Page 96 of Jailer to the Death God
“Then we draw her out, somehow. We tell her we want to bargain.”
Arawn winces. “She won’t agree to that. Not after the encounter she and I had in Annwn last night. I defied her, insulted her, and threw her out of my realm.” He rises, sighing. “Leave the blade hidden. We will think of something. Right now, we must have some breakfast and prepare to visit the sick.”
“And then our wedding celebration.” I trace the beautiful inlay of the godsblood sheath. “You should search my father’s closet for something appropriately fine to wear. You need your own wardrobe, though. Perhaps, while I’m holding court this afternoon, you can visit the palace tailor and order some things.”
Arawn looks intrigued by the idea. He leaves my bedroom to find clothing, and I step over to the hollow bedpost, intending to hide the dagger again.
I hesitate, biting the inside of my cheek lightly.
Then I pick up Aspen’s dagger and drop it into the hiding place. And I strap the godsblood dagger to my thigh.
Swiftly I layer my body with thigh-high stockings and garters, tall boots, a petticoat, a gown, a belted overdress, and a scarf. No one will guess I have a godkilling weapon hidden beneath it all; yet, if I want access to the weapon, I have only to reach beneath my skirts.
Arawn can sense the weapon. He’ll know that I have it with me, but I’m determined he won’t talk me out of this. If I ever have the chance to get close to Macha, I must be quick enough to slay her before she sees the knife. If she thinks I’m a threat, she will kill me, resulting in Arawn’s death.
I won’t use this dagger in any foolish, flailing attempts to annihilate the goddess. I wouldn’t risk Arawn’s life like that. But I won’t be unprepared, either, if fate should grant me an opportunity to free us both.
38
I sense the presence of the godsblood dagger beneath Vale’s skirts, though I don’t mention it. Let her carry it if she so wishes, if it helps her feel safer, if it gives her a small sense of control over our situation.
The weapon’s presence festers like a splinter in my consciousness as Vale and I travel by coach to one of the city squares. It’s in an affluent sector of town, not far from where I confronted Lord Venniroth in his home. The hour is still early. I wonder if Venniroth’s servants have discovered the state of their master, if they recognize him at all. He can barely speak, though his mental faculties should still be fully intact. A true horror, to be trapped within an aging husk, barely able to form words, yet internally capable of keen thought. It’s the perfect revenge for the violent attempt on my life, and it prevents his lordship from doing any further damage. Elderly humans seem to be capable of very little, from what I’ve observed.
This morning, Vale wears an overdress of luscious, deep red, embroidered with blue and gold, over a dark blue velvet gown. A cloak is pinned to her shoulder with a fine brooch, topaz and gold, and she wears fingerless gloves. Her white hair is partly pinned back, mostly loose waves, with a few tiny braids in it. She crouches beside a couple of sick children, her breath puffing clouds into the sharp cold.
I have never seen anything so beautiful.
“Stay close,” I warn her, leaning down to place my sign on the little ones.
As I straighten and scan the group of plague victims, I see no threats, just miserable people lying on the frozen cobblestones, wrapped in blankets, with their heads in the laps of their loved ones.
It’s a much smaller crowd today. My work is having a noticeable effect, which pleases me. I draw in a lungful of the crisp, bright air, nodding to the people who reach for me with trembling hands and beseeching words.
I glance back at Vale, still crouched near two children. Three of her guards are right beside her, so I move on, placing my palm on forehead after forehead. One woman I pass over, because she broke her son’s fingers once in a fit of anger, and she strikes her husband daily. But on the others I set my mark, sparing them from death by this plague.
A sharp cry echoes behind me. A man’s cry—one of Vale’s guards. His shout is echoed by more cries of alarm, and I whirl around, my stomach plunging with dread. Never before have I heard such sounds from Vale’s men.
She’s bending over one of the sick—no, slumping over them. Her body jerks, even as her guards reach in and pull her back, away from the plague victim.
As they drag her off the bundled form on the ground, I see a large spot of blood on the plague victim’s blankets.
For a moment I don’t understand. I can’t make sense of it.
But then the sunlight glints off a knife in the aged hand of the plague victim… who is not a plague victim at all.
His hood falls back, and I see the wrinkled face of the elderly Venniroth.
He was here. Lying in wait among the plague victims. Knife in hand.
And Vale—
My gaze whips to her, to the hand she’s pressing to her chest, to the blood leaking between her fingers.
Her guards are holding her, shouting for help, for a physik. Farley is running to us from the carriage, carrying the medical kit he keeps under the driver’s seat. It has some bandages, some soothing creams—but I can tell by her altered scent, she needs more than that. She needs a healer, immediately. The miasma of death is already beginning to gather around her.
And I am standing here like a statue, like a fool, while a sickening weakness begins in my belly, twisting my gut.
She is dying. And then I will die.
