“Really,” he growls. “Because it seems like you have known of this atrocity and have done nothing to prevent it. How long have you been working for this woman?”
“Leave the girl alone, Boreas.” The South Wind shoves himself between us, a pillar of strength to break the encroaching wave. “She’s doing the best she can. We need to keep our focus.”
Nausea slips noose-like around my airway. It tightens subtly. “The weapons are over there.” I point half-heartedly to a storage closet, the door partially ajar. A small whimper comes from one of the cells, and I wipe the sweat from my brow. I feel sick.
But I cannot falter now. I must take responsibility, and so I nudge open the closet, hardening myself against the sight before me: every manner of weapon and tool, the majority of which Lady Clarisse has used to draw what she needs from those captured immortals, whether blood or hearts, livers or eyes or teeth. “Take whatever will best serve you,” I say.
In silence, they gather their weapons. I, however, turn to look at the long line of cells. I have run, I have evaded, I have denied. But I owe it to myself—and to those suffering—to witness the impact of my neglect.
And so I gaze into the cells. There are broken bones, open wounds, amputated limbs, missing eyes and ears and tails, cracked horns, holes in mouths where teeth had been. One particular creature looks like a bear or wolf, or maybe a large cat, with its arrowed ears. Difficult to say, considering the severity of its emaciation.
I’m sorry, I think.I should have helped you. But you will suffer no longer. From this moment forward, you will be free.
Upon reaching the end of the aisle, I remove the key ring from my pocket and return to the very first cell. The Anemoi watch as I begin opening doors, freeing those imprisoned.
One by one, the immortals scurry down the aisle, up the stairs to the estate. Some limp or hobble. Others growl at me in warning, refusing to leave until I retreat from view. I wish them speed and health and hope they are able to return to their homelands soon.
When I enter the cell of the eel-like immortal, it shrinks back. I reassure it in a soft tone that I won’t hurt it.
“You’re free now,” I murmur, my heart breaking all over again.
As I reach out, the creature flinches away, yet I lay my palm on its battered face gently, smoothing away the flaking blood.
“Be well,” I say, and follow the Anemoi up the stairs and into the light.
31
WE RUN.
Zephyrus dogs my heels, with Boreas and Notus bringing up the rear. Farmland and vineyards frame the dirt road, their grasses rippling in a brute wind. In the distance, St. Laurent pokes through the cover of dense forest. The single spire of its chapel rests as a white scar against the gray. When the lane splits, I veer right, the low growl of thunder warning us away from the coast. By the time the harbor comes into view, the first pelting droplets have begun to fall.
A shout draws my attention toward the town. Through the hazed drizzle, I spot robed figures herding St. Laurent’s denizens down the main thoroughfare. Arcs of fine metal ornament their hands: swords.
“The soldiers.” I turn toward the brothers in alarm. “They’re taking the town.”
People flee into shops and homes. Someone falls beneath a blade.
Notus looks to the harbor, the storm, back to me. “What do you want us to do?” he asks, fingers tightening around the hilt of the sword he carries.
They await my decision.
That old voice, the one that casts me as something insignificant and overlooked, makes itself known. It tells me in no uncertain terms that I haven’t the right to direct these men. Who am I to dictate ournext steps? I am no leader. I have erred, not once, but countless times in a thousand different shades.
It turns out, that voice knows nothing. I shunt it into an abandoned room and promptly shut the door. “Eurus comes first, but I don’t want to leave my people vulnerable.” We are farmers and bakers, vintners and weavers—unfamiliar with combat. “Is it possible one or two of you could stay behind to defend the town?”
Zephyrus steps primly forward. Two daggers hang from his belt loop. “I will stay. Truth be told, I’m not particularly thrilled with the idea of facing another great evil.” He shrugs, suggesting it’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. “And someone needs to protect all those delicious baked goods.”
“Whoever stays behind needs to be able tofight,” Boreas snarls, his frustration cutting through the hiss of falling rain. “You’re useless with a sword.”
“Nowuselessis a harsh word.”
The North Wind glowers down his long nose at his brother, having acquired a spear for himself. “You should have asked Brielle to come in your stead. At least she knows one end of a blade from another.”
“Funny you should mention it. Ididask my wife to accompany me. She refused, told me this was our mess to fix. Well, Eurus’ mess.” He crosses his arms, blinking droplets of rain from his eyelashes. “It’s not like we have many options.”
“Enough of this,” Notus says, softly but not weakly. “Boreas, you and I will stay here to protect St. Laurent’s people. Zephyrus, you go with Min. At the very least, you can swim, right?”
The West Wind wrinkles his nose. “Of course, though I don’t know the first thing about sailing. I assume that is how we will reach his island? By boat?”
