Chapter Eight
Ingrid
“Drink,” the shorter demoness, Morwen, says, thrusting a cup of tea toward me.
Judging by the way she took orders from Xandril, she must be a member of the castle staff.
There’s nothing welcoming or hospitable about the way she looks at me, though.
Her bark-like face is drawn into a pursed expression, her glittering green eyes like beetles boring into me from afar.
Her horns are curved and branched like antlers, and the hunch of her shoulders coupled with her stocky frame gives the impression of a squat stump come to life.
“It will soothe your soul,” she adds, blocking my path as I try to stand.
I don’t appear to have a choice in the matter, and the tea is bright in flavor and has a warming effect as it travels down to my stomach.
I finish the cup of tea, the demoness inspecting to be sure every drop is gone before accepting the cup back.
Admittedly, I do feel much improved; I don’t know if the tea truly had any effect on my soul, or if that’s simply the benefit of having a moment to adjust and calm down.
By now, there are only three of us in the room: Morwen, me, and the demon with feline eyes who’d been at Xandril’s side.
Swooning the way I did is embarrassing and unusual—I’m maintaining that it was a product of the constricting dress, not the monstrous demon’s announcement—but I am glad to be away from the press of the ball, at least for a little while.
The enormous room looks like it was once filled with fine furnishings, but has been long neglected.
Dust and cobwebs in the corners, rich fabrics in tatters, clouded windows spiderwebbed with cracks—the space has certainly seen better days, but it’s the huge chair looming up behind me that makes my heart leap to my throat.
Perched on a dais in this otherwise sparsely-furnished room, the massive chair commands authority and respect.
The branches stemming from the back of the chair may be bare, but they stretch out to form a domed canopy over the entire room, their reach impressive.
Extraordinary as it is, there’s…a sadness in the tree. It’s not strange that every limb is barren in the dead of winter, but something deep down tells me this tree is on death’s door. That it’s scared and wants help.
But that’s ludicrous. Trees don’t feel things.
They don’t grow into chairs or rooms, either, Ingrid. This isn’t your world.
I’ve no sooner finished chastising myself for making assumptions when the furthest recesses of my mind weave together loose, disparate thoughts. I leap out of the chair like it’s sprouted teeth.
“Is this the…” I almost can’t bring myself to say the word, and when it finally manifests, it’s the barest whisper, “throne?”
Morwen’s pursed lips tighten, her gem-green eyes hardening. “You should sit. Have another cup of tea,” she says, nudging me back toward the chair—the throne. Her lack of answer is confirmation enough.
More and more threads weave together in my thoughts, and my head feels light again, my feet unsteady. It seems like it was only moments ago that I was in the courthouse jail making a deal for my brother’s life, and somehow I’ve found myself in another world, and attached to…
“Was that man I danced with the king?” I ask in a voice that’s surprisingly even.
I can’t be sure, but it looks like Morwen’s shoulders tense. Her face gives nothing away, and her hunched back makes me doubt I saw anything at all.
“Only by half until the throne accepts him,” she says, darting a glance to the other demon in the room.
I look to him, too, but his expression gives away even less than Morwen’s.
He’s simply observing. Silently judging?
I can’t be bothered by that right now. I stagger a step, catching myself on the arm of the throne tree.
A shudder runs through me, a tingle of undeniable power radiating from the bare branches.
There might not be much life left in its roots, but this tree hasn’t given up yet.
Morwen nudges me with the tea tray again. I accept a fresh cup, if only to endear her to me a little more.
“But he’s…” I can hardly form the words, my tongue heavy, throat dry. “My…husband?”
“Not yet,” Morwen says, a sharp edge to her voice. “It takes quite a bit more than a bargain with a Dealmaker to become Queen of the Emerald Throne, human.”
“That’s not what I—”
“You thought you made a good deal for yourself,” she scoffs, the hospitable mask slipping.
“That’s enough,” the other demon snaps, stepping forward with his tail lashing behind him.
Morwen dips her head in deference, but her expression remains as pinched as ever as she retreats a step.
“To answer your question, your contract outlines a very specific type of betrothal in our lands. To be bloodsworn is to make a commitment not only to your betrothed, but to their lands and subjects, as well.”
