by Janeal Falor
They prance around with no warlock nearby. Not a single man within twenty paces of them! That makes them stand out more than their excessive height, though in truth there aren't more than a dozen. A few of the others, with a white band around their arm, wear shockingly bright colored dresses. A few of the other brazen women walking about wear colors from other countries besides white, but none wear orange. None of these unaccompanied women have marriage or engagement tattoos on their necks. Are they all single or do they not mark themselves as we do? I sigh and slouch in my chair.
“Sit up straight,” Father says.
I frown, but resume a more dignified posture and brush the wrinkles from my deep violet gown. Thomas enters the box for the first time since showing it to us. He wears simple black breeches and shirt, with the orange band tied around his right arm, dressed as the other participants from Chardonia. His gaze lingers on me as he walks toward Father. An older gentleman wearing tan robes follows him. White hair brushed back from his forehead in waves contrasts with his dark mustache and short beard. A skinny young man, also in dueling clothes, finishes the group.
“Councilman Stephen, I trust the box is to your liking,” Thomas says.
“Very much so, thank you.” Father pushes to his feet. “We're grateful to be privileged enough to be next to your box, Grand Chancellor.”
The older gentleman nods his head. The Grand Chancellor stands but a few feet from me. My stomach twits. I continue to hold my rigid posture as he speaks. “Pleased to see you here, Stephen. You remember my son, Nathaniel.”
“I do. Are you trying to get on the council, Nathaniel?”
The young man, whom Father was so disappointed already choose a bride, looks to the Grand Chancellor who says, “Remember I won't have any political talk during the break.”
“Of course not, Your Grace.”
Thomas motions toward me. “And this is my future wife.” I wonder if it would have been worse if I was Nathaniel's right now instead of his. From the stern expression on the Grand Chancellor's face, probably much, much worse. Thomas continues the introduction, “Councilman Stephen's eldest daughter, Serena, and her sister.”
I keep my eyes down and smile fixed like I'm supposed to. Always submissive and pleased with them on the outward, but inwardly wishing they weren't here. Yet, I feel their scrutiny as much as if I looked them in the eye so I'm careful to keep the proper pose. We practiced in class, but having it happen under a real setting, and by the Grand Chancellor, makes it harder not to squirm. Next to me, I can only make out the dark brown of Cynthia's dress.
“Indeed. She's lovely. Heard rumors her blood was good quality.”
News of my magic is spreading that much? I should be flattered, instead I feel contaminated somehow. If I'm already bought by another, why does it even matter?
“It's true,” Father confirms.
The Grand Chancellor says, “I wish we'd passed the multi-wives law sooner.”
“For yourself or your son?” Thomas questions.
The warlocks laugh. I cinch my fingers together.
“What do you think, Nathaniel?” the Grand Chancellor asks.
“Marlene is a good choice for me,” a younger voice replies.
“He's quite taken with his intended,” the Grand Chancellor says, “but if he hadn't already retained her, whichever of us could persuade you for your daughter would have been the one to claim her.”
The men laugh harder. My face burns. Soon they'll be discussing Cynthia like this. The thought shifts the heat from my face to my core. I clench my teeth together and lift my gaze to meet the Grand Chancellor's. The laughter dies off.
“Do you have something to say, my dear?” He returns the stare.
I bite my lip before blurting out, “Perhaps if the law is passed it should include consulting the first wife before taking another one on.”
This time the men howl with laughter, except for the Grand Chancellor, who continues to stare at me. I give a forced smile, but my words keep echoing through my head. The laughter lessens. Father frowns.
“It appears you'll have a good source of amusement from your wife, Thomas.” The Grand Chancellor finally breaks eye contact. “But as I said, no politics this week. Get enough of that a few months out of the year, eh, Stephen?”
Father's somber expression pulls into a tight smile. “Too true.”
