Rapunzel meets the myth of Psyche and Cupid in a standalone fantasy romance tale of love, survival and healing from ALEXANDRIA WARWICK. In The East Wind – the climactic final instalment of the Four Winds series – a mortal woman and a god unite to overcome deadly trials and their own tortured pasts.

 

 

ABOUT THE BOOK

Min of Marles spends her days at the apothecary creating potions and poisons while being pushed around by her employer, Lady Clarisse. But this is no ordinary potion shop: it specialises in brews made with ingredients harvested from the immortal beings her ladyship keeps imprisoned.

Eurus, the East Wind, is one such prisoner, tortured daily by Lady Clarisse. Haunted by his cries of pain, Min impulsively sets Eurus free – only to have him steal her away to his enchanted manor on a remote island.

Min is desperate for freedom while Eurus longs for revenge against old enemies. The two strike a deal: if Min brews a deadly poison for his foes, Eurus will let her go. The only catch? To confront Eurus’ enemies, they must travel to the City of Gods – where he’ll have to compete in a brutal tournament to get closer to his targets.

Forced to work together despite mutual distrust, a powerful attraction grows between Min and Eurus. But with enemies on all sides and every reason to betray each other, will their fledgling love be enough to get them both out of the City of Gods alive?

 

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EXTRACT

 

‘Get up.’

I’m jerked upright in bed. The world spins, caught in the blurred gloom of interrupted sleep. I blink rapidly, my narrow bedroom coming into focus. Something stings my arm. Five pointed nails, gouging deep.

Lady Clarisse looms over me, dressed in her finest. She grasps a tall candlestick, a single red bloom unfurling. Its glow daubs her smooth cheekbones in the pink of damaged flesh.

Another wrench against my arm. ‘Get up,’ she growls. ‘Now!’

I’m yanked from the cot. My body hits the ground, limbs asprawl. Through the pulse of panic clawing my skin, I think only two words: She knows.

Lady Clarisse returned to the estate late this evening. I was half asleep, but the clip of her gait as she ascended the stairs to her bedroom on the third level foretold her arrival. Did she visit the prisoner? In her attempts to gather information, did she notice the man’s failure to yield, his lack of disorientation? ‘My lady–’

She hauls me from the room, my arm crushed in her powerful grip, my nightgown fluttering around my pale legs. Physically, she is not a large woman. Then again, I am equally slight, both in height and weight. Down, down, down into the dim of the night-shrouded workshop.

The curtains are drawn, always drawn. Lady Clarisse is suspicious of villagers snooping, despite the estate’s vast grounds. Clamminess prickles my underarms. I cannot run. I have nowhere to go, and I would not get far. Only one option remains: I must repent. I must beg forgiveness. If I am to receive the lash, or boiling oil, or isolation, then I must accept the punishment as a consequence of my actions. My knees fold, cracking against the floor. ‘My lady–’

She whirls around. ‘What are you doing? Get up.’ It is not my arm she reaches for. Rather, her fingers tangle in my long black hair. The pain drags a yelp from me. I stumble to my feet, then overbalance and go down again.

She all but drags me into the kitchen, where an oil lamp sputters. The wide bay window frames the star-studded night. Faded, floral-printed wallpaper peels in long strips from the walls, revealing the white plaster beneath.

‘I’m s-s-sorry, my lady,’ I manage, voice strained. ‘It w-was a moment of w-w-w-weakness, but it will not happen again, I p-promise you–’

‘What are you talking about, stupid girl?’ She releases me. ‘I’ve a very important client due to arrive here within the hour. Put on a pot of tea and gather refreshments. Is the sitting room in order?’

My mouth snaps shut. So this is unrelated to last night’s disobedience? ‘Y-yes, m-my lady. I d-d-dusted–’

Lady Clarisse’s glare is potent enough to melt the skin off a lesser creature. ‘Why is it so difficult for you to speak without stumbling over your own tongue? Hurry up and get dressed. We must look presentable for our guest. I dare say a prince would not appreciate clutter.’

I startle. ‘Prince?’

She turns toward the old brass mirror hanging from the wall and smooths her palms across her cheeks. ‘That is what I said.’ Then she scowls, noting a blemish near her chin. Due to the beauty teas she consumes weekly, one would never know Lady Clarisse possesses a brutal scar extending from chin to temple. Her attempts to erase this mark have led to an obsession with her appearance. She does not speak of it, and I know better than to ask.

