A look passes between them, an understanding that Ruti doesn’t dwell upon, and Orrin silently opens the door to Dekala’s quarters. There is no great hall here with its grand window. Instead there is a small room in which to be announced, and Dekala’s private room just beyond that. Ruti walks past the attendants, none of whom stop her, and into Dekala’s room.
The princess is dressed already, seated in front of a small table covered with all manner of ochre and makeup. Her hair is in thin coils, dozens of them falling back between two elaborate braids. Golden ochre has been threaded into her hair, which glows black and gold, like coin in the depths of the sea.
Her makeup is delicate, sweeping along her cheekbones and adding a dark warmth to her eyes, and her gown is white and sleek, a second gauze of white stretching across her shoulders and arms. She wears a golden headdress like the hair of a Maned One, jewels gleaming at its center, and Ruti drinks her in silently.
Dekala says without turning, “Mikuyi, I am parched, and Kalere tells me I am not permitted to move until she deems me perfect.”
Ruti finds a flask of water on a table and pours some into a cup as Dekala goes on, still without turning, “Not as though I can move in this dress in the first place. Ruranan custom seems to believe women should be incapacitated by their gowns.” Her voice is dry, but there is tension beneath it, a quiet dread.
Ruti walks to her with the cup, still silent, and tips the water to Dekala’s lips. Dekala’s eyes flicker upward, and her body goes rigid as she registers who has given her water. “Ruti,” she says slowly.
Ruti offers Dekala’s reflection a smirk. “You can’t get rid of me so easily,” she says. It is meant to be challenging, but it only sounds tender to Ruti’s ears.
Dekala’s voice is only a murmur, muted as Ruti’s. Mikuyi walks in, sees their eyes locked through the mirror, and lets out a little squeak before she darts out again. “I am glad you’re here,” Dekala says, and she turns, careful not to ruin her hair, and reaches out to touch Ruti’s cheek. Old arguments are swept aside in silence, with Ruti’s gaze and Dekala’s touch. For a stolen moment, they can be honest.
Ruti bears it in silence, aching with every touch, and her heart thumps painfully against her ribs. “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to reconsider this?” she tries again, her voice small. She doesn’t like being afraid for the future, awaiting further fear and heartbreak. She doesn’t like her heart in someone else’s hands.
She doesn’t have a choice. At least this time, Dekala does not fly into a rage. “I will do what I must,” she says. It is simple, quiet, but allows no argument.
Ruti dips her head. “Then I will, too,” she whispers. “And you will get what you’ve always wanted.” Dekala has spent a lifetime waiting to be queen, and today she will finally have her wish granted. The Regent has sworn it, has promised a coronation immediately after the soulbinding. Dekala will have all she’s fought for.
But there is no excitement in Dekala’s eyes as she caresses Ruti’s jaw, her hair, running her fingers through the tangled mass that Ruti hasn’t cared for properly in days. “My sweet Markless,” she says, voice only a hum, and she does not seem to care that Mikuyi is in the room again, rifling through ochres on a back table and pretending not to see them. Ruti shivers under her touch, and Dekala’s fingers retreat.
Ruti leans forward, pressing their lips together as her heart swoops in her chest, and Dekala kisses her back, a soft and mournful kiss that could very well be their last. By the end of it, her lips are smudged, the ochre running on her face where Ruti touched it, and her hair is coming free of its braids. She looks like a painting disturbed, perfection ruined by Ruti’s unmarked hands.
Dekala’s eyes are fixed on her, still as dark and striking as ever. Ruti takes a breath. “May the spirits bless your endeavors, Your Majesty,” she says, a formal farewell, and Dekala watches Ruti in silence as she retreats.
Mikuyi hurries over, clucking her tongue as she begins to undo what Ruti has done to Dekala. Ruti’s lips still burn as she slips from the room and back into the hallway where Orrin stands guard. She nods to him, hurrying away, and Orrin calls after her, “You have ochre on your lips.”
There is a tinge of both amusement and irritation in his voice, and Ruti grimaces and hurries from the hallway. She sneaks back out to the harbor to rinse off her hair and face and attempt to make herself look more passable.
She’s surprised to see Torhvin standing at the far end of the harbor with a few of his guards, dissatisfaction on his face as he stares at the unmarked ships still in the harbor. Unable to resist the taunt, she calls over to him, “They won’t be back.”
Torhvin jolts, twisting around to stare at her in amazed hatred. “You,” he grinds out. “You’re like a dog that can’t be shaken off.” His guards flank him, each one Bonded and ready to attack her. But Torhvin laughs. “Winda!” he calls.
Winda emerges from the shadows, and she isn’t alone. Kimya is with her, wrists and ankles bound, and she struggles wildly toward Ruti when she sees her. “I thought you might return,” Torhvin says smugly. “Call the little brat an insurance of mine, if you will.”
