But not being able to take the bracelets off again, for the rest of my life?
Something in those glittering black stones drew my eyes, made my skin ache to feel them. Soon, I would be the foreign object in Farnskag. These stones were in a strange place like I would be. And if Raffar wanted me to wear them, surely it would be a sign to the Farnskag people that I was doing my best to be a good queen to them, even if my command of the language was nonexistent. Wearing bracelets for the rest of my life was a small sacrifice for my future people.
“Yes,” I said. “I choose Watcher of Sky.”
Raffar’s lips widened into a smile. He picked up the first armband. I placed my hand in his, and his warm skin—again, so intimate I had to bite my lip—brushed over mine. He smoothed the bracelet over my wrist. Then he continued with the second.
I ran my finger over the polished black stones. They felt like rocks, not like some celestial entity, not sun warm or ice cold. Just stones.
I smiled at my betrothed, sure he’d be proud of my decision. But I stopped at the sight of his tight face.
“Now, try to remove them,” he said.
Oh. It wasn’t done. Now, we had to see if the stones
chose me.
I pulled off the first bracelet and set it on the pillow. I no longer felt the weight of it on my skin. In the waning light, I could barely see the black stones, but the metal band was easy to make out against the shiny fabric. Heat seeped into my eyes, but how silly was I, to feel sad that tiny black stones hadn’t chosen me?
A deep breath escaped Raffar’s chest. His grin split his face, and he nodded at my wrist. The one that felt empty.
It wasn’t. I shook my head. It was impossible. I removed the bracelet again and dropped it on the pillow. But it was still on my wrist. I tried it a third time, then once more with the other bracelet . . . nothing changed.
Raffar made an mmm sound with his lips pressed together. “Watcher of Sky has chosen you. You are protected now.” He rolled his shoulders back like a weight had been removed from them.
A surprised glint reflected in the female guard’s eyes, and she inclined her head to me, like a little bow. “Congratulations, Your Highness,” she said. “To be chosen by Watcher of Sky is one of the highest honors one can imagine, whether you were born Farnskager or not.” Her smile suddenly seemed several degrees warmer than any time before.
“Thank you,” I said as I smoothed over the stones with my finger.
Raffar nodded at me, as if he’d known all along, or maybe just hoped Watcher of Sky would choose me. He took my hand in his, warm and dry. Not too intimate. Somehow right.
Chapter 5
“L
aadag,” I said, echoing Serenna. Wife in Farnskag. As if I would remember any one of the hundred words she’d just told me ten minutes from now, let alone tomorrow.
I balanced on a pedestal, and the seamstress ran her tape measure across my back again as she triple-checked her measurements. There wouldn’t be time to fix a wedding dress gone wrong. Mother had already approved the azure silk, and the glimmering white, gold, and silver threads that would form the sea creatures, the sun and the wind on my torso, and Raffar’s ferns scattered over the skirt. A narrow meander tiara would top off the outfit.
My wedding outfit.
I clenched my hands, then released them, willing the relaxation to flow to the rest of my immobile body. The seamstress moved on to my arm length, and Serenna said the Farnskag word for husband.
“Maadh,” I echoed.
Serenna said it again, holding a slate up so that I could see how it was written. I repeated, focusing beyond the slate as the chalk letters flickered against the dark background.
Mother swept into the room. Normally, she stuck to matters of national importance and left running the palace to Father, but the sparkle in her eyes made it clear her daughter’s wedding was different.
A servant followed Mother to each of my closets, and together, they selected what to keep and what to donate. I’d only be bringing along a small amount of clothing. Zintella dresses and other Azzarian pieces would look ridiculous in Raffar’s court. No, not court. The correct word was mergaad. Or huusdom? Fangdoor? None of those? I gritted my teeth and forced the useless thoughts away. I’d never figure out the right words anyway.
In terms of clothing, the appearance was less important than the warmth. Only in the summer was Farnskag as warm as Azzaria’s cooler days.
