The King's Spinster Bride

by Ruby Dixon

  I turn and glare at the robed man who follows behind me, scrolls tucked under his arm. “The embers of my father’s funeral pyre yet burn,” I caution the ambassador. “Do you wish me to light a new fire for your funeral?”

  “I know this is the wrong moment to approach,” the man continues, cringing. I have reluctant admiration for him, because he speaks even though he knows my displeasure. “King Mathior, one of your kingdoms is in the greatest of unrest—”

  “Yshrem. I know of it.”

  I know my father ignored it in the last few years for lands with better hunting and more glory. Yshrem is a placid place, of people who till fields instead of hunt game. Of people who cover themselves in layers upon layers of scratchy fabrics instead of soft furs, and love words instead of deeds. Of people who hide behind stone walls before their barbarian overlords. They were easy to conquer sixteen years ago, my father bragged.

  I think of their lovely princess, she with the soft hands and the gentle eyes. Dark hair, a full mouth, and a steel-forged spirit. Halla. I have not forgotten her.

  “Then you know that your father neglected his lands in the last few seasons,” the ambassador says bluntly. “Yshrem’s people feel abandoned. They are taxed and their wealth sent to the cyclops overlords but receive nothing but more burdens in return. There is not enough food, because it has all been sold to Adassia to pay taxes. There are riots in the capital, thieves and banditry upon every road and poachers in every forest. Your border overlords placed by your father grow careless and drunk with their power because he put no boundaries on them, and the people resent the fact that they steal everything from sheep to firstborn daughters and claim that it is their right as cyclopean emissaries.”

  “Do they now?” I drawl, thinking vaguely of the men at the keeps that have been established as border lords. Not cyclops warriors. They have two eyes and little battle in their heart for all that they bend the knee for my people. They were chosen to act as ruling lords who remained in one place, as most Cyclopae tribes are nomadic. I vaguely remember a few of Yshrem’s lordlings who eagerly bowed their heads and were put in positions of power so long as they would raise no army against my father.

  I knew Yshrem had been ignored. As my father’s mind grew distant and the disease took more of his health, he turned to the hunt and the old ways. It is not a bad thing to live in such a manner…but a conqueror must be aware of all his kingdoms or they will turn against him.

  It sounds as if the lordlings have already begun so.

  The man continues on, an urgent look on his thin face. “You are in danger of losing control of the kingdom, your majesty—”

  “I am not anyone’s majesty,” I tell him. Such titles are another Yshremi custom I dislike intensely. I do not mind “king” because it is a word that translates no matter the tongue, but speaking of my “majesty” is foolishness. “Call me First Warrior if you prefer.”

  “First Warrior,” the man continues smoothly, trotting behind me as I push back the flap and stride into my private tent. “Of course. But you must heed my words. If you wish to stop an uprising of the people, you must do something. As long as there is a princess of the old blood, there will never be rest. Even now, insurgents call her name in the streets and demand that Queen Halla be restored to her throne.”

  Queen Halla.

  Queen for an hour, perhaps. I smile at the thought of her. My memories are clouded by years that have passed, but I remember her braided hair, gleaming like chestnuts and her skin as pale as a winter sky. The pretty curve of her mouth. I remember how elegant she was, and how kind. How soft her hands, and how pink her lips.

  She ruined me for all other women with a glimpse, and I was but a boy of eight.

  “So the people make unreasonable demands. What would you have me do about that?” I ask absently, shrugging off my cloak as I near my pallet of furs. My mind is still full of Halla herself, her stiff posture and full skirts. I have dreamed of her for years, imagining laying her down in the furs of my bed and pushing those skirts up to explore what lies underneath.

  One does not think such things about a princess, but that has never stopped me.

  “I have a simple solution,” the ambassador says.

  Things are never simple, but now I am intrigued. I push thoughts of the lovely princess away. “I am listening.”

