Chapter 9 #2
Crystal chandeliers hang from wooden frames, and ahead, farther down, where the entrance meets the hallway, long windows reach up on either side.
I step onto one of the rich, pine-green carpets and blink at the sensation.
It’s like stepping on a cloud. Under the light, I realize they are woven from silk fibers.
The direction of the threads changes, creating another image of the Elder Tree.
Tall, gleaming vases in pale pastels with gold trim house flourishing plants, giving life to the space that takes my breath away.
I’ve never seen anything like this. All the wood…I didn’t even know there were enough trees in an entire forest to create the level of perfection achieved in this one room.
And the fabric? My gods. Almost enough to forget this place could be my tomb.
As we cross into the hallway, I realize there is a pale, silvery fabric pasted to the walls, adding more opulence to the scene.
When I gaze out the windows lining the hallway, I see extensive gardens on either side.
A few decorative fountains with strikingly lifelike statues also capture my attention.
As I walk into another large, sweeping room with three sets of stairs, a strange feeling takes hold of me.
Like I’m being watched. I scan the space, but find only large mosaic depictions of elves plastered into the walls.
I study the representations of people, clearly the royal family, finding several who look strikingly like Arion.
I even see one that almost resembles Mrath.
My future husband. The potential father of my future children.
“There will be time to gawk later,” Thorne says brusquely. “The king is waiting.”
I take another deep breath and follow him up the staircase at the end of the room to a set of large gilded double doors. Guards stand at either side, and they grip the gleaming handles and push open the doors, revealing the throne room.
It’s somehow taller than the room we were just standing in. Both sides are lined with sweeping arches, their vast frames carved from rich, polished timber. Pillars of dark wood, their surfaces etched with spiraling motifs I don’t understand, rise up to the vaulted ceiling.
Sunlight spills through tall, arched windows with lattice frames just behind Arion. Banners woven with green and silver cascade from the walls, some of their tassels brushing against more luscious foliage.
And just like that, there he is. The man I am meant to marry and sleep with for the rest of my life. Arion’s figure is softened by the honeyed light that pours into the room and is reflected off varnished beams and paneled walls.
The thought of being forced to bow to him—to touch him—makes my stomach roil. I want to vomit. This is all wrong.
Like a hissing serpent, Cursed One comes to full attention.
Him, she says.
Questions fill my mind about her reaction. Why doesn’t she like him? Why, and how, did he choose her? But instead of voicing my thoughts, Thorne shifts at my side, bringing me back to the moment.
A wide staircase leads to the dais where Arion sits on his throne, a seat fashioned from interlaced woods—mainly deep mahogany inlaid with lighter ash. A faint magical resonance is felt in my Fuegorra, and I realize what I’m standing in front of.
A line from a scroll I once read enters my mind: “The throne is the trunk with roots that connect to Doros. The sovereign is the fruit.”
I had all but forgotten about the Living Throne, made from the wood of an Elder Tree. Its function is mostly obscure, but it’s got a dark power to it that surprises me.
“Approach,” Arion says coolly.
Thorne and I do just that, and I dip my head down. The floor bears a mosaic of polished planks that flow toward the dais, ever guiding my eye back to the man I am meant to marry. Just before the steps, I realize darker shapes of woods have been cut to form a half star around his throne.
The sight makes more information from my studies spark, and I remember that the elves studied the stars just as much, if not more, than the Enduares. The specifics of the legends evade me, but I recall the idea that the king of the Elven Dominion is called the Burning Star in some accounts.
I wish that I had paid more attention—that I could remember more. Surely, in this palace of vipers any information would serve me well.
We reach the bottom of the steps, and Thorne clears his throat.
“Bow,” he hiss-whispers, and I do at the exact moment he does.
Despite the tilt of his head toward the ground, his voice is clear as he says,
“King Arion, ruler of the Elven Dominion, I bring the spoils of my journey. First, your human bride in good health and”—he pauses, glancing over at me—“perfect condition.”
Judgmental prick.
