Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
I peer out of the tent that conceals me from the crowd.
I’ll be the one walking toward Prince Corrik, which in Markaytia denotes the submissive person in the relationship, the person who is married off. It’s not gender related as it is in other societies that either favor patriarchy or matriarchy.
I expected this. He’s already proven to be the authority figure in our relationship. I lived all these years under Father’s thumb, and now I’ll have a new master.
I look out to the sea of people who sit in white chairs that are spread on either side of an aisle leading up to a large, circular dais. I spot Lucca craning his head around, trying to see me. When our eyes meet, he waves to me like a lunatic. I smile at him until another set of eyes find me: Prince Corrik’s. They glow an ultra-violet purple and look into me, searching for something. I can’t look away. Is there anything inside that ice fortress of a man?
Lucca waves and jumps in his seat, making it easy to hear him above the crowd. He clearly thinks I’ve lost sight of him. Why else would I have looked away? Prince Corrik notices Lucca’s display and frowns. The Gods only know what the Elven prince is thinking, but I doubt Lucca’s antics bode well for him. Or me.
If he could control himself this once.
“Tristan!” Papa’s voice behind me rings loud in my ears as I duck behind the tent flap, where I belong in the first place. I don’t miss the chastening glint—Papa has always been the hybrid of stern Father and Mother hen. “It is bad luck for the prince to see you—come away from there and let me have a good look at you.”
“I don’t believe in such superstitions, Papa.” I don’t quite snap it, but he knows something’s up. His comments are too reminiscent of mine at breakfast to my father—the ones I got my head bit off over.
“Regardless, come here now, little man.” Papa spins me around once I’m in reach of him. “So, Lucca can do the things he puts his mind to. Will wonders never cease?” He wraps me in his barrel arms. “What’s got you in a huff? Was it what your father said to you at breakfast?”
“How do you know about that? And how come you weren’t there?”
“Your father and I talk about everything, especially that which concerns you. I wasn’t there because your father wanted to eat with you alone— someone failed to tell Lucca .”
“Yeah, to tell me off. And I don’t know why he’d want to talk about me, seeing as I’m such a disappointment.”
“He didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then what did he mean?” I pull away. “Wait. What did he want to talk with me about?”
“I am sworn to secrecy on both counts.”
“Of course, you are.” I can’t hide my sarcasm, and I instantly regret talking like that to Papa. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it."
“You meant it all right, but I can’t say I blame you. I will tell you this: your father does love you, more than you know, and more than he’ll ever say.” Papa’s said that before and I want to believe him, but I’m greedy and still want to hear it from the source.
“Let’s put an end to this, shall we?” That’s his polite way of saying, enough, Tristan . I know the tone well from my youth. This is not the first disagreement he’s had the pleasure of ending between Father and me.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Good. Now tell me, are you ready?”
“I’ll never be ready.”
“Well, I for one am proud of you. Some day in the future, you will have saved a countless number of people by this union. Everyone will be grateful to you,” he assures me.
“I don’t need them to be grateful to me Papa. Keeping our people alive and safe is enough for me.”
“Alive is good.” He pulls me forward again and kisses the crown of my head like he did when I was younger, and the world is right again.
“Coddling him to the end I see,” Father says, his hard voice bites through our moment.
“Hello darling.” Papa ignores his jibe.
Father pulls Papa away from me and turns him so he can look into his green eyes. He stares into them in a way that would make me quake, but Papa only smiles. It’s an exchange I’m used to seeing. I’ve never had the meaning explained to me, but it does mean something. When Father is satisfied, he let’s go with a smack to his bottom. “I’ll deal with you later.”
“Of course, Arcade,” Papa says, putting his head down.
“You,” he says, turning his black eyes on me. “It’s time to go.”
I nod. I don’t want to test my voice under his fierce scrutiny. Father’s long, chestnut hair, feathers over his strong shoulders. He’s wearing his obsidian battle armor as usual. I can’t remember many occasions where I’ve seen him without it. Today he’s added the additional burgundy cloak over top, and the extra pieces of gleaming armor over his shoulders.
“Come then son, your destiny awaits.”
T he foreign Elvish music plays as my fathers escort me down the aisle. My heart speeds up as my limbs take me to him . I avoid looking at him and focus on the faces in the crowd. My family and court sit on one side, their forlorn faces resolved with admiration for my sacrifice. The prince’s family sit on the other side, all of them beaming with happiness. I’m stunned. It’s never occurred to me that they might be joyful over our union. I continue down the aisle and when I pass her, the beautiful Elven queen smiles at me. Her eyes are genuine, and she looks like she’s restraining herself. She’s a hugger, isn’t she? Sitting beside her is the grand Elven king. He’s an older looking version of Prince Corrik. Streaks of silver hair flow through his otherwise blond locks and he wears them with pride. His presence is massive, leaking off him, oozing command. There’s no doubt as to why he is king of the Mortougian Elves. He looks strong too, like he could spear a man easily, but wise enough to know when to use words to do the piercing.
