He adjusted his hold with a sigh. “Let this be finished,” he prompted his brother.
Sladec hesitated only a moment before he gave a nod. “You may speak the words.”
Words. Vows. When apparently they would be married after all and not drowned in a freezing river. A sob bubbled out of her and she shook her head, finding all of this too incredible for words.
“You don’t even know my name,” she murmured, peering up at the man who would soon be her husband. His hair was dripping, rivulets of icy water finding its way down onto her skin. “How are we supposed to promise each other anything?”
He glanced down at her, his expression inscrutable. “Do you feel that you know me better by knowing my title?”
She shook her head slowly. “No. I don’t feel that I know you at all.”
He gave a low nod. “Then we shall proceed.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he was already speaking, already pledging himself to her, and she could not bring herself to interrupt. She tried to find some amount of warmth within his tone, some sign that he did not find the vow to be repugnant, but they were as equally cold as the translator’s automated provision.
"I, a son of Marzon, take you, daughter of the Colony, as my own. As we are one, our people are one. Our fates entwined. Our fortunes shared. May our binding make one nation of two people. As long as the suns rise and the moons set on this world.” The vow would have been beautiful, in its way, except for the manner in which it was spoken.
“I...” her words stumbled, her cheeks burning. “I don’t know what to say.”
She yelped as she was suddenly being put down, not ungently, but without any warning either. “There is nothing required of you,” Machrus informed her. “The vow is witnessed.”
He strode from the water and she took a few uneasy steps after him, feeling even more unsure. Sladec was looking after his brother as he walked back into the forest, displeasure and perhaps a hint of surprise in his eyes. “He did not remain for the gifting,” he commented, and there was no denying that he was disappointed by that fact.
That was quite all right with her. She did not particularly care for anything from that man in this moment, unless it was a large blanket with which to warm herself. Desmond offered his assurances that the treaty would hold, gift or no gift, but Sladec still seemed uneasy, his attention flitting back to the trees more than once. But as he turned to her, it was carefully hidden, all ease and friendliness once more.
“Forgive him. The need for this arrangement was unexpected. He is...”
She bit her lip, rubbing at her arms, trying to draw some warmth back into them. “It’s a lot,” she agreed, pushing away any bitterness. That was not how she would start things. It simply was not.
He gave her an appreciative nod, and she took Desmond’s hand as she carefully manoeuvred her way out of the river, with far less grace and coordination than Machrus had managed.
She knelt by her boots, not wanting to put them on her sodden feet, but also rueful of the many cuts she would incur by trying to navigate the forest barefoot. She was dripping, she was cold, and her apparent husband had already disappeared. She did not feel cared for, despite the assurances she’d received in the tent, and resentment bubbled up before she shoved it away along with the bitterness.
A warm hand covered her shoulder and she blinked up, expecting Desmond or Margaret, but finding Sladec staring down at her instead. “All shall be well,” he tried to soothe her. “You shall see. When we are home and he sees that this is right, his temper will much improve.”
She looked away from him, doing up the laces on her boot, grateful for the distraction. She did not bother to ask why Machrus had been chosen for her—the reasons did not matter now. Not when he was the one who had been given. He would be getting an equally unprepared spouse, so at least she would harbour no guilt in that regard.
“What happens now?” she asked quietly, more to her boots than to the man still standing above her.
“Now,” he answered all the same. “We take you home.”
3. Claim
“We’ll get you warmed up, dear,” Margaret assured her as they walked back to camp, trying to ward off her shivers.
If she wasn’t so cold, she would have preferred to walk alone.
Sladec was giving her repeatedly distressed glances, his eyes skimming the edges of the trees, she supposed for any sign of his brother. Was he supposed to be here for this? It did not particularly matter to her, especially when she was trying not to be annoyed with him for his part in her dunking.
She thought woefully of her blanket, carefully folded and tucked into her belt where she had taken to keeping it, equally drenched as the rest of her. It would not be warm and comforting when they returned to camp, she could not roll herself up in it and imagine the world away as she listened to the bustle of the others as they tended to their tasks around her.
Sladec and Desmond were speaking quietly, but she did not care to listen, even if there were further clues as to what her new life would be like. They could tell her when they were ready, and she would try to accept it with some semblance of dignity.
There was no sign of Machrus when they re-entered the camp, some of the other colonists looking at her in amusement as Margaret led her over to her chosen spot, her one other tunic beckoning with its dryness.
“What happened to you?” one of the older boys called. “You fall in the river?”
She ignored them and Margaret’s quelling glare, hurrying to her little part of camp and grateful that no one had nicked her tunic while she was gone.
Sladec continued to watch her, displeased about something.
“You can change in the tent,” Margaret told her, leading her back to the large tent that they had exited such a short time ago.
