Page 58 of Jailer to the Death God
“You have strayed from my question,” Arawn says. “Why did your stepmother hate the gods?”
“Hate might be a strong word. She was cautious.”
“Fear is based on ignorance. Caution stems from understanding. Do you believe she knew things about the gods that others don’t? That she had some first-hand knowledge of them?”
“Maybe? Like I said, we didn’t speak of them often. Why are you asking me this?”
He crosses his arms over his broad chest. “I haven’t decided whether to tell you that or not.”
I peer at him, tempted to push him for the truth. But he looks very grimly determined, and I don’t have the energy to extract his real motive tonight. “Keep your secrets then. Let’s talk about your family—about this sister of yours who wants your throne.”
“Macha is not truly my sister—merely a being who came into existence at the same time I did. Many of the gods use human terms to define relationships, but I dislike the practice.”
I tilt my head, surveying him. “You don’t have parents, or grandparents, or ancestors. That seems so strange to me.”
“I’m better off without such attachments,” he says gruffly. “They cloud the mind and chafe the heart.”
Another realization startles and saddens me. “You’ve never loved anyone, have you? That’s why you don’t understand loss, why you have that odd, fascinated expression whenever others are grieving.”
“As I said, I’m better off without emotional connections. Love is torture. From what I’ve seen, it is always twined with agony. You’re living proof of that, little Queen.”
“But I’m richer for having love in my life, for having known the people I lost.”
He shakes his head, frustration edging his tone. “How can you say that, when even your best memories of them make you weep?”
“The losses are still fresh,” I say quietly. “With time, I hope to be able to enjoy our memories with less pain.”
Warmth enters his gaze. “You are an inexhaustible fountain of hope.”
“Far from it. I was nearly depleted before I summoned you. Rose kept the last ember of my hope alive until the ritual was done. And you’re keeping it alive now.”
As I speak the words, a fluttering shyness passes over me, and I turn away from the death god, on pretense of looking out the carriage window. Thanks to the reflected light of the tiny lantern hanging on a hook inside the carriage, I can’t see much beyond the window pane. But as I stare into the darkness, I think I glimpse a flash of red. Two red spots, like flaming eyes.
A cold thrill of terror runs through my gut. “Arawn—” I breathe. “Those hounds of yours, could they—”
But a man’s shrill scream cuts off my words. A cry so strident, so full of terrified pain, it shears right through the walls of the carriage.
One of the guards riding with us is screaming, and his horse is screaming too.
I slide open the little door that lets me talk to Farley, only to hear a shout from another guard. “We’re under attack! Go, go! Drive faster, get the Queen to safety!”
Farley yells to the horses, and the carriage rattles forward faster along the road, bumping hard, knocking my teeth together.
Arawn lunges to the carriage door, throws it open, and roars, “You can’t run from it—you’ll be picked off one by one! Stop the coach, and I’ll deal with this!”
Farley obeys him without question, and the carriage jolts to a hard stop.
Arawn leaps out, and I’m starting to follow when he places a hand on my chest and says firmly, “No. Stay in the carriage.”
“What? But I—”
He shoves me inside and shuts the door.
Furious, desperate to see what’s going on, I douse the lantern and cup my hands against the window glass, peering into the blackness.
The screams of my guard and his mount have stopped.
My remaining five mounted guards are beside the carriage, weapons ready. One of them is pointing into the night, probably indicating the direction from which the attack came.
