Page 79 of Prize for the King
The crowd around us explodes in a sharp, unanimous call. I swallow and straighten, acutely aware of how much shorter I am than everyone around me. I’m the only human in the heart of Roharra.
“You shall brand me, and I will forever wear the marks of your claim,” Magnar says, voice rising louder, his eyes burning with the fire reflecting in the silver. “And thus, our kingdoms shall be united! The crown of Farneer is your dowry, the gold of Farneer—your bridewealth, and your body and soul mine to own, now and forever.”
“Now and forever!”
I shiver when the Agnidari around us repeat his possessive claim. My hands are clammy with sweat, and I clench them only to have my right hand gripped by Magnar as he raises it high over my head, his hold tight around my wrist.
“Roharra! Recognize your queen, the mother of your future rulers!”
“Har!”
“Knights! Recognize your queen and mistress!”
“Har!”Raduna, Khay, and Arvi shout together.
“Ancestors, spirits, and gods in the heavens, recognize my wife and anoint her with fertile hips and generous heart!”
“Har, har, har!”
I grow hotter and hotter, and when Magnar turns me until my back presses to his front, and raises my arms high, it takes every ounce of my self-control to keep my eyes open, my expression calm. I face the dark, menacing crowd of the Agnidari while Magnar shouts over my head.
“Roharra, accept your queen!” He rips the veil off my face with shocking violence that makes me flinch.
The crowd erupts in a cacophony of applause, some clapping and stomping their feet, others making high-pitched, ululating calls. I swallow and swallow, eyes dancing over the alien, savage display. They jump, pump their fists, shake their heads, colorful hair flying. It looks like a dance or a violent fit.
It dawns on me that Magnar’s soldiers are a special breed of Agnidari. They spent much of their time in the Eleven, fighting, conquering, keeping peace. They learned our language and customs to ensure quicker victories. I got used to them fast, because they weren’t too different from humans.
The Agnidari of Roharra are wild and untamed, eluding understanding. As soon as Magnar’s hold on my wrists eases, I bring my hands down, trying to hide their shaking in the glittering skirtsof my dress.
“I own you now,” Magnar says in a quiet, hard voice, sending goosebumps down my nape. “And it’s time for you to own me. Khay!”
The knight nods and grabs a tall, narrow table, putting it in front of me. It holds only one thing, an ornate wooden box, the wood black from old age, its intricate carvings smooth from being handled by many hands. I look at Khay with uncertainty, and he performs a deep, respectful bow, stepping away. Magnar’s claws dig into my shoulder with the briefest prickle, and he turns me to him. I look up with apprehension. He looks savage, his teeth bared as he looks at me, but after a moment, his face softens.
“Don’t fear me,” he murmurs, bending his head to mine. “Just a bit longer, pet.”
I shiver, blushing at the endearment he was only supposed to use when mating. Magnar’s eyes are hooded and dark, cheeks flushed purple, and I understand we’re almost done with the ceremony.
And after it ends…
“Mark me, my queen.”
I swallow as he kneels by my side, laying his forearm on the table, inner side up. I open the box with trembling hands to see a beautiful peacock feather quill with a sharp metal tip, and a glass bottle of something that must be ink. I’ve never seen this kind before, and when I lift the bottle, the contents sloshes thickly inside, gleaming deep gold. It shimmers in the light, or maybe has its own glow. It’s hard to say.
“Write on my skin,” Magnar murmurs. “And be careful not to touch the ink, hm? Promise me. Don’t let even a drop touch your skin.”
I look at him with alarm. “What? Why?”
He smiles, the muscles in his bare forearm flexing. “It’s a kind of acid. I want you to use it, Caliane. I’m going to wear your marks.”
“Acid? But no one told me that! Is it going to burn you? You’ll havescars!”
“That’s the point, pet,” he rumbles, nodding at the box. “There is a parchment inside. There are four marks. As you draw them on me, I’ll tell you what they mean. Go on. Be good for your husband.”
I take a shaky breath and nod, opening the parchment. The marks look utterly foreign, and I study them with a frown, wondering if I can even replicate them well. But Khay told me they don’t have to be perfect. I open the ink bottle with care and lean closer, dipping the quill in as I stretch Magnar’s skin taut with my other hand.
“I’m proud of you, love.”
“Stop distracting me,” I mutter through teeth clenched in concentration.
