by Jill Myles
“You shall have them both,” he said. “Only two?”
“I can take care of myself.” She took a bite of the sweet bread, sugar sprinkling her lips. Graeme’s fangs pressed at his mouth again. “If I must be tortured by Athonites, I should prefer those two.”
“Indeed,” Graeme said drily. “You look quite tortured.”
She gave him a withering look worthy of the best courtiers, and defiantly took another sugared biscuit from the tray. He couldn’t look away as she ate it and then licked her fingers. “I want my money.”
“My vizier will take care of the money,” Graeme said with a wave.
“Perhaps I should just marry your vizier, then. He seems to do all the work around here.”
The room became deathly quiet.
Graeme’s nostrils flared, anger and an odd possessiveness surging through him. Strangely enough, it wasn’t her insult that incensed him half as much as the thought of her marrying another.
What in the Goddess’s name was coming over him?
At his side, the Vidari girl swallowed hard, as if realizing her insult and losing her nerve. She took another sip of wine, her gaze on him.
“Leave us.” Graeme’s words echoed in the room.
As one, the men in the room stood. The girl rose, too.
He pinned her in place with his gaze and gave her an imperceptible shake of his head. It was time for them to talk alone.
She sat back down with a loud, ungainly thump, her eyes wide.
The room cleared out within minutes, and Graeme gestured for the guards to follow. “Leave as well.”
“My prince,” one said, bending to one knee and bowing his head. “It is the master at arms’s request that we do not leave you alone . . .”
His words trailed off as the girl’s hard, mocking laugh echoed in the room. “Are they afraid that a mere goosegirl is going to harm their precious prince?”
A wintry smile flitted across Graeme’s lips but he ignored Seri, focusing on the guardsman. “The master at arms is a thoughtful man, but I shall not be needing your presence in the room. Wait outside.”
The men hesitated only a moment more, then exited the room, closing the large double doors behind them.
They were alone.
He turned back to Seri, studying her defiant face. “Well? You have my attention.”
“You realize this cannot work,” Seri blurted.
“If I recall correctly, I was not given a choice. You were not given a choice. The Goddess made the choice for us.” He put his wineglass down, pursing his lips with distaste. “You have already been declared my Betrothed, and in three days, we will marry. As I said last night, it is done.”
“It is not done,” she breathed. “Your people will hate me. Mine will think I’ve betrayed them. Please.”
“My lady,” Graeme said coldly, trying to ignore the way her words affected him. “Trust when I say that if I could choose any woman to be my Eterna, it would not be you.”
“Please,” she begged again, and her eyes shone with tears. “I’m to marry another. I love him. I do not love you.”
“This has nothing to do with love and everything to do with children.” And my thirst, though he would not be so crude as to say that aloud.
“Children?” She seemed surprised. “If I give you a child, will you let me go?”
Graeme drummed his fingers on the table. “Why would I let you go? The Goddess has decreed this and we must live with the consequences. It doesn’t matter if my people already hate you. Nothing we do will change that. Your lawless kind refuses to abide by any sort of rules. You are crude and savage and half-dressed, and you have already made me a mockery of the court.”
“Why should my people obey you?” Seri’s voice rose. “Your people are nothing but interlopers, conquering fools who think that because you have more troops you can rule us.”
“War is but one aspect of nature, my dear,” he said. It was his father’s favorite saying. “There will always be a conqueror, and there will always be a conquered. Do not blame me for your people choosing the wrong side.”
At that, she slapped him, right across the mouth. His tasted blood and his fangs shot out. Unable to help himself, he hissed and bared his teeth at her.
The girl’s eyes went round with shock. Her pupils dilated and she recoiled. Before he could move, she turned and dashed from the room.
Rubbing his jaw, Graeme didn’t follow her. He didn’t trust himself around her. More bitter, possessive words might come out . . . or worse. Because no matter how much he tried to deny it, no matter how he much wished he could let her go back to her small farm and be done with her forever, all he truly wanted to do was find her, rip the high collar off her dress, and sink his fangs into her throat.
