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Masks. Hundreds of masks in all varieties and ensembles greet me from corpus rose ones, made popular by my Hollows-gifts, to Corpse King imitation ones to pumpkin heads with twisted, carven smiles to ghostly fabric tresses stitched together.
While the hundreds of attendees lower to their knees, apart from the other royals at the reserved table closer to the throne, I marvel at the thousands of pumpkins hollowed out for this singular evening. Candles in each one reveal carved corpse skull patterns glowing to memorialize the past Corpse King. Along with the rich harvest of gourds floating upon the River Cryth, they symbolize an age of prosperity to come thanks to the God of Death sated by...me.
Floating high within the Court’s domed ceiling, the brightest fire gems in all the mines dance by bone magic, casting flaming prisms upon the River, the crowds, and even the tables laden with the finest Talahn-Feyal foods.
When Allysteir seats me on the throne, then extends a hand to the kneeling crowds from all over Talahn Feyal, my heart drops into my stomach upon his proclamation.
“People of Talahn-Feyal and royal visitors from Talahn-Feyhran: we welcome you to our most joyous of all nights. Two festivities in one: the Night of Masks and the Feast of Flesh. And in our greatest time of fertility and fruitfulness, we invite you to celebrate with us. And know your King is restored and the gods are sated due to the Tenth Bride of the Citadel of Bones of Nathyan Ghyeal, of all Talahn-Feyal: Isla Adayra Morganyach.” He turns to me as applause booms to shake the walls of the Court and cause the spirits to quiver the River Cryth.
I shift my weight in my throne, uncomfortable at the pageantry on my account. Helpless against the urge, I find myself itching at my collarbone, at the mark I’ve rejected.
Can I possibly run from the gods?
Lining the dais are the elders, including Kanat in their center. Eyes rooted on the King, though I could swear one of his irises manages to move aside from the other and prey on my figure. Paranoia has me fidgeting until I turn my eyes in the other direction. To the royals. All sovereigns fix their eyes upon Allysteir, save for one: Narcyssa. Instead, she studies my every move, assessing. I clamp my hands in my lap, forcing myself to posture. I remain unmoved under her scrutiny. She offers a leering smile, but I lift my chin and turn my eyes to Allysteir who concludes his first speech of the night.
“Once the Feast of Flesh commences, I will make another significant announcement, but for now, my people, I bid you enjoy the revelries, to feast, to dance, and to celebrate with us!”
The music plays as soon as he sits upon the throne. I heave a sigh, grateful the speech is over for now until I flinch when the King assumes my hand. He cocks his head to the side, curious at my prickling. Forcing a smile, I maintain the ruse and swallow when he kisses my hand.
Thousands of spirits flutter through the crowd to join with the revelries. These are the harmless ones. Ancestral spirits of gaiety and grace to join their descendants. Tonight, Aryahn Kryach must be expending all his power to stem the tide of all the other spirits from entering the Underworld.
Whatever diversion the Queen has plotted to help me escape must be good. It must happen before Allysteir announces my “pregnancy”. Because while he may be a blind fool, Kanat is not. And Aydon most certainly is not. They will call my bluff, and I’ll truly have no hope of fleeing the Underworld.
The gods will rip right through the veil of worlds to take their flesh and blood. Kryach won’t stop them. Not even my Nether-mark will help me then.
“Run, Isla,”he whispers, disrupting my bath. “Run.”
I snap my head up from the steamy water and spin my head everywhere, searching, calling out, “Ary?”
After a few moments of the wind lashing the stones of the bathhouse and the bath steam curling in the air, I sigh, resigning myself he won’t show himself. Over these past few months, he never has. Not since the one time with Betha...when he called me Tenth Bride or Isla. Not little wonder.
Except for the faint phantom voice of deep twilight in my dreams. Of the scent of gray dew and dead leaves. Of woe and everlasting loneliness because despite how many souls Ari collects, however many he may keep for a time, I know how little his spirit feels. It’s why the gods pine for mortal flesh to stick to.
Ary longed for mine most.
Despite my flushed cheeks, my heated skin, I shiver and chew on my index fingernail, wondering why.
Run, Isla...
I knead my brow, struggling for breath. He knows I’m planning to run.
For months, I’ve made such plans with Alysteir’s mother, leaving all others in the dark. At first, I included Franzy. But after sharing my first few unsuccessful attempts with the herb, she grew resigned to my keeping the cursed child. When her brows would lift in anticipation every time she saw me, when her eyes would immediately drop to my belly, I pulled away from her and confided in the Queen. It’s knotted my stomach every time I’ve faced my leyanyn...until this morning when I learned of her choice to re-open the mines.
Something is different about her whether it’s all those weeks in the Court or how she’s seemed to form an alliance with Aydon—nor can I fault her. After all, he is her husband. I couldn’t expect everything about our relationship to stay the same. My stomach hardens with nausea as I swipe at tears. No time to confront her. The Night of Masks commences soon.
I sigh, press my determined lips together, and clench my fists in the water, considering Allysteir’s forthcoming announcement. Here in the bath, I frame two hands around my swelling stomach, touch my heavy, too-tender breasts. I frown. Another secret he’d kept from me, another part of this Curse business. Because the gods must have their games, their blood, their shells. Yes, Allysteir might credit his past brides’ sacrifice, but he treats me like a savior. I glower, heaving breath. Because I’m not a savior. I’m simply the gods’ shiny new pawn, their shell, the new Queen of Corpses to birth the next cycle. Trapped under the White Ladies forever or until Allysteir and I choose to retire to the Forever Havens.
The last thing I want is to become part of the Curse.
I am not here to breed the next Corpse King.
So, for the hundredth time, I grow the Wisp-Shee herb, banned by bone magic in Talahn-Feyal. For the hundredth time, I chew the leaves, slam my eyes shut, brace myself, and wait.
And like all the times before, nothing happens.
“No...” I whimper and rake my nails through my hair and into my scalp. “I am not the Mallyach-Ender,” I murmur, swallowing the pain in my throat, the urge to sob. “Now, I am the Curse,” I finish in a whisper, battle the dizzying wave of nausea, and choose to float along the surface of the water.
When my hair branches in the water to become a silver flaming halo, the skull mark out of the corner of my eye haunts me. Adrenaline charges into me, and my skin crawls. I’ll never be able to run with this mark. Six seeds, six delirious seeds were the beginning. No, the real beginning was when I listened to weasel-faced Ganyx and forged an elder’s summons to participate in the fythdel games.
