6. Tamsyn

6

Tamsyn

P REPARATIONS FOR MY WEDDING BEGAN AS SOON AS I awoke the following morning.

It had been a restless night. A long night.

A night of fractured dreams and wide-eyed moments of clawing panic when I gazed into the almost dark contemplating what I was doing, what I was going to do... what I had to do.

After Stig left my chamber, I'd sat in that firelit gloom, seeing nothing , seeing everything as the fire slowly died in the hearth, ebbing away until the embers turned to smoldering ash. Doubts plagued me as I replayed those moments with Stig, wondering if I had made a terrible mistake, one I would regret for the rest of my life, however much remained of it.

Stig had been it. He was my last chance. His wild offer to run away with me my only hope of escaping this fate. But then I assured myself that I had not made a mistake. I could not abandon my duty and creep away like a thief in the night without even saying farewell to my family, leaving my sisters, deserting them to face and endure what I could not. That was not in me.

I wished the oncoming day away, hoping it would never arrive, willing the dawn into nothingness, for the night to last forever, to hold fast, to hang on, fingers clinging to an edge. Futilely.

Eventually the night let go.

Day came as it always did.

The first glimpse of purpling light, soft and tender as a bruise stealing through the window shutters, was a thing of dread.

As the light grew, so did a rising drum in my chest, beating louder and louder, harder and harder, until I was rubbing between my breasts, urging the sensation to fade.

I did not break my fast in the Great Hall as usual. A tray was delivered, and I forced myself to eat the bread, cheese, and fruit provided. I chewed and ignored that the food tasted like sand on my tongue. I had to eat something. I would need sustenance for the day ahead. The life ahead.

For my wedding night.

The words were a blight, a bleak streak across my mind that brought forth a shudder. I never thought I would have one. A wedding night. A marriage. At least, it hadn't been a foregone conclusion.

My sisters were the ones destined for arranged marriages... groomed to be wives and queens. Powerful women married to powerful men. I was merely groomed to take punishment. I winced.

So this would not be so very different then.

The queen's ladies attended me. Beautifully coiffed and fragrant, they bustled around me like bees swarming a hive. I knew them all, of course. These elegant noblewomen were the mothers of the children who had tormented me throughout my youth. Naturally, my peers learned from their mothers that I was different from the rest of them... lesser.

And yet now those same women treated me with deference, plying me with mulled wine, the spiced sweetness rolling over my tongue and down my throat. I drank greedily, enjoying how relaxed and soft it made me feel inside, numb to what was coming. And perhaps that was their intention—a kindness they would do unto me by rendering me muddled on my wedding day.

My head lolled on the back lip of the tub, eyelids heavy as I enjoyed their gentle ministrations. They bathed me with fragrant soap and oils. Vanilla and bergamot wafted on the air, mingling with the tendrils of steam floating above the water. A low moan escaped me as Lady Frida, the queen's cousin and closest friend, scrubbed my shoulders and arms with a sponge. When prodded, I sat up and leaned forward so she could turn her attention to my back.

"You are fortunate your skin bears no evidence of your... er, vocation."

I tensed slightly, my eyes opening, at once understanding her meaning.

It was indeed a marvel that I bore no scars, a fact I did not like to call attention to, for it was something that had bewildered the lord chamberlain.

More than once he had accused me of being a witch—specifically a blood witch, notorious for their flame-red hair, possessing the darkest and most powerful magic. He had warned the king and queen that I had been planted in their midst to bring forth ruin.

Fortunately, thankfully, they'd never given the lord chamberlain's charge any real consideration. In my parents' eyes, my resilience was proof that I was destined to be their whipping girl. If they had been convinced otherwise, a burning pyre would have been my fate. I would have been tossed into the flames, fed to the fire—destroyed. As all magic was.

When the Threshing ended, attention had turned to witchkind, and the war on witches had commenced. Witches, like dragons, had to be hunted to the ground. They were outlawed. Bounties placed on their heads. Blood witch, shadow witch, wood witch, bone witch—all. There was no distinction. They were different. And different was always feared. They were creatures of magic, and that was something more than feared. It was reviled. It was not merely dragons or witches who were hunted... it was magic.

