Page 92 of Jailer to the Death God
I ponder all this as I fly back up through the Pit, across the snowy forest and fields, back to the royal city. The icy claws of the pre-dawn darkness sink into my skin. While flying I could only wear my tunic; I did not want to damage the new coat Vale gave me. But when I’m near enough to the city, I land, vanish my wings, and locate the place where I hid my coat. It’s cold from lying over a tree branch in the freezing night, but I pull it on anyway and button it.
The guards at the refuse gate saw me leave, and they don’t question my return. In fact, they open the gate to me quickly and bow low as I pass.
“Hail, Lord Consort.” Their voices are respectful, with an undercurrent of excitement.
“Hail to you as well,” I reply.
I could get used to this kind of delighted awe at my appearance, instead of the petrified horror or abject fear I usually experience in the mortal plane.
Granted, none of the Ceratans know who I truly am. But that does not make their respect and worship any less pleasant.
Snared by an idea, I pause and turn back. “Do you know where I can find the home of Lord Venniroth?” I ask the guards. “And do you have a horse I can borrow?”
They seem all too happy to give me both directions and a horse. The horse is none too keen at having to bear the god of death, but I discover that the application of life-light around his eyes and nose renders him much calmer. The green glow does him no harm; rather, it seems to remind him of pastures and summertime. Or so I assume, for he accepts my presence without screaming and bucking.
I shall have to practice more with life-light. I always considered it a rather useless ability, but in the mortal plane, it may be one of my most helpful traits.
What has become of me, that I care about beinghelpfulto living humans?
At last I arrive at Venniroth’s home, a stately mansion in one of the wealthier sectors of the city.
A night guard patrols the street, but he is easily overcome by the sleep of death. After looping my horse’s reins over a gatepost, I stride up the walk to the entrance.
My shadows make quick work of the lock, and I send a wave of death-sleep flowing through the house, to ensure that I will encounter no one and raise no alarms.
After a short search, I find Venniroth’s rooms—an opulent suite with an enormous bed, nearly as large as the one in the chamber of the former king. Venniroth lies in its center, gray and motionless, propped upon pillows. The curtains around the bed are open. This is a man who forgoes warmth in favor of being able to see what might slink into his room at night.
I light a single candle, and then I lift the sleep of death from him alone, leaving the other residents of the house in its thrall. Taking up a post at the foot of his bed, I rattle my claws along the polished wood.
Venniroth wakes instantly. His hand dives beneath his pillow and comes out with a short dagger. He grips it in his aged fingers first, then winces and switches the hilt to his other hand, the one that is still strong and healthy.
When he recognizes me, a look of stricken disbelief passes over his face.
“I met some friends of yours earlier this evening,” I tell him.
“You fought them off,” he says hoarsely. “But that’s not possible. Six trained men…”
“They chopped me to pieces. Poisoned me. Yet here I stand.”
“Not possible,” he repeats. Then he shouts, “Malen! Vor! To me!”
“Your guards and servants cannot hear you.” My voice fills the room, darkness incarnate. “They are asleep. The transformation of your hand was a warning—one you did not heed. Clearly your desire for the Queen and the Crown is stronger than I thought.”
“Sorcerer.” He brandishes the knife at me. “Invader. You are some foul thing from that land of unholy magicks, from Terelaus. I have heard stories—”
“I am not what you believe me to be. Nor will I grant you the satisfaction of the truth. I intend no harm to your people, or to the Queen. But I believe you do.”
I stalk around the corner of the bed, my claws dragging at the curtains. “I punished the men you sent after me. I would be unjust to absolve you of guilt in the matter. After all, you instigated the attack on my life.”
“You cannot touch me.” Venniroth’s voice rises. “I am the most influential member of the Queen’s Council.”
“I am well aware of that. As I said, I did warn you.” I nod to his aged hand. “Apparently you require a more thorough lesson. I should have cut off that hand the first time you threatened my Queen with it.”
Venniroth scrambles out of the bed on the opposite side from me. I give him a grim smile, the smile of a predator who has cornered his prey, who allows it to believe it might yet escape, when in fact there is not the slightest hope of that.
“You cannot touch me,” he repeats. “I have allies—”
“But they are not here.”
