Page 63 of Jailer to the Death God
In one fluid motion, I straighten, seize the innkeeper by the throat, and slam him against the wall. “You know of a healer,” I snarl into his face. “Tell me who it is.”
An outcry rises from the others in the room, and the two strapping young stablehands approach, as if to seize me. I fling a hand toward them, freezing them in place with the sleep of death. The three maids cower in the doorway, whimpering.
“Your Queen is dying.” I tighten my grasp on the innkeeper’s throat. “I will kill all of you if you do not save her. If you know of a healer, send for them at once.”
The innkeeper chokes, straining for air, his face purpling.
A horrible rattle grates from Vale’s lungs, and my heart gives a sickening lurch. I let my godly aspect rise again, my skin shifting to jade, my antlers extending.
Teeth bared, I knock the innkeeper’s head against the wall. “Did you hear me?” I seethe. “Do you know who I am?”
His eyes bulge with terror. “Arawn,” he wheezes.
“That’s correct. I am the god of death. So you understand why I have no compunction about slaughtering everyone in this house if my Queen dies. You’ll be the first to enter Annwn. And I will devise such torments for you—”
“Please,” gasps his wife. “Mercy, please.”
“The healer,” I bark.
“You don’t understand.” The innkeeper’s wife is trembling, tearful. “I can’t tell you who it is. I can’t.”
From behind the woman, a small figure emerges. A boy, dark-eyed and brown-skinned like the innkeeper and his wife, with the same straight black hair. He cannot be more than ten years old.
“It’s all right, Mama,” he says. “It’s the Queen. We have to save her.”
The innkeeper’s wife falls to her knees, her eyes wide and desperate. “If my son heals the Queen, no one can know. You cannot tell anyone, please, my lord, I beg you! If news of his gift leaves this place, they will bring plague victims to us and force my son to try to heal them, and then he will die. His ability must be kept a secret.”
“Agreed. Do all you can, boy. Save her life, and I will grant you my protection and my favor.” I loosen my hold on the innkeeper’s throat, and he pulls away, retching and staggering. In the same moment, I dispel the sleep of death from the two stablehands, and they come to life again, staring at me in awed confusion.
The boy with the healing gift kneels next to the sofa where Vale is struggling to suck in another breath. Her face is a rictus of agony and fear, but when I sink to my knees beside her, she turns toward me, reaching out blindly. I catch her hand, and she grips mine—a crush of agonized fingers.
My chest swells painfully tight with the desire to soothe her. I hunt for words, but I find none. I am not used to offering comfort.
Beside me, the boy stretches out both small brown hands over the Queen’s torn body. His eyes shine with golden light, and from his fingers unspool strands of gold which travel to the Queen’s wounds, delving into her flesh and slowly beginning to mend it.
The boy’s brow knits in concentration as he works over Vale. I’m no judge of human magic, and I’ve never been around Macha long enough to see her use her healing ability—if she ever does. I doubt she exercises it often; she prefers torment and conflict. But sometime in ages past, Macha fucked an ancestor of this child, and now the very healing magic my sister despises will save a life that’s tied to mine. Macha’s own power will prevent her triumph, for now. It’s a delicious irony.
I wonder if a child of mine would inherit my shadow-magic, or my life-light, or both.
An image surges into my brain—small humans with blue-gray eyes and pale hair, cupping green light in their palms. The light of living, growing things.
My imaginary children look like Vale.
Fuck me.
But they wouldn’t have pale hair, would they? Her hair is that color because she is a survivor. What color was it before the plague? For some inexplicable reason, I am desperate to know.
Voices in the courtyard. The others from our party must have arrived.
“That will be the rest of the Queen’s retinue,” I say. “Some of them are injured. You can tend them in the usual way, with bandages and poultices, except for the driver, Farley. He needs healing for a burn wound, if the child has enough energy for it.”
With mutters of “Yes, my god,” the innkeeper and the others scuttle out of the room to obey. The boy’s mother lingers a moment and murmurs, “Don’t push yourself too far, Emitt.”
“I won’t,” he replies.
I glance at her. “The child is safe here. Go.”
She nods, tightlipped, and reluctantly retreats, closing the parlor door behind her.
