Page 3 of Tristan
I thought Uncle would never stop speaking. I stood there, fuming, wanting his speech to end, but it went on and on.By the Gods!I couldn’t look at anything, or anyone, fearing I would end up saying something I would regret later. When he finally finished speaking, the Elven prince came over to me. I froze.
Like it or not, this man was going to be my husband, and I was no fool. I would be obeying him rather than the other way around. I was the one being marriedoff. I was the payment for services rendered. He would be my Lord.
“You will wear this, Tristan,” his smooth voice commanded inMarkaytian, which is a common enough language, one many provinces and kingdoms knew at least a little of, but I was surprised to see the Elven prince so proficient. “It is customary in my kingdom for you to have a mark of good faith placed upon you.”
He opened his hand to reveal a ring. It’s a beautiful piece of jewelry, even if I hate what it represents. A band of delicate twining circles on upside down, three-leafed-clovers, and a large blue stone set in the middle of the Elven crest. “May I?” he said.
Seeing no other viable option (I did contemplate running), I nodded. He took up my left hand and slid the ring onto the fourth finger. It fit perfectly. I didn’t know what to do after that. I probably should’ve thanked him, but I couldn’t. Instead, I stood there hating him for choosing me. There were plenty of men in Markaytia, couldn’t we find him someone more suitable, with less important ambitions? I have the blood of a dragon and I’m not easily tamed. He has no idea what awaits him on the other side of the leash he placed upon me.
“You will not touch yourself—this is also a custom where I’m from—unless I permit it. I understand you are a virgin?”
I was already blushing by that point. “Y-yes.”
How dare he ask such personal questions in front of my family?Unlike Lucca, I had decided to wait for someone special as Papa had, at least for my first time. I’d been on many dates and had a couple of short romances, but never found someone worthy of my virginity. Now I’d have to give away my coveted virginity to this domineering prick—beautiful, but a prick, nonetheless.
“Good. You are to remain innocent until I deflower you. I will be the only one to enter you.” His voice was no nonsense and to be obeyed. It was as if he already owned me—I hated that, too. It was embarrassing, standing there, being talked to like that. We are not so blasé about sex in Markaytia. Not to mention, I was meant to be Warlord, not a concubine.
“Do you understand, Tristan? I could make it easier for you. Perhaps a chastity device of some sort could be arranged.”
He looked genuinely concerned about it as he conferred with his father for his opinion. I finally found my voice and interjected quickly.
“I understand. Really, that won’t be necessary. No touching myself without your permission, no sex with others. I’ll do whatever you ask.”Just stop bloody talking.I needed him to be finished so I could leave and destroy something with my sword. I couldn’t think of anything more ridiculous than his assumptions. Did he think me to have so little self-control?I’m a Markaytian.
His eyes were fierce as he regarded me. I didn’t know a thing about him, but I got the impression that he would much rather take me with him in that moment than have to wait until our wedding day. Which begged the question, “When?” I looked at my uncle.
“Next spring. You will be married next spring,” Uncle said.
I nodded. “May I be excused, Sire?” I ripped my hand from the Elven prince’s.
“TristanArcade,” Papa began in his scolding voice, but I didn’t care. Nothing seemed as embarrassing as Prince Corrik discussing my deflowering like it was an ingredient in a cake recipe.
“Let him be, Eagar,” Father said to my surprise.
The king nodded his permission. “We will discuss the rest, Tristan. You need not be here for that.”
Of course not. Why would anyone need my opinion on the rest of my life?
I gave respectful bows to the Elven king and my soon-to-be husband before I allowed my dragon’s blood to rage and stormed out of the Great Hall.
Father was not pleased and spent several hours later that evening explaining to me why we do not storm out on Elven royalty. I was too angry to care about his lecture and made the mistake of telling him so. Since, according to Father, ‘my brain had taken leave of its senses,'he decided to impress upon my backside the same lesson.
Painfully.
I was barely cooled the next day; both my blood and my bottomwere still warm when I arrived at the training fields. My father was there, of course. I expected his cold demeanor, but I did not expect was the anxious look on his face.
“I’m to relieve you of that and your current duties. Go play.” He reached to grab the sword out of my hand.Mysword. The same one he’d given me on my seventh birthday.
“Father, I know I was unforgivable yesterday. I’m sorry for that. I’m going to marry him with good form, I promise. Please don’t do this.” We each had a hand on the hilt. The sword sat between us with the point of the blade aimed at the ground.
“Iam not,” he snapped. “It has been decreed by your intended. You are not to hold a sword again. Since you are not to be named Warlord, he saw no need for you to fight any longer. You are dismissed from the royal guard, and he would like you to be treated as the prince you will be.”
“Princes fight all the time! Look at Lucca.”
“For whatever reason, it was his wish. Your uncle agreed to it.”
I knew what he was saying, though he would never admit to it: he hadn’t agreed. That meant more to me than anything. Father had never shown me kindness. He was strict and uncompromising, but knowing he would choose me over anyone else to be Warlord, seemed to make up for everything. He made it clear on many occasions that he didn’t have to choose me and once upon a time, he almost didn’t. I proved myself worthy and when he told me he decided to name me as his successor, it was easily the best day of my life.
The day he took my sword was the worst.
