useless?”
Wren snorts, a hand slapped over her mouth. “I like you,” she says to me, much to her husband’s exasperation.
Pushing to my feet, I begin to pace. I must. If I am in motion, the shadows cannot touch me. “I need to speak with this Council of Gods.”
“I forbid it,” the North Wind growls.
Wren kicks his shin with a warning glare. Boreas mutters an oath and falls quiet.
Then the woman turns to me. I see myself in her. She may have this home, this love and security, but it was not always so. Beneath the softened edges, I see those points that were once sharpest of all.
“My husband will deny it,” Wren says, “but every god has its weakness. What can you offer the council that they do not already possess?”
There had been a time when I would have said this: nothing, or little, or few. The divine desire power above all else, and I have none to give. But my hands are not as empty as I would believe them to be.
“There is something I have to offer,” I say, ignoring the twinge in my sternum. If that’s what must be done, then so be it.
“Then we have no time to waste,” Wren says.