Seri ran, her feet slapping on the marble floors. Her breath heaved in her lungs, constricted by the tight corset at her waist. She turned down a hall only to find it filled with nobles and servants. They paused at the sight of her, and she immediately turned and ran in another direction. Everywhere she looked, she imagined fangs.
A sob choked in her throat. What she’d seen on Prince Graeme’s face wasn’t human. The stories about the Blood? The stories that Rilen had laughed about, that Elen had told Josdi about, of warriors who devoured other men and creatures, who never aged and drank blood?
They were all true. Prince Graeme wasn’t human, he was a bloodthirsty monster.
And Seri had hit him.
And by the four gods, she was to be married to him. Seri shuddered and jerked open a door, racing down the winding hallways toward the root cellar next to the kitchen. When she reached it, she hurtled inside, then took a moment to catch her breath before peeking out the back door to the courtyard. It was crawling with servants rushing around with sacks of laundry and soldiers practicing drills. Seri leaned back against the cool stone wall. Curse it all. In her elaborate dress, Seri would stick out and they’d be on her in an instant. She thought for a moment, then gathered herself and entered the kitchens.
She found Idalla at a counter kneading a lump of dough. “Idalla!” Seri said gingerly. “I need your help.”
“Oh, Seri,” Idalla said, and then corrected herself. She looked down at the dough. “Er, my lady—”
“Please,” Seri urged, and put a hand over the other woman’s flour-covered ones. “Help me.”
Idalla gave her a curious look, dusting off on her apron as she followed Seri back toward the door. “Is everything all right?”
Seri put a finger to her lips, but it was too late. The head cook stormed over, a dripping spoon in her hand. The big woman scowled at Idalla. “What are you doing, laze-about?” she bellowed. “Don’t—” her voice choked off and died at the sight of Seri standing next to Idalla. The woman’s eyes widened and her gaze flicked from Seri to Idalla, then back to Seri, and she dropped into a hasty bow. “My lady.”
All eyes in the kitchens turned to Seri. She wanted to squirm with discomfort, but instead she lifted her chin and gave the staff one of Graeme’s cold, calculating looks. “Do you all intend to stare at me or do you intend to work?”
The cook faltered and then bowed again. “Of course, my lady.” She turned and shook her spoon at the others. “Back to work!”
Seri felt a sudden rush of power. She cast a quick look at Idalla in her gray gown. “Come with me.”
Idalla nodded, looking at Seri with wide eyes. Seri led her out of the kitchen and into the storeroom, shutting the door behind them.
“Seri, are you well?” Idalla asked quietly.
She swallowed hard and turned to Idalla, wringing her hands. “I slapped the prince.” When Idalla’s eyes widened, she continued. “That’s not the worst of it. He . . . he grew fangs.”
“He is of the Blood, yes.” Idalla’s expression changed to one of realization. “I thought . . . I tho
ught you knew?”
“Did everyone know he was a monster but me?” Seri’s voice rose to a hysterical note.
Idalla touched Seri’s arm. “I’m so sorry, Seri. I would have said something if I’d have realized you were unaware of the Blood.”
Seri shuddered. “He looks like a man, but he’s not, is he?” Men didn’t have fangs. Men aged and grew old. Men walked in sunlight. The Blood did none of these things. At Idalla’s sad look, she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now.” Seri cracked the back door and showed Idalla the bustling courtyard. “This is the only escape route I know. Is there another way out close to here?”
Idalla peered over her shoulder, then shook her head. “All the other doors will be crawling with guards by now. The only ones that use this door are the scullery maids ’cause it’s close to the middens.”
Seri pursed her lips, then pulled the dirty white cap off Idalla’s head and jammed it down over her own. She tied her blond hair in a tight knot and tucked it under the hat. “Give me your dress.”
Idalla’s eyes widened. Her fingers went to her collar. “What?”
