“Do you not understand, truly, how kingship works?” he asked, lifting his elbow from the fireplace to cross his arms. He rested the back of his head against the wall behind him.
“I understand that what he says is law—”
“No, that is not what you lack understanding. You do not question his sentence. Even when it seems unfair, you obey your king, unconditionally. You have much to learn about Tintar.”
“You mean the place I have just arrived?” I quipped, all of my patience gone.
If his face ever showed any expression, I would imagine the tiny quirk of his mouth was his way of smirking. “You are without a king and without a god. And now you have King Hinnom and Mother Earth to serve. And you are without the appropriate discipline to do so.”
“Then I must learn, mustn’t I?”
My affirmation did not amuse him and his mouth flattened even more. Then he said, “You really must, madam. Or I may as well have cut you down back in that little chapel. Your new king is not to be underestimated and my goddess is not unkind, but she is just. Serve her well. Serve both well, I beg of you. As you are to be my wife, I will not be dragged down with your disrespect.”
“Why are you making this difficult?” I said. “Neither of us want this. I know I do not. And I would imagine, based on your ire, you do not want to have anything to do with me. But we can learn to abide each other. Unless you think we can attain a divorce after a time.”
“Our king rarely untangles his own webs.”
I sighed. “I do not mean to be contentious.”
“You do not mean to be contentious. And yet you could have accepted your fate back in Eccleston and saved everyone the trouble.”
I fought for my breath. “There are times, captain,” I said, once I had found it, “where you seem a decent man. And then there are times when I find myself wondering if you have a heart beating inside your chest.”
His glare was contemptuous.
“I think,” I continued, “you are not angry with me. I think you are angry with yourself.”
“Is that so? Please tell me why, Edith.”
The use of my name nearly unseated me, but I was too irritated. “You are angry with yourself,Alric, because you fell for my ruse. Your soldiers, these Procurers as you call them, they fell for it too. And you must now live with that mistake. But we all have to live with our mistakes, so I—”
“Oh believe me, madam,” he cut me off. “You are quite the mistake.”
We stood staring at each other, him in repose, me leaning into the back of the couch, gripping it with my hands, my chest expanding with breath I tried to slow.
His eyes dipped, ever so quickly, below.
Ah, yes, I thought to myself. He cannot forget that I am a woman. I was not a woman unversed in seduction, having had my share of lovers in my time in Eccleston, but neither was I that rare pedigree of woman who can use her wiles to erect an entire existence that is to her advantage. However, I saw this as an arrow in my quiver.
“I agree,” I said. “I am a mistake. Your mistake. That you must marry.”
“That I must marry,” he repeated, his voice no longer flat but bitter.
I tilted my head to one side. “Which rumor shall I endorse, captain?”
He blinked. “Elaborate.”
I thought of Zinnia’s earlier explanation. “There are two. I will, as a graceful and supportive wife, only confirm what you prefer. There is the rumor that you took one look at me and you were enraptured, you could not cut me down. Or my companions. Priestesses or no. What actually transpired, my disguise, is another rumor. Which shall it be?”
He looked away from me and dropped his arms. He walked towards a chair, one facing mine and put his hands on the back. “It matters not,” he replied. “Both bring me tremendous shame.”
A tautness in the back of my throat rose. How dare he? Was I so undesirable to be considered a bride? Plenty of men had hinted at marriage in Eccleston, but I had never encouraged anything more than casual affection and mutual satisfaction. I was already married to Thrush. I understood the man’s disgrace at resignedly believing us clerics of Agnes, but must he be cruel? “So you are ashamed at your thinking me a priestess?”
“I knew,” he said, hands flexing on the chair, but his face still smooth. “I knew you were deceptive. But I was tired and I could not find your Council of Ten, cowards that they are, breaking our trade agreements and knowing your city would be invaded, hiding from Tintar and letting their constituents be slaughtered. And my men, most of them, are prone to faith in luck and therefore, they believe in a lack of luck and killing clerics would guarantee an utter lack of luck. I let them vote and I should not have. So, yes, it brings me shame. I let my weariness and my men cloud out my better judgment.”
I did not ask what shame the first rumor would bring, how shameful being my husband was and why. “So, you are determined to be difficult?”
“I am determined,” he began, “to marry you and never speak to you again.”
