Cruel Beauty(13)
Author: Rosamund Hodge

This time I didn’t cry, but the icy feeling that lashed through me was worse. I wanted to claw my skin open, I wanted to smash the shepherdess to pieces, I wanted to beat the wall and wail. But that would be losing my temper, and hadn’t I just seen where that led? So I sat still and tense, choking down the misery and fury and shame, until at last the numbness came back.

Then I gritted my teeth, went to the wardrobe, and found the most low-cut dress, a flowing thing of dark blue silk. I had broken my sister’s heart. I would never see her again, so I could never beg her forgiveness. I had let hatred fester in me so long, I didn’t think I could ever learn to love her properly, either. But I could make sure she lived free of the Gentle Lord, no longer afraid of his demons, with the true sun shining down upon her.

5

Dinner was in a great hall carved of deep blue stone. A colonnade ran down either side; on the left, the rock wall behind the pillars was rough and unfinished, but on the right was a vast wall of stained glass. There were no pictures in the glass, only an intricate swirl of many-colored diamond panes that cast a rainbow of glimmers over the white tablecloth. At the far end of the hall, a great empty arch looked out on the western sky, where the sun hung low. Though the horizon was far away, the sky looked strangely close: its mottling was larger and its surface more translucent, glowing bright red-gold veined with russet.

Amid the glory of that sky was a dark speck. It grew swiftly, until I saw that it was a great black bird, easily as big as a horse. It slowed as it approached the arch, its body melting and changing into a man.

No, not a man: the Gentle Lord. He landed with a whoosh and strode forward, boots clicking on the stone floor as his wings furled and melted into the lines of his long dark coat. For a heartbeat he looked human, and I found him beautiful. Then he came close enough that I could make out the cat-slit pupils in his crimson eyes, and my skin crawled with horror at this monstrous thing.

“Good evening.” He stopped at the opposite end of the table, one hand resting on the back of his chair. “Do you like your new home?”

I smiled and leaned forward, my elbows on the table and my arms pressed in to push up my br**sts. “I love it.”

His smile crinkled, as if he were just barely holding back laughter. “How long have you been practicing that trick?”

Don’t stop smiling, I thought, but my face burned as I realized how childish I must have looked.

“And was it your aunt who taught you? Because between you and me, I’m fairly sure that a lonely cat could resist her charms.”

The horrible thing was that she had given me the idea—but he didn’t need to say it that way. As if I were anything like Aunt Telomache. As if he had any right to criticize her.

He said something else, but I didn’t notice; I was staring down at my empty plate, breathing very slowly and trying not to feel anything. I couldn’t lose my temper again. Not here, not now.

It was like ants crawling under my skin, like flies buzzing in my ears, like an icy current trying to drag me away. I listed off the similes in my mind, because sometimes if I analyzed the feeling enough, it would go away.

His breath tickled my neck, and I flinched. Now he was at my side, leaning over me as he said, “I’m curious. What advice did your aunt give you anyway?”

Strategy was suddenly nothing to me. I snatched my fork and tried to stab him.

He caught my wrist just in time. “That’s a little different.”

“I’m sorry—” I began automatically, then looked into his red eyes.

He had killed countless people, including my mother. He had tyrannized my country for nine hundred years, using his demons to keep my people in terror. And he had destroyed my life. Why should I be sorry?

I seized the plate and smashed it across his face, then grabbed the knife and tried to stab him left-handed. I nearly succeeded this time, but then he twisted my right hand. Pain seared up my arm and we both tumbled to the floor. Of course he landed on top of me.

“Definitely different.” He didn’t sound out of breath at all, while I was gasping. “You might even deserve to be my wife.” He sat up.

“I notice that . . . even you don’t think that’s a compliment,” I managed to get out. My heart was still pounding, but he didn’t seem about to punish me.

“I’m the evil demon lord. I know it’s not a compliment, but I do like a wife with a little malice in her heart.” He poked my forehead. “If you don’t sit up soon, I’ll use you for a pillow again.”

I scrambled to sit up. He smiled. “Excellent. Let’s start over. I am your husband, and you may address me as ‘my darling lord’—”

I bared my teeth.

“Or Ignifex.”

“Is that your real name?”

“Not even close. Now listen carefully, because I’m going to tell you the rules. One. Every night I will offer you the chance to guess my name.”

It was so completely unexpected that it took me a moment just to understand the words, and then I tensed, sure that his rules were about to turn into a threat or mockery. But Ignifex went on, as calmly as if all husbands said such things. “If you guess right, you have your freedom. If you guess wrong, you die.”

Even with the threat of death, it still sounded far too good to be anything but one of his tricks.

“Why do you even offer me the chance?”

“I am the Lord of Bargains. Consider this one of them. Rule two. Most of the doors in this house are locked.” He drew open his coat, and this time I saw dark leather belts buckled crisscross over his chest, each hung with a string of keys. He took a plain silver key from near his heart and handed it to me. “This key will open all the rooms you are permitted to enter. Do not try to enter the other rooms or you will regret it dearly . . . though not for very long.”

“Is that what happened to your eight other wives?”

“Some of them. Some guessed the wrong name. And one fell down the steel staircase, but she was uncommonly clumsy.”

I clenched my hand around the key. Its cold edges bit into my palm, a sharp little promise. I might have failed at beguiling my husband, but he had still been fool enough to give me a little freedom, and I would make sure he regretted that very dearly.

“Meanwhile, would you care to dine?” He stood and held out a hand.

I ignored him and stood on my own. The warm, delicious scent of cooked meat hit me: sometime during our fight, an enormous roast pig had appeared on the table, its feet reaching up toward the ceiling. Next to it sat a tureen of mock-turtle soup, and all around were platters of fruit, rice, pastries, and roasted dormice.