I’m led from the library, trailing the North Wind and his strong-willed wife down numerous corridors. Eventually, we halt at a door wrought in gold, one of dozens lining the hall. Boreas studies the ornate handle with remarkable distaste.
“Whatever occurs beyond this door,” he informs me, “whether punishment or reward, I’m not responsible. Is that understood?”
I nod, my blood buzzing with a dangerous hope.
The door opens. Warm sunlight spills through.
“Good luck,” Wren whispers.
34
THE TEMPLE IS A BREATHLESSexpanse, hewn from white stone. Fluted columns reinforce a peaked rooftop. The stairs leading to the entrance are wide, reminiscent of curved bands of moonlight. Beyond the temple, laurel trees cluster in the valleys between great mountains, a shining city nestled in the distant foothills, glimmering like a golden coin.
Now matter how proud I am of Ammaran architecture, Ishmah’s temples pale in comparison to this. I can all but feel the land pulsing beneath my feet. This stone is ancient, and this land, and this forest. I never thought I’d have the privilege of visiting Notus’ homeland. I’ve never seen so much green in my life.
But I can’t delay the inevitable. Rallying my courage, I press forward, climbing the temple stairs until I reach the top.
At the back of the temple, atop a broad dais cut from the same white stone, there is a long dining table surrounded by what I assume to be the Council of Gods. Laughter pings against the pillars. Animated conversation chases the sound into the surrounding trees. If the divine are anything like Father, they will find my late arrival impolite at best, offensive at worst.
My slippers whisper against the hand-tufted wool rug leading toward the dais, though no one notices my approach. They have much to distract them. The table itself is heaped so abundantly withfood it noticeably sags in the center. There are at least five types of meat, including an entire roasted boar, its belly split open. Freshly sliced fruit piles in fine ceramic bowls. The breads are equally varied, accompanied by an assortment of spreads: butter and hummus and marmalade and soft cheese. An enormous cake topped with berries perches on one end of the table. A sizable chunk has already been carved away.
And paired with food is wine. The divine drink from their goblets with abandon. As soon as a bottle is depleted, another materializes to take its place. Some have discarded propriety entirely and eat with their hands, leaving scraps scattered across the gilded surfaces of their plates, utensils be damned. I spot a burly god whose face is spattered in blood snagging the thigh bone of a roasted turkey and slurping the marrow from inside.
Now that I’m closer, I count twelve deities total, their chairs designed specifically for each individual. A goddess dressed in a long white robe sits on a winged chair, an owl perched on its back. A god with blue-gray skin lounges on a throne studded in shimmering jeweled scales, a three-pronged weapon resting casually against his chair arm. Each god is uniquely striking, lovely beyond words.
My focus shifts to the opposite end of the table, then backtracks. I was mistaken. Not all are lovely. There is one individual, skin marked by soot, whose features are so unsightly that I question whether he truly belongs.
Steps away from the dais, I stop. A glass shatters; a shriek of laughter grates upon my ears. I stand for so long, I wonder if the council can, in fact, see me, but eventually, a god draped in red silk pauses mid-chew, having detected my arrival. “Amortal?”
The clinking of cutlery abruptly cuts off as twelve pairs of eyes take me in, painted every shade of horror and disbelief.
It is a pox, that word.Mortal. It sweeps with brushfire swiftness across the table between one breath and the next. My knees wobble. I cannot afford to falter now. I may be mortal, but I, too, was born into greatness. Sarai Al-Khatib. Princess of Ammara.
“How did you come to our place of council, mortal?”
The question comes from a hulking, broad-shouldered god seated at the head of the table. Candlelight gleams along the curves of his smooth, muscled torso, dark ink tattooed upon his golden skin. His gaze is watchful. A tall basket of flickering lightning bolts rests at his enormous sandaled feet.
My eyes meet those of the lightning god. Their leader, if I am correct. Both god and king.
“How I came here is irrelevant,” I say, for I will not betray Wren and Boreas. “But I come with goodwill and a request.” Not a plea. The last thing I need is for the divine to take advantage of me.
“A request!” One of the gods barks out a laugh. He hunches over his meal, mouth stained red. No less than seven goblets are cluttered around his plate. “What delightful impudence you bring to our table.” Easing his chair onto its back legs, he laces his fingers behind his head. The goddess sitting across from him, a dark-skinned woman with softly lined features, rolls her eyes.
The lightning god regards me curiously. “Obviously, someone told you how to find us. Did they mention that our business is with the divine only?”
“They did.” His gaze, I hold squarely. “I chose to ignore it.”
A few eyebrows creep upward. Still, I do not fold, no matter how I tremble. Only fire can contend with fire. I’m likely the best entertainment they’ve had in centuries.
“I may not be of divine origin,” I say, “but my business concerns someone who is. If you would—”
“Silence, mortal.” This from the blood-spattered behemoth. “Or your next words may be your last.”
My teeth clench. My scalp crawls beneath the touch of so many eyes, yet I lift my head, meet their disdainful expressions. I’ve held my tongue for too long. The years I have wasted, standing idle. They are proud, these deities, blinded by their own eminence. I will not make myself smaller, or less than, or other. I can ask nothing more of myself than to remain true of heart.
“I ask that you allow me to speak,” I say, a crisp declaration. “Or do you fear the power of a mortal’s voice?”
The lightning god straightens in his chair with a dark glower. No one speaks, though if I’m not mistaken, the lightning bolts sizzle and pop with increasing vigor inside their basket.
