Page 63 of Witchshadow
“Get cleaned up,” Henrick drawled as he squeezed his body outside. “We are late for dinner, and your near death does not excuse you from attending tonight’s celebrations.”
“Yes, my Emperor,” Safi said while inwardly she shrieked and raged. So close, she’d beensothrice-damned close, and who knew if another chance would come.
And though she knew that spies might be watching—and that Hell-Bards certainly were—she didn’t fight the glare folding over her face as the Emperor strode away.Curse him, curse him, curse him.
Fourteen Days After the Earth Well Healed
Safi never thought she would get married.
And shecertainlynever thought she would become an empress.
Only ten years ago, she had hidden behind her uncle in this very room and prayed that no Hell-Bard would notice her. That the Emperor would be satisfied with her uncle Eron’s tithes so she could leave right away.
Now she stands beside that emperor and wonders how he does not get a headache with his crown so tight.
Her gown is too thin for this weather and this stone wing of the palace. The blue silk clings uncomfortably thanks to the wool cloak that Henrick had told her to remove. She had obeyed; sparks had flown.
Somewhere to her left in the room’s darkest corner, Iseult watches. She stands alone save for four Hell-Bards, hoping the rest of the court does not notice her. But they notice her—they always notice her. She is Nomatsi in a world of Cartorrans.
And she is half of the Cahr Awen.
Safi rests her hand over her Threadstone. “Are you all right?” she whispers, too soft for anyone to hear. But the words reach Iseult across their rubies.
And Iseult replies:Yes.A word that blooms in Safi’s mind even though no truth hums in her lungs.Are you all right?
I don’t want to do this,Safi admits, still whispering silently.
Then don’t.
Uncle will die if I don’t, Iz. Besides, I doubt Henrick will let me leave now, twenty paces from our wedding.
Iseult seems to wince, a tightening of grief across their bond.I’m sorry. I should have come up with a better plan.
Hush. Don’t make me come over there and smack you.Safi glares toward the corner, and though she can’t see Iseult, she senses a smile.
I’ll be here the entire time, Safi.
And Safi nods.I know, Iz. You always are.
Before she can say anything more, Henrick hooks his arm into hers. “Smile,”he commands, and Safi smiles. Her hand falls from her collarbone. Her spine straightens.
Henrick is shorter than she. Wider too, and despite wearing a color other than brown for once, he still looks like a toad at midsummer. Green, it would seem, is no more flattering on his frame.
Each of his steps waddles, and Safi does her best to match his stride. She has only ever attended one wedding, when she was much younger, and it had not been between nobility, but between farmers on the Hasstrel estate.
Strange. She had forgotten that memory until now. It was so long ago. Back when Uncle Eron had still smiled…
Strange. She had forgotten that Uncle Eron ever smiled.
It is Eron who had brought her here. And it is Eron she will find before this day ends, if everything goes as planned—and if the plot is as well mapped as she thinks it is.
Like the farmers of all those years ago, the crowd in the room parts to let Safi and Henrick pass. Instead of an inn’s common room, though, it is the Emperor’s throne room. And instead of lively music lilting out, there is only silence. A heavy silence weighted by breaths and winter fabric and eyes, eyes everywhere.
They reach a dais at the room’s end upon which two thrones stand. One is newly added today, its crimson fabric brighter, fresher. After ascending the short steps, Henrick turns to face the crowd, towing Safi with him.
And then, like the farmers, he says the words that will bind Safi to him. “I, Henrick the Third, Emperor of Cartorra, take you, Safiya fon Hasstrel, as my spouse. By law and by land, we are tied. What I possess, you receive. What you possess, I claim. Until our days are done and our bodies dust, we are bound.”
True.Safi’s magic trills in her ribs even as cold sweeps down her body. This dress is much, much too thin. Her hand curls against Henrick’s arm.
