Death Thirteen

Eight nights pass in relative solitude. Since the night the Immortal Lord found me lost searching for food, I had not seen nor heard from him. No noise emanated from his apartments. Whether he remains within his rooms or out of the manor completely, is none of my concern.

While the rest of the manor erupts into a quiet uproar, I declare adamantly in the privacy of my rooms, I care not a wit.

After my reintroduction to the poison memory, any traces of guilt flee as cins'ocharkcoc do when hit with flame. Regret burrows deep and festers like black rot when I think of how I fed the Immortal Lord my blood and healed him in a mistaken sense of guilt. He deserves pain. I'd love to sulk in my room and plot revenge, but the coming and going of maids keep me busy.

Two nights after the Immortal Lord encloses himself, a gaggle of maids come bursting into my room at first blue and hold me hostage by needlepoint and brightly patterned fabric, insisting to measure me within a finger of my life.

I cut them deeply with my refusal to undress, holding firm to the belief the maids Myorla and Ceres have spread the gossip of my cursed skin; the anxiousness the maids emanate can only be fueled by rumors and curiosity to find truth to the tales.

My pride refuses to be gawked at like some rare, captured creature.

I grapple a small, slight maid, with moss green eyes and a fluff of copper hair and wrench the measuring stick from her grasp, I swing it like a sword.

The maids gasps and steps back.

O'finren's Balls, you better stay away or you'll feel the wrath of this three-hand stick. I pick up the stool I'd been sitting on, just for good measure, and ward the maids off for a good half-blue.

Finally, Byerne, the headmistress intervenes. It seems she possesses a seventh sense when it comes to rescuing me from ridiculous situations. She claps her hands twice, and thunder booms from her palms; the maids and seamstresses abandon their possessions and clap their hands over their ears. Breath hisses through my teeth from the sound, but I refuse to relinquish my improvised sword and shield.

"Out," Mistress Byerne intones softly, so different than the thunderclap, "Shut the door and do not return until you have been summoned; am I clear?"

"Yes, Mistress Byerne, " the maids say in unison and shamefaced they hang their heads and exit the room, quietly shutting the door behind them.

"Now, I said before you have to be firm. It has been over a century since they've had a new soul to bully."

"Um," I say ungracefully, holding out the stool and stick, "Th-Thi-This isn't f-f-firm?"

"Hiding behind objects only reaffirms your fear. Unless you are prepared to take action, I would suggest you submit. You must understand Miss, they are rather excited you have decided to stay for so long."

"Y-Y-You m-mean l-live."

"Well, yes, I suppose I do."

It's because your Immortal Lord poisons and drains the previous brides dry. Open your eyes!

"You have stayed for almost a half-twin. Of course, the maids are quite excited to catch a glimpse of the bride who managed to survive for so long. You give them hope when all hope has been lost."

"W-What? Wh-Wh-Why?"

"The longer you remain within the manor walls, the more hope you will give them, best get used to it."

"H-Ho-Hope for what?"

"Hope you will break the curse, of course."

"H-H-How w-would I d-d-do th-that?"

"If I knew, would you not think I'd have broken this curse long ago?"

With a simple raising of the left shoulder, I shrug and say, "Y-Y-You n-never kn-kn-kn-k-know. J-Just be-be-be-because I kn-k-know ssss-s-something d-d-d-do-d-es-doesn't me-me-mean I haha-h-have th-the p-p-power t-t-to pr-perform it. M-M-may-b-be-maybe y-yo-you kn-kn-know a way bu-bu-but d-d-on't possess p-pow-power."

"Very astute. No one knows how to undo the curse only that a New Moons Turn bride is required. Never mind all that, our current problem is getting you out of your garments and properly fit you."

"I-I-I am p-per-p-p-perfectly content t-to wh-w-w-wear any g-g-g-g-arments you g-g-ift. Th-the-they n-need not b-b-be per-p-perfect."

"You may be content to wear any attire handed to you but the Immortal Lord will not and neither shall we stand and let you wear anything but the best. Everything you wear will reflect on Lord Jerrath and us."

Anger burns my stutters and my tongue whips against her words, "I am not a possession. I care not to be a reflection of anyone but myself."

"Come now, It's not meant in any sort of offense, have not you wanted nice clothes?"

"No, why would I? I lived between walls of mismatched sticks smeared with mud beneath a roof of straw, while the ones around us had clay bricks hardened by our kiln. They barely paid us enough for food and robbed us of our wares because of My Curse! What need have I of pretty baubles when it will be stolen from me because I am alive, and the ones who assaulted me are not?"

Undaunted by my speech and tongue, the Headmistresses shoulders remain relaxed with chin tilted to the point of insubordination and eyes cast downward like Ira's Plasiven in deference to her earth and says, "You do not live in a hovel now Miss, nor do you have to toil in the dirt for bread. Everything you ever desire is within your grasp, you need only ask. Why not try a pretty bauble or two or a cloak and veil? If you are worried about the marqueings on your skin only Myora, Ceres and I know. I have sworn them to secrecy on penalty of exile."

