No. Kepi swallowed. He was right, of course. His words rang true, but did it matter? Dagrun and Merit had tossed her in a cage and ridden her to Rifka without any care for her comfort, or her pride.
When she once more refused to reply, his smile flattened, his teeth abruptly looking strong and white against his face and the darker stubble where his beard had grown in four, five days’ growth, the crook in his nose that had looked menacing in the torchlight now giving him a rough, mannish air. “We are married and might as well speak to each other.”
“We did not speak as we rode to Feren. You locked me in a carriage.”
“The war carriage was made for your protection. If you had stayed within it, you would have been safe. My soldiers told me what happened, how you fought the outlanders. It was unnecessary. The carriage was blackthorn and sturdy. No arrow could breach its walls.”
She nodded ever so slightly, acknowledging that he spoke the truth. “Why was I kept isolated?”
“My men,” he said. “I don’t trust all of them, not yet. On Cutting Day, in the forest, a man armed with a spear rushed the platform. He was trying to kill me. The dead king has loyalists, still. And his heir escaped during the wedding. There are traitors everywhere. In the forest, in the company of soldiers, you were not safe. Kepi, I meant you no harm.”
“I don’t know,” she said, finding it hard to believe him. She retreated, thinking, considering his words. Upon reflection, the carriage, its armor and slotted windows were justified, but those facts hardly mattered. She was here, in Rifka, against her will. Even if he cared for her safety, he ignored her happiness, her freedom. It was Merit he wanted, not her. “Why was I not told any of this?” she asked. “Why was I kept uninformed? Do you know how that felt, and what I thought of you? You protected me as you would protect your property, nothing more. And besides, I know it’s my sister you want.”
He took a step, then another, moving Kepi back and back until she felt the cold of the wall behind her. “Your sister?” he asked.
“It’s the talk of the empire. You and Merit.”
“You know a lot of gossip.”
“Is it true?”
“About Merit?” His brow furrowed. “I have not bedded the woman, if that is what you ask.” He was so close now that Kepi could smell the amber on his breath from the wedding feast, strong and sour. Her heart thudded in her ears. He’s lying. He has to be lying. Everyone in Harwen knew Merit and Dagrun were lovers. “I don’t believe you.”
“Ask her yourself.” He pushed up against her, pulled her close so that he could whisper in her ear. His hands on her shoulders were firm, warm.
Her stomach clenched with revulsion, with confusion. His other hand slid down her back and up her dress. “Ever since we sparred, since I felt your strength, I have wanted you, Kepi. Why do you think I spared you in the ring?”
His hands were on her nipples, brushing them so lightly she was not quite sure they were real. They felt soft, and strong, and sure. Not like Roghan, who had clawed at her body like an animal, who had cared nothing whatsoever for her pleasure. Not like Seth, even, who had been so shy and uncertain that he had hardly touched her. Dagrun moved his hands in little circles down her belly, up the soft insides of her thighs. Her muscles were so tense they were shaking. Her breath came in short bursts.
“No, stop,” she said, and Dagrun’s hands fell from her body.
She looked up wonderingly at him. “You stopped.”
“You asked me to,” he said reasonably.
“But it is our wedding night.”
Dagrun leaned back on the bed. “And?”
She stared at him. “You will not … force yourself on me?”
“I can’t think of anything more distasteful,” he said. “I told you not to believe the stories they tell about me. They are only stories.”
“My first husband, he—” She wavered, wondering how to begin her story. His unexpected kindness compelled her to tell him who she was and what she had endured, so she told him about her first wedding: the cottage in the blackthorn grove, the brief wedding ceremony, and the sad little feast Roghan held after it. She told him how Roghan drank and the violence the drinking brought out in him.
He listened, patient and observant, his eyes never leaving her face.
She told him about her year in Feren, her story, but not all of it. She was not yet ready to share the whole truth, to tell her new husband what she had told no one, so she waited for him to speak, to see how he would respond.
“Roghan was a drunk, a crass and drunken fool. I knew you were imprisoned, but I didn’t know that he had abused you. I am not surprised though. I knew Roghan Frith, but he was no friend. I knew the kind of man he was and how he was with women. I have known animals more clever—kinder too,” he said softly. “I am sorry you had to live through that, sorry that I said kind words about the man at our betrothal in Harwen.” Dagrun lowered his voice and continued. “I am no Roghan. I am not even Feren, not wholly. It is not well known, but my blood is half Rachin. The mountain lords raised me in the highlands beyond the Harkan Cliff. Their ways are harsh but honest. They live by a code, the Chaldaan. They value merit, not birthright. A man must earn his wealth as well as his title. I am a half-blood. By Feren law, I am unworthy of the throne and yet I am king. I earned the blackthorn seat; I fought for my place in the Chathair. I did what no other Feren was willing to do: I killed Barrin and took his throne. The man was hated, despised by even his sworn men. He bankrupted his kingdom and made slaves of those who opposed him. He was Roghan’s cousin—did you know that? The pair were well matched, their appetite for debauchery well known. Neither deserved their power or position.” He squeezed her hand and asked again, “Am I wrong?”
“No,” she said. “You are more right than you guess.”
She drew up close, her lips nearly touching his. She would tell him now. She would tell him everything.
“I killed him,” she whispered, her eyes dark and fiery. “I watched him die. When we were alone in his cottage after the feast, when it was just the two of us in his bedroom, he tried to hurt me. He threw me down on the table and ripped my clothes. He meant to take me by force, but I struck him with a kick before he could put himself inside me. I sent him rolling to the floor like a drunken fool. He hit his head. Unconscious, he choked on his own vomit while I did nothing. He drowned in his spit. I’ve told no one the truth. For three years I’ve told no one. I think about it every day and I am glad. His people believe I killed him and they are right. I was only ten and three and I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know what he would do when he woke, so I did nothing. I killed Roghan Frith.”
Dagrun did not respond, and the silence between them grew. Kepi shivered, uncertain of how her new husband would reply. Would he send her to the gallows? She had confessed to killing a man.