Magic was the enemy.

The witches who managed to escape fled to the far corners of the kingdom rather than face the same fate as the dragons. Those who did not escape suppressed their magic, buried it deep below the surface, and did their best to blend in with the human population. They became wives, mothers. They were the village seamstress. The local midwife. The cook's assistant. They killed their magic, crushed it to dust within them lest they end up dust themselves, ashes lost to the wind.

I knew I wasn't supposed to root for them. They were wicked creatures. They used their magic for ill. I'd heard the stories. How they corrupted and twisted minds, stole away babies, seduced good men and women away from their spouses, robbed innocent people of their wealth with a simple spell. Except...

Except I had heard other stories, too.

I'd heard they allied with humankind in the war against the dragons. So why had we liked them one moment and not the next? Why had we turned on them?

When I had asked the governess for clarification, she told me to stop asking stupid questions and to let her finish the lesson. So I quit asking. But that did not stop me from thinking about witches and wondering. Envisioning them out there running, hiding, surviving. And, wrong or right, I was glad for them. Glad for them to be alive, however few of them remained.

Over the years, the lord chamberlain took my so-called resilience as a challenge and got carried away on numerous occasions, meting out my punishment with ferocity, determined to permanently score my flesh. I'd gone to bed on those nights bent over in pain, my back throbbing, the skin broken and bruised, lined with bloody and oozing welts, only to wake in the morning healed and recovered—something I did my best to hide lest others begin to believe the lord chamberlain's wild allegations against me. It was a constant battle. Hiding what my body could miraculously do.

With a swift shake of my head, I shoved those thoughts away. At least I no longer had to live with that fear. My days as the whipping girl were over.

You know that, do you?

Stig's words from last night haunted me, echoing in my ears.

My stomach bottomed out, and I closed my eyes, awash with dread. What did I know of Lord Dryhten except that he was a warlord whose currency was violence and bloodshed? Stig was right. He could very well beat me every day.

"Such soft, lovely skin," Lady Frida murmured as she rinsed the soap from my back. "That barbarian of yours is in for a treat. He has likely never seen the likes in the Borderlands. They're a rough, unrefined people."

The others murmured in assent, and I could not suppress a shudder as I swallowed back the protest that he was not mine. Not yet. Likely not ever. Not even after we were married.

"You're brave," another lady said as she began rinsing my hair of soap. "So very brave."

I knew the words were meant to be complimentary, even encouraging, but I felt the overwhelming urge to cry—or to smack her. The more I was treated like I was headed to my execution, the more it felt like I was, and that was not beneficial.

I was helped to stand, everyone concerned that I did not slip in the tub.

I had never been pampered like this a day in my life. Oh, I was treated well—periodic whippings aside. I had been educated, well dressed, well fed, provided with my own chamber in the same quarters as the royal family. And yet no one had ever indulged and pampered me like this.

The queen entered the chamber, a pair of maids trailing behind her bearing my bridal gown, an ornate kirtle of silk-woven brocade in shades of cream, gold, and yellow. It was a glorious sight. I had never worn anything so fine. I did not think the princesses had ever worn anything so fine either.

Lady Frida exclaimed at the sight of it, clapping her hands. "It shall look stunning with your hair."

The queen cut her a glance. "Her hair will not be visible," she reminded her.

"Ah. Of course, yes, yes." She nodded deferentially.

I gulped nervously at that. My final act of hiding. Hopefully, Lord Dryhten would not react too badly when all was revealed.

When I was revealed.

The only mother I had ever known eyed my naked body from top to bottom, appraising me. I tried not to fidget, resisting the impulse to cover my breasts. I wasn't particularly modest, but I'd never been unclothed and on display before dozens of eyes.

She nodded, the glowing gemstones set within the circlet nestled in her gold hair catching the light. "I think your husband will be... pleased." She uttered this with such clear hope. Not precisely a ringing endorsement.

I swallowed against the thickness in my throat and forced a smile. "Thank you."

"Perhaps we could slip some sejd into his drink," one of the ladies suggested, her implication clear as she eyed me dubiously. Because I might not be enough to tempt him.