It takes a few flickers for my mind to comprehend her words, "You are the ones who dressed me in that chiming nonsense?" My question is hesitant like a ramritbab sprinting from the safety of underbrush and into a fire burnt barren field.

"Yes I did and that nonsense is traditional Cybreesian bridal wear as befits your station." Before I can reply with something snappy, she continues, "We dressed you alone and have tended to you in rotation candles while weaving your garments to keep your marqued skin secret."

"If you trying to keep it secret you're failing. Why were all those maids in this room?" I release the stool and measuring stick, the burgundy carpet mutes the clatter embracing the sound. I fling out my marqued arms and cry, "Look! These bangles don't exactly hide the marquings!"

"Oh, dear, you haven't looked in the mirror, have you?"

I scoff, "Why would I?" I am not going to admit that it's been so long, I can barely remember how I look.

She points to a gilded floor-length mirror, "Go, see for yourself."

My feet seem to grow roots and Mistress Byerne grabs my shoulders and maneuvers to face my reflection.

I gasp at my image. My body is covered, as always, with a cloak and veil but my hands are exposed as well as my arms up to the elbow due to the clever make of the fabric.

"Wh-Where a-are m-my m-ma-marquings?"

Awe returns my stutters.

"As I have said before, Myorla, Ceres and I worked tirelessly the three nights you were incapacitated to make garments woven for you. Each thread carries illusion marques and the loom is marqued by Lord Jerrath."

"He-H-He made th-this?"

"No Miss, he marqued it. The illusion is created by Lord Jerrath."

"W-W-Will all my c-c-cl-clothes be l-l-like th-this?"

"No Miss. It takes much Will and Lous'rife to design garments such as yours."

"Wh-why d-don't you me-me-measure?"

"Apologies Miss, I do not understand."

"Me-M -Measure m-me."

"Apologies Miss, I do not understand."

"Wh-Wh-W-What I m-mean t-to say is w-w-why don't y-you m-measure me?"

"Of course, you can have whomever you'd like. It would be an honor to measure you."

"I-I-I am merely a-a-a c-c-c-cursed c-com-co-commoner wh-whose v-v-v-v-village to-t-tossed h-he-er out when th-the f-first o-op-oper-opportunity a-a-arose. I-I am n-n- qu-queen, st-s-stop treating m-me thus."

"You don't understand Miss. You are a queen now."

"I-I married a-a-a-a L-Lord, n-no-not a-a-a King."

"Lord in name only. He rules the entire land and answers to no one. Does not he sound like a King?"

"F-Fair enough."

Mistress Byerne nods in approval.

"Now please undress to your undergarments and we can get uncomfortable business out of the way. "

Once again my feet grow roots and my body turns to stone. Mistress Byerne has seen me unclothed before, but I am still itching to hide.

She senses my hesitation and says, "There is a changing screen behind you if you prefer."

I do a quick chin nod, spin, and dash behind the screen.

I spend an undeterminable time admiring the white silkscreens which are printed with black silhouettes of twirling, looping vines, and dancing Ulunthra birds.

All the while my admiration and maladroitness force my limbs to act with my brain's mental commands but my muscles refuse to cooperate. Instead, my muscles clench my dress as if they have been stone set.

When the Headmistress deems sufficient time, she asks, "Miss are you ready?"

"I c-cannot," I reply baffled and annoyed at the obstinate state of my body.

"Oh come now Miss, you can do it it's only us two wo-. . ."

"No," I interrupt, "I mean I cannot. I cannot let go of the dress."

"Miss, you have got yourself stuck?" Mistress Byerne asks, clearly misunderstanding my words, "Or maybe you cannot reach the buttons. Cybreesian bridalwear is tricky." Her footsteps around the screen with a soft tap and click, "There is an art to the fastenings, oh, oh my whatever are you doing Miss?"

"I-I-If I kn-kn-knew then - I - wouldn't h-ha-h-have called you." Flames rise to my cheeks. Such rude words. Mistress Byerne is only trying to help.

"That's the spirit Miss, sounding like a queen. Keep your speech, the help will have no choice but to obey."

"I -I didn't m-mean to s-s-s-s-sound rude nor sn-sn-snobbish. . . I do-do-do apologize . . . " I trail pathetically.

"I understand Miss, no need to apologize. It has been many nights since your arrival and you've been put through an ordeal."

In a fluid motion, she slips me off the cloak to reveal the dress caught in my death grip.

"Why," she exclaims, "This is the bridal garment we dressed you in three nights ago. Please do not tell me that you were too embarrassed to change."

Anger grows, how dare she assume!

"If I had new garments and privacy, do you not think I would have been able to dress without embarrassment? Besides, I thought this entire ordeal is to dress me in the finest attire."

"I beg your pardon, Miss. Lord Jerrath issued no further orders than to let you wander freely and make sure you are fed properly," She intones huffily, clearly offended but too well-mannered to speak of the offense, "It would seem the Lord has forgotten the needs of young ladies. That remedy will come in due time, let's see if we can relinquish your death grip."

Clapping her hands twice, grey light streaks from the vibrations enveloping my unresponsive clumps of heat in hazy evanescence but it fizzles out of existence.

"My Dyu's! You react as though you have an absolving marque. Are you trained?"

