“I can do nothing for the eyes. They defy magic.”
Mage Klaern’s voice is almost petulant as he surveys his work in the glass. I stare into my own eyes, holding their gaze for a long moment. One blue. One gold. I still faintly remember a time when they were both blue. Before my gods-gift manifested. Before the pain came.
At least they’re mine. Unlike the rest of the face in the glass. A face that is not quite Ilsevel’s. Klaern has been hard at work for some hours now, pausing here and there to write new spells into his book before speaking them into being. The jaw is nearly perfect—I would recognize that firm, determined line anywhere. The shape of the mouth is nearly exact as well, wide and full and bow shaped. The ears are a little off, however, sticking out rather more than Ilsevel’s. The cheekbones are too wide as well, the bridge of the nose too long. Still, only someone who knew Ilsevel quite well would be able to tell the difference.
The eyes, though . . . that’s where the illusion falls apart.
Mother stands behind me, studying Klaern’s work in the reflection. Her brow is tight; the lines around her mouth are deep. “I suppose it can’t be helped.” Her gaze moves to meet mine. “You must take care not to remove your veil, Faraine. Not even for the consummation. The minute Vor recognizes the deception, the entire glamour will melt away. You must see the marriage sealed before then.” She tilts her head forward, her expression stern as her hands grip my shoulders and squeeze painfully. “Do you understand?”
Trembling, I nod.
“I said, do you understand, Faraine.”
“I understand.”
“If you do not succeed,” she continues relentlessly, “Vor may very well have you killed. While what we are doing is perfectly legal according to Gavarian law, the trolls may not see things the same way. Until the consummation is complete, you are not safe.”
My stomach knots. I glance at that stranger’s face in the glass, then stare down at my hands. Mother’s voice drones on, informing me that following the Benefaction ceremony, I will begin my journey to the Between Gate. My party will include Mage Klaern, Theodre, and two other dignitaries of Father’s court.
“And, of course, your sister will accompany you.”
“My sister?” I look up, surprised.
Mother’s face is stern. She opens her mouth, but before she can answer, another voice speaks from behind her: “I presume she means me.”
Lyria leans against the doorway, her arms crossed, her head tilted, her mouth curved in a smile. She’s nowhere near as beautiful as either Ilsevel or Aurae, but she possesses a dangerous feline quality that both fascinates and unsettles by turns. She gives me a narrow-eyed stare.
“It’s tradition,” Mother says, drawing my attention back to her. Her lip curls as though she’s smelling something rotten. “A bride must take a young woman of her own blood into her bridegroom’s house to bear witness to the ceremony and what comes after.”
I glance at Lyria again. Not once have I heard her overtly referred to as my sister or any kind of relation. Only truly dire straits would convince my mother to do so now.
Lyria pushes off the doorpost and saunters into the room. Arms still crossed, she looks me up and down, shaking her head and clucking thoughtfully. Then she turns to the mage. “Your little glamour is weak. Anyone who’s looked more than twice at Faraine will recognize her in a heartbeat.”
“Let us be thankful the Shadow King has not spent significant time with the princess,” Klaern snaps back.
Lyria’s mouth crooks. “Are you sure about that?” She addresses my mother. “Does the king not have a more skilled magic-spinner on hand? Where’s old Wistari?”
“Insolence!” Klaern bristles like an angry terrier. Even his well-trimmed beard seems to stand on end. “Mage Wistari has not my skill for glamorization. I have made it into an art form like no other, and I will not stand for—”
Lyria reaches out one long finger and deftly draws a shape directly into my cheek. I gasp at the biting spark and draw back sharply. But then I turn to the mirror. The right side of my face has changed. “Oh,” I breathe, and holding up one hand, cover the left side. What remains visible is suddenly much more like Ilsevel than it had been a moment before. Painfully like. My heart twists.
“What?” Lyria says, standing behind me and meeting my gaze in the glass. “Did you think you four were the only gods-gifted in the family?”
Klaern hisses, his lips drawn back in a snarl, and turns to my mother. “Witch magic! Your Highness will not permit such base misuse of the quinsatra’s gifts in my presence, will you?”
