Of Thorns and Beauty by Elle Madison

Chapter Six

“The king is good man.” Sigrid’s incessant praises of the king have not stopped since we stepped out of the fainting room. I’m beginning to wonder if he has a kinder twin brother I know nothing about, or if the woman is truly insane.

If it was not for the signs of age in her voice and stature, I would ask why she hadn’t married the king herself.

Perhaps she isn’t as keen on public dining table sex as she pretends to be.

“Indeed.”

I should at least try to be charming, to ingratiate myself to the people here rather than making them like me even less, but somewhere between my frostbitten toes and my impending “partaking,” I can’t quite dredge up the energy for courtesy.

The steady hum of conversation reaches me as we near the dining hall, but once I round the corner, it cuts off entirely.

The sound of chairs scraping against the stone floor echoes off of the cavernous walls as everyone stands to greet me. Even Einar follows after a moment.

So, he is capable of chivalry. He just doesn’t bother when his people aren’t there to bear witness.

A second examination of the room stops me dead in my tracks.

Three long, empty, wooden tables with ten occupants on each side are aligned parallel across the room. One smaller table sits perpendicular at the end of the room, with only the king and an empty chair beside him.

There is no food anywhere, even though I am decidedly late. No servants stand by with covered tureens. Not so much as a single stein of ale or glass of mead clutters the long, rectangular tables of veiled and masked courtiers.

Just when I had begun to hope Sigrid simply possessed a truly horrendous sense of humor, I can see she was neither mistaken nor joking about what was to take place here.

I feel the blood drain from my face, and the ambience in the room turns even more tense than it had been. I am acutely aware of how very other I am here, in my red skirts with my bared stomach, dripping with ornate jewelry yet covered in the markings I now know they all believe to be dirt.

But I refuse to cower, or even to fidget under the weight of their stares. I make my way to the king, where he holds out a chair for me.

His face holds no sign of what’s to come, so I have little choice but to take my proffered seat. Once I am settled, the rest of the room follows suit. A lutist, likely the same one from the wedding, starts up a subdued tune, and gradually, a halting, stilted conversation overtakes the room. Though, none of it seems to be directed toward me.

No, I have the immense honor of being at a separate table with Einar as my only conversant, not that he has bothered to glance in my direction since I sat down.

And here, I thought this ritual couldn’t get any more awkward.

A servant places a chalice at my right, and I examine the contents for hints of poison. It was impossible to grow up in Madame’s household without a basic knowledge of alchemy. Having watched her do everything from turning a prince into a frog to outright murdering people, I had long since learned to be cautious.

Fortunately, though, all I can discern here are dark and frothy scents of barley and malt with a sweet, chocolatey undertone.

“It’s just ale,” the king grunts without looking at me, but I don’t miss the way his lips curl in disgust.

I resist the urge to glare at him.

“Obviously, you’re well-enough acquainted with it,” I mutter, noting the sour note of the drink on his breath.

He takes a deep breath through his nose but doesn't respond. I take a tiny sip of the brew, letting it linger on my tongue for a long moment before swallowing. It’s surprisingly smooth, if a bit sweet. It’s that last part that gives me pause.

I hold my breath for a moment, but there is no burning, no unexpected effects of any kind. Of course, it’s not doing much to keep out the cold, either. What I wouldn’t give for a cup of chai masala right about now, but I doubt the barbarian even knows what that is.

A fireplace roars in the opposite corner of the spacious room, but it offers no more warmth over here than my thin bridalwear does. I will myself not to shiver, not to show any weakness, but the idea of shedding even more clothing in this room is nearly as unappealing as the ritual itself.

Several tense minutes later, a servant arrives with a covered silver tureen. Einar slams his metal stein down on the table several times, causing the ale inside to slosh out. The sound is loud enough to get the attention of the room, and my insides seize.

“What is on that tray? Why is it just for us?”

Einar gives me a puzzling glance before speaking to the room in Jokithan. They all pound their fists on the table in agreement with his words, and that’s when my husband deigns to look in my direction.

“Are you ready?”

Is it my imagination, or does he look hopeful that I will decline?That’s all the incentive I need to lift my chin and answer in a strong, clear voice.

“Of course.”

The tray is placed in front of us, the lid removed to reveal...food. Just a bit of roasted fish and potatoes. He cuts a small bit of potato, then spears it with his knife before holding it out to me. I lean forward, taking the bite into my mouth and deftly removing it from the knife with my teeth before he can stab me.

His impassive gaze burns just a bit brighter while he watches me but remains otherwise unchanged. He stares for another moment, finally clearing his throat to remind me that it’s now my turn.

Well, then.

I reach for a knife as well, though it’s more like a dagger, and the handle was clearly designed for a hand much larger than my own.

“Can you use that?” The king raises his eyebrows, and I blink back a glare.

“You mean with my delicate constitution? I’m sure I’ll manage, as long as I don’t faint first.” I stab the end into a large chunk of potato with perhaps a bit more force than is strictly necessary, then lift it up to Einar’s lips. Well, his mouth, anyway.

Who can say where his actual lips are in all that mess.

He rolls his eyes, but dutifully plucks his bite off of my knife, baring his teeth in the process.

