Chapter 1
ARIAH
Over a dozen available chairs take up space in the near-empty lobby of the council building, and of course, my soon-to-be husband takes the seat next to me.
We aren’t officially betrothed, but I refuse to pretend that’s not our purpose here.
The saddest part about this situation, other than a lack of consent on my end, is that I don’t even know his name.
Nor do I want to. And despite living in a fairly small village, his face is not one I recognize. He is an utter stranger to me.
Tugging at his chamomile yellow overcoat, as he adjusts in his seat, particles of dust rise from the patches of soot scattered on his clothing.
The man sneaks a peek at my embroidered design as my needle slips through lilac linen, finishing another daisy. While I work the needle, he begins sucking at his teeth.
It’s a rather vexing noise that he incessantly carries on with. When the sucking isn’t enough, he uses the nail of his right pinky, an exceptionally long nail, to pick at his teeth. Even with its length, he struggles with whatever object is between the crevices.
Wanting him to stop, I dig through my bag and find my old worn canister of needles—a necessity I always carry with me.
“Here.” He frowns at the metal sliver I point at him. “Might work better than your nail.”
His smile is weak, but he takes my offer and digs at the disturbance in his mouth. With a flick of his wrist, he gives one final suck.
Just as my hand begins working my needle again, something wet and green hits my arm.
Absolutely disgusting.
Flicking it away, I fall back in my seat.
He doesn’t notice the old food particle he flings onto my skin, and therefore makes no attempts at apologizing. Instead, he hums a little too loudly while watching passersby out the window.
Side-eyeing him, I take in more of his frame and realize his coat is a few sizes too big, swallowing him whole. It’s probably not even his. It looks second-hand and rather dated, perhaps something he borrowed from his father or an older brother.
His skin reminds me of the raven trees that grow around the back of our cottage.
When I was a child, my father used to make the finest furnishings from their dark, enriched trunks.
I’ll give it to him, his skin is nice, like black silk.
However, his brightly colored clothes completely drown out the cool undertones of his complexion, and while it shouldn’t be an issue for me, it is.
He needs something more like a cobalt blue or dark gray.
I bet even a deep purple would do well. Before losing myself in color palettes that would suit him, I pull myself out of those thoughts.
He clears his throat, and my eyes drop to the marble floor before he catches me staring.
He releases a few coughs, and then the sound of hacking has me staring again.
Much like my cat, Ella, it sounds as if he has hair of his own stuck in his passageways.
The hacking is phlegmy, and I suddenly realize what he is trying to cough up.
He stops when mucus pools into his mouth.
With nowhere to spit, he lets it go back to where it came from, and I think I’m going to be sick.
The thought of having this man touch any part of me makes me want to regurgitate every meal I’ve had for the past week.
“You have to be open to the idea,” Jaleese, my older sister, advised me before coming here. And to that I had said, “The hell I do.” I don’t want any part of this. The system may have worked for her, but my doubts are solidified and I want out.
“Ariah Tyddle,” an older woman summons me, poking her head out of the grand doors of the lobby. She has a smile that beams like the sun. Warm and inviting. At least one of us is happy. “It’s your turn, dear. Council will see you now.”
Before I can stand, my husband-to-be is out of his seat and standing next to me.
Her eyes drift over his lanky frame before speaking, “Are you Miss Tyddle?”
He lets a snort slip and follows it up with a couple of huffs and puffs. “She is my wife. I have every right to be in there.”
Acid hits the back of my tongue. All I picture is a scrambled egg and porridge mess on the floor, and I hope this poor woman doesn’t have to be the one to clean up after me.
There is a tightness in my chest, but before things get worse the woman speaks again. “You don’t have a wife. And if you don’t sit down and wait your turn, I assure you never will.” She points a finger at his empty seat until he finds his way back.
I don’t know who this woman is, but I want her to be my best friend. It’s like she’s in my head and saying all the things I want to.
Put in his place, the man clunks down in his seat. His dark color transforms to red, a red that makes me think he is about to blow. Wanting to avoid further annoyance, I slip into the room and let the woman shut the door behind me.
