CHAPTER 6 #2
Looking down the smaller alleys as we walked, I glimpsed pathways of dirt or heavily trodden grass.
Any path wide enough for a cart was paved with flat, tightly packed stones—better joined than the cobblestone roads back home.
I glanced over to Gerta, who was trailing one foot across the stones with a twinkle in her eye.
Great. Another thing she thinks is clever.
“You can spend your scale here freely,” Kahvrah said. “Everyone in this market will sell to you.”
I adjusted my glasses. “Are there other markets where people won’t sell to us?”
Kahvrah pursed her lips. “If there is anything you cannot find, tell me.”
Anticipation prickled my skin as we walked the market road.
Small shops lined either side, and a row of carts down the center left just enough room in between for a horse to pass through.
I scarcely knew where to look. Most of the carts boasted a variety of foods in jars, crates, or overflowing sacks.
Other carts displayed baskets of fresh fruits and veggies, but most were devoted to plants and cuttings of large leaves, whose purpose I couldn’t even begin to guess.
Men, women, and children browsed each stand, talking in the rapid Rihtlondish language.
The carts were portable, fitted with wheels and harness rods, while the shops were permanent, carved from dark stone.
One had clothing neatly folded in stacks across narrow tables, another with a large sword mounted over the door, and another with waxy leaves as long as my arm strung up to dry in the window.
“What do you think those plants are for?” I nudged Gerta and pointed.
“Pathetic,” a voice hissed behind me. My challenger. I’d recognize her sneer anywhere. “I heard stories of how sheltered Inraen women are, but you are worse. Weak and ignorant.” Her accent was thicker than Kahvrah’s.
“I’m…sorry?” I balked. Was she serious?
“You should be.”
My challenger, whose name I didn’t know, turned and walked away. Her every step was grace and purpose. It made my stomach turn. Beside me, Gerta’s eyes smoldered with rage. I turned to Kahvrah and blinked—her expression mirroring mine.
“Well, she seems nice.” I scowled at her retreating back.
Gerta’s lips tightened into a thin line, but Kahvrah’s frown cracked. “She has never been pleasant, but this time, she has her reasons. Come this way.”
We visited the tailor who had completed a half dozen pairs of leggings for me, along with four complete everyday outfits.
I was pleased to find an array of colors beyond green and brown, which dominated the rest of the market.
The hues were more muted than the dyes of Inra, but the fabric was a downright luxury to touch.
I thanked her and paid with scale. The strange green coins were unlike anything I’d seen before.
They were triangular with rounded corners instead of the round metal coins I was used to.
They had a slight concavity to them, and they ranged in size and thickness.
Each was marked with a rune I couldn’t read.
Kahvrah stood aside while Lanh explained their values and helped sort through the fees owed.
When done, Kahvrah added a scale of her own to the pile, “For all the trouble.”
“INTERESTING,” GERTA muttered, inspecting the tap in the private bathing chamber along our hallway, also permitted for our use. “I wonder how they keep the water warm.”
I clenched my jaw and set my glasses on the counter.
It would be a miracle if I had any teeth left to chew with by the time she returned to Inra.
She had picked up a habit of marveling under her breath in every lesson and at random intervals through the day—especially when perusing wares in the market.
Each day, she found at least three things about Rihtlond to admire.
That was all well and good for a woman whose trip had an upcoming expiration date.
I, on the other hand, was stuck here. Nothing I looked at was novel or intriguing.
It was foreign and uncomfortable and uninviting.
My new life continued in a similar, exhausting routine.
Gerta brought our breakfast trays to our room each morning and dinner trays at night.
Afternoons were spent learning from guest instructors about everything from leather tanning to the complicated values assigned to each commodity.
That was the only part of the day I enjoyed.
If given the choice, I would spend all my lessons working with the herbalist, the farmer—Martyrs, even the seamstress—who had all visited for guest lectures.
But the most critical lesson was the daily hour I spent learning the Rihtlondish language.
People switched to Mayoran only when speaking directly to me. Otherwise, I was at a complete loss.
I avoided walking as much as I could, considering the state of my ribs.
We practiced dowsae constantly. Kahvrah, it turned out, was merciless with her corrections.
