28. The Court of Death
The Court of Death
The dining hall was nothing like I had imagined.
Instead of the macabre spectacle I’d half-expected, the space was elegant in its restraint.
No skulls for goblets or chairs made of bones.
Dark walls rose to meet a ceiling covered in silver-gilded appliqués, while the table was carved from a single slab of dark wood, polished to a mirror shine.
White candles burned in bronze holders, casting just enough light to see the faces of those gathered.
I sat opposite Xül, with Morthus and Osythe at either end of the table.
The God of Death was even more imposing up close—handsome with black hair and pale skin that seemed almost luminous in contrast to his completely black eyes.
When he looked at me, it felt like being examined by the universe itself.
And then there was Osythe. Though clearly mortal, she possessed a presence that rivaled her divine husband’s.
Her rich dark brown skin held the vibrancy of youth; she appeared no older than her early thirties despite the centuries she had lived.
She had sage-green eyes and wore her hair in intricate braids that flowed all the way down her back, the ends transitioning into soft curls.
Unlike the gods, who seemed to exist slightly apart from reality, she was vibrantly, definitively present.
The silence stretched as servants moved soundlessly around us, placing plates of food I couldn’t identify before each person.
“You are the star-wielder my son has chosen to mentor.” Morthus said finally, his voice a low rumble.
I straightened, feeling the weight of his gaze. “Yes, my lord.”
“Tell me,” he continued, lifting a goblet to his perfect lips, “what do you make of our Xül as a teacher?”
Xül shifted in his seat, his discomfort almost palpable. He hadn’t touched his food.
“He’s...” I paused, considering my words carefully. “Effective, even if not particularly patient.”
“That sounds like our son.” A low, rich laugh escaped Osythe. “Always rushing ahead, expecting everyone to keep up—a trait he inherited from me, I’m afraid,” she said with a look toward Morthus that held such affection it momentarily transformed the God of Death into something almost soft.
Morthus’s lips twitched. “Indeed,” he conceded, turning his attention back to me. “I’m the one blessed with restraint. Immortality tends to make one forget how quickly time passes for others.”
“You survived the trial of Davina and Thorne,” Osythe observed, changing the subject with graceful ease. “No small feat. What was it like?”
I felt Xül’s eyes on me. Warning me. The memory of his earlier threat still burned beneath my skin.
“Terrifying,” I answered truthfully.
“As the best Trials often are,” Morthus said, cutting into his dinner. “What have you learned about yourself in the process?”
The question caught me off guard. I had expected interrogation about my abilities, my strategy, perhaps even my background. Not this probing into my soul.
“That I’m capable of more than I thought,” I said finally. “For better or worse.”
Morthus nodded as if I’d confirmed something he already knew. “And what do you hope to gain from these Trials, beyond mere survival?”
Vengeance. Justice. The downfall of your entire corrupt pantheon.
“The opportunity to become more than what I was,” I said instead. “To transcend my limits.”
“A diplomatic answer,” Morthus observed, the faintest hint of amusement coloring his tone.
Xül cleared his throat. “Father?—”
“Oh, let the poor girl eat, both of you,” Osythe interrupted, shooting a quelling look at her husband and son. “She’s been through quite enough without enduring an interrogation over dinner.”
To my surprise, both men acquiesced immediately.
“My apologies.” Morthus inclined his head toward me. “Osythe is right, as usual. Please, enjoy your meal. There will be time enough for questions later.”
The food before me smelled delicious. It was some kind of roasted meat in a wine reduction, accompanied by colorful root vegetables browned to perfection. I took a bite, and flavor burst across my tongue—tangy and sultry and warm.
“This is incredible,” I said, leashing my desire to devour everything on my plate with unseemly haste.
“You’re too kind.” Osythe smiled. “Though I can take no credit for the preparation. That belongs to our chef.”
Throughout dinner, Xül remained uncharacteristically silent, offering only brief responses when directly addressed.
I’d never seen him so subdued. Here, in his family home, surrounded by the trappings of his birth, he seemed almost uncomfortable. As if he were wearing clothes that didn’t quite fit.
“You’ve hardly spoken all evening, my son,” Morthus said, his black eyes narrowing. “Is something troubling you?”
“Nothing worth discussing at dinner,” Xül replied .
A wordless exchange passed between father and son then—a tension I couldn’t quite decipher.
