Page 8

We head for a small path carved out of the thicket of woods. As soon as we disappear behind the dense of trees, I grasp the pommel to scoot myself up and lessen the contact between us, holding my back rigidly straight. I’ve never been in such close proximity to a man before, and my stomach turns to knots. I wasn’t even allowed to speak to men, aside from the Priest, let alone share a bed or a horse.

“How did I do?” His voice is a low murmur so close it sends shivers down my spine.

“G-good. Thank you for playing along.”

He adjusts the reins in his symboled hands and our speed increases momentously, throwing me back against him, hair whipping wildly around my face. Now I understand what he meant when he said my horse wouldn’t be able to keep up. This is no normal horse. I clutch the pommel to tug myself forward. The momentum has me sliding back within seconds. I start to pull myself forward again. He grips a hand around my waist and hauls me flush against his hips.

“Relax.”

It’s not a request, it’s a demand, voice firm with authority that sends me prickling. I tense, back still rigid. He lifts his arm and grasps my shoulder, arm braced against my chest, coaxing me back until I’m leaning against him fully. “Relax. Or it’s going to be a very long day.”

I suck in a shaky breath, trying my best to-- relax. It does me little good. I’m pressed up against a man . No, not a man. A witch . He’s so close I can smell him. It’s not an offensive smell. I’m reminded of something woodsy akin to cedar. He lifts a hand, and I feel it brush against the back of my head.

“Gods, you have a lot of hair,” he complains. He slows the horse until we come to a full stop. His fingers brush the back of my head again, and I jerk away. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to braid your hair so it’s not flying into my face all day.”

“Do you know how to do that?” Seeing as I’ve had handmaidens my entire life, I don’t even know how to do that.

“Yes.” I don’t lurch away this time as his hands weave through my hair, much more gently than I’m used to by my handmaidens. He doesn’t seem to struggle with it though I know it had been unruly.

“How do you even know how to do this?”

“I have a sister,” he grumbles.

“You learned how to braid your sister’s hair?”

“For this same reason. We used to ride together when we were younger.”

“Oh,” I say, my surprise evident. His explanation is perfectly reasonable. Maybe even kind of nice . He nears the end of my hair and I pluck the tie off my wrist and hold it out for him. It’s secured around my hair and the collar of my dress is pulled as he tucks the braid inside of it.

He adjusts himself on the saddle before pulling me back against him once more. I’m unprepared for our speed to increase so swiftly and my vision spins. The trees whiz by faster than I can track and with nerves already winding me tight, dizziness overcomes me.

I tuck my hands against my face with a groan and my mouth fills with saliva. I’m going to…I jerk over the side of the horse in the nick of time. He draws his boot out of the path and silently wraps an arm around me to keep me from being hurtled off the side of the saddle. It’s only bile with the lack of food in my system. I wipe at my mouth as I pull myself upright. “Sorry,” I gasp out.

He coaxes me back with a hand against my forehead. This witch has no sense of personal space. He’s quiet as he leans over the saddle and draws something from the saddlebag. A canteen is placed in front of me and I take it gratefully, unscrewing the cap and washing away the bitter taste. “How far do we have to go?”

“We’ll be in my kingdom by nightfall.”

My shoulders slump. We’ll be on this horse all goddamn day. As I was yesterday except it’s worse this time because I’m not alone and I can’t even look at my surroundings without feeling the urge to hurl. Not to mention I have no idea what will happen to me when we do get to his kingdom. It’s not something I can really straight out ask either.

Rummaging in the saddle bag, he draws out a small parcel and offers it out to me. “You should probably eat something.”

“Can’t.”

“You didn’t eat last night.”

“Maybe later,” I say, stomach still roiling. He places the parcel back and our speed increases even more. My body is slowly melded back more firmly against him. I don’t fight it this time. Fiddling with the pommel, I manage to ignore the blur of green surrounding us. I study the vines stamped around my middle finger, the same marked around his finger as well as the strange symbols embellishing the backs of his hands. His fingers are long and slender and now I notice several slashes, old scars across his hands and wrists. What are those from?

“Are you going to tell me what I was threatening your father for?”

I shift on the saddle. I can’t very well tell him that I’m not the bride he’s meant to have. “It’s kind of complicated.”

He grunts out a discontented noise.

It takes me a few minutes to work up the nerve to ask him a question. “I don’t even know the name of your kingdom.”

“You don’t?”

I didn’t even know witches had kingdoms, their depictions more closely resembling cannibalistic clans in the woods, but I’m hardly going to tell him that.

“It’s Samore.”

“Samore,” I repeat, testing the sound of it on my tongue. “How many kingdoms are there?”

“Seven.”

Seven Kingdoms. So many questions tickle the back of my throat. I know I need to choose them scrupulously.

“Eight, I guess if you include yours.”

“Have you been to all of them?”

“Of course. Well, except yours.”

I stroke my fingers along the mane of the mighty stark white beast carrying us. It’s him that breaks through the ambient sounds of the forest this time. “How old are you?”