To my surprise, we don’t enter a room. It’s more so a large hall with towering columns. Thick stone pillars line both sides, forming arches above that hold warm light from high windows. Pockets of gold guide us to another set of doors.
Between the pillars are stone figures of Haymel’s greatest divinities, or so legends say. Supposedly, divinities were once beings with supernatural abilities who ruled over our world and shaped a lot of kingdoms we know today.
Whether or not I believe in the legends, my favorite is, and has always been, Panntra, the divinity of night, who was also said to be the ruler of what we now call the Land of Moonlight.
In all the images I’ve seen of her, she is portrayed almost thief-like—wearing a mask that covers everything on her face but the eyes.
The statue in the council building is different, though.
Not only is she over ten feet tall, but a skintight dress snuggles curves and holds crisscrossed beaded material that runs up and down her body.
Her face, like usual, is covered. Floating above an open palm of the large statue is a diamond.
Moving farther into the hall, I catch fragments of light bouncing from a cobweb-like string that suspends the massive gem, and I wonder if the stone is real or a fake one only meant for display.
Pulling my gaze away from Panntra, I examine the other divinities and notice a quietness about the room, one that makes me wish I brought my sketch pad. The number of outfits my mind can conjure up in such a tranquil place would be infinite.
“An abhorrent practice,” the woman mumbles.
Pulling my attention away from the details of the grand structure and craftsmanship of the walkway, I register that she is speaking to me. “I’m sorry, what?” My voice comes out a little more creaky than usual.
“Young ones having to be married off well before their time. And for what, the promise of land and moinlings.” She stops quickly, creating a screech that echoes around us. “My name is Ivy. Ivy Mayfoot.”
Everyone knows members of the council like to target unmarried people over the age of twenty and use them as bargaining pieces for trade coins, what we call moinlings in our kingdom.
All of which helps them fund this glorious institution they have created, and I’m sure the plush lives they live outside of it.
At an unwed twenty-two years old, I’m just ripe for the picking.
“Has anyone ever denied council?” My question causes immediate regret as I watch her eyes widen like moons.
“Deny?” Her face returns to normal as she processes the question more.
“I mean, technically, the Queen has not signed off on these marriages, therefore they are not law. But I don’t think she would be against such arrangements, if presented to her.
These men were appointed by Her Majesty, they act in her name.
Plus, people are too afraid of the power the council holds to turn down such unions.
There is only one person I know to have refused council. Kyla Lahorn.”
“Lahorn? Like lonely Lady Lahorn?” She is the village spinster with an awfully bad attitude. I never considered why people call her that, but if she did turn down the council in her day, then that would make sense.
“Yes, and she’s still reaping those consequences.
” Ivy places both her hands on my shoulders.
Wrinkles run over her dark skin and her hold on me is a bit weak.
“I won’t be the one to advise you in taking a stand against council.
They are bitter old men with nothing better to do than make your life a living hell if you revolt.
In the end, you’re the one who has to live with the consequences of your decision, so make it for yourself. ”
I nod and see my voluminous curls bounce in her iridescent green irises. “Have you ever had to make this decision?”
She pulls away and her face drops like I’ve just offended her.
But it only takes a half second for her to find a smile again.
“Yes, I have. It’s been many years since I was in your shoes.
A moment that undoubtedly changed my life.
” She exhales gravely before continuing, “Deep breaths, Ariah. It will be over in no time.” But as good-natured as she’s been, the words fall short, and I don’t find the comfort she intends.
Before entering, I start digging in my pockets.
My chest tightens even more when my hands come up short.
I always carry it with me. Why can I not find it when I need it most?
A frustrated exhale catches the attention of Ivy, but before she can ask what’s wrong, I dig a little deeper.
Resting beneath an extra hair tie and my canister of needles, I find my medicinal spray bottle.
I release a quick spritz of the bottle’s contents into my mouth and hold my breath. My father says his concoction works best if I hold it in and let the mixture move into my lungs.