She glanced at the different faces, wondering if any of them would be the man she would be married to. No introductions had been made, and she wondered again at their habits. She would have much to learn if she chose to go with them, and she was not certain she could do so without embarrassing both herself and the man she was given to.
She shivered a bit just to think of it.
Desmond nodded, turning to their Marzon guests. He flicked on the translator and set it before him, the device picking up his words and outputting his words into this new, strange tongue. “This is Sladec, their leader.” She bowed her head to him to show her respect and acknowledgement, though she caught just a bit of his eyes before looking toward the ground. He did not give the impression of a cruel man, at least not upon first glance, but he also did not smile at her. Did they smile?
“And this is his brother, Machrus. He has agreed to take you as his bride, assuming you are also agreeable.”
This time she could not convince herself to completely look away, needing to see his face, his eyes.
He was not looking at her, choosing instead to study the side of the tent wall. She nibbled at her lip, unsure of what to make of his avoidance, but not wishing to rush to any conclusions. She did not know him, did not know his ways, and perhaps they were not permitted to look upon one another?
But Sladec nudged him, glancing pointedly toward her, and Machrus’s mouth turned into a grim line, his eyes finally settling upon hers before he gave her a tight nod of acknowledgment. His reluctance was undeniable.
And though she did not know why, she found herself strangely hurt by his cool dismissal.
That he did not want her was evident, and she plucked at the cord about her wrist, wondering how that would affect her decision.
“Have you chosen, young one?” filtered through the translator, and she blinked, not having expected Sladec to address her directly. “You will be well cared for, of this I promise you.” He looked toward his brother once again, and she wondered which was the elder of the two. Probably Sladec, if he was the leader, but she could not tell directly from their appearance.
They were not displeasing to look at, she decided. Their hair was longer than the men of her camp, brushing over their shoulders and tied with intricate knots and cords. There were intricate lines along their temples, some swirling, some straight, their hair pulled back to highlight the markings, the lines themselves disappearing into the neckline of their tunics. She vaguely wondered if they were born with such things or if they had been added later. She shuddered, thinking of them trying to mark her that way.
Machrus’s hair was almost reddish in hue, something she had never seen before on a person. She wondered if it felt like hers, or if it would be alien and strange. His nose was rather ordinary, at least for a nose, though there were a few ridges near the bridge that made it clear he was not human. And as she found herself staring at him, his eyes flitted to hers. They were green, the pupil different from hers, more a slash of dark rather than a rounded point. But it was the obvious resentment that there that made her look away, the stomach a knot of tension.
Why could she not marry the brother? He seemed friendly enough.
“Desmond?” she whispered, and he leaned closer so she could speak to him privately without the translator serving its purpose. “They don’t... they don’t hurt their wives, right? He doesn’t seem to like me very much.”
Desmond glanced at Machrus, but only briefly. “To hurt a bride of treaty would mean an end to peace,” he said, his voice firm and direct, the translator picking it up easily. Her cheeks immediately flushed. She had not meant to insult anyone, but she needed to be sure—had to know as much as she could about the people she might soon be calling her own.
He did not seem to like her, or perhaps simply the arrangement in general, but if he did not actually hurt her... would it be so bad to have a distant husband? That likely would mean he would not bother her, would not wish to spend time with her or perhaps even feel it necessary to fulfil certain... other aspects of a marriage that she had until now resolutely refused to consider.
No, that would not be disagreeable.
Sladec eyed them both grimly. “Brides are well cared for,” he repeated, and this time he kept his eyes directly upon hers, and she found herself unable to look away. “You need not be frightened.”
And as she continued to look at Sladec, she found herself believing him. She would not be hurt, would no longer know pain or hunger or discord. She would be well looked after, if only she said yes...
She was startled when Machrus’s hand reached out, shoving his brother’s shoulder, a scowl deeply etched into his already stern features.
She blinked, the feeling of peace that had settled over her dissipating back into wariness, increased even more so by the strange comfort she had felt. She frowned, confused, and she glanced at Desmond, who looked back at her with concern. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice low.
She nodded, still feeling rather strange. “I think so.”
Sladec and Machrus seemed to be having a silent conversation of their own, Machrus’s brow furrowing the longer they stared at one another. Eventually, he huffed out an angry breath, and turned to her, though he did not quite manage to meet her eye. “You will receive no harm from me, nor any of our people. Of that you have my word.” His voice was solemn, but rather begrudging, and the promise was of little comfort when it was given so.
“You need to make a choice, girl,” Simon broke in gruffly. “If the answer’s no, just say so and we’ll start packing.” His tone made clear that the thought displeased him, and she bit the inside of her lip. She felt pulled every which way, her throat tight and her heart beating quickly, her fingers plucking nervously at the cord at her wrist. The texture of it beneath her fingers, familiar and worn, helped calm her somewhat, though she still felt nearly ready to flee the tent entirely. Machrus was still glaring, this time at Simon, though at a stern look from his brother, his gaze shifted to the ground.
