Her laughter sharpened. “My dear druid, so new are you to this world. The only honesty a man has is in his cock. Suppose you might consider that at midnight, when it is within your possession.”
“So you won’t help,” he said, frustrated.
“Iamhelping. If it wasn’t for me, you would be his captive, but tonight, you shall be his wife. Now, let’s get you dressed.”
His wedding gown hung by the fire. She inspected it with twinkling eyes. “Gossamer and silver. Opulence befitting Nythis, herself. Now you, too, shall be a bride of Æon’Righ.”
He did not wish to be a bride of anything.
The priestess helped him into the gown. It was as light as spidersilk and cool to the touch. The color of fog, it cloaked his body like a sheen of dew. The sleeves settled above his wrists and Hirí went still at the sight of them. The angry red marks had dimpled into bloody purple.
“Who did this to you?”
Nervously, he pulled back on his arm, but her grip did not loosen. “It matters not,” he murmured.
“It matters a great deal. Tell me.”
“It was…”
Her face filled with recognition. “Ah. Some things never change.”
“What—”
“All the better,” she said. “Let them see.”
“No!” He reached for her hand. “I will not go as some battered offering. Please. Help me cover them.”
For a split moment, he thought he saw a glimmer of fury in her eyes, but it dripped out like water through a crack, and she said, “Of course, my dear. If that is what you wish.”
They were wordless as she found some blue ribbon and fastened it around his wrists like silk shackles. They looked beautiful, but in his mind, he could only see the chains.
The hour neared.
His gaze fixed on the hearth, where the tallow lay warming.
Hirí cupped his face. “It will all go quickly, darkling. No fear,” she said, running her thumbs against his skin.
“I have never seen a wedding,” he muttered. “I do not know what to expect.”
“It is all rather simple. They shall read the rites. And fasten the hands. You’ll be kissed… And the seeding will begin.”
“Shall it be painful?” he asked quietly.
“It’s but a moment. A turn of the blade… a prick—”
He winced. A stinging pain cut across his cheek; on her fingertip was a drop of scarlet blood.
“How clumsy of me.” She licked it clean with the tip of her tongue. “You won’t feel a thing. Here…” She returned to her coffret, shifting aside bowls of pigment and withdrew a small jar of ivory beads. She shook one onto her palm and brought it to him. It was small and pale and strange.
“What is it?” he said, still rubbing his face.
She took it between her fingers and held it to his mouth. “It will make you feel nothing… or everything. Whichever you delight. Hold out your tongue.” He didn’t, but she took his chin and instructed him again. “Open.”
He had no choice.
She placed the bead upon it and grinned as she watched it melt.
“Good,” she whispered. “Now, shall I apply the tallow?”