The servant whisked away a turquoise zintella dress with tiny suns stitched into the sleeves. I’d worn it with Scilla the last time we’d picnicked together on the beach. I was dying to snatch it back, but there was no way I could keep everything.
I closed my eyes, and slates and letters and words danced across the inside of my eyelids. The seamstress pulled down my collar and measured my neck.
“This is how you say my name is,” said Serenna, then followed it with garble I didn’t even attempt to utter.
The seamstress tugged and measured.
After a few seconds pause, Serenna repeated herself with more force. I kept my mouth shut, pretending I was still on that blanket with Scilla, chewing juicy bites of melon and laughing about her upcoming wedding and her unusual-
looking husband.
“Jiara!” Mother’s sharp voice ripped me from the memory.
My eyes sprang open only to be accosted by Serenna’s slate and its slippery letters. I turned to Mother.
“Serenna is working hard to prepare you . . .”
The rest of her sentence was lost on me as the servant stacked hair combs in a box, topping them off with two pearl-encrusted pieces Scilla had given me. I’d planned to wear them to her wedding. And now here I stood, being fitted for a gown to marry the man meant for her.
Heat shot up my spine and flooded my neck and head until I was certain they’d burst. “Stop!” I shouted. “Just stop! I can’t do—I just can’t!”
I tried to run from the room, but the seamstress’s tape around my waist held me in place. “Ah!”
With slumped shoulders, Mother raised one hand. “Everyone, please leave the room.”
Serenna and the servants scurried out, and Mother beckoned me off the pedestal and patted the sofa near the window. When I dropped next to her, her hand slid up my back, and she rubbed it like she had when I was little.
I sank lower and lower until my forehead rested on her thigh. She stroked my hair, and the blood rushing through my veins pulsed against her.
“I’m sorry the wedding has to happen so quickly,” she said.
I nodded against her leg.
“I know it will be hard for you, but that’s not why I’m sorry. I thought I’d have another three years with you, before you took your place in the north and I only ever saw you at special events.”
A sniffle.
I angled my neck to see tears brimming in Mother’s eyes. She took a deep breath. “But there is one good thing about the speed. More time to prepare means more time to worry. Even Scilla wasn’t perfectly fluent in Farnskag. Even she feared getting customs wrong and embarrassing herself, or Azzaria.”
My heart shriveled. I hadn’t even thought of that. I was representing not only myself and my family, but our entire country. “Mother, I’m not sure you’re helping.”
She chuckled under her breath. “Probably not.”
But she had made a good point. I’d never realized Scilla was nervous. Finally, I made myself say the words, “I don’t think I’m ready to be a queen. I was never supposed to be a queen.”
“Ah,” Mother said, then she fell silent and petted my hair again. “Do you think Llandro is ready to take my place?”
I shook my head. Llandro had a good heart, but he was too impulsive. He didn’t listen to the counselors or citizens the way Mother did, and he tended to make decisions based on his current emotions and didn’t think through to the final consequences.
“All right. How about Ottario? Do you think Llandro’s husband is ready to be kin
g consort?”
I sat up. Llandro and Ottario as the ruling monarchs? They would do their best, but . . .
Mother squeezed my shoulders. “I’ll let you in on a secret. No one is ready. I was not ready to be queen; your father wasn’t ready to be king consort. In the first few years after my father died, we embarrassed ourselves on a weekly basis. We made wrong decisions that cost money and time and sometimes bruised our reputations. Occasionally, people even got hurt.”
She brushed my hair behind my ear. “But we kept working at it. And the people saw that. They saw we were doing our best and improving. And they gave us time to grow up and grow into our new roles. Do you understand what I mean?”
“That I might feel uncomfortable now, but I’ll grow into being queen?”
Mother nodded.
That might be true. But Mother and Father and Llandro and Ottario all had the opportunity to learn and make mistakes in their own country. I’d be doing it thousands of miles away. In a foreign language.
Mother pushed me up so she could see my face. “You’ve come a long way since you were my little dragonbird.”
