Page 3 of Jailer to the Death God
“We could… use people in the last stages of the plague,” I say hoarsely.
“The blood has to be shed in a circle around one of Arawn’s pits,” Rose says. “You told us your grandfather took you to see one.”
“Yes, I know of one. It’s not far.” I swallow against the cracked dryness in my throat. “I have a meeting with the Council soon. After that we’ll need to gather supplies for the ritual. We can leave as soon as everything is ready. The longer we wait, the more people die. But if I can actually call Arawn—snare him to my will even for a few moments—I can order him to stop this. He’s the god of death. He can halt the flow of souls to his realm, can’t he? A god should be able to dosomethingto help us.”
“I fucking hope so,” says Rose. “I’ll work on gathering the supplies for the ritual while you’re in your meeting.”
“Thank you. When I’m done with the Council, I’ll talk to some of the terminally sick people here in the palace. Maybe I can find some who are willing to… to… oh gods.” I press my forehead to the cold stone wall by the window.
Maybe I’ll find some who are willing to die. To sacrifice themselves for others.
There’s no chance of survival once you’re in the final phase of the plague, but still… it’s an enormous request.You’re dying anyway, so may I slice your throat at the brink of Arawn’s pit?
Who would agree to such a thing?
A rattling moan from the bed rips my attention from Rose and refocuses it on the sunken figure under the sheets.
Leilani’s hand is lifting, twitching, her mottled finger trying to curl, to beckon me closer. I run to her side, a raw silken rustle.
She seizes my wrist—a spastic grip that must be agonizing for her broken skin. Her lips are cracked despite the hundreds of times I’ve bathed them with water and squeezed drops of liquid into her mouth. She can barely part her lips enough to speak, and I can barely hear the words issuing from her swollen throat.
“Use me,” she rasps.
She has been listening the whole time. I thought she was nearly unconscious, but she’s more lucid than I realized. The knowledge that she’s suffering while alert inside her tortured body—it makes everything so much worse.
“I can’t, Lei,” I choke. “I can’t do that to you.”
“Do—it,” she insists. “I—am ready. Make it—count.”
I turn, staring at Rose.
Just a year ago we were all the picture of youth and health—dark hair, smooth skin, bright eyes and bright futures.
And now our dearest friend is asking us to sacrifice her on behalf of everyone else.
A strained, manic laugh bubbles up inside me, but it leaves my lips as a hard sob. “Lei, we don’t even know if this will work.”
Leilani’s chest heaves, enough breath for a single word. “Try.”
The pit my grandfather showed me is a few hours’ travel by carriage. I take with me only Rose, a couple of my bodyguards who have already survived the plague, and two servants, also survivors, who can help with the bodies of the sick.
We’re a somber procession—my carriage and a pair of curtained coaches, each one carrying four or five plague victims who have reached the final phase—the point of no return. They were each told what we’re doing, and why. Every single person agreed to the plan with a willingness that broke my heart. Their acquiescence is proof of how torturous their existence has become.
I leave the curtains of my carriage open, watching the line of black trees unfurl past the windows. There’s snow scattered over the royal city, and some here as well, threaded along branches, crusted over the road. The woods form a net of ebony and bone, hemming us in.
Perhaps it would seem more oppressive if I did not already feel so trapped.
Rose sits opposite me, holding the ancient tome wrapped carefully in oilcloth. Between our knees is a large satchel of black leather, containing the candles and incense normally used in the worship of Arawn. She obtained the items from a shrine in the city while I met with the Council.
I didn’t tell the Council of my plan. Didn’t think it wise to say, “Esteemed advisors, I have decided to burn candles around a sinkhole and slit the throats of nine citizens in the hope of raising and trapping an ancient god who may or may not be able to stop this plague.”
It would have been just the opportunity Lord Venniroth and his allies have been looking for—a chance to declare me mentally unfit and have me deposed.
No, best to keep this quiet. By day’s end, only Rose, two guards, two servants, and myself will know of my idiotic plan, whether it succeeds or not.
And I will have the blood of nine of my subjects on my hands.
“Vale.” Rose lays a hand on my knee.
