The next hour became utter confusion. Trevn and Mielle were whisked to the main deck. Trevn caught glimpses of similarities to Wilek and Zeroah’s ceremony—Father Zeeshan spoke familiar words and sacrificed a crow—but there were many differences as well. Sonber presented a seashell on a cord that she bid them clasp between their hands as she sang her blessing in what sounded like ancient Armanian. Her words made Trevn’s chest ache with cold. When she finished, she put the shell necklace over Trevn’s head. Father Zeeshan continued the ceremony with blessings and prayers of his own.
While Trevn meant every word of his oath to Mielle, he almost felt as if they were playing a game instead of truly becoming man and wife. Like the whole event might be a dream. Perhaps that was because they were surrounded by strangers.
Except for Cadoc. Trevn’s shield had reunited with his parents and seemed pleased about that fact, but each time Trevn met the man’s disapproving gaze, he wished he had listened, dreading that his shield had been right and this would only bring heartache when the king ripped Trevn and Mielle apart. But they’d gone too far now. To stop would hurt Mielle. So Trevn kept silent and refused to let his hesitation show.
With no wedding tent prepared, a group of sailors whisked Trevn and Mielle into the captain’s cabin, shoved a white handkerchief into Trevn’s hands, and firmly shut the door in his face. The men’s laughter and teasing carried inside the room. Mielle sat down on the edge of the bed and burst into tears.
An overpowering sense of hopeless confusion rushed upon Trevn, pricking his eyes with moisture. He somehow knew with a shock that these were Mielle’s feelings, not his.
“Please don’t cry, Mouse.” He sat beside her and took her hands, fighting the overwhelming pull of her mood. The imprint of a seashell on her palm surprised him, and he turned over his hand, wincing when he saw that the same symbol marked his own.
What did it mean?
“It all happened so quickly,” Mielle said, her breaths coming short and fast as she searched for words. “It’s not that I don’t want to marry you—I do! It’s only . . . I don’t know those people out there. I’m just so . . . so . . .”
“It’s my fault,” he said, knowing it was true yet not understanding why he’d been so adamant to do this. “I guess I got carried away. If you want to go back to the Seffynaw, we can forget all this ever happened.”
“You would erase our wedding?” Now her anger surged within him—all sorrow gone without a trace. “We are married, Trevn. You cannot pretend we aren’t.”
“I won’t . . . We did . . . We are . . . You’re right.” Being unable to find his own mind apart from hers made him want to scream. “I only meant that I didn’t mean to pressure you into this.”
“I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t want to,” she scolded. “I’m only embarrassed.” She eyed the handkerchief with disgust. “I don’t think I can . . . Not with those people out there.”
“Then we won’t.”
“But we must! They are waiting.”
Trevn pulled his boot knife and held it to his finger. “This will convince them, no?”
“Don’t!” Mielle grabbed the wrist of his empty hand, turning it so that his palm faced upward. She stared at the red lines the shell had left on his skin, but instead of fear, her love flooded him, chasing away all negative thoughts.
Sands, women were seesaws of emotion.
Mielle turned her eyes to his. Her shy smile was all the invitation Trevn needed. He dropped the knife and kissed his bride.
To hear Hinck brag of his time with the temple prostitute had given Trevn the impression that such an act would happen almost by the magic of wanting it to. The folly of that thought quickly became clear as Trevn and Mielle’s shared ignorance carried them from one awkward moment to the next with surprise, gentle floundering, and occasional laughter.
They had no expectations to disappoint, no memories to intrude. They gave themselves to each other with unfettered eagerness and somehow knew exactly what the other needed. It was over far sooner than Trevn had imagined it would be, which surprised and amused them both. They put themselves back together as best they could and left the room, handkerchief in hand and blushing deeply as they moved through the crowd of strangers to sign the contract Father Zeeshan had drafted.
As Trevn stood watching the line of witnesses sign their marks, Mielle fingered the seashell that hung around his throat. She wanted to wear it. But she also wanted him to be happy. As happy as she was. She couldn’t believe he had married her! Had it been the right choice? She knew it had. But, oh, what would the king say when he found out? Would he—
“You wear this,” Trevn said to Mielle, removing the necklace. Hearing her thoughts so vividly in his head jarred him, but he might as well put it to good use.
