Present day...
It was Rowan's wedding day. Yet instead of feasting and dancing at Merritt's side, she'd been summoned to her mother's council chambers like a wicked child. Instead of smiles, her face was fraught with worry as she reached the heavy oaken door and tapped her knuckles lightly against it.
"Enter!" Her mother's voice boomed from within.
Her stomach hollowing, Rowan entered.
Elgret Thorneblood, the High Lady of West Gate, stood facing the window. Her back was narrow and her frame small, yet she seemed like a mountain to Rowan, impassable and imposing. Beside her, the marshal and the steward were speaking in troubled tones at her granite back.
Rowan licked her lips and forced her feet forward. "Mother?" The word left shards on her tongue, making her mouth ache. "You wished...to see me?"
The High Lady's hands clenched at her sides. "Yes." The word gusted out, chilling Rowan's heart. "We have a problem..."
Rowan pawed at her skirts, her fingers stiff and clammy. "Have I...have I done something to displease you, Mother?"
"What?" Elgret turned on her heel to face her daughter, a grave frown around her mouth. Those cold, grey eyes narrowed.
The steward cleared his throat, seemingly to resume whatever conversation had been interrupted by Rowan's arrival. "My lady, there is every chance our runner did indeed deliver the wedding invitation before he...well, before he..."
"Before something ate the boy?" said Elgret, shooting a pointed look at Silas. "You might as well say it aloud, old man. He's dead."
Rowan's stomach lurched with horror. "Who...who's dead?"
The High Lady's gaze flicked upward, her mouth pinching. "Haven't you been listening, child?"
Rowan opened her mouth but nothing came out.
Silas glanced briefly towards Rowan in her wedding finery. It was a dismissive glance—she was nothing but an ornament to him. Rowan was used to those looks.
Elgret's thin nose flared. "Our runner never returned. And Master Silas here— "with a bitter sneer aimed at the steward— "has only just informed me that Thrax never received the invitation to your wedding."
Rowan flinched. It disturbed her even to hear the wargrex's name. Thrax. It sounded like cracking bones.
"Even you can understand the contention such an oversight will fetch me."
Rowan's eyes slipped to the floor. "Yes, Mother."
"My lady," Silas murmured, his throat bobbing, "what I said...what I meant was that the wargrex likely has received word of your daughter's wedding. His silence is nothing new. The wargs have never before deigned to leave Carthyrk to break bread with us, everyone knows they spurn human contact. It's been years since they—"
"That is beside the point." Elgret's eyes were sharp as cold iron. Rowan knew the point rankled her mother—the wargrex's habit of ignoring all friendly overtures and invitations with friendly disdain. "You yourself informed me of his demands that day long ago. We've never failed to deliver an invitation. Not to Mothersnight, not for any feast or festival. Not until now."
Silas wrung his hands, his throat bobbing loudly. "My lady, I truly do believe—"
"Do not placate me, old man." Elgret's words trembled with quiet rage, her lips pinching tight. "Better that we'd postponed the wedding than insult him. You should have informed me days ago!"
"Yes, my lady." Silas bowed his head.
"Why would he care about my wedding?" Rowan asked. She hated the way her voice trembled. "He seems to have no interest in us at all."
Silas seemed to sag with relief, doubtless he was glad to have the High Lady's eyes lashing someone other than himself.
"Because," the High Lady answered, "it was at his behest that we informed him of all impending marriages and deaths pertaining to my household—those were nearly his exact words. Am I right, Silas?"
"Exactly right, my lady."
Elgret sighed. "We must assume that news of my daughter's wedding has gone awry along with our runner. To assume anything less is folly." No words were spared for the dispatch rider's tragic fate, whatever it was.
Chills raced up Rowan's spine. Wargs weren't the only monsters in the outland. Humans did not survive long outside the Iron Girdle. It was why the High Lady of West Gate upheld the pact with the Wargrex of Carthyrk. An ally outside the fold. A tentative alliance between the Kingdom of Wrais and the monsters at her gates.
It took mettle of steel to be a High Lord or Lady of one of the Four Gates. To keep peaceful alliances with outlanders. At least with those that didn't try to eat them. Elgret was certainly made of steel—cold, hard steel.
Rowan was nothing like her redoubtable mother. The only trait they shared was the Thorneblood coloring—same pale skin, and the same strange shade of inky, carmine hair. Though, nowadays, Elgret's locks were streaked with silver.
"Perhaps" said Rowan, "we could send out more riders to...to..." But her words died off as her mother's grey eyes slitted.
"To what?" said Elgret. "Perhaps rescue a dead runner by risking more of my men? Don't be foolish, girl."
Rowan shifted nervously. Her mother's direct looks always gave her the fidgets. "Then maybe we should—"
"I grow tired of your perhapses and maybes."