"I know I contain marque potential but I am prevented from wielding it properly. My magic only surfaces in death situations. My marques are destructive and dangerous."

"The Five be damned, this certainly isn't due. I cannot have an untrained, dangerous Will user in the same manor as hundreds of innocents. We have children which can't protect themselves. This has to be brought up to the Lord."

My heart leaps. I haven't chosen this place but I enjoy the habitation far more than the time in the village, even with the poison.

"Are you going to abandon me because I am dangerous?"

"By the great Dyis Ira, the ideas in your head. How can I ask such an abhorrent thing? Dangerous or not, you are still Bride to the Immortal Lord and I do not believe Lord Jerrath would relinquish you over a malady that is easily cured."

"You can cure me?"

"The marques on your skin I cannot but you can be cured of the inability to control your lous'rife and Will. When your temper overcomes or your life is in danger, you will be much more capable of stilling or release your lous'rife. The beings around you won't be in danger."

"Impossible."

"Of course not Miss, but you contain enough lous'rife. You need training and from what I gather, no being has bothered."

"How can we know if the training will be successful?"

"We don't know Miss. When it comes to lous'rife and marques many beings find it impossible to learn a solitary marque. You will never learn your capability if you do not ride the feelina."

Mistress Byerne doesn't know about my immortality nor my plethora of deaths. Speaking of such things would reveal aspects about myself that should be hidden away.

Hoping you wry away from marque topics and my marques in general I ask, "W-What do y-y-you p-p-propose?"

Damn stutters return.

"Well Miss, dare not to risk another marque, lest your lous'rife is provoked, perhaps I can cut you out of the cloth."

With words said, she promptly undoes the laces. It is a simple pull and turn. Damned cursed fabric collects around my wrists. I wouldn't have minded wandering in my underthings, the cloak covers all indecencies.

With a flourish, Mistress Byerne pulls scissors from the air and quickly, cleanly clipped the fabric from my immobile hands. The dress falls from the holes and lays in a puddle at my feet but my fists continue their stubborn clenching.

Mistress Byerene squanders not and takes my measurements with quick efficiency using a piece of string marked at regular intervals and pens the measurement on parchment.

I stand still, determined to make her job less difficult. As moments pass, my body shivers, unused to being unclothed.

"Please bare with me Miss, I am almost finished."

My cheeks flush when her hands brush against my breasts when she measures my bust, hips and buttocks.

"My apologies Miss," she says when she sights my flaming countenance, " Have you never been measured in such fashion? Are you terribly uncomfortable?"

"M-M-ore sur-su-sur-prised than o-of-offended."

True to her word, after two more, mildly awkward measurements she announces her completion. At the same moment, my hands decide they no longer want to remain as fossils and release the captive fabric.

My fingers flex and Mistress Byerne swoops like a graceful bird, snatches my cloak and wraps it around my shoulders.

"No Miss, I am going to call the seamstresses and you shall tell them how you want your garments made. Will that be all right with you?"

I nod my approval.

Once again, Mistress Byerne claps her hands twice, followed by complicated hand signals. Her hands don't thunder nor emit grey smoke. Instead, cerulean smoke filters from her fingers taking a humanoid, female form. When the smoke solidifies, it contains no features only indentions where the eyes, nose and mouth should be.

"Summon the seamstresses," Mistress Byerne tells the conjuration. The humanoid creature bows, bursts into a cloud of smoke and vanishes into the crack beneath the door.

Before I can ask what in the name of Ira the creature is, the door bursts open and following its wake are three seamstresses clutching pads of parchment. They motion in unison, pulling stools from the air, sit and wait for instructions.

I take a deep breath and gather my courage and say, " I do not want anything fancy. Simple and modest is what I prefer. I want long sleeves, I care not on the make as long as they cover my arms. Everything I wear must have a veil and a hood. One last thing, I need gloves. It matters not as long as I am covered. Follow these specifications and I care not what else you do."

The room fills with frantic sketching as the ideas flow. Suddenly, exhausted from all the human interaction, I ask Mistress Byerne to show me back to my rooms.

The next six nights the seamstresses accost me with textiles, needles, and thread. I have told them an unfathomable number of times, I care not about how they dress me. They persist and I give up.

There is no sign of The Immortal Lord and the castle becomes a flurry of activity. Where did he disappear to?

On the eighth night after our original contact, I am disturbed from a deep slumber by a rap, tapping on my bedroom door. My sleep cerebellum thinks it's one of the maids.

The candle burned first black, it couldn't be the maids. I pull my veil securely about my head and open the door.

Heat envelops me when the door swings open. The Immortal Lord stands outside and his skin looks as if he's been dipped in boiling water. Heat emanates in unnatural waves.

"Lord?"

"Help," he croaks, "The burn."

He stumbles into the room and collapses.

Abandoning my anger, I grab his ankles, and my hands sizzle from the heat.

Smoke pours.

Heaving and hauling, I pull the Immortal Lord across my rooms and into the bathing room; and with the last of my strength, I shove him unceremoniously into the small pool of water.

The water hisses.

I ignore my injuries and rush to where Gregoire's rooms lay.

My curse caused this.