I took no offense. Honestly, not tempting him was rather reassuring. I feared the bedding. Better me than my gentle sisters. That was the only reminder I needed. I squared my shoulders beneath my mother's continued scrutiny. I could do this. He might be a warrior, but so was I. In my own way. Even if Stig disagreed.

"Too risky," my mother pronounced, and I exhaled with relief.

The potion was notoriously effective. Almost too effective. Some who ingested sejd were driven so mad with lust that they required numerous partners before the effects wore off. It was even purported that one man, so overcome, took to the sheep scattering the fields.

They wrapped me in a robe and led me to a bench situated before a dressing table and a mirror. Once I was seated, they set to work on my hair, brushing the wet snarls free.

My dressing robe was unceremoniously parted so that they could rub perfumed lotion on my legs. When hands reached for my belly and breasts, the queen stopped them, slicing a commanding hand through the air.

"No. We don't want her tasting of perfume."

My stomach lurched, and I struggled against the bilious rush in my throat .

Tasting?

My face burned. He would taste me? My skin? My breasts? With his mouth and tongue? Was that what husbands did to their wives?

The queen must have read some of my confusion in my face. She seized my hands in hers and chafed my suddenly cold fingers. "Now don't fret. It's only a possibility."

"Aye," Lady Frida agreed. "He will likely not even touch you above the waist. He'll have his way with you and be done in a flash, as most men do."

"If he's deep in his cups," another woman volunteered, "the ordeal will be over in two pumps." She snapped her fingers for emphasis.

The ladies all laughed, their eyes shining with a merriment I could not feel.

Dread sloshed in my stomach like poison. None of this felt real. I was accustomed to enduring, but this was something else entirely. Invasive in a whole new way. I would be taking him inside me. A warrior from the Borderlands. We would join. Mate. Become one. The only escape from each other would be death.

I couldn't breathe.

"Look at her! Her face has lost all color. None of you are helping with your talk of the bedding," the queen said, chastising her maids. "Leave us. All of you. Be gone."

With murmurs of apology, they all filed from the chamber. She sank down beside me on the cushioned bench, taking my hand again and giving it a comforting squeeze.

"You've been a gift to me, Tamsyn. From the moment you were found in the bailey in that basket, you were my daughter." She bent her head and pressed an affectionate kiss to the back of my hand.

I blinked away the sudden sting in my eyes. I knew the story well. My story.

The young, tenderhearted queen had been increasing with her first child when I was found. She'd always possessed a soft spot for children, wanting several of her own, but her sentimentality was especially acute then. The moment she lifted me from my blanketed basket and held me in her arms, she had insisted on keeping me.

She had been my champion from the start, claiming me as her own despite those who called it unseemly for an orphan with no known origins to be raised among the future offspring of the Penterran throne.

The naysayers, led by the lord regent, had almost convinced the king to ignore his new queen's wishes and hand me over to a peasant family, to be brought up alongside their brood, another body to help them in the fields. But then the notion had been put into the king's head that I could serve as a royal whipping girl.

The conversation had already begun, after all. The search was in the works. It was a long-standing tradition among royals. With one child on the way—and there would certainly be more to come for the young couple—the burgeoning royal family would have need. Children, even royal ones, required discipline, and it was forbidden for anyone to lift a finger against the divine issue. It would be death for anyone who dared. It was customary for royal children to use a proxy, here and in other kingdoms, even across the sea in Acton. Presumably even north of the Crags, in Veturland, the land of our enemy.

Oh, there were concerns over the mystery of my parentage, to be sure, but the queen declared it fate that I'd materialized out of nowhere. No one saw anyone leave me in the middle of the courtyard, abandoned in a basket. My appearance was almost... magic. A sign. A cosmic gift. They would need a royal whipping child. And there I was.

I was brought into the fold then. A princess on the outside, attired in silks. A soldier on the inside, serving the Crown.

Today would be my final test. Once done, I would be Lady Dryhten... whipping girl no more.

