His gaze sweeps the table, his eyes ancient, like eroded stone. When it comes to rest on me, I swallow hard, but it moves onward, lingering on Eurus. “The only rule is this: once you enter the arena, you cannot leave until the round is complete. Whatever happens on the field is permanent—even death.”
A sudden rise of murmurings unfolds.
The lightning god gifts his audience a close-mouthed smile. “The first trial will take place in four days’ time,” he goes on. “Best of luck to you all.”
The fifth course is served: roast duck dusted with gold flakes. A small mountain of potatoes accompanies the protein, as well as sugar-glazed carrots, their scraggly green tops crisped from roasting.
The divine dive into their meals, some forgoing utensils entirely.One broad, muscled god wearing dented armor snaps a thigh bone in half and sucks the marrow from within. Internally, I wince. No one appears disturbed by the behavior. Indeed, even a few silk-draped goddesses follow suit. Meanwhile, the East Wind continues to observe the lightning god long after he has taken his seat.
The din of conversation resumes. I tune in for a time, both fascinated and appalled by the in-depth discussion surrounding the quickest way to fell a god depending on one’s weapon. Then another dialogue catches my attention.
“He couldn’t possibly reach our realm,” one god explains to his neighbor a few seats down. I strain my ears. His voice is but one thread of a hundred. I pluck it from the masses. “Only the divine have the ability to enter the City of Gods.”
“Then what of the mortal woman breaking bread with us right now?” one of his companions—a withered-looking deity with gray hair—snaps.
I hurriedly wipe my mouth with my napkin.
“Good point,” the god concedes. He frowns, nudging the scraps across his plate. “Apparently, this mortal prince travels with a beast that was once one of our own. Do you remember when it was exiled, confined in the mortal realms? Well, it has since escaped the labyrinth where it was detained and seeks revenge on whoever imprisoned it.”
Wait. Didn’t Zephyrus mention this beast to Eurus? He claimed it was looking for him. Is that becauseEurusimprisoned it in this labyrinth?
The withered gentleman—gentlegod?—sips his wine thoughtfully. “Not that I’m dismissing your story,” he goes on, “but I don’t ever recall one of our own who was physically abnormal orbeastly, as you say. Unless you count Eurus!” The ancient deity wheezes at his own joke.
My eyes cut to the East Wind. He gives no outward indication of having overheard the comment, but I understand this immortal as one who shows nothing of himself, not even his countenance. What do they mean byabnormal? His wings?
“But there was!” a goddess cuts in. “Remember the sacred bull?” She drops her voice, juts her chin toward a figure dressed in dark green robes overlaid by fishing nets, who is seated in a chair carved from coral. “Hegifted it to that mortal king.”
A one-eyed crone clothed in a threadbare shawl points a long, jagged fingernail at her dinner companion. “The bull copulated with the king’s wife, and a monstrous child was born. Do not forget who advocated for this child to be exiled from the city.”
Three, four, five pairs of eyes flick toward the East Wind. And thus, my suspicions are confirmed. But why would Eurus send one of his own to be imprisoned? What sordid past does he hide?
I’m so engrossed in the conversation that I fail to notice dessert has been served until a faint whiff of rot stings my nostrils. As Eurus sinks his fork into the slice of lemon cake, I slap aside his utensil. He recoils into the back of his chair, one arm lifted against the unexpected strike.
The garden falls eerily quiet.
I fear moving too suddenly, breathing too forcefully. Adder’s Bite: a commonplace poison used to numb a person’s senses, weaken their tether to reality. Generally, it is scentless, but citrus oils effectively draw out the odor of rancid meat. With the amount of wine consumed this evening, most would fail to notice.
Eventually, the East Wind lowers his arm, grips his knife with curled fingers. I imagine his expression, a blending of fear and humiliation. “You’ll have to excuse my assistant,” he clips out, the smoke of his voice boiling with suppressed rage.
Cackling laughter tunnels down into my eardrums. My face warms, and I hunch closer to the table. “I d-d-didn’t mean… I s-smelled…”
“I think,” the East Wind says, “it would be best if you excused yourself.” This, followed by a softly snarled, “Now.”
Lurching from my chair, I stumble along the table, clinging to whatever shred of dignity remains.
“Can’t you control that mortal of yours, Eurus?” someone drawls as I brush past.
There is a pause. “Mortals are slow to learn, as you know.”
I press a hand to my mouth to stifle the hitch in my breath. Slow, like some brainless animal in need of training. Her ladyship called me slow. Slow and burdensome and dull.
Once inside the palace, I veer toward the central staircase, desperate for the seclusion of my bedroom.
“The divine are notorious assholes.”
I spin around. A trim, dark-skinned god leans against the wall, arms folded, one ankle tossed over the other. His tight brown curls have been shorn close to the scalp.
“And you, my dear? Why, you are paired with the most notorious one of all.” His gray-eyed gaze drags upward, from the tips of my toes to my distraught expression. “A mortal assistant. How curious. How very curious.” Pushing off the wall, he takes an intricately carved staff into his hand. “You are too soft a thing to be dallying with beasts.” He offers me a long-stemmed rose with flourish. “For you.”
