Page 84 of Jailer to the Death God
“You’re a gem,” I tell her.
“And this is for the Lord Consort.” Tilda motions, and a serving boy steps forward, presenting Arawn with a circlet of woven silver leaves. “It was Prince Aspen’s before his coronation. I thought the Lord Consort might wish to wear it, if he is accompanying you to Council.”
“It’s perfect.” I take the circlet and turn to Arawn.
He’s already sinking to one knee before me, on the snowy cobblestones of the courtyard.
I settle the coronet into the dark waves of his hair, and then I take his chin and lift his face to mine. He’s in human aspect, his green eyes shining beneath his dark lashes. Tiny green gems wink in his earlobes, and his long black hair spills over the shoulder of his coat. He looks less godlike today, but every inch a king.
“Rise, Lord Consort, my beloved husband,” I say softly. “And escort me to the Council Chamber.”
“It’s an outrage.” Lord Venniroth is practically shaking with anger. “The sheer arrogance, the disdain for this Council, the obtuse, childish insistence on making an inappropriate match during this time of crisis—it’s foolishness on a nearly monstrous level!”
“An inappropriate match, you say?” I raise my eyebrows. “Yet you, Venniroth, would have put yourself forward for the role of consort, when you are old enough to be my father.”
“Indeed I would. Because you need restraint and guidance, Majesty. Nothing has made that more obvious than your hasty marriage to this foreigner. You are little more than a lovesick child, playing with lives as if they are toys in your nursery.”
Murmurs of assent travel around the table, though a few council members shake their heads at his words.
“You forget yourself, Venniroth,” says Lord Redglaive coldly. “Mind your words when you speak to the Queen.”
“Queen?” Lord Venniroth throws up his hands. “And why should she be Queen? This Council can no longer ignore the incompetence and childish willfulness of this monarch. She has brought in a man of indeterminate origin and suspicious magic, and within a week of his appearance, she has already made him Lord Consort. Can no one else see the shadow of malice here? We are being invaded and overtaken, my friends. In this our darkest hour, our enemies have seized the opportunity to charm and beguile our young princess, and through her, claim the throne. If we are to survive as a sovereign nation, we must band together and put a stop to this foolishness. It pains me to say it—” he splays a hand over his heart— “but I move for a vote of ‘No confidence’ in Queen Vale of Cerato.”
Arawn has been sitting at my side, a looming yet silent presence. But when Venniroth lifts his hand high, Arawn rises, impossibly tall, black-robed and dominant. “Enough.”
The hand Venniroth raised begins to change. The knuckles swell, brown spots appear on the thinning skin, and the fingers go slightly crooked as if with the pains of age. In a few seconds, Venniroth’s hand transforms from the strong hand of a man in his early fifties to the hand of an eighty-year-old.
Exclamations of shock fill the room.
“Would anyone like to second the Lord Venniroth’s motion?” Arawn asks, his green eyes raking the assembled council members.
No one moves or speaks.
“The Queen has been attempting to talk sense into you for the past hour,” Arawn says. “Since that has not worked, I am trying something else. Suspicious magic, I think you called it.” He nods to Venniroth.
“What have you done to me, devil?” squawks Venniroth.
“Nothing that cannot be undone, should you choose to see reason,” Arawn says coolly. “Honored members of the Council, I should think you would be more grateful for my presence and my new role. As Lord Consort, I am uniquely positioned to assist you, should you ever need my help—if, let us say, your spouses, children, parents, relatives, neighbors, or friends fall ill with the plague. Take comfort in the fact that I hold your loved ones’ lives in the palm of my hand.”
It’s a threat, thinly veiled. He’s saying that unless the Council supports me, he won’t be inclined to spare their sick relatives.
This is the kind of politics I don’t have the stomach for, the kind from which I would usually cringe. But a wounded, vengeful part of my heart purrs with dark glee at Arawn’s statement. I don’t rebuke him, or rescind the threat. I simply rise at his side, surveying the people around the long meeting table.
“You wanted me to marry someone strong,” I say. “Someone who would support me and help me bring this kingdom back to life. Someone to help me carry the load of responsibility. Well… here he is. And here we both will stay. You are all dismissed. Guards, please escort Lord Venniroth out of the palace. He is banned from Court and from Council until he learns to respect his Queen.”
The council members disperse like scolded children, with awed glances at Arawn. The guards hustle Lord Venniroth out of the room, despite his undignified protests. Lord Redglaive, Lady Elanann, and Master Coors, along with a few others, pause to congratulate me on my nuptials before leaving. I arrange a meeting with them for tomorrow, to discuss how the city fared in my absence.
When the room has emptied, I turn to Arawn, a jubilant glow in my heart.
“Without your magic to back me up, I would never have dared to do that,” I say. “Thank you.”
“That is what divine husbands are for.” His mouth curves up at one side.
“And what else are they for?” I shift nearer, my fingers toying with a button on his jacket.
He leans in, inhaling the scent of my hair before he whispers, “They’re for fucking.”
A tingling pulse between my legs. “I could have dinner delivered to my suite. It’s late, and we’ve just returned from a long journey. Now that we’ve tended to the sick and met with the Council, no one else will expect our attention tonight. We could do as you suggested… enjoy ourselves for a little while before we have to… separate.”
