“Not against a god-touched weapon.” And speaking of god-touched weapons… his ax lies a few feet away, resting on a small side table. I swallow. When he isn’t carrying it with him, it must be secretedsomewhere in our shared chambers. If I can find where it is hidden, perhaps I can smuggle it back to St. Laurent once our bargain is fulfilled.
Eurus shoves himself upright using one hand. “I’ll be fine.”
I doubt that, but I hold my tongue. “Then let me at least help y-you up.” When I reach for him, however, he slaps my hand aside with a low growl.
I stiffen, but there is no fear now, only a great fury that claws at my throat, rises to mask my vision. He has been through much, but I, too, have suffered. While I may not be of divine origin, I am still a person worthy of respect.
“You s-s-stubborn, arrogant, divine idiot,” I growl. “Why can’t you see that I’m trying to help y-you? To save your sorry life?”
The East Wind regards me from his collapsed position, breathing erratically.
“What I don’t understand,” I whisper, “is how you still treat m-me with such callous disregard, after I’ve done my hardest to help you, to work with you in whatever capacity you demand. I am trying my b-best. But you make it so hard to like you, so hard to be generous with you, so hard to be understanding. No m-matter my efforts, you will not even give me an inch.” My voice quavers. I can be strong, I think. Even I have my limits. “You don’t want m-my help? Fine. But good luck dragging yourself back to the r-room.”
Turning on my heel, I march from the infirmary. Not once do I look back.
15
FROM THE NORTHERN TOWER, THEREcomes a scream.
I startle awake, heart stampeding in my chest. The gloom of the broom cupboard blots my vision. It is dark, always dark. I fist my blanket nervously, but the texture is all wrong. The fabric feels silken, almost slippery. I drop it as my surroundings come into focus.
A tall window framed by luxurious curtains, and walls decorated in patterned paper. There is no squeak of wood, no seaside gales hammering fists against the aged bones of the structure. The palace, I realize, rubbing at my eyes. The City of Gods.
The scream comes again, fracturing into a thousand shards before dissolving into a pained groan. Alarm grips me, yet I slip from bed, move barefoot across the room to carefully ease open my bedroom door. Beyond: darkness. The low sofa, smudged, and the dining table a gray silhouette seated near the cloaked windows. When a low whimper sounds, I startle. It came from the East Wind’s bedroom.
It has been an unspoken understanding that we do not intrude on each other’s space. And yet, day after day and year after year, I beheld Lady Clarisse’s gruesome methods of torture. What did I do? Nothing. For months, I’d closed my ears to the East Wind’s suffering, and I regret it to this day.
I’m across the main chamber, palm pressed flat against his door. A gentle shove nudges it open.
The East Wind’s bedroom is perhaps three times as large as mine, with a massive bed, a chest of drawers, four windows, and a small sitting area. But it is the immortal occupying the bed that captures my attention.
He lies curled in a ball, legs twisted in the blankets. His back swells and deflates in a rhythm as unceasing as the tides. His unfurled wings drape his cloaked body, scaled tips bowed over the side of the mattress to skim the floor. Even in sleep, Eurus refuses to remove his cloak, though it appears to have been washed since the first trial.
Hello, bird. Come to finish me off?
The East Wind’s comment from days earlier hangs like a thundercloud over my head. I pry it loose, roll it pensively between my palms until a corner or rough edge draws my attention to its momentary imperfection. What, exactly, did he mean by suggesting I was there to kill him? Why do his words linger? Why do I shelter them against my chest, as though having sensed their injury?
Eurus rolls onto his back with a soft groan. His hood has fallen back, exposing the edge of his jaw, the curve of his chin, and his mouth, softly parted. I stare. His lips are full, yet there is some discoloration around the left corner. As I watch him sleep, his hands clench and unclench against his stomach. “Father.” He gasps for breath. “I didn’t mean…” He jerks hard, then falls still, panting.
“Eurus.” Crossing to his side, I reach for his arm, yet pull back before my fingertips brush skin. What was it Demi had said during the tournament?
Oly should have known better than to touch him.
I lower my hand, let it hang slack at my side as these seemingly small fragments of his past slide into place. He was abused. Of that, I am certain. Is that why he wears his cloak at all hours? To hide whatever welts or scars mar his skin?
Eurus emits another murmured plea. He twitches, kicks out his legs. His distress does strange things to my heart. I realize I do not want to see him suffer. At least, not tonight.
After grabbing the smelling salts from my room, I return to the East Wind’s bedside, waving them under his nose until he stiffens andhis arm shoots out, hand fisted. I duck, barely avoiding having my nose crushed as he blasts a forceful gust around the room.
“It’s me,” I gasp, gripping the bedpost. “Min.”
Eurus falls motionless, his breathing coarse. Eventually, he sags into the pillows, a hand pressed to his brow. It is an age before he speaks. “What happened?”
I rise, tugging at my nightgown self-consciously. Thankfully, he is too distracted to notice my bare legs. “You were having a n-nightmare.”
He is quiet as he processes my words. Already, the darkness recedes as my vision adjusts. “Did I… say anything?”
This conversation is most delicate, a sharpened edge dragged along a thread of silk. “You mentioned your father,” I whisper.
