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Fingers trembling, heart pounding in my ears, I slowly peel the mask to expose the face. I bite my tongue hard to cage the scream in my throat and taste blood.
It’s the Corpse King. The King of the Underworld housing the God of Death himself...has saved me.
* * *
Fetching my gown ends, I scramble to the stairway, snatch my shoes, and escape the Skull Ruins before other soldiers find me. Franzy’s song echoes in my mind as I hurry to catch the Citadel train:
He’ll carry you off to his cold and lonely bed
He’ll eat your soul until you’re all but dead...
The train doors open. I slip into a seat at the far end, scooting low when several Elder Guild soldiers embark onto the platform. I try to banish the memory of his face: a living refter as the legends describe. Half-refter. Rot had spared part of his face, unblemished. A beautiful half.
I knead my fingers into my head, cursing my curiosity, my longing, my...desire.
Nothing but the scent of decay follows him.
But he was nothing like the children’s songs or legends. Yes, he wears the God of Death; the one who purges souls. Not to mention the Curse?how Kryach requires the blood and flesh and souls of virgin brides. But the Ith man in the ruins, the man who mocked an elder and defended me from the soldiers was nothing like the Corpse King stories of all Talahn-Feyhran history.
He is my enemy. The enemy of all virgin nighyans.
The soldiers are too late. The train departs, bound for the Citadel but takes the scenic route past the elder shrines. While passengers fixate on the spectacular Citadel with its ancient towers of fused obsidian and bones, the King’s face haunts me. Flutters cluster in my stomach. A smirk tugs at my lips while my core heats from the memory of his sweet mockery of Elder Kanat, how he’d taunted the sentries.
Those lingering shades...
A burn tethers my cheeks, mimicking the growing flush of the Nether-mark. As soon as I’d left his side, it flared to life. Perhaps too much death exists within the Corpse King, it nullifies my mark. All I know is I did not fear him, nor his face. I didn’t fly. Or fight.
What in hellfire am I thinking?I cover my flushed face with my hands, wishing I could deny this, but I can’t. And what does it matter? Like I’d acknowledged, I have nothing to lose. Elder Kanat won’t stop his pursuit. Only one being has authority over him.
The irony. Perhaps the safest place for me is withdeath.
* * *
In the center of the Great Hall is the Cryth River. The “Shivering” River, Cryth is the coldest river in all Talahn-Feyal. The Corpse King’s River with its headwaters bordering the King’s immense dais leading to his throne of bones?only accessible by boat. The same river which flows from the Citadel and to the Sea of Bones as all rivers underneath the White Ladies lead to the Sea. Somewhere within its vast expanse, the Cryth River bears a direct doorway to the Nether-Void.
All know to stay clear of Death’s dark waters.
At the Great Hall entrance, I face the masses, throngs of merrymakers from every Talahn-Feyhran region. But despite numerous Corpse King imitations whirling past me, each race gathers in herds from predatory and elite Wisp-Shee?defined by their decorative and deadly razored wings fluttering among the dancers along with their close cousins: the Sythe. Tempting their circles are our Feyal-Ithydeir and their human claims. The Eylves remain closer to the dais, exhibiting their unparalleled beauty. Shifters huddle near the shadows while the blue-skins in their rolling-water chairs linger near the fountains. The inkers mingle.
From each side of the room, several Guild soldiers search the crowd. Of course, it didn’t take long for Elder Kanat’s orders to spread to the Citadel. No doubt he’s used bone magic to further the message. I can’t imagine why the highest elder in the land desires me. Yes, my breasts are bounteous, but they’re not worth this much trouble...are they?
I’m scrambling. Scatter-brained, I plunge into the mass hoard, aware of the danger...how any Shee or Sythe could sink their teeth into me. An Inker could inject their witch-light into my eyes to beguile me. A Shifter could carry me off.
When the music fades, all races in the hall freeze, the trumpet silencing chatter to announce the Corpse King’s arrival. Everyone parts as is custom. A third of races on one side of the Cryth River, the rest on the other where I am.
All but the royals gathered at the long table of skulls erected upon the King’s lower dais kneel before him...including me. I am only one row behind the river which serves as a shimmering aisle where the King’s boat proceeds. I strain my neck over the wings of two Shee to glimpse the King’s long fyhada with its impressive curves sailing the river on its way to berth at the dais?escorted by countless sentries and elders, including Elder Kanat whose smaller Elder craft follows the King’s.
I squeeze my shoulders and avert my gaze, but it’s too late. Curse my silver-flame hair. No more than a hundred feet away, Kanat’s eyes lock onto mine. He simpers, his expression turning predatory. I swallow, and the Nether-mark injects its flames into my spine.
He won’t do anything until the King takes the throne. As his vessel passes, I narrow my eyes toward the dais where the King wears his elaborate bone and refter-toothed crown and a bone-armor suit. Curious. He wasn’t wearing them in the Skull Ruins.
The river procession concludes. Each vessel releases to a docking point beyond the Great Hall, not to interfere with the King’s spectacle. Once he greets the other race monarchs, the Corpse King lowers himself onto the throne with the elders and his bone warriors flanking him.
All rise. The music resumes.
Soldiers advance toward me. But I ball my hands into fists, nails scraping my flesh. Because while the Corpse King has authority over Elder Kanat, this will bemyultimate power.
Only one girl has ever volunteered as a bride tribute. But if I’m going to go down, I’m going to do it in a blaze of glory!