“And what of my other request?” Arion says. Frost spreads over my skin, making my movements jolting and uneven. The still-healing wound on my ankle burns. That voice…it’s as smooth and commanding as it was the last time we met.
I’m afraid of him. Only a fool wouldn’t be.
Thorne stands, and I angle my head to watch him as he reaches into his breast pocket and withdraws a small wooden box.
The magical trace.
He dips his head again, holding it out as a servant takes it from him and presents it to the king.
Arion’s hum slides over my ears as he opens the box. I tilt my head up farther just in time to see the white light wash over his face. The corner of his mouth quirks up.
“Excellent. Very well done, Warden Thorne.”
“It has been my pleasure.”
Pleasure to be a traitor, I think.
Thorne bows once more and then retreats a few paces behind me.
“Now I would inspect my bride,” the king says.
I inhale a deep breath, straightening, and take a few steps up the stairs. Arion’s eyes burn into my skin.
Smile, I remind myself. I turn off my mind, ignoring the fact that I am surrounded by those who would use me as the thin string that will prevent the axe from falling on those I love.
Not for the first time, I realize just how often and frequently I refer to the city that I will never see again as my home. As if the Enduares are still my people.
I suppose they always will be, but I need to stop thinking it so often, or it will inevitably slip out. That would be just another thing that could be used against me by the king.
The elves are my people now. This is my new home. I must learn to live with my choices, bitter as they might be.
Thorn coughs again, and I drop into another deep curtsy, trying to display my gown in the most attractive manner. The flowy garment fans out around me, the delicate green brocade glinting in the golden light.
“Arlet the Weaver,” he says slowly, and I wonder if he knows about my ascension into the Enduar Court.
He must have, with all the information he has been able to procure about me over the last year.
He just refuses to use my title. “At last, you stand in my palace. Just where you belong. My bride. Thank you for your help.” He lifts the box slightly.
I dip my head a little farther, trying to make sure that the serene smile doesn’t slip from my face, even as guilt makes my chest constrict and my ankle throbs.
“Are you pleased to be my bride, human?” he asks sharply.
“Yes, my king,” I say without hesitation, though acid rises up my throat, creating an icy feeling at the back of my mouth.
“Look at me, then.”
My head lifts, but I avoid eye contact, just as I was taught. The air shifts.
“I said: look at me.”
A jolt skitters down my spine. Finally, I tilt my chin up, meeting his unnaturally green eyes and sharp, frozen features. His hair, so blond it’s practically white, is framed around a silver crown that looks like branches reaching around his head. He is cruelly handsome.
Lethally beautiful.
I smile back at his coldness, and the corner of his mouth twitches up.
“Lovely as I remember, and obedient enough,” he says softly. “Stand.”
I obey, and he reaches out, grabbing my waist. I gasp, hating the feel as he roughly turns me around.
Finally, he releases me.
“For all the training they must’ve given you, I know that you do not know much of my customs. Of my people. Of my empire.”
Not entirely wrong, but also not true. I wait for him to continue.
“We will be wed in a fortnight, as is the appropriate amount of time. Thorne will explain the specifics to you,” he says dismissively.
“Wait,” I say as he starts to turn his attention away from me and to one of the guards at the back of the room.
He pauses, raising an eyebrow. I can feel Thorne seething behind me.
“Yes?” Arion drawls.
“Before we are wed, I want your word,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “That there won’t be an attack on the Enduares. Whatever your quarrel with them, you’ll leave them untouched. That’s the only reason I agreed to come.”
Arion regards me from his throne, one hand resting lazily against the carved armrest.
“My word?” he echoes with the faintest hint of amusement. “You think your arrival here came with the right to bargain. You exist at my pleasure, Arlet.”
He rises, and the gold around him bends with his movement. The room feels smaller.
Heat crawls up my throat. “But what of the Enduares?”
He waves the question away, already bored. “I have no interest in waging a war with the trolls at the moment. Now is the time for the rise of the Elven Dominion. Your Enduares are of no consequence to me now that you are here.”
For a moment, relief flickers in me—short-lived and fragile.
