Dark Lord's Wedding

by A. E. Marling

  “You may tell the Purest that the bride will arrive when her pleasure aligns with her convenience.”

  The scent of rotten rose from the Bleeding Maiden intensified, as if Tethiel stood in a burning garden. Then the aroma of decay lessened to its typical nausea of potpourri. The Bleeding Maiden could hide much from him, but she had been afraid of something. She could be leery of Hiresha’s power.

  No, he didn’t believe so, not with that duration and curvature of aroma. This was a different vintage of foreboding. He had caught a whiff of plot. The Bleeding Maiden didn’t fear the time of Hiresha’s arrival. The Feaster worried that the enchantress would survive an assassination.

  Tethiel cast a portent into Jerani’s mind. Leave the wedding. Run to Celaise and help her guard the lady. If she dies before waking, you’ll both join her in a wreckage of dreams.

  37

  “Should I die, my heart, beware of my children. They will hunt you.”

  “And should I, my enchantments will fail you.”

  “We must rule together or not at all. When an empire is built on the strength of the great, with their deaths will it fall. Thus it’ll be with ours.”

  “Which is why you shouldn’t have taken off my amulet. It would allow you to live long yet. Perhaps forever.”

  “Then our empire will never be appreciated. Greatness can only be valued once it’s gone.”

  “Whoever I marry will desire to achieve something more substantial than nostalgia.”

  The lord father’s tri-tone voice crashed into Celaise. They come for the lady. You and Jerani must kill all who approach. Do this, or watch each other die.

  The three monstrous voices faded. Celaise was gripping her temples. The trees around her rippled and swayed in time with her quaking heart. The raven feathers of her dress spread out into spine hackles.

  The lord father had been wrong about the people coming. Celaise could scent the truth. They weren’t hunting the lady. They headed for Celaise. Two whiffs of fright closed in along with a salt-storm reek of black wine.

  It smelled close to the elder vintage of Angler, but it must belong to another Feaster. The scent blasted into the face like a spray of choking sea whitewater. Celaise tried to think who else could have the same deepness of black wine. It couldn’t be Angler. She could never defeat him.

  He was coming for her. Why? He knew she did the lord father’s will. Angler might think she would be close to the lady. Celaise wasn’t too far from the crystal dragon. She had meant to be there by midnight.

  Celaise turned away, headed from the lady and deeper into the jungle. All she needed to do was delay the hunters for a few more minutes. The lady would wake. Even if they caught Celaise, that would mean—

  Jerani hopped in front of her.

  It wasn’t him. No, no, not him. His smile was too wide. His teeth shone too bright. He glowed but carried no lantern. His spear bounced in his hand like a toy weapon tied to a doll’s arm. A thick stalk reached out from the nape of his neck into the darkness.

  “Where is the lady witch?” The bellowing growl of Angler’s voice came from the drowning deep.

  Celaise mustn’t tell. No matter how huge the black eyes glinted. However wide the jaws behind the shining lure shaped like Jerani, she had to stop from screaming her answer. The real Jerani wasn’t far. His chocolate and cinnamon scent raced toward the lady in her crystal dragon. If he had more time … if Angler wouldn’t go eat him next…

  “Thank you, Celaise.” Angler’s spike teeth dripped with streamers of sparkling drool. The false Jerani dangled to the right and pointed. “The lady is that way. Look inside her dragon.”

  No, he had fished the answer from her mind. Celaise knew he was too strong. She couldn’t stop him.

  Two figures dashed between the trees, the way Angler had shown, to the lady. The couple feared more for each other. They were in love, the pair with the enchanted swords. They might even be able to crack through the dragon’s scales.

  “You deserve better.” Angler’s slime tongue flopped around the cavern of his mouth. “More than the lord father. Join us against him.”

  That escape was a dead end. Angler and the two others would kill the lady. Then nothing could save Jerani from the lord father. No need for Celaise to guess what he would do.

  Angler’s betrayal would get Jerani killed. Celaise couldn’t stop the Feaster, but she could hurt him. She would. She had to. Her wing cloak scythed upward, severing the man-lure from Angler’s brow.