My employer drops her arms with a sound of frustration before spotting my reflection in the mirror. ‘Why are you still standing there?’ she bites. ‘Get dressed.’ Then she disappears into the workshop, likely to take an extra dose of beauty tea.

Beyond the window, a sickle moon digs its lower point into the canopy of trees that shades the road into town. Dawn is still hours off. What could be so important that a client would insist on meeting at an hour so late?

I return to the second floor and cloister myself in my room. Technically, it is a broom cupboard, only large enough for a cot and the small chest at its foot. When Lady Clarisse bought the estate, she claimed Nan’s bedroom and forced me from mine, stating that she required the extra space to store her dresses. I will never forget what she told me upon seeing my teary-eyed confusion in being moved to these cramped quarters, my grief at Nan’s passing still fresh: Be thankful it is not the garden shed.

After tugging on a clean blue dress and white stockings, I quickly yank a comb through my hair before hurrying downstairs to boil water for tea, slipping an apron across my front. I slice pears, brie, and a day-old baguette, arranging the food on a tarnished silver platter. Rare it is that her ladyship allows me into the kitchen. Most nights, she cooks for herself and I am tossed the leftovers. Better than nothing. At least, that is what I tell myself.

A knock cuts the quiet as I place the refreshments in the sitting room and return to the kitchen. Curiously, I peer around the corner toward the foyer.

The front door opens with a muffled creak. I wince. Lady Clarisse ordered me to oil the hinges, but with the approaching harvest, my workload has increased, and it slipped my mind. No doubt she will carve marks into my skin for the oversight.

‘Welcome, Prince Balior. I trust your journey was uneventful?’ Her ladyship is all smiles for this guest.

‘I would not call it uneventful, exactly.’ As she steps back, a tall man dressed in a black robe and loose, ivory trousers crosses the threshold. His dark brown complexion and unusual manner of dress suggests he has travelled from a distant realm.

‘But where is the, ah… companion that you mentioned in your letter? Not delayed, I hope?’ her ladyship asks sweetly.

‘We’ll get to that.’ As his gaze sweeps the foyer, it comes to rest on my form. I immediately retreat. ‘At the moment, I’m far more interested in the prisoner you have detained. You say he is a god?’

‘One of the Anemoi, if I’m not mistaken.’

My mouth shapes a soft o. Lady Clarisse has imprisoned plenty of immortals. Fair folk and demons, mostly. Never a god. How was she able to overpower him? As for these Anemoi… I’ve never heard of them. In Marles, we venerate our Mother of Earth for her abundant harvests and our Master of Sea, who supplies the fishermen their daily catch.

The guest – Prince Balior – chuckles softly. ‘Lady Clarisse, you cannot know how glad I am to hear this.’ He glances at her left hand, which is bare. ‘Are you alone, or… ?’

Her ladyship’s expression shutters, and she takes a small step back. ‘I called you here for business, Prince Balior. If that does not interest you, please let me know.’

‘Of course. I apologize, madam.’

The sitting room door snicks shut, muting their conversation. They will likely be preoccupied for some time.

My thoughts drift upstairs, toward the northern tower, and my gut cramps sickeningly. One of the divine. That would explain why he is entombed in steel and stone. His power is too great to be contained by the cells belowground. Three months of suffering… Now I am all the more curious to learn what information Lady Clarisse covets from this deity.

Back in the workshop, I hunt through one of the cabinet drawers for supplies. This might be my only opportunity to aid the prisoner. As much as I fear her ladyship’s wrath, it feels wrong to harm one of the divine. Without them, our farms would cease to flourish. The sea would not provide. Why should I stop with an antidote when I can offer blessed respite, a means to numb the pain of whatever anguish Lady Clarisse has inflicted upon him?

Seeing as I do not know the extent of the prisoner’s injuries, I cannot determine how strong a healing salve is needed. I do, however, know my employer. She would have carved into his skin, let the blood weep from a thousand cuts. It is not the first cruelty I’ve witnessed. The list is as long as it is gruesome. Nails ripped from nailbeds. Hot oil poured into eyes. The crack of a split bone.