The Elven king gives me an approving smile as I approach the dais where Prince Corrik waits for me. Father releases my arm and makes to walk away, while Papa can’t help himself, reaching up to fix a braid that probably doesn’t really need fixing. Father has to take his arm and guide him away from me. I step up to the dais alone with my head bowed until the last moment. I finally allow myself to look up. The prince stands in front of me, tall and imposing. He’s draped in cloaks of silver and blue. Unlike mine, his cloak does not join in the middle, instead, his entire chest and navel are exposed, revealing his well-toned chest and abdominal muscles.
His top cloak is adorned with sharp, silver and gold shoulder armor. Strips of fabric hang from them, enhancing his magnificence, and the hilt of a large, wide-bladed sword rises from his back. It’s a gorgeous weapon and I imagine the finest Elven blacksmiths have crafted it. I would love to get my hands on a sword like that and perhaps if I’m clever enough, one day I will.
His hair isn’t the way I remember. It’s blond enough to look like it’s been spun from gold, with violet highlights to match his eyes. It’s mostly loose with half of it pulled off his face and the front cut short into bangs that are long over his forehead, resting on a slant toward his right ear. His ears —they were covered by his hair when I first saw him, but now they’re free, unencumbered by the golden mien, poking out far above his temple and then turn in a graceful swoop back downward. They move when they see me as if to say he’s happy.
A stunning crown shaped like a winged creature sits around his head. As I come closer to him, I see that the winged creature is not a winged creature at all, but some sort of insignia. His ears are adorned with the same design that looks like it’s been tattooed on in ultra-violet light, swooping up over each ear, and down his cheekbones. I smile, but Prince Corrik is expressionless. His lips are in a hard line, and I catch his feral violet eyes before they dart down to my left hand to look at his ring on my finger.
An Elf that resembles both Prince Corrik and his father stands before us, ready to perform our ceremony. “Hello Tristan. I am Corrik’s Uncle Fera. It is good to finally meet you. Allow me to be the first to welcome you to our family.” Fera smiles at me, and I’m grateful to see someone else smiling on the dais with me. “Let us begin by getting you two to join hands,” he instructs.
Our hands join for the first time since he put his ring on my finger; they are warm, smooth, and too soft for a warrior’s hands, but I know better. Prince Corrik is a great warrior. He smoothens his thumb over my knuckles and deliberately over my ring finger, feeling for his ring— his marking .
“You are all here to bear witness to the union between Tristan and Corrik, and I am pleased to induct him into our family, and our Elvish way of life. You have been granted permission, and you will become an Elf.” Fera directs his gaze at me with a serious grin. “From this point forward, you are no longer Junior Warlord, Tristan Arcade Kanes. You will be Prince Kathir Tahsen Cyredanthem,” he pronounces in his strong Elvish accent. I want to tear my hands away from the Prince’s. Anger builds in my gut, and I try to calm down. I look to Father. He appears too calm as he nods for me to return my attention to Corrik and carry on. He knew. Father knew I would have to change my name.
And he kept it from me.
My name means everything to me. I expected that I would no longer be a Kanes, that I would likely take Corrik’s last name, but to change my full name to an Elvish one and keep nothing of my Markaytian name? I suppose the prince wants my body and my entire identity with it.
I can’t help but wonder what an Elvish name like that means? Maybe it’s the name befitting a pet in Mortouge. How am I to know? I don’t know a word of Elvish. I can’t even pronounce the name I’ve been given, and I’ve already forgotten what it is.
Father glares at me, afraid I might say or do something about it in front of everyone. He warns me with his eyes not to act in usual, Tristan style. ‘Just keep your mouth shut,’ they say. I will, but I can’t hide how I feel—I’m like Papa that way.
Contrary to his prickly aura, the prince is gentle when he picks up the tight braids on my right and moves them to rest on the left of me. I feel precious when he places a crown, the twin to his, around my head and fixes it to make sure it sits just so—which can’t be right. He’s a cold heartless bastard. He lifts my chin with his forefinger and thumb until my eyes should look at him, but I can’t face those cold purple rocks. I keep my head where he’s moved it and look anywhere else. I hear the Elven monster promise to always honor and protect me— please , as if I need protection. This would be a good time to remind him, and everyone present that I’m the son of a warlord, but my thoughts are cut short as I’m asked to repeat after Fera and promise to honor and obey.
Obey. I never thought it would be me on this end of the wedding bargain, but here I am. This time my angry eyes blaze on my face, my lips curl as I snarl agreement— this ceremony is just a formality anyway, do I really have to say all of this?
