Nona nods. “That’s good. I almost believed you. Remember, you have to say it three times to bind yourself to the promise. Once you’ve said it three times, you are committed. Now give me a hug.” She opens her arms and I step into them. Tears sting my eyes as she squeezes me hard against her. “You’re like a daughter to me, Sorrow. I wish you the best of luck and look forward to your safe return. I love you.” She kisses my cheek and then turns away from me as she wipes tears from her cheeks with the backs of her hands.
“I love you, too.” I take as deep a breath as the corset will allow and walk out of my chamber to meet my fate.
The carriage ride to the mountains takes more than an hour, and since I am the offering this year, I am given the honor of riding in the royal carriage, sitting across from the queen and my father. My mother won’t look at me, and I can’t decide if it is because she is upset by the ceremony we are traveling toward, or if she is mad about me being caught astride a horse this morning.
My father won’t stop looking at me. Every so often he glances down at my white skirt and his hand twitches. If I am not fed to the fire dragon or given to the horse clan, I will be going back home to a life where I am never allowed to go anywhere alone, to parents who have never shown me love and rarely kindness, and to a whipping that will leave my legs cut and bleeding. I will be shut away again, and forced to watch the world from my bedchamber window—watch as my father dotes on my sisters and spoils them with gowns and ponies and feasts and outings to the market. I clench my teeth together and pull the curtains open to stare out the window and realize that before me are three completely different destinies and I want none of them. None!
“Shut the curtain,” my mother orders without looking at me. “The breeze is ruining my hair.” She pats her tall, powdered hair.
“Yes, my queen.” I pull the curtain shut and close my eyes.
Within minutes the carriage slows and then stops altogether. I pull the curtain open again and peer out. We have traveled to the very end of the road and stopped at the edge of a cliff. I have been in the mountains three times before today, for my sisters’ binding ceremonies. Each of those times I was deemed too young to be out in society, so was made to watch from a carriage. Today will be the first time I am allowed to get out. Before the coachman can help me down like a proper princess, I hop out of the carriage and hear my mother’s outraged groan.
I squint against the early afternoon sun as I stretch my aching legs and fill my lungs with fresh mountain air. Everything looks strange here—the jagged rocks, the pine and aspen trees, the wildflowers growing alongside the road. Even the air is different, filled with the smell of dirt and trees and the unknown. Tied to an aspen tree is a small, perfect white lamb. It is struggling against the rope around its neck, and for a moment I feel sorry for it.
At the cliff’s edge, facing us, stand King Marrkul and his nine sons. They are clad in leather breeches and leather vests over low-cut white shirts that expose half of their chests. On their hips hang their swords, and bows are slung over their backs. They look dressed for battle, not a formal ceremony. Standing in the middle of them, with five men on each side, is an ancient woman with a hunched back, withered hands, long white hair, and milky-white eyes. Despite her eyes, she seems to be staring directly at me, and all I can think is crone. Something pinches the back of my neck, hard, and I turn to see my mother. “What, my queen?” I ask, glaring and rubbing my neck.
“Curtsy,” she hisses from the side of her mouth, all the while smiling her practiced smile at the horse lords. I grasp my skirt in my hands and do as she says. The Strickbane poison dangles in front of me, the dragon scale flask shimmering in the sunlight like a lit lamp. The horse lords nod their acknowledgment.
When all the carriages have arrived, my three older sisters and their husbands come to stand beside me. “You look beautiful,” Harmony whispers, touching my hair. Gloriana grasps my fingers and kisses my cheek. Diamanta merely eyes my corset and nods her approval. I lean over to her and ask, “Who is that old crone?”
“She is King Marrkul’s witch. She was in attendance at my ceremony, remember?” Diamanta says.
“No, she was at my ceremony,” Gloriana insists. Looking at her handsome young husband, she asks, “Don’t you remember, Hans?” He frowns and looks at the old lady.
Harmony shakes her head. “She was only at mine. I would have remembered if she was at any of yours.” I study my sisters and their husbands as they continue to argue about whose ceremony the withered old woman attended. I don’t remember the crone from any of their ceremonies, and the woman is utterly unforgettable.