Page 62 of Jailer to the Death God
“Alive,” Arawn says, readying his great wings. “Their horses took the worst of it. They have minor injuries. Quiet, little Queen, and breathe.”
He takes a great leap into the air, his wings beating heavy as we rise above the carnage.
“Did you—destroy all the hounds?” I whisper.
“Not all. The last three I poisoned with life-light and left there, imprisoned by my shadows. They will either break free and limp back to Annwn to heal, or they will perish where I left them.”
“I’m—sorry you lost your pets.” My words feel thick and wet. From my recumbent position in his arms, I have the perfect view of his broad shoulders, his strong throat, and his dramatic jawline. His dark hair, streaked with jade, flies back from his brow and temples with the wind of our speed. He’s so impossibly beautiful that it breaks my heart. And suddenly I want him to exist, for more than the purpose of saving my kingdom.
“You—you can’t die.” Tears fill my eyes, and my throat tightens.
“Stop thinking aboutme,” he says through gritted teeth. “Breathe, Vale. Keep your eyes open.”
A slow pulse of pleasure rolls through my heart. “You said—my name.”
“What of it?” he growls. “Hush now. Focus on staying alive. I can see the river—we’re nearly there. Hold on.”
But the sucking sensation in my wound is worse. It feels as if one of the hounds has planted its weighty bulk on my chest; I can barely sip the air.
I’m dying. I know it.
I can’t die, because ofhim. I pulled him out of Annwn and enslaved him to me for a year; I inadvertently put his throne and his life in jeopardy. And for him, death doesn’t mean a move to the Unlife, like it would for a human. For him, it means utter annihilation. Non-existence.
Whatever he is, he doesn’t deserve to end. Not when he has just begun to truly enjoy life. There’s a grumbly sweetness, a gruff naivete about him sometimes that tugs at my heart. The universe would be a bleaker place without him in it.
The least I can do is fight to survive this. If not for my own sake, then for his.
28
The little Queen is fighting, because that’s who she is.
I can see it in the set of her chin, the determined way she keeps hauling in breath after breath. Her fingers grip a handful of my tunic convulsively, tugging on it a little with each inhale.
She and I are bound. I cannot block her entry into death, cannot keep her soul from traveling through my Pit into Annwn.
If she dies, I die.
I will end completely. Cease to exist. Which means I won’t get to be with her in the Unlife. And I’ve begun to look forward to that afterlife meeting far more than I should.
The savory sharpness of woodsmoke fills my nostrils, borne to me by a gust of wind. I trace the source of the smoke to a handful of chimneys and a red-tiled roof—the rambling riverside inn the Queen told me about. They’re expecting the Queen and her retinue.
Lower I sweep, until we’re near enough, and I hit the ground running. I barely have the good sense to vanish my wings and restore my human appearance. Straight into the innyard I run, bellowing for whoever’s inside to come out.
The innkeeper and a few others burst from the door and hurry up to us, exclaiming with horror.
“This is the Queen,” I tell them, nodding to the bloodied girl in my arms. “We were attacked by wild beasts on our journey. Do you have a healer?”
The innkeeper and a woman who must be his wife exchange glances. Their hair is black, while the hair of two maids and the two stablehands is white.
“No,” says the woman firmly. “There are no healers left in the land. But you—you’re Vaughn, the healer from Terelaus, yes? Surely you can—”
“My magic does not work like that,” I snap. “I can spare plague victims from death, but they still have to endure through the sickness. I cannot heal plagues or mortal wounds. By the Furnace of Souls, if I could bar her from entering Arawn’s Pit, I would, but it is beyond my power. You have to help her.”
Another look between the innkeeper and his wife.
“Bring her inside,” says the woman. “Quickly.”
They lead me into a parlor off the inn’s common room. A maid drapes blankets over a sofa and I place my little Queen gently upon them. Still breathing. Still fighting.
