Page 93 of Jailer to the Death God
He swallows. “I have—I have money.”
“I do not want it.”
“What then? What do you want?”
“The truth. Why did you wish me dead?” I pace toward him, and he cringes in a corner, half-shielded by a large wardrobe.
“I want this kingdom to be ruled correctly, by a man who grew up here, not some foreigner.”
“You want the throne.”
His eyes dart frantically, as if searching for a path to escape.
“And what else do you want?” I’m nearly within reach of him now. “Say it. Speak the truth, and it may save you from death.”
“I want—” Venniroth’s mouth twists under his short white beard. He was handsome once. Still is by mortal standards, I suppose, although age and overly-rich living have caused his face to swell and sag in places.
I reach for him.
He slashes my wrist, blood spraying over his clothes and my coat.
“Fuck,” I growl. “I like this coat.”
The wound heals almost immediately, and my fingers slam around his neck. With my other hand I twist his knife away.
“What else do you want?” I hiss into his face.
He spits at me, writhing and reddening.
“You lust for her. Admit it. The full truth, and I swear I will spare your life.”
But he will not speak.
So I press my palm to his forehead.
And I read his sins—deeper and more vile than I had imagined.
In his memories I see Vale, dark-haired and laughing, playing with her two friends in one of the palace fountains. She is not more than twelve years old, I would guess. Her shift and pantalettes are plastered to her skin, nearly transparent, while Lord Venniroth, caught by surprise at first, lingers behind a hedge to watch.
That is the first time, but he watches Vale for years. And since he cannot have her, he takes other girls—young maids, frightened and wide-eyed, overwhelmed by his power, too timid to deny him.
His most recent sin is the poisoning of his wife so he can be free to marry Vale.
And his son is being forcibly held captive, under the excuse of protecting him from the plague. In truth, Otin Venniroth knows things his father would rather keep hidden. That is why he has been confined in this house.
With a sharp exhale, I snatch my hand from Lord Venniroth’s forehead.
“What are you?” he whispers.
“You gave me the truth, albeit unwillingly,” I say. “So I will not kill you. But I will shorten your life.”
Even as I step back, he begins to change, stooping over, shrinking down to knobby bones and spotted, translucent skin. He blinks at me blearily through age-glazed eyes and vents a thin, cracked shriek of horror.
“Your body is that of a man nearing his hundredth year,” I tell him. “Your dick will not work, except to dribble urine when you least expect it. You will no longer have a seat on the Council, or any say in the workings of the kingdom. When you die, which will be quite soon, your son will inherit your fortune. Nothing can prevent him from spilling your foul secrets. All your machinations and wretched plans are at an end. You will never touch Vale or any other woman again. You are finished.”
I stride to the door, but I pause on the way out. “When you perish, and you pass through Arawn’s Furnace of Souls, do not expect a pleasant residence in the realm of Unlife. There are places of torture prepared for the likes of you.”
The last I see of Lord Venniroth is a feeble shadow of a man tottering toward the bed, wailing his misery and rage. But he is toothless, feeble of tongue, and his wail is a wordless thing.
