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“Is it everywhere?”
He hisses through his teeth but doesn’t grit them. “Enough,” he repeats.
“Allysteir.” I swallow soreness, certain my eyes are watery. “This isnewto me. It’s happened quickly. I’ve left my whole life behind. And I may lose my soul on our wedding night. Will you be patient with me please?”
Those hollow skull eyes gaze back at me. A moment later, he sighs, coils a hand around my neck, and taps the fresh marks with his thumb.
“I have been the Corpse King for five hundred years, Isla. You have been my bride-to-be for less than a day. I am the one who must beg for your patience. And we must depart because I cannot be late, my dark rose.” He sweeps a hand to the boat.
I muster a smile, nod, and accept his hand?awed by his strength. While I sit in the boat center, he moves to the bow and circles his gloved hand around the skeletal prow with the bone daggers protruding through the skull’s eyes.
“Come,” is all the King states, diverting my attention.
Countless spirits herd themselves to the underside of the boat and thrust it through the water. The inertia causes me to lurch, but I catch myself and grip my seat. I peer over the side of the boat to behold the spirits. These gray ghosts with eyes of silver flames obey the Corpse King’s whim. It’s why they first attacked me, tried to pull me under when I’d plunged into the river...until they’d liberated me and hauled me to the surface. Now, I can’t take my eyes off them. Crashing to my knees before the King’s throne felt like coming up for air in more ways than one.
I kneel till my chest presses to the boat’s edge. Glance back at Allysteir who lowers his chin to me but says nothing. Posture stoic. Hand not forsaking the prow.
Biting my lower lip, I take it as a sign and lower my fingers into the water. Oh! Icy claws don’t bite my flesh. No, the spirits creep across my skin like cold feathers to tickle, to kiss. Carried by the souls, the boat descends through the river on its way out of the Citadel where it progresses around its western side, expanse widening.
“Allysteir!” I gasp, head lifting, hands flying to my mouth because I’ve never seen this side of the Citadel. The silvery ribbon waterfall cascades from the rocks upon which the highest tower rests. Beneath a series of connected arches, the river gushes?lit by countless standing lanterns which cast their flickering glow upon the water like drowning fireflies.
Spirits without number congregate in the dark water. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Sinking my hand until the water encases my whole arm, I laugh at the spirits drawn to my flesh, kisses tickling, growing goosebumps. For a while, I grant them both hands, both arms. Swirl my fingers as if I’m dancing with the spirits. More and more gather, drawn to my skin.
“They love your life,” Allysteir murmurs. “These are the ones lost from history. Bones without rest, these souls have no ancestral home.”
I beam at him, then coo to the souls, “Aww, is the King too deathly for you, pretty twinkles?” I coo to the souls. “Don’t fret. I’ll bring him to life for you.”
When I glance again at Allysteir, he hasn’t moved a muscle. Utterly frozen. No quivering muscle or shifting of his robes.
A lone scream like a death whistle pierces the night, chills me to the bone. A wail? Allysteir doesn’t show concern, and I fear some joke is lost on me. Untilsheappears an inch from my face.
Breath knocked out of me, I fall back against the boat, remembering stories of these ghosts haunting the land, but I’ve never seen one. These ghosts bound to the Goddess of Doom, to Morrygna. The Ban-Sythe.
“Isla, this is Betha,” he introduces the Ban-Sythe, who tilts her head to the side, studying me, lips pinched.
On my elbows now, I arch my neck and draw out her name, “Bay-thah.” I mimic her movements, pretend I’m her mirror.
Water laps at the boat, and souls collect while Betha and I stare at one another. An eerie beauty to her, she reminds me of a burial shroud woven around a murdered bride. Long, faded hair?blue as woe?frames her heart-shaped face and calls attention to her gray mist eyes and her aged dress of flowing white tatters?ever moving as if caught by a swift wind. She opens her mouth, imparting another shriek, but this one echoes. When the blue streak of her hair passes me, I understand: the wails were hers.
“She is different, this one,” Betha proclaims, her head still tilted. I beam.
“You say that about all my brides,” snorts Allysteir, shaking his head, but his tone is casual and amused.
“They were. But she is. Her doom is deeper.” She circles me. My brows knit low, puzzled by her words.
“Forgive Betha, my bride-to-be,” Allysteir requests. “I claimed her from Morrygna a millennia ago when she owed me a debt. Betha is my best soul keeper. Skilled enough to come and go as she pleases. Some ties still bind her to the Goddess of Doom, but Betha’s visions are not as transparent as they once were.”
“She smells of roses. And death. And blood, Majesty,” Betha mentions, sniffing my waves, her death whistle wails echoing faintly like a tint to her words. “The sweet, forbidden kind.”
He stiffens. “Enough, Betha,” he warns.
Hmm...why did Allysteir react the way he did? What does she mean by the forbidden kind? What else could Betha know? If I could find a way to evade the King, to return here, I’ll find her again and ask.
For now, I nod to her. “Thank you, Betha. You were the one in the water. You stopped the souls from dragging me under.”
The ban-Sythe tosses her sorrowful hair over her shoulder and confirms. “My welcome is for you. For you were homeless, nighyan. You did not deserve to be a lost soul.”
Homeless, I ponder. An orphan babe discovered on the edge of the Nether-Void. Marked by it. My family: a given family. Franzy felt like the only one I chose.
