His shoes stifle his progress. Fumbling, Envy manages to wrench them off—right before a wave drives into him. He cracks from the inside, the impact hammering through his consciousness. Groaning, he clutches his throbbing ribs.
The entire time, he thinks, why, why, why? Why did he jump, when their friends need him more?
Wait. There she is.
There she’s gliding toward him like an eel, swimming his way in a swirl of black. The more distance she closes, the deeper her victorious leer gets.
She’s in one piece. She’s fine.
And he’s a nincompoop for thinking otherwise. Livid and smarting from his wound, Envy growls. Froth spills from his mouth, which doesn’t alleviate that feminine smirk.
But no, it’s not a smirk. It’s a wince.
And she isn’t gliding, she’s paddling. Her arms toil, fighting the current to her last, stubborn breath, and her ice weapons are nowhere to be seen. The rapids must have consumed them.
Abreast of him, Sorrow’s joints give. She droops and goes limp like a drowning star.
Envy catches that drowning star before it sinks. His side shrieks, protesting her weight, but there’s nothing for it. Maneuvering her onto his back and linking her arms over his shoulders, he shoots upward.
Breaking the surface, he wheezes for air, which magnifies his injury. Blinking the water out of his face, he searches for their transport, but it’s gone.
All he sees is a coastline. And the homes of their enemies.
6
Sorrow
There’s something very, very, very peculiar about the way she wakes up. To start, she’s surrounded by water. With her eyelids fused together, she registers a froth of fluid sweeping against her lips, the taste as pure as melted crystals. Liquid swabs her back and calves, producing a gentle lapping sound. Either she’s drooling profusely or engulfed within a deep, dark swell.
Also, she’s not alone.
But Sorrow has always woken up alone, even after taking a lover, the number of which clocks in at a resounding five. Though only one stands out. And he’d never spent the night with her, never fallen asleep with her, because she hadn’t allowed it.
Regardless, someone is with her. That someone huffs and puffs close to her. That someone is moving beneath her.
That someone reeks of pretension.
Sorrow’s body slumps over an expanse of rotating muscles that contort rhythmically against her cheek. The figure moves swiftly while shaving through the water, dipping and rising at a pace equally frantic and seamless. Under her, it’s all smooth planes and speed.
Ugh. This had better be some glorious dolphin bearing her weight. It had better not be who she thinks—
“Get your foot off my thigh,” a baritone voice pants. “You’re pushing us down.”
“Mmmph,” she grunts.
This inspires a reluctant chuckle from her companion. “Unbelievable.”
That voice oozes down her ear canals and caramelizes there. Seriously, why does his exhaustion have to sound obscene?
Why? Because he’s a spoiled brat who’s been blessed with more attributes than he deserves. And because, as mortals would say, her eternal life sucks.
Nevertheless, Sorrow complies with the request. Mustering her strength, she shifts with a grudge. Her body is plastered like a starfish to her savior, her arms hooked around a solid throat that swallows hard.
No, she’s not riding on the spine of a celestial dolphin. This is a godly form. Unfortunately, it’s a familiar one. Even if he hadn’t spoken up, she knows how he moves, knows the cadence of him, knows the sound of him breathless, tireless.
What’s happening? Why is Envy swimming with Sorrow on his back? Why had he sounded panicked when he told her to get her foot off his thigh?
It had been a simple request. And Envy never panics.
Furthermore, why can’t she open her eyes and tell him where exactly she’d like to plant her foot? Why does she feel like putty? Why is she drained of energy?
Recollection swarms her mind.
The boat. The rapids. The wipeout.
Sorrow replays the scene, how a raging tide had sent her overboard, along with her weapons. The world had flipped upside down, the stars going spastic as she’d plunged into the depths. Initially, shock had locked her joints, the realization of what just happened paralyzing her.