My chest tightens, and I must look as faint as I feel, because Morwen ushers me to another seat while I fan myself.
“My lord, do you think this is the time?”
“I need to know,” I croak, turning a pleading look to him.
“The Dealmaker didn’t explain, did he?”
With a heavy sigh and a hand raked over his face, he sits down and begins to explain.
It’s a lot to take in, but Valenar—the demon’s name, I learn—is more patient with my ignorance than Morwen, outlining in detail the three main stages of my engagement.
The Presentation, the ball we had tonight; The Unveiling, a trip across the lands to meet the subjects; and The Bonding, the ceremony that completes it all.
“Tonight was only the first step?” I ask, gratefully taking a third cup of tea. My soul can use all the soothing it can get right now. This whole situation is growing more daunting by the moment.
“It is,” Valenar corrects. “One dance is hardly a Presentation.”
My heart sinks. They want me to go back out there? Now I understand why there’s a new dress waiting for me.
“And what about the other parts?” I ask, throat tightening as the staff erect a screen between us to help me into the new gown. My reprieve, it seems, is over.
“Each stage progresses on the Full Moon—”
“So a month?”
“Not so fast,” Morwen cuts in, once again mistaking my reaction as eager impatience.
“Royal weddings aren’t normal affairs, and this one in particular—” Whatever she was going to say is stopped short with a glance toward the shadow behind the screen.
“With the circumstances of this Presentation, I would not be surprised if His Majesty desires another go at it,” she says with a bit more tact than I think is usual for her.
Circumstances, I echo in my mind. Like an unexpected human bride making a fool of him.
Shoving aside a twinge of guilt, I latch onto a glimmer of hope instead. “So it might take longer than a few months?” I ask, remembering my conversation with the Dealmaker’s mate. “Much longer, perhaps?” Long enough to see me to spring, perhaps?
I might not understand all the details of demon marriages, but I doubt they’re something that can be abandoned with the change of seasons. Serenity emphasized the timing for a reason. Could it be that I have a chance to delay my nuptials until my contract has expired?
The Dealmaker seemed willing to bargain further, but I have nothing more to offer, and Xandril was pretty clear in his opinion on the matter. He won’t be backing out of this…not any time soon, at least. But once he’s gotten to know me? Maybe he will realize I am not fit for him or this world.
A flash of his burning-ember eyes makes my stomach twist, a deep, strange, nagging feeling taking hold at the thought of never seeing them again.
“Is she ready?” Valenar calls over the screen while the nimble claws of staff finish fastening the long line of tiny buttons on my gown.
This one is made of materials just as fine as what I arrived in, but the design is much simpler—and less constricting—relying more on the draping of the fabric to create the impression of extravagance rather than elaborate beading.
The gown the Dealmaker gave me was a masterpiece, a work of art, truly, but looking down at myself now, the simplicity and elegance is… regal.
That thought halts all others for a moment until the screen is folded and carted away. The dress’s effect is clearly not limited to me; Valenar unconvincingly forces his surprise into a neutral expression, but his widened pupils and flickering tail give him away.
“We shouldn’t keep them waiting. Rumors have had time enough to take root already,” he says, back to his quiet assessment while he waits for me to join him.
“What about Xa— my hu— His Majesty?” I ask, stumbling through words that feel too familiar and intimate to refer to a stranger.
“The Presentation is to introduce you to the nobility,” he says as if he’s scolding a child for a foolish question.
Now doesn’t seem the time to make more enemies in this world, so I simply bite my tongue, following the feline demon back into the den of wolves.
On a second look, the ballroom full of impossible creatures is no less awesome and intimidating as when I first arrived. And now, I have neither the Dealmaker nor the king to divide the crowd’s attention with. It all rests on me.
Hundreds of pairs of demonic eyes scrutinize me, taking my measure while making no mystery of their disdain. I don’t have to be an expert on demons or their world to know when I’m conspicuously out of place.
Blood runs cold in my veins, my heart a solid lump in my throat. I force myself to take slow, steady breaths—this dress is too perfect to blame swooning on.
“Careful, human,” Valenar says, bending down low so his chin hovers just above my shoulder. “There are few things so enticing to a demon as ripe fear.”