Rowan flinched, her mouth turning dry. She felt as foolish a girl as her mother's glare bespoke. "All will be well, Mother, you'll see." She tried to smile, but her chin was wobbling. "We could always have a second wedding?" She'd meant to ease her mother's worry, but Elgret dragged in a loud, menacing breath which grated like shifting ice.
"You think a wargrex on the warpath to my door is cause for jesting?"
Rowan gasped. "No, Mother. I only meant...that...if we had another wedding, the wargrex need never know—"
"Oh, he already knows, child. Make no mistake." Elgret held up a silencing hand. "One must never assume one's blunders have gone unnoticed."
"Yes, Mother," she whispered. That was a deliberate jab at her earlier blunder when she'd stammered her way through the vows and the High Priestess had made her repeat herself. Twice. Thankfully, Merritt's dashing grin had stymied some of her humiliation.
"Compose yourself," said Elgret as she swept past her daughter, "it's going to be a long night."
Rowan dropped her gaze as the High Lady withdrew from the council chamber.
Whatever threat the wargrex posed, there was still a wedding feast to preside over. Like her mother, Rowan would have to go below soon, too. After she'd 'composed' herself. Her new husband was waiting, after all.
Husband. Yes, there wrapped around her finger was the proof.
She wasn't used to the feel of the word, nor to the weight of the small, gold wedding band. But she loved Merritt. Other women were not so lucky in their marriages. At least her husband was young, handsome, and rich.
"Shall I post extra guards on the bridge tonight, Silas?" The marshal's question drew Rowan's eyes towards the narrow window.
Beyond the glazing, the Black Bridge stretched like a silhouette below the dusky horizon. Well, all but the last segment of bridge. She'd almost forgotten about the marshal being in the chamber, too. He was always such a staid man.
"Aye, you might as well," said Silas, his eyes tracking nervously towards the window and the darkening sky. "You...you think they'll come tonight?"
"I do."
Rowan's mouth began to sweat as though she would vomit. "You're...you're certain."
The marshal's eyes flicked to her, his grim head dipping once. "The High Lady is right, always assume the worst, my lady, that way we're never caught off guard." He turned back to Silas. "When they come, I'll extend the bridge and send word."
With a nervous grumble the steward clapped his weathered hand on the marshal's shoulder. "Yes, and we shall grin like dogs when the wolves arrive." The men offered Rowan hurried bows and then left.
As soon as they were gone, Meera and her nurse, Angelica, rushed inside. In a strange way, Meera was really more of a sister than a servant. The elder, even though she'd nursed Rowan, was like a doting, and vexing, grandmother.
"What was that about?" her nurse asked, glancing at the empty doorway.
Rowan clutched the nixrath ring on her thumb. But fear tumbled in her belly no matter how hard she squeezed her father's ring. "Mother fears the wargrex will come tonight."
Angelica flicked her wrist dismissively. "They're our allies, nothing to worry about."
Meera flashed a reassuring smile. "Let's go below, we're missing the feast!"
Rowan gaped at them. "But...we may have caused him grave insult." Did they not feel the danger imposing overhead like diseased air?
"Bah!" said Angelica. "We've an iron wall to keep us safe, my girl, don't you worry about politics. Your mother never should have involved you. You're far too gentle for such worries."
"Are you nervous about tonight?" asked Meera, squeezing her hand.
"Of course! The wargs terrify me!"
"No, not about that—your mother will deal with them. I meant about...later, when you're alone with Lord Marwort."
"Oh." From everything Meera had said about the conjugal act, Rowan was in knots of dread over the coming night. The threat of dining with wargs tonight only tightened those painful knots in her belly.
Angelica patted Rowan's other hand, shooting Meera a stern look. "Of course she's nervous, you goose. And you waffling on about it doesn't help."
Angelica's hennish chiding was familiar and comforting, it instantly loosened some of the worry in Rowan's tense shoulders. That both her nurse and her maid seemed inclined to let the High lady worry about the wargs, relieved some of her dread. And why not? It was her wedding night, after all. Let Elgret deal with Thrax. He had no business with Rowan, and she would have no dealings with him.
Outside, the Nevermoor Bog stretched for miles. Somewhere in the fading red and yawning darkness, she misgave herself she could feel the wargs closing in.
Below, the festivities were underway, and the castle was aglow with celebration lights. In spite of all, the music rumbled through the flags underfoot, pressing her to flee her fears in a country reel. All was festooned in imported flowers and colorful banners. Merritt was probably already drunk on the fermented wine his uncle had sent. Maybe she too could get blind drunk tonight and render herself senseless before Merritt impaled her on the marriage bed.
Gods, she really wished Meera hadn't gone into graphic bloody detail about men rutting like battering rams. And she might've done without knowing all the ways and places men were wont to shove their "fleshy trouser swords," as Meera put it. Rowan knew it would hurt—blood and pain were known concomitants on the wedding night. At least Merritt's face was fair and his manners gentle. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. If not for Meera's tutelage, she'd have been excited for the coming night.
