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Outside her chambers, I wait, hoping I don’t regret this. To my left is a mirror, and I curl my lip at Aryahn Kryach’s reflection.
“You’re a bloody eejyt,” I insult him, biting my thumb from his malignant need to overshadow my mark with his.
Kryach shifts back and forth, his black hair like scrawls of dripping ink, his eyes of Nether vapors blinking. He cackles deep and responds in the brogue of our ancestors thickening, “Cannat mak a silk purse out o’ yer sow’s ear.” An insult to my cadaver form no makeup could ever hide. Only one way to restore my corpse.
And she’s opening the door.
“Be flattered, Allysteir,” he whispers, blowing me a damn kiss. “I’ve never competed with any King. I’ve only ever used them.”
I snarl, gnash my teeth. “You’re a riddy. Bolt! Get to!”
Isla closes the door, collects her skirts, and rushes to me to peer in the mirror. “You were talking to him? Can I see?” she asks, words eager and breathy, lilting.
I?what?I’m shocked by her desperate search for the God in the reflection before her mouth puckers in a pout.
Kryach chortles.
Mine,youdamned demon!
“Isla...” I whirl my head, surveying her through my mask. “What in Talahn-Feyal are you wearing?”
She glances down, does a twirl, so the tulle bridal skirts thwack against my robes. “Do you like it? I’m not settled. But I decidedagainstwhite for a wedding gown. It’s ghostly. And I might be a virgin, but I’m not exactly innocent if you know what I mean...”
She giggles and gestures to the exceedingly low-cut sweetheart neckline, her finger brushing the dark crimson corpus roses lining the bust cups. They wind to off-the-shoulder transparent sleeves haltering a small portion of her arms. My breath catches. She’s bared much of her shoulder flesh, her lithe, tempting neck, and her upper chest. Her hair she’s coiled into a mussed knot at the apex of her head, though recalcitrant strands dance upon her cheeks. Royal violet eyes gleam. Smile radiant. As if...as if she’sproudof Death’s mark. And mine.
“I’m certain I will try on dozens of wedding gowns before I find the perfect one, Allysteir,” she expresses?her voice silk and cream. “By the way...” she whispers. On her tiptoes, she leans in, her breath tickling the hairs on the back of my neck, “...I love how you call me your dark rose, myCorpusKing.”
One touch of my sleeve, one arm curling around mine, she welcomes my escort. Ugh! She could escort me into hell itself, and I’d follow. I’ll never leave her side. My heart’s bound to hers. And it’s falling into her flawless embrace.
“Come, my Lady,” I urge, offering her nothing else. There’s no time. Because?”Souls are waiting.”
“Why doyou drink all the time?” I wonder, hoping my voice is casual and curious.
Once Allysteir pauses from his wine flask and cranes his neck to me, the corpse mask frown seeming to glower, I know he doesn’t consider it casual or curious at all.
“Why do you think?” He tips the flask back, swallowing whole draughts.
“It’s Sythe wine. I smell the venom from here. It’s the strongest venom in the world. Other than Ith venom which doesn’t work on other Ith of course,” I ramble, not straying from the King’s side.
He doesn’t respond. Simply guides me through the halls of the Citadel, past iron and bone sculptures, tapestries conveying great moments in Corpse King history, and so many rooms, I lose count. Too consumed wondering if the Curse infects all his body.
I finger the shadow-mark. No, I didn’t consider how it could affect my other mark. If the Corpse King quells the Nether-mark on my lower back, what will Aryahn Kryach’s mark do? Will it protect me from Kanat? Chills assault my flesh from other questions preying on my mind. Can the God of Death contact me whenever he wants? Will he be able toseeme whenever he wants?
I only hope accepting his mark, binding my soul to the Corpse King, is enough. Perhaps he won’t reap my soul and leave nothing but my empty corpse shell.
While I obsess over my mark, Allysteir drains his flask.
After we descend the grand staircase and he ventures me to the river, to the same boat of bones, I pause before he helps me onto the vessel.
“My Corpus King...” I dare to curl my fingers onto the robe of his chest, seeking.
He captures my wrist, twists it to one side, then wags his finger back and forth.
Shadows curling around my body in a subtle warning, I tilt my neck and stand on my tiptoes until I’m a breath from his chin. I couldn’t reach his mask with my lips if I wanted. “How much pain are you in?”
“Enough.”