Selecting the strongest salve available, I shove it into my pocket and hasten up the tower stairs as quietly as possible. Upon reaching the landing, I mince toward the solid steel door. To my left, the single window reveals the waves that grow blacker as autumn’s chill sets in. Late is the hour. The prisoner likely sleeps. Carefully, I open the slot and push the tin of salve through.

Immediately, the container is hurled back through the opening. It bounces across the ground with a sharp clatter before rolling to a stop.

As I reach down to pick up the healing balm, I’m suddenly wrenched forward. My body slams against the door, pain rupturing near my shoulder as something shoves my face against the freezing metal. I struggle against a nameless, faceless captor to no avail.

‘What did you put in the soup?’

The voice is low, encased in ice. It rasps along my bare arms, drawing the hairs to shivering points.

‘N-nothing.’ When I attempt to twist my face away from the door, the pressure increases, drawing tears to my eyes.

‘Do not lie to me, mortal.’

‘I d-didn’t put anything in the b-b-broth!’ I manage, molars clenched in pain.

There is a silence, unbroken except by the rapidity of my breathing. ‘Very well. If what you’re saying is true, then surely you would have no objection to consuming the meal you served me?’

I scan the area wildly. There is no hand that I can see, though it certainly feels like one – five sturdy fingers wrapped around my throat. The snap of the metal slot sounds, and suddenly the bowl of soup I served the prisoner yesterday hovers before me in a sphere of wind. A pitiful mewl slips out of me. What is this sorcery?

‘The less you struggle, the less pain you will experience.’ His next words emerge as a growl. ‘Drink.’

I shake my head. If I were not so paralyzed by terror, it might have occurred to me to scream.

Something pinches behind my jaw. I whimper. ‘You’re hurting m-me.’

‘As I said, the less you struggle, the less this will hurt.’

‘Her l-ladyship ordered me to poison you. I p-p-put the antidote in the s-soup to negate the effects,’ I choke through a tightening airway. ‘I s-swear it.’

The pressure around my throat eases, but I remain pressed against the door, trembling. Eventually, the prisoner says, ‘Why would you act against your employer?’

‘I’m n-not working against her,’ I rush to say.

The silence speaks. It tells me he does not believe a word I utter.

And yet, this god releases me. I fall forward, panting hard as I rub behind my jaw, along my neck. Not hard enough to bruise. I know what sort of pressure a bruising requires.

‘If you’re not working against her, as you claim,’ he says, ‘why add the antidote?’

‘I don’t kn-know,’ I whisper.

‘A likely story.’

Before I can defend myself – though truthfully I’m not certain what I would say – he goes on, the resonance of his voice managing to vibrate through solid steel. ‘If this is a ruse designed to beguile me into lowering my guard, I warn you: it won’t work. She cannot break me. And neither can you.’

Nothing I say will prove my intentions are noble. Mainly because I understand the sentiment. If our positions were switched, I wouldn’t trust him either. And yet–

‘Why w-would I seek to cause you additional h-h-harm? You are already captured. I hear how her l-ladyship tortures you. If you give her what she w-w-wants, there would be no reason to keep y-you here–’

I fall silent as an eerie, ragged gasp gathers strength from inside the cell.

Laughter. I have never heard so spiteful a sound.

‘Do you honestly think that witch will let me walk free once I give her the information she wants? Do you think she lets any of the immortals she imprisons walk free? Tell me, does she give them a hearty send-off before dumping their bodies over the cliffs?’

That’s not… Lady Clarisse sets the prisoners free. She has told me this. When I think deeper on the matter, however, I realize I’ve never witnessed this with my own eyes. I have simply taken her word for it.

‘And anyway,’ he goes on, ‘why should I give up my secrets to that hateful woman when her apprentice is so willing to help me?’

I am suddenly aware of my position: palms plastered to the fortified metal, ear angled toward the seam in the door.

I scramble back so quickly I slam into the wall. Snatching the salve from the ground, I descend the stairs as rapidly as my feet will allow.

‘Fly away, bird,’ the prisoner calls to my retreating back. ‘Fly away.’

 

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Alexandria Warwick is the author of the ‘Four Winds’ series and the ‘North’ series. A classically trained violinist, she spends much of her time performing in orchestras. She lives in Florida.

Visit Alexandria’s website here.