  “Send an assassin,” the man tells me bluntly. “Take care of the problem. If she is not alive, she cannot take the throne. She has no issue. The royal line of Yshrem dies with her. It is not a pleasant solution, but a neat one. A necessary one.” His voice is full of distaste, and it is clear to me that he doesn’t like what he suggests, but he can see no other way out.

  Such is the life of a diplomat—offering terrible solutions to their king and hoping someone else will take the blame. I am not surprised that he has offered it. It is custom among many peoples to have rivals murdered and removed quietly. It is not the cyclopean way, for we prefer to meet on the battlefield and spill blood in the name of Aron of the Cleaver.

  I am not surprised that he has suggested it…but I am surprised at the violent urge that rises inside me. Not to murder Halla—but to murder anyone that suggests such a thing.

  She is mine.

  She has always been mine.

  She will always be mine.

  I keep my expression calm and unbuckle my sword belt. It has been a long day and tomorrow will be busy as well. “No one will touch Princess Halla. I have another idea,” I tell him. It is an idea I have nurtured for many years in secret, one that I did not dream of pursuing while my father was alive. Now that he is gone and Yshrem is in chaos, the thought has been on my mind.

  Daily. Hourly.

  And who is here to tell me no? I am now First Warrior. My word is law. I can do as I like to rule my kingdoms.

  “Your…er, First Warrior, I must beg you to heed me. Yshrem is a problem,” the man continues. “We must do something, and we must do it soon. A show of authority is needed, and quickly—”

  “It is handled.” I remove my bracers, tugging at the leather ties.

  “How?”

  And I tell him.

  When I am done explaining my beautifully simple plan, he stares at me in surprise. “You would do such a thing for your kingdom? For Yshrem and the Cyclops tribes both?”

  I cannot help but smile. He thinks I do this for Yshrem? Amusing. I care nothing for Yshrem.

  I do this for me, because I am now First Warrior. I am king.

  And I get everything I want.

  3

  HALLA

  The early morning light is the best time to read by. I sit in the courtyard of the temple, a volume of Riekki’s Prayers in my hands. At least, the binding is of Riekki’s Prayers, but the interior is love poems. Reading for pleasure—especially such daring reading—is forbidden in the temple of the goddess of Peace. But when peddlers come to the temple, I am able to sneak a purchase of a book or two upon occasion.

  It’s the only treat I allow myself. My cell is the same gray, windowless cell of Riekki’s peacekeepers. My braids are done in the manner of the temple guardians. My gown is the shapeless gray of her priesthood. I follow the rigid guidelines of the clergy. I eat no meat and live on bread and vegetables from the gardens. I do my allotted chores. I sing with the other priestesses every night in the Hour of Prayers to honor the goddess.

  Truly, no one would remember I was a queen for an afternoon so many years ago, or that I once wore sumptuous robes and spent my days planning how I would rule my kingdom.

  No one would imagine that I was to marry a king. Now I am an old spinster, forgotten by all. I will die loveless and alone, surrounded by gray walls and gray clothes and gray lives.

  Surely a forbidden book is not such a terrible thing, then.

  I turn the page in my poetry and notice there is a drawing in this book. A scandalous one. Quickly, I lift my head and glance around, but the courtyard is silent of all but a few birds. The greens of the herb garden
s perfume the air, but it is too early for Peacebringer Asita to be awake to weed them.

  I’m alone. Biting my lip, I furtively open the book once more and study the drawing.

  It’s a man with a long braid, kneeling under a woman’s skirts and his face is pressed between her thighs. His tongue is obscenely poked out and it looks as if he’s licking her most secret parts. What madness is this? I turn the book sideways, wondering if perhaps I am looking at it wrong. When I was princess of Yshrem, I had many ladies who prepared me with stories of what would be expected when I became a bride. Of how I would submit to my husband’s carnal requests. Of the duties that would be required as a royal bride.

  I’d never been told about licking.

  Surely that would be something someone would mention.

  “Your majesty?”

  I slam the book shut, my cheeks crimson. “I’m just praying.”

