To that wicked-looking golden being.
And I look around me, wanting to panic, but all I see is the men falling and dying in this miserable mud field. And in every face I see, I keep seeing Haldur. If I don’t do this, everything he fought for is lost. All the vassals he was trying to save are lost. If I care for him at all, then I need to give him the only thing he ever asked of me.
So, I steel my jaw, turn my eyes forward, and I ride.
22
IVA FITZROY
We meet in the middle and the fae fan out into a flower pattern with their king in the center. They all shine in the sun. Not one of them is less glorious than the next. They feel as if they are hardly part of this world. As if it almost is a desecration for one of them to marry me – a woman of mortal dust.
I expected us to dismount, but we don’t. Our guards spread around us, guarding us both from those we are here to meet and those on the battlefield.
I glance behind me. Men are pouring forward in our wake, weapons brandished, as if our presence has thrown oil upon the flame. I spin back to look past the fae king, and see the same on his side. Far from bringing peace, we have brought more war. My belly twists. I watch as the fae behind him – the ones charging us – morph from beautiful warriors to terrible creatures of shadow and fire, high as trees as they charge toward our people and I’m seeing them back in the forest, launching themselves toward us as I slip on poor Wildsage’s blood.
I grit my teeth and hold my reins tightly, but the kings pay no attention to the battle even as a hail of arrows sails over us.
This is madness.
They are all fools.
“Hail Precatore, King of Iceheim,” my father says, and I’m too distracted to hear the response.
Beside me, a horse stumbles, an arrow striking her in the neck. Her rider dismounts and my gaze is stuck on them, I can’t help but think how unfair this is to the animals who never asked to be here, who are thrown into this violence with no care to their wants.
They are no different than the men, are they? Sir Oakensen doesn’t want this. Gragor doesn’t want this. None of them do, and yet here we are.
My wild eyes meet my father’s as he introduces me, and then, to my surprise, the white unicorn steps forward, and Lady Fliad slips her hand onto my reins and guides my horse forward, too. I’m too stunned to do it. I meet her scornful eyes and she shakes her head minutely. If she were the one being wed there would be none of this slowness or balking.
A harried-looking counselor who someone calls “Lord Beecher” dismounts and hurries to a place between our horses and he grabs my hand with little care, jamming it against the ice-cold hand of the fae king and twisting both hands in a ribbon. That’s not how we marry in our lands. It must be a fae custom.
As the ribbon begins to wind, the fae king’s eyes meet mine and now I can’t look away – not out of admiration or longing as it had been with Haldur, but in the way that prey cannot look away from the predator.
I swallow.
“Speak the words of the prophecy,” Precatore, King of Iceheim orders, and my mouth opens before I realize it’s not me that he is ordering.
From beside us, one of the fae mounted on an elk intones the words in a voice like a bell.
“The Golden Prince a bride must take,
A mortal crowned for amity’s sake,
She who nearly usurped the place,
Of her with greater royal grace.
Thus, bloodshed ends in solemn vow,
We kneel as one in common bow.”
He pauses and my father breaks in, “We’ve brought her to you, now marry her quickly, and let this be done.”
My terrifying groom lifts an eyebrow, but he does not disagree, instead, his beautiful mouth turns into a cruel, disdainful smile and he looks down at me and says, “Thus I marry thee, mortal girl – bastard daughter of this weak king. May this union bear the fruit of peace.”
My lips are parted but no words come until Lady Fliad prods me in the ribs and I say, “Thus I marry thee, Precatore, King of Iceheim. May this union bear the fruit of peace.”
He nods and he seems satisfied.
