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“And do you, Melantha of the elves, swear to rule at King Rharreth’s side for as long as you both live?”
“I do.” Melantha stated as firmly as she could manage.
The cold leather with its emerald-embossed center rested against her forehead as Vriska tied the leather cords behind her head. Vriska tied the knots far too tightly, yanking Melantha’s hair while she was at it. To top it all off, a wet glob of spit landed on the back of Melantha’s neck.
Melantha gritted her teeth. These trolls really had quite excessive spittle.
“I present King Rharreth and Queen Melantha. Come and give your oath of loyalty.”
One by one, the warriors stepped forward, pricked their right thumb on their dagger or sword or other weapon of choice, swore that they would be loyal to Rharreth, and pressed the bloody fingerprint to Rharreth’s forehead. Most of them passed Melantha with either a glare or an icy stare, but some turned their head and spat, not even bothering to hide the action from Rharreth.
Each time it happened, Rharreth’s eyes narrowed, his square jaw hardening, as if he was taking note of each of the disrespectful warriors.
Finally, all the gathered warriors had given their pledges.
Rharreth stood, and Melantha straightened as well. She held her head high, refusing to break under the glares, the spit, and the throbbing bruises. And now her aching skull, shooting pain both from the tightness of the diadem and the stone pressed against her skin. As subtly as she could, Melantha drew on her magic and washed it over herself to soothe the bruises and headache.
No matter what these people threw at her, Melantha was now their queen. Somehow, she would have to figure out a way to endure their hatred.
RHARRETH BALANCED ona wagon near the eastern gate to Osmana. Several wagons were lined up along the road, guarded by a squad of warriors. Troll citizens pressed around the warriors in something that was coming close to a mob with a few discernible lines to the distribution point at the front wagon where Rharreth stood.
Drurvas stood just in front of the wagon, guarding the clerk who was taking down everyone’s name, and how much they were given to prevent people from going through the line twice or otherwise attempting to cheat to claim more food for themselves.
A stirring came from the crowd, then Zavni and Vriska pushed their way through, followed by Melantha with her head held high and that cold mask stealing the life from her face. Eyvindur and Brynjar followed her, keeping the crowd away from her.
She climbed onto the wagon next to Rharreth and while her expression might have been cold, her eyes were blazing.
Handing off the sack of grain to Zavni, Rharreth touched Melantha’s arm and steered her to the far side of the wagon. It still wasn’t very far away for a private conversation, but it was the best they would get. “Is something wrong?”
“Would it have killed you to wait for me? Or even invite me to go along?” Melantha hissed, poking him in the chest.
Rharreth held still, not sure how to react to her anger. “Your wardrobe was ready. I thought you would wish to see to the final fittings.”
“Is that all you think I am good for? Wardrobe fittings and pretending I am running the kitchens when everyone knows the cook ignores me.” Melantha kept her tone lowered, but her voice could have set the wagon on fire. “I am your wife. More than that, I am your queen. And as your queen, I should be standing at your side for events like this. Unless you plan to shove me aside and keep me isolated in Khagniorth for the rest of my life.”
“No, that wasn’t...” He reached for her arms, but she stepped back, nearly tripping over a sack of grain.