I look away. Blast my mouth! Cynthia's hands are twisted together in her lap, mirroring my own. Why couldn't I have claimed I had nothing to say? Or even better, kept my eyes down. I don't know how bad the punishment will be for this, but it won't be a simple fist flying just once at me. My only chance is if Father waits to administer it. The games, if they go well, may soften him some.
“It was good to see you, but I must get to my box.” The Grand Chancellor begins to move toward the stairs. “I understand you'll be dueling against Chancellor Jacob soon, Thomas.”
“This afternoon, in fact. My first duel of the tournament.”
“Surprised he didn't send a marriage contract for your future wife. His old one has been dead four months now. Childbirth. Lost a good warlock babe in that tragedy. Man needs to get himself a new wife. Shame to let such power and lineage go to waste. His choice, though. Best of luck to you against him. He's a powerful one.”
Once the Grand Chancellor and his son are gone, Thomas kneels in front of me. When I don't look at him, he yanks my chin until I'm forced to meet his eye. “If you ever embarrass me like that again, I won't hesitate to tarnish you and find myself a more suitable bride.”
He flings my chin away from him and strides out of the box. I grip the sides of my chair trying to keep myself from letting my fear show. Tarnished! Stripped of all my humanity, never able to see my sisters again. The world seems to tilt around me.
“Cynthia,” Father says, not looking away from me. “Take the servants and get refreshments. Don't return until the curtains are up.”
My eyes dart to the tarnished following orders with the other servants. Their dull heads, blank looks, and black lines swirling on their faces make them all appear the same. He could force me to become one of them.
Cynthia bounces to her feet, pulling my fears from those less than shadows. “Yes, Father.”
No chance of him calming down first, then. Cynthia hesitates in front of me, her forehead wrinkled and lips pursed. I chance giving her a nod in front of Father, and with a twirl of her skirt she and the servants are gone, the last of their bald heads disappearing from view.
A sky-colored spell tinged with red flashes from Father, leaving me no time to think on the tarnished as the orange curtain lowers. Dread curdles my stomach. His fingers pinch together. The only way I can tell the silencing spell is coming is years of trying to pick out its clear wavering lines. It hits, my throat locking. I grip the seat of my chair and wrap my feet around the legs of it, steeling myself. With my gaze lowered, I pick a smudge on the curtain to concentrate on.
“You will not dishonor me or your intended again.” He stalks toward me and yanks me back by my hair bun. “You will do nothing.”
A crimson light launches from him, heading straight for my leg. My body jerks with a mute scream as the bone breaks. Tears prick my eyes. I silently beg for the spell to push me into unconsciousness. His hand presses on the wound, the pressure increasing as he speaks.
“He has good lineage, is a powerful warlock, is next in line for the council, and is friends with the Grand Chancellor. He paid good money for you. You will not disgrace him.”
The searing agony is so consuming, the world blissfully starts to blacken. My head lolls, and I close my eyes, welcoming the dark embrace.
“Ah ah. You're not getting out of punishment so easy.”
The world comes into unreal focus. The pain intensifies. Minutes. Hours. Some time. Too much time.
Finally the pain eases as his grip lessens.
“Will you disrespect me or your intended again?” He shoots the silence spell at me again to re
verse its effects.
It takes me a moment to realize what he's saying and even longer to slur a response. “No, Father.”
“Good.”
His weight lifts from the wound. I crumple against the chair.
“I'll fix you, but know that it's for Thomas.”
I try not to let my relief show as he heals my leg, but I surely fail. The pain fades until it's a dull ache. Apparently, he's not healing it all the way. He casts a honey colored spell over me. The light dances in front of my vision. The world takes on an unreal feeling. Colors look off. The sound of the crowd smothered, but somehow sweeter. I want to lie down and listen to them.
“Now, for a little surprise for Thomas. Payment for your rudeness.” He holds his hands in the shape of a circle. As he pushes his hands apart black, maroon, and gold burst from them. The colors dance around each other until they form Thomas's family crest, a shield with a hand casting a spell on it. The hand moves and pink light comes from it to create a bouquet of flowers. The flowers fade and the hand casts another spell. It continues casting minor spells, hovering in the air before me.
