Dark Lord's Wedding

by A. E. Marling

  He would have glimpsed her, yet he might not believe his eyes. A woman flew over the jungle without even one feather. If he had spotted the spinning arcs of her jewels and known them, that would ruin her.

  He could not know. He couldn’t guess. This land had no enchantresses. And there were no enchantresses like her.

  The winged warrior flew around the tree spire and into view. Hiresha dropped into the cover of the canopy. She careened around mossy branches, between woody vines, below flowering bromeliads. Even if the winged warrior couldn’t match her speed, he could follow her by the sound of surprised howler monkeys.

  She slingshotted herself higher into the rainforest mist. The condensation bit into her skin as she zoomed from wisp to wisp around the treetops. The necessity for evasion slowed her. She would be late. She could not be.

  The sun neared its zenith. That smeared blast of light in the clouds would strike her into slumber. She should find a place to rest in a treetop. She could secure herself and await her shift to her other facet in safety.

  Any jaguar could find her while she lay dead to the world, any honey hunter, any winged warrior. No, she had to reach her reliquary.

  She sprang over the village mining her amethysts. A glance told her they had unearthed a promising collection of material. Nahui wasn’t in sight. The girl could’ve been sent underground again. She should be convalescing, yet Macco the pit boss might’ve ignored Hiresha’s advice.

  Hiresha could not stop to check. She skipped over the banyans of her stronghold, past them, across a jungle basin and into the misty ridges of eroded limestone. Blackness closed in on her vision. Everything flickered; the jungle vanished and became the etched interior of a sarcophagus.

  The other her was waking up.

  Hiresha had another three seconds. She had fallen on a rock formation and broken a rib. Inconsequential. Skimming over a last rock ridge, she fell into a sulcus in the limestone and onto her reliquary.

  The immense geode opened at her touch, and she swung inside. Amethyst crystals enclosed her, each reflecting blue and red from her paragons.

  She fit her red diamond into her engagement necklace. The claw tines cupped the jewel. All was well.

  Hiresha closed her eyes.

  She awoke in another world.

  Last breaths sweetened the adobe house. Tethiel stopped before the doorway and inhaled.

  Flies buzzed in celebration. A corpse lay at the threshold, and the ground bore gashes from when the man had tried to claw his way forward on his belly. He had wanted escape, the poor dainty, and he had found the only true one. The rictus of his open mouth revealed teeth sharpened to points. He had been a warrior. He hadn’t stood a chance, not against the Bleeding Maiden.

  Tethiel knew the Feaster was still here. Her scent of rotten roses oozed out of the house. He had to look his best for his would-be rival.

  Daylight stained his coat, but after he stepped into the delicious darkness of the house, the smears vanished. His loose threads knitted together. The gold embroidery rewove through his satin into a dragon nibbling a rosebush. A mist-maiden flower grew from his buttonhole, its five pale petals unfolding. The Bleeding Maiden would have every chance to appreciate it. Nothing spoke louder than subtlety.

  He tied his cravat from shadows. The handkerchief he held in his left hand was a spider web of the finest lace. He tucked terrors up his sleeves. One held an ogre with venomous beer breath and fists ready to express his bruising love to his weeping wife. Up the other cuff lurked the old standby of the abyssal dragon. Tethiel was ready.

  He walked deeper into the house and over the detritus of the living. A rack of drying shoes had tipped over into the hearth embers. Flaccid cactus stems drifted in a pot of soup gone cold. A chicken pecked at a dead man. Above the doorway hung the shriveled umbilical cords of the household’s children. A grand tradition, that.

  One of those children had slumped in a corner. The dead girl wore a rumpled skirt with glyph designs. The doll she gripped had its face painted in angular patterns of orange and red. What a dreadful toy. Tethiel would have to remember it.

  He weathered the thunderbolts of pain from his knee so that he could crouch and wipe the dead girl’s face free of spittle. How tragic to die so young, and how beautiful. She wouldn’t have tasted any of the bitterness of life’s joys.

