Chapter 39
Lilias
NO BETTER PLACE FOR A HONEYMOON
The first few days of the Unity Tour aren’t so bad, especially once Zarek manages to convince Prince Syvan that it was the prince’s own brilliant idea to let us ride alongside his soldiers instead of inside the tiny, horribly uncomfortable bridal carriage.
Not that we spend much time riding. The tour began by roughly retracing the path I took to get to Vsenrog, but without any of the urgency, and then our route veered to the west. Some of the towns we stop in are so small I’m surprised they’re even marked on any maps.
Half of the time, Prince Syvan doesn’t bother to join us.
It makes me wonder who organized this trip, and why.
Because it’s clearly been carefully orchestrated.
The little towns are all ready to welcome us, with flowers strung over a dais in the marketplace or arranged over the bed in the inn’s finest room.
The royal criers are ready as well; there seem to be three of them, trading places in the different towns, trying to outdo each other with ridiculous hyperbole.
We visit two to three towns a day, smiling and waving. Zarek occasionally gives a short speech, making people laugh as he picks some tiny detail in the muddy town square to compliment, just like the charming prince he is.
And then we kiss. Gods, we kiss. Again and again and again.
When we first arrive in the town, as we’re sitting together on the dais, before the wine, after the wine.
Zarek kisses me, and my mind shuts down.
My entire body aches with a sort of nameless hunger, like what I used to feel for Blayne but a thousand times worse, because there’s no release, no escape.
We kiss each other all day, and at night, someone vaguely official leads us to the finest room in the finest local inn, and they close the door.
And then Zarek ignores me.
He removes his jacket and boots, washes his face, and sits on the edge of the bed with his back to me.
The first night, he took a blanket and pillow and slept on the floor.
The second night, he told me to invite Anura into the room because he was worried about her with the soldiers.
Since then, Anura and I have shared the bed while he sleeps on the floor, blocking the door, and I try to ignore the slow-burning coals of arousal that are threatening to devour me alive.
Gods, if this is all for show, then why is it so damned painful?
I swallow hard and try to ignore that thought. It’s the fifth morning of our tour. Zarek left the room just as dawn broke through the massive east-facing window of the bedroom, and Anura is lacing up the back of the sleekest and most practical of the dresses Acelina’s tailor made for me.
“We’re crossing the border today,” she says, over my shoulder.
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I can’t help but think that neither one of us looks very celebratory. Shouldn’t we be happy? We’re on a damned Unity Tour, aren’t we? And today, we’ll cross back into Marion.
I wonder if my brother will meet us, but I swallow that thought before it can slip out of my lips.
Anura is in contact with him, somehow. She warned him not to travel to Vsenrog.
For all I know, she’s warned him to stay away from Prince Syvan too.
And he should stay away from Prince Syvan; something about Syvan seems as safe as a rusty blade on a pillow.
I just can’t help the ache in my chest when I think about Elrick.
I turn away from Anura’s reflection, but the look in her eyes makes me think she feels the same way.
We cross the border at the Tanic Pass just before noon.
There’s nothing remarkable separating Marion from Vsenrog, just an outpost at the bottom of the pass with two bored-looking Vsenrog soldiers to monitor traffic and a cairn of stone on the top of the pass to mark the official border.
Snow lies heavy on the northern slopes that flank the pass, a reminder that this crossing is inoperable for most of the winter.
We descend toward Tanic, a little farming village nestled in a lovely, remote valley, in silence.
We’re a rather small group at this point.
Prince Syvan and half of his soldiers have gone ahead to “scout the route,” whatever that means, and the stupid carriage finally broke a wheel just before we reached the guardhouse.
I’m sure one of Vsenrog’s royal criers is waiting for us in Tanic, probably the one with the ridiculous mustache, along with the dresses that were repacked and sent ahead.
Our route was carefully planned, but it still doesn’t make sense to me.
This is no longer the path I took to Vsenrog.
If we were going to the palace, we’d have crossed the mountains to the south, along the river.
Tanic is a lovely little town, but it’s not close to anything other than Ethiria, the kingdom whose prince I was supposed to marry.
I freeze, and my horse stomps the ground, responding to my sudden shift in movement. We’re close to Ethiria, yes.
We’re also close to the new mine.
I pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders, then bend down to pat my horse’s neck, telling her everything is fine. One of Syvan’s soldiers pulls up short, raising an eyebrow at me. I smile at him.
“Such a lovely view, isn’t it?” I ask, batting my eyes.
And it is a lovely view. The mountains that divide Marion from Vsenrog stretch toward the western horizon, still locked tight with snow.
Below them, the foothills show the first blush of green, and flocks of sheep move across the fresh grass like fluffy clouds drifting through the summer sky.
From here, the high point of the pass, I can see three rivers crashing down the mountains to converge in the valley beside Tanic.
The soldier frowns at me. I keep smiling. Some of Syvan’s soldiers treat me like an enemy combatant; it makes me thankful for Zarek’s knife, which I’ve dutifully re-strapped to my thigh every morning before Anura helps me lace up my dress for the day.
“Do you need to pause to stretch your legs?” Anura asks as she rides up beside me.
The soldier shakes his head with a look of disgust, then turns his horse away from us. Thank the gods for Anura. I turn to her and notice Zarek, behind me, watching the interaction with one hand tucked inside his jacket. I can almost see the dagger he must be holding under there.
