Page 59 of Wings of Cruelty and Flame

“What is it?” Varidian breathed, rounding the chair to peer at my arm where the magic settled into a wyvern whose wings were formed of sharp curves and wicked points, its body a dagger, the tail a razor-point. It was sharp and beautiful all at once, its wings like swirls of shadow. Wyverns were symbols of a love so powerful they could bring the sky to its feet. I stared at the mark and all my fears swirled away, a strange rush of emotion making my eyes sting, my throat swell.

“I love it,” I breathed.

“Right, husband next,” the scribe barked.

Varidian caressed his thumb over the mark on my arm, brushing away a drop of blood as I stood. I couldn’t stop looking at the marriage mark even as I rested my hands on Varidian’s shoulders like he did for me.

“I want mine here,” he told the small, bushy-eyebrowed man, unfastening his coat and the tunic beneath a few buttons.

“Over your heart. How original.” There was a heavy dose of cynicism in the scribe’s voice, but I barely noticed, my whole body warming at my husband’s choice of placement. It was still a little surreal that he was mine and I got to touch him, keep him, make love to him. I ducked my face to kiss the crown of his head simply because I could.

Varidian tensed when the pen made its first cut, but that was the only sign he showed of pain, sitting in silence while the mark-scribe worked. It took the same number of punctures for his ink to settle, a fact that pleased me. We were equal in both strength and stubbornness. When the scribe sat back and began cleaning his supplies, I moved to look at the black mark on Varidian’s chest. Where the tip of my wyvern’s tail was as sharp as a dagger’s end, his was serrated, a jagged bolt.

His throat bobbed as he looked down at it and, wordless, he quickly buttoned his jacket.

In a move lacking subtlety, the mark-scribe slid a little wooden bowl across the table. Varidian dropped several gold coins into it, and it struck me as bizarre that they bore the king’s face and I was now part of the king’s family.

“Thank you,” Varidian said, a little stiffness to his voice. I rested my hand on his arm, concern furrowing my brows. It couldn’t have been easy to function when he’d just lost his friend, no matter how convincingly he pretended to be fine. I slid my hand down to his hand and entwined our fingers.

But the exchange of money did remind me of an earlier concern. As we left the hushed atmosphere of the scribe tent for the deafening chaos of the market, I said, “I want my own income.”

Varidian glanced down at me in surprise. “Dearling, I have more money than I could possibly have use for. Anything you want is yours.”

“What Iwantis my own income. How do you have so much money anyway? You’re hardly fond of the king so I doubt he’s lavished fortunes upon you.”

“He tried, and I refused them,” Varidian confirmed, guiding me through the throng of vendors and shoppers, his head lifted as he searched the stalls. “All the money I have is Marrakchi money from my real family. I have an eye for business and investing; that’s where my money has come from, plus the meagre allowance I get as a rider.” He drew me closer when a woman barged past us, a basket overflowing persimmons in her hands. “But if you want your own money, of course you’ll have it. Will you stab me if I offer an allowance?”

“Without hesitation.”

Varidian’s smile was swift and real, and I felt a sense of accomplishment for putting it on his face. “You can have any job you want, work in any sector that draws you. The Red Star is known for its glue, book binding, and quartz.”

My eyes widened as I stared up at his strong jaw. “Book binding?”

His smile deepened, his eyes still scouring the market. “How did I know that would take your interest? If you’re lucky, they might even let you bind the filthy books.”

I jabbed his side. I could bind sweet, sugary romance too.

He laughed. “My mum knows the bibliopegist’s wife; she can set you up when we get home.”

I gasped. “You know the word bibliopegist.”

His head bent towards mine, breath feathering over my mouth, instantly erotic. “Does that make you hot, dearling?”

I grazed my lips over his full bottom lip. “Very.”

“Out of the way, love-fools,” a coarse male barked, and we ducked aside just in time to avoid getting a box of sardines thrown over us.

Varidian and I glanced at each other and laughter bubbled up easily, the events of the last few days very far away for the moment. It was like he hadn’t been missing, hadn’t been trapped in a storm, and this was the day after our wedding. We exchanged soft glances and teasing words as we made our way from one market road to another, stopping at a table full of ink pots to pick up a dark gold liquid for Nabil. The Azizi colour, I noticed. I’d never been particularly attached to my house colours, had never felt any pride in them.

A hint of secrecy brightened Varidian’s face with mischief as he guided us from the row of paper and ink vendors, through a winding path that told me he’d been here often, ending up at a row of tanners, clothiers, and fabric merchants.

“What are you up to?” I asked with a sideways look, enjoying the warmth of the sun overhead.

“Nothing at all, dearling,” he replied, kissing my temple. His hand had never left mine since we left the mark-scribe’s tent. The mark on my arm stung, but it was a pleasant reminder thatI was married, wanted, and accepted for all I was. It was the best kind of pain I’d experienced.

I tried not to look at the stalls full of beautiful, embellished headscarves, but I couldn’t quite stop my stare lingering on one in particular—a fine cotton weave dyed a gradient of purple and crimson, embroidered with suns, stars, and moons. It was like someone had cut a swath of the night sky and sewn it into submission. It twinkled like true stars. I had to physically pull myself away.

No scarf would change who I was, and no matter how I resented her, Xiu was right. It wouldn’t make me fit in when I was the child of an Ithanysian father and a mother from fuck knows where.

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