Or rather, that is what I expect. When the precipitation fails to hit my skin, I crack my eyelids to find a protective sphere enfolding us as we fly safely through the churning air and dousing rain, into the eye of the storm.
Within the squall’s heart, an immense, stately edifice sprawls along the exposed rocks like a skeleton washed ashore. It is hewn from dark gray stone, made darker by the sheen of water dampening its lower walls where the waves beat at its foundations. The structure could easily encompass the entirety of St. Laurent. There are hundreds of tallwindows, dozens of balconies, a collection of towers and courtyards enclosed by high walls. But I spot not one tree or bush, no green to break the monotonous gray. I wonder whether I will leave this place alive.
My heart threatens to punch through my sternum as we begin our descent. I didn’t realize how thoroughly chilled I was, all these hours flying in the thin, frigid air. Sea spray has fully drenched my dress, my socks and loafers, hair and skin.
For someone so large, the East Wind slips through the tall, fingerbone rocks encompassing the fortress with fluid ease, banking toward a high tower protruding out over the sea. He glides through the open window and sets me onto the ground.
The moment he releases me, I dart to the other side of the room, arms wrapped around my middle. Now that we are free of the lightless prison cell, I am able to see my captor clearly for the first time.
The East Wind is indeed immense. His worn cloak covers him head to toe, but if I focus carefully, I can almost distinguish the shape of his face within that hood. He stands with legs braced, arms hanging loose at his sides. Heavy boots encase his feet. He overwhelms. He steals the air.
And yet, my attention shifts to his wings. Partially extended, the upper bones arch high over his head. They are considerably scarred.
“Why d-d-did y-you bring me h-here?” I ask through chattering teeth. “Wh-why didn’t y-you just escape by yourself? Why go through all th-this effort to t-t-t-take”—my voice cracks, gut twisting with shame, that I cannot even utter the simplest words without fumbling—“me from m-my home?” I shiver, wishing for a coat to warm me.
His coarse voice bleeds from the cowl of his hood. “Fire.”
I blink in confusion. “Wh-what?”
A red glow blossoms to my left. I startle, shrinking against the wall. But it is only the fireplace. “H-h-how—”
“I require your skillset.”
I open my mouth, snap it shut. “M-m-my skillset?”
“Your knowledge of poisons, specifically.”
Already, the flame begins to heat the room. My shivering abates. I tell myself not to be grateful for the warmth. I would not be in this position if he had not dragged me from my home. “But… I’m j-just an apprentice.”
“Do you honestly believe that?” he asks calmly.
If Lady Clarisse says I am only fit for an apprentice’s work, then that is all I will ever be. The only way I can become a qualified bane weaver is if she chooses to promote me. I am still hopeful that will one day occur.
“Your employer is a stupid, self-centered fool,” Eurus says. “She wouldn’t recognize talent if it was located under her very nose. I’ve been observing you for months now. You are far more adept than that woman realizes. Your skills mark you as a bane weaver, even if your title does not.”
The full weight of the immortal’s gaze blankets me. If only his hood were not blocking my view of his countenance. It is a strange, uncomfortable feeling, knowing this prisoner was able to learn the extent of my skills by listening through a steel door. I’m not sure what to make of it.
“I d-do know about p-p-poisons,” I admit, “but I d-d-don’t know anything about using immortal p-parts to create them, as my lady does. All that I know, I l-learned from my grandmother.” I lick my lips. Lady Clarisse loathes questions, but… “Wh-what do you need the poison f-f-for?”
The East Wind cants his head, the motion eerily similar to that of the falcons nesting in the high cliffs. “I, too, have been wronged by the people in my life. It is time they paid for it.” He turns, his cloak whipping about his legs. “Warm yourself by the fire. I’ll return shortly.”
He departs without a backward glance, launching himself out across the black waters that churn.
I crouch in a shadowed corner, knees against my chest, arms wrapped tightly around my legs. Since the divine’s departure, the moon has bedded down, the earth having released its tenuous hold on the sun. The air warms, and the sea’s crashing rings through the open window. I close my eyes on a sudden wave of dizziness and press my spine harder against the wall. The water is far. I am safe.
From that specific threat, at least. The East Wind claimed he required my skillset. I will be used. In what ways? When he is dissatisfied with my work, will he unfurl the lash? Will he lock me outside amidst a lightning storm, exposed to the elements? Lady Clarisse particularly enjoyed that one.
Round and round and round my thoughts spin. My teeth resume their chattering, and I gather my legs tighter to my chest. The motion splits open the scabs on my back. I bite the inside of my cheek, swallow down the yelp of pain. It seems the healing tea has finally worn off. With my body having drained itself of adrenaline, every ache, old and new, makes itself known.
Back at the estate, I would be spending the early hours of morn preparing client orders, brewing simpler remedies, those that did not require immortal ingredients. Her ladyship did not trust that I would not hoard those sea-nymph hairs and banshee scales and fair folk names for myself. Perhaps she was right to withhold trust. Were it not for me, the prisoner would not have escaped. And I would not find myself stranded and alone.
If I’m correct, Lady Clarisse is supposed to meet Prince Balior again tomorrow. She told me nothing of their initial conversation, though of course I was not expecting her to. What will happen now, when the prince learns the East Wind has escaped?
Eventually, exhaustion must drag me under, for I startle awake, my neck twinging from having fallen asleep upright. The tower is bright, its walls coated in thick yellow sunlight. I glance around blearily, wiping the sleep from my eyes. Something has changed. There, on a small table near the door, a dish of food has appeared.
Frowning, I push to my feet. A hearty stew fills the shallow bowl. Beef chunks swim in a thick sauce paired with onions, mushrooms, and cloves of garlic: beef bourguignon.
My stomach clenches in hunger. Nearly a day has passed since I last ate, but I can’t trust that it isn’t poisoned. Regretfully, I turn away, taking in the room.