Margaret stood at the doorway, barring entrance of others while she peeled off her tunic and blanket, eyeing them both ruefully before quickly donning her fresh one. She would have liked to have changed her leggings as well, but her other pair had given out some time ago, what little fabric was still useable scaled down for one of the little ones to wear.
It would simply have to do.
She exited the tent with her wet tunic and blanket neatly folded, though she held them away from her person so they wouldn’t dampen her further.
Sladec was waiting for her outside, his eyes settling on her things in her hands. “You will have no need of those,” he informed her. She pulled both toward her, no longer caring about their wetness.
She wanted to protest, to assure him that she very much did need them. If not her tunic, then at least her blanket. Perhaps it was selfish, as others in the camp could have used it now that the days were cool and the nights even more so, but it was hers, had been for as long as she could remember, and she did not wish to part with it.
She almost returned to the tent so she could tuck it back under her tunic without his notice.
He had not said it meanly, and she supposed there was a chance they intended to provide her with new things, perhaps even better things. But that did not change the loss she felt as she turned back to Margaret, the older woman looking at her with such sympathy that she could not meet her eye—not if she intended not to cry herself.
“I will carry them,” a voice from behind her rumbled, and she froze, her fingers still wrapped tightly around her possessions.
Sladec turned, his brother emerging from wherever he had been, his own clothes already beginning to dry. She wondered why hers were so against doing so.
“You know our ways,” Sladec reminded him, the translator in Desmond’s hands revealing what she was sure was meant to be a private chastisement. “There is no purpose, not with...” Sladec frowned at the translator, his argument abruptly ending as he merely looked at his brother, apparently willing him to understand through some silent communication.
Machrus pointedly ignored him. “I will carry them,” he repeated, coming toward her with an outstretched
hand.
It was the first decent thing he had done since she had known him, and she was strangely, absurdly, touched by it.
“Thank you,” she whispered, too low for the translator to catch, but from the incline of Machrus’s head, he seemed to understand her all the same.
Sladec did not appear wholly convinced, but he did not argue on it any longer. She found it difficult still to part with her things, to hand them to a man who held such little regard for her, but it was less painful than leaving them behind entirely.
Besides, if he decided to throw them into the forest as they walked, she could easily run after them and provide a rescue.
She bit her lip, looking at Margaret and the others. “So this is goodbye then?”
It didn’t seem right. Not when her entire life had been spent amongst these people. They had suffered, to be sure, and some of them were not exactly good, but they were familiar and she would miss them.
Margaret pulled her into a hug, her own voice choked with tears. “Not forever. We are to come visit you soon to see how you are faring. It’s part of the arrangement.”
They hadn’t spoken of any option for separation if all this proved some horrible mistake, but she supposed it was generous of them to allow for some manner of visitation. It helped her pull away at least, helped her follow behind Sladec and Machrus. Suddenly, she froze, remembering an important aspect she had not previously considered.
She turned back, looking at Desmond imploringly. “What will I do without the translator? How will I know what they want?”
People were starting to gather, not exactly near, but their interest in the exchange becoming obvious. Desmond ignored them all, and she tried to as well, not wishing to be there when news of their trade agreement was announced.
She was not certain if it would be more painful or comforting to see their relief at being allowed to stay, even if it meant she had to go.
“They have ways,” Desmond told her, closing the distance between them. “I don’t understand it, not exactly, but they’ll explain things more fully once you’re there, I’m sure.”
She glanced at the two Marzon, one waiting more patiently than the other. “How can they explain if I don’t know their words?”
He gave her another pat, and she tried not to resent it. She needed answers, not placation, but perhaps he truly had none to give. “You’ll see. Everything will be fine.” He eyed her steadily and his voice did not waver. He actually believed that. She wished she had his confidence.
People started their questioning as she passed, most directed at Desmond rather than to her. She ignored them all, not wanting to indulge in anymore goodbyes. It was not only because of Machrus’s impatience, but also because she did not want to blubber on the journey to her new home.
It was strange walking with them, but not entirely unpleasant. The Marzon talked quietly amongst themselves, though from what she could tell from their tones, Sladec was less than pleased about something. She wondered if it had to do with the two cloth items currently in Machrus’s hands, and had to bite her lip to keep from saying it was all right for it to be abandoned. She did not want her new leader upset with her so soon, but that would also be a lie.
It would not be all right. Not when her blanket meant so much to her. The tunic mattered far less, but she was not certain yet she would be given anything else to wear, and she appreciated having something to mostly cover herself when she laundered the rest.
Sladec hissed something particularly angrily, and he quickened his pace, leaving Machrus behind him, and herself even further behind. She didn’t mind that they walked ahead. Their pace was slow enough that she did not fear getting left behind—was close enough to her camp that she could find her way back if she wished to—and she did not particularly wish to be close to either of them.
Her damp leggings chaffed at her legs, and she longed to peel them off. But she could only do so in privacy, and she knew nothing of her new sleeping arrangements, and at present she could not ask.
