The King's Spinster Bride, (Royal Wedding #1)(26)

Soon, I tell myself. Halla will be yours soon.

I return to my chambers and the advisors flutter around, trying to give me advice as I dress. I put on my leatherwork leggings that are decorated with beaded tassels down the legs, one for each kill I’ve made in battle. I shave the side of my head, and then my jaw as the advisors prattle on about treaties and borders. I let them talk themselves into circles without interrupting, since I figured out long ago that it was arguing for the sake of arguing more than needing advice. I rub a hand over my jaw to make sure there’s no stubble, thinking of Halla’s soft thighs and how sensitive they were. I don’t want to scrape her skin.

Two advisors argue over the printing of coins in Yshrem and whether or not they should have my profile or a symbol. That is easy to answer—one side shall have my Halla’s face, and the other will have mine.

“I do not like that you give her so much power, First Warrior,” one of the advisors begins.

“Then it is a good thing I did not ask you,” I tell him easily and find a mirror on the wall. It is tradition for a father to paint his son with the Cyclopae symbols before his marriage, but my father is dead and I am surrounded by fools who try to tell me not to marry my woman. I will simply do it myself. I paint Aron’s cleaver over my breast in bright red, and then remove my eyepatch, regarding my face in the mirror. When Halla knew me, I had two eyes. Does she find this ugly, I wonder. Or does she understand that tradition goes deep with my people? The eye-scar has always been seen as one of pride and honor amongst my people.

But…I want Halla to enjoy looking at me, as I enjoy looking at her.

Bah. I am being a nervous fool. Irritated at myself for worrying over such things, I smear a dark red line of paint down my scar, from brow to cheekbone, mimicking Aron scarring from his battle with the Great Dragon One-Tooth. I paint the symbols of my father’s line down my arms and across my stomach, and then sit cross-legged on the floor and do my best to meditate while I wait. Once the ceremonial paint is dry, I will put on my white fur cloak and descend to the throne room, where my bride will be presented to me.

“First Warrior,” one particularly noxious advisor says, a hint of whine in his voice.

“What?” I do not open my eye or shift in my repose. “I am busy.”

“There is a, ah, problem, First Warrior.”

I bite back the impatience I feel. “Can it wait until after my wedding?”

There’s a long hesitation that fills me with uneasiness. “It’s about the wedding,” the advisor says eventually. “I’m not sure there will be one.”

I open my eye and glare at him. “Speak freely and tell me what you mean.”

The man swallows hard and gives his fellow advisors an uncertain look. After a moment, he steps forward and clears his throat. “I have, ah, been notified that it is past time for your bride to participate in the ceremonial bathing and she has not arrived. Nor will she answer when anyone knocks at her door. She will not open for anyone.”

I get to my feet slowly, my heart thudding in my chest. “She has refused me, then?” The world has turned to gray ash in an instant. “She will not become my queen?”

A drop of nervous sweat rolls down the man’s nose and splashes onto the front of his robe. “We-we-we don’t know, First Warrior,” he stammers. “Princess Halla does not answer at all.”

I storm out of my chambers. “Take me to her at once.”





12





HALLA



I stare out the window of my room, down at the courtyard below, and think about sixteen years that have passed. Sixteen years ago, I was young and arrogant and thought nothing in the world could change for me. I knew my father had gone to war with the Cyclopae, but I lived inside a sheltered cocoon and thought it would truly not affect us. Even when the cyclops warriors camped outside our walls, I did not think it would end badly. Up until the very end, I knew with certainty that my father would win.

And then they brought me news of his death and everything changed.

I am not that same Halla, but I wonder if perhaps I have still been too cocooned. That I have been so sheltered from the world—first by court, and then by the peacekeepers of Riekki—that I cannot see a lie when it is in front of my face.

I am terrified of making the wrong decision, because this is final. Once I choose, I cannot un-crack that egg, as the saying goes. I will be Mathior’s Yshremi bride, and I will either be the betrayer of my kingdom or a beloved bride.

I do not trust my own judgment to determine which one I will be. Ever since Mathior returned to my life, I have been completely besotted with him as any young woman would be. I am thirty-three and yet I find myself giggling over the thought of him when I am alone. He haunts my dreams. He is the first thing on my mind when I open my eyes and the last thing when I go to bed at night. When I touch myself in my bath, I think of him and his hot eyes and the confidence in his grin.

Sixteen years and I am not any wiser than that foolish princess who held a crown for an hour. I could not see my future then, and I cannot see it now.

I still have time to back out of this marriage, if it is the wrong thing to do. I am too taken by Mathior to think clearly. I don’t know if he is playing me for a fool or if he truly cares for me. Because oh, I want him. I want him so badly I ache with it, and I worry I will destroy what is left of my kingdom if I pursue my heart.