Fortifying myself with the reminder that we all had our burdens to bear—even my sisters would one day wed as commanded—I studied the queen, my mother. Love softened her gaze as she looked at me. Love for me. It was bittersweet consolation. I would miss her. Miss all of them. This was more than marrying a stranger and subjecting myself to him. It was taking myself across the kingdom to where I knew no one. Where I would be alone, an outsider in the eyes of everyone.

She tucked a damp strand of hair behind my ear. "We all have our duties in life. Mine was to cross the sea and marry the young king of Penterra and strengthen the bonds between our countries." Her eyes had a faraway glimmer as she exhaled. "Now it is your turn. I know this Border King is not the man you envisioned for yourself, but—"

"I've never envisioned a man for myself," I interrupted, so very startled at the notion.

My life ran parallel to my sisters'. Once they were gone from the palace, once they walked their own individual paths, my course had always been vague in my mind. A fogged-over path that led into a dark and unknown wood.

Unbidden, the image of Stig flashed across my mind. Strong and noble Stig. His deep brown eyes. The pressure of his mouth on mine. The sensation of his short-cropped beard beneath my fingers. I shifted my weight uneasily on the bench. I should not be thinking of him now.

Mama looked at me in surprise. "No? Not even... Stig?"

I flinched. Had I said or done something to give away my thoughts?

"Stig?" I echoed. Not until last night had I ever considered him as anything more than a very dear friend. He had kissed me. I'd had no idea he harbored such intense feelings for me.

Now, looking at the queen, I marveled that she had seen what I had not.

"Yes, Stig," she confirmed.

"No. Never." At least not before he'd appeared in my bedchamber last night. "I never thought marriage even a consideration for me until the princesses were wed."

She gave a satisfactory nod. "Well, that's for the best. I'd hate for you to suffer a broken heart."

"I won't suffer," I declared... and wondered if that was true. Indeed, something felt broken inside me as I headed into my future.

Her smile turned tender, encouraging. "Perhaps it will not be so very bad. You will be the wife of a powerful man. And," she added, "he's not an unattractive man." She wrinkled her nose. "If you like that sort."

That sort. The hard and menacing sort.

If he doesn't kill me when he learns he has been tricked.

As though she could read my mind, the queen warned, "Keep the wimple over your hair and the veil in place." Her grip on my hand tightened. "Do not let him see your face until the deed is done."

"He will eventually discover—"

"Not until after the bedding."

The bedding.

"And then," she added, still staring intently at me, willing me to accept what she was saying, "it will be too late."

It will be too late.

Too late to change that I was married to the Beast.

Too late to save me from my fate—to save me from him.

"Should we be worried how he might react? What if he—"

"Oh." She waved a hand dismissively. "He will come around. He's here to sow goodwill. He will accept you as his wife. You will see."

Hopefully that was true. I nodded dully, retreating inside myself.

I fought to swallow. To breathe. A difficult task when contemplating that portion of the evening, when he would climb into bed with me...

I gulped against a giant lump in my throat and shuddered at the idea of something so intimate happening between that brute and myself.

I recalled colliding into the hard wall of him when he caught me emerging from behind the painting. The thick arms and hard hands and that deep, rasping voice that felt like a tremor running through me as he growled: I see this palace comes equipped with spies.

I recalled it all distinctly. The sensation. His scent filling my nose. Wind and earth and horseflesh. The hot animal ripple of my skin. The way it felt to be caught up in his arms. The way my body had arched against the massive pulsing slab of him. The way he had towered over me and made me feel small for the first time in my life. And it had been only for a few moments. Stig's kiss lasted considerably longer and was much more intimate, and yet it left less of an impression.

Even now, the following day, I could recall little of it specifically. Meanwhile, the memory of the Beast flashed through me like a bolt of lightning across the sky. I supposed it made sense. I was nervous. Afraid of the unknown. My life loomed ahead, stretching out long and winding and hazy. He was the only certainty.

Shortly following the wedding, I would progress to the marriage bed, where he would join me. I moistened my suddenly dry lips. I was untried in the act of bedplay, but I knew how to handle physical discomfort. Pain was fleeting. I could take it. I would survive.

"You understand, Tamsyn?" Mama pressed. "I need to hear you say you will keep your face covered."