When I was younger, she’d called me that. While Scilla and Llandro had studied with tutors, I’d run from room to room, just like the fickle dragonbirds in their search for even brighter, more colorful brushweed flowers to build their oversized nests. It wasn’t like I sought something more interesting, but I’d long since abandoned trying to explain how the jumping words and dancing letters had given me headaches.
Mother stroked my cheek. “I know you don’t like to read. But you can speak Azzarian. You can learn to speak Farnskag too.”
A thick clump formed in my throat. Mother pulled me close, held me tight. And I watched out the window, drinking in the view of the sea that would soon be only a memory.
Chapter 6
My hair gleamed black with the same shine as the dark fallen stars at my wrists. Obsidian root powder was the miraculous cause, and thanks to the sinful amount of vanilla that had been dumped in with the hair tonic to cover the foul stench, my husband-to-be wouldn’t turn his nose up at me . . .
. . . in only a matter of minutes.
The palace was too large to hear the groom’s party from my suite, but I’d seen the blue and green fireworks, imported from the southern continent, bursting in the sky when they’d arrived. In the Great Hall, King Raffar was asking my parents for permission to marry me, according to Azzarian tradition. He and his people would offer gifts representing each of the gods, assuming they’d taken the care to research our traditions, and Mother would agree to give me away. Any moment, someone would come fetch me.
I stood, smoothing down the ocean blue gown with palms that were too damp for the elegant bride I was supposed to be. But at least I looked the part. The best seamstresses and embroiderers in the province had worked around the clock the past week. The shimmery silk dress reminded me of a dragonbird in flight along the sparkling coast. And the combs with which Mother had fixed my hair sparkled every time I turned my head. I tried to think of the blessings she had spoken over me as she did it, and not about the fact that Scilla should be wearing this beautiful dress, and not me.
A faint knock at the door sent my heart hammering.
“Come in,” I called.
Five female relatives—aunts and cousins—swarmed around me. Then a beaming face pushed to the forefront—Pia!
“You’re back!” I slung my arms around her, forcing myself not to hold on too long. Like a beloved folksong, the wedding had its own beat, with each tradition and ritual coming at precisely the right time. The guests downstairs might wait for us, but Solla, the goddess of sun, was in place, and she waited for no one.
“Princess Jiara! It’s so good to see you again!”
“I’ve missed you!” Pia’s golden skin was a little tanner than I’d last seen. Since she left the palace, she’d obviously spent much time in the sun. Ignoring the urgency, Pia grabbed hold of me again, and for the first time in days, the weight on my shoulders lifted. Pia would be my lifeline. Someone from home, someone I’d known for years and who cared about me as more than just a means to an end.
“Are you excited?” she whispered in my ear.
Before I could answer, my other relatives began pulling at me, chattering about the gifts the king had brought, the beautiful gowns, the uncle who was going gray, and the cousin due to give birth any day now. At most weddings, they’d gush about how handsome the groom looked too, but the group was conspicuously silent when it came to him.
Pia’s eyes met mine. “Later?” I asked.
She squeezed my shoulders. “Of course.”
Hands on my arms and back tugged me down the stairs, through the corridors. Pia’s eyes constantly swept the area—once a gurdetta, always a gurdetta—even if she was here as my guest and not my protector. But I’d wager all of Azzoro’s kingdom that she had at least three weapons hidden somewhere within her gown.
Mother and Father stood outside the Great Hall. Mother took my hands in hers and smiled so brightly my chest hurt. Father laid his arm across my shoulders and gave me a squeeze.
“Are you ready?” he asked. His moist eyes showed such trepidation I almost thought he hoped I’d panic and change my mind.
Ready? I clenched my fists to keep from . . . laughing? Crying? Running away? I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. Instead, I did the only thing I could. I leaned into his chest for a half-hug. “Yes, Father.”
