Page 40 of Jailer to the Death God
I gag a little, but I try to stifle the reaction in front of my hounds. The fact that my body recoils from the smell is another sign of my weakness, my incarnation.
The loss of my height is another problem. The hounds are enormous, their heads at shoulder-level on a human man. Usually I can tower over them in my god form. I’m still taller than they are, but I’ve lost that extra physical dominance.
The two hounds I threatened stand together, eyeing me with a malevolence I can feel like a blistering haze over my skin. And I feel the weight of my chains, too—gut-twisting, inescapable. I’m being pulled back toward the mortal plane.
“When this contract is over, loyalty will be rewarded,” I tell the hounds. “And disobedience will be severely punished. Go!”
They bound away, while I hold myself steady, fighting the tug of my contract with the Queen. Once the hounds disappear into the distance, I let myself go.
My whole body jerks as my chains snap me back toward the human realm, yanking me into the tunnel and up through the Pit, until I’m thrown out into the clearing. I crash onto the black vines, under a cold black sky dotted with white stars and drifting snow.
It’s past sunset.
I’m late returning to my jailer.
Swearing, I haul myself to my feet, spread my wings, and take to the air, soaring upward out of the clearing. My body feels heavier now. The invisible chains are trying to drag me down; their links bite into my skin like blunt, icy molars. My breath quickens, and my sense of panic rises again with the awareness that I am trapped in this body, in this wretched skull of mine—unable to stretch and expand to my true godly form, unable to let my consciousness widen and wander.
My heart pounds, fast and frantic, and I struggle to beat my wings harder, as if I could outrun my bondage. The rush of icy wind past my face helps a little, but only the pleasant stimulation of my senses will offer me true relief.
And even that relief is a false safety, because I am carnal. Vulnerable, like my captoris vulnerable.
I had to leave the Queen, to check on my realm, to see if my fears were baseless or justified. Now that I’ve spoken with Macha, now that I know she intends to end me and take Annwn, I can’t help picturing all the ways the little human Queen could die. She survived the plague, yes, but she is so very mortal. A thin, white scrap of humanity with delicate fingers and a soft pink mouth, a creature of brilliant eyes and jutting bones and tempestuous determination.
At least I can be confident of this one thing—there is no chance I will love her, or anyone else in the mortal plane. I’ve seen love countless times in the souls who pass through my realm. I know what it is, and I could categorize all its variations. But I do not love. I am incapable of the emotion.
My only focus must be these three goals…
To keep the Queen alive for twelve short months.
To check in on my realm occasionally and dislodge Macha if I find her squatting there.
To indulge in enough pleasure to make my residence in the human realm bearable.
I will go to the Queen, stay by her side, and protect her as if my life depends on it. Because it does.
19
The Chief Manager, the cooks, and the servants have outdone themselves.
The ballroom is a bower of delicate bare branches, cut from the birch trees in the garden. Feathery wintergrass fills the vases instead of flowers, and bits of lace are tied to branches or scattered along the dark green tablecloths like snowflakes.
The lace is likely scavenged from castoff finery, since everything is in short supply here. I’d thought our kingdom self-sufficient until the ships ceased entering or leaving our ports. My father stopped the incoming and outgoing trade himself, once he realized how virulent the plague is. He gave orders for the coastal guard to sink any ships trying to leave Cerato. He would not risk us carrying death to our trading partners.
I don’t think he or anyone else realized how quickly our way of life would change once trade stopped. If the plague hadn’t severely diminished our workforce at every level, perhaps we could have continued along with minor adjustments to goods and services. But with sickness and death halting the function of every part of our economy, we simply haven’t been able to sustain ourselves. We are broken, starving, dying.
Even with Arawn’s help, I’m not sure we can survive. Change is coming, but not fast enough.
Still, the ethereal beauty of the ballroom gives me hope.
Tonight’s dinner is not a sit-down banquet—the palace food stores are too thin for such a feast—but the tables along both sides of the ballroom are filled with heaped platters and steaming dishes.
Scattered across the polished dance floor are a couple dozen pale-haired men—men with golden brooches securing their cloaks, men with stiff collars and shiny black boots, men with cascading ruffles and sparkling earrings. Tall men, short men, round men, all of them smiling, all of them bowing as I enter.
My bodyguards linger on either side until I wave them away. They will take up positions nearby and shadow me throughout the evening, giving me space to interact with the candidates for the position of royal consort.
Every single man in this room knows why he’s here. The tension, the avarice, the desperate forced charm practically vibrates through the air. These men are sharks, and the promise of a crown is the blood in the water. They can taste power, and they’re gleefully maddened by it, though they hide their desire behind neatly pressed lapels and artfully pinned cloaks. Dire as our kingdom’s situation is, the opportunity to bekingis more than they can resist.
I’m not sure any of them actually seeme,only the title I offer.
