Page 16 of Jailer to the Death God
“Ooohhh,” says the first guard slowly, as understanding wakes in his eyes. “Vaughn of Terelaus. The special new healer. Right.” He nods sagely.
“Go on, then,” I urge them. “To bed, all of you, and send me a pair of new guards.”
They each give me a little bow before heading down the hall. I walk past Arawn and take a left turn, placing both palms against the ornate gilded doors of the royal suite.
My father and stepmother shared this suite. They had separate bedrooms, because he was a restless sleeper and she preferred her own space. Their marriage was a happy one, woven of mutual respect and a passion they repressed in public, for decorum’s sake. But I interrupted more than one session of stolen kisses and silent groping in alcoves or garden corners. As their daughter, I found it slightly revolting but also warmly reassuring. Nothing gladdens a child’s heart more than knowing her parents adore each other.
Their absence punches me in the face every time I enter these rooms.
When I became queen, I wanted to stay in my old room, but the Council insisted this suite was safer. There are two escape routes from it, and the walls and doors are reinforced against earthquakes, explosions, or similar hazards.
The suite’s main entrance opens into a sprawling parlor with a fireplace large enough for five men to stand comfortably, shoulder-to-shoulder. Flames flicker, low and dismal, causing a dance of mournful shadows against the smoke-stained bricks. The broad white-marble hearth is flecked with ash.
The parlor’s sofas and chairs are cloaked in dark green velvet, decorated with floral-embroidered cushions or pillows of satiny gold. Immense urns of white marble used to hold an abundance of seasonal blooms, but they’re empty now. There simply aren’t enough servants to provide all the little niceties of royal life.
Strips of gilded trim divide the creamy panels of the parlor walls. In some of the panels, tiny paintings depict scenes from our history—battles, treaties, romances, deaths.
To my right is my mother’s room, where I sleep—where Leilani struggled through the torture of her illness. To my left is my father’s room, closed off and darkened. Unused. Both bedrooms also have separate doors that lead into the hallway.
To the left of the fireplace there’s another door, leading to an immense bathroom. The sunken marble bath in that room calls to me, but I’m not sure the palace’s water heating system has been repaired yet. It’s been malfunctioning for a while.
I pause in the center of the room, staring across the expanse of velvety divans and small painted tables, caught in the flicker of the fireplace. Such a small fire for such an immense space. It seems to chill the room more than heat it.
I need to call for more coal for the fire. I need to strip the bed Leilani used and put fresh bedding on. I need to take off my blood-crusted boots and clothes.
I need to put the death god away for the night.
I need to eat something.
I need to wash Rose’s blood out of my hair.
I need to wash Rose’s blood out of my hair.
I need—oh god—Rose’s blood—Rose—
My Rose, my Leilani.
My everyone. Gone.
The scream that has been building in my soul is swelling in my chest again, bulging against my ribcage, expanding in my throat.
I barely know or care that Arawn is standing behind me, that he has closed the doors to the suite, that he’s muttering something sarcastic about the décor of the room.
I have reached the end of myself. I am going to burst.
Not in front of him.
Clamping one hand over my mouth, I toss the ritual book onto a sofa and run for the bathroom.
I crash to my knees and vomit into the white-marble toilet. Not much in my belly, but my body heaves up what little bile there is.
Shuddering, sobbing, I wipe the sour acid from my lips onto the back of my wrist. I’m coming apart, I’m going to shake into pieces from the violence of the rasping sobs lurching from my chest.
I crawl to the edge of the sunken tub. Reach over with trembling fingers and twist the levers. The water burbles out, and it’s hot, thank the gods.
I need the blood to be gone. I can’t think of anything else.
Frantically I tear off my cloak, then my dress, my boots, my thick stockings, my chemise, my underwear. My chest aches from the force of my grief, and still I want to scream, and still I haven’t.
