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“Allysteir,” I whisper and gaze upon the wild horses, peering back because Ifrynna has misted away, her spirit trail evanescing in the distance.
“So as not to startle them,” explains Allysteir, nodding at my gaze. “Only the Sleeping Stallion himself is a threat to the Underworld Guardian.”
“The Sleeping Stallion?”
“The greatest bone horse of all time who wreaked havoc on Nathyan Ghyeal in the ancient days of the gods’ war. The one who sired all ones like these. But he’s slept for thousands of years, my bride. No need to be concerned. In fact, you should be more concerned over them.”
I smile when he directs me to the herd where only a meager meadow separates us.
“Sometimes, I come here for solitude. I would often bring my brides here to offer them the same...tranquility.” His hand settles upon the small of my back where I feel his energy.
I freeze but don’t order him to remove his hand. Technically, he’s not touching me yet, considering the glove. I remember what Franzy said.
The horses remind me so much of Ifrynna. They shake their ghostly white manes fine as white widow spider-silk. Their translucent hides confess their inner glowing skeletal armor. The opposite of the Corpse King. They never wear a mask?unafraid to exhibit their identities. I chew on my inner cheek, musing before craning my neck to eye his corpse mask. His bane. How I long to tear it off and stomp it into the ground, shatter it to pieces until he reveals everything. After what he did to me on our wedding night, he owes me nothing less.
“I am not the first bride,” I assume, turning to the wild spirit horses.
“No, but I assure you this is only the beginning, Isla. As I promised, you will know such truth as you’ve never known. And beauty.”
What of your beauty, Allysteir?I almost voice but restrain myself. Does he consider himself worthy of beauty? Or humanity? Does hefeelanything?
Squaring my shoulders, I focus on the horses, so alluring and exquisite in the midst of their macabre spectrality. Some have muzzles with keen and hooked tips, reminding me of bone picks as if meant for boring deep into the darkest mountain caverns.
A few colts stray from the herd, trotting and butting their heads. Threading my eager fingers, chest expanding, I lurch, flinging forward as the colts approach.
“Isla, no!” warns Allysteir in a fierce whisper, but I’m too transfixed, too mesmerized by the ghostly, effervescent foals, I barely hear him.
My eyes practically glow as I collect my translucent gown skirts and canter toward them, arm stretched, fingers curled to touch. Stomach fluttering, heartbeat quickening as one foal flicks its head up, whinnies, and snorts before trotting toward me, I hold my breath. I wait. The foal creeps closer and closer to my fingers until they are an inch apart.
But once my fingers traipse upon the chilled muzzle, sinking past the spirit outer layer, two mighty stallions gleaming with spirit fire brighter than dragon scales thunder their hooves in my direction. Dagger-hooked muzzles and silvery pupils aim for me! All my eager elation turns into pure horror. I gasp, vision dimming. I freeze. Despite the horses charging at me, I can’t possibly conceive of harming such ethereal beings, not when I am the trespasser.
Their icy breath barrages my face, inches from me. Countless shadows form a barricade between me and the defending stallions. And there is Allysteir. Striding to my side, eclipsed in Kryach’s power, he stares down the spirit beings, addressing them through the whispering shades in an ancient, incomprehensible language. I tremble before the Corpse King and rub my arms for shelter. The horses that would have minced my flesh to meat snort, shake their manes, nudge their colts, and return to their herd.
Allysteir turns, his eternal corpse mask leering down upon me, darker than ever. He shakes his head, curling his shadows along the outline of my body while expressing, “Spirit horses are extremely territorial. Not even I dare to approach them.”
Rattled, I loose a few breaths to regain my frazzled nerves but tense when Allysteir laughs. I screw my brows low with a deepening frown and cross my arms over my chest. “What?”
He shakes his head, blowing out a guffaw of a laugh. “You plunge into the Cryth River, you volunteer to be my bride, you withstand the Virginity Test, you tempt the God of Death and give him anickname, you survive my refter brides and my assault, and yet, my wild dark rose is undone by a few bony ponies!”
I pinch my lips, ball my hands into fists, posture, and prepare to defend myself until I realize how right he is. The knowledge penetrates any layers of pride and pierces my rib cage, scratching at my heart. So, instead of countering, I sigh, then double over in laughter stitches, joining him. Together, we laugh. It blows through my nose and my cheeks. A blush overheats my neck and face while Allysteir’s deep, rocking chuckle overlaps mine before his hands nestle my waist.
Triggered by the act, I stiffen. I tense, remembering our failed honeymoon night. But he surprises me when he pulls away. Those vacant corpse eyes register my body language. Our laughter fades like an ebbing tide, traded for awkward silence?a silence of tension knit from the night’s horrific memories.
Still, I remember my leyanyn, how forgiveness is a process. Except mine must be earned.
So, I rise and adjust my crooked crown to embrace my role as Queen of the Underworld. No, I cannot embrace the role of a wife yet, but I am his equal. No, his superior. He needsme. All of Talahn-Feyal needs me. Aryahn Kryach needs?
“Allysteir, I will allow you to touch me under two conditions,” I define, stepping toward him, lighting a hand upon his robe.
He inclines his full mask to my face. As much as I wish to demand he remove it, I will not. Because I will earn the right, too. Not steal it as before.
“I won’t balk at the occasional brush of our hands at dinner...or our feet in our bed. But you must ask me before you engage in anything else.”
The Corpse King bows his head in a gesture of assent. “I will do as you wish, my Lady Queen. And the second?”
Without missing a beat, I raise my chin and draw the hard boundary. “You remove your gloves when you do. Even if bones alone remain, I will have more than your gloves and shades, my Lord.”
He pauses, weighing my second demand. My eyes flick to those gloved hands curling, the robes shifting because whatever underneath tightens, hardens from my commanding proclamation. Heart lodged in my throat, I hold my breath so long, I’m certain my lungs shudder.