Papa knows I’m upset. Father restrains Papa from storming the dais. That’s what calms me down. I know Papa will risk trouble with Father to come up here. I can’t let him do that. I spread a fake smile on, take a breath, and say the words. I also catch a glint of sunlight off the prince’s neck and realize the sun’s light is catching on a chain, which holds a key, the key to my virginity.
“You may kiss him Corrik, he is your life mate now.”
He may kiss me? We don’t kiss each other?
That only spins me for a minute as I realize, no matter how it’s been phrased, I have to kiss him and in front of all these people. I’ve never held hands with anyone but Lucca in front of people and now I’m to kiss someone? I would rather face an angry, two-headed dragon with only my sword than to have to endure this embarrassment. My breathing isn’t right, but I don’t notice that I’m at the edge of hyperventilation until I hear the sleek, hard voice.
“I won’t bite.”
I feel a hand against my cheek, it grounds me, his words cause a tiny smile to give way as I study the white floor of the dais—he’s made a joke. Unless Elves really do bite. I focus on the warmth in his hand. It surprises me. The man looks like he could freeze lava, yet there’s something warm underneath the brambles. With his other hand, he interlocks his ring with mine: they’re a perfect fit. Each move brings us closer to the moment, my mind strains to grab onto something else that must happen so that the kiss doesn’t happen, yet—but there’s nothing else, and it’s going to happen.
“Focus on me, sweet Prince. Please. Look at me.” The tenderness in his voice is careful, and it doesn’t escape me—he’s begging. Does it bother him that I can’t look him in the eyes?
C’mon, Tristan. You’ve conquered greater mountains than this one.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he says, and that’s what finally does it.
Afraid? I’ll show him afraid. No one insinuates Tristan Kanes is a coward. I am a dragon.
I turn wild eyes on him and strike, meeting his lips like swords meet in battle. He’s surprised, but only for a tiny second—I’ve caught him off guard—but once he’s figured out what’s going on, he dominates our kiss, grabs me around the waist, and pulls me into him. I can’t back down now and have him coo at me again so I get closer, pressing against his bare chest, fighting for dominance. That’s when his tongue slides into my mouth like a dare—he’s onto me. If he thinks he’s going to win this battle, that I’ll just roll over and obey him, then he’s married the wrong Kanes. I may be leashed to him through duty, but what he’ll find is that leash is attached to a dragon warrior.
I slide my tongue inside his mouth and tangle it with his sinewy Elven one. He tastes like man; I like it. My cock perks up from inside its cage, jolting me back to where I should be: at the ceremony. I pull away and push at his chest in one move and finally look into his eyes after avoiding them this entire time. I’m taken off guard—he’s smiling. I was beginning to think he was incapable. It’s a small smile, but enough to reach the creases of his eyes. Wonderment is sparkling in the cold violet depths, and somehow, he remains frosty in his mirth. “You are my responsibility now,” he vows.
My mouth quirks at the corners into a sour expression— I can take care of myself. I’m no one’s responsibility. If he’s noticed I’m displeased, he doesn’t say and lifts my hand up with his to the sky as we turn to face the cheering crowd.
“I am pleased to present to you, Prince Corrik and Prince Kathir Cyredanthem of Mortouge,” Fera says above the noise.
I look around, Mother stares at me with proud eyes, Papa is crying into Father’s shoulder, the Markaytian king sits beside Lucca with a beaming smile directed at me. Lucca. He’s laughing— at me. He knows my state of mind even if the prince does not. My anger makes me brazen, and I look to my right to check on what the Elven prince has got up to in the time I’ve spent staring out at the crowd. He’s looking at the crowd as well, waving with his other hand as he holds steadfast to mine in the air. He must feel my eyes on him—he spins his head to look at me. He doesn’t smile with his lips, but the skin around his eyes is relaxed just enough to suggest he might be happy.
This Elf is harder to decipher than Father.
“You are a good kisser,” he says and winks.
I blush like mad and look anywhere but at him. Why would he say something like that? I change my mind about him—he’s as insufferable as Lucca. When will it be learned that I’m not comfortable with things like kissing and sex?
His thumb and forefinger grip my chin tilting it up toward his face, so I have no choice but to look at him. His lips move in slow this time and chastely press onto mine. They’re soft and warm; I like how they taste. When we part, I think I should say something but I’m too embarrassed and— damn it —I’m aroused. Thankfully neither of us has to say anything. It’s time for us to walk back down the aisle for the first time as a married couple.
I try to find Lucca—who’s … gone? Why would he sneak away now?
I don’t know, but there’s one thing I’m certain of. Wherever he’s gone, it means trouble.
Trouble for me.