Chapter 12
ARLET
Thorne was right about the size of the dinner I am to attend. By the time the guards come to take me down, the “small” dining room is completely filled. Adult elven men and women of all ages and builds sit around an extra long mahogany table.
The second I walk into the space, I see every eye turn on me and notice the particularly pleased crinkle that comes from Arion’s sudden smile.
Jolts of fear pulse through my veins like little shocks of magic, but it’s still more manageable than earlier today. Knowing that Thorne is on my side has eased me. It doesn’t make sense, but I just keep repeating what he said in my mind.
If you die, I die.
Did that mean he already had a healer lined up to sort through the issue of my fertility?
With practiced decorum, Arion stands, holding out his hand for me to approach. The rest of the elves waiting around the table also stand, each watching me with curious eyes. Some nod their heads, but none of them greet me as I might expect a queen to be addressed.
Consort, I correct again. Queens have power, like Estela. They can create laws, give input, and help guide public opinion. A consort is just a title for a woman married to the king.
The green gown I was given fits perfectly, though it may expose a little too much of my chest for my comfort. Luckily, the front is short enough that I don’t trip.
“My bride has arrived, everyone,” the king says, his voice more jovial than I have ever heard it.
I do as I was instructed, bowing deeply to him before addressing the room.
“It is my honor to be here,” I say, again avoiding his eyes. Then I turn to the others. “Thank you all for coming; it is my honor to meet you.”
Murmurs and responses come from everyone, and one of the guards steps forward to pull out the empty ornate dining chair next to the king. I stand beside it, waiting for him to sit.
His smile only grows.
“What a marvel. You appear so much more polished than at our meeting earlier,” he murmurs. “You remind me of the night we met.”
I blink, remembering the kinds of questions he asked that night.
Did they present you to me because you have exceptionally virtuous qualities? Or because you are just some sort of soft virgin sacrifice?
He had been rude and forward, and I had smiled, taking it all because, once again, I had believed I was helping people.
Interesting. So he still assumes you are a virgin sacrifice, Red, Cursed One interjects after an afternoon of being quiet. I notice her usage of that nickname again.
Awfully friendly tonight, are we?
She doesn’t respond.
As soon as Arion sits, I do the same, and the rest of the room follows suit.
I notice that almost everyone already has their first course sitting on their plates.
The king makes a small gesture with his hands, and then one of the servants brings my meal.
I notice immediately that it is considerably smaller than the others.
“Worry not, little human,” Arion murmurs. “I have made sure you will be well taken care of. I know that your kind doesn’t require as much sustenance as an elf, so your portions will be carefully controlled to ensure that you maintain your figure.”
I blink. When I was a slave, my food was scarce. I hadn’t known hunger since going with the trolls. Was he planning to starve me?
The cloche is lifted, revealing a lovely assortment of root vegetables arranged prettily on the plate. I don’t recognize most of them, but a few look like carrots. The smell makes my mouth water, and I realize just how hungry I’ve been.
Then passages from old scrolls about enemies and undesirable people in foreign lands being poisoned cross through my mind. Should I be worried that they are trying to kill me?
The thought that this could be my last meal has my throat closing up. Beads of sweat gather in my palms, and my mouth fills with excess saliva.
Think logically. They need you. Why would they try to kill you?
Not the king, I respond, looking at the guests. Them. They don’t like the idea of me.
Cursed One hums. Fair point.
“Eat, little human,” the king murmurs low as another conversation is bantered over the table.
“She’s pretty enough, my king, but I don’t sense anything particularly special about her or her womb,” one of the men says.
No more introductions were made other than mine upon my entrance, so his name remains a mystery, but a few people chortle.
I can’t disagree with his assessment. “At least, no more than the last one.”
The comment is almost an aside, but it shocks me. They are so cavalier about those who came before.
“Oh, and when did you become an expert on the human female form? The last one wasn’t a human,” another says.
The chortles turn into full laughs—even the man gives a long-suffering smile, though I see a hint of pride winding through his expression.
Wasn’t human? What does that mean?
“I am the royal physician. Besides, female elves are just male elves with a few different parts,” he says quickly. “I can’t imagine humans are that different.”
