His throat goes sore. Out of options, witticisms, and flirtations, he spreads his arms, then lets them drop. “What did I do wrong?”
Her eyes mist. “Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me!”
“I’m not lying!”
“You’ve been treating me like a reptile since the enclave!”
They go in circles, hollering persistent things and evasive things that he can’t keep track of. Sorrow marches past him, but he snatches her arm and whips her around. In the piebald light, he glares at her, wounded, helpless, and enraged. All the infernal makings of romantic angst.
He wants to shout at her more, kiss her more. Either would be difficult, seeing as their classmates are jogging up behind them, having overheard the quarrel.
Love, Andrew, Anger, Merry, Wonder, and Malice skid to a halt, pausing on the fringes. But Envy doesn’t care who’s here, who’s watching.
All he cares about is her.
Sorrow’s voice buckles. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Can’t what? Kiss me back? Want me back?” he shouts. “Love me back?”
Stunned silence from their friends. Not even a peep from Merry.
Condemnation, it just came out.
Sorrow’s pupils explode with shock. Her lips quaver until a steely resolve takes over. “But I don’t,” she says. “I don’t love you. I never have.”
Her attention darts to the group, each of whom remain speechless. “And I’m sorry.”
Envy releases her, the declaration stinging him. Despite the knife to his chest, he frowns. “What does that mean? What do you mean, you’re sorry?”
Sorrow retreats a step closer to the gusty precipice. “You wanted to know pain.”
“What the Fates, Sorrow? What does that mean?”
“It means, you should have left her tied to the tree.”
Materializing beside her is a goddess of ebony skin, her height swathed in a gossamer gown, weapons forged of pearl strapped to her lithe figure.
A royal goddess of the stars. A member of the Fate Court.
26
Sorrow
It happens in this rugged, stony cleft, like so many things have happened lately amidst these cliffs. Her pulse is a thrumming gong. Nearby, lanterns burnish the summit. Below, the sea plunges into rapids that smash against the crags.
Shrouded here, the rest of the encampment can’t detect what’s transpiring.
The ruler stands alone, the butterfly folds of her gown whisking in the breeze. She glances placidly at Sorrow’s clan, who each scramble to raise their weapons. But so long as the sovereign refrains from wielding her longbow, they won’t shoot.
Stricken, they digest the goddess’s presence. And Sorrow’s presence beside her.
“Sorrow?” Envy asks, but when she fails to respond, he does the math. His complexion blanches, realization dawning. His baritone recedes to a whisper, a shadow of his normal voice. “No.”
“You. Can’t. Be. Serious,” Anger grates between his incisors, rage climbing up his face.
“It’s not true.” Traumatized, Merry whips her head from side to side. “I-I won’t believe it.”
“Nor I,” Love croaks, choking her weapon.
“Neither will I,” Andrew says, aiming his frost crossbow. “This is bullshit.”
Wonder searches Sorrow’s visage, prodding for clues. “Dearest?”
But astute Malice is already there, beating everyone to it. He slants his gilded head, aiming the razor’s edge of his jaw at her. “What do they have on you?”
Heads bob toward him, then toward Sorrow. Although he’s correct, it’s no more than the hunt for an excuse. Her soul wilts from their conviction, the loyalty that she hasn’t reciprocated.
The look of betrayal on Envy’s face grabs her by the jugular, threatening to shove Sorrow to her knees. His words slice the air in half. “Who cares why she’s doing this?” he spits. “She’s bending over to the enemy like a spineless waif.”
“Who cares?” Merry repeats, incredulous. Disarming, she pats her chest and bawls, “I do! I care, because she’s family. We’re all family.” She pivots toward each of them. “Aren’t we?”
Staggered silence. The archers swap mournful looks, the sorts of expressions that bleed.
Sorrow withholds a sob as Merry flounces toward her. “Sorrow…?”
As she trails off, the unspoken question surfaces: Why is Sorrow doing this?
Because she has to. Because they’re going to lose. And when they lose, the degree of Envy’s suffering—all of their suffering—will depend on her. Because she has no choice. Because the moment she fell in love with this misfit group, and the moment she gave herself to Envy, everything changed.
