Chapter 6
Zarek
NO GOOD OPTIONS
I’ve been watching the caravan since before the sun rose. They were supposed to arrive yesterday, but the weather over the last three days has been terrible, cold and wet with howling winds from the north. It should have stopped them completely. Instead, it looks like it only slowed them down.
All the guards in the approaching caravan appear to be from Vsenrog, which is interesting. If the king of Marion had a drop of sense, he’d have insisted that his own soldiers accompany his daughter into the much larger and stronger kingdom on his borders.
Perhaps he doesn’t think his daughter is worth protecting. Which makes sense, I suppose, if she’s pregnant. And if he’s a complete asshole.
My horse stamps the ground. I shiver beneath my cloak. The wind this morning is freezing, showing that winter still holds its blade against spring’s throat, but at least it’s dry.
I narrow my eyes at the caravan approaching the palace, but I still can’t make out the probably pregnant woman who’s going to be my bride. If I claim the child she’s carrying, King Malrik will have yet another screw to tighten around my balls. But if I send her home, we’re both fucked.
I snort, and my horse imitates me. There are no good options here. And why should that surprise me? I haven’t had any good options since I was marched down the mountain and handed over to Malrik’s court.
I pull my hood up and begin the slow descent through the terraced farmland that surrounds Vsenrog’s capital city.
The sun spills over the mountains, revealing tiny green sprouts poking through the earth.
In a month or two, the ground will be covered with new life, the orchards will be blooming, and even the gulleys by the road will be filled with flowers.
That’s the time to have a wedding, the peak of spring.
With a pang, I remember my father pushing the door open and walking to the hearth to pull my mother into a deep, slow kiss. Behind his back, he held a bouquet of wildflowers in his massive, rough hands, and as I watched, I thought, so that’s what love is.
I shiver again. That memory hurts; I shove it back down, even as my fingers come to my neck and trace the metal vial on the chain around my throat.
Slowly, birds begin to sing from the bare branches around me.
The caravan approaches the city walls, and people emerge from the houses near the road to watch them pass.
A princess from another kingdom coming to marry into King Malrik’s court is entertainment enough for a raw, early spring morning.
Dogs bark as the Vsenrog soldiers march up the street on their horses, and people lean out of their windows as the houses get thicker.
Gods, the caravan must have traveled through the night to get here so early.
Their exhausted horses move slowly, and again, I wonder what in the name of the nine hells is worth this rush. Is it just to cover a pregnancy?
And there she is.
The princess of Marion is wearing a thick crimson cloak, the color of brides. She’s riding a tall, dark horse in the middle of the caravan. I can’t quite make out her features at this distance; all I see is a smudge of dark hair, the hint of bright cheeks, and dark eyes.
She must be cold and exhausted if they’ve traveled all night. I wonder how the city walls look to her, or the acres of bleak farmland struggling to push off the veil of winter.
Maybe she was warned. Maybe this is what she expected, tall stone walls and people gawking at her as if she were a captured animal in a cage.
What has she heard about me, this woman who’s just been ripped out of her home and forced to ride through the predawn chill? Has she heard that I murdered the prince of Lisal because he took my seat at the banquet table, or that I killed Aning’s finest general over a game of chess?
And I did kill those men. Not for those reasons, but I doubt that would be much comfort to the woman who probably feels like she’s being marched into the arms of a monster.
I kick my horse forward and trot into the road just as the first soldiers reach the curve before the wall.
I nod, and they nod back. I don’t know all of them, but I make it my business to be on good terms with as many of Malrik’s soldiers as possible.
I join the procession, then drop back as the forward guard enters the city walls.
When the crown prince’s future wife arrived from the Kingdom of Aning, there was music. Hells, there were streamers and flowers; the marketplace closed for three days so that people could celebrate in the streets.
Now, there’s a nod from the guard at the gates, and nothing but the cold blue sky ahead. Just in case I had any questions about my place in the scheme of things.
I pull back on the reins, and my horse slows. Another pair of guards moves in front of me, and then a third pair with a scowling woman on a brown horse sandwiched between them. The princess’s handmaiden, I would guess. I believe she was only allowed one.
And then I see a flash of crimson in the corner of my eye. I cluck under my breath, and my horse moves closer to the woman I will marry tomorrow.
I’m not supposed to be here, of course, but it’s not like anyone in the crowd is close enough to King Malrik to rat me out, and the soldiers couldn't care less whether I sneak in one whispered conversation with the woman who is about to swear her life to me.
Malrik might be annoyed, but hells, he needs me more than ever now.
I just wish I knew what exactly he hopes to gain from this.
She might know.
And that’s why I’m taking this risk, isn’t it? Not out of curiosity, but to give myself an advantage, however slight. That’s how I’ve survived for so long in the palace, a snake among the royalty.
I turn toward the woman beside me, my future bride, and smile.