Shit. My horse snorts again, and I force my muscles to relax. Anura’s smile looks like it’s been pulled too tight, and her eyes are hard. I shake my head. Slowly, we follow the soldiers of Vsenrog into my country.
Tanic looks like any of the other little villages on our tour.
If it weren’t for the cairn of stone marking the border, I wouldn’t know this is Marion and not Vsenrog.
The main square is filled with flowers and wreaths.
King Malrik’s crier stands in the middle of the town, wearing his full royal regalia.
He plays the trumpet as we ride into the square; I try to ignore the mud splattering my horse’s legs and the hem of my scarlet dress.
People line the street as we enter, and they clap and cheer just like they did in Vsenrog. But like Anura, there’s something tight about their smiles. I dismount as the crier introduces me, calling me the wife of Zarek, Prince of Vsenrog.
Everyone claps. I smile. I don’t even have a name anymore.
Zarek dismounts beside me, wraps his arm around my waist, and pulls me into a kiss just as the crier announces our honeymoon. His lips press against mine, as soft and welcome as a bed after a hard day of travel, and for a heartbeat, nothing else matters.
Then he pulls away, and the crowd is applauding again, and someone leads me toward the ornate wooden chairs set in the middle of the square. They look almost deliberately uncomfortable.
I smile. An older gentleman with a black fur stole around his shoulders limps toward me. He’s Ulrich, one of the members of the Council of Mayors. He holds his hands out, and I take them in mine. Of all the smiles I’ve seen today, his is the first one that looks genuine.
“My dear Princess Lilias,” he says. “What a pleasure to see you today.”
I lean in, kissing his cheeks. “The pleasure is all mine,” I reply.
His hand moves in mine. Something rough presses against my palm, and his eyes narrow.
“Such a shame you can’t stay,” he says. “There’s no better place for a honeymoon than Tanic, you know.”
I manage to laugh, high and light. “I don’t doubt it, Ulrich,” I reply.
He pulls away. I tuck my hands into my pockets before anyone can see what he just pressed into my palm. Then I accept a glass of red wine, sit in the chair that is every bit as uncomfortable as it looked, and smile, and smile, and smile.
It’s only after the second musical performance, and my second glass of wine, that I leave the horrible chair. Zarek is holding my hand in his, crossing the distance between the chairs, and some part of me is reluctant to break that tenuous bond.
Still, I’m not sure I’ll get another chance to be alone.
So, I pull my hand away from his, smile, and search the crowd.
Anura comes to my side instantly. Syvan’s soldiers are standing by the stables, looking bored, as the musicians who just performed pack up their instruments.
The royal crier from Vsenrog watches as Anura leads me into the inn.
The nicer latrines are in the back, the young woman who greets us at the door explains.
Anura thanks her profusely, then nods at me in a way that lets me know she’ll stand guard.
As usual. I open the door to the latrine, which must be considered nicer because the walls are whitewashed and not because it doesn’t stink like all the rest of them, and then bolt it shut behind me.
My hands tremble as I pull the tightly folded piece of parchment from my pocket. Light streams in through a series of high, narrow windows. I unfold the parchment, remembering the way Ulrich’s hands shook as he took mine.
The message is printed in clear, bold ink, a few tight slashes on creamy white. My breath catches in the back of my throat. Outside, the royal crier’s voice cuts through the air, saying something about the enduring unity of the bond between Marion and Vsenrog.
Four troops of Vsenrog soldiers. Hiding. South of Tanic Pass, the note reads. Warn the mayors. Warn the prince.
I collapse on the latrine’s seat. The air suddenly feels much colder.
Syvan’s army. Princess Acelina said Syvan commanded a huge force on the eastern border. It seemed strange that he’d surrender something like that to escort Zarek and me on a bizarre propaganda tour.
Gods. Ulrich took one hell of a risk passing this message to me. What if I was loyal to Vsenrog?
I have a brief, horrifying vision of Syvan’s soldiers, the ones standing outside the stables looking like they’d rather be anywhere but there, pulling their swords from their sheaths. Of women screaming. Of Ulrich’s black stole soaked with blood.
I swallow hard as panic claws at the inside of my chest.
Vsenrog soldiers are massing on the border. I need to warn the Council of Mayors, of course. I need to warn Elrick.
But how? I open my eyes and stare at the polished wooden door in front of me. Someone has hung a sprig of fresh bluebells from the door, and their sweet perfume mixes with the odors coming up from the latrine in a way that makes me wish I hadn’t had any wine.
My cloak feels tight around my neck. I yank at the laces, loosening them, then come to my feet and pull it off my shoulders.
It’s a lovely cloak, just like everything else Princess Acelina’s tailor made for me. It’s soft on the inside, and it’s a beautiful, rich shade of scarlet that just screams bride. I hang the cloak on the door, covering the sprig of bluebells, and then leave the latrine.
Anura opens her mouth, but I put my finger to my lips, and she says nothing.
I reach for her hand, press the folded scrap of parchment into her palm, and hold her gaze.
She nods, tucks the parchment into her dress, and leads me back to the main square, where Syvan’s soldiers are already leading our horses out of the stables.
I scan the crowd for Mayor Ulrich as we leave, but I don’t see him.