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Aydon shifts his gaze to me. I don’t balk or squirm despite how his blue eyes seem darker, more predatory concealed within the eye holes of his mask of black death roses and skulls. At first, he cocks his head, pinches his eyes. A bolt of terror shoots up my spine.
Does he know?
I sigh heavily and touch Allysteir’s arm, playing into the ruse since everyone in this room knows it’s my unwanted fate, “No need to spoil our evening so soon, Allysteir. Let us enter the court so we may dance and eat and enjoy the festivities first.”
“I agree,” the matriarchal voice behind Aydon and Franzy dictates as she sweeps into the room wearing an illustrious velvet gown of deep umber, adorned in gold-shimmered bones and jewels.
“Mother,” Aydon and Allysteir both state, bowing to her.
She captures each of their cheeks, but a new pattern has formed ever since Allysteir’s restoration. A deeper fondness in her palm for him. Her gaze lingers upon his face as if she wishes to memorize every part of him as if fearful he could return at any moment to the rotting corpse he once was.
“Slantya, Franzyna,” she greets the Crown Princess. “Well met on the Night of Masks. You are lovely and glowing.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” replies Franzy, curtsying in spite of Allysteir’s statement.
“Our Isla is right,” Gryzelda confirms and crosses the few steps to my side to gather my hands. “It is a night of celebration and glorious frights. The spirits are restless for their King and Queen. As the Princess rightfully proclaimed: let us give them a night they will not soon forget.”
The Queen’s grace and poise in such a heavy gown shame me. My greatest adornment is my crown, but I’ve selected something closer to a bridal gown. Scarlet for this night, empire-waisted, and flowing from the bust to maintain the pregnancy illusion. The sheer, light fabric at the thighs and downward frees me to dance. Allysteir knows nothing will keep me from dancing.
Tonight, I will dance with Franzy. When we are alone, I’ll explain. I’ll say...goodbye. No, the worst thing I could do is say goodbye. Because if her heart breaks before my very eyes and I’m forced to watch, I’ll lose my nerve. How can I tell her it’s the only way? How can I explain the gods must have their blood, their Curse? The very thought of entering into the Curse turns my stomach to rot.
For now, I remain at Allysteir’s side as the trumpets and Court criers announce our arrival. The crowd hushes, their conversations perishing. Once the curtains sweep aside to reveal the Court, I swallow hard, eyes widening from the glittering sight.
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 on 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.
“Your rib cagebodice is quite becoming, my Corpus Queen,” compliments Allysteir, spinning me outward, so my tattered gown ends crack the air.
I do my best not to press my body against his, always deviating into a teasing twirl or pivoting so my back sidles his chest. With any luck, he won’t scent me too much to discover my treasonous act. Treason against him, against the gods.Notagainst myself.
“I thought it a worthy tribute to the past,” I note as his hands come down on my hips to tug me back.
“Or the future,” the King hums in my ear, lighting his lips on my neck.
When I wince, he sighs and loops his arms around my waist, settling them higher beneath my breasts where the rib cage bodice interferes. I blow soft relief but tense to his next words.
