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Without another word, I move toward the heavy, velvet curtains shielding the secondary hall from the Great one. Aydon and Kanat follow close on my heels.
“I know a little of this girl and her background, Lord Allysteir,” Kanat pursues me. “She is no bride, I assure you. Nothing but a Cock-Cross farm girl who smells of animals, manure, and refter blood. And one with recent transgressions of sacrilege. For all we know, her soul could be marred, and the eth-gharym could have claimed her. This girl could bring ruin to the crown, Your Majesty. And anger the gods!”
“Quite an impressive feat for a mere Cock-Cross farm girl,” I retort and ease a hand to the velvet curtain, brushing it aside to afford me a glimpse of the Great Hall. “Bloody angyls and blessed demons!” I exclaim, breath heaving. If it isn’t my damsel in distress, my little dove from the Skull Ruins.
“What?” Aydon approaches on my right to study the scene.
A deep chortle rolls from my throat as I declare, “Yes, I’m certain her slippers will fly right off at any moment on account of how much she’sshaking, brother.”
Kanat takes my left side, and we observe my little dove who, in spite of the guards providing a formidable net around her, swings her hips to the minstrels’ mirthful music. If I could beam, I would. Her eyes catch the firelight as they had in the ruins, but they’re no longer wide with the raging fear she showed as cornered prey. A warmth lurks to quell the chronic pain inside my miserable body when surveying her carefree gaiety, how she tempts the monarchs by twirling around the skull table reserved for Aydon’s infernal supper meetings. Her damp pix-spun gown’s sleeves have slipped lower from the curve of her shoulders to exhibit nearly half her opulent breasts.
Kryach’s breath grows heavier in my mind. Not uncommon, but a deeper hunger persists, tugs at my being. I dismiss it since the Bite Offering will soon commence.
“Such a provocative, disgusting display.” Kanat curls his lip back in revulsion, prompting my insides to further warm. “She bears the sign of hellfire in her hair.”
Awed, I shake my head when my brazen girl blows the lustful Sythe Queen a kiss and resumes her twirling while sovereign, soldier, servant, and citizen’s eyes stalk her. Aydon lowers the curtain and concentrates on the elder who rambles his religiosity.
“I guarantee you, Your Highnesses, this is no pure virgin nighyan. Kryach demands acleansoul,” Kanat reminds me, voice bordering on a low threat. Damned if I don’t yearn to burn every strand of his polished boned braid for him to weep over the loss. Probably host a funeral in its shorn honor.
“Please, Lord Allysteir,” the Elder urges me, his verdant eyes bold enough to meet mine. “Give this stained one to me. She can be my consort, and I will purify her soul when I bite her at the Offering and cleanse her body when I take her flesh.”
I swallow hard, repulsed. While this busty bride tribute shines with passion I haven’t witnessed since Finleigh, who possessed a different sort, I’ve wedded enough brides to understand it has no bearing on their souls...or their blissful sex. The gods are nothing more than greedy monsters with voracious appetites for blood, beauty, and passion. And Kanat is no better.
Injecting the shadow essence of Aryahn Kryach into my vocal cords, I welcome the smoke hinting of blood fire curling from my mouth. However I loathe this display, it is necessary, and I love when the elder squirms to my decree, “She. Is.Mine.”
Kanat recoils, stepping back, avoiding my eyes which have turned black and hollow as the Void. Pain thunders through my body from Kryach’s presence, but it can’t compare to the torment in my heart because I am as much a monster for what I’ve done, for what I will do again.
“Enough!” Mathyr’s sharp voice pierces from the passage on the opposite side of the room.
I draw Kryach back into my being but don’t permit the blood fire to fade from my eyes. Mathyr sways toward us, garbed in her finest fire-jewel and pix-spun tulle and lace gown, bodice decorated in diamond-encrusted overlapping bones to compliment her crown of woven gold-lacquered wishbones. Obvious where Aydon gets his vainglory.
“Mathyr...” Aydon bows his head in and fetches her hand to rub his mouth across her knuckles. Always her favorite son, I sneer.
“Allysteir,” Mathyr barely acknowledges me.
“Fashionably late as usual, Mathyr,” I snort and note the crimson rosebuds woven through her full bun with a refter tooth fused into each petal.
“A steward alerted me of the startling turn of events. The whole court is in a stir. I spent a few minutes observing this potential bride and must agree with Elder Kanat.” She gestures to the elder, and I refrain from clenching my teeth and breathe smoke through my nostrils instead. I don’t give a damn what Kanat wants. I recognize the carnal glint in his eyes. The elder who takes more bitten consorts than any other but claims such piety and superiority for having never taken a bride.
“We will put it to a test,” Aydon interjects with his political dexterity. “A simple pelvic bone rite to test her virginity will suffice.”
“Yes,” Mathyr agrees and narrows her stormy eyes upon me, nearly matching the inferno in mine. “I will assist in the ritual,” she hints, and I grunt in distaste over the loathsome but necessary procedure to sate the gods and elders. Kryach will not welcome any “impurity” even if I could care less what has penetrated this little dove. Not since I admired her chucking her slippers to one hall. Perhaps it was her audacity at running from Elder Kanat in the first place. And when she pulled her scyan from her generous thighs and threatened an Ithydeir soldier with it, I knew I’d risk all manner of broken bones to assist her.
“Allthe elders will preside over the rite,” I insist. Kanat shifts uncomfortably, but I won’t have him taint the results in any way.
When Mathyr and Aydon agree and Kanat nods in reluctance, I sniff, shake out my robes, and proceed to the blackwood table where I fit Aydon’s prior mask to my face and don the accursed crown. “Well? What are you waiting for? Go fetch my bride.”
My breasts are half outof my gown. I’m fair breathless, but I can’t stop twirling. As if pure Death courses through my veins, igniting my blood with fire. If it’s my last night, I may as well eat, drink, sing, and by gods, I will dance!
I steal black death roses wherever I spin, tuck them into my hair and between my cleavage, crush others and scatter their plum-fragranced petals to the air. The Sythe Queen’s eyes follow me as I dance around the skull table. The Blood Queen. I can’t deny how undeniably erotic she is with her gown hugging her body in a scarlet cascade and its plunging neckline to expose much of her golden breasts?the bodice coated in rubies and thorns. Her lips remind me of plum roses occasionally baring the tiny saber fangs. Golden lust kindles her luminescent eyes while her hair falls like a roseate raiment. I blow her a kiss, blushing from her smirk and how her eyes roam my body. All the royals are individualistically beautiful.
Once I circle the table, countless Ith weave their hands around my waists, tongues salivating over the first tribute bride in centuries, but not one would ever dare to claim the Corpse King’s possible intended.
He still hasn’t come for me.
A familiar pair of hands capture my waist, A warm and human and very soft cheek presses to mine. “Isla! What in Talahn-Feyhran were you thinking?” Franzy whispers wild against my ear, her voice carrying over the music.
“Oh, dance with me, my sweetheart. Tonight, I will away to a cold and lonely bed where he’ll feast on my soul till I’m all but dead!”
