Page 2

2

Steels My Resolve

R attling jerks me awake. I bolt upright from my bed, thoroughly disoriented for a moment.

I’m in bed in a small cavern room, like the ones I spent my entire childhood in. Somehow, I must have fallen asleep on the flight back, which means someone carried me to this room, laid me in this bed.

My mind offers up vague recollections at the conclusion—low murmurs, strong arms holding me against a solid chest, a smooth gait until my back met the mattress I now lie on.

Was it Daenn who carried me? That he would dare touch me after how he upended my life and betrayed me—my stomach churns at the thought.

Now the door is opening, and I tense, half panicking as if my thoughts might have summoned this new, heartless version of my old friend.

But it’s only a woman, hardly more than a girl. She looks vaguely familiar, but it takes my mind a moment to click the details into place. Last time I saw her, she had pigtails flying behind her as she ran with the other children of the clan .

Even though I place her face, I don’t know her name. As I stare at her, wordless, she cautiously ventures farther into the room with a hesitant smile.

“Good morning, I’ve come with some breakfast and your—your dress.”

My gaze snaps to her hands. In one, she does hold a bowl of something steaming, and despite her distance, I can almost smell the spicy porridge I grew up eating and missed desperately in my years away.

I never could convince the cooks at Tolomon’s manor to make it for me, and Tolomon believed that the best way to combat homesickness was to ignore it entirely. He was my new home now, he’d always said. I didn’t need to drag in vestiges of my old life to muddy the waters. It seemed sweet at first.

Then it just made me want to scream.

I almost reach for the porridge, but then I register the green dress in her other hand.

“Is that a wedding dress?” My words are deceptively calm.

The girl nods. “Yes. I’m to take you to the ceremony hall as soon as you’re finished eating and dressed.”

I swing my feet off the bed and cross the room to her, taking the offered bowl of porridge. Now that I’m near enough, I can actually smell it, and it’s even better than I remember. Sweet and spicy, with a hint of tang that probably comes from the rosenberries mixed in.

I move to the rug near the firepit and settle myself on it with far less ease than I used to as a girl. I’m out of practice from living in the lowlands with their high chairs. “This will be all I need. Thank you.” I pour as much dismissiveness into my tone as I can manage, a haughtiness I learned from the Verkslish noble ladies who used it on me when I first came to their court.

It’s somewhat ruined when I take a large bite of porridge, shoving it in my mouth with far less delicacy than is becoming of a lady. But as the flavors hit my tongue, I have to withhold a moan. I desperately missed this.

The girl blinks and sways back and forth a moment, unsure what to do with the dress she holds. “Oh, I just thought—since it’s a bit fancy and all, you might need help dressing. Shall I put it on the bed for you, then?”

I swallow the last of my bite and shake my head. “No. Take it back with you. I don’t need it. I’ll wear what I have on now.”

That pulls her up short. Her eyes go wide, and she gapes at me. “You can’t... that is... you’re wearing black!”

I tilt my chin up. “I am. And I won’t be wearing anything else to my wedding to that snake.”

She flinches back. “Miss—I mean, my lady—you shouldn’t... you’ll make the king very angry”—her voice drops to a whisper on these words—“if you defy him like that.”

Even the clan is afraid of Daenn now. The realization only steels my resolve.

“Let him be angry. Maybe he’ll stab me through the heart like he did my husband.”

The girl blanches and flees, the door banging behind her.

I return to my porridge. No doubt she’s running to tattle to some higher-up. Perhaps even Daenn himself, if I’m lucky. I want to savor my porridge in peace before said irate higher-up returns.

I finish my food, regretful when I can’t manage to scrape any more out of the bowl, and then I rise to examine the room.

My bag leans off to the side of one of the shelves that has been carved into the rock wall. The shelves are mostly empty. If this were actually my room, or occupied by someone else, they would be filled with folded clothes.

Next to it is another set of shelves. These are slightly smaller, meant for personal belongings. These are also mostly empty, but I do spy a comb and other toiletries, all in the slightly more unpolished style I associate with my clan. The workmanship is still very fine, but the gryphon clans don’t lacquer or paint everything like the lowlanders. Instead, we carve designs into the handles and edges of our tools: swirling clouds, stylized gryphons, birds, trees, and mountains. This comb is simpler, the work less detailed with simple cloud swirls and vague winged creatures.

I eye the comb longingly. I am in desperate need of untangling the knots in my hair from the flight… But first I kneel by my pack, digging through until I find the letter opener. I’m surprised they didn’t search my bag and take it. Or maybe they did, and they just deemed it not enough of a threat to bother.

I consider for a moment, then I reach around to my back and slip it through my buttons, wedging it between the dress bodice and my stays.

I’m about to test how easy it is to draw when a curt knock comes from the hall. I whirl to face the door, dropping my hands to my sides as it swings open. The young woman has returned, and with her an older woman, one I recognize instantly.

She’s short and plump, and cheerily pretty, though none of her regular cheer lines her face now. Grey streaks her brunette hair. She hasn’t aged much since I last saw her, but that was only a year ago, when she came to give me the news of my mother's death—when I had all of these black dresses in my bag made.

Sigrid .

Sigrid sweeps into the room with her usual no-nonsense bustling stride.

Her eyes soften on me for a brief moment, but then she stops before me, all business. “What tantrum are you throwing, love?”

Her voice nearly breaks me.

“Calling it a tantrum won’t change my mind, Sigrid.”

Her brows draw together. “You really intend to marry the king in that? Must I go fetch Daenn to order you to change himself?”

I raise my chin. “Oh, do. It will be even more satisfying to tell him no to his face.”

“Your friendship, at least—your history with him—should count for something in your mind.”

Why should I care about our shared history when he didn’t? Did he have our friendship in mind when he claimed me as his bride like some barbaric war chief?

“It would if he hadn’t killed my husband in cold blood.”

Sigrid draws back at this. She didn’t know—but why would she? Why would Daenn announce his darkest deeds to the clan upon his return?

I sigh. “It’s good to see you, Sigrid, but I won’t change my mind on this.”

She stares at me for a long, long moment. “No, I can see that you won’t,” she agrees, her frown still in place. “But you will at least let me do your hair.”

She waves off the girl who fetched her. The girl scurries out, dress in hand.

Tears try to choke me, and I give a quick nod. “Thank you, Sigrid.”