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The carriage creaks and groans. There’s a vicious jolt, and I’m thrown off-balance as the wheels hit a dip in the road.
I raise my hand, pressing against the window to steady myself, feeling constricted in mysuitable attire.
This cursed bloody dress. The shoulders are too narrow, and it’s too tight at the neck. What did Dorava do to the bloody thing? Although I’ve loosened several of the cloth-covered buttons at the back, it still suffocates me, thanks to the rigid boning.
The bodice is stiff and ridiculous; too narrow for my waist and too roomy for my chest, even though Dorava has pulled the laces as tight as she possibly could.
Then there’s the ridiculous bustle, which takes up most of the bench space, leaving my lower half drowning in a soft-yet-stiff mess of skirts and wire.
Until we reach Tyron, I’m to wear this oversized, uncomfortable mess of a garment. It’s very much in Dorava’s style—frilly and voluminous and not something I would ever choose for myself—but father has insisted that I dress in the current fashions of the capital, so as not to give the impression that the Solisars are country bumpkins.
I’ve been trapped in this garment for three days now. Ordinarily, I would have changed into something more comfortable as soon as Ruen Castle was out of sight, but father has sent an escort of four soldiers to ensure I’m delivered safely—and probably to make sure I don’t escape.
He’s sent a maid, too; a dour old woman called Janvia. She feeds me and helps me in and out of my dress when it’s time to sleep. At other times, she rides outside, sitting alongside the coachman, Hercog, who just so happens to be her husband.
She doesn’t talk much. None of them do.
We ride in silence, and they leave me inside my stuffy, glass-windowed box; alone with my thoughts and a view of the endless landscape, which becomes more and more barren as we travel farther into Wolf Country.
Tyron.
So far north, it’s barely part of the Rahavan Empire.
Sparsely populated and wild.
The trees here are different. They’re bigger than any I’ve seen before. Huge, barren branches soar up into the grey, cloudy skies. It’s as if the trees themselves have a pact with the heavens.
Their trunks are impossibly thick. It would take the linked arm-spans of twenty men to encircle them.
The ancient trees make me feel small and insignificant. There’s a certain feeling ofpresenceabout them; as if they’re watching us as we lurch toward the mountains.
It isn’t comforting in the slightest.
The change in our surroundings is a stark reminder that I’m in a strange and unfamiliar land.
To stop myself from becoming overwhelmed, I drift into my imagination, trying to conjure up an image of Corvan Duthriss in my mind.
I’ve never seen the man in the flesh. He wasn’t in the capital when I visited shortly after my coming-of-age ceremony.
He was at war.
By my calculations, he would be around five winters older than me.
Perhaps he resembles his father, Emperor Valdon Duthriss. A big, powerful man who possess dark eyes and hair; undeniably handsome features, and a commanding aura.
Well, hewasonce like that, if the portraits of him are anything to go by.
He’s old now.
But the men of the Duthriss line—the Emperor and his second son, Ansar—are notun-handsome,so they say.
I imagine Corvan would be much the same.
Maybe that will be my consolation—being wed to a man who is pleasing to look at, even if he is an insane, battle-hardened, arcane-dabbling recluse. Ifthe stories are anything to go by, then all those things are true.
I snort with annoyance—at myself. How could I think that I would excuseanyman for terrible behaviour just because he is pleasing to the eye?
And yet, perhaps I am judging Corvan Duthriss prematurely; based on gossip and rumor, on stories that have passed across a thousand lips before they reached my ears.
