Chapter 15 #2
We continue walking and I’m almost surprised to see so many people simply lounging around the area.
The courtyard empties into a smaller gallery, where morning tea is served in porcelain cups.
Laughter from those already seated eases, and quiet gazes slide over me like blades.
The scent of cinnamon and something metallic coils in my throat.
“Ah! The human bride! Welcome, welcome to our little breakfast. I must say, efficient choice last night,” a man drawls, lifting his cup toward me.
“Decisive. Irresolute consorts cause delays. If all humans have such a good head on them, it might make up for the fact that you are trying to replace us elves.”
Replace them? I thought the elves wanted us. They needed us.
Another woman—hair like polished walnut, pearls in her ears—clicks her tongue. “Efficient? For whom? My fittings are ruined for the season. Keralyn’s hand was singular. Now I must suffer whatever amateur replaces her. All because the human points a finger.”
I smile, but my ladies-in-waiting do not give me time to stop, instead pushing me on.
“Keralyn?” I ask them. The name snags in my chest.
“One of the seamstresses you had killed,” Merlina says, as if naming a stain.
“The human?”
Merlina sneers. “The elf.”
Without thinking, I start to defend myself again, despite my chastisement last night. “No one told me choosing meant—”
Eslina grabs my shoulder. “Don’t.”
But it’s already too late.
“Ah.” The man who spoke before is suddenly much closer to me. He cuts in, following us. “Intentions. How sweet. It must be very comforting to own them when outcomes are so unfortunate.”
Across the gallery, a younger lord, face soft with the kind of beauty that is more mirror than marrow, waves his spoon lazily.
“Do you remember when the last wife was given a choice?” he asks his cluster of doting male friends.
“She cried for nearly an hour, and then finally pointed at the middle one because she could not stand the waiting. Less weeping this time. I respect that.”
Another mention of the wife before me. The one that wasn’t human. I’m dying to know more about her. “This same test was used before?” I ask, ignoring the glares from those accompanying me.
“Oh yes. His first wife, a sniveling young thing from the Earlbear family, refused to do it. She didn’t last long.”
Ice coats my skin. “And the wife before me?” I ask, my voice quieter. “Who was she?”
Merlina clears her throat, and another begins to speak.
“I think the human did it best,” another offers, and the thread of admiration in it shocks me. “If you must dispose of two to keep one, keep the finest. It honors the craft.”
I blink. I hadn’t chosen the one with the best craft—I had simply chosen the one that I thought Arion would approve of.
“Craft,” the pearl-eared woman echoes, musing. “You’re right. It is not about death. It is about standards.”
No one argues about whether the dead should have remained alive. Their grievance is that the dead had been useful to them, and this will create problems for them in the near future.
We pass them, and the current of talk slides over and beyond me. “Her jaw isn’t bad,” someone says. “With the right cosmetics, she might look almost elven.”
“But you are a short thing, Human Arlet. Aren’t you? Stout. Your shoulders are broad,” another replies. I don’t like that they know my name and I don’t know theirs. “We’ll need to soften your frame with sleeves.”
“Her tits are large enough for his hands. She’ll be fine in his bedroom,” a third says, and laughter follows us like burrs. “Though, she did live with the trolls before. I’ve heard they rut like animals—from behind.”
“Perhaps the king would like that,” another says with a laugh.
My face burns at their crudeness. Another fucking comment about my breasts.
What’s the expectation? That they be larger?
I suppose that fertility is usually associated with large breasts, but don’t these people know that breasts will grow after the child is born?
I look at the women around me, seeing their own chests pushed up, and I wonder if any of them use padding.
And then the comment about the Enduares. I’m supposed to be a virgin, but these people have no idea how wrong they are. When I was with—
I cut myself off.
The last person I’d slept with hadn’t been that long ago. But, like it or not, now I am thinking about sex, and with that comes worries about my new world as a married woman.
After being placed in the king’s chamber, I would be expected to take off my clothes and please him. The thought of baring myself to another makes me sick. The idea of lying down and letting Arion come on top of me is unbearable.
It would be the first time after being with Va—him. Dread curls in my gut, and I try to let the image fade quickly.
Kiala steers me into a room washed with pale light. Carved screens make patterns of shadow along the floor. A long table gleams with steel instruments and glass pots. Basins smoke gently. Cushions are arranged around a high-backed chair as if for a ritual.