  “Of course. I am sorry to interrupt.” The priestess bows at me, her iron-gray braids dangling over her shoulders as she leans forward. “You have visitors.”

  I feel a little flustered at being caught and get to my feet, clutching the book to my breast. “You know the terms of my existence here. I cannot receive anyone.” If I do, if I so much as turn an eye to the throne, I’ll be dead. I know this, and I’m not ready to die yet, so I live a quiet life as best I can and read love poetry in private. I can live the life of a forgotten spinster, no more. The priestesses here know this, but sometimes someone forgets. I, however, must never forget. “I cannot see whoever it is. Princess Halla must not exist. Please send them on their way.“

  The priestess hesitates. “I…I cannot, your majesty.” She wrings her hands, and a look of distress crosses her placid face.

  A cold prickle moves over the back of my neck.

  I know what this is. I know why she cannot send my visitors away.

  This is the day I have been dreading for sixteen years. I knew it was bound to come. A person of royal blood is never truly forgotten. I knew that once I entered this temple, that I would never leave. That someday, someone would remember that the princess of Yshrem was alive and would make plans to kill her. I have heard of the riots in the capital and prayed that my name would not come up. I knew that people were starving and angry over the rules that the Cyclopae overlords have placed upon them, but I have forced such things from my mind. To get involved is to ask to get knifed in a shadowy corner.

  When I first came to Riekki’s temple, despite the reassurances that I was safe, I worried over such things. I never ate unless another tasted it first. I went nowhere alone. I anticipated assassins around every corner. But as one year turned into five and five into more, I felt safe. Worry faded, just like my youth and beauty. I’ve felt safe.

  Now those fears come rushing back to me, and I want to vomit.

  I force myself to remain still, to be outwardly calm. I knew this day would come. I could not be left here forever. And yet now that my death has arrived…I am not ready for it. I must meet it with dignity and grace as any royal of the throne of Yshrem…but I am not ready.

  I still want to live, even if my existence is that of quiet and solitude amongst Riekki’s worshipers.

  But choices were taken from me long ago. I hold the book in tight fingers and lift my chin. “Send them in and please leave. Please tell everyone to stay away until my visitors depart.” If assassins have come to dispatch me to the realm of the gods, I do not want them to harm any of the priestesses here. Riekki’s people have been good to me. I will not have them taken down in my name.

  She nods and exits quickly, her steps brisk. She does not look me in the eye, and I know I am correct. This is the hour I have dreaded.

  I ponder sitting down on the bench again to hide the tremble in my body and decide to stand tall and proud instead. I wonder what the face of King Alistair’s assassin will look like. Will he be kind? Will the method he chooses of dispatching me be swift and painless? If I have to choose, I pray it is not poison, or torture. I do not think I am strong enough to withstand a long, drawn-out death.

  Then again, no one has asked me.

  The courtyard is utterly silent, the only sound that of the birds chirping nearby. I hear boots before I hear the rustle of clothing of those that approach, the creak of leather and swish of heavy cloaks, and the jangle of metal buckles. My stomach lurches, but I remain utterly still, my face calm.

  It would be very undignified to puke in front of my assassins.

  Four men enter, and a cold chill moves over me. Though I try to memorize all their faces, I am drawn to one man in particular. He stands in the lead, wearing a cloak of pure white fur, his long black hair shaven on one side of his head and flowing down the other. An eyepatch covers half of his face and he’s tanned and clean-shaven. Other than the cloak, he wears no clothing except for crude leather leggings and boots with metal buckles. Swords are at his belt and behind him, each of his one-eyed men carry a pair of spears crossed over their backs.

  Cyclops warriors.

  “Greetings,” I call out in as cool a voice as I can manage. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  To my surprise, the tall, handsome man in the lead breaks into a grin as he strides forward. Flustered, I force myself to remain still as he approaches. He’s gorgeous. That smile dazzles me and makes my knees weak. I shouldn’t be affected like this at the sight of a handsome man. He’s come to kill me. I should be focused on the knives at his waist and not the beauty of his smile.

