Chapter 17
Months later, Ilys stood with her arms folded, watching as Morrigan darted after a bundle of cloth Elspeth had tossed into the air.
The dog leapt, catching it between his teeth with a sharp snap before landing in a flurry of paws and dirt.
His tail wagged fiercely, his dark, scruffy fur shaking as he trotted back to Elspeth, dropping the cloth at her feet, expecting a grand reward.
“You see,” Ilys observed. “He prefers a proper chase. If you throw it too lightly, he won’t bother.”
Elspeth nodded, her graying hair slipping from the loose knot at the nape of her neck. She picked up the cloth and tossed it again, higher, faster. Morrigan barked once, then took off after it, his legs a blur.
“He’s always so lively,” Elspeth said, grinning as she watched him tumble into a pile of leaves, shake himself free, and bound back toward them.
“He’ll need the exercise while I’m gone,” Ilys reminded her. “Twice a day if you can manage, or he’ll tear the laundry apart just to entertain himself.”
Elspeth laughed. “Understood.”
Morrigan returned, dropping the cloth with a huff before flopping onto the ground, rolling onto his back, paws twitching lazily in the air.
His tail thumped once, then again, waiting for another game, another chase.
But Ilys didn’t move to throw the cloth this time.
Instead, she crouched beside him, running her fingers along his ribs.
He was strong now, though still lean. His fur had grown coarser since his pup days, and beneath it, she felt the orderly pattern of his breath, the solid warmth of his body pressed against her leg.
He rolled upon the fabric tendrils of the veil that tickled the ground, grounding his scent into the dark cloth.
Ilys wore Grim’s veil now. The one she had plucked from his room after finding him gone.
After so many weeks of wear, his scent had begun to fade.
She supposed that was for the best. She told herself not to be so childish.
Mor huffed dramatically as she scratched behind his ears, stretching out further to demand more. The darling mutt so often whored for attention.
Then time slowed, stretching its incorporeal arms to cover the garden in a sheet of lethargy.
The air around them thickened, a weariness pressing down over the courtyard like a held breath.
The sky, once bright with the crispness of autumn, darkened as clouds rolled in unnaturally fast, their edges tinged in shades of gray and deep violet.
The lilies at the garden’s edge, vibrant just days before, wilted in an instant, their petals curling inward and their stems bending.
The cool wind stilled entirely. Even Morrigan, who had been so full of life just moments ago, tensed beneath her touch, his ears flattening as his body pressed closer to the ground.
Ilys scowled at the sky and held Mor close.
“My boy,” she resigned, pressing her nose to his, feeling the soft warmth of his breath against her veil. “I’ll be leaving now.”
Morrigan nuzzled against her, but an indulgent unease shifted through his disposition.
She forced a smile, running a hand over his head, smoothing back the fur at his ears. “Be handsome. No mischief, yes?”
Morrigan, in response, licked the side of her face with exaggerated enthusiasm.
Ilys sighed, pushing him away lightly before rising to her feet. She dusted off her robes, her fingers curling into the fabric, grounding herself.
“The satchel, Elspeth.”
The attendant stood a few steps away, silent, watching.
Ilys turned, tilting her veiled face at her. “The satchel?”
Elspeth blinked, startled, caught in some distant thought. “Yes. I'm so sorry. I’ll bring it now.”
Morrigan whined, rolling onto his side, his eyes flicking between them as if he, too, knew what lingered just beyond sight.
She did not look back as Elspeth hurried away. She didn’t need to.
She already knew Death had arrived.
Veilmarch had begun.
With satchel in hand, Ilys readied Spire for departure.
The mare’s restless breath misted in the evening air, hooves shifting against the dirt.
In contrast, Death’s mount stood unnaturally still, its black form nearly indistinguishable from the shifting tendrils of shadow curling around its legs.
Its rider bore a similar smoky shape. The form of a man made up of plumes of ash.
Whether out of cowardice or defiance, her gaze avoided his personage.
Ilys swung into the saddle without hesitation. Death did not gesture for her to follow. He did not need to. She clicked her heels, and her horse obeyed, falling into stride beside him. How obedient and devoted he must find her. She thought. How disappointed he will be.
The road stretched long before them, winding through the hills, disappearing into the deep gray of the horizon. If she had been expecting a guide, or delicate training (she had not), there was none.
Without turning, without breaking his loitering pace, Death in his godly form spoke, "Where is the voracious girl from years before?"
Ilys did not answer. She only stared ahead, gripping the reins, her face hidden behind the veil. Death did not press her.
Hours and hours they rode. The landscape bleeding into another. Ilys’s thighs chafed with the prolonged effort of riding, but a piece of her welcomed the distraction from her curdling distaste for the God at her side.
Death rode ahead, his mount moving effortlessly over the uneven terrain. His presence warped the air around him; wherever he passed, the grass yellowed, the trees lost their leaves, and the earth itself seemed to recoil from his touch.
Then, without warning, he pulled his steed to a stop.
“We will stop here tonight.”
Ilys slowed her horse beside him, following his gaze to the ground below.
The land here subsisted lifeless, dry and brittle.
She dismounted, unfastening her pack, already moving through the familiar motions of setting up camp.
Her heart tugged as she recalled Grim’s lessons.
Would nothing be hers alone? Was the man who had abandoned her wrapped up in every action, in every word?
Death did not dismount like a man would, nor did he prepare anything for the night.
Instead, he slid effortlessly from his horse, a shift of darkness pooling into itself, his form taking shape against the gnarled roots of a leafless tree.
He leaned against its trunk, his body neither tense nor relaxed, his limbs draped unnaturally, like a thing that had never known exhaustion but chose to mimic it for her sake.