“We will prepare you here. Get used to this place,” Merlina announces.
“It couldn’t be closer to my room?” I grumble, though I am ignored.
The servants close the screens with a snap, and a person emerges from the shadows. The seamstress that I chose. She nods to me, and a new hush forms, thrumming like the breath held before a knife goes in.
Suddenly, three pairs of hands are reaching around my body, unfastening the gown I’d slipped on and removing it alongside the chemise I’d sat in all night. I panic, exposed and upset.
Once bare, Kiala looks me up and down. She frowns when she observes my chest, and I realize that her gaze is not directed at my breasts, but the Fuegorra stone nestled in my sternum. I had almost forgotten about its presence.
Then her eyes fall to the Curse Mark and wound that still lingers on my ankle. The snake curling around my flesh, connecting me in some way to Cursed One.
She doesn’t say anything about it, instead insisting with a crisp, “Sit.”
Again, they do not ask if I am ready. When I am urged to the basin, they do not ask whether the water is too hot, whether the oil burns, or whether the comb catches in my hair and rips. They assume yes, and yes again.
Eslina unscrews a vial and pours a clear, sharp-smelling liquid into one bowl. The steam that rises from it has hints of bitter flowers and silver.
“This will make your skin glow,” she says. “It might even wash away some of these spots. We should start using it now so it will have its full effect in time for the ball.”
“The masked ball?” I ask, while Merlina’s fingers drag along my scalp, alternating with a comb that could have scraped the scales from a fish.
“Yes, the one held three nights before your wedding,” Kiala says. She weighs a length of ribbon in her palms like a bandage. “The first public showing of the consort. You will wear the color the king selects and a mask chosen to flatter your…features.” A fractional pause hovers at the word.
“What kind of mask?” I imagine veils, feathers, or any other excuse to make me appealing to others and, potentially, utterly silent.
Merlina’s mouth curves up. “There is a set of creatures and virtues,” she says. “The year’s theme is the hunt. You can expect to see swans, stags, wolves. The king enjoys allegory.” She tugs the comb again. “A doe for you. You should be tamed. With wide eyes, easily led.”
“Or a dove,” Eslina says softly.
“No, the king wants her dressed as a doe,” Merlina retorts.
Kiala sets down the ribbon and draws out a narrow belt, white as bone. “Arches must be built so they do not collapse,” she said. “We begin the shaping now, so you do not faint during the ball.”
I swallow. “Is fainting a common outcome?”
“For the other humans we’ve seen, yes,” Merlina says. “You bruise at a glance. You melt in the heat. And yet, you are chosen anyway.”
I bite my lip, trying not to ask how many other humans they might’ve known. I haven’t seen any others yet, but I understand at least a few are hidden somewhere. As far as I am aware, I am the first human bride for Arion. But how do they know so much about my people?
A hand—light, quick—brushes my wrist. Eslina. “Breathe,” she says.
I try as they take more measurements of my naked body. Then they begin to dress and prepare me.
Powder rises and settles. The comb clicks against pins as they are placed along my scalp, and then a brush for my teeth is produced.
Merlina hums under her breath, not quite a melody.
Kiala counts to an even cadence while tightening the belts and stays.
Eslina’s touch remains the only one that works slowly enough to give me respite.
“Time to practice speaking, little doe,” Kiala teases.
“You can’t expect the king to like you for your looks alone.
” Some of the cruel things he said about my mind and ambition return as she tilts her chin and intones in a higher register than her speaking voice, “Speak to him like this: ‘Your Majesty, to be in your presence is a sea I cross gladly, even when the water is cold.’”
My mouth goes dry. “When would I need to say that?”
“In public, if you wish to scandalize a crowd, which he might enjoy. Though his first wife was too bold. And with all the…” Merlina trails off, leaving me curious. “Perhaps you should just say it privately. He likes his women submissive.”
My heart stutters. So much is known about his bedroom habits—could he have slept with one of the women around me? Or is it protocol to know all the tastes and passions of a leader if you are to serve under them?
Before I can try to ask a follow-up question, she continues. “When it counts. There are public phrases that are shorter.” She makes a crisp shape with one hand. “Always refer to him as ‘my king,’” she demonstrates coolly. “And if he asks something of you, reply with, ‘I am honored.’”