Then it is a boon indeed. IfIwere granted a favor, I would wish to have Nan back. Life was easier with her alive, the air impossibly sweet with potential.
“Understand this,” Eurus says. “You are a mortal in the realm of gods. They will see you as easy prey. They will try to bend you to their will. By the time you realize what is happening, it will be too late. Trust no one.”
I press a palm to my cheek. My skin is warm—too warm. Why did I agree to this again? “I have no p-p-protections, is what you’re saying?” Only a flimsy promise, the hope of a day without shackles.
“You will be safest in the palace, where the competitors are housed. You should not venture beyond the grounds unless I accompany you.”
By the time we reach the city proper, perspiration dampens my neck and underarms. Residential properties lay claim to these farthest corners of the valley, all constructed of gleaming white stone, complete with hidden courtyards, tamed lawns, and wrought iron balconies. The air smells musky, like overripe fruit. Residents of every shape, culture, and complexion roam the wide, cobblestone lanes, each some nameless goddess or god.
We merge with the flow of traffic. I do my best to take everything in without stepping on anyone’s foot. Before I met the East Wind, I’d never traveled beyond the boundaries of St. Laurent.
Across the street, three deities take refuge in the shade to share their most recent purchases. A few steps later, a drunkard wearing a loose white robe stumbles through the throng, slurring something about kings and gold. I do a double take. He has hooves in place of feet and long, furry legs. I scurry after Eurus, wondering if I am going mad.
And the structures fall away, and the cobblestones stretch forth. There, a burbling fountain. And there, a small park edged in mist. A crooked lane boasts the large glass windows of a bakery, a collection of tables and chairs occupying the front porch. There, the divine gather, fingers curled around steaming mugs, some swathed in elegant silks with unique prints, others clothed in blood-spattered armor or threadbare rags as they chatter amongst themselves. It seems even the gods love their gossip.
We pass through a crowded square where many have set up shop, including a long-haired sculptor who chisels a slab of marble into the curve of a woman’s waist. The detailing is exquisite. Lifelike, almost. At a neighboring stall, an intricately carved box rests on a stone plinth. Without understanding why, I reach for it.
“Don’t touch.”
I flinch back. My hand drops, and I fold my fingers against my palm where they will not do harm.
The East Wind snaps the lid shut. “A music box. Harmless to the divine, potentially deadly to your mortal ears.”
I nod, though my throat has cinched tight, allowing neither word nor breath to escape.Don’t touch.Lady Clarisse was especially fond of that phrase.
The crowd thickens around the entrance of an impressive two-story temple, bougainvillea crawling up its cracked facade. Many place offerings on the steps, the stone smoothed by the press of a thousand feet. I wonder how that works, exactly. Surely the gods do not worship themselves? Or… maybe they do?
It is only after we’ve turned down a less crowded street that I realize none glance in our direction. “They don’t see us,” I remark, “do they?”
“No. My brothers and I were struck from the books following our banishment, which means we are undetectable to those around us. Once we reach the palace, however, my name will be reinstated for the duration of the tournament. As for you, Min—you are mortal. Too insignificant to attract notice.”
I’m opening my mouth to respond when Eurus halts, and I blink in bewilderment. Two gargantuan gates stand open. They are forged from hammered bronze, sculpted into elegant curls. Beyond lie substantial, grass-cloaked grounds. Pebbled footpaths crisscross the rolling hills, and a manicured lane stretches from the entrance gates to the palace, circling the marble fountain planted at its front.
Then there is the palace itself: extensive, stately, refined. A collection of pearled walls, delicately crowned towers, and shaded verandasappear to have been woven from moonlight’s glowing threads. It stretches eight—no, nine—stories. Each boasts wide balconies and capacious terraces, arched windows dressed in filmy curtains, and bridged walkways occupied by deities whiling the afternoon away. The East Wind’s manor is downright diminutive in comparison.
As soon as Eurus and I pass through the gates, the divine swing their heads in our direction, halting mid-stride.
The East Wind goes rigid beside me. I shrink against him, seeking the enemy I know over the enemy I do not. All my life I have walked the earth unremarkable and plain. Here, I am a curiosity, dare I say, unique.
“Is that womanmortal?” someone whispers in horror.
A pouty-mouthed goddess covers her nose with a sneer. “She reeks.”
“She doesn’t smellthatbad.”
A rush of trampling feet, like bloodhounds on a hunt. The divine surround us, scandalized conversation muffled behind hands or murmured into neighboring ears.
“Let’s go.” Eurus grabs my arm, hauling me along.
“But—”
“Keep walking.” He slips his palm against my back, propelling me forward. Our difference in size is comical, and it takes little effort for him to direct me down the road, where one goddess has called her two hounds to heel.
“Eurus? Is that you?”
A tall, buxom woman parts the crowd. The long dress cinched at her waist is dyed all the colors of the sea’s hidden depths—a lovely complement to her olive skin. She wears slender heels studded in what I believe to be diamonds, all sparkle and shine. I stare as her eyes catch mine. They are yellow, like a cat’s.
“Demi.” The East Wind sounds aghast. It’s perhaps the first time I’ve heard him caught off guard. “What are you doing here?”