After that, Sorrow had pulled herself together. But a funnel of water had latched onto her, ejecting into her nostrils as if shot from a syringe. The accident had turned into an underwater combat, with her flailing and the river rioting. She’d scrambled against its grasp, flinging her arms and kicking her limbs. Her teeth had clenched as she wrestled against the vacuum, however the more she’d done so, the more salvation receded.
As they had in the valley, memories had infested the final vestiges of awareness. Human soldiers screaming, and mortal bodies dropping, and her arrows failing to strike them in time.
Hospital tents. Bloody cots.
Sorrow had slapped at the water. She’d tried to outswim the nightmares.
How long was she under? Long enough for her lungs to surrender. Long enough to lose her archery to the abyss. And long enough for her vision to blacken, her loss of consciousness a blessing and a curse.
But just before that happened, she’d spotted a figure in the distance. In the gap between memories and defeat, visibility had shrunk to that silhouette, as luminous as a pinprick of light.
Like a winking star.
A winking star that had known how to swim.
Envy must have jumped into the river to save her. Sorrow loathes the idea of him playing the hero, but she’s not too proud to be grateful. All the same, she’s lousy at expressing thanks, so her tongue flops around in her mouth, searching for something to say.
By the way, why is he buckling? And did she just hear a grunt of pain?
While struggling to pry her eyes open, Sorrow relies on sensations. They’ve managed to escape the rapids, since these waters are calm. She notes the current’s direction, then compares it with his trajectory, then mumbles against his nape, “You’ll wear yourself out like this.”
“Shh,” he hisses.
“Why? What’s your problem?”
“Be quiet, my nymph. Or they’ll hear us.”
Sorrow’s eyes blast open. The universe floods her vision with the silvery white of morning stars. Her gaze darts from the glossy sea enveloping them, to the wet black of Envy’s hair, to the landscape at their right.
Fear splashes into her chest. Tension stretches the bandage across her nose, which has managed to survive the torrent. “What the fuc—”
Envy reaches behind, his flat palm clapping over her mouth. Quick thinking but suddenly unnecessary. She’s not about to protest when she’s indisposed, hyperventilating into his hand.
Parallel to them is a smooth coin of water. A network of boardwalks, and walkways, and piers stretch like necks from the shoreline. From there, they crisscross into various paths while fringed trees sprout from the water, their roots feeding off the sand.
At the ends of each pier, circular homes perch on stilts, their walls forged of intricately inlaid wood. Curtains woven of moonlight buffet the breeze. The rooftops glow, their shingles pulsating beneath a dome of dawn constellations and planets.
Muffled voices drift from inside. Windows glint with life.
They’ve drifted into the Astral Sea.
Sorrow and Envy know this haven well, because this is where they grew up. This is where they used to live, along with the enemies who still do, who can stride from their homes at any moment.
In addition to fear, wistfulness mists in her eyes. Yet she can’t tell if it’s from sorrow, or anger, or wonder, or love, or envy. She’s pissed off and homesick. She hates this place and wants it back.
This is what it means to come home and not belong there.
A fruity aroma wafts from inside one of the dwellings, akin to the cherry tartness of Envy’s ego, only more pot
ent. Sorrow’s earlobes perk, detecting a friendly chuckle, and a rapturous gasp, and a baleful sigh.
She hears the twang of a bowstring. The slice of a blade being sharpened.
Armed archers. Countless deities. Gods and goddesses.
If caught, Sorrow and Envy will be taken prisoner.
Where are their friends? Where is their band?
Did they survive the rapids? Are they captives? Have the ambushing archers caught up to them?
Via the stars, she tries calling out to their band, but she receives no reply. It can happen, especially if deities tune their attentions elsewhere, if they have other problems to contend with. And who knows if they’ve called out to Sorrow or Envy? She was unconscious, and Envy has been otherwise engaged.
She tries again, then again. Presumably, Envy must have as well.
Sorrow licks her lips, desperate to ask what the plan is, but she can’t ask. Not here, not now. If she’s able to detect the slightest echo from this vantage point, their people may hear Sorrow and Envy skimming through the water.
