Chapter 62
DEATH IS A different thing in the Underworld. All the way back to the fortress the court chatters and gossips. To them, death is a transition rather than a cause for mourning.
Drystan, though, is silent as the grave. He helped me on to my horse but didn’t react to me squeezing his hand in thanks. He didn’t seem too concerned about his brother going missing before. I have to wonder if that was a front to pretend he didn’t care for him when he really did…
Then again, it could be that killing the king’s brother is a calculated message, one that strikes too close to the heart of his kingdom.
A chilly ride later, everyone is back in their seats. Someone has swept up the broken crystals, though the hall is duller without them hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Asti slides Drystan’s shirt from his shoulders, and the Apothic folds it before returning it to its velvet cushion.
Min unclasps the cloak I wore for the ride. Our paint remains. “You’re to wash it off each other later,” she whispers, winking as she sweeps off the cloak.
Mechanically, Phaedra folds it. She stands to one side, a sickly smile on her mouth as she stares out over the guests, like she refuses to believe this is really happening.
The King of Death is marrying a human.
Kishel’s chest rises and falls as he eyes me and then Drystan, before nodding as if deciding we’re ready.
He holds aloft an ash-gray cord and the room falls silent. They have to wonder what surprise comes next. None, I hope.
“With this cord, we bind you.” He hands the ends to Min and Asti, who wrap it around us—our waists, criss-crossing our backs, over our shoulders.
The cord tightens, drawing us together. Inevitably. Inextricably.
They don’t stop until we’re chest-to-chest, mark-to-mark, sharing air. They wind the ends around our wrists and tie knots so intricate, I’m not sure they can ever be undone.
I look up at Drystan, who calmly holds my gaze like he’s returned from the preoccupied place he’s been in since we found his brother’s body. We’re bound so tightly that when he breathes in, I must exhale, and only when he breathes out can I take air in.
“By death, by life, you are tied. And by twin fires, you are joined.”
Phaedra and the Apothic take the candles from the altar and light the two ends of the cord.
I tense with a quiet gasp, but Drystan dips his chin in subtle reassurance.
Red flame rushes along the cord with a soft hiss, leaving only ash and not so much as a scorch upon my gown.
The crowd leans in with a low murmur of awe.
Sooty black lines criss-cross our skin, adding to the blood-bone paint.
Kishel spreads his arms and presents us to the court. “By ash and blood, I declare you married. May your nights be long and your deaths far from this day.”
The audience claps. Cheers come from the back of the hall.
Kishel leans over to Drystan. “My king.” Then inclines his head to me, the tease of a smile on his face. “My queen. This is the point where you would traditionally kiss. Might I suggest you make it a good one for your subjects. They’ve been waiting a long time.”
“Do not presume to tell me how to kiss my wife,” Drystan says, eyes on me as he steps in. He takes my jaw, my breath, angles my face and bends to me.
This isn’t hard. Delving. Claiming.
It’s a question. An apology written in tongue and teeth. Firm. Honest. Penitent.
Somehow it scrapes over my nerves, rattles my bones, even though the only places we’re touching are his mouth on mine, his fingers on my jaw and my hand wrapped around his wrist, like that can anchor me.
When he pulls away, there are tears in my eyes, and I have to take a beat, eyes still shut, before I trust none to fall.
It’s chaos. As if powered by the presence of a queen in their court, the unseelie are wilder, louder, more hedonistic than ever before.
And all of them seem to want to talk to me.
Some remark on the milder weather—whispers that spring is finally coming.
Others mention the greater variety of food from the glasshouse—a hopeful sign after decades of scarcity.
I find myself wondering if the seasons are finally turning, or if it’s just a false dawn.
Drystan accompanies me around the Great Hall, always touching me. A hand on the small of my back. Fingers brushing mine. Twining together. He passes me food and drink. Watches me consume them. When I sway, he pretends he wishes to sit, so I have an excuse to rest.
I don’t know how many hours pass, but eventually he turns us from a conversation, muttering, “Enough.” I expect him to lead us out of the hall and to his rooms—our rooms. But instead we arrive at the dance floor.
“After all that, you want to dance?”
“Seems it’s the only way I can get you to myself. We need to show ourselves a little longer before we’re permitted to slink away to be alone.” On that last word, his gaze follows the mark still trailing down my throat and chest.
The ceremony is the first time we’ve kissed since I found out he knew about my medicine. It felt good. Right. Not fixed, but further along the healing process. And now, the way he looks at me scorches.
And does something deeper, more sustaining.
But he’s been through so much tonight, and now I’ve got him talking, I need to know. “Are you all right? Earlier…” I shake my head, unable to find the words to encapsulate all that happened in the midst of our marriage ceremony.
His attention slides to my hand in his. He runs his thumb over my skin.
“My brother is dead.” His eyelids flutter, bringing him back to me.
“But all that matters tonight is that you did beautifully.” The low reverence in his tone reminds me of the labyrinth’s garden.
The way he praised me. Worshipped me. Laid me out and adored me.
And yet… “Are you sure you’re—?”
“Yes.” A quick dimple-studded smile.
We dance on in silence, moved by the beat of the music. I let my thoughts spiral with our steps.
I’m married. In the Underworld. Not battling the labyrinth.
Yes, unseelie court is dangerous, but I’m queen now.
I have a degree of power. I’m certainly less vulnerable.
And Drystan, for all his failings, is on my side, keeping my secrets by doing things like pretending he’s the one who wants to sit for a while.
This Great Hall, this fortress—it’s my new home. With this man—this demi-god. With friends. With a ghost cat. I chuckle softly to myself.
“What I wouldn’t give to know what elicited that.”
“How about your hand in marriage?” I make a show of noticing the lines of ash around his wrist. “Oh. Well, in that case…” I take a long breath, gathering my scattered thoughts into a form that might make sense to someone else.
“For the first time in a long while, it feels like I have a future that isn’t just about getting by and waiting, wondering when my illness is going to get worse. It’s… nice.”
“Nice?”
“Yes. And all the things that go with that word. Calm. Pleasing. Boring in the best possible way.”
A slow smile dawns on his lips, shadowing in his dimples. “Good.” His voice rasps. “Good.”
That deep, sustaining feeling returns. Warm. Close. A shared breath. A whispered devotion. A tight embrace on a dark night.
Something I cannot name, but it’s written on my soul.
Like he sees it, he pulls me closer. He draws breath like he knows the name and is going to speak it.
The doors crash open. The music stops. The crowd parts.
By the time I’ve registered any of it, Drystan’s hand is splayed across my chest, and he’s pushed me back, blocked by his squared shoulders. As regally as I can, I peer past him.
In the doorway stand five men. Fae I don’t recognize. Tall. Handsome in a devastating way.
They each wear variations on the unseelie amused-disinterested smirk as they survey the room. And one by one, their attentions land on Drystan and me.
One, blond and artfully windswept, pulls off his leather gloves with a dramatic flourish. “Sorry we’re late. Seems our invitations went astray, brother.”