“Give me your dress,” she repeated, unbuttoning the row of tiny decorative buttons on her own stifling outfit with frantic fingers.
“I can’t fit in yours,” Idalla protested, but she began to unlace the sides of her own plain gown.
Seri grasped the woman’s hands. “Please help me. They think I’m a savage. Tell them I threatened you with a knife and you had no choice but to switch clothes with me.” Seri squeezed Idalla’s hands harder. “I can’t marry him. I can’t.”
Idalla faltered again, but she sighed and continued undressing. “A very big knife, then.”
“The biggest.”
Minutes later, Seri was dressed in Idalla’s baggy garment, the other girl shoved into the layers of Seri’s clothing though the back gaped open. “It makes me look like a sausage,” she said, her breasts jiggling.
Seri hugged Idalla. “Thank you, thank you. A thousand times, thank you.”
“Of course,” Idalla said softly, and hugged her back. “Go with the Goddess.”
Seri nodded and slipped out the door.
Her breath locked in her throat as she crossed the courtyard, eyes down. Soldiers swarmed everywhere, clearly looking for her, but no one stopped her. No one even looked at her twice as she kept her walk demure but purposeful, careful not to raise the long skirts of the gown and reveal her bare feet.
The guards at the gates didn’t give her more than a cursory glance. Seri tugged the cap closer around her head and pretended to shield her eyes from the sun, blocking her face from their gaze.
When she was safely down the main road and the guards were no more than specks in the distance, she allowed herself to pick up her long, flapping skirts and run.
* * *
She ran for nearly two hours, until her village came into sight. Rilen’s farm was closer than her own, just a few scant leagues away, and it was there she went first, lungs heaving and tears streaming down her face.
He rushed out to meet her as she turned down the road to his farm.
“What’s wrong?” he shouted, grabbing her by the shoulders and forcing her to stop.
Breath shuddered out of Seri’s lungs, and she collapsed against him, burying her sweaty face into his shirt.
“I ran away,” Seri gasped.
“What?” He pulled her away from him, searching her face. “Seri, slow down. Tell me what happened.”
Her breath came out in sobbing jerks as everything that had happened in the past sevenday crashed over her.
Rilen put a calming hand on her cheek, the rough calluses scratching against her skin. “Seri,” he said, leading her back to his barn. “Calm down or you’ll make yourself ill.”
She nodded and forced her breath to slow and her tears to dry. Tears never got her anywhere. Tears didn’t help Josdi see again or give Seri any help around the farm. Tears certainly wouldn’t make that monstrous prince go away. “Rilen,” she said, once they were in the cool shadows of the barn and she could swallow and speak calmly again. “I can’t go back. I can’t.”
A dark frown crossed his face, and he pulled over a milking stool for her sit on, then kneeled beside her. “Why?” A desperate, angry look crossed his face. “What has happened? Did you tell them about me?”
His swift urgency made her pause. “What do you mean? I would never betray you.”
He stroked her hair, freeing it from the restrained knot at the base of her skull. He liked her hair long and loose. “Then tell me what has passed.”
“He’s a monster—”
“Tell me about the ball,” he interrupted. “How many men did they have guarding the doors?”
Hurt spiraled through her that he wasn’t furious about how she’d been treated. “I don’t care about the guards, Rilen! You’re not listening to me. At the ball,” Seri said, leading back to the important thing that she must tell him. “There was a religious ceremony—the prince had to choose a bride. They took each woman before the priests who said a blessing, and if the Goddess gave a sign, that woman would become the prince’s Betrothed.”
Rilen laughed at that. “Athonites and their ridiculous ways,” he said. “The woman is likely six feet tall, has never seen the sunlight, and has ice in her blood. So did they pick a bride for their ugly, weak prince?”
She paused, then looked up into his eyes. “Yes. Me.”
Rilen grinned at Seri as if expecting her words to be a joke. When she didn’t laugh, his expression changed to one of puzzlement. “What do you mean, you?”
