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He presses his lips together. “Very well. Let us go, then.”
I take care not to look too glad or relieved as I offer my arm. But instead of accepting it right away, transporting us to the mountains, to freedom, the Death God steps in front of me and lifts a hand to my cheek.
This is so surprising I forget to flinch.
His touch is almost gentle, some approximation of intimacy, yet his fingers are cool as ice, hard as marble. He turns his shadowed eyes on me as he brushes a long strand of hair back from my face, tucking it carefully behind my ear. I can sense the dark pulse of resentment beneath the movement, a promise that he has not yet buried my words from earlier, just as I have not buried his. “Do not forget that your life is in my hands, Rujia,” he says, his voice quiet, subdued like the snuffed flame of a candle, vanishing in the wind. “No tricks.”
Gooseflesh breaks over my arms. I swallow. I cannot imagine how my expression must appear to him, how much or little it reveals; I can only hope that my defiance is hidden well beneath my fear. “No tricks,” I repeat. Not the first of false vows I’ve given him, and likely not the last.
He seems satisfied by this, which is enough. But I can still feel the coldness of his skin lingering on mine when he lowers his hand, like the press of a finely honed blade.
Chapter Three
The instant we land on the mountain, the Death God drops my wrist and strides ahead.
It takes me a moment longer to adjust to the frozen landscape. Everywhere I look there is snow, covering the ground and rising in slopes around us, undisturbed by small animals or even fallen branches, though great elm trees fringe the area. All of it so white it’s blinding. Higher up the mountain peak, rocks jut out from the pale blue ice like faces emerging, the rough cut of a nose here and the jagged line of a mouth there, opening in a scream. All that snow but no storm, only the deep, frigid blue of the sky, a blue that seems to stretch on for an eternity in every direction. In all my years, I have never seen such a pure shade of it.
I scramble to keep up with the Death God, who does not seem remotely bothered by the snow underfoot or the fierce wind that whips my bare face and sinks its sharp teeth into my skin. Soon, the hems of my sleeves and skirts are soaked through, dragging behind me when I move.
The temptation to summon magic and warm my body is almost overwhelming. It would be so simple too: a snap of the fingers, a spark, and the instant blaze of heat would wring out the damp from my lungs. Yet I shove the urge aside, force myself to bear the breathless cold with gritted teeth. I will need to preserve my powers for other matters, and I cannot do anything now. He is too alert, too careful. I must wait and cooperate until he has his guard down.
“Where is this flower?” the Death God asks over his shoulder. How he manages to make his way so gracefully, so effortlessly up the mountainside, I do not pretend to know.
“I’m not sure of the exact location,” I say, lifting my knees higher to avoid slipping. “It is small, easy to miss. Keep your eye out for it.”
Impatience creeps into his voice. “Could you not simply summon the flower? Must we really walk around and use our own hands like mortal peasants?”
“I told you, we have to harvest the flower very carefully for it to work.”
He falls into a sullen silence but continues walking ahead. I am content with the quiet—at least in the beginning. We both keep clear of each other, slowing when we spot the faintest impression of green peeking out from the snow, only to find old moss or a frozen blade of grass, then resuming our search once more. Before long, however, the silence starts to chafe at me. It starts to feel ridiculous, as if we are investing more energy into not talking than talking.
“So, tell me,” I say, wiping my wet, freezing hands on my robes, “what would you be doing if you were not with me right now?”
“Enjoying my peace,” he says with a pointed look at me.
The desire to roll my eyes is nearly as strong as the desire to light a fire in the cold. “You are terrible at conversations. Did you know that?”
“It is not a relevant skill for me.”
“Really? You’ve never chatted with someone before you ripped away their soul? That seems like a service you ought to consider providing. It might make for a more pleasant experience.”
He shakes his head. “I do not rip away souls. I merely collect them and guide them to the right place so they can enter the next stage of the afterlife. The process in itself is a peaceful one. Not pleasant, but peaceful.”
“You’ve never met a soul unwilling to go with you before?” I ask, frowning.
“I have.” A beat. An annoyed intake of air. “She is here, pestering me with her questions now.”
“Can you blame me?” I tip my chin toward the brilliant, cloudless sky overhead, the way the light drapes itself over the horizon, the mountaintops brushed the same shade as the underside of a crane’s wings. Despite the inhospitable cold, it is still beautiful, still better than nothingness. “For wanting to live?”
His footsteps falter, and he turns to face me fully for the first time since we left the palace. Something flickers in the depths of his eyes. “But why do you?”
“What?”
“I cannot fathom why you would want to live so much,” he says. “You are banished, you have no title, no family, no friends. You must spend all your days confined to your lonely little cottage. What is there in this life for you to cling on to?”
My throat closes. It is as if he has reached straight into my chest, found every fear, every shame and insecurity, and squeezed until he’s drawn blood. Of course he would not be sensitive to my feelings; he has no reason to soften his words, to care how much they hurt. But even so. “You’re right,” I say. “But if I stay, there is a chance—however small—those things may change. If I leave this life, then nothing will ever change. I’ll be condemned to permanence.”
“Well,” he says, angling his head away again, “whether you are willing to accept it or not, that is your fate.”