  Clearly being a spinster has addled my brains.

  I force myself to study the group, to focus on something other than the bare pectorals before me. I focus instead on the white fur cloak. I read somewhere that only those who have proven themselves can wear white fur—and the others look to him with deference. He is their leader, then.

  “Princess Halla. I see the years have been kind to you,” the handsome man says as he approaches me. He does not reach for his knife. Yet.

  Have the years been kind, then? There are no mirrors here, for Riekki’s people eschew vanity as one of the great sins. This man speaks as if we are familiar, though, and I do not recognize him. I study his face, the handsome, high cheekbones, the bronzed skin, the muscles that bulge underneath his cloak. I can feel myself blushing again. My life here has been one of utterly sheltered obeisance. I do not know any cyclops—any man for that matter—and I am pretty sure I would remember one this handsome.

  He is young, too. Younger than me, and I have been here in this place for over sixteen years. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I do not know you.”

  His grin grows wider, and it is white as snow in his rugged face. “No, I expect you do not. I am a little different than when I was a boy.” He raises a hand into the air, gesturing at his head. “I’ve grown a bit taller.”

  Boy? Taller? A flash of memory floods through me. I stare up at him, trying to see the small, quiet child in this handsome, authoritative man. “Mathior?”

  “So you do remember.”

  My lips part, but no honorable greeting comes from my throat. This man does not look like the small boy I remember. Mathior was a tiny boy with big, dark eyes, wild hair, and a somber appearance. The man before me smiles with pleasure as he gazes at me, and while his eye is still dark, one is gone. And he is tall now, so very tall that he towers over me. “I…oh. Yes, I remember you. You look well, Prince Mathior.”

  “First Warrior Mathior,” he corrects. “Or King Mathior, if you prefer. My father is dead and all of King Alistair’s lands have fallen under my control. I now rule in his place. And that includes Yshrem and Adassia.”

  I feel dizzy. King Alistair is dead. That means Mathior has come to murder me to secure his claim on the throne. “I see.” I didn’t know that my assassin would come bearing a friendly face. I study him for a long moment, because he seems to be waiting for something. My tears? My anger? Defiance?

  I have known this day would come for years, though. So I hold my book tightly to my chest and t
ry not to think that my corpse will be found with a tome full of dirty pictures. That cannot be helped. “Will you make it swift? In the name of our friendship these many years past?”

  He tilts his head, the long hair on one side of his head spilling over his shoulder. “Make what swift?”

  “My death.”

  Mathior—if it is him—lets his mouth crook up in a smile, a somber one that tells me that yes, this is indeed the boy I once knew. “I am not here to kill you, Halla.”

  “Are you not?”

  “Never.”

  The firmness of that response throws me off. I purse my lips, frustrated and doing my best not to tremble visibly. “Then I do not understand the purpose of your visit.”

  The look in his dark eye is strangely direct. “Do you not?” When I shake my head, he reaches out and grabs one of my thick braids, running his hand down it. It is a curiously intimate touch, one that makes my belly pool with heat and flutters of nervousness. I realize how close he’s standing. “Do you recall that when my father took Yshrem, his men stormed your chambers and demanded to throw my body over the walls to anger my father?”

  I remember. I remember my helpless anger at the thought of doing something to such a small, helpless boy. Of taking the frustrations of war out on a child. But mostly, I remember Mathior’s small hand clasping mine as I hid him behind my skirts. The moment is etched in my mind. “I do.”

  “And do you remember what I told you when you said you would surrender to my father?”

  I shake my head. The afternoon that day was a blur. I vaguely remember my grief at my father’s death, the sight of his head on a pike as the barbarians swept through the streets and into the castle. I remember my terror as I tried to sit on my throne without collapsing. I remember wearing the crown jewels of Yshrem for a very short hour only to be brought, on my knees, to Alistair the barbarian and his men on the front lines. I remember how they called and called for my death. They wanted to see me beheaded.