The reply is simple, yet the words flounder across her tongue. Her stupefied friends shift, torn between disbelief, and hurt, and hostility.
This is what wounds do. They taint and fester.
The Court would have rooted out this location anyway, but it decimates her peers’ advantage and the element of surprise. Plus, Sorrow’s treachery is a ruthless measure, so inconceivable that it demolishes them, stripping them of a bit more faith.
These archers were once her classmates, then her allies, then her friends. As Merry had said, they’ve become Sorrow’s family. She knows their numbers, and their weapons, and their fighting tactics.
And the Court knows hers.
Envy’s glower hardens into contempt.
The ruler offers them a conciliatory glance, her sympathy genuine rather than patronizing. In particular, this catches Wonder’s attention. And that brings to mind something Wonder once shared about her mission with Malice in the Archives, while the pair did bookish spy work. When they’d briefly gotten caught, this reigning goddess had exhibited crumbs of empathy toward Wonder and Malice, even curiosity about their cause.
“Consider this a parlay,” the ruler says. “You’re outnumbered, outraged, out-magicked, and outranked. Stand down, and we’ll show benevolence in the face of treason.”
“Compromise with us, and we’ll stand down,” Love says.
When the female glances at Love, a twinkle of pride shows through. “Goddess of Love. Our infamous revolutionary spark.” She inclines her head. “I’m afraid, only when the stars command it of us shall we compromise. And they haven’t. What does that tell you?”
No one speaks.
Why haven’t the stars intervened?
“Then a battle, it must be,” the goddess concludes.
A fully-grown dragonfly soars from around the corner of gravel and distended slabs. So that’s how this female got here in record time.
The creature’s buzz startles the company. True, dragonflies allow only rulers and Guides to mount them, but the guest of a sovereign must be an exception, because the goddess ushers Sorrow onto the creature’s silver back, then straddles in front. “Oh, and as to your choice of fortification,” the ruler says, somewhat apologetically. “Don’t you think we know the stargazer’s weak points of entry?”
Sorrow’s eyes widen. Such a basic fact that hadn’t occurred to her, nor to her friends. Thusly, the announcement stalls their weapons.
With that, the dragonfly whirls and vaults into the firmament. Sorrow’s belly swoops from the elevation. She grips the female’s middle for balance, the wind lashing at their hair.
Peeking over her shoulder, the silhouettes of Sorrow’s friends shrink, along with Envy’s furious glare. Translucent wings vibrate as she and the monarch fly at a breakneck pace, shearing through astral beams, their outlines skating across the sea.
Sorrow has never ridden on a dragonfly before. In a different, more peaceful world, she would love it.
Closing her eyes, she ignores the clench of her heart and concentrates on the memory of the dragonfly cove, where Envy showed her a new source of pleasure.
The trip passes quickly. They land in the Palace of Starlight, in the amphitheater’s throne garden. Back where she started.
The Fate Co
urt waits. They nod at the goddess as she disembarks and then inspect Sorrow with mild astonishment. She hadn’t wanted to create a fuss, which is why she’d called out to only one of them from the cliff, before Envy had cornered her with his body.
The next several hours prove disorientating. The rulers exchange tidings and then interrogate her, though she has the presence of mind to color her answers, channeling the skills that she’d picked up from Malice. She provides just enough information to satisfy them without spilling the crucial beans, omitting certain details and outright feigning cluelessness about others.
It’s fortunate that Sorrow’s a jaded goddess. Her inherent cynicism convinces them that she hadn’t invested time in bonding with her allies enough to know their private vulnerabilities.
While that’s partially true, it’s not totally accurate. She has gotten to know her friends better over these past years.
Outwardly, she relents. Inwardly, she revolts.
Preparations to conquer Fortune’s Crest commence. The rulers assemble at the Astral Sea, summoning all loyals to bear arms. To say the crowd is gobsmacked to see Sorrow is an understatement, the deities’ gazes ranging from impressed to repulsed by her shift in allegiances. To them, Sorrow’s actions render her inextricably stalwart and wishy-washy.