"Sweeting," said Angelica, "it's time to join your husband." She gently tugged her along. "Do not fret over wargs tonight."
Rowan nodded, feeling bolstered either side by these two women, her stone pillars. Together they left the quiet of the council chambers and proceeded to the feasting hall.
...
Merritt's feet were lively and light as he danced. "You look beautiful!" he shouted over the music. The wine was making him loud and clumsy, but no less chivalrous. No less sweet. His eyes were bright and glossy, his face flushed. "Tonight, I am the luckiest of men!"
She grinned up at him, her heart galloping along with the music. "That's what you said when your mother bought you that silly horse."
He laughed, linking elbows with the dancers beside him. "My stallion isn't silly! He's from the Wraisian Royal Stables, thank you very much." The line of dancers skipped backwards, taking Merritt further away. Her own line of revelers pranced backwards, too. He winked at her, moving through the steps of the dance.
"Are you implying I'm anything like a prized horse," she said when he moved within earshot again.
Again he laughed. "Rowan, you have no idea how many wicked jokes I could make right now."
She felt a grin burst over her face. Oh, she could well guess. Meera had disabused her of her ignorance, after all. "I hope you don't imagine I'll be easily reined."
"Just easily ridden."
Her eyes rounded. "What was that?"
"I said, not for a moment, dear heart!"
Warmth radiated from her cheeks as she spun around, giggling. She clapped her hands in rhythm to the drums, her head swimming with bubbles. The wargs hadn't come after all and it was already almost midnight. Almost time for the bedding.
Seated at the dais alone, eschewing the dancing, sat her mother. Rowan caught Elgret's gaze and felt the joy leech out of her breast. The High Lady was watching her, but without warmth. Almost without even seeing her. The music became disjointed as Rowan's head swam. The wine turned sour in her belly. That instant in Elgret's cold gaze made her lose her rhythm altogether and she faltered, stumbling to a halt.
Merritt stopped beside her. "Tired already, my beautiful bride?" He gently took her hand and lead her towards the dais. "I don't wish to exhaust my prized horse just yet. We have a long ride ahead..."
She barely noticed his wink or the way his eyes dropped to her breasts. Her chest was tight. Weddings were supposed to bring joy, but Elgret seems unable to smile. Even tonight. Rowan was a fool to think anything she said or did could please Elgret. She'd just married a rich young lord with powerful allies in Wrais and an ancestral mansion in the King's District near the palace. Yet Elgret showed not an ounce of emotion.
With Merrit's influence, Elgret could increase her army and wipe out every last vishwa from the outland! They didn't need those wretched wargs anymore! Didn't Elgret see that?
Merritt was speaking again. She blinked and looked up at him. What had he asked her?
"Shall we retire?" he asked again, his thumb sweeping over her knuckles.
She nodded, eager to leave the hall.
His smile was instant. "You make me so happy, dear heart."
Good. At least she made someone happy. They reached the dais. She avoided Elgret's gaze as she lowered into a stiff curtsy. Beside her, Merritt scraped a dashing bow and bid the High Lady good night. Elgret nodded as, all around them, guests began to cheer. Even the prim Lady Marwort, his mother, was whooping with good cheer.
Rowan's stomach summersaulted. Her left hand was buried in the folds of her dress. With her forefinger, she spun her thumb ring over and over. Though the wedding band was still new and unfamiliar, her thumb ring was a comforting embrace. She wished her father were here.
Elgret's face was never at ease, like a perpetual blizzard, lines raged across her brow. Winter had dwelt on her face ever since her husband's death.
Merritt kissed the knuckles of her other hand, his warmth like a thaw. He looked so sweet and eager in the candle glow. Safe and wholesome. His kiss elicited a kernel of excitement in her chest. It was a kiss that promised gentle lovemaking.
They were just stepping away from the dais amidst Huzzahs! and boisterous clapping when the music jarred to a halt. Merritt dropped her hand, leaving it trembling awkwardly in the air like the last note of the vielle. Someone elbowed the minstrel and he stopped mid-song. Outside, the horns were sounding an alarm.
Merritt wobbled unsteadily, stifling a soft belch. "A bit early for the midnight toll, isn't it?" he said, confused.
But it wasn't a bell toll. A long horn blast signaled runners or riders at the gate. But three sharp blasts... Rowan knew for whom those horns blew. "That's not the midnight toll." She turned swiftly to the High Lady whose face was tense and bone-white despite the warm glow of brazier fires and candles. Elgret's mien was grim and knowing.
The wine curdled in her belly, and in an instant the bubbles died.
They'd come. The wargs were here. Thrax was here.
He'd only ever been a name uttered in whispered tones. A legend, really. And now, for the first time, Rowan would see him in the flesh.