Page 38 of Jailer to the Death God
One of the priestesses is also a fire-wielder, and while viols play and pipes trill softly, she reduces Rose’s body to ash. Just a handful of minutes, and my sweet friend’s mortal form is gone.
We parade into the frosty temple gardens, where everyone takes a handful of ash to scatter on the icy earth.
No ashes for Lei, and thankfully her friends and family don’t ask about them. The ashes of the plague dead are carted outside the city and buried in a trench. They do not know that I pushed Leilani’s corpse into the Pit of Arawn while the death god himself watched from the shadow of the forest.
The funeral was smaller than my friends deserved. Survivors only, except for a handful of close family who haven’t yet caught the plague, who came with mouths and noses covered.
I barely make it back to the palace in time to meet with Captain Yerron of the palace guard, to discuss travel arrangements for Arawn and me. And I have to cut that meeting short to speak with the three council members whom I’ll be leaving in charge of the palace and the city while I’m gone.
“Begging your Majesty’s pardon, but do you think it wise to leave just now?” asks Lady Elanann quietly. “With certain people taking advantage of this opportunity to raise themselves higher?”
She’s speaking of Venniroth, of course, and I don’t pretend otherwise.
“I’m depending on the three of you to hold him at bay until I return. The healer and I will spend three days tending to the nearest villages, and then we’ll return to the city again for my—for my wedding.” I can barely form the word.
Lord Redglaive nods. “You can rely on us, Your Majesty.”
Once I’ve given them further instruction, they leave my study. No time to waste—I leap up from my desk and take the private passage behind the third tapestry, a narrow hallway leading from the royal study to the royal wing. It emerges in the corridor near my chambers.
I hurry back to my room and ring for a maid to help me dress for tonight’s dinner and dance. I have precious little time to prepare, and a lingering fragment of personal vanity insists that I look decent. After all, I’m husband-hunting.
I’m not averse to taking a woman as consort, but I would prefer a man. I think Ineeda man, sometime soon. My body has needs beyond sleeping, eating, and breathing, and those demands are becoming more urgent. The sight of Arawn naked in the bath appears in my mind whenever I have a moment’s peace—which, thankfully, isn’t often.
But while I’m sitting before my dressing-table mirror, watching Tilda fix my hair, I have a few such moments. Moments in which I think of the long-limbed, graceful perfection of the god’s body—his sculpted pectorals, tight nipples, ridged abs, and muscular thighs. I think of his cock, long and limp, and I wonder how much longer and thicker it would be when aroused. I think of his bare chest skimming close to mine when he cornered me in the hallway, surrounded me with his wings, and sniffed my neck.
I’m not sure why he would want me. I used to be beautiful, yes, but I’m sallow now—too pale unless cold or rouge brightens my cheeks. My hair is the silver-white of age. My breasts and bottom are still fleshy enough, but the rest of me is practically bones and skin.
Whether Arawn wants me or not is immaterial. I have no time to spare for such things.
What I need is to marry a decent man. A good man with little to no ambition, but a reasonable amount of sense. Someone I can plant on the throne when I have to be away, someone who can manage things well but won’t try to overrule me. A puppet husband who will say and do what I want, who is wealthy and influential enough to satisfy the Council. Someone who won’t expect me to warm his bed unless I want to, who will understand that this is a marriage of convenience, of necessity.
Lord Venniroth won’t let me choose such a man without a fight. He wants power, and he’s determined to have mine.
I need someone strong enough to shield me from him.
18
So my sister goddess is here, after all.
She didn’t miss the fact that I’ve been summoned. Which means she was watching, waiting for it to happen.
Perhaps she even prompted it.
Macha, goddess of war, is in her favorite form—white skin, a pretty face, large dark eyes that make her look almost childish—a red mouth with a playful smirk. Her hair is a vivid scarlet, half of it piled high on her head and secured with a diadem of bone and ravens’ beaks, the rest of the locks falling straight. Flecks of blood decorate her forehead, and streaks of it are drawn from beneath her eyes down her cheeks—messily, like a child might paint with their fingers. The blood on her skin never dries—it is forever crimson.
As usual, she’s wearing armor—chunks of wood and metal and bone assembled into an intricate, impenetrable crust over her whole body. A red jewel nestles at her throat.
“Greetings, brother,” she says merrily.
“Macha.” I keep my eyes on the hounds, two of whom are lingering far too close to her side. As if they owe her some sort of allegiance.
“Oh, this is delightful, isn’t it?” she croons, patting a hound’s skull. He opens his bony jaws, a tongue of fire lolling out. “I haven’t seen you in a century, Arawn. None of the others have, either.”
“That’s how I prefer it.”
“Such a grumpy fellow, always.” She pouts. “You never want to have any fun.”
I snap my fingers, an imperative to the hounds. Most of them trot over to me, but two of them continue to flank Macha, and one steps in front of her, the poison pod of his scorpion tail swelling and glowing.