His wife beamed at him as he put the cord over her head. Trevn, my husband. He is my husband, now and forever. No one will ever part us again. Not even Janek, let him try.
“Janek had better not try,” Trevn said.
She gasped. “How did you . . . ?”
“I can hear your thoughts. Can’t you hear mine?”
She stilled. “I thought I imagined it. Do you think?” She took hold of the shell.
Trevn didn’t want to even consider that he’d let a mantic put a spell on them, so he let his mind race with thoughts of how beautiful she was.
She beamed at him. “Do you really think so, Trevn?”
“I always have.”
This earned him a lingering kiss, after which they followed the sailors to a place on the main deck where pipers and a harpist were waiting in a circle of onlookers. The people cheered, the music began, and Trevn led Mielle in their first dance as husband and wife. They passed by Cadoc, who stood beside his parents, arms crossed and looking morose. Trevn also noticed Sonber watching them with a wide smile on her face. Both made Trevn uneasy.
On their second time around the circle, Trevn slowed as they passed by his High Shield. “Do not we look happy, Cadoc?”
“You look happy now,” he called after them. “But I do not believe you will look so when you stand before your family to explain yourselves.”
The flitting thought that Cadoc was right filled Trevn with annoyance. Such negativity threatened to drown his hope, so he whisked his bride back into the crowd, fully intent on enjoying his wedding day to the fullest.
Amala
Since the tragic death of Rosârah Valena, Rosârah Brelenah had poured much attention into helping sârahs Hrettah and Rashah. Proper dancing being the first queen’s most favorite pastime, she had eagerly taken on the task of training the sârahs in the art of courtly quinate dancing. Since a proper quinate must have five couples, much to Amala’s delight, she and two other honor maidens had been invited to learn along with five reluctant guardsmen.
Rosârah Brelenah had roped off a section on the foredeck for lessons with Master Hawley acting as dancing master.
“Let us first see the alloette, Master Hawley,” Rosârah Brelenah said, sitting on her wicker throne with two greasy pups on her lap.
“Certainly, Your Highness.” Hawley regarded the princesses. “Do you remember the starting position of the alloette?”
“A circle,” Rashah said.
“Excellent,” Hawley said. “Where do you stand in relation to your partner?”
“Across from him?” Sârah Hrettah guessed.
“Correct! Take your positions.”
As usual Amala was partnered with Ulmer, since the rosârah paired by height. Amala had grown tired of the young backman’s attentions. He was too afraid of Kal to fight to court her—to even kiss her! Just that morning she had decided to look elsewhere for love. The fever had taken Rosârah Valena, and now Darlow was ill. Death, it seemed, was coming swiftly for them all.
At the queen’s command, the band—which was made up of three pipers, a lutist, and a man on tabor drum—began an upbeat tune. The dancers circled to the left.
“Posture straight, Ra
shah,” Hawley called. “That’s right. Two full rotations, then reverse.” This they did as gracefully as possible with a rolling sea beneath their dance floor.
After the alloette they danced the rosegate, followed by the heart’s bell. They had just begun the landrille when a shadow fell upon her.
“What lively fun goes on here?”
A quick glance showed the spectator to be none other than Sâr Janek, holding a potted plant in the crook of one arm, his half brother Sir Kamran DanSâr beside him. Amala’s stomach tightened, and she focused on the last few steps, wanting to appear accomplished before such a man.
“We are learning to dance,” Sârah Hrettah said once the song had ended. “Will you join us, brother?”
The way his eyes moved over Amala made her shiver. “I would love to, dear sister.” He handed his plant to Kamran and bowed to Rosârah Brelenah. “Unless you object, Rosârah.”
“It has been a long time since I’ve seen you dance, Sâr Janek,” Rosârah Brelenah said. “Do you remember the tomandah?”
“I do, rosârah.” He faced the dancers. “Whom shall I partner with? My youngest sister?” He grinned and stepped toward Sârah Rashah, who giggled.
