The Bridge Kingdom (The Bridge Kingdom, #1)(9)
The King of Ithicana nodded once, and her father gave Lara a gentle shove between the shoulders. With halting steps, she walked toward the king, and as she did, a bolt of lightning lanced through the air, the flash making the visage of his helmet seem to move, like it wasn’t metal, but flesh.
The drums resumed, a steady and harsh beat: Ithicana incarnate. The king reached out one hand, and though every instinct told her to turn and run, Lara took it.
For reasons she couldn’t articulate, she’d expected it to be cold like metal, and equally unyielding—but it was warm. Long fingers curved around hers, the nails cut short. His palm was calloused, the skin, like hers, covered with tiny white scars. The nicks and cuts that couldn’t be avoided when combat was one’s way of life. She stared at that hand. It offered some strange comfort; what stood before her was nothing more than a man.
And men could be defeated.
A priestess approached on her left and tied an azure ribbon around their hands, binding them together before belting out the Maridrinian marriage vows so that all could hear over the growing storm. Vows of obedience on her part. Vows to create a hundred sons on his. Lara could’ve sworn she heard a soft snort of amusement from behind the king’s helmet.
But as the priestess raised her hands to proclaim them man and wife, he spoke for the first time. “Not yet.”
Waving away the startled priestess, he shook loose the ribbon that Lara was supposed to have worn braided into her hair for the first year of their marriage. The silk flew off toward the sea. One of his helmeted soldiers stepped out of the ranks, coming up to stand before them.
He shouted, “Do you, Aren Kertell, King of Ithicana, swear to fight by this woman’s side, to defend her to your dying breath, to cherish her body and none other, and to be loyal to her as long as you both live?”
“I do.” The king’s words were punctuated by the hammer of a hundred swords and spears against shields, and Lara twitched.
But the shock of the noise was nothing compared to what she felt when the soldier turned to her and said, “Do you, Lara Veliant, Princess of Maridrina, swear to fight by this man’s side, to defend him to your dying breath, to cherish his body and none other, and to be loyal to him as long as you both live?”
She blinked. And because there was nothing else for her to say, she whispered, “I do.”
Nodding, the soldier pulled out a knife. “Now don’t be a baby about this, Majesty,” he muttered, and the king answered with a tense chuckle before holding out his hand.
The soldier sliced the knife across the king’s palm, then before Lara could pull away, he grabbed her arm and ran the knife across her hand as well. She saw the blood well up before she felt the sting. The soldier pressed their palms together, the King of Ithicana’s hot blood mixing with hers before running down their entwined fingers.
The soldier jerked their hands up, almost lifting Lara off her feet. “Behold, the King and Queen of Ithicana.”
As if to punctuate his words, the storm finally fell upon them with a resounding clap of thunder that made the ground shudder. The drums took up their frenzied pace, and the King of Ithicana pulled their hands out of the soldier’s grip, lowering his arm so Lara wasn’t on her tiptoes. “I suggest you board your ship, Your Grace,” he said to Lara’s father. “This storm will chase you home as it is.”
“You could always offer your hospitality,” her father responded, and Lara’s attention flicked from him to Serin, who stood with the rest of the Maridrinians beyond. “We are, after all, family now.”
The King of Ithicana laughed. “One step at a time, Silas. One step at time.” He turned and gently tugged Lara into the depths of the bridge, the portcullis rattling its way down behind them. She had only the opportunity for a brief glance back over her shoulder at her father, his expression blank and unreadable. But beyond, Serin met her gaze, inclining his head once in a slow nod before she was pulled out of sight.
It was dark inside, smelling faintly of animal dung and sweat. None of the Ithicanians removed their helmets, but even with their faces concealed, Lara felt their scrutiny.
“Welcome to Ithicana,” the king—her husband—said. “I’m sorry to have to do this.”
Lara saw him lift a hand holding a vial. She could’ve dodged it. She could have taken him down with a single blow, fought her way free of his soldiers. But she couldn’t let him know that. Instead, she gave him a doe-eyed look of shock as he held it up to her nose, the world spinning around her, darkness rushing in. Her knees buckled and she felt strong arms catch her before she hit the ground. The last thing she heard before she faded from consciousness was the king’s resigned voice: “What have I gotten myself into with you?”
5
Aren
Aren, the thirty-seventh ruler of Ithicana, lay on his back, staring up at the soot stains on the roof of the barracks. His helmet rested next to his left hand and, as he turned his head to regard the monstrous steel thing he’d inherited along with his title, he decided that whichever one of his ancestors had come up with the idea of the helmets had been both a genius and a sadist. Genius, because the things put fear in the hearts of Ithicana’s enemies. Sadist, because wearing it was like having his head stuffed in a cooking pot that smelled of sweaty socks.