"I understand." Now that he had seen my face and believed me to be a servant, this was more critical than ever. "The wimple and veil stay in place until after the bedding." After the bedding. Then the hiding would end. And... everything else would begin. I swallowed reflexively.

A smile curved her lips. "That's a good girl." She was all efficiency again. "Now. Let us finish preparing you."

She summoned the ladies, and they resumed their work on me.

I was shrouded head to toe. My forearms and hands—pale, trembling appendages no matter how I tried to control their movements—were the only things visible beneath the loose sleeves of the kirtle.

The wimple covered my hair and revealed only the circle of my face, and then, for good measure, a gauzy veil was added that left just a vague outline of my features. I stood in front of the mirror, staring out through the sheer material that cast a miasma of gold over my reflection. I was unidentifiable. Only an indistinct countenance behind a veil.

"Fret not," the queen assured me, tugging on the fabric and checking the thin gold circlet around my head to make certain it was secure. "It has been explained that this is the custom. He won't expect to see your face."

I nodded, glad she could not see my expression either. Glad no one could. If even a fraction of my mounting panic was glimpsed, Lady Frida would be diving for the sejd to make certain I was properly agreeable to the impending bedding. No, thank you. I would do this without any potions or tonics. It would be me going into this fate and not some dazed and befuddled version of myself, so out of my head I would willingly couple with anyone.

We departed the chamber and wound our way down the castle steps and through the Great Hall. One of the queen's ladies waited there with a cloak. "Don't wish you to catch an ague, Your Majesty. A strange chill has taken the land. I blame it on the arrival of these barbarians." The woman sniffed as she settled the cloak over the queen's shoulders, pulling the fur-lined hood over her head.

"I'm sure it has nothing to do with our guests." A cloak was offered to me, but the queen waved it away. "We don't wish to ruin the efforts we have taken with her appearance." Before stepping outside, she turned to me. "You can do this, daughter."

I nodded.

She clasped my shoulders. "You must go the rest of the way alone."

I would take the long march to the chapel on my own, through the deepening day. I understood this. There were some walks you must go alone in life. This would be one of them.

I passed through the double doors, and a cheer went up that I absorbed like a physical blast. The din was deafening. Flowers were tossed. Colorful pennants waved. People filled the bailey, all come to watch a princess of Penterra make her momentous walk to the doors of the chapel, where the Beast of the Borderlands waited for her.

Waits for me.

We would enter the church together. The evening air was indeed cool, opaque, hinting prematurely at the winter to come. I counted my steps to ease my anxiety.

Sixty-seven, sixty-eight.

I recognized Lord Dryhten's form across the distance, taller and bigger than everyone else, even if I could not clearly make out his face.

Ninety-three, ninety-four.

With my vision impaired, I proceeded carefully past the onlookers, their faces featureless smudges against the darkening night.

One hundred and thirty-nine. One hundred and forty.

I was almost at his side when I stumbled, my slippers tripping over a bouquet of flowers someone had tossed. Hell's teeth. This veil was a nuisance. I longed to yank it off, but that would only result in a far greater nuisance—this warrior uncovering the perfidy being played upon him and running me through with his sword.

He stepped forward and caught me, one steel arm sliding around me.

Dread unfurled in my chest as I looked at him through the gossamer fabric. He was so near I could feel the hot puff of his breath.

This close, the most prominent features of his face stood out starkly through the sheer material brushing my nose. The dark slash of his eyebrows. The deep-set eyes. The nose that might have been large on someone else but fit his face perfectly. His precise expression eluded me, but he was definitely not smiling. Did this man even know how to smile?

His stare cut into me, and I feared how much he could see of me. Enough to know I was the girl from the chancery that he had caught spying?

I felt his scrutiny in my bones, in the very marrow of me. The intensity of his gaze drilled deep, attempting to see past my veil.

This is it. This is when he will recognize I am not Feena or Sybilia or Alise. He will know he holds a fraud in his arms.

"Shall we?" he asked in that deep voice, which I felt like a lick of heat on my skin.

I waited a heartbeat and then nodded.

He slid his arm from around me and picked up my hand, interlacing his warm fingers with mine.

Together, we entered the chapel.