Page 26 of Jailer to the Death God
I’m not sure that’s ideal, though it’s certainly an incentive for me to try a variety of new experiences.
First, I need to test my magic more thoroughly, to see how much I’ve been restricted by the bond. And then I need to find that old book again and see if there’s anything in it that would explain why this particular summoning is so different.
“Hessie,” I call to the maid from last night. She is busy adding wood to the fireplace while stealing glances at me. “Come over here, little one.”
She casts a panicked look toward the Queen’s bedroom, where the two guards and two maids are removing the soiled bedding and mattress, toting everything away to be cleaned.
“Don’t call to them,” I command. “Come to me.”
She approaches, trembling. I wait until I’m sure the others have left the Queen’s part of the suite, and then I lift Hessie’s wrist, tracing the tip of my claw along its underside.
“I need to experiment with you, Hessie,” I murmur. “A little test of magic. It might be frightening, but don’t worry—all will be well.”
“Yes, my lord,” she whispers.
First I press a hand to her forehead, reading the stains on her soul. My furnace shows everything in crisp detail, but I can gauge a soul’s worth or goodness myself as well. If the furnace is the bright sun, my own power is a lantern by comparison—dimmer, but sufficient to see by.
This girl is generally a good human. A few instances of lying, some gossip, slapping her brother multiple times when they were younger, stealing apples—no, plums—she’s a decent sort of human, if a little silly.
Satisfied, I cast the sleep of death on her. She goes gray, statuesque, paralyzed where she stands, with her eyes closed.
I wait a few moments, and then a snap of my fingers releases her. She’s a little dazed, but seems to have no knowledge that she was spelled.
I test my shadows next, letting them slide from my body and pool across the room, making them twine up her stockinged legs and around her waist. I’m pleased I still have full control of them.
After recalling the shadows, I test another power of mine—a favorite punishment for those who have wronged me. I can hasten the signs of aging in a human body and then rewind them again. But I cannot turn back the clock any farther into the past than the present day; I can’t turn Hessie into a toddler, for instance. I give her sagging skin, wrinkles, age spots, and creaking bones—and then I restore her to her current youthful self.
Finally, I turn Hessie into a cat. Just long enough to ascertain that the power to transform others is still mine, even if I no longer have full control over my own form.
There are a few other minor magicks of which I’m capable, but I’m satisfied, for now.
When I return Hessie to human form, she squeals and begins to scurry away.
I catch her by the arm. “Allow me to thank you for your time. This mark will spare you from death of any kind for the span of seventy years. It’s not something I can give to everyone, but you’ve been good sport.”
I press my thumb to her forehead, and a symbol glows there—a different design than the ones I gave to the two little sick girls. It’s a tethermark, a sign that she is favored by a god. Tethermarks bind a soul to the donor god’s energy for a specified time, granting the human invincibility or other special favors, depending on the god’s powers. The more complex the tethermark, the greater the favor, and the longer it will last. I once granted a tethermark to a man who summoned me—five hundred years of youthful appearance and immunity from death. A simple task, easily completed. Not like the demands of the intense little Queen who has trapped me for a year.
Hessie leaves with a tremulous whisper of thanks, awed by her new invulnerability. When she’s gone, I wander into the Queen’s bedroom, still crunching a piece of toast. Very good stuff, toast. It has an addictive texture, and coupled with the sweetness of fruit, it’s quite incomparable.
I stretch out my other hand, palm outward, seeking out the subtle vibrations of magic in the room. There’s a charmed knife concealed in one of the bedposts. I wonder if the little Queen knows it’s there. Without examining it I can’t be sure, but I think it has been spelled with godsblood, which means it can kill a god or severely injure one, rendering them helpless for decades or longer. A godsblood weapon can only be crafted by a mortal uniquely gifted with metal-working talent and fire magic.
Strange that such a powerful weapon should exist in this palace, and in the chamber of the former Queen, at that. I will have to find out if the new Queen knows of the weapon. If she doesn’t, I’ll leave it be until I can safely neutralize it. Not that my little Queen would try to harm me; she needs my power to save her people. But perhaps she plans to stab me with it at the end of the year.
That would be an unfortunate end to our pact.
Ah, there it is. The tome of rituals, stuffed carelessly into a drawer full of lacy undergarments. My fingers plunge into the silky, lacy scraps, and after I’ve extracted the book, I can’t resist lifting out one of the garments—a satiny scarlet thing, trimmed with black lace. It smells of flowers and honey.
Reluctantly I drop the panties back into the drawer, shove it closed, and carry the book back to the King’s bedroom. Sitting on the bed, I peruse the summoning ritual. I know its ingredients and framing by heart, but there must be some variable here—something to account for the slight decline of my shifting powers and the increase in my sensibilities.
There is a tiny star and a symbol etched beside the final word of the spell. I flip through the book, looking for those notations. When I’m nearly at the last page I spot them, right above a paragraph of text in an entirely different script than the rest of the book.
A chill of recognition runs over me, punctuated by a surge of hot rage. This is Godspeak. And it’s in my sister Macha’s handwriting.
13
My meeting with the Council is not going well.
I’m trying to keep my face placid, while Lord Venniroth expounds upon a long list of grievances and “concerns” compiled by the Council. Of course Venniroth is their chosen spokesman. He has been subtly undermining me since the day I was crowned.