The room gives a polite smattering of applause, and the feeling of expectation begins to ebb away, but I don’t let my guard down just yet.

“So,” I ask cautiously, “is that it? There’s nothing else?”

“Not meeting your lofty expectations?” The king scrutinizes me for a moment, his brow lifting as he takes a gulp of ale.

I narrow my eyes but don’t rise to his bait.

“I was led to believe that we would be partaking of... each other...” I lower my voice so only he can hear.

Einar’s eyes meet mine for a half second, and then he does the last thing I would have expected him to do.

He laughs.

Eyes crinkling and deep, baritone chuckles, all while I sit at his side, likely the butt of his joke.

Does this mean there is more?

“What did you call it?” he finally manages to ask.

“The partaking,” I say, then add somewhat defensively. “You know, that whole wedding ritual you didn’t bother cluing me in on.”

“That’s what you thought we were doing, and you still came to the dining hall?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Quite the exhibitionist I’ve married.” This throws him into another fit of laughter at my expense while I glare at him.

It’s easy enough for him to laugh, the man with unlimited power in a room of people who do his bidding, as though I would have had a single sands-damned choice if that had been our purpose here.

While he’s laughing, a man with a single silver star on the beak of his mask rises from his seat at one of the other tables. The king’s laughter cuts off abruptly, the mirth in his features replaced by the stony face from our wedding.

Interesting.

The man slides toward us, his footsteps too muted to be entirely casual. I suppress an arched eyebrow, guessing at his purpose before he even reaches my side.

“Consort Zaina.” He stresses the title, like he suspects how it rankles me. “We have not yet had the chance to become acquainted. I am Lord Odger. I wish to offer my congratulations.” The obsequious tone coming clearly through his mask tells me I’ve taken his measure correctly.

Sure enough, he takes my hand with both of his in what can only be described as a proprietary gesture. His fingers stroke the inside of my wrist, making my skin crawl, but like earlier with Damian, I don’t pull away.

I feel the king’s gaze on me, though I refuse to turn in his direction. Like it or not, I am a consort, not a queen. Einar may as well have called me his plaything for all the power he’s bestowed upon me, here in this place where he has made sure I am without friends or allies.

Besides, Odger is hardly the first to touch me without my consent, and I doubt seriously he’ll be the last, not in my lifetime or even on this day. My wedding night still awaits.

“I confess, that was not my only reason for approaching,” the man says, righting himself. “You looked to be freezing.” His western accent is particularly prominent on that last word, rolling the R and turning the Z sound into an S.

“It is warmer where I come from,” I respond noncommittally.

Where is he going with this?

He answers my unspoken thought by reaching for his cloak pin. His heavy fur is off his shoulders and around my own with a speed that is unnatural, even to me.

The king is nearly as fast.

He is at his feet with his sword drawn in a movement I can barely track. The tip of his blade presses into Odger’s bare neck just enough to draw the tiniest drop of blood.

The casual violence from a man who was laughing less than a minute ago is jarring. But then, I should have expected no less. I knew who he was before I came here.

A man who would draw a sword on someone for daring to offer me warmth in this frigid mausoleum he calls a castle. A beast, as they say.

My opinion is solidified by the reticence of the room. The king’s authority is absolute here.

Odger slowly holds his hands out in a gesture of surrender.

“Forgive me, My King.” He sounds not the least bit sorry. “Knowing your lofty position precludes you from seeing to such minor details, I only thought to make your bride more comfortable in her new home.”

Judging by Einar’s murderous expression, he hears the thinly veiled scorn as plainly as I do. With his free hand, he rips Odger’s cloak from my shoulders, not so much as glancing down at me.

I scarcely have time to fight down a shiver before the king replaces it with his own.

“I have seen to it. You will have no further need to approach Lady Zaina. For anything.” Threat laces his words, but he is more like a child refusing to share a toy than a man protecting his wife.

This isn’t about my comfort. It’s about his property.

Odger returns to his seat, and Einar sits back down like nothing happened, except for the thrumming of fury I can still feel waving off him. The rest of the room takes their cue, but the conversation in the air feels markedly more forced now.

I wait until their talking creates a steady hum again before I murmur my next words through a smile as false as our wedding kiss had been.

“Perhaps I should just stand still while you drop your trousers right here to mark your territory on the ground around me.” At his confused look, I add in an overly pleasant tone, “That way, you wouldn’t have to suffer without your cloak.”

“If I’m suffering through this meal, it has nothing to do with my cloak,” he mutters, sizing me up in a glance. “But I could never deny a lady her wishes.”

He gestures gallantly for me to stand, and I shoot daggers at him.

“I’m only saying that somewhere between our never-ending vows and shoving potatoes down my throat, I would think you had sufficiently staked your claim.” My cheeks redden in anger, but I force my smile to stay plastered on my features. “That you feel the need to continue doing so makes me wonder what you might be compensating for.”

I want to take the words back as soon as they are out. I can’t remember the last time I spoke without thinking, let alone allowed my emotions to cloud my judgment this way. I need sleep, and warmth. And my sisters.

But his next words duly remind me that it will be a long time before I have any of those things.

“I guess you’ll find out.” He gives me a crooked grin, his eyes glinting with something sinister. “Or have you forgotten it’s nearly time for our wedding night?”