  Angler roared, and his trap door of sword fangs opened. Celaise dove into the mouth. That’s where she would’ve ended up anyway. She couldn’t survive, couldn’t live, couldn’t breathe. What Celaise could do was spin her black skirt of obsidian-sharp feathers. She could shred, rake, break teeth.

  “You’ve despaired.” Angler was gargling on his blood. “Why this fight?”

  She would never see Jerani again, but she could explode her plumage outward. The feathers arrow-cut through Angler’s bulbous head then dug through bark and into tree cores.

  Her quills drew back, through wood and flesh. She reformed her True Dress. A down of spines folded into her bodice.

  Angler bit at her. His teeth broke off her layers of True Dress. His bloody gums closed on a mouthful of sharp death.

  Pinion fringes jutted from her shoulders. Her feathers curved into black-razor beaks. With a gown of a thousand snapping mouths she Feasted.

  Angler was dead. His power was hers.

  Celaise shouldn’t have been able to defeat her elder brother. She knew she wouldn’t have, except she had needed to. For Jerani.

  By his scent trail, he was close to the dragon. The loving couple had reached it first with their enchanted swords. Trees cracked and boomed into each other. Then silence.

  What was happening? Celaise had too far to go. The best she could do was lift her arms and loose a gang of ravens. Her sleeves unraveled into the wheeling mad flight of birds.

  “Save Jerani. Save us all.”

  The birds cawed and shrieked their way toward the sleeping lady.

  They would be too late.

  The matriarch’s dress was to die for. Tethiel relished how it captured the essence of twilight. The blue had an amethyst gloss, all fading to black as she moved. No dye, no fabric at all but feathers, the down was so fine that it had the texture of velvet. She must have plucked the breast of a songbird. Thousands of songbirds.

  Devastation was a small enough price for beauty. On a woman who championed harmony, the dress was even more lovely. Hypocrisy would never go out of fashion. On yourself it was ever so comfortable, and seen on others, a gratifying delight.

  “Purest Elbe.” Tethiel curtsied as a woman, and she ruffled her skirts to the sides like a bat about to take flight. “I stand accused of being a man. Across the lands I’ve been far more often accused of being a woman, where it’s no compliment.”

  The matriarch closed her eyes in a long blink. Instead of lashes, butterfly wings touched then opened again.

  “Don’t look.” The Bleeding Maiden laid a hand across the matriarch’s face. “The gem witch saved your eyes, but he might’ve ruined them.”

  The matriarch closed her hand one finger at a time on the Bleeding Maiden’s arm and pushed away. Still, she didn’t acknowledge Tethiel.

  By choice she wouldn’t see Tethiel in her dress, and he chose to hide from the matriarch his vested self eating at the table of thrones. Only the Bleeding Maiden would have the power to witness all his duplicitous glory.

  This naughty child would thwart him from reforming his alliance with the matriarch. He stabbed a portent into the Bleeding Maiden. Enjoy yourself on this, your last night.

  She flinched. “Why must you always make me cry, father?”

  He had deserved that with his petulance. There was nothing for it. He accepted he would achieve nothing until Hiresha arrived. Midnight had never seemed so distant from dusk, so close to morning.

  The matriarch gazed to the crystal doo
rway of the servers’ entrance. She also would count the shooting stars until Hiresha’s arrival.

  He had to know if Hiresha still lived. He clawed outward with his senses to reach Celaise. She was afraid but still fighting. No despair had yet sweetened her to the point beyond toothsome.

  Celaise was capable. He could believe she would protect Hiresha until midnight. Celaise would have to, or every plan would shrivel and there would be nothing left for him to do but to Feast on the party and engorge himself on the city.

  Tethiel had to worry. With Hiresha gone, even the most terrified morsel might taste like ash.

  While the matriarch nibbled seasoned naked-man orchids, the kings ate parrot drowned in chocolate. “Arm me,” one said, and a server reached over the king brute’s shoulder to hand him another crispy wing.

  They were eating, and Hiresha was in danger. Tethiel was here, and she was far. Pox rats! He had to stay present.

  “The next course is poetic justice,” Tethiel said. “How many times have leeches dined on you? Tonight we turn the table.”

