“It is not done, Mistress. A bride and groom are not see each other on the day of marry. If you had --”
“No,” I interrupt her. “It is not done here.” I don’t need to say the rest. That not a single consideration was given to my needs, to my traditions.
A beat of uncomfortable silence stretches on until I finally break it.
“I apologize --” I drop off, not sure what to call her.
“You call me Sigrid,” she supplies. Or orders?
“I apologize, Sigrid,” I tell her sincerely, lifting my fingers to massage my throbbing temples. “I know none of this is your fault.”
She huffs and waves her hand.
“Do not have worry. I am sure you had long journey, Consort Zaina.”
Another stilted moment passes as I cringe at the title my husband has bestowed upon me before she reluctantly speaks up again.
“I suppose you do not want hear this, either, but is no good to stay shut up in this room. In Jokith, the union is not being final until the partake.”
“Partaking?” I parrot back to her.
“Yes.” She pauses and scratches her cheek through the veil. “The two of you have witness when you partake what the other offers.”
I freeze in my pacing, mouth agape. Either the language barrier is stronger than I thought, or she’s suggesting our wedding night will be performed in front of others.
I run through my knowledge of the ice kingdom and come up short. No one engages in public consummations anymore. Not even Jokith can be that archaic.
“But, what about the feast?” I ask hesitantly.
Her head cocks to the side, the black fabric swaying below her neck.
“That is where it is happen.” She sounds confused, like it's obvious.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I say under my breath as I clench my fists.
“This is usually considered not a hardship, Mistress.”
I say nothing, because I can’t imagine the type of woman they breed here if that truly is the case.
“Come, Mistress. It is over before you know.” Her tone is softer this time.
I finally find my voice.
“And just where is this…” I search for her words, “partaking to occur?”
She stops and turns back toward me, her head tilting to the side the way I’ve seen birds do when they are listening to something.
“In dining hall, of course.” Again, she sounds bewildered by my confusion.
And again, I am stunned into silence.
The dining hall? I wonder if there are furs on the ground or if he plans to take me right atop the cold stone tables.
I grit my teeth and curse the woman who forced me to come here.
But of course, it scarcely matters how I feel, I remind myself. Not to Madame, nor the king, nor anyone else in this sands-blasted castle.
There is little use in delaying the inevitable. I muster all the dignity I possess, but the words still come out baked with resentment when I finally respond.
“Lead the way.”
Chapter 6
“The king is good man.” Sigrid’s incessant praises of the king have not stopped since we stepped out of the fainting room. I’m beginning to wonder if he has a kinder twin brother I know nothing about, or if the woman is truly insane.
If it was not for the signs of age in her voice and stature, I would ask why she hadn’t married the king herself.
Perhaps she isn’t as keen on public dining table sex as she pretends to be.
“Indeed.”
I should at least try to be charming, to ingratiate myself to the people here rather than making them like me even less, but somewhere between my frostbitten toes and my impending “partaking,” I can’t quite dredge up the energy for courtesy.
The steady hum of conversation reaches me as we near the dining hall, but once I round the corner, it cuts off entirely.
The sound of chairs scraping against the stone floor echoes off of the cavernous walls as everyone stands to greet me. Even Einar follows after a moment.
So, he is capable of chivalry. He just doesn’t bother when his people aren’t there to bear witness.
A second examination of the room stops me dead in my tracks.
Three long, empty, wooden tables with ten occupants on each side are aligned parallel across the room. One smaller table sits perpendicular at the end of the room, with only the king and an empty chair beside him.
There is no food anywhere, even though I am decidedly late. No servants stand by with covered tureens. Not so much as a single stein of ale or glass of mead clutters the long, rectangular tables of veiled and masked courtiers.
Just when I had begun to hope Sigrid simply possessed a truly horrendous sense of humor, I can see she was neither mistaken nor joking about what was to take place here.
I feel the blood drain from my face, and the ambience in the room turns even more tense than it had been. I am acutely aware of how very other I am here, in my red skirts with my bared stomach, dripping with ornate jewelry yet covered in the markings I now know they all believe to be dirt.
But I refuse to cower, or even to fidget under the weight of their stares. I make my way to the king, where he holds out a chair for me.
His face holds no sign of what’s to come, so I have little choice but to take my proffered seat. Once I am settled, the rest of the room follows suit. A lutist, likely the same one from the wedding, starts up a subdued tune, and gradually, a halting, stilted conversation overtakes the room. Though, none of it seems to be directed toward me.
No, I have the immense honor of being at a separate table with Einar as my only conversant, not that he has bothered to glance in my direction since I sat down.
And here, I thought this ritual couldn’t get any more awkward.
A servant places a chalice at my right, and I examine the contents for hints of poison. It was impossible to grow up in Madame’s household without a basic knowledge of alchemy. Having watched her do everything from turning a prince into a frog to outright murdering people, I had long since learned to be cautious.
Fortunately, though, all I can discern here are dark and frothy scents of barley and malt with a sweet, chocolatey undertone.
“It’s just ale,” the king grunts without looking at me, but I don’t miss the way his lips curl in disgust.
I resist the urge to glare at him.
“Obviously, you’re well-enough acquainted with it,” I mutter, noting the sour note of the drink on his breath.
He takes a deep breath through his nose but doesn't respond. I take a tiny sip of the brew, letting it linger on my tongue for a long moment before swallowing. It’s surprisingly smooth, if a bit sweet. It’s that last part that gives me pause.
I hold my breath for a moment, but there is no burning, no unexpected effects of any kind. Of course, it’s not doing much to keep out the cold, either. What I wouldn’t give for a cup of chai masala right about now, but I doubt the barbarian even knows what that is.
A fireplace roars in the opposite corner of the spacious room, but it offers no more warmth over here than my thin bridalwear does. I will myself not to shiver, not to show any weakness, but the idea of shedding even more clothing in this room is nearly as unappealing as the ritual itself.
Several tense minutes later, a servant arrives with a covered silver tureen. Einar slams his metal stein down on the table several times, causing the ale inside to slosh out. The sound is loud enough to get the attention of the room, and my insides seize.