“Like what you see?” I flip my hair over my shoulder precisely how Rowenna used to, making sure to display the clover on my wrist.
For a second, two deep valleys form between Alaric’s brows, but with a shake of his head, they vanish, replaced by a cold, cutting smile. “I do,” he says, prowling toward me. “Very much.”
The shift is so abrupt and unnatural, the vacant look in his eyes so eerie and unsettling, I inadvertently step back. It’s the precise sort of cold-blooded callousness I imagine it would take to shove your own wife off a cliff.
“What’s the matter, Indira?” Alaric purrs. “I thought you wanted me to look. To cherish this moment. You’re the picture of bridal beauty…”
“I wish I could say the same for you,” I spit, gesturing at his filthy clothes and grimy hands, which clearly haven’t been washed.“Apparently, you can’t be expected to go to bed with a hog but have no problem smelling like one yourself.”
Soren steps forward and grabs my arm. “Watch your tongue, girl. You will not disrespect your husband in such a manner.”
“He’s not my husband yet,” I retort.
“Clearly, it’s time to rectify that.” Soren hauls me from the tent and toward the fire. “Donovan and Eska will serve as witnesses.” He points at two scraggly-bearded men and motions for them to stand. “The rest of you will repeat the vow of the binding.”
I don’t know what “the vow of the binding” is, but it brings to mind images of Alaric and me side by side in the stocks, a clapper locked tight around our necks.
“You, over there.” Soren directs me to the smoky side of the fire and positions Alaric across from me.
In the flickering light, Alaric’s disheveled hair shines blue-black as a raven’s wing, and his eyes are the gray of wet granite. He’s disgustingly handsome, blinding me with the smoldering grin he wears like armor. I have no doubt it renders most women into beet pulp, but all I see when I look at him is an aristolochia flower—a carnivorous plant that has dark masklike petals and luminous “eyes,” which it uses to attract and devour insects. The aristolochia also happens to smell of rotting flesh, which seems appropriate, given my sister’s blood is still practically dripping from his fingers.
“Take her hand,” King Soren orders Alaric, “and hold it tight.”
I may not be wearing chains like Rowenna did during her ceremony, but I’m just as much a prisoner.
The Vanzadorians at least pretended it was a “joining of our nations” when Rowenna and Alaric were wed. They let us perform the ceremony in Tashir, beneath the watchful eyes of Earth Mother, and allowed every planter in the kingdom to gather in the grove of maple trees, beneath a trellis woven with bagrava. Mother sprinkled the sacred oils over their hands, and Father intoned the Tashiri words of unification.
“Alive as flowers that spring toward the sun
Join these two hearts, as vines, into one.
Grow up together, create, bloom, and flower
Then return at life’s end for the earth to devour.”
Neither Rowenna nor Alaric looked pleased, but there was still something beautiful about the service, about the words themselves, uttered in such a picturesque location, with bees humming and honeysuckle tossing in the breeze.
There’s nothing beautiful about the Vanzadorian wedding ceremony.
King Soren stumbles through the rite, either making it up as he goes or forgetting half the words. Something about the “strength of a sure foundation” and “standing together as tall as the sky.” Things I will never do or be with his son, so I don’t bother listening.
When he finally finishes, he collects a skull-sized rock and raises it overhead. While his guards chant indecipherable words, he brings the rock crashing down on the boulders encircling the fire. It shatters like blown glass. Something a person without Vanzadorian power could never manage.
Soren scrapes up the fragments and sprinkles them, first over Alaric’s head, and then over mine. As I cough, he has the audacity to say, “Congratulations, you may kiss your bride.”
The guards hoot and whistle, but thankfully, Alaric doesn’t lean in. I yank my hands free and turn, eager to flee into the darkness beyond the fire, but Soren blocks my path.
“Ah, ah, ah. Your marriage bed isthatway.” He gestures grandly to the tent, and the whistles and jeers grow louder. As if this day hasn’t been horrifying and humiliating enough.
I want to spit in Soren’s face and take off running, but Rowenna seizes my wrist and tugs me forward.
Stay calm. Use this time to question Alaric. Catch him off guard and get under his skin.
Manic laughter bubbles up my throat, because this isnothow most women would get “under the skin” of their husband on their wedding night.
Alaric stiffens and his smirk falters, which gives me an inordinate amount of pleasure.
“What’s wrong with you?” he mutters. “What about any of this could possibly be funny?”