I pick up the same type of utensils that the king is using and begin slicing into my meal. No sooner have I cut one not-carrot in half than I feel a disapproving gaze from across the table. I look up to see a woman’s hazel eyes flick from the food in my hand to my mouth.
We eat the same sugared vegetables in a light sauce, but the food on her plate is far more abundant than my own. I also realize the bites she takes are much smaller than mine.
I quickly lower the pronged utensil back to the plate and divide the root several more times before bringing it back to my mouth. My nerves feel exposed, and I try to focus on the conversation again.
Not for the first time, I remember that there were humans who tried to seek some form of asylum in this place from the state of affairs in Zlosa and the giant lands.
I think of the dressmaker. Is she one of the humans who came over? I didn’t recognize her from the weaving stations in the slave pens, and that group was pretty close-knit. Thorne already promised me there are no slaves.
So…where are they? What happened to them? Were there other species that tried to come to the elven lands as well? I haven’t seen any others.
“Well, from the past—” another starts, and Arion abruptly clears his throat.
I glance at him, but the man begins again.
“From what I’ve seen, there certainly were worse options for a royal bride.
Humans have such variability. Some look like emaciated cattle, while others can be pretty as a moonbeam. ”
“Pretty,” one of the women says, “not beautiful. I’ve never seen one refined enough to suit my own tastes.”
The man sitting next to her scoffs. “I should hope not, seeing as how we are married.”
My instincts take over, and my senses try to follow the energy of the room. I smile at the jokes when the others smile or laugh, and remain quiet when more thoughtful points are indulged, but in the back of my head, I continue to wonder about my fellow humans.
I had heard in passing that asylum-seekers were most often turned back to the giants. Why hadn’t any of them been used as husbands or wives, as Thorne said?
Arion clears his throat. “Now, now, children. Keep things civil for my bride.”
The laughter over the table fades into a quieter murmur, and forks scrape delicately against porcelain.
I chew slowly, carefully, as though each bite is scrutinized.
Even when their eyes aren’t on me, I sense them, sharp as daggers, cataloging every twitch of my hands, every swallow of my throat.
By the grace of whatever deity still exists, I don’t die.
It might’ve been foolish to consider poison.
A second course arrives—thin slices of pale meat arranged like flower petals, drizzled with a silver glaze that sparkles faintly under the candlelight.
Yet again, my portion is smaller than the others, barely more than a taste.
A servant lingers at my elbow as if ensuring that I eat it, and the tension in my shoulders locks my posture stiff.
From farther down the table, a woman’s voice rises above the chatter.
She has hair the color of crushed copper and a proud, lifted chin.
“Tell us, Arlet,” she says, and the way she savors the words makes me want to shrink back into my chair.
“Are you enjoying your gown? It is very fine. Verdithian velvet and spider silk, I see.”
I like knowing more about the fabrics, and some part of me perks up. “It is very fine. I’m honored to wear it.”
Her lips twist into something that should be a smile but is not. “Honored, yes. You said that several times. A pity your honor cost us something irreplaceable.”
Embarrassment and confusion root me to the chair. I draw my brows together, trying, fruitlessly, to tease out her meaning. Was this dress meant for her? Had it merely been altered to fit me?
“Oh, don’t play dumb.” Her voice sharpens, cutting through the room until even forks go still.
“When you chose that gown, you chose death for the other seamstresses. And one of them—” She sets down her fork, and it gently clinks against the crystal goblet before her.
“One of them was the only dressmaker worth the name. Years of craft in her fingers, gone in an instant because you pointed at fabric you fancied. She’s dressed my whole family. ”
My stomach drops, and blood rushes in my ears. Death? That was what I chose? I thought it was merely a selection, not a sentence.
Gods, I hate death. I hate causing death. And I caused the death of a fellow human.
Fuck.
Control yourself, Cursed One whispers. You might miss something.
That voice, still deep and rich and feminine, draws me in. It staunches the panic spreading from my icy palms. It eliminates the trembling.
Folding my hands in my lap, I meet her eyes and speak evenly. “I was told to make a choice. That is what I did. I didn’t mean to cause—”