Page 48 of Jailer to the Death God
With a gesture, I quiet the musical quartet in the corner. In the silence that follows, I sense uncertainty and curiosity from the guests. Lord Venniroth isn’t exactly frowning, but his features are grim, his eyes like poisoned daggers.
“Honored guests,” I begin. “I am so grateful to you all for gathering here tonight, for sparing me a little of your time. I have not been able to speak with everyone, but I do have an announcement to make. I’ve chosen my future husband, my royal consort. He is someone to whom this kingdom owes a great deal, someone many residents of this city have come to admire. He is powerful, wise, and compassionate. And I trust him with my life.”
Arawn shifts at my side. I can sense the restless tension thrumming through his body, and I reach out instinctively, taking his hand.
Quiet gasps whisper through the assembly of guests. Lord Venniroth takes a step forward, his hands curling into fists.
“Vaughn of Terelaus.” I turn to Arawn, looking up, up into his face. His dark lashes blink over those deep green eyes—ancient eyes, the eyes of a being who has existed since time began. My heartbeat stutters at the sudden realization of what I’m doing—promising myself to this cosmic creature, this eldritch lord of death.
“Master of dark magic, savior of my people,” I say breathlessly. “Will you accept my offer of marriage?”
His voice, deep and hollow, echoes through the ballroom. “I accept.”
A moment of brittle silence.
Then someone claps, inciting an avalanche of applause as Arawn and I face them, hand in hand. My smile stretches my cheeks, but it doesn’t ease the roiling unrest in my heart. My stomach is churning, and the nausea only increases when Lord Venniroth approaches, clasps my hand in mock congratulations, and leans in so close his short white beard brushes my cheek.
“This is not over, Princess,” he mutters.
I wish I could have him dragged off to the dungeons for his persistent, intentional failure to title me properly, for his verbal threats, and for the physical threat when we were dancing. But no one has witnessed or heard the threats, so it would be my word against his. He possesses loyalty and influence, while I’m on shaky ground with the Council. I can’t risk openly moving against him. Not yet.
Perhaps this marriage will infuriate him enough that he’ll make an obviously treasonous move. If he does, I must be ready to seize proof of his treachery and make him pay for it.
The effects of the wine I drank have been counteracted by the peril I went through. My palms sting from skidding against the ice when I fell, and my shoulder aches where one of the hounds struck it. The scratch and bruise on my cheekbone are stinging, too, under the makeup Tilda carefully applied to that area. My body aches, and my soul aches, and I want nothing more than to return to my rooms and have a bath, or plummet into sleep before I have to rise at dawn again.
But instead of escaping to my quarters I smile, and I drink a few more sips of celebratory wine with my guests. Most of them seem mildly disappointed by my choice of husband, but also invigorated and interested by it. When they begin to ask too many questions about how I discovered “Vaughn of Terelaus” and how he came to our kingdom, I clap my hands and request the musicians to play another dance tune. Then I grip Arawn by his jacket and pull him to me, forcing him into the dance.
“You’re so stiff,” I mutter as we begin to move. “Why can you not dance with me as you did with those other women? You seemed to be having fun then.”
“It’s different with you.” He doesn’t meet my eyes; his gaze keeps traveling over the other guests, skimming everywhere except my face.
I keep my voice low, for his ears alone. “You truly despise me.” I do a slow spin, then my hands meet his again. “What your sister did to you isn’t my fault.”
“I know that.” His hand presses to my lower back, urging my body against his. He bends, his lips skimming the top of my head. I can feel his warm breath there, and a shiver trickles over my body. Then he inhales, long and deep, through his nose.
“Stop sniffing me in front of everyone,” I hiss.
“You smell like wine and warm sugar and fresh air,” he murmurs. “I like it. So many scents from your hair, your skin, and yet underneath it’s always the same. Always you.”
“You’re being very strange.”
“You wanted me to relax. Pleasant smells relax me.”
“Listen to the music,” I insist. “Feel its cadence, its flow. Let it carry you out of yourself and set you free from all this.”
Perhaps I’m speaking to myself more than to him. I close my eyes, allowing myself to drift on the waves of melody. There’s a particular chain of notes in this song that plucks a string deep inside me—a string that quivers in tandem with the tiny flickering flame in my heart. I dance, and I wait for that series of notes to repeat, and when it comes it’s blissful.
When my eyes blink open, Arawn is watching me.
“Can you feel it?” I whisper. “There’s something so beautiful about this song. It makes me want to cry and laugh and scream and do incredibly heroic things, all at once.”
“I think I feel it,” he whispers back. Heat from his gaze spills into mine, stirring delicate sensations low in my belly, melting warm in the space between my legs.
When the song ends, I pull away from him quickly and make the rounds of the room, thanking the guests, making it clear the evening is over. As soon as I can politely manage it, I leave the ballroom and make for the royal residence wing.
Arawn is right behind me, a looming presence, a magnetic shadow at my back.
“You’re dismissed for the night,” I tell my bodyguards once I reach my room. “Until the next set of guards comes up, I’m safe with him.” I nod to Arawn.