  Below, the Chef carried a tray of fat black worms. The high guests had the best view of the wiggling as he emptied the leeches into a cauldron of scalding water. The wormy dears floundered to the surface.

  “They are sluggish because we force fed them tomato sauce,” Tethiel said.

  Fos the Swordhead craned his chin up to look. “Are we really watching this? Leeches boiling?”

  “Not at all. Observe the Chef, how he waits for the perfect moment to seal off the top of the cauldron with a cheese wheel. There it is, a triple cream with white mushroom. Now the leeches will flee into the cheese.”

  The Chef used pliers to submerge the pale wheel. The last leech squirmed inside, black tail slipping from view. The water bubbled.

  “The leeches are now being baked inside the cheese. What a pity. There is no safety in this world from our vengeful appetites.”

  “You don’t expect us to eat leechy cheese, do you?” Fos asked.

  “Don’t worry,” Tethiel said. “The leeches have been debeaked.”

  “But that’s the Chef. As in, him. You ate him whole, didn’t you? I do remember that.”

  “To better carry the Chef to you, my bundt cake.” Tethiel gave his best leer. “Think of me as a mother eagle regurgitating morsels into your eager bird mouth. Now eat.”

  The entrée must have had an irresistible smell. After the Chef iced it then served it in wedges, Fos ate his words. A bit of red spurted from his open mouth. “Oh, no! The leeches burst with sauce. Don’t tell Hiresha I’m eating this.”

  Tethiel nibbled the cheese, leaning over the throned table. The true joy came from Fos’s aroma of guilty apprehension.

  “You’re right not to be eating,” Fos said to his sister while waving for another slice. “Wait, what’re you doing?”

  The Bright Palm motioned for a slice of cheese. She held it across her hands and stared. “You shall eat no fewer than once a day. Twenty-ninth tenet, stanza one.”

  “So you have to eat,” Fos said. “Do you enjoy it at all?”

  “This food is gluttonous even in small portions. It’s not for the Innocent.”

  “I mean, can you taste what you eat?”

  “Yes.”

  How dreadful to see the soul-stealing magic of Bright Palms sever family ties. This brother and sister must have once shared a close bond. Tethiel strode around the tables for a closer look.

  “Does eating … does it ever make you happy?” The pitch of Fos’s voice trembled with a hitch of desperation.

  “I do not need to be happy to follow the tenets.” The monotone flatness of her voice had to be slicing through Fos’s heart. Tethiel decided these two should’ve been seated together after all.

  Tethiel stood behind their table, with them a barrier between him and the kings. The Bright Palm would have to turn around before she could strike. For now, she sat motionless. The ziggurats inlaid in the wood matched those embroidered on her dress.

  “Bright Palm, no need to soil your virgin tongue on such decadence,” Tethiel said. “You’ll be ecstatic to hear the Chef has prepared a dish suited to your palate and sensibilities.”

  A server took back the cheese from her hands. Another presented a silver platter adorned with a crust of bread. Dry crumbs were arranged in artful whirls around the entrée.

  “You will note the spots of mold add color to the ensemble, Tethiel said.

  “So you came to insult her, did you?” Fos lunged to his feet. He kicked his seat cushion with remarkable accuracy. It spun toward Tethiel’s face. “She’s a Bright Palm because of you.”

  To avoid the indignity of the pillow barrage, Tethiel had to unmake the flying cushion into wisps of silken hope that faded away to nothing. “Your aim is truer than your words.”

  “You take back that heel. She deserves better.” Fos reached to the silver platter.

  The Bright Palm snatched up the bread crust and bit off half. Her expression stayed dead as she chewed. A server handed her a chalice full of scummy water. She drank without hesitation.

  “You may trust us to know a Bright Palm’s tastes,” Tethiel said. “None are closer than enemies.”

  A server replaced Fos’s pillow. The sword-brained man glowered down at his cushion. By his smell, he was worried he might cry. “Alyla, are you really all right with moldy bread?”

  She swept up the crumbs then licked them off the side of her hand. A few remained on her chin. “The Innocent can live off bread. How many will starve because of these wedding excesses?”

  “Some fewer for your sake, Bright Palm,” Tethiel said. “The monies we saved by not feeding you riches went to local charities.”

