“You belong to the Spires now, little bird. Hrothvor bought you. I will perform your binding ceremony tomorrow, and he will own you. You are Hrothvor’s maiden, and soon you will be his wife.”
Face pressed to the ground, Caramyn forced back tears and whispered the word. “Kuhrissi.”
“Up,” Ragna said coolly. “Hrothvor expects you ready by nightfall. Impress him—for your sake.”
Caramyn wanted to scream. To fight. To do anything. Instead, the weight in her chest settled into something hard and patient. There would be a chance. She would wait for it, or die making one.
Other women were summoned to prepare her. They washed her with icy water, scrubbing away grime with stiff brushes that burned the welt on her back. It was nothing like the baths of Vaerwynd. Nothing gentle at all.
She feared what they would do when they removed her clothing and saw her creeping Shadowblood marks framing the root-like sigil within them. They did stop and look at them, and muttered something in Silverean, but they didn’t seem concerned with any of it. And she didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.
All the while, she kept the vial clenched tight. When Brenn’s invisibility spell faded, she never opened her hand. Just before they painted her nails, she feigned a sneeze and slipped the vial into her mouth, praying it wouldn’t spill. They braided her hair into intricate knots, weighted with metal beads, and painted her lips a deep wine shade. As Ragna lined her eyes with soot black kohl, she spoke again.
“No wonder he paid so dearly. We don’t have eyes or markings like yours here. You’re quite a rare gem.”
Caramyn bit her lip, focused on hiding the vial. Perhaps the Silvereans didn’t recognize Shadowbloods because they weretoo far removed from any of their impact on the realm. They wouldn’t know much of Shadowblood history, or even how to recognize them, when they existed so far from where they’d once dwelled, isolated in this fortress of frost, stone, and iron.
When Caramyn’s preparations were complete, the women retreated, but not before one leaned close and whispered, “I’m so sorry.” Caramyn flinched, unable to see which of them had spoken—but she would never forget the sound.
Night crept in as torches were lit. Food was brought—a tasteless sludge of fish stew and bread. Even though she was starving, she only pretended to eat, wary of anything that might dull her senses. She couldn’t keep from shivering beneath the sheer woolen wrap they’d given her to wear over the fitted crimson gown that clung to the shape of her body, and that was certainly not meant to keep the body warm.
Ragna watched from the door, tapping the whip in her hand. When the last of daylight faded, she stepped forward, dabbing Caramyn’s neck and arms with fragrant oil.
“It’s time.”
If a night to remember was what Hrothvor wanted, it was what he would get.
41
Red Dress
Caramyn
“Don't look so dismal, Ijia” Ragna muttered. “You'll realize your place is here, among the maidens. They all accept it sooner or later.”
Caramyn finally broke her hours-long silence. “Have they accepted it? Or do they simply have no choice because this place has broken their spirits as well as their bodies?” Caramyn shook her head, biting her tongue before she lost her temper and ruined her chances of escaping.
Ragna walked her to the great lodge of Hrothvor, where a heavy door with an iron ring awaited them. Caramyn scrutinized the layout of Hrothvor’s outpost. Beneath the snow-coatedslopes of the back roof, there was an opening. An icy glass window that overlooked the settlement of tents and snowcave homes. A promising exit point, if needed.
She missed having Nocthar’s eyes. He would have found the best route.
But he wasn’t there. And without him, she'd have to trust her own instincts on the ground.
She was taken into the clan leader’s home, and her thoughts raced. How was she to administer the vial of poison tucked away in the bosom of her dress? How would she administer it? She couldn’t assume there would be a drink in his room, or that she would even have a chance to slip the potion into it if there was. What if he kept guardsinsideof his room? He probably wouldn’t be the type to mind an audience... But as she dared to entertain all the things she was sure he would try to do to her, she thought of something that just might work, if it didn’t kill her first.
The vial was so small that it hardly contained a sip’s worth of liquid. She couldn’t waste a drop. As she walked, she popped the lid off, hiding her movements underneath her woolen shawl.
Ragna knocked on the door. Hrothvor’s voice on the other side granted them permission to enter, and her skin turned to ice. She felt sick but forced herself to maintain her focus. The crane-woman shoved her forward into the fire-lit crackling room and closed the door. The space was dim, just as she’d hoped. Scanning her surroundings as quickly and discreetly as she could, she was relieved to see that there was no one else in the room besides the hungry-eyed Frostlord. Her window of freedom lay just across the room, an open gateway into the night sky.
She waited for a brief moment when he looked away as he adjusted himself, and with one swift motion, brought the vial to her lips and took in the liquid, careful not to swallow the small amount. It burned, and tasted like sour blood and sea,but she ignored the bitter taste and feigned normalcy, her face nonreactive and unreadable.
“Come here.” Hrothvor demanded from his spot on his elaborate, fur covered bed. He sat up, braced against the timber headboard underneath a wolf pelt, naked and baring out all his jagged scars. Caramyn fought the burning urge to resist his command, and slowly strode over, drawing near to the bedside with a feigned smile.
“I see Ragna has taught you some manners.” He laughed in a way that made Caramyn’s stomach turn. “Already doing as you're told without a word. And so damn beautiful. I don’t think I can share you among the clan like the others. You might just have to be my special little pet.”
His odor was that of sweat, horseshit, mead, and something with a bitter copper twang. He reached up to stroke her arm, trailing up to her chest, and bile rose in her gut. But she couldn’t show any of it. As he groaned, Caramyn fought her desire to grab the nearest object and slam it into his face. Instead, she feigned willingness, quiet and docile, just as he’d want.
Still holding the poison in her mouth, she knew she must work fast, before he got her into a position she couldn’t get out from under. Though it repulsed her, she climbed onto the bed and over Hrothvor’s hulking body, pressing her open mouth to his, ignoring the grating feel of his cracked, wind-worn lips. As he expressed his pleasant surprise with a nauseating moan, she pushed out the poison from between her lips, ensuring that his mouth was open and praying that at least some of the liquid would wash down enough to take effect.
