A Queen Named Victory

Chapter Nine

I rubbed my skin again. The faint visions of three mysterious figures fileting belly fat, filling wounds with ground ashes, then magically sewing me up was a fuzzy memory. It was a dream that one forgets as soon as they wake up. My attendants weighed me down with a thick woven skirt with shades that matched the earthy tones of an evening sunlit forest. They restrained my breasts with a woven scarf that exposed my newly branded belly for all to see.

The craftsman behind their ceremonial attire had to be dwarven because both the top and long skirt were too complex for human fingers to weave, let alone for human eyes to admire. I ignored my eagerness to run my hands over the intricately arranged jewels out of fear of popping them out of place or ripping the little gold and silver threads. Ameera, the only attendant who spoke to me in my language, directed me down a dark hallway. Few glowing torches lined the wall with a faint flickering fire. Its small flames danced with every precious thread and jewel on my attire.

"You're shorter than I thought," said an armor-clad Dimikyr. I strained my neck to look up at her. She circled me like a hungry lynx observing an unsuspecting mountain hare. She definitely ate men for the pleasure of it. She bared her fangs in distaste and flicked her tail. I ignored her gage for a reaction, instead, I lifted my head without meeting her eyes.

She briefly described the ceremony. Hearing words so familiar in such an unfamiliar place was oddly soothing. Dimikyrs spoke with rough and violent tones. Their words were not easily spoken by humans. Some mimicked the eerie high-pitch screeches of snow owls, the low growls of scavenging bears, and beastly grumbles of angry wolverines.

"Stand tall. Be strong," the warrior interrupted my observations. She interlaced her arm with mine. Together we headed through the massive stone doors into a grand hall unlike any I had ever seen before.

Polished crystal walls sparkled under the colorful balls of hovering fire. Hundreds of large cut jewels and precious metal pendants dangled from antler chandeliers. The hall hosted hundreds of finely dressed forest folk of all types. Some were unnaturally tall elves with fragile limbs and stout dwarves with bulging muscles. My veil blurred most of my vision, but what I saw took my breath away. My leather sandals slapped against the polished stone floor when I neared the center of the crowd. Faking confidence came easily when I had a thin fabric covering my face from the crowd's watchful eyes.

My partner sat in the center of the circle with his back towards me. He looked more like a statue than a living being. To my surprise, his shirtless back bared the same carved scar as my belly. He had an unusual skin tone similar to a cloudy sky before a rainstorm with hints of moss. I pushed the sense of satisfaction at the sight of our matching scars to the farthest pit of my mind. I sat parallel to him with my body facing the opposite direction to the other half of the surrounding crowd. A circle of drummers waited until I placed my hands palm-up on my knees to being their drumroll.

"You're beautiful," the Dimikyr murmured.

"Do you have eyes behind your head as well?"

A horrifying figure cut off our exchange when it appeared in a sudden cloud of smoke in front of us. I initially thought it wore an entire bodice of beads as its ceremonial garb. But as the shaman neared to me, the bones became more distinct. Many creatures perished to be a fragment of her garb. How many of them were human? Her crown of antlered skulls turned slowly as she dragged a short dagger over her skin. She suddenly thrust it in the center of her chest.

The crowd stilled. The pounding drums ceased when the first drizzle of blood seeped from the wound. Thick black liquid cascaded over bones and fell onto the stone floor. She pushed a frail hand deeper into her open wound. Her bones cracked, and her innards gurgled. She edged the crowd to display her wild act as she slowly pulled out a sword's hilt. It followed with a long blade unsullied by her blood. Soft oohs and aahs escaped eager onlookers. Some even bent forward to see the remaining gap fuse back to normal.

She placed the sword on my palms. Its sudden weight strained my legs. I would have dropped it if it were not for my position on the floor. The blade itself also was so sharp that the slightest pressure could easily slice my finger off. My aching back begged the shaman to hurry with whatever the hell she was saying and put an end to my struggle with the heavy sword. My forearms burned. The wafting smoke from burning incense itched my throat. I'd rather jump off a horse again than deal with this. A tear of relief welled at the corner of my eye as she retrieved the sword, releasing me of its weight.

My Dimikyr groom rose and held his hand for me to take. The shaman guided us with the sword in hand to a set of thrones carved from the center crystal wall. Intricate metal weaponry incased thousands of ancient skeletal fragments. Many were human. I hesitated.

His hand gently squeezed my fingers. It was his sign for reassurance, but it did little to calm my nerves. I did not sign a contract to be a queen. Marrying him tethered me to the castle, the kingdom, and his people. Nobility came with a pair of shackles. It voided my end of the contract and, without a doubt, I'd have to produce an heir immediately.

The shaman's nails grazed my neck before she plucked the single strand of hair. She held both up for the crowd. She dramatically paused between tying the hair around the leather-wrapped tang. Dimikyrs nervously waited for her next move. Then she waved her hand over the stone.

Four large stones formed stairs leading to the top of my groom's towering throne. She tied the other end of the hair to the gold hook and held the sword in place with a single finger above his head. With her free hand, she pressed her third finger to her thumb, announcing, "Miyred enkyre, eskyonde du maegice!" A dark shadow cast the room into an eerie trance. It drained the crowd of their energy. She depleted the room of its magic.

It all made sense now. Humans who survived magical encounters, especially people who encountered Dimikyr magic, weren't held captive by the Dimikyrs themselves. No, they fell into an inescapable hole. They drowned themselves with Dimikyr magic. They stayed by choice. Their magic warmed the heart and colored their world.

Without it, our surroundings grew bleak to the point of madness. Disappointment tugged on my heart with this sudden awareness. How did I enjoy living without the beauty of their magic? My life before seemed so dull and unworthy. I blinked away those intruding thoughts.

That is how they control you, Sigrid. Remember who you are.

The shaman moved her finger, and every eye in the hall watched the sword plummet. I could not bear to watch the performance when, mere moments ago, I felt the weight of that sword. It forced every fiber in my body to hold it up. How could a single strand of hair stand between imminent death? Even I knew better than to foresee that trick to work, magic or not. I closed my eyes and waited for the sound of death. He would not survive the weight of that sword. Gruesome visions of the blade splitting him in half crossed my mind.

He will die.

Silence met me when I opened my eyes. Not a soul in the room dared to breathe. No one shuffled in their seats or anxiously tapped their feet. We were statues in a dimly lit hall. At once, the room erupted into a craze filled with piercing cheers and congratulatory whoops. Birdsongs and hoots joined the low thunderous drumming. I gaped at my groom.

My single strand of hair held the massive sword over the tip of his head.

It worked.

The shaman released her pressed fingers and the room instantly shifted back into the magical place it was before her spell. Fairy wings shimmered again and elven hair glowed like the moon. Dwarven jewelry refected colorful rainbows.

"She gives us her blessings," my groom translated the Shaman's low growls. He flashed a heartfelt smile and lifted our clasped hands in the direction of the celebrating crowd.