He grunted, this obviously coming as no surprise. “Things will be different for you,” he confirmed, glancing at her only briefly. “But perhaps not. They told me little of your colony.”
He did not ask her anything about it. Not if she was terribly sorry to leave it, how she spent her days. But she supposed there was time for that yet later, if ever he did feel so inclined to know her better.
“What will happen when we get there?” she asked, that seeming the most pressing matter. “I don’t want to be drowned again.”
Machrus frowned, and she wondered if he knew the meaning of the word. But he seemed a bit more annoyed than confused, so apparently he did. “You were not drowned,” he protested, and she resolutely kept from looking at him, not wanting to see that glare directed at her. “We were cleansed. I kept you from breathing in water. I kept you from being swept downstream.”
As if that was all that was important.
“You scared me! I thought you were going to drown us both!” Perhaps she was a bit too shrill for he winced again, and she forced herself to quiet. “Please, I just don’t want any more surprises like that again. I’d rather be prepared.”
He did not answer her, and they kept walking, his hand dropping from her wrist as another twinge of despair went through her.
What had she been thinking, agreeing to this kind of arrangement? But there was no going back, for they had gone far beyond their camp—their settlement—and she would not be able to find it again without a guide.
They clearly didn’t want her asking questions, didn’t want her to understand them, and she would have to simply bear it as best she could.
They stopped eventually, Machrus coming back to her and taking hold of her wrist, this time his face carefully schooled into neutrality. “You will not yet be permitted to enter our lands.”
Her feet hurt, her leggings had turned cold from their walk, and the day had only grown darker. The first sun hadn’t set yet, but it was enough for her to long for a fire, for something hot to drink even if it was simply boiled water.
They hadn’t stopped to eat, and though she had eaten nothing that morning, her belly was too tight with nerves to give much protest to the lack of sustenance.
Besides, hunger was well known to them all.
“Am I sleeping out here then?” she asked, glad that she managed such a composed tone.
He scowled at her, his mouth opening to retort when a woman appeared, accompanied by three males, their smiles warm and welcoming.
She shifted, her nerves once more flaring to life.
“There is a ceremony,” Machrus informed her. “I gave a promise to your people, and now there is one before mine.” He sighed, his grip on her wrist tightening a bit more, as if in anticipation of her recoiling.
She swallowed thickly, her eyes darting about for any sign of the river. She was sure it was near, any colony would need a water source to survive, but it was not immediately in view.
“I asked,” she accused him, wishing he had told her of it earlier. “You didn’t answer me about it.”
He grimaced yet again. “You would have fretted.”
He was a terrible comfort.
A woman stepped forward, her hair long and dark, her eyes similar to Machrus’s. Her skin was rather odd, the colour almost imprecise, blending and shifting slowly the longer she stood there. She bowed her head low, her hands holding a metal cuff atop a pile of clothing.
She held it out, almost as an offering, and Machrus huffed out another breath. She glanced at him, wondering if he knew how to breathe without his annoyance seeping out with every exhalation.
“She is not yet dressed,” he said as though it was perfectly obvious.
Sladec appeared beside them, holding out a piece of white cloth, and waiting expectantly for her to take it. “The gift you were to have been given,” he explained, his eyes narrowing at his brother for a moment. “My apologies for its delay.”
She had never seen a garment so white. Everything of theirs had become muddled with age, colours long since leaching into a greyish brown that, while functional, was hardly pleasing to look at.
She took it with careful hands, paling as she noted how thin it was—she would have frozen to have worn that all the way here!—and short, and she briefly wondered if this was some kind of sleep-garment. She’d never had one before, but her mother had told her about them, of the luxury of changing before bed, of having an entire wardrobe of only the softest articles that one simply wore to make sleeping more comfortable.
Well, and for other things, if the saucy look her mother had given her father was any indication.
She cleared her throat, bowing her head, her fingers trembling. “Thank you,” she managed, her voice tight even to her own ears. “It’s... lovely.” And it was. There was no point in denying it. There was delicate stitching around the bottom, the work of dedicated hands that possessed a skill she had not even thought existed. She wondered who made it, and hoped she could thank them properly someday.
She also wondered what the other clothes were that the woman still held. Machrus took them, releasing her wrist as he did so, and, strangely, her ability to understand what was being said.
He was arguing, his features turning stony as Sladec remained resolute, and Machrus only grew more agitated, finally storming off, the bundle of clothes still in hand. Sladec motioned for her to follow and she begrudgingly did so. Perhaps the village wasn’t where she thought it was.
He was grumbling, his voice low, and he stiffened at her approach, his glare shielded when he closed his eyes. She wondered if he was counting, just as she had been taught, and waited patiently for him to finish, though she shifted uneasily all the same.
He opened his eyes slowly, his eyes a glittering green, and she fiddled with her garment, his stare making her uncomfortable. He came toward her, holding out his hand, and she almost gave him the dress before she realised what he intended. She tentatively placed her hand into his. He did not hold it, not exactly, his fingers not wrapping about hers, her palm merely resting upon his.