I hesitate. Most of the Shrouded are married off before the age of fourteen. My father drug his feet with me and Syra. We’d begun to doubt that we’d be wed at all instead, expecting to become matrons, destined to devote our lives to God. “Twenty-three,” I admit.

He snorts. “You’re lying.”

“I am not!” I say haughtily.

“Then why did you hesitate?”

“Because…” I crinkle my nose. “Twenty-three is quite old to be just now getting married.”

“You’re worried that you’re too old ?”

“Not worried, but…most of the Shrou—of us,” I correct. “Are married off much younger, and I think in Eden, at least a good deal of men would be…” I trail off. They would be disappointed . “Did you wish for younger?”

He snorts again. “No, the fact that you’re not a literal child is a small respite to this whole situation. Yet I’m not certain whether to believe you because you certainly look like you could be twelve.”

“I’m not twelve.”

“Surely you have some more growing to do.”

I stiffen. He’s unhappy with my size. Perhaps he wished to breed giant babies to take after him. “I’m afraid not,” I say hoarsely.

He chuckles. A deep pleasant sound that involuntarily loosens the notches of my spine as I realize he’s only poking at me.

“What year were you born?” he asks, obviously still suspicious.

“671.”

He barks out a laugh that shocks me even more than his chuckle. “That might be a little old to be getting married.”

“What?”

“I thought you all were living in the 1600’s but I was a thousand years off seeing as you’re living in the 600’s.”

“What?”

“By all accounts, the year is 2023.”

“Oh. I think our records started when the Wall was built.”

“What year do you believe it to be now?

“694.”

“671 to 694. You truly are twenty-three?”

“Truly.”

“That’s good,” he murmurs.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

I nod. That was about what I’d pegged him as. “And how do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“I don’t look twenty-seven?”

“You do, but for all I know, maybe you have magic that changes your appearance. The Queen looks very young, and she’s supposed to be your mother?”

“Stepmother,” he corrects, a gruffness to his voice. “And we do have magic that does that, but she really is that young.”

My stomach dips. It’s like the texts say? How they keep themselves looking young? With blood .

“She’s married to your father?”

“Was,” he says curtly, hands tightening around the reins. “He’s dead.”

It’s apparent that this is a sore topic for him, and I feel a little guilty for stumbling on it so soon. “Sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t be.”

“Wouldn’t that make you King?”

“No,” he says firmly. “Morin is Queen.”

“Will you be King someday?”

“No.”

I chew over that. It was unheard of for a woman to rule in Eden. Their customs are obviously vastly different. The texts said that women do not submit under their men, however, it still seemed odd to me that a widowed queen would take precedence as ruler.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he says bitterly.

Wait…why is he apologizing? What had he mistaken my silence for? “What do you mean?”

“Sorry to disappoint any ambitions you had about becoming Queen,” he clarifies.

I snort. I hardly expected to live let alone become queen of the witches. “Why would I want that?”

With the way we’re connected, I can feel his shrug. “Shades, if I know. Many people want that. Power, glory, notoriety…a pretty crown.”

“Well, I don’t,” I say brusquely. “Twenty-seven is quite old to be just now getting wed.”

“Avoided it as long as I could,” he says heavily. “Will you eat now?”

“Alright,” I agree, although a little worried about what it is he’ll try to feed me.

He rummages in the saddlebag and pulls the small parcel back out. I take it from him cautiously, unfolding the fabric to find an unfamiliar dark, grainy bread. I rip off a piece and sniff at it before hesitantly placing the smallest bite in my mouth.

It’s surprisingly good. Sweet. I continue picking off small pieces and chewing them slowly—eating half the portion before my still-knotted stomach decides I can’t handle anymore. I hold onto it for several minutes, unsure of what I should do with it.

“Are you going to eat that?”

“I’m full.”

“You’re full ?”

“Yes, I’m full.”

He tugs it away. I expect him to place it straight in the saddlebag to maybe offer it again to me later. Instead, I hear the sounds of his chewing as he finishes it without hesitation.

We fall into silence again, but it feels somewhat amicable. I’ve settled more completely against him, his steady breathing at my back and the sounds of our galloping horse lulling me into a more relaxed state than I’ve seen in days. A million questions still burn at the back of my throat. I hold them back for now. Not sure exactly how to go about asking what it is he intends to do with me or if witches truly eat people as our tales tell us.

Maybe I’ve misjudged him. Maybe the stories of witches as people-eating monsters are just that. Stories . I’d never believed the tales about them before. I also hadn’t believed they were real . Didn’t believe that anything rumored to be outside the Wall was real. I was so certain it was cooked up, a part of the narrative to keep us trapped in there. Because that’s all it was. The clothes, the Shroud, the sacred flame, the tithes and blessings we proffered, acting like glorified statues at festivities, even the Pits. All theatrics.

But just because the witches have turned out to be real doesn’t mean all the rumors about them are true. He seems like a reasonable man, somewhat short at times yet not cruel. The tiniest strand of hope takes root in me.