She sealed the letter and entrusted it with the Baersladen’s swiftest messenger, reminding him that if it fell into the wrong hands, such a bold accusation as the letter claimed could be grounds for war among the Eyrie.
As Rangar continued to be occupied by his mission to strengthen security among the villages—employing every huntsman in the kingdom to scour the forests for berserkir wolves—Bryn dedicated herself to her apprenticeship. Her diligent study with Ren paid off when she proved to Mage Marna that she’d mastered the wording for the minor healing spell and another one to prevent eavesdropping, and was rewarded with two fresh hexmark scars carved into her back.
“An apprenticeship can take years, even a decade,” Mage Marna reminded her. “It is not a race to collect hexmarks like badges of merit. There is more to magic than what the skin shows.”
“I know,” Bryn confessed, running her fingers along the various herb and potion jars in the mage storerooms. “But I’m anxious for it. It’s like a hunger. The more sentiment spreadsagainstmagic, the more I want to master it.”
Mage Marna touched her cheek, a rare affectionate gesture for the stern older woman. “Do not be so anxious to turn your back on your own ways, Bryn, in your desire to assimilate into ours. You were raised with science. That is the sister study to magic.”
“I didn’t think science was highly valued in the northern realms.”
“Perhaps,” Mage Marna admitted. “But I’ve spent many years in many different kingdoms, even ones outside of the Eyrie. There is no one answer to any problem. No single right way.”
Bryn nodded as she considered this. Then she asked, “I understand magic isn’t to be rushed, but there is one more hexmark I hope to acquire before the wedding.”
“And what is that?”
She paused. “To make weeds flourish.”
Mage Marna looked at her askance. “Weeds?”
“Is there such a hex?”
“There are many hexes to help plants grow, though none specifically for weeds.” She cocked her head. “Still, I might be able to modify one for you. Consider it my wedding present to you and Rangar. Return to me in a few days.”
As the days passed, marked each morning by the prayer for King Aleth’s soul, the white mourning banners grew gray with sleet, dust, and salt air. Bryn dutifully tied her grieving sash daily and said her own personal prayers for King Aleth, but she also looked anxiously toward the end of the grieving period.
Roxin replenished the castle’s stores of ingredients for the wedding. Invitations went out to royals from other kingdoms as well as villages throughout the Eyrie, though with the caveat that people should only travel if they felt safe to do so. The village children were sent to gather maiden roses to hang in the square, though this time of year, the few remaining flowers were small and withered and had to be woven in with wheatberries to fill out the wreath.
Bryn watched from the drawbridge as the eldest child of the group climbed a ladder to hang the wreath in the village square. Excitement fluttered in her chest. It was only a matter of days until she’d finally be wed to Rangar, and the wreath proved it.
“My lady,” a gentle voice said behind her. “If you have a moment?”
Helna stood behind her with a bundle wrapped in rough wool. Bryn’s heart began to pound harder. There could be only one reason Helna would speak with her this soon before the wedding. “Of course,” Bryn said.
Helna unfolded the bundle to reveal her wedding gown. Bryn gasped at the sight of it. Enough time had passed to allow the new fabric to arrive from Zaradona, and it was a beautiful sea-gray silk with pearl buttons and intricate embroidery in the shape of ocean waves.
“Oh, Helna,” Bryn said as she touched the dress reverently. “It’s beautiful.”
The old seamstress beamed. “You’ll be quite the bride in it, my lady. I tried to make it as different as I could from your wedding gown to Prince Trei. This one is lighter but still in keeping with traditional colors . . .”
“It’s perfect.” Bryn squeezed the woman’s hand. “Truly.”
That evening, Bryn and Rangar dined in their chambers, and she could hardly contain her excitement about the wedding gown.
“Show me,” Rangar grunted, his eyes trailing down her décolleté. “I want to see you in it. And then, I want to see you out of it.”
“You can’t see a bride in her dress before the wedding,” she admonished.
“That’s a Mir custom, not a Baer one.” He downed his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “To us, it’s just a dress.”
“Well, forget such thoughts. You aren’t going to see it a moment before I’m standing in it across from you, with the vicar between us. Besides, I can tell at least one Mir custom has grown on you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And which one would that be?”
She motioned to the chambers they had settled into as their primary suite. “Having a private bedroom. Not sleeping in the great hall with goats and a hundred villagers.”
A playful snort came from his nose. “You liked the goats.”
