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Thoughts of my family threaten to wrench tears from my eyes. Will I one day grow roses around my given-parents’ coffins? Will I watch as Allysteir blesses them with his shadow lullaby? So much of my time in this Underworld has been survival, I’ve hardly given them a second thought while reaping a few joyful samples. And learning as much as possible about the Corpse King, his world, his Curse.
Somehow, I mustn’t let myself feel the full weight of this day. It will come later. I’m certain my tears will rival the Cryth River.
For now, the simultaneous pain and pleasure of the thorns encroaching through my veins to slice the surface of my skin chase away emotions. Around the remaining coffins, I grow my floral banquet despite all the servants cajoling me to return to the Citadel.
I hope I will see the Guardian again soon.
Most death rattles quiet whether from sleep or stripped souls, I can’t tell. From the telltale rise and fall of chests, Kryach has not reaped these ones yet. As I make my way to the boat where the spirits await, I bid a silent goodbye to the dying and hope my flowers offered them comfort.
On the way back, I play with the spirits a little. Roused, the Nether-mark stalks my lower back, but nowhere near as strong. As if Kryach’s mark has dulled it.
Would Betha know something about my mark? Her words echo in my mind:her doom is deeper. Eyes whirling in all directions, I seek Betha, call her, but she doesn’t surface. Chewing on my lower lip, I sigh and return to playing with the spirits because I can’t expect her to come whenever I desire. Still, I need to know what she meant regardless of what Allysteir believes about her distorted visions. Anything to help with the Curse, with Kryach, with this whole damned place.
Visions are rare among the Feyal-Ithydeir. The elders possess magic to receive them. Or speak with our ancestors. I grind my teeth, frustrated at the elders. Another reason why I knew I’d sooner become the damned and glorious Bride of the Corpse King instead of the Feyal-bride of an insufferable, self-righteous elder.
Most Ith use the simplest bone magic for more practical purposes: city construction or repair, purifying water sources, quickening harvest labor, healing disease, or offering their services in trade for marriages. Such services benefit all. Not like the elders who claim moral superiority for their ability to speak to the ancestors or their vain efforts to sacrifice to the gods, appealing to them for favor or personal blessings and power.
I crack my knuckles, remembering Elder Kanat’s attack. And his promise to sacrifice it all, to pit his venom and magic against Allysteir’s mark, tospoilme. Rage reddens my face. But since I possess Kryach’s mark, the God of Death’s protection, he is surely no threat, is he?
A shudder disturbs my body, and I do my best to banish all thoughts of the elder...until the boat carries me beneath a bridged arch where the river expands around the Citadel to the Bone Sea. From here, I make out the dim, gray shape of the Isle of Bones embedded in the center of the Sea. But the spirits do not cast the boat to the current but pause it before a set of stairs leading to a different entryway?not the Great Hall.
I blink, puzzled, brows knotting, but the answer is obvious. Court must be in session, and without Allysteir, I imagine the boat is forbidden to enter the Great Hall. Huh. How did he arrive at some other berthing location after our encounter in the Skull Ruins? After all, I left before he had and didn’t officially meet him until an hour past my volunteering. Dismissing my wandering thoughts, I tentatively make my way out of the boat, placing my bare foot onto the lowest step not encased in water.
After blowing a kiss to the spirits, who carry the boat away, disappearing beyond my gaze, I gather my black tulle skirts and rush up the staircase to the arched blackwood door with its bone handle, eager to explore the Citadel. Perhaps, I’ll run into Franzy and she and I may share an afternoon meal before the royal supper.
Beyond the door is a long vestibule complete with several stone pillars and arched ceilings. Torches from iron lanterns in the stone walls?ever-lit through bone magic means no doubt?are simple light sources. This appears to be a storeroom, but there’s nothing here. Is this large and dank vestibule nudging the river built merely to withstand storms?
At the end of the vestibule is a staircase enclosed by side stone walls. No other openings. I pick up my skirts and take the steps two at a time, a spring in my feet. Upward it winds and winds, but sometimes, the walls break to windows lined in lantern luminaries to offer a river view. By now, I’ve climbed so high, the western Citadel arched bridge lies below me. How high does this stairway go?
Out of breath by the time I approach the boundless staircase crest, I put a hand to the wall, smiling when a sprig of thorn-clad vines stabs through my fingers to gird the stone walls in budding roses.Hmm...I wonder if I may grow other flowers. Maybe black death roses: the most common type of rose in Nathyan Ghyeal.
But not now.
Winded, I ascend the last few steps until the walls subside to a stone bridge curving a Citadel tower. An illusory fog swirls around the bridge, but beyond the gray shroud rolls the dark river. Wind disrupts my strands, and I breathe in the fresh, water-laced gusts, marveling at the weather elements of this City of the Dead. Could the sun shine anywhere inside the White Ladies?
I hurry across the bridge to the tower, to its blackwood door, hoping I don’t end up in some bedroom. “Please not Allysteir’s bedroom, please!” I whisper and clutch the bone handle, assuming a bedroom as significant as the King’s would not be so accessible, nor unguarded.
Once I open the door, I gush at the beautiful library with its bounteous shelves swirling above and below me. Adrenaline lightens my chest, heart fluttering like moth wings. Did Allysteir direct the spirits to drop me off at the vestibule, knowing I would find my way here? Could this be his blessing so I may learn more about the Curse? No, he was far more agitated and adamant about silencing my questions than the other royals.
Forsaking my wonderings, I stray to the center of the library where a great ivory bone tree grows with wide branch-like steps to serve as a stairway. I beam because I’ve never seen such bone trees, grown through magic, and meant for the elite.
Slowly, I approach the tree to touch one macabre, spindly branch?whiter than spectral stags which haunt the mountains of Talahn-Feyal. Powder sheds onto my fingers. I gasp, rising onto the tips of my toes. It’s a living thing! I’ve heard of these types of bone trees. Their artistry takes years to master, to perfect until the magic achievessentience.
At once, the branches shift, startling me. Its center twists, branches pirouetting in a welcoming dance to present my feet with a bony step. Giggling, I don’t hesitate to leap onto the platform, hands flying to clutch the branches. They are too naked...I smirk at the thought of decorating them. But I won’t without permission.
When the tree lingers without transporting me, I stare at the levels. “Oh...” I debate, pursing my lips, then shrug. “You choose, lovely tree.”
Something like a bow is the gesture the branches make before lowering me several levels until I arrive at the base tower level where multiple divans cozy up to the walls. Countless shelves burst with gold-lined leather volumes. Ribcage cases preserve the elite bone-encased books for protection, but their pages are open for display. I grin at the clever mechanism on the side of each case which allows users to turn pages without disturbing the volumes.
Spinning, I face one wall with its section titled:Eychdryd. History.
Serendipity shines upon me, but once a familiar voice behind me utters, “Well, you found my hiding place, little lioness,” I realize I’ll need to wait before offering the tree my floral gratitude.
Turning, slow and cautious, I greet the Blood Queen with an informal curtsy after stepping off the bone tree platform.
“Please rise, Isla Adayra,” Narcyssa commands, waving a hand and approaching. “After your glorious actions in the Great Hall and your brazenness at the Royal Supper, you should bow to no one. Not to mention our first unfortunate meeting.”
Her fingers lower to my chin to reinforce her command, bidding me rise. I meet her eyes. Warmth engulfs my cheeks with a paradox of my knuckles whitening from fear of the mighty Sythe Queen. Of the keen diamonded fangs she does not disguise from beyond her blood-red lips.
