Now that the East Wind has expressed his genuine feelings toward me, I have no further scruples in handing him over to Lady Clarisse. What matters? The estate, Nan, my future. Regardless of who wins the tournament, I will not remain trapped here. There are things I must do, plans to put into motion. Eurus thinks I will help him willingly?
We will see.
22
ISTEP OUTSIDE THE TAVERNinto pouring rain. It slicks the cobblestones, drips furiously from the porch eave. Thunder cracks. The sky whitens, cleaved apart by lightning.
Head ducked against the onslaught, I carefully pick my way over the slippery ground, water smearing the city lights’ reflections. In seconds, my coat is drenched, as well as the gown beneath. It is a chilled rain, a frigid soaking. Unfortunately, that can’t be helped.
Few lamps illuminate the flooded roads. My eyes sting in the next chilly gust, and I bring my hands to my mouth, huffing into the cupped space to thaw them. As I exchange one shadowy intersection for another, my shoulder knocks someone in passing. Before I can apologize, they stride off, vanishing into the downpour.
While A Thousand Ships was festooned with customers and merriment, The Blind Oracle is all but dead, smothered in deep shadow. Only a handful of immortals occupy the space, most having congregated by the fireplace. Here, the music is of a more rudimentary nature: the grate of glass sliding along a tabletop, the crack of a log eaten by flame. I shiver, water dripping from my coat onto the floor. At least it is warm here.
Near the back, I spot the Courier’s head of snowy hair. None have noticed the arrival of a soaked-to-the-bone woman—except for the barkeep. He scans me head to toe with those slit-pupiled eyes, but Ido not flinch. Betrayal has lit the fuse, and oh, how I burn, and burn, and burn.
“Hello again.” Approaching the counter, I offer him my sweetest smile. “Do you by chance have a quill and parchment?”
“Is it a love letter you’re looking to pen?” he asks as he polishes the countertop. Another customer enters and selects a stool at the end of the bar. Without looking at him, the barkeep pours him a tumbler of liquor, sending it straight into the god’s beefy hand.
“Of a sort.” Though his gaze unnerves me, I force myself to maintain eye contact. “Well?”
Wordlessly, he passes over the requested supplies, but not without a healthy dose of suspicion. I quickly scribble my message.
My lady,
I apologize for the delay. The East Wind and I will not be returning to his island, but rather to the estate in two days’ time, along with his god-touched ax. I am very much looking forward to returning home.
Sincerely,
Min
Message: folded. Wax: melted. Seal: pressed. Eight, nine, ten steps across the room, and I slide into the chair opposite the Courier, who is tossing dice with two ancient crones.
“Eurus’ mortal,” he says without looking at me. “Was wondering when you’d be back.” He drops the dice onto the table. Both land on the number five. With a frightening grin, he collects his winnings, his competitors groaning at their misfortune.
“I’ve a message to send. It’s urgent.”
“And on the eve of the final trial, too,” he says drolly. After counting his earnings, he takes a drag from his pipe, then blows a smoke ring into my face.
My eyes water, and I cough, batting aside the repulsive fumes while the Courier again tosses the dice. Double sixes. Either he has excellent luck, or the game is rigged.
“And what of my payment?” he asks after a time. “What of the strength tea you promised for my wife?”
I hunch lower in the chair, hands clamped in my lap. “It is r-ready. But I forgot to bring it.”
“A likely story.”
When one of his companions wins the next round, gleefully piling gold into their lap, the Courier’s mouth pulls in dissatisfaction. He swipes the game pieces. “If you can make a double batch of the tea and deliver it by the end of the week, I can send the message tomorrow. Will that suffice?”
On the morrow’s sundown, either the East Wind will have claimed victory, or he will be dead. Do I wish him to win? Yes, but only because it will mean a swift journey home. As for what he will face when we return to Marles, that is no longer my concern.
“It will,” I say in relief. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” the Courier murmurs. “I’m just the messenger.”
I return to A Thousand Ships, drenched head to toe in rainwater, yet with heightened spirits, fresh conviction. I’m not sure why I convinced myself Eurus felt anything for me. That kiss we shared, though only a brush of lips against cheek—might it have been part of his plan to soften me, persuade me to see this bargain through? I suppose it doesn’t matter. Soon, I will have returned home, the City of Gods a distant dream.
Thunder rocks the tavern as I shake cold droplets from my coat. The ensemble continues to perform onstage, a few couples swaying to the easy rhythm. I tell myself I will not search for Eurus, but unfortunately, I spot him and Demi slotted together against the wall, their heads ducked conspiratorially. He laughs. She laughs. How euphoric they appear, together again at last.