Arion tilts his head. “You’ll learn soon enough that the realm runs on priorities, not passion.”
“My priority is my kingdom.” He brushes his hand over his magical throne slowly, gaze sliding over me as if I’m something being measured.
“Now that you’ve brought the tracker, your one and only purpose is to be a consort.
So far, I’m underwhelmed. You speak without knowing the weight of your words, your silks are wrinkled, and your posture—” He gestures vaguely.
“It betrays what you were before I chose you.”
I bite down hard enough on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from answering.
“But it doesn’t matter,” he says smoothly, cutting the silence before it can grow teeth. “You will learn. You’re clever enough, I think, to adapt. And if not…” His mouth curves faintly, a suggestion of a smile that feels more like a bruise. “You’ll at least be better than the others.”
I blink. “The others?”
He studies my face for a heartbeat, as though savoring the confusion there. Then, deliberately, he sits again, arranging one arm along the throne’s edge so that the fabric of his sleeve drapes over the wood.
“You should not consider me a fool, Arlet,” he says. “Nor should you imagine yourself my first experiment in companionship. You will not be the first to be given to me in marriage.”
The words slip out of him casually, like a man remarking on the weather.
My stomach turns. More secrets, more twists in the game we play. “You—what do you mean?”
He smiles, lazy and satisfied. “Oh yes. How little the Enduares know of me and my people now. I’ve been careful to keep my affairs private, but it amuses me to see that even after all these years, our seclusion remains effective.”
He rises again, the light shifting as his body blocks it. “You will be my third wife. The other two failed to obey and were dealt with accordingly.”
My mouth goes dry. “Dealt with?”
“Disposed of,” he says easily, as though explaining a simple trade. “One forgot her place. The other grew tiresome. Neither produced an heir.”
The world seems to narrow to the sound of my own breathing.
“I’ve been trying to secure a successor for decades,” he continues, unconcerned by the silence he’s left in his wake.
“Your arrival simply expedites the process. And since you were so obliging in helping me with the one who hides the artifact I need—” He pauses, eyes glinting.
“You may yet prove more useful than the rest.”
My mind churns. That’s why he’s desperate enough to take a human as his bride. If I can give him an heir, it would change everything in his favor.
Arion leans closer, lowering his voice until it brushes the edges of my skin.
“You should take pride, Arlet. Of all the creatures I have seen beneath the mountain and beyond the wastes of Zlosa, you are by far the prettiest human. The most compliant, I suspect. Don’t make me regret that observation. ”
I manage to keep my chin lifted, even as ice slides down my spine.
He smiles as if he’s pleased by the effort. “A fortnight, then. Thorne will see to your training.”
My infertility glares at me yet again. It suddenly feels like flames are licking at my feet, teasing me with being burned alive.
I take a deep breath. “I am glad to know that I please you, my king.”
He grins again, delighted.
“I wouldn’t say that yet. Beauty is only marginally impressive, and you have only brought me one gift. You have much to do to make this union worthwhile for the both of us.”
I stare at him, uncomfortable.
“Go. Thorne will take you to your rooms to meet your servants. I will see you for the feast tonight. I expect you to act like my future consort.”
Just like that, my skin crawling, I am to be sent away. Thorne begins moving after another bow. I follow suit, fully aware that the king’s attention has turned from me, that he is watching as someone else enters the room, someone I don’t know, and then I leave with Thorne.
The air around me is electric. The first meeting went… well? But the race is far from won. There is much to learn, and I must find a healer who can fix my womb. If such a person exists.
As I retrace my steps with Thorne and then embark into a part of the palace I am unfamiliar with, I rehearse conversations in my head, crafting the right way to bribe a servant.
It’s a foreign concept for me.
I’m used to keeping myself busy. Used to helping others. I don’t make a spectacle of myself—I am usually the one who fades into a familiar rhythm of hard work, not the one who schemes and plots and shines bright enough not to be ignored.
It makes my organs twist and my skin crawl. So much so that I hardly realize when we arrive at my new room. It isn’t until Thorne opens the door that I snap out of my endless thoughts and step inside.