They’re weaponless. Her ice archery is potentially at the bottom of the river, and Envy’s glass weapons are nowhere in sight, which means they’re either adrift on the boat or have suffered the same fate.
Sorrow breathes, breathes, breathes. It’s no use. Her pulse reaches critical mass, slamming into her breastbone.
Envy must feel the inner chaos against his spine. Or if he doesn’t, he definitely notices her chokehold on his throat. “It’ll be all right,” he says, the words as thin as strings.
She clings to that minor comfort and whispers, “I can swim.”
“I’d like to see you try,” he remarks while pitching through the sea.
“You’re wincing and grunting.”
“Hush. It’s nothing.”
“I’m slowing us down, you stubborn ox.”
“You’re as light as organza.” He hisses, his abdomen seizing up for a second. “Besides, we’re almost there.”
Where? To purgatory? To certain death?
With a nudge of his chin, Envy indicates the landmass in the distance. A blooming summit topped by a fortification that surrounds a glass dome, similar in shape to a mortal observatory. Inside that transparent dome stands an ethereal telescope—what their kind call a great stargazer. A glimmering film encircles the facade, which soaks up the stars’ radiance.
Fortune’s Crest.
The stargazer marks the center of this world, the instrument craning its neck toward the firmament. When the stars created gods and goddesses, those stars denied immortals the ability to procreate, but not the ability to re-create. The stars gave deities a tool, a funnel through which to channel the magic of rebirth.
Every star is a womb that carries the life force of future deities. So to speak, the telescope is the umbilical cord, drawing new immortals from the sky and bringing them to life.
The stargazer is the gateway to the life cycle of her people. That, and humanity’s cluelessness about the true mythology.
Sorrow assesses the landscape’s craggy, glistening outline. Her friends plan to journey to Fortune’s Crest and seize it as their outpost, should this crusade end in a battle. Over the past few months, they’ve attempted several conferences to debate fate versus free will with the Court. They’d met in the human realm, with Anger and Wonder’s Guide, Harmony, in attendance.
In advance, their band had prepared examples of humanity uncontrolled. Anger and Harmony had cited people their class hadn’t targeted over the centuries, to illustrate that mortals can handle more than they’ve been given credit for. Their campaign made a case that the mortal world won’t collapse without the intervention of destiny.
The meetings had proceeded to no avail. They’d gone in circles and been unable to reach a dignified compromise with the Court. The rulers hadn’t budged, reiterating a major principle of their kin: The power of choice is an illusion.
Serendipity can never be outrun. Even if deities can’t strike every mortal, the ones who do get targeted incite a domino effect, rigorous enough to influence many. As for the ones not triggered by arrows, the stars must have other plans for them, agendas that don’t require immortal intervention.
The Court had deemed this subject non-negotiable. And what had their band really expected? Customarily, it takes years, or decades, or centuries for mortal nations to figure themselves out and draft resolutions. Why shouldn’t it take the Fates infinitely longer just to broach the subject?
Nonetheless, how have events progressed this swiftly? Beyond anything they could have fathomed?
In any event, Sorrow and her friends have exhausted their intellectual efforts. Their campaign has become a military affair.
At the start of this quest, their group would have transported to Fortune’s Crest directly, but it can be a highly populated area, especially during deity births. They might have landed in the arms of the Court or a huddle of Guides drawing new gods and goddesses from the stars.
That’s why their band had collaborated on an inconspicuous route, combining what each of them knows about the Peaks’ terrain. Once at the summit and deeming it safe, they’d intended to summon the cavalry.
To say the least, getting derailed and separated has thrown a wrench into the proceedings. The hope Sorrow had felt dries up. “We’re almost there?” she repeats. “Are you serious?”
Envy spritzes water as he labors. “I don’t know.” He addresses the hemisphere. “Am I serious, oh, divine creators?”
“We’re in the middle of the Astral Sea. In order to reach an unexposed trail, we’ll have to swim far out of range.”