His cloak unfurled around him, the edges unraveling into mist before they could meet the ground.
He was not flesh. He was not bone. A presence stretched between the two, a shadow that did not breathe, did not shift, did not belong here, yet still was.
“Where is Grim?” Death asked.
She scoffed, impressed by the humility of such a question. Was the god not omniscient? Ilys supposed he needed a mortal to enact his will. She took note of the fallibility and contemplated her response.
“He is no longer in your service.”
The unnatural god cocked his head.
“Yes, that is plain. Where is he?”
“Why would I tell you such a detail?” She refused to admit her own ignorance. “Should I reveal it so you may cull him?”
“Where is he?”
“I will not tell you,” she ground out. How his voice grated, the icy baritone that flooded her ears.
“Why the bite in your voice, Ilys of the Veil? Why meet your god with such wrath?”
Ilys willed her heart to stop pounding, for the blood to stall in her veins.
Why such a bite, Ilys? Why such wrath? He need not be omniscient to know such an answer.
Baron’s voice replayed in her head over and over.
The image of his earnest, dying eyes cemented in her brain.
She would not warrant such a question with a response.
Instead she busied herself with the fire.
Placing the wood and kindling as such. Replaying Grim’s instructions.
Death, displeased, turned towards the scattered wood beside her. He did not gather it as a man would, did not kneel or reach, but with the barest flick of his fingers, the kindling caught flame, small embers glowing in the growing darkness.
“Is it this form? Does it bother you so?”
Just as he had at the Consecration Rites, the shadow unspooled revealing mortal flesh. Swirls of darkness dissipated to reveal the plush lips and the dark, needy eyes she recollected.
“Is this more to your liking?” Death queried.
Ilys eyed the pale line of his collarbone; just below it, she imagined lay a beating, thumping heart.
Her gaze locked onto the tunic stretching over his ribs.
How easy it might be to thrust her dagger in between.
But she did not know what killed a god yet.
She dare not risk his wrath, if her life ending did not also result in his own demise.
She willed her breath towards poise, fighting the burning urge to hurt. To hurt. To hurt.
To wound him as he had wounded her.
No, the only way to discover what killed this god would be through the shared confidence of the god himself.
“Much better,” she forced out, molding her lips into what she hoped resembled a friendly smile if he could see such beneath the veil.
He lifted an eyebrow, but relented, appeased.
“Will you now divulge where Grim is?” he asked. “I wish no ill will. I merely inquire into the location of the man who served as my travel companion for the last three decades.”
“Would I know, I should tell you. He—” She broke off. “He does not wish for me to know.”
Death’s dark gaze bore into her, inspecting each word. A curious tilt of his head assured her that he found the answer displeasing. In that we are agreed, she thought wryly.
Ilys then ate in silence, tearing pieces from the sun-baked bread she had taken from the kitchens that morning. Across from her, Death watched, unmoving.
“This is your first ride with me.” His voice broke the stillness, the spaces between his words feeling vast, measured. “I am sure Grim has taught you much. But I do not like to leave room for the unknown.”
Ilys swallowed, setting the remains of her meal aside.
Death shifted uncomfortably. Ilys wondered how he found his mortal body. She hoped the experience was disagreeable.
“Upon our ride, there are tasks we must attend to. For some, I will accompany you. Others, I must leave and address myself. But this first ride…” His voice seemed to darken. “I will abide with you.”
He leaned back, resting on his elbows, veins pulsing. Ilys eyed the sight of the blood greedily.
“There is a man raising the dead. His magic is outlawed by the Fates—upending the balance of the Veil. His work must end. It cannot continue. We will find him,” Death continued. “You will cut his thread, restoring balance.”
Ahhh, the order resolved like a note inside Ilys’s head. So this was how orders sounded from the god himself. Accustomed to an Ebon Choir attendant dispersing the order, Ilys found herself satisfied to see his cruelty this close. She felt a sneer tease her lips beneath the veil.
She would not be his puppet. But she would play along.
“Ask me questions,” he directed.
“I have none.”
“There are always questions. Only a fool moves forward with faith in uncertainty,” he condescendingly challenged.
She tilted her head, saccharine sharpness edging her words. “How would you like me to end his life?”
Death smiled placatingly. “I am a god, but I may still sense mortal displeasure.”
“No displeasure,” she assured. “Only questions. At your request.” Once more she queried, “How should I end his life?”
“As you see fit. As Grim has trained you.”
Her fingers twitched at the name. “You need not say his name.”
Death held his tongue, eyes tracing her.
“I will offer a blessing,” she continued, voice flat, measured. “Then I will plunge my sword into his heart and watch as his life drains.”
“No need for a blessing.”
Her gaze snapped to him. “No matter the deeds, all deserve a blessing.”
Death shrugged. “The means are your directive.”
Ilys hesitated. She had been taught since childhood that the rites were for the gods.
The Fates. The Veil. They were sacred, necessary, woven into the fabric of life and death itself.
Now, Death looked down his nose at them?
He was unworthy of the divinity, haughty in his power, and out of step.
He only sought to prove this more and more.
“Rest now,” he ordered. “I will snuff the fire when the time comes.”
She bristled at the order. “I will sleep when I desire.”
“Mortals need rest. You may not value your life," he hummed, his voice smooth, reminiscent of humoring a child. “But our Bargain dictates that I do.”
He eyed her delay in obedience. “You will sleep now,” he reiterated.
Tense, she obliged, turning onto her side. She slept feet away from him, her body still, her mind restless. Ilys dreamt of nothing. Instead, she lay in the dark, eyes half-lidded, imagining all the ways one might kill a god.