It all rushed out of her in one great burst. The ceremony, the glowing light, and then Graeme’s fangs, and the realization of what the Blood truly were. Rilen said nothing, simply watched her as she spoke.
“And now they want me to marry that horrible creature in three days. Me. A Vidari goosegirl.” Her mouth curled with distaste. “And once we are married, they want me to make me the princesse, all because their goddess tells them to.” She twisted her fingers in Rilen’s rough linen shirt, a shirt that he wore to plow the fields and that smelled of hay and sweat and good, clean sunlight. “You have to help me. I can’t marry the prince. I . . . I slapped him.” Her mouth went dry just thinking about it. About those fangs.
“You slapped him?” A delighted laugh broke from Rilen. “Truly?”
Her lips tightened in distress, and she thought of Kasmar, strung up on the gate. “It doesn’t matter. We have to get away.” She pulled away from him. “I’ll get Father and Josdi, and you—”
“Wait.” Rilen got to his feet and pulled her to her feet as well.
Her heart thudded in dismay. “We cannot wait. The troops will be here soon—”
An intense look crossed his face. “Focus, Seri. The prince wishes to marry you? In three days’ time?”
Now he would get angry. Now he would clutch her close to him and declare her as his own. She’d have to stop him from going after the prince—to attack him directly would be madness. “Rilen, I assure you—”
He smiled. Not a hesitant smile, but a great, beaming burst of light. A laugh erupted from his lips, and he grasped her by the waist and swung her about, the long gray skirts of her dress flapping around her legs. “Seri,” he cried, laughing as he twirled her. “You are a marvel!”
Seri pushed against him, frustrated. “I don’t understand. Rilen, what’s gotten into you?”
After one more giddy twirl, he put her down, then hugged her close to him. “You’ve given us the way out! The way to defeat the Athonites and get them to leave our lands.”
Seri shook her head. “Rilen, I can’t go back. Never. They’ll hurt me. And Father and Josdi need me. They—”
“Shhh.” His smile faded and then he smoothed her hair, as if trying to calm a child. “They’re fine. Don’t worry about th
em. And of course you can go back.”
“I slapped the prince—”
He interrupted. “You’re their magically sent Betrothed. Don’t you understand? They won’t touch you.” He laughed again. “This is too perfect!”
She jerked away from him, stung. “I don’t understand you,” she said, hurt and betrayal in her voice. “He’s not human, Rilen. I must leave, get away from here and never come back. We’ll have to sell the farm to buy a wagon for my father.” She paced, ignoring how Rilen grinned at her like some sort of crazy fool. “What do you think—”
He gripped her by the shoulders and tilted her chin up, his green eyes meeting her amber ones. “Seri,” he said, patient and calm. “You have to go back.”
“Why? Why do I have to?” Tears filled her eyes again. More than anything, she wanted to crawl into her own bed. It was a hard straw pallet, lumpy and musty, but it was hers. She wanted to hear Josdi’s soft breathing next to her, and Father’s snoring across the tiny cottage. She wanted to wake up and work from sunup to sundown just to put food on the table. She didn’t want this nightmare world no one would let her escape, not even Rilen. “If I marry this man, I am tied to him forever, Rilen. Forever.”
He leaned in and kissed her. “But you will not marry him for long.” When he pulled away, there was a fanatical light in his eyes.
Fear washed through her. “What do you mean?”
“Let them dress you up,” Rilen said, lifting her hand to kiss it fervently, as if he could convince her with a few frantic gestures. “Let them pretend that you are their chosen princesse. Let him try to woo you with pretty words and pretty clothing and exotic foods. Let them do their ceremony to bind you to their prince.”
“But, Rilen—”
“And when they have finished their ceremony, you will smile in that pretty, soft way of yours and let him lead you to bed, and you shall offer him a cup of wine. And you shall poison him.” Rilen’s smile was fearsome. “And he shall die in his own vomit before he ever touches you.”