Page 94 of Jailer to the Death God
I leave the house, lifting the sleep of death as I mount my horse again and ride for the palace.
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I wake as Arawn eases himself into the bed beside me.
“Where were you?” I mutter. “Oh… I remember… the sick child.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs. “Sleep, love. It is not yet dawn.”
I doze again, and rouse later to find him lying wide-eyed on his side of the bed, staring at the ceiling. I sit up, bleary-eyed. I’ve been rising at dawn so often lately, my body instinctively knows that the time is near sunrise.
Muzzy from sleep, I stumble to the washroom. When I return, I light a lamp. Then I plop down on the edge of the mattress and begin dragging a brush through my long white hair.
The sheets rustle as Arawn sits up.
“I went to the Pit last night, after my other business was concluded,” he says. “I brought you something.”
I’m not sure why he refers to sparing a child’s life as “business,” but I turn to see what he brought me.
He’s holding it between his thumb and forefinger. My brother’s dagger. The one I accidentally dropped into the Pit on the day I summoned the death god.
It has made the journey in the Unlife, and it has returned to me.
Illogically, it feels like having a piece of Aspen back again. My sweet brother, with his vast kindness and his earnest good intentions. He could be ridiculous sometimes—could make me laugh until my sides ached—but he was wonderfully serious when he needed to be. Decent with a blade, but not a warrior. Not violent. I don’t believe his dagger ever tasted blood before I used it.
“You found it,” I breathe. “Arawn…”
I clasp the hilt and kneel on the bed, scooting forward on my knees and throwing both arms around the death god’s neck. The blade of Aspen’s knife catches on a lock of Arawn’s dark hair.
“This means so much to me,” I whisper.
He’s holding me, encircling my body with a gentle reverence and warmth that melts my heart.
I pull back a little and look into his green eyes. “You really do love me, don’t you?”
“I do.” But his smile is sad, his gaze edged with concern. “And now, wife, I must ask for something in return.”
“Anything in my power.”
“Burn the book Rose gave you. The one you used to summon me.”
A week ago, I would have denied his request. But I understand it now. Even though I haven’t had time to look through the tome myself, I don’t wish to keep it.
“Destroying it won’t break my contract with you, or end Macha’s spell, will it?”
“No,” he admits. “I simply don’t want anyone using it again.”
“I understand.” I slide off the bed, laying Aspen’s knife on the sheets. I yank open a drawer, take the ritual tome in my hands, and walk to the fireplace.
For a second I hesitate, running my fingers along the crumbling edges. Touching the imprinted runes on the cover.
“Did Rose tell you where she got it?” Arawn asks.
“From somewhere in the city. A little book shop, perhaps, or a magic dealer. You know, I don’t think she told me exactly where.”
“I suspect whoever gave it to her was Macha in disguise,” says Arawn.
The thought of the wicked goddess being so close to my friend makes my stomach turn. “You think she wanted me to summon you?”