Mother, however, studies the altered reflection closely. Resentment roils inside her. She does not want to acknowledge any value in the daughter of her rival. But she knows better than to waste resources. “Can you do the rest?” she asks.
“Your Highness!” Klaern splutters.
Lyria’s smile is smooth as butter. “Of course. Anything to serve.”
“Do it then.”
Ignoring the Miphato’s protests, Lyria sets to work. She circles me, drawing little marks on my skin that burn briefly before sinking in, all the way to the bone. Unlike with Klaern’s magic, which only influenced perception, this magic alters reality. It’s strange, unsettling, but not exactly painful. I hold myself very still, trying not to flinch. Funny how I never considered the possibility that Lyria too might have received a gifting. Though she does not bear our father’s name, she is nonetheless a king’s daughter. How much do the gods care for things like legitimacy anyway?
“Now,” Lyria says, standing in front of me. “The last part is always the most difficult. Close your eyes.”
I obey. Lyria places one hand on the back of my head. The next moment I cry out in pain as she presses two fingers hard against my closed eyelids. The magic plunges deep, right to the center of my eyeballs, like two long pins. If not for her grip on my head, I would jerk away.
The pain is brief, but the weird sensation lingers even after Lyria draws back. “Have a look,” she says.
Blinking against tears and rawness, I peer into the mirror. A pair of chocolate-brown eyes gaze back at me from a face so like Ilsevel’s, it makes my heart stop and stutter. More tears brim, not from pain this time. They roll down my cheeks, mocking all efforts to dash them away.
“Not bad.” Mother’s voice is coldly approving as she bends to scrutinize Lyria’s work. She pokes my cheek, my nose, and then uses two fingers to pull my eyelids open. “If I didn’t know any better . . .” She doesn’t finish the thought but looks up sharply. “Will it hold?”
“It should.” Lyria shrugs. “She must not wash her face, however. Water will wash those runes on the eyes away at once, and the rest will hold for no more than an hour or two after. If you want something more permanent done, I can try. There’s a good chance she’ll end up stone blind, but—”
“No!” I say hastily.
To my relief, Mother echoes me: “Certainly not. We cannot send a blind girl to the Shadow King. Faraine must simply avoid water until after all is settled. It shouldn’t be too difficult.” With that, she steps back and draws her chin high. “Very good. You may send your mother in now.”
Lyria offers a quick curtsy and slips from the room, casting Mage Klaern a last smug look as she goes. I blink in surprise and try to catch my mother’s gaze. She won’t look at me directly. Possibly because she does not want to see her dead daughter’s face.
“Mother,” I inquire softly, “why have you sent for Fyndra?”
Mother’s throat tenses as though she’s trying to swallow something nasty. When she speaks, however, her voice is calm. “It was your father’s particular request. He wants that woman to instruct you in the art of seduction. For your wedding night.”
My jaw drops. “What?”
Mother shoots me a bitter look. “Look at you, girl! Even with your sister’s pretty face, you’re so ill-prepared for what awaits you. But make no mistake, you must secure this marriage. Kingdoms rise and fall in the bedchamber. If you fail to please your husband, do you think for a moment this alliance will survive?”
She’s right. I drop my head, shoulders bowing. I am unprepared for what’s coming, dreadfully so. I have practically no experience with men. The most sensual moment of my entire life thus far was the moment Vor took my hand and pressed his lips to my knuckles at our last parting. I’d experienced such a shock of sensation at that barest touch, it shot straight to the quick of my heart and left me trembling with desire.
Beyond that? I’m a complete novice. But somehow I must endure a wedding night without either betraying or disgracing myself.
“I understand, Mother,” I say softly.
Mother nods once. Then, in a rustle of heavy skirts, she makes for the door. She’s not quick enough; Fyndra appears in the doorway. She smiles prettily and sinks into a deep reverential curtsy before her queen. I don’t need any gods-gifting to feel the white-hot animosity burning between the two. Mother sweeps past her without so much as a glance of acknowledgement.