  The girl’s final fears lingered in the air as an aftertaste of vanilla. Tethiel left her in search of a stronger scent, one of roses. The flowery reek was so powerful he might as well have drowned in petals.

  “They really shouldn’t have let you in,” he said to the Bleeding Maiden, “but there’s nothing so captivating as mortal anguish.”

  She hung against the wall, hair draped over her face. Petite and perilous, she looked less like a woman and more like a figurine of porcelain. The least misfortune would shatter her. And it had. Blood covered her dress.

  An iron spike had been driven through her neck. Another, through her leg. The last, into her heart.

  ‘The third shall impale the heart, so the Feaster might not live.’ The Bright Palms would’ve cited the tenet while pounding the nail home. They had found this house of death. They had taken their joyless revenge of the murderess. The scene was clear. And glaring truths could never be trusted.

  “Exquisitely done as always, my cream crumpet.” Tethiel reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear. “My child.”

  The Bleeding Maiden was grinning. She sprang off the wall, and the nails ripped out with her in a spray of red clay. She dripped as she curtsied. “Father, I was ever so worried for you.”

  How his death would delight her. “If the lady had refused me I’d be in agony. But she accepted, so the anguish is greater.”

  “Then it’s true? You’re engaged to the gem witch?”

  “The Lady of Gems told me yes. Which just goes to show that even a woman as spectacular as her has her failings.”

  “I’m so happy for you.” The Bleeding Maiden clutched the nail driven into her heart. “May your nights be starless glee. May you never have cause to regret.”

  She hid her true feelings well. He couldn’t see or smell any hatred in her at this news, no fright that any moment might begin a fight to the death. Or maybe she wasn’t scared. Maybe she didn’t fear him anymore.

  He could never allow her to rule. She had no appreciation for clothes. Look at that dress. No substance at all. It was mostly blood.

  Hiresha, now there was a woman who knew her clothes. You could see her genius in their cut, their patterns. And she was hiding them under plain robes. She should never live in fear of the opinion of others. They should fear hers.

  The Bleeding Maiden twisted at the nail in her chest as if she lacked the strength to wrench it free. “I never would’ve had the courage. To marry an outsider. The others, they’ll say the Father of Nightmares should wed one of his kind. Or no one.”

  Tethiel brushed at his coat as if to remove a bit of lint that wasn’t there. He could never be happy if he weren’t courting disaster.

  “Love must’ve made you fearless.” She reached for him with a trembling arm. Blood was livid on her palm. “So many of my brothers and sisters will say the gem witch is muzzling you. That you’re making yourself weak to please her.”

  The Bleeding Maiden thought that. Her and far too many other Feasters. He said, “I pride myself in my weaknesses. Because of them, seven Bright Palms were extinguished tonight. While your strength has only murdered a few villagers.”

  Her upraised hand fluttered over her shoulder in a pose of perfect helplessness. “What will my brothers do? Once they were proud hunters. What will my sisters do? Once they ruled the night as queens.”

  “Those who aim high will always hit low. That’s their tragedy. Those who aim at the middle will always get it. That’s theirs,” he said, “I aim low and am thus blessed.”

  “They may say you betrayed your family. All for the gem witch.”

  “If you ruled, then you would have y
our petty Feasts.” He waved to the corpses. “Your peanut victories over towns, over a city or two. Like so many lords of nightmare before you, now long dead.”

  She wrenched at the nail in her chest. It slid out an inch.

  “Your success would be your ruin. The Lands of Loam would fear you, enough that every third son would spit out his soul to become a Bright Palm. The realms would unite against you. You’d make heroes of your enemies. They would sing ballads of how they butchered you and your brothers and sisters. If you ruled, you would die.”

  The nail slipped from between her breasts with a sucking sound. It clattered to the floor. She pressed her fingers against the wound, trying to staunch it. There was too much blood. Her lips mouthed, “Help.”

  Tethiel tightened his hands at his sides into fists. How impossible not to reach out to the Bleeding Maiden. To save her. To earn her thanks and her trust. Even though she was in no true danger. Even though it would be him who drowned in her blood.