“Stand,” Father commands. I'd rather curl into a ball on the floor, but I'm not about to disobey. Some pain lingers as the crest follows my movement. “Walk to the edge of the box and back.”
I do so. Again the crest follows me. Wherever I go there will be no mistaking that I'm Thomas's property. Though it's supposed to be a recompense to Thomas for my behavior, it feels more like a heavy reminder to me. Constricting. The feeling lightened only by the surreal spell encompassing me. When I get close to Father I make sure to keep my head down.
“Get rid of that sullen mood, girl. We don't want Thomas worrying over your gloomy face when he's about to compete. Sit down and pull yourself together.”
Finally grateful to obey an order, I do as directed. Instead of leaning back and resting on the chair as I wish, I sit straight and mask my feelings with a pleased expression. Eyes attentive and a small upward turn of my lips. The honey spell he cast makes it easier, not so forced. As soon as I have the expression fully in place, Father raises the curtain.
Some minor duel is going on before us. Lights flash between two warlocks. I lock my eyes on them, but don't really see what they're doing. My leg throbs. I'm cold.
Soon Cynthia arrives, servants laden with food and drink behind her. She directs them to the table with a jug on it and she prepares a plate for Father. Once he's satisfied, she perches on the chair beside mine. He's more interested in his food and the tournament than us, but we still keep our voices down.
“Father did better than I thought with Thomas's family crest spell. I was afraid you were in for a punishment, but this is magnificent.” She stares at Thomas's crest hovering in the air before me as it creates a kitten. It scampers about in the air a moment before dissolving and another spell is cast.
My leg aches. “Yes, Father's a talented warlock.”
“Did something happen?” Her hands grip her dark skirt.
With a gesture at the crest, I say, “As you see.”
“It's because of what we talked of last night isn't it?” It takes me a moment to remember I told her a little of my marriage fears. “It'll be all right. With this spell, you really look like a grand prize. It's sure to boost Thomas's chances of doing well, which can only aid you. You'll be his good luck charm. No one harms a good luck charm.”
Unless it runs out of luck. I can't bring myself to say anything. She's trying so hard.
“You're shivering.” She pulls a wrap from my bag and places it around my shoulders, face bunched with concern. “Things really will turn out.”
Instead of answering, I nod at the duel. “Can you tell who's winning?”
Her gaze drifts to the field and her expression brightens as a jade light almost hits one of duelers. “It's fascinating, isn't it? Do you ever wish you knew what was going on when someone cast a spell?”
I think of what magic has brought to my life. “No. No, I don't.”
We watch for hours. The bright flashes of spells hold no appeal for me. Neither does the food Cynthia insists I eat. Everything seems drab. The countries' different colors, false. Smells fade to nothing. The people murmuring. The dueling warlocks. Even the flashy, colored spells start to fade. The honey-colored charm Father cast on me must be wearing off. Yet, I've never been under it before, so I can't be sure.
“Chryos brought a good number of supporters this year.” Cynthia motions toward the group. “I heard they have around sixty people dueling. But they're supposed to be decent. Some of them wear strange framed windows in front of their eyes though.”
I glance to where she points. A large number of participants with black clothes and red bands around their arms watch a duel. “That's more than mother said they had last year. How do you know which ones they are?”
“Some of the servants were chatty while I was getting refreshments. Apparently, Chryos wants to show off their skills.”
The normal servants she means. Tarnished aren't allowed to speak freely with us. I peek at the closest one. Though her face is inked with swirls around her eyes and cheeks making emotions hard to gauge, she seems calm. The tarnished catches me watching and stares back. Quickly, I avert my gaze.
Those eyes didn't look calm or emotionless.
The haunted look plagues me as I focus on Cynthia's words, silently begging for distraction. “Lots of people from Arllos are here as well. They're the purple ones.”
The purple canopies are straight across the field from us. “What else did you hear?”
