Page 11 of Bride of Ash & Dust

Or did Zarek send him? Does the snake of Vsenrog want to know what kind of woman he’s about to marry?

The man’s lips pull into another smile. It looks like a feast day mask, beautiful and cold.

“Are you looking forward to the ceremony tomorrow morning?” he asks.

“Of course,” I answer.

My throat feels tight. What other purpose do I have, my mind snaps, other than being handed off like a bag of gold from the royal vault?

The man’s eyes skate across my face like he’s trying to read something hidden there.

“Really?” he replies.

“I don’t see how that’s any concern of yours,” I spit, before I can stop myself.

The man turns away, but not before I see a strange twist on his lips. Damn it. That’s just what I need, some informant from the palace returning to Zarek to tell him that his future wife is a shrew with a fast mouth.

I clear my throat, sit up straighter despite the deep ache in my legs and back, and urge my horse forward. She trots, pulling ahead of the man in black.

There’s a clatter behind me, and then his mount pulls up next to mine. I keep my eyes fixed on the road between my mare’s ears.

“What about your betrothed?” the man whispers in that low voice. “You know they call him the snake.”

I shouldn’t respond. I know better.

But if this man is bringing a message back to Zarek, telling him what kind of woman he’s about to marry, then I want that message to be about more than my quick temper. I turn slightly in the saddle, meet the man’s eyes, and give him the sweetest smile I can force my mouth to create.

Thrust. Parry.

“I love snakes,” I reply.

Riposte.

The man’s mouth falls open. His mount stumbles, confused by the sudden change in his posture. I turn away, nudge my horse into a trot, and pull up between Anura and the guards.

There. Send that message to Zarek, you ass.

Tell my future husband I am not afraid.

Chapter 8

Zarek

A MORE INTIMATE CEREMONY

The air in the temple is so heavily perfumed that it makes my head throb.

Or maybe that’s the hangover pounding at the inside of my skull, making the harsh light of the many candelabras and crystal chandeliers feel like a personal attack. The organ starts to play, a deep, pulsing melody, and I try not to wince.

Getting drunk last night was a mistake, yes. I just⁠—

I glance down at my feet as the crowd begins to shift in their pews, murmuring and gasping. This is the smaller temple, for a more intimate ceremony, as Hussen, the priest of the goddess of fidelity, had the nerve to tell me this morning. If I hadn’t been nursing my third cup of tea and chewing raw willow bark, I might have punched him.

Intimate. That’s bullshit. None of King Malrik’s sons were married in the smaller temple. This, just like giving me new quarters on the ground level and forcing my bride to travel through the night, is just another way of reminding me exactly where I sit in the order of things.

Although part of me honestly appreciates the smaller temple. Royal weddings are usually humiliating, especially for the bride. Most of them sob the whole way through. Hells, Malrik’s third son, Jak, cried during his own ceremony. Overcome with emotion, the priest said, and the groomsmen around me sniggered. He’d been in love with a serving maid, and we all knew it. He was lucky I was able to smuggle his lover out of the castle before Malrik could have her executed for corrupting his son.

The music changes, and there’s a great rustling as the crowd comes to their feet. Lucian, Malrik’s fourth son and the only remaining unmarried member of the royal family, clears his throat. He’s my lone groomsman, and I know he’s trying to remind me to act the part. He was never enough of an asshole to be a prince, Lucian.