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“Is this why nothing will work?” I demand of Ary, stabbing a finger at the mark. “If I have to, I’ll take my freedom.” With blood. With violence. It doesn’t matter. Whatever it takes.
First, I scratch until the skin around the mark inflames. Next, I grow a thorn right from my palm and drag it across the flesh. Tears brawl with my eyes. I gasp windstorms through my nostrils while I spill blood and death’s ink until they mingle in the water. My Nether-mark burns. For the first time, I don’t curse it, I don’t will it down. I lean into the power,mypower—whatever dark force exists inside me. I pit my will against the God of Death until my blood soaks the fatal mark and my knuckles turn whiter than white Inker blossoms.
The thorn snaps from the pressure. I slam my palm on my collarbone, on the bloodied Death mark, and scream through gritted teeth. The pain is acid carving through my flesh. I unleash a last shrill shriek. Everything quiets. The blood beneath my palm slows. Through my soaked strands of hair coating my face, I gaze around, almost expecting his shade prepared to stop me.
Nothing but my piqued breath.
Before I get the chance to remove my palm, something splits deep inside my core. Arching hard and sharp, I throw my hair back and grip the stone ledge around the sunken bath so hard, my nails leave permanent indents. At first, I start to shriek, but it’s cut off, suffocated by the soothing current rippling through me. Deathly shades serenade my body, enveloping me in a tranquilizing tide to combat the pressure between my thighs. A dark, slow current.
When the water warms, I slowly turn, clawing desperate hands at my throat, already suspecting. Gasping, I somehow keep my scream at bay. I almost fall. I almost sink into the bloodied water. Instead, I grow from relief, from joy, from hope. I grow hundreds of scarlet heart blooms to drink the bloody water. I grow floral dragon’s breath to purify the liquid, to eliminate any trace of evidence.
I let the tears fall because even if I didn’t want it, even if I never wanted it, it still deserves my tears, the salt of wounds, the memory of emotion.
My freedom won through fire and blood and violence.
When all that remains is the sac floating amidst the shades—a final offering of the undeveloped, tiny form inside—I nod to the essence of his power and whisper, “Take it, Ary.” I breathe, only to understand what all this meant when his shades retreat from my body and vanish into thin air along with the sac.
Because the skull mark has disappeared. The mark condemned me to life eternal in the Underworld. Everything Allysteir needed. And Talahn-Feyal.
I knot my brows because not all the ink was gone. I couldn’t finish. So, why would he do this? Why would he give up his greatest chain binding me to him, to Allysteir?
“Run, Isla...” are the words to greet me from somewhere beyond the veil of worlds.
Sighing, I ease my body out of the bath, knowing under ordinary circumstances, without the God of Death’s magic, without potentially Allysteir’s Ithydeir venom in my body, none of this could be accomplished without pain. The pain would have lasted for days. Emotions would have mirrored it and lasted far longer.
At the scarlet droplets tumbling from my sex, I understand I may bleed for a short time. Instead, I smile and frame my hands again around my stomach which will eventually shrink back to normal. I can only hope the trace amounts of blood and whatever aftermath of pheromones will linger long enough for my escape.
I swallow the thickening wave of guilt in my throat, considering the millions of women who have had those experiences, bow my head in respect for their sufferings.
But I can’t afford the emotion. Because tonight is the Night of Masks. I must look my best.
I set my jaw and fetch my robe. Tonight, I will run, I will leave Talahn-Feyal and never return. A sorry excuse for a Queen perhaps, but I was never meant to be Queen. Just as Aydon said, I volunteered, I promised myself tohim, not to Allysteir.
As I wrap myself in a robe and make my way up the staircase to my room, Ary’s shade curls across the back of my neck, his voice dipping to the deepest, ominous low to warn me, “They’re coming.”
* * *
“Well, now, I wholeheartedly confess, you have upstaged me,” Allysteir comments when I appear before him, embarking into the Secondary Hall, fully clothed in my ensemble for the evening. “Of course...” he assumes my hand and rubs his mouth upon my knuckles while I smile from his mask. “You did the first time I saw you in the Skull Ruins. Our first meeting, you have perfectly captured, my Lady Queen,” he finishes.
I trace one finger around the tiny skull, one of hundreds strategically positioned to create a mask echoing the Skull Ruins.
“And you have embraced my namesake for you and how we first bonded in the Hollows,” I remark on Allysteir’s mask, though it’s more of a non-mask. After centuries of wearing the corpse mask, Allysteir’s painted one becomes him. I curl my fingers to his cheek, marveling at his youthful beauty, how he carried the weight of the mask, the Curse for so many years. A spark of anger heats my blood. No one should.
Allysteir grips my wrist and kisses my palm before it can settle. I smile softly at the elaborate corpus roses with their skull centers. A pang invades my chest. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I refrain from touching the space on my collarbone absent of the skull mark. Veiled beneath my black, lacy neckline so Allysteir cannot see.
Tonight, I’ll leave all this behind. I’ll leave the Underworld with its spirit lights, the refter bride glen, the Citadel of Bones with its wonders, the Sea of Bones, and pomegranate isle. I’ll leave all this truth and beauty behind in pursuit of my own beyond Talahn-Feyal.
I’ll leave Franzy.
When she enters the secondary hall alongside Aydon, garbed in a flowing, dark green gown reminiscent of our last Feast of Flesh a year ago, the knife twists deep into my heart. Shame curls heat to tingle my cheeks.
“My Lady Queen,” Franzy greets me with an official curtsy. I nod, smiling at her mask of woven white and purple heather. It compliments her darker gold skin. She imparts the same curtsy to Allysteir. “Your Majesty...”
The King is quick to take Franzy’s hand and raise her while shaking his head. “None of that nonsense. I know you’re married to my flouncy brother,” he jerks his head to Aydon, who’s already proven his point by offering me a customary bow and kissing the back of my hand—specifically the wedding ring—, “but I insist: no standing on ceremony here.”
“I have a feeling this will be a night no one will forget,” Franzy mentions with a smile.
“Ahh, an echo of the past,” Allysteir responds and leans in to kiss her cheek. “I believe you are right again, dear Franzyna. As Aydon knows, I am looking forward to sharing with the entire kingdom the news of our future child.”