Servants thrust the tall double doors open to the hall. Blue and green silks draped across the walls, and huge bouquets filled the air with a spicy floral scent. Flickering paper lanterns shaped vaguely like the ocean god Azzoro’s favorite creatures dangled from the ceiling. Clusters of people stood inside, mostly Farnskagers on the right and my family on the left, and they all turned in my direction, murmuring and oohing over my dress.
Llandro tilted his chin to me with a wistful grin, then raised his husband’s hand with his own as if to welcome me to the state of marriage. Next to Llandro, Zito jumped up and down, then threw his arms over his head, brandishing an imaginary staff. My hand low, I gestured to Zito and then to Llandro, who jerked our little brother out of the king’s view. My eyes swept the room, searching for Raffar.
“The bride has arrived!” announced Mother, as if it weren’t already obvious, while Father wandered around, clasping hands of our guests in his, welcoming them.
Serenna was not only acting as translator today, but as a guide through the wedding for Raffar. She led him through the throng of Farnskagers. He was not dressed in traditional garb, at least not Azzarian. Like the rest of his party, after the first day in the heat, they’d given up on their leathers and now wore gauzy black pants and tunics. Raffar’s gaze was everywhere at once. The family portraits on the wall, my dress, my hair, my mother—but it seemed to come back to me more often than not. He flashed me two raised eyebrows and a sigh that hinted at being overwhelmed. I nodded my agreement. And the wedding had only just begun.
A Servant of the gods, wearing a long robe of the palest blue, motioned everyone together and called for the bride and groom to follow him. He strode through the doors and out to the gardens, where the Wedding Walk had been set up. Serenna whispered furiously from behind Raffar; he nodded.
With the guests gathered in a large circle, Raffar and I were brought to stand before a line of seashells on the grass, followed by the first of the three troughs. The crowd hushed as Mother knelt to remove my shoes and stockings. Raffar’s translator Aldar did the same for him, grinning up at him over a custom that must have been foreign and strange.
“On this side of the line, you are two. On that side, one. If you are ready, you may cross the line.”
It was not unheard of for one of the betrothed to get leaden feet, but without a second’s hesitation, Raffar strode across the line. One deep breath—this step would change my life, and our world—and I hopped over it myself.
The Servant smiled. “A decisive beginning to
your new life. And now, you may take your first steps.” The Servant gestured grandly to the trough of red, yellow, and orange flower petals.
I inhaled another deep breath—I couldn’t believe my wedding was really happening—then picked up the corner of my gown with one hand and held out the other. Raffar clasped it, and we took our first steps as a married couple. Into the trough we went, mashing the blossoms as hard as we could, forcing as many as possible to stick to our feet.
Ten stomps later, the guests began murmuring to each other, each trying to determine how much luck we’d have based on the number of petals that clung. We reached the second station, our feet covered with sticky flower petals, and we stepped into a trough of fine white sand. As our feet slid through it, the sand stuck to the juice of the flowers until it appeared our feet were covered in sugar. The gods were smiling on us. Next came the water trough. I hiked my gown up a little higher, and we sloshed through the cool water until the bottom was gritty with sand and petals floated on the surface.
We paused, and the tattooed king looked to me as if to check how he was doing. I smiled; he gave my fingers a light squeeze. We stepped out of the water trough onto a deep blue cloth, then settled onto the bench waiting for us. Zito and a half-dozen other younger relatives knelt around us with lacy fans in their hands. Raffar followed suit as I lifted one foot, and then the other, and the children feverishly dried them with manufactured breezes. Zito in particular waved so hard he almost fell over once, and he rubbed his palm over his forehead to wipe away a sheen of sweat. I winked at him; Gio would surely agree it was a job well done.
The Servant spoke: “Raffar and Jiara, as you have begun your journey with the gods, so too, should your marriage continue. Never forget how Solla’s petals that soaked up the sun and Flisessa’s sand remained with you, clinging to your feet like a second skin. Never forget how Azzoro soothed and bathed you clean. Never forget Gio’s cool and drying breeze. Wherever you go in this world, the gods will be with you always.”
A Dragonbird in the Fern Page 5
