Aureate Fates

21

  NOT YET A BRIDE    

    —MARISOL—

Delphinia had briefed Marisol on what would be expected of her tomorrow. A bright smile and a straight back. Soft touches and quiet tones.

"A Verskyian Queen is light on her feet, and kind when she speaks," Delphinia had said, standing by the window in Marisol's massive bedroom. "Kind to everyone," she added as an afterthought.

Kind to everyone. Marisol had expressed her disapproval at such an absurd thing. Not everyone deserved her kindness. Not men like Eugene. Not people who dared to make her feel small.

After Delphinia had told her the rigid itinerary designed for tomorrow, Marisol wondered why she had ever agreed to fulfill this prophecy with its endless list of demands. Though, she did enjoy the silk mattress that it came with.

The Oracle bowed, then left, leaving a frazzled Marisol behind. Hours bled into the warm night. She wrote her second letter to Jaak, telling him about Risa and how the castle may have been haunted. She stopped midway as a knock sounded at her door, interrupting her flow of thought.

Marisol stilled, and eased to her feet. She pulled her robe tighter around her as she called out a, "Come in." The guards outside her door wouldn't have let anyone unauthorized inside.

She had snuck a blade from Erik's boot last night while he freshened up inside the spacious bathroom—and had kept it under a rug ever since. So far, he hadn't detected its absence. Having no blades of her own in a foreign palace was a dangerous idea, and she didn't enjoy being defenseless. The blade was an Orvar weapon, branded with the silver seal.

Marisol reached for the blade beneath the auburn rug near the hearth, but stopped short.

Thema, the small High Priestess shuffled inside, carrying a tray of tarts and jams. Marisol gave her a quizzical glance.

"I brought treats," Thema announced, setting the tray on the tea table near the couches, where Erik slept.

"Brought or stole?" Marisol asked, taking cautious steps towards Thema and taking one fruit tart in her mouth. Sour kiwi and sweet honey.

Thema sat gracefully on the couch, ankles crossed, and picked up a grape. "It's not stealing if it's for you, Marisol. They're for your wedding."

Marisol stopped her chewing, suddenly wanting to discard the sweetness in her mouth. "Fair."

She had only one brief encounter with the girl in front of her, yet Thema presented herself with the ease that only a very old friend would possess.

Marisol took a seat beside her on the couch while a warm breeze brought the scents of the forest through her window. "I hear you'll be the one marrying Erik and I, tomorrow. Sealing the bond."

With the death of the old High Priest, Thema was anointed with the power of High Priestess-hood. The leader of the Verskyian church, and the highest respected soul in the land.

At least, she was supposed to be.

But the council still seemed to brush the girl off as nothing more than a pinprick of dust. Once Marisol was officially queen, she'd have a nice chat with the council, because she doubted Erik would ever champion for Thema.

Thema, with her deep brown skin and eager green eyes only shrugged, like she had nothing resting on those shoulders. "Guess I am," she said, sweetly, taking a tart in her mouth, and giving an approving nod at the taste.

Marisol had very few friends in Ziralem. She never trusted anyone enough to lock her secret away—the blood-churning. Therefore, she didn't have the wisdom to decipher Thema's intentions. Friendship?