  He mustn’t succumb. A gentleman did not propose to a woman then allow himself to die the next day.

  The Bleeding Maiden staggered to him. Collapsing, she reached for the lapels of his coat. “Please, Lord Father, don’t marry her.”

  He shadow-stepped, vanished, and re-appeared behind the Feaster. As if he would be fool enough to let her touch him. She would stain his coat. “Would it satisfy you, my child, to know I’m only wedding her for power?”

  The Bleeding Maiden had landed on her knees. “If only I could believe you.”

  The distrust reassured Tethiel. The only motives you could never be certain about were your own. Hiresha was more wonderful than a night without dawning, but did he love her? A man might not be able to love once his heart had been pickled in black wine.

  “Defang us all, and gain what?” The Bleeding Maiden slumped. “No woman could be so powerful.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “It must be love.” She painted a glyph of blood across the floor as she crawled toward him.

  Everything dripped. Redness spread and smeared. He could even taste it. His mouth was full of coppery tang. Blood in the water. Blood in his throat. Predators circling ever closer.

  No, he couldn’t let her sway him. That wasn’t her blood in his mouth. It must have been his own. The heat trickled down the back of his tongue, but no harm came of swallowing your own blood.

  She asked, “Does any of the family want this? Angler? City Bane? Lyss Oil Bones?”

  In her own little slippery way, the Bleeding Maiden was stronger than all of them. He had to convince her or kill her. “Once I rule with the Lady of Gems, you will have a meal every night. Not a binge like this, but enough to keep your black wine flowing.”

  “I’m afraid. To not kill, it may kill us.”

  “You could still execute our enemies. Fight in our guard. Cruelty has its place at the heart of any well-ordered nation.”

  The nail in her leg scraped across the gravel floor and must grind against her bones. Her bare foot twitched, toes curled to the breaking point. “The gem witch must adore you for everything you risk.” The Bleeding Maiden’s voice was hoarse from hours of screaming. “She wouldn’t think of breaking the engagement. Would she? What an insult, our family would never forgive it. Or her.”

  “The wedding will come to pass, and you may attend. Do be presentable.” He dropped his handkerchief in front of her. He would leave her with that and send the formal invitation later.

  The lace darkened in a pool of her blood. Then the fabric dissolved. “I’ll pray to all the gods for your marriage to succeed,” she said. “If it doesn’t, I’m terribly frightened that your children will devour you.”

  Jerani gasped awake. Their llamas were crying with a shrill buzz. Something had frightened them. Celaise floundered up beside him, but it was day so he was faster. Jerani snatched his spear and rolled out of the tent. He worried the fox had escaped again. Then a flash of golden fur would dart between the llama’s hocks. Or had the animals spotted a jaguar? A pack of terror birds?

  Worse, it was the lord.

  He dropped from his horse. It was a horse again, not a six-legged monster. The lord and his two leper guards helped themselves to Jerani’s camp and set about heating a pot over the fire. The lord’s back was to Jerani. The red of his coat was the gruesome fleshiness of flowers that attracted flies.

  The lord hadn’t called out. Maybe he wouldn’t. He could ride away without saying a word. He might leave Jerani and Celaise in peace. Jerani thought that hope had thorns. No good holding it too tight.

  Jerani checked on the llamas. The horses had upset them, had trod over their dung fence. The llamas didn’t have the serenity of cows, but the shaggy llamas did have the herd sense to stay together as a family. They all craned their necks up to keep watch. The bells on their blue harnesses tinkled with displeasure.

  “Thank you for waking us.” Jerani rubbed a llama’s neck.

  The llama stared back with that froggy sideways eye of theirs. Jerani stuck out his tongue at the llama. The llama did the same to him with a flapping sound. The yarn tresses on the tips of his ears bounced.

  Those pointy ears reminded Jerani to feed the fox. He reached into the cricket cage and snatched one. He couldn’t open the fox’s urn. The Golden Scoundrel might look like he was sleeping, but he would bolt out and leap over Jerani’s head again. Jerani had to stuff the kicking cricket into the urn through the rope netting. It mangled the poor critter’s legs.

