“Can I ask you something?”
Demi smiles as she continues working the dough. Every so often, I catch a whiff of verbena and wonder if I am imagining it. “That depends, love. Is it a favor you’re asking for?”
“No. Well, not exactly.” I hammer my fist against the dough, as Nan taught me. “If I wanted to send a message to someone in the mortal realms, how would I go about doing that?”
“A lover?” The goddess winks at me. “There’s no shame in that.”
My face warms. “No lover,” I whisper. “Just someone back home who is worried for me.”
“Your grandmother?”
“No. Nan passed years ago. It’s… for an old acquaintance.”
With the dough properly kneaded, she sets it aside to rise in a cloth-covered bowl. “Seek out the Courier. He is the only one able to dispatch messages across realms.”
The Courier. “Where can I find him?”
“He’s usually found in one of the nearby taverns. I can take you to him.”
Too effortlessly, agreement rises to coat my tongue.Yes, I might say.That sounds perfect.Except Demi is close to Eurus, and I don’twant her knowing of my contacting Lady Clarisse. “Meaning n-no offense,” I say, “but I would really prefer to deliver it to the Courier myself.”
The goddess appears more curious than upset. “You are an enigma, Min from Marles. But… very well. Seek out a tavern called The Blind Oracle, west of the palace. And keep your wits about you. Eurus would have my head if you came to harm.”
I return to the suite, but only long enough to pen a message.
My lady,
If you have written to me since my visit to the estate, I have not received your message. Eurus has taken me to the City of Gods. He has his god-touched ax in possession, but I am not sure how to take it.
I pause, quill hovering over the last line. No, that will not do. I cannot give her ladyship a single reason to doubt me. I scratch out that last bit and replace it with:Please know I am doing all I can to return to St. Laurent with the weapon, as promised.
Unease slides through me. This was my purpose: to grow close to the East Wind. To build trust enough to gain access to his god-touched ax. But that was before a sleeping draught passed into his hand, that moment of hope and tentative surrender. Before I learned how deeply Eurus ached.
My hand trembles and the quill slips from my grip. Why this guilt of betrayal? Eurus has done so much worse, having stolen Ammara’s rains, subjecting its people to drought, his plans to poison the council. I would besavinglives by handing him over to Lady Clarisse. If I am to one day open my own apothecary, then assisting her ladyship is myonly means of seeing that dream realized. The estate must remain in the family. It must become mine.
Quickly, I finish scrawling the message.
Any news about the estate? You have not sold it, have you?
Your humble employee,
Min
With the letter in hand, I go in search of the Courier. Down the stairs, across the foyer, over the lush green lawn with its impressive topiaries. The palace has three gates: south, east, west. Eurus and I entered via the southern gate, closer to a more residential area of the city. I utilize the western gate and soon find myself wandering an area that has fallen into neglect.
Or perhaps neglect is not the right word. Here, the two-story buildings are fashioned from the same white stone as the rest of the city, but murals have been painted across their textured surfaces. One wall depicts a desolate wasteland of cold, a black citadel piercing its white canvas. Farther down, the illustration portrays a muscled god facing a three-headed beast.
In what seems like an attempt to bring color to the area, many of the doors have been painted as well. Although the fountains have run dry, they have been repurposed as planters that now boast collections of anemone, narcissus, and climbing wisteria.
The road grows cracked. Stone disintegrates to dirt, dust, mud. Here, there are shadows and places to hide, hooded forms gathering in those lightless areas. Beyond the next intersection, I spot a wooden sign swinging from a porch overhang. The Blind Oracle. Relief propels me up the steps.
A group of deities stumbles out the door. Two dark-skinned men drag a half-conscious immortal across the porch and down the stairs. A rush of stale, smoky air follows. My nose wrinkles, but I push inside the dimly lit tavern.
It is all gloom but for a few strategically placed candles. The tavern itself is half occupied, veiled behind the smoke unspooling from slender pipes. It smells a bit sour, like spoiled milk. Discreetly, I scan those gathered at the tables. A few patrons take notice of my presence. Most continue their gambling. This would be far easier if I knew what the Courier looked like.
“Taken a wrong turn, mortal?”
I turn toward the man behind the bar. God, rather. He is spindly, with arms like a spider’s legs. He dries the inside of a copper mug with a rag, seemingly unperturbed by my presence. When his eyes lock onto mine, I stumble back in horror. His pupils are slitted, like a snake’s.