“We have been cleansed, and now we will present ourselves with our new garments. You will also receive your mark.”
Her eyes widened, glancing at his temples and the markings to be found there, thinking for certain he meant she would suddenly be covered in painful spots and swirls. He frowned, nodding to his arm, toward the silver cuff. “There is nothing frightening about it,” he informed her dryly. “But it is necessary, as it shows you are now one of our people.”
“Oh,” she breathed, relaxing immediately.
“But first, we will change,” he continued, his tone grim.
Her cheeks reddened, and she glanced to a large tree, no cerulean mushroom to tempt her, so safe enough for changing.
“Right.” She didn’t want to put it on, not with how flimsy it looked, but she had agreed to this—however uninformed she had truly been—and she would have to comply. “I’ll just...” she nodded toward the tree, and this time his fingers wrapped about hers, his eyes softening ever so slightly before they hardened yet again, his frustration mounting.
“We will remain here together. It is our way. We shed all of our old clothing and present ourselves anew. Married,” he clarified, somewhat unnecessarily, his mouth twisted into a scowl. Clearly he was as enthused as she.
“Oh,” she said again.
She didn’t want to. Would have much preferred to change alone, would prefer not to see anything else of Machrus’s figure. Not now, and perhaps not ever.
They had been afforded little privacy in the Wastes, but nakedness was foolishness itself with the rays of the suns causing skin to burn so quickly.
So when Machrus stepped back, his fingers deftly manoeuvring his clasps and buckles, she was supremely embarrassed, looking down at the forest floor and forcing her own fingers to tend to her clothing as well. Her boots were first, followed by her leggings, and she could not deny that it was pleasing to be free of the co
ld cloth.
But despite her mortification, she found herself peeping at him only slightly. Just enough to confirm that the markings certainly did disappear beneath his tunic.
They followed the entire length of his frame, surprisingly elegant, and...
He caught her staring, his frown fearsome, and she looked hurriedly away. She was grateful for her slim hips, for it allowed her to pull her new dress on without fully removing her tunic. Perhaps this ritual was meant to prompt the freshly joined couples with the first glimpses of naked flesh—she had certainly seen more of Machrus than she had initially intended—but he did not tell her to stop, to allow him to look properly, and for that she was more grateful than she could adequately express.
The dress—or perhaps it was more of a shift, given how see-through it was as the waning light caught the delicate fabric—felt so different from anything she had ever worn. It fluttered about her legs in a delicious way, and she found herself suppressing her desire to give a twirl, simply to feel it do it again.
Machrus was watching her, a new pair of leggings and tunic replacing his previous things. His feet were still bare as they had not presented him with any foot coverings, and she was suddenly grateful he had disappeared so quickly after the ceremony at the colony. She had seen no evidence that they wore boots at all, and she did not like to think of how her feet would have suffered if she had been forced to make the long trek with nothing to protect her soles.
He stepped forward, his fingers touching her practically bared shoulder, the shift seeming even more indecent by how little fabric covered her upper portion. “Does it please you?” he asked, his tone softer than she had heard from him before.
She smoothed her hands down her sides, her mouth suddenly dry. “It feels so different.” She smiled a little, to show that she liked it, and he gave her a nod. He knelt, picking up his clothing as well as her blanket and tunic. Those he handed back to her, allowing her to keep them with her other things.
He took her wrist yet again. “They will take them. As they will take mine.”
She looked down at her bundle, waiting for tears to come at the knowledge that everything would be taken from her after all. It had been a comfort, on the way here, to think they might not be, but she would not weep about it now.
Later maybe, but not now.
He glanced down at the cord about her wrist, nodding down at it.
She did cry then, just a little. Her father had given her that, had tied it about her wrist when she was young, for her birthday, he said. She didn’t keep track of such things anymore, but it almost hurt untying it, laying it with her other things.
And following him back to the people who would supposedly now be her own.
Sladec waited there, the silver cuff in his hands, eyeing them both with a pleased expression that she tried not to wholly resent. She was giving up everything to be here, to do this, to forge a treaty between their peoples.
She reminded herself that was enough, and the rest was her selfishness. But it still hurt to give her things over to the strange woman, still sent a pang of longing through her so fierce that she almost sobbed from it.
Machrus took both her hands, facing her, though his eyes did not meet hers, instead settling somewhere over her shoulder. “My bride, bound are we for all of time. To share both bed and hearth, we are one. As are now our people.”
She looked at him in alarm, but he had said the words with as much disinterest as he ever had, and she comforted herself with the possibility that such vows were one of tradition, and not personal expectation. She didn’t mind the bit about the hearth so much. Tending the fire and cooking their meals wouldn’t be burdensome, but the rest…
Sladec handed him the cuff and Machrus’s hand encircled her upper arm. It easily enclosed her left arm, the metal warmer than expected, strangely pliable as he coaxed it to fit securely.
She was a Marzon now.
And she had no idea what that meant.
Other than giving up her clothes, her home, her people, all for a man who like to scowl and grunt and sigh.
“By what name shall she be called?” Sladec asked, and she eyed him with confusion.
