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Now, I am the future Queen of the Underworld.
* * *
“These will be your private chambers until your wedding night,” Queen Gryzelda informs me and pushes open double doors of fused iron, bone, and gold?ones I assume protected through bone rites.
Undone by the lavish suite which could house ten of my old bedrooms, I gush at the surroundings. In the center against the back wall is the massive bed with its canopy posts sculpted from the finest ivory. The domed ceiling depicts murals of past princesses while a ledge nudging multiple arched windows overlooks a Citadel courtyard with gardens and fountains. I touch the stained glass and smile at the gardens until my heart aches with the memory of home, of our farm gardens.
Once the Queen snorts, annoyed by my delay, she grips my elbow, tugs me to the opposite side of the room, and directs the Feyal-maids to escort me down a winding wrought-iron staircase. She follows. I swallow knots of apprehension from her shoes echoing behind me as we descend until the temperature lowers, prompting my gooseflesh.
The staircase ends before a room similar to the garderobe, except this is clearly a bathhouse. Beyond its walls, the inner mountain wind whips across the Citadel, chilling me through the chinks in the stone. Steam rises from the water of the generous hollowed-out bath.
Under the Queen’s careful inspection, the maids remove my mother’s wedding gown and strip me bare. I manage to keep my hands behind my back to hide my Nether-mark and in a firm voice, I command them, “You will wash any blood and soil from my gown and return it to me once it’s clean. If any pix-spun thread is torn or feather is missing, I will know.” I won’t, but it’s enough to divert the maids from my mark before they urge me into the steaming spring water of these lower chambers.
I lower myself under the feverish water laced with bone powder and other minerals to purify my flesh. I wonder if my corpus roses will grow to impart their oil. When I emerge, I come face to face with the Queen who holds a scrub brush and bar of soap. All the maids have departed. We are alone.
From the bench with her gown cascading along the floor in a pool of lace and flame jewels, she inspects me from head to toe with her dark eyes like autumn storms. I don’t shrink. Not even when she bids me in a stern order, “Turn around.”
With a reluctant sigh, I do as she commands, strengthening my heart’s fortress. The Queen will have her say. First, she scrubs the moon-like strands of my hair. The pungent scent of honey lotus engulfs my nostrils.
“You think me cruel,” she says, making her way to my ends while dragging one finger along my spine. I’m grateful the water conceals my Nether-mark because her finger rouses its fire. I tremble as she returns to the brush. “I am cruel. But I apologize for my actions earlier. It was my desperate attempt to dissuade you and intimidate you to withdraw your proposal.”
I angle my neck so my chin lines with my shoulder and ask her, “Why? The Corpse King hadn’t chosen a bride. You should thank me.”
She wrenches my hair back and seethes, “Delusions of grandeur. Is this all a desperate suicide attempt? Mark your common name in our history books and your spirit reaps the glory? Rest assured, while our pages may care, Aryahn Kryach will not.”
I gulp and squeeze my eyes, tears threatening to spill. Death’s presence haunts my flesh, stalking me after Allysteir reaped my blood and flesh. Kryach desired everything.
“You are right, my Lady Queen,” I croak, confirming her accuracy. “The gods never care.” We are all their playthings. And she has felt Kryach’s spirit.
Gryzelda’s eyes bore into mine, and she loosens her hold. Thanks to my arched neck, the bath chamber’s firelight torches catch her diamond-encrusted bone bodice, nearly blinding me. Words as sharp as refter teeth, the Queen breathes across my face, “More than grandiose goals, then. Escape?” When I bite my lower lip, considering Elder Kanat, she glides the bar of soap across my throat, paying close attention to my fresh bite mark, and wonders, “What could be worse than the bride of Death? Hmm...”
I say nothing. The moment I’d fallen to my knees and proclaimed my proposal, I was prepared. Perhaps too desperate, filled with delusions of grandeur. But the Corpse King I’d met in the Skull Ruins or his macabre face in its resting state haunted me: the corners of his mouth were turned low in an expression of woe despite sleep. A deep woe of un-belonging I understand. If I may remove the mask again, if he surrenders it to me...
Gryzelda leans in and snarls, “You believe you will tempt my son with your ripe fruits?” I yelp, slamming my eyes shut as she yanks my hair further until my scalp burns. My Nether-mark licks ice along my back.
What stuns her is when I crane my neck and grip her wrist, twisting until she releases my hair. Seething, I turn and stare her down, refusing to freeze. She blinks, wavering as if understanding I won’t let her toy with me this time.
The Queen glowers. “You are a fool, Isla Adayra. I remember your conversation with my son. But know, you cannot tempt Death. You cannot cheat him.”
“But Allysteir?”
“?has not carried Aryahn Kryach for the past five hundred years without sucking his poison. All Corpse Kings do. Banish your naivete of love. It is forsaken in this realm. Even if you survive Kryach’s first kiss, you will never be the same.”
Her words are pure venom. I hiss a warning as her hand roams to my throat, to my fresh bite-scar. I pant when she continues, “I’m going to tell you a secret, sweet bride. All believe I was strong enough for Aryahn Kryach to spare me, but I was not. I accepted him. To survive, you must permit him to rape your soul, to never fight, to allow him to pillage you again and again until not one shred of your heart remains.”
He will eat your soul until you’re all but dead...
“And I knew I had to try and stop you because you possess the strength to survive,” sighs Gryzelda, her lips warm across my jaw, across my cheek. They are hot and hungering. Finally, she captures my chin and forces my eyes to hers. I knit my brows low. “That is why I did what I did in the garderobe, why I am doing this now. To prepare you. You thought you would be a martyr, sweet tribute. But the King will always do as Death desires. Kryach will ruin you as he did me...until there is nothing left but violence, fire, and blood. Nothing but your scarred soul.”
I steel myself. Posture. Battle tears which long to flow along my cheeks because I do not hate her. I can’t hate her dark scar of a soul. Instead, I pity her because she made the choice for one who has no choice. While the Queen scrapes her teeth along my neck, inhaling my scent because she is half-Feyal, my corpus roses bob to the surface out of the corner of my eye. They grow through the water. If the Queen is aware, she doesn’t let on; she coasts her lips to the side of my head.
“I admire you, Isla. But please trust me when I say you will not conquer Death. You must survive byacceptingAryahn Kryach. He will take everything, little bride. My son will not thwart him. He is too weak, too indignant. Like his father. No, he will love every moment. Remember these moments, my child. You are already cursed.”
I deny her words. I hold fast to the memory of Allysteir in the Skull Ruins, the Corpse King who fought for me, who shared his love of Scathyk, who soothed my skin while his mother did her test?who sensed the depths of my heart when he bit me and devoured my blood.
I did not fear when I removed his mask.
Perhaps I am naïve. But if I have a warrior’s spirit, could I be the first to conquer the God of Death?
