The Dragon's Price (Transference #1)(4)
When we get to the great hall, my steps slow. Inside of the door, they stop altogether. Candles burn in the chandeliers, and garlands of flowers held together with ruby-red ribbons have been hung on the stark gray stone walls. I have never seen the hall look so beautiful. The leather-clad Antharians are easy to spot. They stand out like peasants among the flamboyantly dressed Faodarian nobles. The women, dressed in brown leather vests, with hunting knives belted above their bright skirts, look as barbaric as the men. And the way they laugh—mouths wide open and their heads thrown back, with no regard for manners or sophistication—has me gaping at them.
Someone steps up to me and holds out his arm. “Princess Sorrowlynn,” he says, and I can feel his eyes on me. His voice is deep and has a slight accent. I stare at his glossy leather vest and the white shirt beneath it, which is unbuttoned enough to show a bit of golden chest, and my knees threaten to buckle. Is this my possible future husband Ingvar? My body freezes, and I cannot find the courage to look at his face.
“Don’t be rude,” Diamanta whispers into my ear, poking my ribs. “Take his arm!”
I nod and force myself to lift my hand and place it just above his wrist. Beneath his loose white shirt, his skin is firm and warm. Like a gentleman, he escorts me to the queen’s table, centered on a raised dais at the farthest end of the room, and pulls out my chair before taking his place beside me.
“I guess they wanted the two babies of the family to keep each other company,” my escort says. If I am by the baby of the horse clan, I am not sitting beside Ingvar. I try to sag with relief, but the corset digs into my armpits, forcing me to sit like there is a metal rod in my spine.
I look at the head of the table. King Marrkul sits on my mother’s left, with his oldest son, the future king Ingvar, beside him. On Ingvar’s left sits a woman. She is chugging wine like it is water. When she puts down her empty cup, she twines Ingvar’s long hair around her fingers and pulls his face to hers, kissing him on the mouth. I gasp. To show affection like that in public is astonishing, especially for a woman to initiate it. All of my life I have been taught that men always initiate intimacy of any sort, and nobility always remains formal. When she’s done kissing him, she looks right at me and winks.
“My brother’s wife makes a spectacle of herself when she is in your castle,” the horse lord beside me says with a chuckle. “She likes how shocked you all are.”
I finally look at the face of my escort. He is young, and his skin is like caramel-colored silk, except for the long gash on his right cheek. “You mean he’s already married? If I marry him, I will be his second wife?” I ask. Visions of being a second wife hit me like a physical blow, and I think I might be sick.
The horse lord grins. “If you marry Ingvar, you will definitely be his second wife, because there is no way Jayah will sit back and let you have him all to yourself. She’s the jealous type. She will probably treat you more like a servant if you are her sister wife, and if she ever finds you in Ingvar’s bed, she’ll kill you.”
I press my hand against the hidden dagger at my hip and for the first time in my life wonder if I will die at my own hand, because I will kill myself before I become a second wife.
“It has happened only once before,” the horse lord says.
“She’s only killed a sister wife once before?” I stare at Jayah. Her hands are like clubs, and her neck is as thick as a man’s.
He laughs as if what I said is the funniest thing he has ever heard. “No, the heir to the throne has taken a second wife from your family only once before, and that was because his first wife died. My great-great-grandmother was a Faodarian princess, and she was a second wife. That is where I get my hazel eyes,” he explains. “From your bloodline. See?”
I don’t look at his eyes. I stare at the food on my plate and try not to hyperventilate at the utter disgust of being a sister wife.
“My name is Golmarr,” he says. Even his name is harsh and savage. Still, I stare at my food. I have lost the will to speak, so Golmarr talks and talks while he eats, telling me of the skirmish they had on their way here with the ruffians who live in the Glass Forest, and the extensive combat training he has received since he was big enough to hold a sword. He tells me stories about how his eight older brothers used to beat him up until he got big enough to fight back, and now not a single one of them can best him at swords. When he finishes his plate of food, he eats mine without asking. As the night wears on, a string quartet takes its place beside the royal table and starts to play a waltz.
“Would you like to dance, Princess Sorrowlynn?” Golmarr asks, standing. I would not like to dance. I have never danced with anyone but my three older sisters and my elderly dance instructor. I don’t want my first official dance to be with a barbarian. Before I can say no, he is pulling out my chair and taking my wrist in his big, callused hand, and leading me past my frowning father and disapproving mother. I can already hear the lecture I will receive: You are too good for a mere barbarian prince, and the youngest, no less! He will amount to nothing. The heir to Anthar is the only man worthy of a Faodarian princess’s attention!
I dare a look at Ingvar. He folds his arms over his wide chest and glares at Golmarr and me. I really, really don’t want to be his wife. I hurry ahead of Golmarr and drag him onto the dance floor, away from my mother and father, away from his brother. Putting one hand on his bicep, I grab his free hand in the other, and we start to waltz.