7
In the King’s Hall, the vaunted throne room of Harwen—a torchlit space made of dark, rough-cut stones that echoed with the voices of the old kings of Harkana, and the cries of a thousand generations of Harkan warriors who had come before—the king of the Ferens, Dagrun Finner, made his proposal to Kepi, second daughter of Arko, king of Harkana and son of Koren. Dagrun had filled the hall with dozens of broad-shouldered slaves, the strongest and best of his lot. He himself was dressed in a fine gray-green tunic, a bright jewel around his neck, his cheeks freshly shaven—the portrait of respect as he took Kepi’s hand in his tenderly and pressed it to his heart. The courtiers of Harwen were hushed, watching this ceremony play out during the last day of the Harkan games, as the sun neared its zenith and the Devouring approached. “A lady of virtue and wisdom,” he intoned, “a lady of beauty and grace and fire, birthed in the Year of the Kite.”
Kepi withdrew her hand with a frown. The bruise on her cheek was still throbbing; the cut on her neck was still fresh. The man nearly took my life, now he’s showering me with compliments?
“A woman who nearly bested me in today’s games,” he continued, “one I consider my match and my equal. A lady of cunning and strength, a lady I will be blessed to call my queen.”
Queen? You should have cut my throat. She wished again that he’d killed her in the arena, or better yet that she had taken his head. Standing before him like this was worse than defeat, worse than any surrender she could imagine.
“Kepi of Harkana,” he continued, “widow of a Feren lord, a man of knowledge and humility—Roghan Frith, the Lord of Redmud, long may he be remembered. My lady, you clearly learned your strength as his bride.”
Clearly. Kepi could hardly believe that the wretched fool who had beaten her repeatedly on their wedding night was the same man Dagrun was trying to describe. Her fists turned white and her eyes narrowed.
Where’s my blade? Kepi hated when she did not have a sword at her side.
“And though Roghan was taken from you too soon, you remain a credit to him and to the people of Harkana as an honorable widow.”
Kepi scoffed. How long must I endure this?
She had expected Dagrun to bring her a husband, a minor warlord to replace Roghan, and she was momentarily shocked to realize the great king was proposing marriage himself. Just when she though herself free, the Ferens had come to her with yet another proposal. Why was he doing this? Was he baiting her? Was he actively trying to start a war with Harkana over her? The possibility had occurred to her more than once. Or perhaps the rumors were true and Dagrun was looking for a way to gain control over Harkana by courting both of Arko’s daughters, Kepi in public and Merit in private. One of them, at least, he would find unwilling. He spared me in the ring, but it will take more than an act of mock gallantry to earn my hand. She wanted her freedom, not another husband.
Kepi touched the bruise on her cheek, which had turned a ruddy purple in the time since she had left the ring. She liked the way it stung.
Not far from Kepi, Merit sat in their father’s place on the Horned Throne, beneath her father’s banner, her face cool. Blank. One would have thought Merit was watching a game of Coin rather than a marriage proposal. Kepi stared at her older sister and Merit met her gaze for a long moment. Shenn, Merit’s husband, was conspicuously absent, and Merit’s eyes darted to the empty chair where he would have been seated. Then she lifted her chin, surveying the room with eyes narrowed, her lips opened slightly to reveal her teeth. Was that triumph in the set of her sister’s jaw, in the flush on her cheek? If you think I’ll bend to your will, Kepi thought, think again.
Merit had never been much of a sister. She was the one who had to be responsible for all of them when her mother left. I had no childhood, Merit had said to Arko once, in Kepi’s hearing. You were only too glad to rely on me when you needed me. Yet because you refuse to name me regent in your place, you keep me from having any real authority. The people think I am your favorite, the beauty, the one who rules in your stead. But in truth I am neither monarch nor regent. I am nothing in Harkana.
Yet it was precisely Arko’s love for her that kept her from what she wanted. Merit misunderstood their father’s actions. For Arko, power was an unyielding sun—if you lingered beneath its glow, it was certain to burn you. He wanted to keep his eldest daughter safe from its burden. Merit believed she was denied, slighted by her father’s indifference. She had never understood Arko. Nor did she understand Kepi either, that her little sister wanted naught from Merit but kindness. She doesn’t know me.
Kepi wished again that she had finished this in the arena.
Another Feren wedding felt like a fate worse than any death by arms, worse than growing old and wretched.
“This is for you,” Dagrun said as he took a cloth-wrapped object from his slaves and faced Kepi. He drew back the smooth wool to reveal a stout blackthorn timber. He set the iron-gray mass on the floor, where it landed with a dull thump. “This was cut from my birth tree.” Every Feren had a birth tree. The commoners carved brush handles and wood combs from theirs. The king used his to supply furnishings for his queen’s chamber. She knew the Feren traditions—Roghan’s envoy had promised them that his lord would build Kepi a set of chambers fit for a lady when they were negotiating her marriage dowry in Harkana. Roghan had made many promises, but kept none of them. She expected no better from Dagrun. Standing before him, Kepi felt lower than the lowest servant, more helpless than a Feren slave. But I am no servant.
The sudden quiet in the throne room made her realize Dagrun had finally stopped talking. The king of the Ferens unsheathed his sword and drew it across his palm.
“Kepina Hark-Wadi, I, Dagrun Finner, king of the Ferens and lord of the Gray Wood, beg for your hand in marriage.” He held up his bloody palm. The blood oath was a Feren custom, she knew, and it meant that he had pledged himself to her and that his honor was bound to this pledge. If she refused, it would mean war. He gives me no choice, I must accept.
All eyes were on Kepi, her hands folded, her gown draped over her slim frame. Risk war or damn herself to a second Feren wedding—she had to make a decision. Everywhere Kepi saw apprehension on the faces of the crowd. The Harkans gripped their spears; the Ferens clustered around Dagrun. Everyone waited for her to speak. The room was utterly quiet. No one dared cough or whisper for fear of missing what Kepi would say.
She gathered her nerve. “I thank you for the honor of your proposal.” Her voice began to falter, but she steadied it. She would not give him the satisfaction. Kepi took a step toward Dagrun. Her soldiers edged closer to Kepi, and Dagrun’s men gathered about him. She took her open palm and pressed it to his bloody one.