“I see.” Morthus set down his utensils. “Well, perhaps we can continue this conversation in my study afterward.”
“As you wish, Father.” Xül’s voice was cold as ice.
Osythe sighed. “Perhaps I’ll show Thais the gardens while you two... talk.” The emphasis she placed on the last word made it clear she knew exactly what kind of talking would occur.
“A wonderful idea,” Morthus agreed, his gaze softening as it returned to his wife. The transformation was remarkable—from intimidating deity to devoted husband in the space of a heartbeat. “The foliage is particularly fine this season.”
As the meal concluded, servants appeared to clear the table.
“Shall we?” Morthus rose, nodding to Xül.
Without waiting for a response, he strode from the room, his form seeming to pull shadows along in his wake. Xül lingered just long enough to cast me a warning glance before following his father.
Osythe watched them go with a slight shake of her head. “Men,” she said, gesturing lazily.
She turned to me with a warm smile. “Come, dear. The gardens are much more pleasant than listening to those two batter against each other’s stubbornness.”
I rose to follow her, casting one last glance at the doorway where Xül had disappeared. Something told me that whatever conversation awaited him would not be pleasant.
* * *
Dark flowering vines climbed the gates of the garden, their blooms deep crimson and ivory. Twisted trees bore fruit that gleamed like garnets, dew speckling their surface. A small stream wound through the grounds, its water clear and reflective, mirroring the darkening sky above.
“My contribution,” Osythe said, noticing my interest in a cluster of plants whose flowers resembled red spiders. “When I first came here, there were no gardens. Just empty space.” She ran her fingers along a petal with obvious affection. “Morthus didn’t understand the point at first.”
“What did you tell him?” I found myself genuinely curious.
“That death is meaningless without life,” she replied simply. “That one defines the other.” She smiled at the memory. “He stood silent for a long time after that, but he ordered the creation of this entire space the very next day.”
We walked in companionable silence for a moment, following the path as it wound deeper into the garden. A gentle draft slid across my arms, crisp enough to raise gooseflesh. It carried hints of spice and damp earth
“You must have questions,” Osythe said finally, her tone gentle. “About this place. About us.”
“A few,” I admitted. Thousands, in truth, but most were too dangerous to voice.
“Everyone knows the tale,” she said with a small smile. “The God of Death falling for his mortal priestess. It’s become quite the romantic fable in Elaren, I’ve heard.”
“There’s often a difference between fable and truth,” I ventured.
“Indeed.” She paused beside a small pond where strange fish with scales like black pearls swam in lazy circles. “Mortals do love their dramatic tales.”
“You came here willingly,” I said, not sure if it was a question or not.
“I did.” Her green eyes held mine. “I was thirty-two years old, unmarried. My life was the temple. And I was... curious.”
“Were you afraid?”
“Terrified,” she admitted. “But sometimes terror and exhilaration are separated by the thinnest of margins. I think you understand that, given your current circumstances.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Osythe paused, her fingers trailing over a dark blossom.
“The Winter Solstice was always my favorite time at the temple. When the Gods walked among us, accepting our offerings and renewing their bonds with Elaren. I’d been High Priestess for five years.
” Her eyes softened. “Morthus attended every one after that first meeting. He claimed it was to ensure the cemeteries were properly maintained, but...” She shrugged elegantly.
“Even gods can be transparent in their affections.”
“We never attended any solstice celebrations,” I admitted. “Too many people, too many eyes. I used to wonder what it would be like to see a god in person.” I gave a hollow laugh. “Careful what you wish for.”
Osythe’s expression held understanding. “The divine rarely matches our mortal imaginings. I expected Morthus to be cold, terrifying. And maybe he was—on the outside. But not truly. The farthest thing from it.” She bent to examine a cluster of pale flowers that glowed in the dim light.
“Though the differences between us became apparent soon enough.”
Osythe looked up to the bleeding sky and let out a deep sigh.
“The hardest part was adjusting to the divine perspective of time,” she continued, resuming our walk. “Mortals measure life in days, weeks, years. The Aesymar think in centuries, millennia. It creates challenges.”
“Such as?”
“Patience, on my part, at least,” she said with a wry laugh. “Conversely, teaching a being who has existed for eons that waiting three days for an answer feels like an eternity to a mortal.” She eyed me. “My son has not learned such lessons yet either.”