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None of that matters, I told myself grimly. Just get this ceremony over so you can get back to the Winter Court with him and find a way to kill him!
Luckily I hadn’t vowed not to slit his thick throat and I swore to myself that it would be done. Though I still didn’t know how I was to accomplish it, I would take vengeance for my beloved brother.
“And now with the vows complete, may I give you this blessing,” the Priestess said, interrupting my murderous thoughts. “In this Joining of hands and the fashioning of this knot, so are your lives now bound, one to another. By this cord you are thus bound to your vows—may it draw your hands together in love and never in anger. May this knot remain tied for as long as love shall last and the sun and the moon shall endure.”
Then she raised the golden chalice filled with Joining wine over her head and tipped it first for me, that I might take a sip and then for Liath—though she had to almost stand on her tiptoes in order to get the cup to his lips.
As the sour tang of the wine flowed over my tongue, the realization of what I had done swept over me—I had married my brother’s killer.
How was I ever going to get out of this?
5
There was polite applause from those assembled—all from the Summer Court since my new husband had not brought anyone to stand with him or even to witness the ceremony. I wondered who the mysterious person he wanted to have with him could have been and how he had died. They were probably questions I was destined never to learn the answer to, since I was going to kill my new spouse as soon as I could.
The Druid Priestess untied the gold and silver cord and folded it away. Then she nodded to both of us, indicating that we might leave the Joining Arch and join in the festivities that were beginning in the courtyard and the gardens beyond.
We stepped out from under the arch of flowering honey-musk vines—Liath was so tall the tiny flowers brushed the top of his head. But I hadn’t gone a single step before I felt his hand on my shoulder.
“What—” I began but he was already turning me to face him. His strength was frightening—I could feel it in his big hand, even though he was clearly being careful.
“What…what is it?” I asked again, looking up at him. By the Shining Throne—I was going to get a crick in my neck if I stayed married to him for too long! He was too damn tall.
Liath took me firmly by my right hand and pushed up the long sleeve of the underslip, exposing the angry bruises that marred my wrist.
“What are you doing?” I tried to push the sleeve back down but he wouldn’t let me.
“Who did this to you?” he rumbled, frowning down at me.
“I…I don’t know what you mean! I…I hurt myself running into a door.”
I could feel my cheeks getting hot with a blush—we hadn’t been married five minutes and already I was lying to him. But I didn’t want to admit to him that I had no magic to defend or heal myself—on the off-chance that he didn’t know already.
Liath’s bronze eyes narrowed.
“I know you’re lying, little bird—those are finger marks on your arm. Now let me ask you again—and remember you vowed your honesty to me—who did this to you?”
I bit my lip and cast a glance over my shoulder. Asfaloth was standing near Calista—of course, the two were always together—laughing and drinking wine from a golden goblet. Clearly he was enjoying himself but I had a feeling that was about to change.
Liath’s eyes followed mine and his scowl deepened.
“Of course—the little shit,” he muttered.
It was my turn to frown—did he know my cousin? If so, how? It seemed to me that the only time the two could possibly meet would be on the battlefield, where there isn’t much time for social niceties—at least as I understand it.
Then, to my horror, Liath drew the moonstone dagger from its sheath on his belt. I had thought it must be a ceremonial piece, but the silver edge gleamed with deadly light as he pulled it out.
“Wait!” I exclaimed, putting a hand on his arm. “This is a wedding—our wedding! You can’t just—”
He silenced me by turning the long, silver blade and drawing it down his own palm—the left one.
Blood as dark as rubies welled from the cut as Liath sheathed the dagger with his other hand. Then he gripped me—gently but firmly—by my wounded wrist with his bleeding palm pressed to my bruised flesh.
It was then that I felt his magic for the first time.
Just because I have no magic of my own, does not mean that I am insensible to the magic of others. As I have said, the magic of my cousins is like biting or stinging insects and Tansy’s magic feels like a coarse bristled brush scratching my skin. My father’s magic was like stinging nettles—laced heavily with his disapproval and the Palace healer’s magic had less of a feel and more of a smell—the sharp scent of alcohol which is used to cleanse wounds. Quill’s magic—back when he used to heal me of my little scrapes and cuts—was like the sunshine warming my face.