She sincerely hoped they had a translator of their own.
She would have found it rather soothing, the isolation to be found when she could not understand their words, except she worried they would grow frustrated when she did not act as they desired, did not know what was expected of her.
She had never tried to learn another language, had never needed to, but she wondered how difficult it might be. But her time to try to dissect the Marzon tongue had passed as Sladec quickened his pace even more, and she realised how slowly they had been moving to accommodate her. Machrus had stopped entirely, watching his brother disappear into the trees before them, apparently waiting for her.
“Sorry,” she told him, hurrying to catch up. She knew there was no point in saying it, but she felt better for it all the same.
If he understood at all, he gave no indication, only beginning to walk once more when he deemed her close enough.
His legs were long, that much was certain. She kept pace as best she could, glad that she had taken her boots off before he had dragged her into the river, grimacing as she imagined the blisters that would have formed if her feet had been subjected to the constant rubbing at her quickened gait.
She tried to focus on the scenery they passed, the different coloured mosses, the trees with trunks wider than three of her standing side by side. But instead she found herself peeking at Machrus more and more, the taut line of his jaw, the angry furrow of his brow.
He caught her more than once, his jaw tightening further whenever he did so, and her cheeks would burn as she firmly told herself to stop such foolishness, but he distracted her all the same.
He was her husband.
Kind of.
He had pledged so, at least, and thrown her into a river, and suddenly they were supposedly married. Everyone would treat them like it, at least, but she wondered how long it would take her to think of him that way.
Quite a long time, she would imagine, especially since he didn’t seem to care for her much.
Sladec eventually returned to view, and he sighed deeply, his hand coming to his brother’s shoulder as they talked in low tones, both of them ignoring her.
She chose to study a particularly vibrant flash of what she thought might be a fungus—a mushroom, if she remembered correctly—wrapped around a tree trunk. She blinked, frowning as it seemed to move.
They were not paying her any notice, so she took a careful step forward, fascinated by its size and the particular hue of cerulean it boasted.
It was a little fuzzy along the edges, and she wondered at its texture, her finger raised as she considered the potential danger if she should touch it. Some were poisonous, she remembered that, but she thought that was to eat, not simply to touch.
But suddenly a hand was wrapped about hers, firm and unyielding, Machrus’s face showing precisely how ridiculous he thought her.
“You will not touch,” he insisted, his tone brokering no refusal. “You will follow.”
She frowned, not understanding how she could understand. But he was already moving away from her, already pressing onward as she was left to gape and grow in her confusion, the fungus forgotten.
“You can speak our language?” she asked, finally managing to find her feet and hurrying after the two Marzon. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
Sladec turned to her, his expression blank. He shook his head once before nodding toward his brother. Only Machrus did? She did not know how he might. Were there other survivors in their camp? Her heart quickened at the possibility. She would know no one, of course, but the prospect of other humans living with her was a comforting one.
She wanted to stop, to huff and cross her arms and tell them she wouldn’t be going a step further until she received more answers than she had presently been allotted. But there was nothing more childish than that, and she had already determined that she was going to be better than that. She would do as she was told, she would comply, and somehow find some semblance of normalcy
in whatever new world she found herself living in.
But that didn’t stop the tears from prickling, no matter how she hated them. She did not like to cry, hadn’t done it in quite some time, but she couldn’t seem to stop—not since Desmond had asked to speak with her that first time.
Sladec was speaking with his brother, and gesturing toward her, and she wiped at her eyes, willing away her upset. It served no purpose, and was clearly upsetting both of them, Machrus’s mouth tightening as he glared at his brother, trying unsuccessfully to ignore what Sladec was insisting upon.
She felt terribly alone.
She wasn’t expecting Machrus to suddenly sigh, shaking his head in apparent frustration, before he stalked toward her, grabbing her wrist once again. She took a step backward, confused and uncertain, not liking the look in his eye as he touched her. It could be worse, she reminded herself firmly. He could see her as some kind of prey or he could eye her lustily. Both would be dreadful.
But she did not like how he seemed to grit his teeth, looking as if he resented even that lone touch.
He began to walk, his hand still stationed on her wrist. His fingers were not bruising in their hold, for which she was grateful, but the entire thing was rather humiliating all the same. She kept her mouth shut, however, not wanting to provoke him, pushing away her embarrassment and willing her cheeks not to burn.
He still would not look at her.
They kept walking in silence, and she found herself wondering when they would come to the Marzon camp. She was not certain it even was a camp, or if perhaps they had a village, or maybe even a series of caves they called their home. No one had told her anything, and it was beginning to prove frustrating.
“You have questions,” Machrus finally murmured, and she blinked at him in surprise. She wished he would explain how he knew the colony’s language, but she did not want to upset him more than he clearly was already.
“Nobody has told me very much,” she admitted, watching his face carefully for signs that he truly did understand her.
Trade (Deridia Book 2) Page 4