“My, no,” Rosârah Brelenah said. “You are far too tall to stand with Rashah. Take Master Gelsly’s place beside Miss Amala. Do you know her?”
“I do,” Sâr Janek said, “though if you recall, my brother Trevn made me vow never to touch her.”
“Oh, pish,” Rosârah Brelenah said. “Sâr Trevn is an accomplished dancer. I’m certain he understands the importance of pairing by height. Let us all agree that an exception should be made. Just this once, yes?”
Hrettah and Rashah curtsied to the queen, so Amala did too.
Janek bowed. “You honor me, rosârah.” Then he turned and pushed Ulmer aside. “Off you go, man.”
Amala curtsied deeply to show deference and appreciation, eager to dance with a prince.
The tomandah was a lively, longwise dance with steps made difficult by the rolling sea. Hrettah stumbled twice and Rashah nearly every step, but Amala did not falter.
“Do I frighten you, lady?” Sâr Janek asked when his turn came to circle Amala.
“No, my sâr,” she replied confidently.
Once all had returned to their original positions, the pairs dance began. Hrettah and Master Rey went first, casting off from their positions and weaving their way around the dancers in their respective lines. They met at the end of the line, facing one another. There they took hands and advanced together down the middle, stopping every two steps so that Master Rey could twirl Hrettah under his arm. Next went Rashah and Sir Kenard, and once they had finished, Amala and Sâr Janek began.
Amala swished her skirt playfully as she danced around the other girls, wanting the sâr to see that she was not afraid of him in the least. She moved with as much grace and skill as she could, and when they took hands and advanced together down the middle, twirling as a couple, Amala felt that to dance with a prince in front of an audience was the most fun she had ever had in her life.
The song ended, and the audience applauded. Amala beamed, breathing hard from the exercise and excitement.
“Do you only teach group dances to the girls, rosârah?” Sâr Janek asked.
“For the most part,” the queen said, “though we have introduced the corroet and somaro.”
“That seems wise to start,” Sâr Janek said. “I would imagine the rengia and nevett too fast for beginners, but the berga is nice and slow.”
A guard pushed through the crowd and up to Hawley. They spoke quietly, then Hawley approached the queen and stood waiting to be addressed.
“Sâr Janek, the berga is hardly an appropriate suggestion for young girls.” Rosârah Brelenah turned her reprimanding gaze on Hawley. “What is it?”
He stepped close and spoke so softly that Amala couldn’t make out a single word.
The queen stood. “I am needed in the birthing tent. Sir Kenard, please see the girls safely back to my cabin.”
Sir Kenard bowed. “Yes, Your Highness.”
They all watched Hawley and the queen walk across the foredeck and descend the steps to the main. Once they were out of sight, Sâr Janek said, “Pipers, play me a berga.” He stepped toward Amala, hand extended. “Well, Miss Amala? Will you dance?”
“I do not know the berga, Your Highness,” she said, unnerved by the sound of her own voice. “The rosârah said we shouldn’t.”
“Worry not, lady. The queen is not here. As for the rest . . . I am a good teacher.”
She set her hand in his, and when their fingers touched, a shiver ran up her arm to the back of her neck.
“The berga is a dance for lovers,” Sâr Janek said softly. “It is forbidden in Sarikar, which, of course, is why Rosârah Brelenah dislikes it. The very idea of people embracing on a public dance floor—scandalous, don’t you think?”
Amala’s cheeks burned. She could think of nothing to say.
“We touch hands like this.” Sâr Janek set his palm against hers, fingers splayed. “I place my other hand here.” He circled Amala’s waist with his other arm, his hand pressing against the small of her back. Amala’s stomach tightened, but she held still and tried to remain calm.
“The man leads where he likes, but our hips and legs must stay together, as if we are attached at the navel. That’s why the man must keep such a tight hold on his lady partner.” He pulled Amala close against him, and she failed to stifle her gasp of surprise.
“The lady simply does the opposite of the man’s lead. If I step forward with my right leg . . .” Sâr Janek did so, tapping the tip of his boot against the toe of her shoe. “Then you step back with your left leg.”