  He wiped his hands on tree bark then crept back to the hanging tent. The lord still hadn’t called him, so Jerani climbed back inside. Celaise mustn’t have been able to wake. A sheen of sweat covered her. Her lips trembled, mouthing words. Her good hand clutched her bad one, the one that was locked in the likeness of a claw. She tried to protect it—hide it—even asleep.

  He eased the claw hand free of the other, warmed it between the both of his, then kissed it. Celaise did not wake. He used the blanket to wipe the cold sweat from her. Still she did not wake from her nightmare. He untied her sleep mask. On its black surface they had finger-painted dots of their favorite constellations.

  Taking off the mask did not help. Celaise never woke. So often she was lost to him.

  “Jerani.” The lord called.

  Jerani came to the fire, his heart dragging. The pot bubbled with a black brew of coffee.

  One leper offered him a cup held between two arm stumps. He had lost all his fingers. “A taste of bitters?”

  Jerani couldn’t shake his head fast enough.

  Steam escaped from the lord’s mug only to be sucked into his nose and mouth. “Ah, yes. My dearest Jerani, my young roast, you and Celaise have done me two great kindnesses. I’ll ask for but one more.”

  Jerani’s brows pinched. He had done more than two things for the lord, unless the fox and last night’s battle didn’t count.

  “Bring the wedding to its rapturous end, and you’ll be free.”

  That sounded too easy. Jerani wrapped his arms around himself, squeezing his palms into his elbows.

  “You may be able to help me with a few trifles. Celaise will serve as a bridesmaid, if the Lady of Gems will have her.”

  “I’ll tell Celaise.” Jerani hopped to his feet.

  “I already have.”

  “When?” Jerani glanced back at the tent. Celaise had to be still locked in her nightmare.

  “Just now.” The lord threw the last of his coffee into the fire and stood.

  Sometimes Jerani thought he must be taller than the lord, but this wasn’t one of those moments. The lord loomed.

  “One last favor, my tasty treat, and then you can have anything you desire.” The lord tilted his chin toward the llamas. “Last time I gave you treasure that carries itself. Next, you can ask for anything you dare desire.”

  Jerani lifted his spear against his chest and hugged it. Might he really have anything?

  “At least you’ll have the brilliance of youth. For you, even foolish
ness will be beautiful. What do you desire?”

  If Jerani could have anything, he would want Celaise not to suffer through another of the lord’s tasks.

  The lord chuckled. “Fear not, my dauntless dainty, Celaise only need serve as the dressmaker for the Lady of Gems. Not so onerous a challenge.”

  Jerani gulped as if a cow had stomped his littlest toe. Had he spoken his wish aloud? No, he hadn’t. He wouldn’t have dared. Still, the lord had heard.

  “Your part may be harder.” The lord went to his horse. The beast bowed. It knelt, lowering itself onto its knees so the lord could step onto the saddle.

  The other horses did nothing so strange. The lepers would have to mount, and the two men had only three fingers between them. Jerani rushed to help. These horsemen might make him cringe, but in a way they were kin to Celaise.

  All had been broken. They had found comfort at night with the lord’s magic. They Feasted to forget their pain. Couldn’t hate them for that. Jerani offered his hand to the leper.

  Snot dribbled from the pit that had once been the man’s nose, but his eyes were a clear blue. The leper nodded and then slapped his palms onto either side of the saddle horn, hauling himself up.

  “You’re a pure one,” the other leper said. His voice was nearly lost, a scratch of a sound. “My name’s Wane. That’s Pall. “

  The lepers were hard to look at long enough to tell apart.

  “I’m the one with the pretty nose.” Wane pointed with one of his few fingers to his face. A gold plate hung over where his nose should’ve been. “Used to be a third man. Glad you’ll be filling his saddle.”

  The other leper whispered something, too soft to make out.

  “Yes, Jerani can dance a fine fight,” Wane said. “Who knows, Pall? Maybe we’ll be as quick again after the wedding. The Lady of Gems is going to give us back our health.”

  “She can do that?” Jerani asked.