I shrug, clueless as to how much time we spent in Zhun’s cave, and the men laugh.
“Anyhow, we were sneaking off to elope—a union of the heart, not an arranged marriage—but somehow Jayah’s father found out and hired a gang of thugs to stop it. They cut Jayah’s skirt half off for the pearls sewn to the fabric and stripped us of all our belongings but my sword and this knife, which was hidden beneath my sleeve before I tore the sleeve off.” He lifts his arm up, and the man with the goatee snaps and holds his hand out. Golmarr removes his knife and places it on the man’s palm. “After that, they dumped us in the forest to starve or die at the hands of the forest dwellers.” The armed men stand a little taller and nod, pleased with the conclusion of Golmarr’s story. “We have had little to eat for days and are wondering if you might spare a morsel for my true love and me before we continue on our way.”
The Satari leader’s eyes narrow. “Why, pray tell, would the thugs leave a strong lad like you with your sword?”
Golmarr cringes. “Because I was conned into buying a piece of junk,” he says, sounding pained. “The blacksmith said I was buying a sword that was the exact replica of the Anthar prince’s famed dragon sword. But alas, when I tried to sharpen and polish it, I discovered the blade is not even made of real steel.” Golmarr lifts his sword out of the scabbard just enough to show the base of the silver blade. “See? If I so much as cross blades with a well-made weapon, my sword will shatter.” He lets the blade fall back into the scabbard.
The Satari laugh and return their swords to their sheaths. The one with the goatee grins, making his green eyes dance with mischief. “I am Edemond, patriarch of the Satari band called the Black Blades. It just so happens that we are having a feast tonight and you may join us, if you’d like.”
“We would be honored to feast with your Black Blades, but we have nothing with which to pay for our food,” Golmarr says cautiously.
Edemond shrugs and tests the balance of Golmarr’s dagger. “I will keep your blade as payment. Tonight you shall feast with us, for we have reason to celebrate.”
“Celebrate? What day is it that there is something to celebrate?” Golmarr asks, while at the same time I am struggling to figure out what holidays are close to my birthday. There are none.
“We celebrate the beautiful Princess Sorrowlynn and strapping Prince Golmarr.” Edemond waits for us to react. I force my face to remain placid, something I learned by watching my mother.
“What about them?” Golmarr asks, tightening his hold on my shoulders.
“So you haven’t heard? Not three days past, the horse clan rode through our forest, but they were short one son. The youngest, whose sword you purchased a replica of, was fed to the fire dragon along with the Faodarian princess. We heard that she chose death over being wed to a barbarian prince, and he chose to try and save her anyway.” He frowns and mutters, “Young fools. Brave, but fools nonetheless. And so we feast in their honor! Come, my young lovers. A meal waits.”
With three men in front of us, and three behind, we are escorted through the forest, along barely visible trails that wind between the trees. I use my staff as a walking stick even though my hands are itching to hold it like a weapon, and try to keep up with the Satari, but my body is so ravished with hunger that I can barely put one foot in front of the other. I take a step and stumble. Before I fall to the ground, Golmarr scoops me up into his arms. Gratitude warms my exhausted body, and I look into his eyes. They are so close that I can see the little flecks of gold around his pupils. “Are you all right?” he quietly asks.
“Just tired,” I say.
“Let me carry you for now.” I loop my arms around his neck, and he tightens his hold on me. I lay my head on his shoulder, and the Satari hoot and holler and make kissing noises as we walk.
“Carrying her over the threshold before you’re married?” Edemond says, wiggling his eyebrows as he studies my bare legs. “You know, as patriarch of the Black Blades, I have the authority to marry you. It could be part of our evening festivities. A night you would never forget.”
I choke on my own air and peer up at Golmarr’s face. His cheeks are flushed, but he is smiling down at me so intently that my heart starts thumping against my chest. “What do you think?” he asks me. “Should we give getting married a second try? I don’t think it could possibly end as badly this time around.” I study Golmarr for any hint of how I am supposed to answer that.
“We will give you your own wagon for the night, too. A honeymoon wagon,” Edemond says, stepping up to Golmarr and slapping him on the back.
“In that case, yes. Please marry us,” Golmarr answers. “The sooner the better.”