Page 74 of Jailer to the Death God
I’m so angry I can barely hold myself together. I want to rip open his chest with my nails, tear out his throat with my teeth. I want to bite his tongue until it bleeds and he takes back those horrible words.
Arawn smiles, cruel and beautiful. “You look as if you want to murder me. Good. But you must learn to control your expressions, little Queen, or someone will suspect you don’t love me with all your heart. Let us enter this town, finish my good work among the plague victims, and proceed with the wedding.”
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I angered the queen enough to keep her at a distance throughout the day. Which is exactly what I intended, though it pained me to hurt her. She leaves me to lay my mark upon all whom I can spare from the plague, while she arranges the details of the wedding.
The numbers of sick in this particular town are notably fewer than in others we’ve visited, though its population is significantly larger. The shadow of Beirgid’s temple looms over the narrow streets and squares, fomenting a suspicion that’s been dormant in my mind since I went to my realm and spoke with Macha.
Strange how none of the sick are Beirgid’s devotees. Very strange.
While I visit the sick, Farley keeps me updated regarding the Queen’s activities. Vale has given orders that no one may leave town, to prevent anyone from carrying word of our wedding to the capital city. Not that a messenger could get there and back again in time to stop us, but I suppose it’s a worthwhile precaution. According to Farley, the town’s mayor seems thrilled that Allenaye will now be able to boast itself the site of a secret royal wedding.
By sunset, I am bone-weary, feeling wretchedly human and heavily enchained. Servants come for me and escort me to the temple of Beirgid, where I’m provided with a bath, fine perfumes, and rich clothing. The loose pants I’m given hang low on my hips, and the only piece of upper clothing I’m allowed is a golden scarf draped artfully across my shoulders. My skin is dusted with gold powder, and my hair is braided after the fashion of Beirgid’s priests. The attendants lay gold chains around my neck and clasp thick cuffs around my arms. They remove the tiny green gems I usually wear in my earlobes and replace them with heavy, ornate earrings in the traditional Ceratan style.
Then I am guided into the sanctum of the temple.
The floor is a sheet of water, flat and smooth as glass, tinted gold by virtue of the gilded walls. Waves of molded gold from the walls up to the ceiling, and the roof itself is a magnificent garden of gilded blooms, swirling leaves, and golden fruits.
Countless torches in gilded sconces light the immense space. Paths crisscross the golden water, providing dry places for worshipers to stand and face the head of the room, where a shining dais is flanked by a forest of slim white pillars. Where the pillars blend into the ceiling, the architect designed explosions of golden blooms and swirling leaves.
The High Priestess of Beirgid’s temple stands in the center of the dais, robed in scarlet, facing the silent lines of well-dressed citizens who have been invited to observe the ceremony. To her right and left, more priests and priestesses stand, their gold-painted bodies entirely naked despite the chill in the air. They wear rich golden jewelry on their ankles, wrists, waists, necks, and ears.
My mind is a haze of limpid gold, glimmering skin, shining torches, and gleaming jewelry, but in the center of it all one figure stands out in crisp detail.
The Queen’s white hair crowns her head in elaborate braids. Her lashes have been darkened, and she wears slashes of gold paint along her eyelids, cheekbones, and collarbones. Her mouth glows velvety scarlet, a match for the blood-red lace gown spreading across the steps of the dais. The gown cups her breasts, barely concealing her nipples, then splits, revealing a wide V of white skin. The tip of the V ends just below her navel.
It’s a dress made to be peeled down and tossed away. A dress suited to the debauched worship of the fertility goddess.
Vale is holding a bouquet of scarlet flowers, their petaled throats yawning to reveal phallic tongues.
I should have known that any marriage in this temple would be solely focused on the sexual aspect of mortal union. This is going to be difficult to endure. How will I manage not to touch Vale tonight when she looks so tempting?
“Stand beside the Queen,” murmurs one of the temple attendants. “Repeat the vows.”
Slowly I pace forward, my jaw tight. Though I’m in my human aspect, I feel strangely exposed. I dislike the gaze of so many eyes in this setting. When I am moving among the sick, the attention doesn’t disturb me, but here I am unsettled. My stomach tilts sickeningly and my throat constricts. My invisible chains drag at my body. Grimly I move ahead, fighting the swell of dread in my chest.
Vale has been looking at the High Priestess, murmuring words I could not hear—but now her head turns, and her gaze fixes on me as I come to her, bejeweled and half-naked.
If she looked at me with anger, if she laughed, if her lip curled in disgust, I could not bear it.
But she gazes at me calmly. She sees my discomfort—Iknowshe does—without words I know it, I can feel her perception, her understanding.
She smiles gently, a little stiff around the edges because she hasn’t forgiven me. Nor should she. The words I spoke to her were a cruel precaution, to create a barrier between us while I train myself tonotcare for her.
But despite her hurt she’s smiling. A smile that is genuine, welcoming, encouraging.
I mount the steps of the dais and stand at her side, towering over her. She looks up at me, still with that little reassuring smile.
A strange, fluttering thrill passes through my stomach.
Perhaps I am hungry.
The High Priestess opens with the Ceratan pledge to the Crown, during which everyone in the room takes a knee out of respect.
Next she leads the other priests and priestesses in a hymn to Beirgid, full of allusions to carnal pleasure.
Then she recites the vows, which Vale and I repeat, line by line, turn by turn.
