Page 42 of Bride of the Corpse King

Rage colors Morrygna’s eyes black as Nether-storms. “You dare to ask the Divine such a question?!”

Limbs heavy, I grit my teeth, breath halting. Rising slowly, I apologize, remembering my place and respecting how Morrygna has the power to crush my mere five-hundred years of existence; she was birthed from the darkness of the cosmos before time. “Forgive me, Goddess.”

A withering sigh flees Morrygna’s mouth, and she leans in to touch the side of my face, the whole one because Doom is not without respect. “I’ve always liked you, Allysteir. Do not disappoint me with your foolish pride. Not even a former High Goddess as I would release such a secret. And my fallen status renders it forbidden to me.”

She drops her hand, sways to the side, wandering deeper, bidding me to follow and to listen. Breath heavy, I posture and furrow my brow, alert, prepared.

“Whether or not your future bride is the one all gods fear matters little to me,” acknowledges Morrygna, her robe clothing the hazy ground, her war smoke mingling with the ancestral plane mist. “The mere possibility her blood may grant me another key for my sacred cause is my sole care. If I collect the favors of some petty lower gods and goddesses, more’s the better.”

“And you would offer an Isles seat to the likes of a vain elder? And my bride’s flesh?”

“There are far worse things to lose than flesh. And yes, even goddesses may deal with pawns.”

“Then, deal with me! The blood of every cycle. The first of our offspring,” I add, desperation pulsing my adrenaline. “Dry up her breasts, take all her milk,” I bargain further, careless of anything but saving her. Doom’s desire for Isla’s flesh and blood will vie with Kryach’s for her soul.

The Goddess throws her head back and laughs. “So rich! The Corpse King, the one who wears the God of Death, who bargains with none, seeks to trade with the Goddess of Doom! Oh, Kryach and I will laugh about this on our annual mating.”

“Damn it to hell, Morrygna, what must I do to save my bride?!” I roar, shadows penetrating every crouching wylf and driving them back, so I may close the distance between myself and the Goddess.

Slow and purposeful, Morrygna trains her eye upon me, before time’s cosmos winking at me, hinting of demise and destruction, matching mine of death. “Do you know why they call me the Weeping Goddess when I have never shed a tear?”

When I blink, Morrygna raises her lofty chin and continues, “I bear the weight of the most ancient of woe. While Death offers a reprieve from suffering, from the scraps of mortality, I am the Goddess who gifts only harbingers.

“Oh, before such day, I cried such tears for all the doomed. I took their offerings and traded my tears to them so they could find escape or comfort.”

She pauses, traces her ruined finger around my half-rotted mouth as if hinting of my shadow lullaby. My offering, my one gift in the damned business of Death?permission granted to me by Kryach. The trauma of Morrygna’s lost moon-tears shames me. Defeated, I lower my head, lips parted to her scarred finger touching my exposed teeth, the blemished flesh.

“The most beauteous weeping...the highest Goddess of Angyls herself named the weeping trees for me. Untiltheycame and burned away my beauty, including my tears. Ever since, I have vowed to weep a new river to bless Talahn-Feyhran on the day I reclaim what was taken from me. To trade the ashes of my suffering for Isle beauty. I have spent centuries seeking any child who bears the mark of doom in her soul or her flesh. Whether she is fated to receive it or deal it, I don’t know and don’t care. As long as her doomed blood grants me the power to reclaim what is rightfully mine.”

“And Kryach?” I attempt one final plea.

A shadow of a smile graces Morrygna’s face, her eyes soften, and she leans in to brush her lips to mine in a subtle Goddess kiss. In her kiss is the decay of a thousand ages, the cries of carrion, and the thunder roars of hundreds of infamous female warriors throughout our history who bow to their priestess, Morrygna.

Once her lips depart, I understand it is an oath of Isla’s sealed fate. My shoulders lower in demise. Her seal pierces deep into my bones.

“I will incur the Kryach’s wrath, for perhaps it is Death who owes Doom a favor.”

* * *

Upon leaving the Nether-Void, my rage of powerlessness roils beneath the surface. Kryach’s shadows wreathe around me?darker, deeper, wilder. My fists shake. Blood roars in my ears. Veins throb. Ifrynna says nothing, silent in the presence of my fury. On my way back to the Citadel, I cross paths with the Shifter Prince and clench my teeth hard. One breaks.

Carsten pauses. A wolf frozen in my shadows.

Maskless, I attack. I break my fist, bruise the other, dislocate my shoulder, fracture my rib cage. But I don’t stop until all Carsten’s bones break, till his heart slows to its barest beat, and his blood weeps into the Cryth River to feed the spirits. The truth brands itself into his deepest matter not to ever fuck with my bride-to-be again.

“Isla...”

Shades of ice curl across my naked form. The flowers lingering on the surface of the warm bath water wilt and shrivel into decay. From Death’s touch. Still, I don’t open my eyes. Lost halfway between the waking and dreaming world, not willing to surrender to reality.

“Isla...” the Death God coos, rousing me from my stupor, summoning me. A blissful right.

Other than my dreams, this is the seventy-sixth time he’s exercised the right. Or perhaps the ninety-third, I lost track.

First, I swallow, shake my head, whimper my usual defiance, “No...”

My scalp prickles from Aryhan Kryach’s nearing shade, and I shiver from his encroaching hands of smoke and silk. Memories replay from the first time I witnessed his power take this limited form. I clamp my eyes shut, soaking in the memory…

Kanat’s hands on my naked hips when he’d bunched up my gown, his hot mouth on my neck, his organ prepared to stab into me all culminated in my scream. My scream for Ary.

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