Chuckling softly, Fyndra turns to me and utters a little squeak of surprise. “Bless my soul, I almost thought I saw a ghost!” She places a hand against her breast. “You do look so like your sister. Are you truly Princess Faraine?” Without waiting for an answer, she waves away Mage Klaern, who still lurks in the corner of the room. “No need for you to be here! Wouldn’t want you sharing a lady’s most intimate secrets among your fellows.”
Klaern draws himself up haughtily and makes good his escape, casting me an unpleasant glare as he goes. Though I suspect that glare isn’t for me so much as for Lyria’s rune-work.
Once the room is cleared, Fyndra draws a chair up beside me and takes a seat, settling her skirts grandly around her. “Now, my dear, your father has entrusted me with a sacred duty. I must make you ready for your first mounting.”
My face heats as Fyndra’s laugh rings out. I’ve scarcely exchanged more than two words with this woman over the course of my life. As soon as I was old enough to understand what role she played at court, I was also old enough to recognize just how much hurt she caused my mother. A daughter’s natural loyalty made me resent the woman I perceived as coming between my parents. Later on, I easily picked up on Fyndra’s feelings for me and my sisters. She puts on sweet smiles and fine displays of kindliness, but I don’t need a gods-gift to see through to the rancor coloring her spirit. It’s noxious.
“So, where to begin?” Fyndra says, tapping her full lip prettily. “To start with, you need to get it into that pretty little head of yours that it’s not going to be pleasant. Not for you. So, any ideas of romance and delight you’ve been harboring—ffffbt!” She snaps her fingers. “Begone! Now tell me, are you aware of the basics? The mechanics of it all, I mean?”
I nod mutely.
“Well, that’s something at least. But allow me to let you in on a few little secrets.”
Fyndra goes on to describe certain aspects of the night to come that I had never before heard, sheltered as I’ve always been. My face grows warm and cold by turns, nausea swimming in my gut as her words batter my ears.
“Ultimately, it’s all very simple. Your husband must be satisfied. That’s all that matters. To him. And to you. But—now listen, child, this is important—your husband will be more satisfied if he believes he has satisfied you. Such is the fragility of manly ego. Which is why no matter what he does to you, no matter how badly it hurts, you must act as though you’re enjoying yourself. Do you understand? Until the consummation is complete, it is your job to make him believe he is your everything, his happiness is your only desire. And you desire it voraciously.”
She shows all her teeth in a great smile, then slowly licks her lips. When I turn away, pressing a hand to my stomach, Fyndra snorts. “Is it too much for you, delicate creature? Well, we none of us get to hold onto our delicacy for long. You’ve enjoyed yours far longer than I did mine. But I survived and eventually thrived. You can too if you listen closely.”
From there, she vividly recounts techniques I might find useful. How to thrust my hips, how to arch my back, how to turn any whimpers of pain into moans of pleasure. She presents a little box, opens the lid, and shows me certain balms that may be used to help matters along.
“I shouldn’t worry too much, of course,” she finishes. “I’ve had a good look at your King Vor. No doubt such a magnificent specimen has taken plenty of lovers in his time. He’ll bring his experience into the bedchamber. Which should relieve your maidenly mind no end!”
Perhaps it should. But it doesn’t. If I’m honest, I would be happier knowing I wasn’t the only novice in the room, would prefer to learn such intimacies with my partner rather than live wondering how I compared to those who came before me. It would be one thing if I too had known previous lovers. As it is, I hate feeling at such a disadvantage.
Gods on high, what am I going to do? Fyndra’s instruction has filled me with more dread than confidence. How can I possibly fulfill everything expected of me? And all while deceiving the man I once thought I could . . . still wish I could . . .
“Now keep in mind,” Fyndra’s voice breaks through my thoughts, drawing me back into the present. “Men are like musical instruments. The music may be the same, but the method with which to make them sing is unique. It may be that your husband prefers a shy and shrinking bride. Even a frightened one. In which case, your night will be much simpler.” She laughs then, tossing her bounteous hair. “Oh, the look on your face! Our woman’s lot is hard. We must fight for everything we have. And the fight in the bedroom is the bitterest of all, for we cannot let them know how they wound us. But if we are clever, if we are skilled, if we learn and learn quickly, we may all be queens in our own right.”
