Page 16 of Mistress of Bones
XII
SECOND CHANCES
DAYS EARLIER
Virel Enjul, Emissary of the Lord Death, opened his eyes, and Azul del Arroyo’s face filled his vision.
There would be no forgiving now. No mercy.
“Emissary Enjul,” someone said.
He sat up, the muscles in his chest and left shoulder protesting at the sudden movement. His mask was a reassuring weight on his nose as he bared his teeth at the guard standing nearby.
“Fetch my belongings,” he snarled. “I will take the next ship.”
“Yes, Emissary.”
The man scurried out of the room. The dockworkers had brought Enjul to some fisherman’s shack.
Nets and ropes lined the walls, and a rickety piece of wood trembled under him when he brought his legs off the table.
The stench of fish warred with the smell of gunpowder clinging to his clothes.
He took off his shirt and tossed it into a corner, then glanced at his chest and shoulder.
Satisfaction coursed through him.
His skin, barely marked.
The ball of metal he had felt enter his body, tear through muscle, and crush his bones nowhere to be seen, nowhere to be felt.
He closed his eyes, one hand over his beating heart, and searched for the spark that made him different from other Valanjians, the otherly piece he had been born with that marked him as belonging to the Lord Death. A piece so small it could be ignored if it hadn’t colored every aspect of his life.
Virel Enjul might carry a piece of the Lord Death within himself, but he was no god.
There had been moments in the past, stolen moments of frustration, of indecision, of boredom, when he had doubted his faith.
He had wondered what use it was to serve on behalf of the Lord Death, to exist in a world that decayed around him, when Death himself never bothered to speak directly to him.
Now his god was rewarding him for staying true.
It wasn’t uncommon for emissaries to survive an accident or a fever that would’ve killed anyone else, but surviving this kind of wound? Enjul couldn’t recall such a thing happening before.
The Lord Death had measured his soul, his belief, and concluded his mission was true. That he must go after the malady and keep her under his control. Stop the rot. Stop her.
And if she put up a fight , he thought, licking his lips, then he’d take great pleasure in teaching her to fear the Lord Death, just as she and her companion had taken pleasure in attempting to end his life .
Yes, perhaps he would simply kill her and test how much Sancia’s beloved gods liked their malady.
Azul del Arroyo would not escape his grasp again.
THE PRESENT
Azul could never tell how long she stood by the door with the rotting corpse of Silvo Zenjiel, Enjul’s fingers digging holes into her shoulders, his gaze trying to bore into her soul. It could’ve been seconds; it could’ve been eons.
Then the hands fell, his attention shifted to the guard, and the trembling began. Her fingers first, followed by her whole hands. And she prayed to Luck and Wonder it would not reach farther.
Azul dropped to her knees and reached for the arm lying on the tiles next to Zenjiel’s head.
Bones peeked through the decaying flesh, the stench of rot inescapable, and Azul was certain she would never smell anything else again.
Her fingers threaded through the skin and muscle until she touched bone.
She called on the Eye of Death.
It took so much more effort than the bird or the chicken or her own sister that Azul thought she might not be able to do it at all.
The thought was scarier than never seeing Isadora again, so she stared hard into Zenjiel’s milky-white eyes and called on the instinct wreaking havoc in her veins, the one calling for her to deny death and remake what had been taken.
The muscle around her fingers became tougher, the skin re-forming.
A chain of ripping sounds came from his clothing as the bone used the body and fabric to re-form.
But it wasn’t enough. It sucked greedily at the spots where it touched the doorframe and the door itself—once a beautiful polished walnut brown, now a web of gray roots.
The sunken skin tightened; the face no longer drooped.
Another piece of Azul’s soul gone to fill Zenjiel’s eyes with awareness.
She felt its loss, the tearing of her insides, a piercing pain in a place deep inside her.
This was no simple animal. Death demanded more if he was to step aside and relinquish his claim on a human being.
Then Azul was torn away, thrown backward into the wall, where she crashed with a painful thud.
She blinked, trying to clear her vision. Zenjiel was staring at her from where he lay on the tiles, the tendons in his neck straining as he fought to lift his head, his mouth struggling to open.
Virel Enjul arched his sword and separated Silvo Zenjiel’s head from his neck.
Azul screamed. A hoarse cry that clawed up her throat and filled her ears. “What did you do?” she cried.
