“You wish for us to dismount here? There is nothing to tether our horses to,” my father spouts, incredulity coating his tone.
I don’t miss the smile that the soldier tosses the other one before turning back to my father. “Of course, Ahrimon will take your horses,” he says with a wave of his hand as if this should be evident.
My father remains silent. We’re all wondering the same thing. How is one man going to take all of our horses? He clears his throat before bellowing out, “You heard the man.”
I hesitate as the soldiers around me begin to dismount, many still keeping a careful grasp on their reins. The witch named Ahrimon steps forward. He draws his hand into a series of shapes in quick succession, and the horses careen forward, forcing our soldiers to jump out of their path as they follow him toward the nearby Wood. I’m left with no other choice than to shuffle down from a moving horse, pulling the fabric bag the Grand Prioress stowed in the saddle bag out with me. The horses trot forward obediently as if compelled by an invisible force.
Is it like the records state? Will that same compulsion work on us? Onme? Sentenced to a life as a witch’s thrall, deprived of my own free will?
My father is nervous, shifting back and forth from foot to foot and clapping his hands together every few minutes. He wants to get this over with. Marry me off and bust out of here as soon as possible. My father never wears a smile. But he does now, and it’s strained across his face like an ill-fitting gown.
It shouldn’t surprise me. Despite his decree that they had formed a peaceful alliance with the witches he’s bartered me to, no one missed that he returned with less than half the soldiers he departed with, confirming that there was a hefty battle before that alliance was reached.
We’ve only been here for mere minutes, and they’re already ushering me to the spot they’ve designated for the ceremony under a lofty oak tree.
Each time one of the witches eyes falls over me their faces twist with disgust. As if something aboutmepersonally is offensive to them. Even the Queen’s face falls for a moment when she spots me. Though she quickly recovers it.
I recognize her as the Queen immediately despite her young age. Maybe her youthful face shouldn’t surprise me with the magic detailed in the texts.Age preserved by the blood of children.A shiver works through me. Confidence and authority drip off her every step, her posture straighter than the sentry’s spears that station the top of the Wall. She’s tall and captivating, midnight locks draping her shoulders. Her face is pulled into a wide grin that rings more sincerely than my father’s, her dark eyes gleaming with a strange eagerness as some of our soldiers and the enemy soldiers trickle in to watch the ceremony.
The last sliver of the sun disappears behind the horizon, and one of the witches makes a symbol with his hand, summoning those glowing orbs around the area and throughout the branches above my head. There’s nothing visible about the magic, yet I swear I can feel it heavy and crackling in the air, sprouting the hair on my arms and the back of my neck.
There are no friendly faces to obtain any solace in, only my father’s stare that seems to be screaming outdon’t embarrass memore desperately with each withering second.
A clear dividing line forms between our soldiers and the enemy soldiers. The back of the crowd shifts and falls into quiet murmurs, that dividing line growing wider to allow someone to pass through. I wipe the sweat accumulating across my palms on my gown, and the daemon shoots swift shocks through me almost as quickly as my heart hammers in my chest.
Black boots stride through the sea of soldiers and come to a halt several paces back. I wonder if he’s having that same reaction as the rest of them. I can’t bring myself to look. It feels like an eternity before they move forward at last, dragging reluctantly across the ground. My body gives a humiliating jolt as they finally position themselves across from me.
The Priest clears his throat and begins his spiel, droning something about uniting our kingdoms in peace and prosperity. I keep my eyes trained on the ground, studying those large black boots, black pants cuffed above them, and cloak draping the ground.
I’m doing this for Syra.
I repeat that line over and over in my head as if it will give me the courage to do what I need to do. When the Priest asks us to join hands I obediently stretch my arms out only for them to hang there awkward and unclasped. Slowly, I draw my eyes up to his midsection. His hands are closed into fists at his sides, a pointed display of his unwillingness.
There’s a hiss from the crowd and he complies, palms just barely grazing my fingers to avoid as much contact as physically possible.
His fingers are long and slender, although somewhat square, and his nails are clipped short. Strange symbols embellish the backs of his hands: three petals joined into a triangular shape and a circle cutting through them.
It takes everything to keep my trembling hands still. It’s not until the Priest asks him to agree to his vow that I hear the name of the witch I’m being bartered to—not just his name, but his title—Prince Sitri. They’re marrying me to a prince.I didn’t even know the witches had such societal customs.
The witch in front of me only lets out a bedraggled sigh. The moment stretches, and my curiosity gets the better of me. I peek up, eyes skirting up his large form to find his face. It’s not me he’s looking at. Instead, his face is turned, flexing jaw squared, and large, dark brows furrowed down. Like the soldiers’, his hair is cropped close at the sides, sharpening the angles of his face while the top is left long, dark curls tousled across his forehead. He and the Queen fight a silent battle, his stare hard, brooding, even bordering on pleading. Her lips turn up into a smirk, her eyes filled with smug satisfaction.
“Don’t be rude now, Nightshade,” she says in a singsong lilt.
The Priest clears his throat, voice cautious as he says, “You must say I do.”
The witch closes his eyes with another noisy exhalation. Before I can look away, he turns back, pinning me with a hard stare, eyes startlingly green and absolutelylivid. I flinch, quickening pulse flushing the blood up to my cheeks that are thankfully hidden behind the chains of the Shroud.
“I do,” he snaps.
The Priest repeats the vow, and I manage to squeak out my ownI dowith everything in me screaming,I do not.He declares us wed, and those words send my stomach to twisting again. There’s a slow, unenthusiastic clap from the crowd, and the witch drops my hands as if the moment couldn’t come soon enough.
He makes to leave, and the Queen steps forward to block his path. “Sitri, the joining of hands.”
“She doesn’t even have magic to join to,” he fires back.
“It’s not a wedding unless you are joined,” she says, with another gleeful lilt.
The witch’s shoulders slump forward once more as he turns back to me in resignation. “Your right hand,” he demands.