She opened her mouth to answer, to finally inform them both that she most certainly had a name and it was important, no matter what Machrus had said, but the voice that gave answer was not her own.
But came from her husband instead.
“Renna. Now wife of Machrus of Krahl.”
4. Marzon
That couldn’t be her. They could not possibly mean to also take her very name from her.
“That isn’t—” she protested, her voice overwhelmed when the woman came forward, her smile warm and friendly as she drew one elegant finger down a pale human cheek.
“You are most welcome here, Renna, wife of Machrus.”
She supposed the title was meant to be of some significance, possibly to solidify her place here amongst the Marzon. But it was already beginning to chafe, to make her feel nearly invisible, wiped clean of all she had been and forced into a part she did not yet know how to play.
“Thank you,” she said instead, staring at the woman before her, wondering who she was. Sladec was looking at her with a softness she had not seen before, and when the woman stepped backward, she leaned into his side. Even if they weren’t married, it was clear they were together.
Evidently being married to him instead of Machrus wasn’t a possibility after all.
“Renna, this is my wife, Adelmar.” He leaned close to her, their foreheads touching briefly, a look of peace passing between them. “It is our pleasure to welcome you into our lands.”
Machrus’s hand fell away from her, and Sladec’s eyes narrowed, and he sighed before gesturing for them to follow.
Renna complied, not exactly wishing to, but knowing it would be impossible to refuse. She could, she supposed. She could tell them distinctly what she thought of her possessions being taken away, of her name being stripped until all that remained was this uncertain creature that was apparently now someone’s wife. But she did not think that would endear her to these people, and she needed them to like her, needed to represent her people well if this arrangement was going to last.
Sladec and Adelmar touched frequently. Their two longest fingers were linked, their smiles quick and easy, their affection for each other obvious.
Renna glanced at Machrus, suddenly feeling rather sorry for him that he would never experience such things with her. He watched the other couple with a frown upon his face, but there was nothing unusual about that. He must have caught her noticing for he smoothed his features into perfect neutrality. There was no denying that he was good at that.
“She’s very pretty,” she mused aloud, hopefully not loud enough that Adelmar would be able to overhear—not that she intended to say anything untoward. “She almost looks Arterian. But not.”
It was the shifting skin that made her think of it. Her long, shining hair was nothing like the bald beings she had seen in the Wastes, but she had never actually met one of their women, so perhaps they had hair.
Machrus glanced at her but said nothing, and she wondered if her theory was possibly correct. She hadn’t the least idea how language could be conferred through touch—she wished she could ask some of the others back home if it was possible before making a fool of herself—but Machrus did not seem interested in answering her, and she found her fingers creeping forward before she could convince herself it was ridiculous beyond words.
It was only a fingertip brushing against his exposed hand, but it was enough to send a glare her way, his mouth pulled into a thin line.
She almost took it away, but she did not know if she could gather her courage to try it again, so she repeated her comment about Adelmar, this time her voice wavering just a little.
Machrus glanced back at the woman, his head bowing once in confirmation. “She has Arterian blood. And that of others.”
He pulled his hand away, but she was glad of
his answer, and felt the need to press just a bit further on the matter most important to her.
This time she caught his smallest finger between her thumb and forefinger, not enough to restrain fully—she doubted she could force him to do anything, even if she wished to—but her intention was clear all the same. “My name is Heather, not Renna. Has been since I was born.”
Machrus glanced down at her, seemingly unconcerned. “And now it is Renna.”
Her mouth popped open, frustration and despair warring equally. She was either going to hit him or burst into tears, and she could not quite seem to decide which.
“You can’t just dictate a person’s name!”
He stopped, his expression inscrutable. “Why?” His voice was too calm, his entire being so unaffected that it gave her pause. She did not think herself in danger, not truly, not when Sladec continued to walk on with Adelmar, the conversation between them apparently causing him no great concern. “There is nothing similar in your world? The taking and giving of a new name?”
She flushed, trying to think, trying to be as reasonable as he seemed to be. Of course, it did happen. New monikers were common when birth names no longer seemed to suit—regardless of whether the bearer held any affinity for their new title. And Desmond liked to talk of the old-world, when surnames bore relevance, when families could be traced by such things.
She knew that. In an abstract way could appreciate that the Marzon way was not so different from their own, or what they had been. But still, it was hers and it too was suddenly gone.
Machrus continued to stare down at her, apparently waiting for her reply with something that resembled patience. “I’m losing everything else,” she finally whispered, wishing she had pulled her hand away before uttering it, not truly wanting him to hear. “I didn’t think I’d have to lose that too.”
Machrus grunted, and he turned his glare to the forest beyond them, his mouth in that ever-firm line. She released him, holding her arms tightly about herself, wishing she had more clothing on, foreign or not. She was cold, would be grateful when there was a fire so she could warm herself, but there was something good about the distraction. It forced her back into the visceral, and the colder she became, the less she cared about names or bracelets, or too-thin blankets that made up everything she had ever owned.
Trade (Deridia Book 2) Page 5