The Emissary of the Lord Death wiped his sword, mouth relaxed, the mask of bone hiding the rest of his features. “Death is death,” he said, “and should remain dead.”
Azul could barely understand his words. “But he was alive again!”
A hissing inhale came from the guard hovering behind them. Enjul ignored it and reached down for her. “He shouldn’t have been.”
He pulled her to her feet. Azul flinched at the contact, but his grip was overpowering and as unavoidable as death itself.
He made short work of dragging her out of the room and toward a pair of gaping guards, stepping over the remains of Zenjiel like a sack of spilled goods instead of a man dead by his hand.
“The ambassador?” he asked.
One of the guards had enough presence to answer: “On her way, Emissary.”
“Clear out, but don’t go far. Keep an eye on Miss Del Arroyo.”
Neither of the guards showed disgust or wariness as they walked down the hall. To them, Azul realized, she was an innocent bystander. She wasn’t the woman who had accidentally ended Zenjiel, then attempted to return his life.
Which explained why they paid her no heed when they stopped to watch another guard trot down the corridor and cover the remains with a sheet.
Azul slipped away on the tip of her boots to avoid the echo of her heels. A couple of black tabards ran past her, paying her no attention. She took the first corner of the endless corridor, then a second into a narrower hallway.
Would the chaos reach the stables, or would she be better off setting out on foot? She barely remembered how to saddle a horse. She’d have to hope one was ready, somehow, waiting for her. Doubtful.
Besides, Azul had given her word to Nereida.
Where had they taken her?
She resumed her silent walk, trying to form a map of the building inside her head. How such a vast building seemed to be composed of only corridors, she couldn’t begin to comprehend. Where would they stash an interloper? Did they have jail cells in this place?
Her steps slowed to a halt as she passed by an opening into one of the patios. The garden outside was drenched in shadows, the silvery moonlight of Luck and Wonder probing here and there, blessing the land with their presence.
It was hard to guess who had been more shocked at Zenjiel’s sudden turn into a standing corpse, the emissary or Azul. She had sought to prove Enjul wrong, that bringing her sister back was not the affront to the gods he believed it to be, and he had shown her he was as merciless as death.
The ease with which he had executed Zenjiel made her innards churn. Did she not have a responsibility here beyond her promise to Nereida? Would she really allow the emissary to steal the life she had begun to bring back?
A bone, that was all that she needed. A toe nobody would miss. And later, when she escaped with Nereida and brought Isadora back, she’d complete what Virel Enjul had so cruelly interrupted.
Once away from Enjul, Zenjiel would be given the opportunity to live. Then maybe the hole inside Azul would begin to close.
Turning, she retraced her steps and chose another hallway away from the patio and deeper into the less elegant side of the building. The servants’ area would be here, and the guards’ quarters. The kitchens had to be nearby or annexed.
The cellars.
They had stowed Isadora in the inn’s cool cellar until it was time for her body to be moved. They would do the same with Zenjiel.
At the sound of incoming footsteps, she dipped into a nook formed by one of the pillars and held her breath.
A guard and a servant walked by, speaking in hushed tones and ignoring their surroundings.
No shouts of alarm yet. How long until her disappearance was noticed? She must hurry.
Azul slipped from behind the column, alert to any incoming noise. The deeper she got into the servants’ zones, the more populated they’d be. If someone noticed her, what excuse could she give?
She peeked around a corner. A guard stood by an open archway, a lamp by his feet flickering light against the shadows.
Should she walk by, full of bravado, or try to find a way around? Perhaps through one of the patios?
“You will not succeed,” said a voice behind her. “You may think of a thousand ways to reach his bones, but you will fail every one of them.”
Azul stiffened and looked over her shoulder. Emissary Enjul stood a few paces away, his bone mask and pale shirt bright beacons in the moons’ light.
Now she understood the lack of alarm cries. Why invest the manpower when he thought he knew her so well?
“Is that why you didn’t search for me?” she asked bitterly.
The Emissary of the Lord Death shrugged. “You are easy to read; your plans lack any finesse or subterfuge. You pose no challenge.” He closed the few steps separating them and grasped her wrist.
Azul shook off his hold. Surprisingly, he let go. “You might find my mind lacking, but I can follow,” she bit off. “Lead.”