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.