The quantity of fighters doubles her pulse. Over the next three days, thousands of them suffocate the shoreline, questing in droves from their outposts in valleys and bluffs, as well as the human realm. Others include archers and keepers who’d volunteered to rebuild the Archives’ most sacred dominion—the Hollow Chamber—after its destruction when Malice and Wonder trespassed there months ago.
Sorrow maintains a vigilant ear, listening for plots and strategies. Maybe she can call out to her friends with a message.
Fat chance. While she has sided with them, the Court takes precautions and bans her from loitering near their most privy subjects. Some like Pride, Spite, and Grief give her a wide berth, whereas others keep a skeptical watch.
Apparently, a few outcasts from the Celestial City have had their banishments revoked, in exchange for their fealty. Sorrow and her friends had anticipated that might happen. Merry pointed them out once, when they’d been in the human realm. Therefore, Sorrow notes the presence of Cruelty, Shame, Fear, Suspicion, and Shock.
Well, technically they have no claim to those titles anymore. In the decades since their expulsions, many exiles have been replaced by new archers and archeresses, which means this army has double-booked some of the root emotions. Nevertheless, the former outcasts keep their distance from those who’ve supplanted them.
Thankfully, Sorrow and her friends haven’t been ostracized long enough to be replaced. Except for maybe Malice, although Sorrow has never heard of another such as he. Sometimes it takes a while to find the right star.
That’s not the only reality check. While pretending to exercise her bow at the coastline, she notices a pair of archers hugging, and a goddess rustling the curls of a younger one, and another god singing a ditty to enliven his companions.
She spots the archers who’d chased Sorrow’s band. Among them is the pair who’d stashed Love’s bow and who’d been there during her capture. Eavesdropping reveals their names to Sorrow.
The female wearing a jumpsuit and brandishing rhodolite archery is Delight.
The male in a teal mantle and carrying seashell weapons is Bliss.
Presently, they host a targeting game for a school of striplings. It’s the same gaggle of children who’d startled Sorrow’s friends in the forest, minus that mascara-touting male.
Nostalgia has evidently recovered from his knockout and retrieved his submerged weapons. Since he hadn’t laid eyes on Sorrow when Envy ambushed him days ago, Nostalgia’s got no cause to pay her mind. Instead, he adjusts his sapphire archery, then joins the cheering clique that includes Delight and Bliss, watching the game with a congenial grin.
Another goddess sits at one of the docks, where she strums a lyre and hums to herself. Another god doodles in a journal.
A water lantern floats across the sea, in the direction of Envy’s home. A pang of longing swamps Sorrow.
Which is more overwhelming? Having him or missing him?
The image of Envy in one piece is the only visual she can tolerate. To think of the alternative, of him hurt, mutilated…
A slender, ebony hand cuts into Sorrow’s view, an ice arrow poised between the female’s fingers. “I believe this is yours,” the butterfly ruler says.
Refusing to genuflect, Sorrow takes the arrow and jams it into her quiver. Envy still has no clue that she knows about it.
The luminary goddess scans Sorrow’s profile. “What can I do to help you?”
Crap. Is Sorrow’s pining that transparent?
She mutters, “What do you care, Your Luminary?”
“Don’t suppose that this is easy for us,” the ruler cautions delicately, as though Sorrow still matters to this lot.
“Was it hard to condemn Love, target Andrew, banish Anger, exile Merry, torture Wonder, shoot Malice, threaten Envy, or compromise me?” she volleys, hitching her longbow onto her back.
The sovereign glances at the constellations. Her expression grows remote, yet her inflection is tangible. “Being a leader demands the ultimate strength of will. We need it, in order to pass judgment, exact punishment, and then endure. Yet it isn’t without its torment.” She casts Sorrow a weary glance. “We don’t fight because we wish to do so.”
“But you’ll crucify my friends if I don’t comply.”
