Page 73 of Jailer to the Death God
“Messengers,” I tell him. “Gossip transmitters, essentially, but useful if you want to hear the juiciest news.”
In our kingdom, word of important events travels swiftly—like the news of my engagement to “Vaughn of Terelaus.” The news, or gossip, is most often transported by the Reckless Riders—young men on fast horses who spend their days racing from town to town, passing along juicy bits of conversation, factual or otherwise. The entire network is a fluidly functioning machine, owned and scheduled by a prominent family in Cerato, one of whose heirs was present at the ball where I courted potential husbands.
Since the plague began, the Riders have become cautious about contagion, and they’ve taken to shouting their news from a safe distance or flinging missives at those who want more comprehensive information. They accept payment in coins, which they seal in a jar and douse thoroughly with blistering alcohol or boiling water before they touch it. Some make use of carrier pigeons or hawks to transfer information faster and more safely.
Since they’re not official palace couriers, the Riders’ news isn’t always accurate. However, it is sometimes less sanitized and more revealing than official correspondence via other channels. Before my brother died, he told me to keep an ear to the Riders’ circuit—which I’ve done by scheduling weekly meetings with a well-paid representative of the network.
Seeing one of the Riders outside Allenaye piques my interest immediately.
As we approach, the Rider lifts his hand and calls out, “Hail, Your Majesty! If you could spare me a moment, I’d be grateful. I’ve been waiting for you.”
I order Farley to stop the carriage, and I hop out as the Reckless Rider swings down from his horse. He’s young, like most of the Riders, pleasant-faced, with a few pimples marking his skin. His mop of brown hair is tousled from the cold morning wind.
“Greetings, Your Majesty.” He gives me a deep bow. “I have a special bit of news, intended for your ears alone. It was given to me by Lady Elanann of the Royal Court.”
I step closer to the man, but Arawn’s tall frame looms at my side and his deep voice interjects, “First, lay aside any weapons you may be carrying.”
The Riders are always armed, and this man is no exception. He unburdens himself of three knives, several throwing stars, and two pairs of brass knuckles. Arawn looks him up and down.
“You’ll speak to the Queen in my company,” he says.
The Rider looks uncertain, but I nod. “This is my betrothed, Vaughn of Terelaus. You may speak freely in his presence.”
The three of us step aside, out of earshot of my retinue and the gate guards.
“The Lady Elanann was afraid to send this message in writing, or by the usual palace messengers,” says the Rider. “She wishes you to know that action has been taken by the Council—a vote to prevent you from marrying Vaughn of Terelaus, and a motion to force your marriage to Lord Venniroth instead. The moment you return, you will be taken to a chapel and wed to the Lord Venniroth.”
“Over my rotting corpse,” I gasp. “They can’t make me marry him.”
“The alternative is a vote of ‘no confidence,’” says the Rider. “The loss of your crown, your throne—”
“Yes, thank you, I’m aware what a vote of ‘no confidence’ entails,” I say sharply. “Thank you for the information. Farley!” I gesture to my driver, and he descends from his seat at the front of the coach. “Please get my coin-purse and pay this man for his service to the Crown. And for his continued silence on the matter.” I give the Rider a stern look, and he bows again to show his compliance.
“Yes, Majesty,” Farley says.
“Come here.” I grab Arawn’s coat sleeve and tug, drawing him across the snowy grass. The day is so bright it almost hurts to look at the gleaming snow. I squint, finding relief in Arawn’s dark-green eyes.
“When we return I will slaughter those who stand against you,” says Arawn calmly. “It will be the work of a moment.”
“You can’t slaughter my Council,” I protest. “We have to try something else first. They can’t make me marry Venniroth if I’m already married.”
“We are scheduled to return to the royal city tomorrow for our wedding.”
“You could marry me today instead. Here, in Allenaye.” My gaze latches onto the shining dome of the temple. “We can be married by a priestess in Beirgid’s temple. It’s perfect. We’ll have an officiant, and witnesses... Venniroth and the Council won’t be able to dispute the marriage’s legality, especially since I’ve already stated my intentions publicly. And you’ve already accepted my hand.”
I add the last sentence because his features are tightening, darkening.
“Arawn, I need this,” I whisper. “I need to keep my throne, my authority. And you need to stay close so you can keep me safe, remember? Please don’t abandon me, not now. Whatever I’ve done to poison things between us, I’m sorry for it.”
“Things between us have always been poisoned,” he says. “Don’t assume that has changed, simply because I fucked you to relieve my own discomfort. I hate you just as much as I ever did, for all the trouble you’ve caused me. Wetting my dick in your slit hasn’t changed that.”
My anger peaks and my hand flashes—but he’s too quick for me this time, and he catches my wrist before my palm can impact his cheek.
“Careful, Your Majesty,” he whispers. “We are supposed to be a happy couple, so in love we can’t wait until tomorrow for our nuptials.
“You’re an asshole,” I seethe, tears forming in my eyes in spite of how viciously I try to blink them back. “Don’t speak of our time together like that.”
His voice burns like ice on bare skin. “I fucked you because I was in pain. Because I was desperate for relief. You were a willing piece of available flesh, leaking your pathetic human lust all over the sheets. I took pity on you.”