  She did not turn to face him but continued staring straight. “Do not think you can ingratiate me, Feaster.”

  “No, our accommodations were only to make your complaints seem all the more ungrateful.” Tethiel turned back to his table.

  She swung around and sprang at him. Her hands spread in two blazing five-pointed traps. The corpse calm in her face never changed. Those spindly arms of hers would have strength beyond their width, and once in her grasp, he knew his power would wither. She had given him no warning, but her scramble to turn gave him time.

  He vanished and reappeared in front of the thrones. From death to life, from nothingness to joy, the rush of black wine lofted him and bruised him with happy pain. The first assassination attempt had come before the fifth course. Splendid! This would be an evening of consequence.

  The crunch and clatter of dining quieted, but half the guests didn’t even notice. The rest saw the Bright Palm kneeling back down on her pillow. Her long block of a face showed no sign that she had tried to seize her host, to rend him apart and ruin his coat. She couldn’t be disappointed. Her narrow shoulders stayed straight. She couldn’t be angry. She could only try again later, if she wished.

  She had surprised her brother. He didn’t even notice the leech dangling from the corner of his lips. His scent changed from caramel fudge to moist cutlet as he began to fear she would be killed for the assault.

  Tethiel wouldn’t draw any more attention to it. The attempt had been brazen but not elegant. “For the next course,” he said, “we’ll have the chicks of songbirds broiled the instant they break free of their eggs.”

  “Baby birds?” Fos blinked away his daze.

  “Their young bones have a satisfying crunch.”

  “You’ll never get me to eat that.”

  “Oh, but you will, and shame makes the best sauce.” Tethiel sipped his honey. It tasted of sand. The chalice twinkled a dreadful silver.

  The dining room brightened with doom. Moonlight speared through the dome. The moon’s skull neared its zenith.

  The matriarch stopped pecking at her salad to gaze outside. “Is it midnight?”

  “It will be,” Tethiel said, “when the lady arrives.”

  He had to trust in her, in Celaise. He could not doubt. Tethiel couldn’t fe
ar, or the Bleeding Maiden would devour him.

  “She’s not often more’n an hour late,” Fos said. “Unless she sleeps longer.”

  Or was dead. Smothered and forever gone. No, Tethiel mustn’t think of all her inspiration bleeding out her cut throat.

  “Hiresha is the paragon of punctuality,” Tethiel said, “but it’s not for us mortals to know exactly when she intends to arrive.”

  The fog lit with ghostfire. The full moon clawed its way higher between the stars.

  Baby birds started singing their scrumptious death songs.

  Jerani saw the dragon head laying in pieces. Scales had scattered. Jerani jumped over a fallen horn. One glass eyeball had rolled into the tree roots. Atop the smashed head crouched the blossomed man. Too dark to see his tattoos, but his gauntlets pulsed and fizzed with light. He had beaten a dragon to stillness. What chance did Jerani have?

  Maybe, just maybe the man wouldn’t hear Jerani racing in with his spear.

  “Behind!” The sword woman cried out.

  Gah! Jerani wasn’t getting any divine favors.

  The blossomed man leaped clear and landed on the body of the toppled dragon. “She must be—”

  Birds screeched through the air. The forest gloom curdled with feathers, glinted with eyes, and bristled with beaks. They felt like Celaise, sleek and burning cold. They wouldn’t hurt Jerani.

  “Ignore them,” the blossomed man said.

  “Just nightmare spume,” the sword woman said at the same time.

  Her voice was close. Was that the glimmer of her blade? Jerani spun away and thunked into a tree and scrambled around it.

  The whites of her eyes and teeth met him on the other side. Her swords whistled in.

  She must’ve missed in the dark. Or the cuts didn’t stop him. He caught her head in his hand and pushed. She fell back, and he yanked away his arm before an upsweep of sword could cut it off.

  He had to get to the blossomed man. Jerani’s next step buckled at the knee. He stumbled. A blade must’ve pierced his leg.

  A gem gleamed on his thigh. Nothing looked slashed. Oh, that was right. The lady had promised his leg would fall off if he bothered her and her dragon. And here he was, on one knee.