“Again, shh.”
Sorrow snarls but bites her tongue. Being overheard is the last thing they need.
And crap, double crap, triple crap. If magic weren’t so finicky, life would be much simpler. Unfortunately, traveling instantaneously requires a vast distance. The bluff is too close for them to reach in a flash, yet from this community, the nearest options comprise of conspicuous hiking paths.
So what now? And again, what about their friends?
She’s hardly a lightarrow, yet images cycle through her mind.
Love’s mischievous smile. Merry’s theatrical beam. Wonder’s meandering gaze.
Andrew’s selflessness. Anger’s passion. Malice’s resilience.
“When I told you to shush, I had no idea it would work,” Envy marvels under his breath.
Sorrow gulps, dwelling on their peers. “They’re all I have.”
She senses him absorb that statement. A few leagues pass in which he forges ahead, the silence interrupted by lapping ripples and throbbing puffs of air. More and more, Envy sounds off-kilter. Either the breaststrokes are getting to him, or his skewed exhalations have to do with something else. Something physical?
“If they’re alive, they’ll be waiting,” he whispers.
Sorrow pulls herself together. “So will we.”
Quietly, she fumbles to unlace and rip off her boots. Then she slides off Envy’s back and paddles too swiftly and seamlessly for him to protest. Not that she would listen, and not that it’s the right time to voice objections.
Or to voice anything at all. It’s possible they’ve already said enough. Be that as it may, there’s no sign of alarm from the dwellings, no collective shuffle indicating that they’ve been spotted.
The water sparkles with a fresh surge of white. A troop of lanterns emerge, floating along the surface and bleeding pearly light across the ripples. The beacons spread out, making the sea shiver.
The dawn lanterns. She had almost forgotten this ritual, the signifier of a new day when their people kindle astral flames and then set them free, to bless the hour. The brighter the flame, the more successful their day will be.
“I say,” Envy pouts. “If I’d known I’d be traveling with a mute, I wouldn’t have bothered playing the white knight.”
“Ugh. Now you want to talk?” she mutters while they pump away, their limbs revolving
in tandem. “I can’t believe you.”
“Why not? You of all people should be acquainted with my double standards.”
“Are we really doing this now? I was minding my own business.” Concentrating on the coastline, she makes an ornery noise. “Whatever, white knight. Even in a lethal predicament, you’re looking to toot your horn, and whenever you don’t get your way, you piss on the moment. Well, go ahead and flatter yourself, if that’s what it’s called. Meanwhile, I’ll be over here, on my side of the water, escaping for my life.”
Envy huffs like an infant. Would it kill him to sacrifice attention, for two seconds? At the very least until they’re out of target range?
Honestly, this god. What does he want from her? One minute, he could care less what she thinks about him. The next, he throws a fit because she’s not talking to him.
Sorrow gasps as Envy snatches her elbow. On a muffled curse, he lugs her sideways, the water quavering and the lanterns jiggling. In a blink, she finds herself hidden under a walkway leading to one of the stilted homes.
Envy floats in front of her and places a finger to his mouth. In the dappled light, they stare at each other, Sorrow’s lungs seizing.
Above them, someone emits a spectral, feminine chuckle. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?” a male teases. “I’ve always wanted to know what iron is like.”
“It’s a grave infraction and violates protocol.”
“We owe them nothing,” the male argues. “Least of all, our respect. Look at what they’ve done, betraying us and then floating into the sea like cowards…Did you just huff at me?”
Sorrow rams her palm against Envy’s mouth to stifle another puff of umbrage. A lantern wobbles between them, illuminating their shadows beneath the planks. In the dimness, his offended glower is unmistakable.
Or it might have to do with his incessant wincing and buckling. What is wrong with him? Is he okay?
Airy footsteps and receding voices indicate the couple’s retreat. “Where do you suspect the eight have fled?” the female asks in a low tone.
Transcend Page 6