She had always done what was asked of her, had always complied without complaint and worked and bled for the good of them all. Desmond trusted these people, despite the short duration of their acquaintance, and that had to stand for something.
She would do as she was told, just as she did now, and not give them any reason to be displeased with her. Then surely everything would be fine.
“All right,” she murmured quietly, not quite able to make her voice more certain of itself. “I’ll marry him.”
Machrus was suddenly looking at her, his green eyes narrowed, his mouth pulled into that tight line once again. Was he disappointed she had agreed? He certainly did not appear pleased. She shrank a little, to think of that, to know already she had done something wrong, but there was nothing for it. Not when she saw Desmond smile, his hand clasping her shoulder only briefly before Margaret pulled her into a hug. “You’re very brave,” she murmured.
No, she wasn’t. Not at all. But she apparently was compliant to agree despite her own trepidations. She was not at all convinced that was a good thing.
Simon released a satisfied grunt, but she found herself looking at Machrus, trying to see any sign of softness or kindness in him. Her study did not show anything of the sort, but she reminded herself firmly that his disinterest was not wholly a bad thing. She had not wanted an attentive man mooning over her, not when she was so uncertain she had any love left to give him, and it would be better this way. It would.
Sladec appeared as pleased as his brother did not, and for the first time she saw a smile cross his features. Her eyes widened when she noticed his sharp incisors, and he hid them quickly behind his lips once more, suddenly apologetic. “This land will be yours, come sundown,” he assured Desmond, his hand coming to rest upon his chest, his head bowing low. “May your settlement grow and your wives bear many children.”
Desmond bowed his head also, mimicking the posture, and she supposed that was that.
They h
ad a home now.
Except, it wouldn’t be her home. Hers was now some distance away, with a people she barely knew, with a man who liked to glare and frown.
Already she regretted it, and she had not even married him yet.
Margaret must have sensed her unease for she kept her arm about her, her voice quiet but insistent. “You are doing right. You can see they are good men, and they are a kind people.” She did not see that, not entirely, but she did not fully trust her own judgement, not anymore. So instead she nodded, trying to convince herself that the older woman was right and she had not made some horrible mistake.
She only half-listened as the rest of the treaty was discussed, and though she was glad to no longer be involved, she felt rather forgotten in the entire process. She would have liked to have been dismissed, to have had some time to herself to think and gather her things, but none had suggested she do so and she did not wish to interrupt them by asking outright.
Eventually, however, it seemed they finally remembered her, for Sladec looked at her, his hand resting on his brother’s shoulder. “Shall the announcement be made? The ceremony must be performed before our departure.”
Her stomach lurched. So soon?
Desmond hesitated. “Must it be in public? I have not... discussed the terms of our treaty with the others.”
For the first time Sladec frowned. “Is there something shameful? The marriage is performed in the bride’s territory so all might witness the vows, the promises made. We give a gift to her so they might see she is well valued. You wish for this to be done in secret?”
She likely imagined it, but for a brief moment she thought Desmond’s ears turned a bit pink. “I meant no disrespect to your ways, only my people are unprepared for what they shall be viewing. They will likely not understand its significance.”
Sladec hesitated. “Her family then. I am certain her mother would wish to know she is to be well cared for.”
She pushed away the flash of pain easily enough. She did not know what her parents would say about the choice she had made, and she suspected they would be less than pleased. They had wanted a good man for her, kind and generous, and Machrus might have agreed not to hurt her, but that did not mean he met their other qualifications.
Desmond glanced at her briefly. “She is alone, I’m afraid. I would like to think it’s enough that we know of your good intentions and will explain things properly to our people when the time is right.”
She wondered what he was doing. Did he merely mean to spare her the spectacle of some large display in front of all their people? Or was he concerned that some would object? She thought, not quite resentfully, that it was highly doubtful that any would. Not if it meant they would be permitted to stay here.
Sladec’s eyes softened toward her for a moment, and she looked away, not wanting his pity. That he should feel anything for her at all was a good thing, this she knew, but it made no true difference. Her family was gone, and no amount of sorrow would change that. “We will need the river.”
She did not bother to question why, only obeyed when they exited the tent, travelling further upstream so they would be afforded privacy. She felt strangely numb during their walk and she stayed toward the back, half-hoping that she could slink away unnoticed, could make all of them forget she had agreed to this at all.
But Margaret kept her hand upon her shoulder, watching her carefully as they trudged along the riverbank. She should ask what was troubling the older woman, but her mouth was dry and her skin clammy, and she could not seem to summon the words.
She did not know what they were doing here, or what Sladec was looking for, but eventually they stopped at a seemingly suitable location, and he gestured toward the water.
Desmond held the translator up, looking equally confused about the site. “They will enter,” Sladec instructed.
Margaret left her side, inspecting the water for any sign of its significance, but she did not seem to notice anything for she looked back at Desmond with a shrug. “It’s clean at least.”
