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Except for the Corpse King. Perhaps it was the truest choice I have ever made.
Too suffocated all these years, too full of life, my given-father always said. I never could have imagined what I’ve searched for would possibly be in the Corpse King’s Underworld.
When I look up, Betha is gone. At first, I open my mouth to ask Allysteir for an explanation until I remember: she comes and goes as she pleases.
Hundreds of souls form a current. Their shimmering eyes remind me of the constellations. Sunlight in Allysteir’s eyes, starlight in his river which spills to the Sea of Bones. But the spirits guide us into pitch black tunnels, apart from those silver eye clusters. I lean over and play with the souls, careless how a few splash at me, dampening my gown and scattering droplets upon my chest. Lightheaded from the tingling, I laugh.
Remembering an old Talahn-Feyal lullaby, I hum, but my flesh tingles when Allysteir’s voice unites with mine in a deep hum. Smiling, I sing instead.
“Ghosts never sleep within his home
Roaming the courts and the catacombs
Come to the Corpse King’s sole command
Fearing the shadows within his hands...”
I don’t fear his shadows, I muse and smile at him.
My heart shifts. It shouldn’t be possible with the spirits’ ice, but warmth ignites my core. Out of the corner of my eye, blood fire from Kryach’s skull-eyes inked upon my skin kindle?flames teasing beyond the hollow eyes. I purse my lips, then widen my eyes when my veins awaken with the blood fire to gleam.
A bond with Death! In my soul and in my blood.
“Ary...” I whisper my nickname, daring to summon him.
“Kryach!” Allysteir’s voice pierces the darkness, causing me to flinch from the rigid protest.
The fire quickening in my veins ebbs, and I retrieve my arms. Bite my lower lip, skin still tingling, heat flushing my insides. I return to my seat without meeting Allysteir’s eyes. I don’t blame him for his possessiveness. After all, he’s spent five hundred years seeking a bride to satisfy Aryahn Kryach. Could I be the first? Could the God of Death himself...love...me?
I gaze at my palms, trace a finger across the lines. Before Allysteir arrived this morning, my fear prompted me to the bed, to bait him. But ever since accepting Death’s imprint, the need to foster growth, to flourish burns within me. First, I tempted Kryach. Now, I long to challenge him. To show the Corpse King, to offer him my beauty in these realms of Death. Beauty to make the gods envy. A desperate shudder erupts in my hands. My skin prickles.
“We’re here,” Allysteir says.
I glance in time when the tunnel welcomes me into a great domed cave crowned in ancient stalactites. Various bridges branch off from this cavern, spilling to a labyrinth of ruins through which river tributaries run. Cities of ruins. The Hollows. In the far distance, I squint to make out the upper territories where the Hall of Heroes slumbers?crypts glowing with their gold veins. With the carven scrollwork of the domed walls, I wager this room was a gathering place. Reserved for worship perhaps. Or city meetings.
A stalactite kisses me with a twinkle of a droplet. I don’t brush it away. Blood gushes to quicken my heart until it pounds in my ears. The sound of numberless death rattles thickens the air. From hundreds of open coffins.
Decay perfumes the air.A too familiar scent. Death’s shadows clot the cavern. Countless breath rattles echo off the walls, hinting of demise. Isla gapes, whirling her head. Now, she understands my prior words: souls are waiting.
The spirits berth the boat upon the rocky bank bordering the cavern. They become footsteps for my boots till I hit the ground. Turning, I extend my hand, welcoming Isla to join me. She shoots to her feet, and a smile tugs at the non-ruined corner of my mouth when she nearly loses her balance and falls into the shallows. Her feet are bare? So sweet. Such passion to receive my world.
And if I want to preserve her life, her soul, I must break her passion. My jaw tenses with the foreboding knowledge.I must bring her to her knees.
She stumbles, her chest brushing mine. I hiss. But my hiss fades at the blush tethering her cheeks?how she tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear as a petal sheds from her roses. Kryach chuckles.Damn it all to hell.I cage a groan and loop my arm through hers, turn, and escort her toward the coffins.
Dozens of Ith servants tend to the dying inside their beds whether offering blankets, pillows, prayers, hands to hold, common flowers, or support. Hundreds of candelabras bestow the walls with flickering shadows, but they can’t compete with Kryach’s.
Absentmindedly, Isla rubs the mark on her neck as I guide her to the coffins assembled in ordered rows. At least her fingers trace my teeth marks. The corpus rose petals as she’d likened them.
Her eyes swallow the fullness of the room. She smiles. She smiles at the dying?
My gut clenches. I pause and clutch her chin with one cool glove because I must know. While I love her jubilance, her passion, she cannot play here. This place deserves reverence. “Isla?”
She meets my corpse mask, smile growing. “It reminds me of the death ceremonies in Cock-Cross. They were more meager, of course.”
“Tell me,” I urge her, regardless of how I’ve memorized all Talahn-Feyhran death ceremonies. I need to know what it means to her.
She licks her lips, lower one trembling, and continues, “If a sick or an aged villager was close to passing, they would be brought to the town square. Family gathered, cast flowers onto their death bed. The dying would tell a final story while the townsfolk would hold burning candles. While they took their last breaths, we would sing them a lullaby. After Death came, we blew out the candles and returned home without speaking. Later, us children would create endings to their unfinished stories.”
