Page 2 of WarBride

In the end, however, I could only serve one ultimate purpose in his eye: a bride. A commodity to be bought and sold, a choice fruit with which to tempt other kings into alliance.

Which is exactly what happened. Which is exactly why I find myself in my present position, kneeling before this altar, watching the remains of a slaughtered goat burn on a blood-stained altar stone. Completing the rites of my Maiden’s Journey before my new husband comes to claim me and carry me off to his kingdom.

I’m supposed to be singing along with the priests. This service is for me, after all, a sacred and significant moment. But I won’t sing. I’ll do no more than mouth the words. Peering out from the gauzy folds of my prayer veil, I study the statue of the god I am here to petition. Lamruil’s visage, carved in a block of black marble, is all hard edges and severity, his unsettlingly long teeth bared in a grimace. The God of Darkness—the first of the seven gods to whom I must make sacrifices in preparation for my wedding. His is not the most cheerful shrine to visit while on pilgrimage, but it’s an important one. Certain things are about to happen between me and my intended bridegroom in the darkness of my bridal chamber . . .

Hastily I drop my gaze from the god’s stoney stare and squeeze my eyes shut. But that’s no use; my future husband looms large in my mind. Massive, rock-skinned. A veritable mountain of a man. Not human; that would be unpleasant enough.

No, the husband my father picked for me is atroll.

“The high priest knows you’re not singing.”

Startled, I turn to my sister, who kneels beside me at the altar rail. Aurae’s face, what I can see of it behind the filmy fabric of her veil, is the picture of piety. But her eyes flash, catching me in a quick, sidelong glance before shifting to the high priest. He stands on the far side of the altar, his arms, stained with sacrificial blood, upstretched over his head in a great V. His hard gaze is fastened on me, however. Disapproval scores every wrinkle of his ancient brow. Though he continues leading his brothers in prayersong, there’s nothing worshipful about that expression.

“He can’t see me through my veil,” I whisper back a little uncertainly.

“I don’t think it matters.” Aurae leans closer so that she can speak into my ear. “Please, Ilsevel, try to sing. You lookas though you’re preparing for your funeral rather than your wedding.”

“Maybe I am. For all we know, trolls devour their brides on their wedding nights.”

Aurae dips her chin to hide a smile, though I’m not entirely joking. “The Shadow King seemed courteous enough,” she persists. “Faraine, at least, believes he will make a good husband.”

“Let Faraine marry him then,” I mutter. There’d been a brief point in my hurried courtship when I had hoped my terrifying suitor would choose my elder sister instead of me. I’d seen the two of them dance together on the first night after his arrival. He had seemed unusually taken with quiet, serious Faraine.

Ultimately, however, he knew he would be better off allying himself with me: Larongar Cyhorn’s favorite daughter. The apple of the king’s eye.

I squeeze my prayer-clasped hands tightly, my knuckles standing out white. It doesn’t pay to be the favorite of a tyrant. Not in the long run. I’ve known all along my fate would be something like this. It’s simply the way of it for a woman like me, a king’s daughter.Princess . . .Gods, how I hate that title! A princess is not a person, not an individual. She is a representation. Of power, of loyalty. Of entire nations when need requires. She is an instrument to be used at the discretion of mighty men. Men like my father. Men like the Shadow King.

“Why are you grimacing like that?” Brow puckered, Aurae pushes her prayer veil back to study me more closely.

“I’m not grimacing.” I firm my lips and jut my chin at the priest. “We’re praying here, remember?”

“Ilsie . . .” she begins in a warning tone, but I don’t hear whatever she’s about to say, for a plucking at my sleeve steals my attention. I turn from her to the round-cheeked face of a young novitiate, who has just appeared at my other shoulder. Heholds out a slip of paper. Frowning, I accept it, turn it over in my fingers. Who would send me a message in the middle of this sacred ceremony? Certainly not Wulfram, captain of my armed escort. He is far too devout to risk the high priest’s wrath.

Aware of the priest’s gimlet eyes fixed upon me, I drop the note behind the altar rail, flick it open, and hastily scan the contents by the dancing light of the sacrificial blaze:

Ilsevel, I have come for you. Leave the chapel at once and meet me in the temple courtyard.

Artoris

My heart skips a beat. Artoris! Here, at Ashryn Shrine? Folding the note, I press it against my breast, unable to think, even to breathe. For weeks now I’ve teetered between hope and fear, wondering whether the message I sent would ever reach him. But he’s here. Artoris is here, all the way from Evisar Citadel. My prayers—my true prayers, not the ones I pretended to sing before this bloody altar, but those I whispered into my pillow each night—are answered.

I might just get out of this betrothal in one piece after all.

Aurae, no longer trying to pay attention to the service, pushes back her prayer veil to stare at me frankly from her wide doe-eyes. “Ilsie, what is it?”

I shake my head, pressing my lips together. Now is not the time for explanations. Half-afraid the high priest will call down the power of his dark god to smite me on the spot, I rise, make a hasty holy sign with one hand, and back down the long chapel nave, head bent, hands folded. No one moves to interfere with me. The priests go on singing, and Aurae remains kneeling at the altar rail, watching me go. I reach the shrinehouse door unhindered.

Then I turn and race out into the glare of sunset. I lift my hand, shading my dazzled eyes. How many hours have I knelt in that dark chapel? The whole day seems to have passed. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters, for that red sun now sets on my last day of captivity. Artoris is here. I will be free—free of my father, free of the Shadow King. Free of marriages and alliances and being treated like a valuable broodmare. I will flee this place and never return.

A smile breaks across my face. Though I want to spread my arms like wings and simply fly from the hilltop, I force my gaze down to the temple complex, built on the lower slopes of the shrine hill. A series of peak-roofed dwellings stand in a semi-circle around a central well. A dozen or so horses, all tacked to ride, fill the yard, but my eye goes immediately to a powerful white stallion which paces back and forth, hooves ringing against the paving stones. This fine beast is mounted by a broad-shouldered figure in black mage’s robes. Though his hood is thrown back to reveal his face, I’m too far away to discern features. But I recognize him: Artoris Kelfaren. The man I’ve held in my heart these last seven years, in defiance of all my father’s wishes.

The next moment I’m racing down the narrow stairs leading from the gloomy chapel of Lamruil. It’s like I’m escaping darkness itself and my grim, terrible future as the Shadow King’s bride. Hope surges in my veins, and I run and run, heedless of any danger. A new, unknown future awaits, and I’m ready to meet it with open arms.

I’m panting so hard by the time I near the bottom steps, I can’t even shout his name. Artoris does not see me. He has his back to me, his attention fixed on the door of the guest house where I and my entourage have been housed during our stay at the temple. Just as I reach the base of the stairs, the door opens, and ten solemn figures emerge. Not priests—no, these figuresare not clad in priestly cassocks but in bloodred cloaks, long and sweeping, their faces hidden by deep hoods.

My pace slows to a stop. Why did Artoris bring so many men? In the weeks since I sent my desperate letter, when I dared to envision his arrival, I always saw us making a covert escape. Just the two of us, racing off into the sunset. The daydream certainly didn’t include a full company of crimson-cloaked mages in tow.

“Is it done?” Artoris demands. His voice is a cold bark.

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