She did not like this. The river was pleasing when there were others about, when it signified the life that could be cultivated here. But she had grown up in a desert, and water, especially this kind, with its deep places and currents, was not something she wished to explore.
She took a step backward. “I don’t...”
Machrus sighed, stepping into the water until it reached his ankles, waiting.
That was it?
Sladec gave her an encouraging smile and gestured once again for her to enter the water. She had not noticed before, but neither Marzon were wearing boots. Their feet were rather unremarkable, but they had some of the same markings as the ones on their temples, and she was growing suspicious that there were far more covering their bodies than she had yet seen.
She shivered. The last thing she wanted was to see more of their flesh.
She had been given no direction, but she also hated the thought of having to trudge back to camp in her wet boots, so she plucked at the laces, mindful once again of how many holes were already in them. They had been old before they had ever come to her, and had only grown more so from her daily use. But they were better than what some had, and she had been grateful for their protection against the burning sands.
She was highly aware of Machrus waiting for her when a knot kept her from removing one of her boots, and she sat down to hurriedly undo it, her fingers trembling in her haste, making the entire process all the more difficult.
His impatient sigh made her cheeks burn with embarrassment, tears welling in her eyes until the string finally gave way. “Sorry,” she murmured, rolling up her pant legs and entering the water to stand near him. Not too close, but hopefully enough.
She did not particularly want to be any nearer to him, but she had agreed to this, and she supposed that meant she had to abide by their customs.
Sladec watched it all grimly, though his eyes held some of that sympathy from earlier that she had found so distasteful. But as she peeked at Machrus, at his glare down at their feet, she wished she could see some of it in his eyes.
That he might just be a little kindly toward her, so she did not have to feel so alone.
But she supposed this was better. They both were regretful, both were begrudging, and though it might not be ideal, she supposed that was something shared all the same.
She expected Sladec to officiate things, just as Desmond had done when couples wished to wed back in the Wastes, but Machrus simply took her hand, her heart sinking when she noticed his flinch as his skin met hers for the first time.
Her hands were not lovely things, were scarred and likely ugly, and she burned with shame. She opened her mouth to apologise again, to tell Desmond that they should ask one of the younger girls if they felt ready for marriage, but Machrus was suddenly walking, turning them toward the deeper parts of the river.
“Do not fight,” he grumbled lowly, evidently feeling the resistance of her feet dragging along the rocks at the bottom, the moss making them slick until he was the only thing keeping her upright.
“What are we...” her words stopped short as the cold water leeched up her legs, making her gasp as she shivered violently.
He said something else, but they had strayed too far from the translator and she could not understand it. He kept walking until her feet no longer reached the bottom, her toes pointed as she tried to keep her head above the water. He turned back to her, his free hand coming to find hers as he raised it to her face, forcing her to cover her mouth and nose.
And then he was releasing her.
She resolutely refused to allow her hand to free his, her fingers likely hurting him from the way she clutched at it so desperately. She was about to move, to uncover her mouth so she might beg him to turn back, but suddenly he was grabbing her more fully against him, pulling them downward, her head plunging beneath the surface until there was nothing but icy water biting at her entire being.
This was it. They
had not meant marriage at all.
They meant to send two of their own to their deaths and called it a treaty.
She struggled, her lungs beginning to burn as she tried to reach the surface, and she felt him bringing her closer, manipulating her limbs until she was held within his arms. And it was only then that he allowed them breath, brought them both upward as he strode back toward the shore, her weight seemingly insignificant.
She wanted away from him. Away from these people and their strangeness, but he ignored her, refusing to release her.
Desmond had his own feet in the water, his arm being held by Sladec as the Marzon kept him from interfering. “She is well,” he murmured soothingly. “My apologies, perhaps I should have explained.”
She shivered violently, biting back her angry retort. She was cold, and confused, and she did not wish to do this anymore.
And still he would not put her down, even though his face clearly showed a poorly concealed grimace. She stopped struggling, a bit of despair passing through her. He was strong, that much was certain, and it was abundantly apparent that he could override her will easily.
“Be still,” he ordered, his voice so low she was surprised the translator was able to pick it up. She took a few shaky breaths to ward off her panic, though it did little to help the tears that merged with her already wet cheeks.
Sladec was speaking, was trying to offer an adequate explanation for her treatment and ease Desmond’s concern, but she found it difficult to focus on him, too preoccupied with her own feelings.
“It is the cleansing, yes? They are purified for one another. For their lives together.”
“He could have drowned her!”
Sladec shook his head determinedly. “Not so. He is strong. He cares for her. He leads her from the waters and she is unharmed, you see?”
Desmond looked at her and frowned as another shiver went through her. “She is freezing.”
Sladec did not seem to understand the word the translator provided for his head cocked to the side, and he eyed her curiously. Machrus’s grip on her tightened, and she tried not to wriggle in discomfort.
Trade (Deridia Book 2) Page 3
