“You do not need to worry about that,” Eurus replies. “Focus on brewing Eastern Blood. I will take care of the rest.” He regards me steadily before offering his hand. “What do you say, bird? Do we have a deal?”
I must be the realm’s biggest fool, agreeing to poison one of the divine. But what choice do I have, really? Freedom exists at the end of this treacherous road, my promise fulfilled. And so I accept the East Wind’s touch, my hand swallowed against his large palm, my fate sealed.
11
IT TURNS OUT THECITYof Gods is not a place one can fly to—unless you’re one of the divine. It exists seemingly on a different plane of existence, one separate from the mortal realms. Unfortunately, the journey is long, and according to Eurus, we haven’t the time to fly. Our only option is the nearest doorway leading from the East Wind’s island, which can only be accessed by boat. Thus, we have descended into the lowest level of the manor, where the sea has flooded its stony core, and the slop of the tide tunnels down into my teeth.
“It’s all right, bird.” Seated on the bench of the small vessel rocking to and fro, the East Wind offers his hand. “The journey will not take long.”
Perhaps, but it takes only a few minutes to drown.
My fingers tighten around the strap of my rucksack, which contains my clothes and the supplies required to complete Eastern Blood. Reaching out, I allow Eurus to pull me onto the boat. The vessel dips, and he stiffens. Only then do I realize I’ve clamped onto his shoulder, the scalloped edges of his left wind brushing my forearm.
We push off. Huddled in the bottom of the hull, I inhale through my nose, exhale through my mouth. Twin oars cut the opaque water. My teeth begin to click incessantly as my grasp on reality weakens.
A sudden heat blankets my form: the East Wind’s wing, splayed over me. The scales are slender, coated in a high shine, and hard assmall, overlapping coins. My breathing eases; the chattering of my teeth tapers off. I want to cry for this kindness. It is wrong, I think, to feel gratitude toward my captor.
The tunnel splits. We ease right, eventually reaching another waterlogged stairwell. I practically fling myself onto the steps, the slickened stone solid beneath me.
“This way,” Eurus says.
I stumble after him. At the top of the stairs, we reach a locked door carved of wood. It pulses with a strange energy.
I lick my lips nervously. What awaits us in the City of Gods? Nothing good, I fear. “Will your brothers be participating in the t-tournament?”
“No.” He brushes the handle, a curl of aged brass. “The tournament is open only to the divine. Had my brothers been of sounder mind, they could have used this opportunity to return home—permanently.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I told you that whoever wins the tournament is granted a favor from the Council of Gods.” His voice grates subtly, bristling with sudden aggression. “I intend to win, and when I do, I will ask the council to end my banishment so that I may return to the City of Gods at will.”
I see. “It seems webothw-want to return home.” And if I speak a little more forcefully, well, surely he cannot blame me?
Silken laughter slips around my limbs and spikes the hair along my neck. He then gestures to the door. “My brother, Boreas, helped fashion this entry for me. Since he was responsible for our banishment, I demanded payment from him, a means to our homeland. I haven’t used it since.”
The door opens with an aged squeal. I blink against the sudden brightness. Across the threshold lies a vista worthy of a painting, for there are brushstrokes of deep green; blots of rose, apricot, and peach; a palette of wildflowers whispering in a sweet wind. No rock, no gray, no churning storms. No water as far as the eye can see.
In marvel, I trail Eurus across the threshold, vaguely aware of the door shutting at my back. We stand on the rise of a grassy knoll overlooking a shining city nestled in the surrounding foothills, the air possessing a subtle bite. A skinny footpath sketches a line through the high grasses. Autumn dusts the trees in red and gold, orange and brown. The brittle light exhibits the waning days, their descent into winter.
“If I’m to aid you in your m-mission,” I say suddenly, “shouldn’t I know more about what I’m getting myself into? What exactly does the tournament entail?”
He gestures me forward, and we stroll shoulder to shoulder down the path, amber reflecting off the city’s peaked rooftops as if from a multi-faceted jewel.
“The tournament will be split into three trials. Only a certain number of contestants advance to each subsequent round,” he says as we pass through the shade of the surrounding forest. “Many perish in the attempt.”
“You can be killed in the tournament?” Shock and dismay.
“Yes.”
“But doesn’t that throw the w-world out of balance?” If a god is lost in the games, how will the crops grow? Who will regulate the weather, the currents? And what of fertility, or those dependent on the hunt?
Eurus leaps over a fallen tree. I’m forced to clamber up and over, dropping onto the other side.
“I suppose,” he concedes. “Being one of the divine is a little like what you mortals call having a profession—new deities are born every day, and there is always someone willing to fill an empty role.”
I see. “It makes sense then, to win.” Or at least stay alive long enough not to lose.
The East Wind nods, cloak swirling around his legs. “A favor from the Council of Gods is a boon. There is very little they cannot—or will not—do.”