When I attempted to sit out of training one particularly painful morning, the dane showed up in my room with gruff threats that there would be consequences if I skipped out again. I believed him.
Each night, I documented everything I could remember from that day’s lessons in my journal.
Luckily, it fit in my underdress pocket, as I no longer had a bodice to hide it under.
It doubled as a reference book, helping me keep tabs on what we were learning.
With Gerta’s help, I sent another coded letter back to Cavendaffe.
This one contained the few details about Rihtlond I had gathered—Drakh was huge, the castle was huge, the lands were vast and productive, and warriors were everywhere I looked.
After about a week of this routine, Gerta and I entered the afternoon lesson room and came face-to-face with the dane.
He reclined in one of the high-backed chairs at the small table we used for tea and discussion.
From what I’d gathered, each table lining the walls had a specific purpose: one slanted drawing desk, a workbench for multipurpose crafting, one slick black table whose purpose I had yet to identify, and our usual comfortable table in the corner, now set for two instead of three and occupied by my unlikely visitor.
“Dane Auldren,” I greeted and swept into a short curtsey.
“Daughter Serae,” he replied with twinkling eyes, a half-smile on his lips. “Send away your lass and sit with me.”
Gerta retreated without a word. I frowned, then forced my face to relax.
Following Rihtlondish custom, I took a seat and poured a cup of tea for myself, offering none to the dane.
Everyone served themselves in Rihtlond unless they were in the Main Hall—or so I’d been told, since we weren’t allowed to attend.
Dane was already sipping from his cup. I took the warm clay mug in my hands and inhaled deeply.
One thing I had to admit—which I would never tell Gerta—I loved Rihtlondish mugs.
They were larger and deeper than teacups with no handle, perfect for cradling between two hands.
“How are you finding Drakh so far?”
Foreign. Lonely. Unwelcoming. “It’s a unique city, to be sure.”
“Spoken like a diplomat,” Dane chortled. “Pretty lies will not help you here.”
I frowned.
He eyed me in silence. I focused on anything but his piercing gaze and sipped my tea. Instead of his customary braids, his beard and hair were left loose in wild blond waves. His heavy brow matched his deep frown, and a thin scar traced down his neck beside his ear.
“You’ve been learning your first few dowsae, I hear.”
Unfortunately. I swallowed, nodding.
“Do you enjoy it?”
“No.”
He nodded. “And your other lessons?”
“Well enough, Your… Sire.” It wasn’t a complete lie.
The dane pressed his lips into a thin line. “How do you address your father?”
“My…father?”
“Yes. At home, how do you address him?”
What kind of a question was that? “I call him ‘Father’ or ‘my lord.’”
“Hmm.”
“Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?”
He shook his head. “Titles matter in the Riht, but not honorifics. You earn a title through hard work. You show respect with actions.”
I stared at him.
“You will understand when Eldreth returns home.”
I adjusted my glasses and sat up straighter. “Is he expected back soon?”
“No. And yes. He is…well, you Inraen call it raiding.” He barked out a short laugh, probably at the look on my face.
I knew dismay—or maybe even disgust—was splashed across it.
My betrothed was a barbarian. Maybe a rapist. Maybe a murderer.
That was the kind of thing they did on these raids, wasn’t it?
My throat squeezed at the thought of this man’s hands touching me, when he had likely touched dozens of women by force.
Not to mention, all the people he’d killed in cold blood.
No, not my betrothed. My true betrothed was back home, not wandering distant lands and…
Tam. A rush of guilt hit me. I hadn’t even thought of him in more than a week.
Then again, our visits in Inra were rarely more frequent than monthly.
Enough time hadn’t passed yet for me to begin missing him—that was all. Wasn’t it?
“Enough of this.” He waved one large hand.
“Down to business. Two weeks have passed since you joined us, one in travel and rest”—I wouldn’t call healing bruised ribs and a split face resting—“and one learning of life in Drakh. There are things you won’t understand for some time. Important things. That’s why I’m here.”
I stilled, my mug halfway to my mouth.
“First, a dane or dana is always married before taking the mantle. The time for Eldreth to take the lead is not yet near, but he must be prepared. Among the Riht, we have a rite of betrothal, where you will earn your right to be betrothed to my son, as he will in turn for you. But first, you must complete your Sun Trial to be formally accepted into the Riht.”