“Being ordained by the stars also means it’s our task to defend the lives of many subjects, rather than spare a handful of rebels. When all is said and done, exacting justice is our duty. That does not mean we enjoy it, but such is our destiny.”
“And what about inspiring your subjects?” Sorrow presses. “Destiny created inspiration. Destiny created choice. Doesn’t that matter?”
The female’s face transforms, brightening with confusion. Her eyes swing to the sidelines, detecting company. The Fate Court loiters behind them, having witnessed the exchange. Like her, their quizzical reactions bear resemblance to the ones Sorrow witnessed in the Palace of Starlight, when she’d made a similar argument. Despite their upbringing, they’d exhibited misgivings.
It reminds Sorrow of the minute but renowned traits about these leaders. The crystal-wielding goddess paints canvases to combat depression. The goddess who carries agate arrows also pens verse. The female in butterfly gossamer is a self-proclaimed guardian of animals. The hawkish ruler performs random acts of kindness to his subjects. The cloaked god makes the rounds, singing lullabies to children who have trouble sleeping. These rulers have fears, and doubts, and passions, and dreams, and losses, and regrets, and joys.
They’re prone to double-standards and errors in judgment, as much as to wisdom. If they make mistakes, they might learn from them.
Like any of their people. Like humans.
The goddess delays her answer, then lowers her voice. “Then convince us,” she challenges before joining her fellow sovereigns.
Convince them how?
Flummoxed and no longer wishing to be the object of their attention, Sorrow walks in the opposite direction. That’s when another feminine hand materializes, brushing Sorrow’s elbow. She pauses, stumped to meet the countenance of Envy’s Guide. Siren is beautifully plump like Wonder, except with copper hair and a penchant for wrist bangles.
Siren might be a tad vain, but she’s nowhere near as conceited as Envy. Growing up, Sorrow had been fonder of this goddess than of her charge.
“Trespassing into enemy territory when your sovereigns expected an uprising in the human realm,” Siren drawls with an amused tenor.
“Ballsy, I know,” Sorrow remarks, giving her a wry grin and accepting a hug.
“Goddess of Sorrow.”
“Guide of Envy.”
“I’m sorry to meet under less than promising circumstances.”
“You can say that again.” Sorrow mumbles, pulling back. “Thank you for…for everything.”
For helping them escape, for taking such a risk, in spite of their differences of opinion.
The female’s voice loses its veneer. “Is he well?”
The question grinds a rusty nail into Sorrow. “Last time I checked, he was.”
Last time she checked, he also hated her.
The mentor nods. “I know what you’re doing for him.”
Thrown for a loop, Sorrow hedges. “Who told you?”
“Come, now. Immortals talk. Your conference with the Court is circulating, as are your presumed feelings for my archer.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Banality aside, that sounds like a rather complex emotion. One that deities aren’t supposed to feel.”
“I thought deities considered sentimentality a weakness.”
She grins blandly. “Not all of us.”
Based on the romantic tales about her friends, maybe Sorrow and her classmates have been proving more and more of their kin wrong. Maybe others are coming around, even if they’re not publicizing it.
They part ways when Sorrow glimpses another mentor watching her. Rushing toward him, Sorrow meets Echo at the pier by her house and flings her arms around his beanstalk form. Chuckling, he squeezes her back. Thank Fates, he’s unscathed after conspiring with Siren. Whatever happened, it appears their sovereigns hadn’t found out about that.
Nonetheless, Sorrow hasn’t seen the mentor since her return. She reels back and shoves him. “Where have you been?”
“What are you thinking?” Echo counters under his breath, his cleft chin set with disapproval.
“I’m protecting my friends.”
“By betraying them.”
“And I’m siding with you.”
“By going against what you believe in.”
Guilt, and guilt, and guilt. She thrusts her fingers through her hair, then gives up. Kicking off her boots, she plonks onto the deck and plunges her feet into the sea.
In her periphery, she catches movement from a parallel dock. She jerks, glimpsing the little archer with painted eyelashes. He perches several feet across from Sorrow, his short legs lost in the depths while he surveys her.
Transcend Page 25