Her bitterness is sickening. I’ve never been close enough to Fyndra to get such a strong sense of her. She’s always seemed so confident. Only now, in this moment, do I realize how thin that veneer of confidence is and how vulnerable and sad is the woman underneath.
She goes on to give me a few more words of advice, enough to make me blush and clench my fists. I can do nothing but sit there and take it, try to accept it, try to let it sink in. Soon I’ll be facing these moments she describes. Best to know what I’m in for.
At last, Fyndra rises and bobs a little curtsy. “I’ll say a prayer for you to Nornala. After all, the fate of the kingdom rests on your . . .” Her gaze lowers to my lap, then slowly rises back to my face. “. . . shoulders.”
The next moment, she’s gone. I’m alone in the room, gazing at my sister’s face before me in the mirror.
Ilsevel.
Would she forgive me for what I’m about to do? Would she thank me for doing it?
Oh, Ilsevel.
I cup my own cheek. In the mirror, my hand caresses my sister. But it’s not Ilsevel’s emotion that surges through my palm. There’s only me. Alone. Lost. Drifting in a world suddenly devoid of hope.
Someone knocks. I drop my hand, surprised. They’ve been coming and going so much, men and women alike, without any care for my modesty or exhaustion. Why should anyone bother knocking now? “Enter,” I say dully.
Lyria peeks in. “It’s time,” she says, looking me up and down before catching my gaze. “Larongar wants to perform the ceremony. Are you ready?”
I shake my head slowly. “I’ve never heard of this Law of Ap— Appela—”
“Appellative Benefaction?” Lyria supplies. “Oh, it’s an old one—positively decrepit! It dates back to an age when kings required heirs to bear their names. Something to do with the oldest son carrying the lifeforce of his father via his name or some such nonsense. Thus, if an oldest son was lost in battle or sickness before he took the throne, a younger male relative could, by law, be given his name and essentially become that son.”
“But that doesn’t apply here at all! I’m neither a son nor an heir.”
She shrugs. “I believe the legal term for a situation like this is ‘close enough.’ Come on then. Let’s get it over with.”
She leads me from the room, down the winding stairs, and out to the courtyard. There, Father stands with his council arrayed behind him and Mage Wistari at his elbow. He looks me over and, to my surprise, his face crumples with sudden pain. “As I live and breathe,” he says thickly, “you’re the very picture of my Ilsie.”
I duck my head. For an instant I’d been foolish enough to think that jolt of emotion was for me. But no. My father mourns the loss of his favorite daughter. That is all.
The ceremony of Benefaction is performed. It’s all a blur: a priest, a basin of water, a knife. Nine drops of blood, three from my hand, three from each of my parents. I’m made to repeat a vow, spoken for me in deep monotone. The blood is smeared across my brow, then wiped away with a pure white cloth.
When it’s all over, Father stands back, looks me hard in the eye and says, “Ilsevel Cyhorn, do you understand what is required of you? Will you perform your duty to crown and country?”
“I will, my king.” I sink into a curtsy, my head inclined. As I rise, however, I cannot help trying one last time. “Father, please. I understand I must take Ilsevel’s name. But I beg you, do not send me with this face. Let me explain to the Shadow King what has happened. Let me—”
“Silence.” Father looks at me like I’m some sort of worm, then turns from me to Mage Klaern, standing by. “Be vigilant. Take care that she does nothing to compromise this alliance.”
Klaern nods. It is he who takes my hand and leads me to the carriage. Lyria is already there, waiting for me. She helps to bundle my long skirts in behind me, then climbs in herself and takes a seat on the opposite bench. I lean to one side, peer out the window. Theodre is riding on horseback, gorgeous in golden raiment and tall black boots. Mage Klaern climbs up to ride beside the driver.
I lift my eyes to my parents standing still at the top of the stair. Mother meets my gaze solemnly. When I raise my hand to her, she offers a short nod.
“Remember,” Father calls out, “it all depends on you, girl. Save your people. Make this alliance secure.”
While his words yet ring against the courtyard stones, the driver whips his horses into motion. With a lurch and a rumble, the carriage rolls into motion, and we pass under the arch of the gate, leaving Beldroth behind.
