: Chapter 10

“How does this go on exactly?”

I look up from where I sit, trying to stuff my feet into a pair of too-tight boots, to see Sul pluck a human garment from where it lies on my bed. He holds it upside down in front of him and flaps it a few times.

Hael grunts and snatches it out of his hands. “It laces up the front. Here.” She holds it right-side up, but her brow tightens. She turns it around, murmuring, “Or perhaps it’s up the back?”

“Hand it over,” I growl. Hael shrugs and tosses the garment to me. “A little privacy, if you please?”

She politely turns her back, but my brother maintains his place, seated backwards on a chair, his arms folded over the back, his chin propped. He smirks as he watches me struggle into the shirt. It’s much too tight across the shoulders, and the armholes pinch. I try to adjust. A seam rips somewhere. Grimacing, I search for a hole, but find nothing. I fumble with the front ties.

“Do you plan to adopt human garb from this day forth?” Sul asks. “Does your bride’s delicacy require this sacrifice?”

I shoot him a look, rolling my shoulder and causing another disconcerting rip. “I agreed to wear the customary garments for a human heartfasting today. In turn, my bride will don traditional trolde apparel for the wedding ceremony. It seemed a fair exchange at the time.”

Sul makes a face. He plucks a circlet from the bed. It’s gold and set with green jewels. Dead and lifeless jewels, for there are no living gems to be found anywhere in this world. He turns it round with obvious distaste before tossing it aside. “Let me be sure I’ve got this right,” he says, setting his chin back on his arms. “Today’s little event isn’t a marriage ceremony?”

“Haven’t you been paying any attention?” Hael scoffs, still facing the wall.

“Very little. I try not to listen when humans are talking. I find it better for my sanity on the whole.”

I shoot him a look. “Need I remind you, brother, that I myself am half-human?”

“Yes, my king.” Sul grins, showing too many teeth. “And we have all forgiven you for this defect in your person as you so magnificently make up for it in all other respects.”

I narrow my eyes slightly. “You may laugh and jest as you like today, brother. But you’d best learn to curb your tongue. Any such speech made about my wife will not be tolerated. And any such speech made against my future children by that wife will be taken as treachery against the crown itself.”

Sul sits up, hands gripping the back of the chair. The smile melts from his face, and his eyes are suddenly hard. “Be serious, Vor. Do you truly intend to go through with this madness?”

“I do. And you will accept it, brother. And when you cannot accept it, you will hold your tongue. Do you understand me?”

For a long moment, Sul says nothing. His eyes search my face for some sign of weakness. I give him none. I match his stare—hard, unflinching.

At last Sul rises. He offers a slow, almost languid bow. When he rises, he says only, “My king.”

He leaves the room without another word, leaving me with Hael and Umog Zu. The priestess sits cross-legged in the middle of the floor, caught up in a long and involved prayer. Her pale skin has turned gray and hard as she sinks into her va, becoming one with the stone. She’s nearly naked save for her ornamental headdress, and her voice provides a background drone to the atmosphere.

I return to fumbling with the laces of my garment but see from the tail of my eye when Hael turns, her gaze heavy upon me. “What?” I demand at last.

“You know Sul is only concerned for you. For your future happiness.”

“Sul has never fully forgiven me for being born first. And born of a human mother.”

“Perhaps. But he’s never allowed that resentment to color either his love for you or his loyalty to your crown. You know that, don’t you?”

I do. I’ve fought side by side with Sul on many occasions and would trust my half-brother with my life. I know that, even now, some among my own council would prefer to see Sul seated on the throne of Mythanar. After our father’s death, many urged Sul to demand the Rite of the Thorn and fight me for crown and kingdom.

Instead, Sul knelt before me and pledged his life, swearing the Unbreakable Oath. For all his viper’s tongue, Sul would never dare go back on such an oath. He is, in his own way, quite devout.

But loyalty to me will not necessarily translate to my wife.

“Sul must understand that when I take a wife, the two of us will be made one. Whatever devotion Sul feels for me, he must in turn impart on my bride. There can be no division.” Finishing up the shirt ties, I complete the rest of my clumsy efforts to dress, setting the gold circlet on my brow last of all. “Is all made ready for our departure?” I ask, straightening the front of the strange, ill-fitted shirt.

“Yes, my king,” Hael responds. “We are to set out for Mythanar tomorrow.” She sounds ready to escape this place. And I know she is eager to get home and seek out word of her brother. I’m scarcely less eager myself. Upon our return, I will have approximately two weeks to prepare for my bride’s arrival. It is the custom in Gavaria following the heartfasting ceremony for a bride to make her Maiden’s Journey, sacrificing at certain altars and praying before certain shrines. Until the Maiden’s Journey is complete, she and I will not be permitted to see one another. Thus I will return home and plan for her coming.

And that should give me ample time to get the image of her sister out of my head.

I wince and swiftly turn away from Hael, pretending to adjust the set of my belt. Three nights have now passed since I met Faraine in the still, cold garden by moonlight. Larongar has hosted elaborate feasts every evening since, but though I’ve looked for her, Faraine has not been present.

Is she avoiding me? Perhaps. Perhaps it’s just as well. I’ve made my decision. And I’m determined to be a good husband to Ilsevel. Which I cannot be if I’m thinking about another woman.

Still, I wonder if Faraine will be present to observe the heartfasting. I hope so. I should like a chance to prove to myself that I don’t feel anything. That the sight of her has no power to move me. That I’m truly ready to put those feelings to rest.

Ilsevel will be my wife.

Ilsevel.

I close my eyes, calling to mind an image of her pretty face, her flashing eyes, her rich, dark hair. We’ve been given very little time to interact. The last three days have been consumed by hard negotiations with Larongar and his council. In the evenings, I have dined beside and danced with Ilsevel, exchanging pleasantries all under the watchful eyes of the Gavarian court. Just last night, Larongar declared before all that an agreement had been reached and the heartfasting would be held on the morrow.

Soon after, I led Ilsevel to perform a simple and sedate human dance I’d learned specifically for the occasion. In that short interval, as I took her hand and guided her from the table down to the floor, I leaned in and whispered: “I feel I should officially ask you: will you accept my hand in marriage, princess?”

She gave me a sharp look. “Do I have any choice in the matter?”

I hesitated. After all, I need this alliance. More, even, than I dare admit. But I could not bear that expression in her eye. “Yes,” I assured her. “You have a choice. Say the word, and I will gather my people and leave your father’s house at once.”

She didn’t return an answer right away. The music began, and we assumed our places on the floor, bowing and curtsying respectively. I concentrated on my footwork, gliding with her through the first pattern of the dance. When we came to the end, we stood before each other, scarcely a foot of space between us.

She looked me in the eye. “I will accept your hand, King Vor,” she said.

That was it. Nothing more. Nothing less. We completed two more turns of the dance. The music ended. I guided her back to her place at the table.

We did not speak again.

Now, drawing a long breath, I turn and face Hael. “How do I look?”

She blinks slowly, her lips pursed. “Very, um . . . human.”

“Thanks for the confidence.” I shrug and roll my shoulders one last time, causing a final disconcerting rip somewhere. “Shall we, then?”