She lay across the bed, looking up at the great beams along the ceiling. Then she let her eyes close as she thought of Alexander—his face, his eyes, the warmth of his hands. She could almost feel them around hers. A tear fell from the corner of her eye to her soft locks underneath.
A knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts, and she sat up as she wiped her face. Would this be how she spent her time—constantly answering her door? She opened it to see her guard. Not the nice one.
“We will escort you down to the celebration.”
Her brows drew together in confusion. “So soon? It’s barely midday.”
“Yes, but it’s already started.”
“Oh.” She felt a wave of anxiousness. She wasn’t one for social celebrations, especially ones celebrating her, especially ones celebrating her unfortunate marriage. “Will it last all day?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Wonderful,” she mumbled to herself. “Give me a moment.”
She closed her door and leaned back against it, inhaling deep breaths. Celebrations were better than war, she told herself. That’s why she was doing this. This was best for Mercia.
Not for her.
But she couldn’t think about herself. Not just because she couldn’t be selfish, but she had to control her emotion. Maybe she could pretend it was someone else’s marriage. Yes, someone else’s. She went to the vanity, wiping her face and tucking a few wayward locks behind her ear.
“Someone else’s marriage,” she said to her reflection. “I’m very happy for them. May they have a long life, much happiness, many children”—wait, no—“No children.”
Then she let out a breath and opened the door, waving the guard to lead her.
People filled the hall from end to end, and her eyes widened as she entered. The magnitude of it all was overwhelming. Everyone grew quiet with her arrival, and all eyes fell on her. Someone else’s marriage. She forced herself forward.
Her wandering gaze found the king seated at the large center table at the front of the hall, and he stood when he saw her. He picked up his chalice and held it high, and the room erupted in clapping as the crowd parted for her. She made her way toward him.
His eyes smiled. “Please,” he said, motioning to the chair beside him.
A servant pulled out the chair as she took her seat.
He sat down beside her. “I’m happy to see you, North Queen.”
“Good,” she said smartly, but gave him a small smile.
His eyes lingered on her. “I thought you might be angry with me for how we left our conversation last evening.”
She looked down at her hands. The thought of not being able to return to Mercia still tore her heart from her. “More… sad.”
He shifted in his chair, and his mouth opened to speak, but he said nothing. He looked out across the celebrating hall, then back to her. His brows drew together. “You’re sad?” He leaned back in his chair. “But you’ll be salara.”
As if the two weren’t the same.
He let out an unsettled breath. “You’ll return to the North again. I promise you this.”
She straightened in her chair. When?
“But tonight, I want you to enjoy yourself,” he told her, looking out across the great hall. “Celebrate. We’re to be married.”
Did he have to remind her? Norah noticed the king’s mother was absent from the festivities. She wondered how long she’d have to endure before she could excuse herself. Could she excuse herself from her own wedding celebration? She glanced around—was there at least some food?
Three women approached. They lined up before the king and gave a low bow. They were beautiful, with dark honeyed skin, hair like black silk, and large brown eyes. Sisters, maybe? Her gaze moved over the ornate embroidery of their dresses, the gold around their wrists, and the adornments in their hair. Women of status.
“Salara,” Mikael told them, introducing her.
The women smiled politely at her, giving another low bow.
“Myral, Rasha, and Heta,” he said to Norah. “They’ll be with you in the villa, where you’ll stay once we’re wed.”
Royals maintaining separate spaces wasn’t surprising; it was customary in Mercia as well. Forced friends—odd—but Norah liked the idea of not being entirely alone. “We’ll be good friends, then,” she told them, giving a polite smile.
The women bowed again and then left as gracefully as they had come.
A string of music caught her ear, and she glanced up to see a dancer in the center of the hall. Norah took in a breath of astonishment at her clothing, or rather, her lack of clothing. The woman wore only braided weaves of richly patterned cloth around her hips and small bells that jingled with each movement. Beaded bracelets wrapped her wrists, and she shook them in unison to the rhythm of the music. Heavily beaded adornments covered her neck, with intricately woven strands cascading over her chest. The nipples of her bare breasts were pierced with small golden rings.
Norah’s eyes widened as the woman moved her hips to the fluted song. She’d never seen anything so brazen. Such entertainment in Mercia would be the ruin of a good name. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but she couldn’t look away. The dancer had lighter hair, blonde, like her Northmen. Norah wondered where she was from.
“She’s beautiful, yes?” Mikael said as he watched the dancer.
“Um…” She swallowed, unsure how to answer. Despite her discomfort, she was mesmerized. The dancer flowed with the music, her body rolling like the waves of the sea. She was light on her feet, as if she weren’t held by the pull of the earth. Her eyes locked with Norah’s. She was close enough for Norah to see their emerald depths. The woman smiled.
The dancer spun, and Norah finally broke from her hold. She glanced at Mikael, only to find him watching her.
“You like her?” he asked. His eyes flashed with amusement.
Norah’s cheeks flushed, like she’d been caught. She swallowed back her embarrassment. “I’ve just never seen anything like her.”
“She’s all the way from Elam, given as a gift to Japheth’s King Gregor, but I won her from him in a bet.” He smiled, smugly pleased with himself.
Disgust knotted in her stomach. She found nothing pleasing about gifting or betting human beings. Bitterness rippled across her tongue. “Do people’s lives mean nothing to you?” she said before she could stop herself.
His smile faded. “She’s a slave.”
“She’s a person,” Norah snapped.
Anger flashed across his face at her rebuke; he was clearly unaccustomed to being chastised, but he didn’t respond. He only sat for a moment, then gave a small wave of his hand. The music died. He called out in the Shadow tongue, and the dancer stopped. She looked at Norah with a troubled face.
“What are you doing?” Norah asked him.
The dancer bowed low and quickly left the hall.
“What’s going to happen to her?” she asked, her alarm growing.
“Whatever you decide. She’s yours now.”
She sat back in her chair. “What?” Was he serious? No—he couldn’t be. Was he? “I don’t want her.”