Amala stepped back.
“That’s right.” He stepped forward with his left leg, and Amala stepped back with her right. “Whatever we do, our eyes must remain locked—never breaking the stare.”
The music surged then, and Janek whirled with it. Amala found that as long as she concentrated fully on the sâr’s lead, she made few mistakes. He walked her back and forth, from side to side, and even spun them in a circle, never once looking away from her eyes or letting go. He had brown eyes, lighter than Ulmer’s. Like smoky quartz gemstones. Smoky eyes that seemed to smolder into hers.
A hand squeezed her upper arm and jerked her away. The air felt suddenly cold away from the warmth of the sâr’s body. Alarmed, Amala stumbled and had to grab hold of her captor to keep from falling.
It was Kal.
“My pardon, Your Highness,” Kal said, “but Miss Amala must go now.”
“Must she?” Sâr Janek smirked, propped his hands on his hips. “I had heard you had gone to the Rafayah, Sir Kalenek. Did you just return? Where are Miss Mielle and my brother?”
Kal frowned, but he didn’t answer. He simply tightened his grip on Amala’s arm and dragged her away. With no control over her own speed, the waves seemed worse than ever. Her foot caught in her gown. She tripped and clutched the railing.
“Let go of me, Kal! You’re going to make me fall.”
Kal did not let go but slowed until they reached the main deck. “You will have nothing to do with Sâr Janek. Ever. Is that clear?”
“You cannot command such a thing of me,” Amala said. “Rosârah Brelenah is teaching the sârahs quinate dancing and asked me to join them. Is obeying my queen a crime?”
“A berga is not quinate dancing,” Kal said. “The suggestion was Sâr Janek’s, wasn’t it?”
Amala looked away.
“Deceiving impressionable young girls is a favorite pastime of Sâr Janek’s. No matter how honored he might make you feel, his intentions are anything but.”
“It was just a dance, Kal. It’s so unfair how you treat me. That Sâr Wilek would plead to the king for permission for his brother to court Mielle when I cannot even speak to a young man without being scolded.”
“Mielle is a woman. You are not. And what did Sâr Janek mean by his c
omment to me. Did Sâr Trevn leave the ship?”
“How should I know what Sâr Trevn does?” They reached the lengthway that led to Rosârah Brelenah’s cabin, and Amala spoke her mind. “It shames me to have you always dragging me off. Have you no manners? Is it so difficult to bow and claim I am late for an engagement and escort me away like a lady?”
“You are a child, Amala. When I find you blatantly misbehaving, you will be punished as a child deserves!”
Amala stepped into the room and slammed the door. She fell back against it, shaking. Just look what that man did to her! So unfair. Hang his interfering ways. Kalenek Veroth had raised her and been like a father to her, and she loved him dearly, but lately he did nothing but smother! It hadn’t been so bad when Mielle had taken the brunt of his attention, but ever since Darlow had fallen ill and the king had granted Sâr Trevn permission to court Mielle, Kal had focused all his attention on Amala.
And this time she’d done nothing wrong.
The door opened and Hrettah and Rashah returned with Enetta, their bossy nurse, and all of the maids, everyone talking at once.
“Amala!” Hrettah said, grabbing hold of her hands. “Are you well?”
Amala tugged Hrettah across the cabin to the room they shared, wanting to put distance between them and Enetta. “I am mortified,” she whispered.
Hrettah wrinkled her nose. “It was a horrible dance. I’m sorry Janek pressured you into it. Are you terribly embarrassed?”
“Only that Kal humiliated me in public. The berga I rather liked.”
“It’s not an appropriate dance for anyone,” Enetta said, sweeping into the room with a tray of honey rolls and tea. “Really, Amala, whatever possessed you to accept?”
Hrettah shot Amala an apologetic smile and slipped over to where Enetta had set the tray on the sideboard.
“One does not refuse a sâr of Armania,” Amala said. “Why is everyone making such a fuss? It was just a dance. If he asked me again, I would accept again.”
Out in the main room a knock at the door was followed by a man’s voice. “I have a message for Miss Amala.”
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