Page 66 of Jailer to the Death God
The pair exchange worried glances.
“However, in exchange for the distress of this night, I can gift you something else—a tethermark, which binds your existence to mine. When you wear this mark, death cannot touch either of you for a set time—let us say, ten years. That length of time should protect you adequately from this plague. With my mark on your foreheads, even if you fall ill, you will not die.”
A sigh of pained relief escapes the innkeeper’s wife. “Thank you, my lord, thank you.”
“This mark does not constitute permission to act foolishly,” I warn them. “If you leap from a cliff, your body will break and you will suffer pain. Your limbs may heal crookedly afterward. But you will survive, even if it’s in a tortured form.”
“We hear and understand, my god,” says the innkeeper.
“For your son, the healer, I have done more than this,” I continue. “His tethermark shall last fifty years, and during that time, not even the draining of his magic can kill him. He may use it to its fullest extent to save lives, without needing to fear for his own.”
The innkeeper and his wife clasp each other’s hands, joy in their tear-filled eyes.
“My gifts are not without risk,” I say. “If my life should end, the tethermarks will fade, and so will the protection they impart.”
“But you are a god,” ventures the innkeeper’s wife. “You are immortal and invincible.”
“I was, until your queen bound me.” I see the questions in their eyes, but I am weary, and I owe them no further explanation.
I make quick work of placing their tethermarks, near the hairline and partly concealed, as I did with the boy. Both of his parents are worthy enough—flawed, but with no extraordinarily wicked sins that would exempt them from my mercy.
“I will take the Queen to the room you have prepared,” I tell them. “Send up hot water and her portion of food. She will want to eat and bathe.”
Without waiting for a reply, I return to the parlor. It’s dimly lit by a pair of candles, and in their glow, the little Queen’s face looks so softly beautiful I have to pause, and clench my teeth, and breathe through a tempest of emotion.
A god should be able to comprehend his own mind. So I try to isolate and name the feelings.
First, relief, because she is healed again. She isn’t dying, and neither am I.
Next, I’m feeling anger at myself, because I was too weak to protect her. I listened to her self-sacrificial impulse, the order she gave me to protect her guards. I should have followed my instinct and protectedher, to the ruin of all else. I yielded to her directive. Foolish of me.
A wave of despair then, because this summoning has been so strange. It has upended my existence in the most discomfiting way, and I fear I won’t be able to go back to the entity I formerly was.
Weariness, because my chains are so cold, so poisonous, so fucking heavy.
Apprehension is next. I am afraid, and it’s because of the final emotion swirling in my chest, the one I will not, dare not acknowledge. The one I scarcely understand because I’ve never felt it before. It cannot be what I fear it is.
No, that final emotion is simply the warmth of frequent acquaintance, the afterglow of our sexual interlude this morning. It is merely the satisfaction that my summoner is safe, and my existence is secure.
There is no searing, terrifying, exquisite warmth in my heart when I look at Vale.
None at all.
29
I’m being undressed. Claws are slitting the remaining fabric of my shredded garments, which fall away piece by piece.
I blink, frowning, and shove at the solid, warm bulk of Arawn.
“You’re covered in blood, little Queen,” he rumbles. “I can’t put you to bed like this. Not when our hosts have made everything so fresh and fine for your arrival.”
As understanding flows through me, so too does a ripple of tingling heat. He has me stripped bare except for my shoes and my thigh-high stockings.
After a second’s hesitation, he takes a knee before me, catching my wrist and placing my hand on his shoulder, a silent indication that I should brace myself. “Lift your foot, Majesty.”
I do as he says, and he removes my boot before slowly peeling down my stocking. I tremble, not because of any chill—the bedroom is actually toasty warm, thanks to a gaily burning fire and a steaming washtub. No, it’s the proximity of his face to my sex that makes my flesh quiver.
After discarding the first stocking, he cups my other leg under the knee and lifts it. His nostrils flex as he leans forward a little, stripping off my second boot and stocking.
