I cast a short glance back over my shoulder to the hidden doorway behind the ivy curtain. Should I linger here and make certain the stranger gets out and over the wall? They will come searching for me if I do not make an appearance alongside Artoris. Father will barge in, guards at his back.
I frown. Though I can’t say why, I don’t want the stranger to be caught. He may be a lunatic, and a fae lunatic at that. But there was something about him which struck me in a way I cannot quite define, even in the privacy of my own head.
My palm rests against my beating heart, feeling the dampness there where Artoris marked me with the heartfasting sigil. There’s something else as well, something deeper, down under my skin. I close my eyes—and for half an instant, I see myself standingin a dark encampment lit with many small fires, surrounded by unfriendly gazes. A young man, a priest perhaps, but in strange garb, stands before me, murmuring words in a foreign tongue as he dips his fingers in a bowl of some liquid. My hand is clasped firmly in a powerful grip, and I see a muscular forearm in front of me. I let my eyes follow the line of that arm up to the bicep, the massive shoulders, and then—
A fog rolls over my mind, enveloping the vision. I blink hard, struggling to recall what it was I thought I saw. A shudder ripples down my spine. I look over my shoulder one last time, half-wondering if I can see the outline of the stranger through that dense ivy foliage. Gods above, let him possess an ounce of sense in that thick, beautiful skull of his, and get out of here while he can.
Bracing myself, I follow Artoris to the garden door. He waits for me, a satisfied smile on his lips, and pushes the door open, motioning for me to precede him. I step from the inner courtyard into the greater garden of Beldroth and find myself facing my father. I haven’t seen him since my return, since I woke from near-death in my bed. He has made no effort to visit me.Favorite child, my ass,I think bitterly.
Larongar looks me over now, his single-eyed gaze critical. He is a large bear of a man, his face bearded and scarred from many campaigns, his hands rough, his manner rougher still. Though he’s clad in wedding attire, rich silks trimmed with fur, an ornate chain draped across his shoulders, and many rings on his fingers,somehow, despite this finery, he cannot help but emanate the aura of a warrior, of a brute. It is simply who he is, and no amount of royal trappings can change the fact.
“So,” he says, meeting my gaze sternly, “the vows were stated?”
I nod, wordless. Larongar turns to Artoris for confirmation. “My love and I have exchanged the blessed words,” my intended states with a smile, “and sealed them with the sacred mark of Nornala.”
Larongar grunts and turns to the elderly priest, who stands just at his shoulder. “Satisfied?” he demands.
The priest steps forward and makes a great show of inspecting both me and Artoris. I wonder, briefly, if he will be able to discern that I never actually touched Artoris, that I did not mark him with the waters of the garden. It doesn’t make any difference in the end, I suppose; priests, I’ve often found, are more concerned with appearances than any discernable truth in their holy posturing.
“It is well done,” the man declares at last, in a rather breathy voice. “We may now proceed with the wedding.”
My father grunts out a curse, but shrugs. “I suppose we’d better get on with it then. Mereth!” he snaps his fingers, and my mother, who waited all this while with the women some small distance apart from her husband and his entourage, leaps to his side, her eyes downcast, her face demure. “Get the girl ready,” Larongar demands. “Make sure she’s properly prepared for all that’s coming.” He shoots her a nasty look from beneath his lowered brow. “If you find the task distasteful, summon my LadyFyndra. She’ll take care of matters right enough.”
Fyndra, standing among the other ladies, giggles softly at her lover’s praise. Mother keeps her face serene, projecting an untouchable front to all those watching. I know better; I suspect no one here falls for her façade. But she will wear it, and we will all honor the effort it takes to maintain her dignity under such circumstances.
So I am led away, back through the gardens. I’m grateful for the reprieve from the possessive stare of my husband-to-be, however brief. Halfway up the garden, I notice Lyria’s absence. She’s been with me all morning, helped me prepare for this ceremony, walked at my side, offering whatever support she can. I don’t like to depend on her or anyone, but it’s been good to know she was at my back in this cold, wretched world.