“Litilas didn't show, but more Envadi than expected. Look at the bunch of them wearing white bands.”
Of course the women without chaperons would be from the most barbaric of countries. I should have realized that before.
“I always knew Envadi were enormous,” she continues, “but they need seats bigger than Father's. Only three of them are actually dueling. The Nislia have less though. There's only a few of them watching and none of them are dueling. They're the bits of green you see.” She sips her drink. “Look, there's Thomas.”
He struts out onto the dueling circle closest to us. A man older than him but younger than Father follows. The man angles toward the Grand Chancellor. He appears more aged than I first thought, in a rough way, like his youth was ripped from him. Much of the aging is in his sunken eyes, but also in the grooves on the sides of his mouth. His face is haunting.
“That's Chancellor Jacob. One of the servants pointed him out. It's a shame he never had any children. And to lose the only one he was going to get.” She shakes her head.
“It's a shame his wife is dead,” I reply. Why am I the only one to ever think of her?
“Must you be morbid?”
Father still appears to be paying us no mind. I lower my voice further just in case. “It's true. Men should be the ones to carry babes since they care about them so much. Then they could die in childbirth and we wouldn't have to fear it.”
Cynthia surveys the area around us. “Hold your tongue. You know most woman can be healed. We needn't fear it, but if you keep talking like this you're bound to be punished.” She glances at the field. “Look, another duel is starting.”
I watch the field only partially paying attention. The men bow to each other and the spells spring forth. Despite my trying not to, I keep thinking on the tarnished and the haunted look in its eyes.
The crowd lets out a gasp, yanking me from my thoughts. Chancellor Jacob is lying on the ground, not moving.
“What happened?” I ask.
Cynthia shakes her head, watching the scene with wide eyes.
The mediator checks on the Chancellor. After a moment he announces, “Dead.”
I jump to my feet. Thomas lifts both fists and the people cheer. He pumps his arm, sending yellow sparks in the air. The mass grows louder. My gaze goes to the dead Chancellor. I swallow.
“Thomas is magnificent,” Father says. “Did you see that spell? Of course
you girls didn't, but it was incomparable.”
Certainly incomparable. A man is dead.
“You girls look sick,” he continues, “but I tell you it was supreme. Once the shock passes you'll see. My Serena is a lucky girl.”
Lucky?
“Should I get the soothing tea?” Cynthia's voice is weak.
“Soothing tea? At a moment like this?” Father says. “It's a time for celebration, not calming, halfwit.”
The cheers continue a while longer. My head buzzes as I watch. Finally, the Grand Chancellor stands and raises his arm. Silence. Thomas stands on the ground before the Grand Chancellor's box.
“In accordance with tournament rules, all that Chancellor Jacob had is now yours. Congratulations, Chancellor Thomas.”
The horde screams with approval. I collapse in my chair. My stomach churns as if I were stuck in the carriage.
“Just think of all my son-in-law will oversee now,” Father says. “No waiting for him to join the council. A Chancellor. A Chancellor!”
My hands shake. Thomas struts around the field casting spells as the merriment focuses on him. He comes toward the box and enters it. Without a word, he kneels before me and the crest. All eyes are on us. I force a pleased smile and the crowd once again goes silent.
An emerald spell is forming on the other side of the crest. After a moment, it weaves itself into the crest, moving and changing it. When it stops, there's a laurel branch entwined with the hand and emeralds bordering the maroon edges. Chancellor Jacob's crest blended with Thomas's. I don't know much, but I do know its lineage rivals that of the Grand Chancellor's.
After a moment of silence, Thomas whispers, “Give me your hand.”
The idea of touching this killer repels me, but the memory of Father's earlier hex is still fresh. I reach out my gloved fingers. He takes my hand, stands, and jerks me up beside him. He smashes his lips against mine. The jubilation is louder than ever. I can't think above the ruckus and pressure. I try to pull away from him, but he grasps my head, keeping me close. He tastes salty and rancid.
