She’d served my mother before me. Served my grandmother before that. The clan whispered that she’d been ancient when the Shift happened, that she remembered the world before.
I didn’t believe the whispers. But I didn’t disbelieve them either.
“You’ve brought a bride.” Morveth’s eyes, filmed with cataracts but still sharp, moved to the woman beside me. “How unexpected.”
“The council has been insisting I secure an heir. I’ve obliged them.”
“Have you.” Morveth reached the bottom of the steps. Extended her hand toward my bride in the traditional greeting, palm up, fingers spread, waiting for the touch that would seal the welcome.
“Come, child. Let me look at you.”
My bride hesitated. Just for a moment, revealing a flicker of something in those gray-green eyes.
Then she stepped forward. Placed her hand in Morveth’s.
The priestess twitched.
It wasn’t dramatic. No scream, no gasp. Just a small, sharp flinch, her hand jerking back as if she’d touched something hot.
Her filmed eyes sharpened. Fixed on my bride’s face with an intensity that made even me uncomfortable.
“Death-touched,” she whispered. “But how...”
My bride’s expression didn’t change, remaining smooth and blank as a frozen lake, but I saw her shoulders tighten.
“She frightens easily,” I said, though I noted the priestess’s fear. I stepped between them. Took Morveth’s arm and turned her toward the steps.
“The journey was long. My bride is tired. Have the servants prepare the east chamber.”
Morveth’s gaze stayed fixed on the woman behind me. “My lord, she is not?—”
“She is tired,” I repeated. “And cold. See to the chamber, priestess.”
Something passed between us. An old understanding, born of decades of service and the unspoken contract between lord and counselor. Morveth pressed her thin lips together. Nodded once. Climbed the steps without another word.
I turned back to my bride.
She stood where I’d left her, still and pale, her hands clasped in front of her like a penitent awaiting judgment. The wind stirred her hair. She didn’t shiver.
“You must forgive Morveth,” I said. “She is old. She sees things that aren’t there.”
“Of course.” My bride’s voice was calm. Measured. Giving nothing away. “I’m sure she meant no offense.”
But her eyes watched me with an intelligence that belied her demure posture. She knew what the priestess had seen. Knew what the word meant.
Death-touched.
I filed the information away. Added it to the growing list of questions my new bride raised like flowers to the sun.
The grand entrance hall was icy.
Not as intense as the courtyard, but chilly enough that most visitors shivered when they crossed the threshold. The walls were black stone, polished to a mirror shine. The floor was black marble, veined with silver.
Torches burned in iron sconces shaped like ravens with their wings spread, and the firelight flickered against the walls, casting shadows that moved on their own.
My ancestors had built this hall to intimidate. It worked.
On most. My bride simply walked beside me, her bare feet silent on the marble. I’d offered her shoes; she’d declined. Said she preferred the stone against her skin.