Not anymore, apparently. Lyria’s vanished without a trace, and when I make inquiries, no one seems to have noticed her departure.
I look back only once, as we reach the top of the gardens, my gaze searching out that distant wall. I half-wonder if I’ll glimpse the stranger, scrambling up to make his escape, but my view does not extend so far. A wind picks up, pulling at my heavy veil and chilling my skin. That encounter with the fae feels like something out of a dream—the gloriously beautiful stranger, declaring his undying love for me in deep, impassioned tones. It would be romantic were he not stark raving mad. He was certainly an impressive specimen of manliness, who would dwarf even my father if it came to direct comparison. Artoris he could snap inhalf without breaking a sweat.
A pleasant fantasy, but not one worth dwelling on.
I turn away from the gardens and follow my mother into the castle. The walls feel as though they’re closing in upon me, just like the rest of my life. And I am too numb to do anything to stop it.
The stone corridors ring with the footsteps of my attendants, a hollow sound which echoes in my skull. But in those echoes, I seem to hear . . . a voice. A deep voice, singing in a foreign tongue, the unknown words filling up the dark caverns of my soul. For the first time since waking here in Beldroth wrapped in dark magic, I almost feel the urge to sing. It’s as though I know those words, know that melody . . . know the harmony that would be the exact compliment needed to transform that rough voice into something truly beautiful.
I firmly push these thoughts to the back of my brain, even as my mother and her ladies lead me back into my chambers. Here Mereth looks at me critically for a moment, a slight line between her brows. “You should rest for an hour or two,” she says. “There is time enough before the ceremony, and you look pale.”
I don’t try to argue. My body shakes with the effort to stay upright, even after so little exertion. Artoris’s spell feels fragile, and pain begins to seep in on the edges. I should ask for him to be sent to my rooms, to reestablish the magic. But I won’t. I’ve already seen more of Artoris than I care to for one day . . . and I still have a long night to endure in his company.
Trying not to let awareness of pain overwhelm me, I submit to being undressed and put to bed like a child. The ladies remove themselves to an antechamber to finalize preparations on my wedding gown, and I’m left in relative peace. I lie very still, staring up at the canopy over my head—those embroidered images of unicorns and strange, purple flowers. It seems to me, in a half-sleeping daze, that the unicorns begin to move. Their noble heads toss, their manes fly wild, and they kick up their heels, dancing through meadows of those same flowers, which extend for mile upon mile. As though from a great distance, I hear their voices—strange voices, which somehow mingle with the voice of that fae stranger from the garden, singing a song so expansive, it seems to fill the heavens with light.
I close my eyes, allowing that song to carry me away from the pain, for a little while at least.
12
TAAR
It is strange indeed to find myself standing at the top of this dark stairwell with this pale-eyed mortal woman who somehow, inexplicably, looks so like Ilsevel, spilling out the excruciating details of my story. I wonder if she is a Miphata, and this is a compulsion spell placed on me, dragging these words out in a long spool of confession. But though a sense of intense magic vibrates in the atmosphere, it doesn’t feel like Miphates’ magic. Or not exactly like it.
That Ilsevel’s sister is some sort of witch, I do not doubt. A powerful one too, though perhaps not yet come into the fullness of her power.
She listens intently, asking a few pointed questions to guide my tale in the direction she would keep it flowing. She learns of my pursuit of Mage Artoris and the talisman he bore, of the attackon Lamruil’s temple, of the captive I took alive and threw into a prison cart as a means of keeping her safe in the mayhem. When I speak of the warbride auction, her face goes very still, and I feel threat in the grip of her hand for the first time. She is strongly considering shooting me straight through with some deadly curse.
“It is not a Licornyn practice,” I snarl, “this selling and taking of warbrides. You needn’t look at me that way—I find it as abhorrent as you do.”
“And yet you bought my sister,” she speaks in a low voice through gritted teeth.