Ruti runs to Kimya without thinking, desperately glad to see her. Aside from her bindings, she looks healthy and unharmed, and Ruti wraps her arms around her as Kimya gestures half-formed signs against Ruti’s stomach while her wrists are bound. “Kimya,” Ruti breathes. “I was so worried—”
“Enough,” Torhvin orders, and Ruti has the presence of mind in that moment to slip Kimya a quiet weapon: the stone-hard vial of water from the Lake of the Carved Thousand. It might not do her any good, but a knife will be taken from her while a rock will be ignored. Call it an insurance of mine, if you will, she thinks snidely.
It drops into Kimya’s pocket just as Ruti is blasted with a belated wave of energy, Winda throwing her backward as their eyes lock for a moment. It’s a gentle enough burst of lightning that Ruti isn’t burned by it. She lands on her rear in front of Torhvin, and he smirks down at her and says, “I suggest you behave during the day to come. Winda is always a little too liberal with her gift.”
Kimya gestures again, frantic signs that Ruti reads with ease. Torhvin clears his throat. “I want this one chained up in my dungeons this time—”
Ruti gets up, running at top speed back into the palace before the guards can react. A wave of lightning misses her by a swath and the earth around her begins to shatter. She darts swiftly through the crowds inside, ducking as Torhvin’s guards give chase and winding down hallways in a rush of energy.
They still pursue her, undaunted by her speed or the others moving around them, and Ruti charges out the front door of the palace and into the massive, packed courtyard. She shoves through the crowd, ducking where she can and giving the spirits a chant for agility, and soon she is deep in the throng, unfindable. In the distance, she glimpses Torhvin’s guards splitting up, heading in opposing directions that both lead away from her.
A horn blows, and the drums sound. The sun is high in the sky, already beginning to dry Ruti’s hair. The ceremony is about to begin, and Ruti is deep in the crowd in front of the metal stage, ready to witness Dekala’s soulbinding.
Whatever signs of unease there had been from Torhvin’s strongest supporters earlier, they are not evident in the crowds who throng the courtyard.
The crowd’s cheers rise to a roar when Dekala emerges from the palace and ascends the stage, her arm on the Regent’s. Ruti can’t hear anything, not the words the Regent murmurs to Dekala or how Dekala addresses the crowd. Ruti steals forward, slipping toward the front with a wary eye cast around for the guards, and Dekala’s eyes seek her out in the audience.
Dekala smiles, smug confidence in her eyes, and Ruti’s fists ball up in new determination. She picks her way through the crowd, making her way to the very front of the stage.
Now, at least she can hear. Dekala still stands in front, flanked by the Regent and a number of guards. A set of altars has been erected in the center of the stage, offerings laid upon them for Zidesh’s Spotted One and Rurana’s Maned One. Orrin is nowhere to be found, which is unsurprising, considering what is going to happen today. There are several rows of chairs on the stage, wreathed in flowers, with Ruranan and Zideshi generals already sitting in the back. The guards take their seats while the Regent and Dekala remain standing. He speaks to her in a low voice and she smiles at him, her eyes gleaming. He looks taken aback by that.
“I am happy to be here,” she says, loud enough for Ruti to hear. “Is that so surprising to you? Soon, I will be a queen.”
The Regent nods, looking very ill. “It is what I asked of you,” he allows. His gaze flickers around the courtyard as though he’d rather be anywhere else right now. Dekala raises her chin, unbowed, and the crowd roars for her again.
It takes a few minutes of Dekala standing tall for their perusal before there’s movement at the back of the stage and Torhvin strides in. His witches and his guards are with him, Winda lurking just off the stage in Ruti’s eyeline with a small figure all but hidden behind her. Kimya wears a lengthy servant’s gown with long, wide sleeves that conceal her chains, and Ruti looks up at her and yearns to rush to the stage and seize her. This will be no place for a child.
Instead, she waits in silence as the crowd cheers for their prince. In the crowd, she sees soldiers who do not roar for Torhvin, and others she recognizes from Lower Byale who watch the stage in silence. The Markless in the crowd are numerous now, squinting in the sun, their hands clasped together. Ruti takes a breath and turns away from the audience.
A gong is struck thrice, and the crowd’s noise drops to a murmur. The Regent stands behind Dekala and Torhvin, each of them wearing a golden glove over their right hand. “It is a privilege to be here,” he says, his voice strained, “as my beloved niece finds love at last. We have searched for a long time, but never could we have imagined that her Bonded would be a man like Prince Torhvin.”
He goes on, singing Torhvin’s praises and then Dekala’s, and Torhvin beams as he looks out at his subjects. The smile falters when Ruti catches his gaze, hard and defiant, and his eyes narrow for an instant before he’s beaming at Dekala again.
“… and it is my greatest pleasure to hold this grand soulbinding for Dekala and Torhvin,” the Regent announces, and Ruti watches, her composed expression slipping just a tiny bit. Dekala slides her hand out of her glove and Ruti tenses, her heart burning with denial and despair. She craves suddenly to leap onto the stage, to run between them and seize the vial of water from Kimya to seal away Dekala’s soulbond mark forever. To stop them, to kiss Dekala, to put an end to this before it can begin.
But there is no stopping them anymore. Torhvin holds out his palm and Dekala presses hers to his. For a wild moment of hope, there is nothing, and Ruti stops breathing.
Then their joined hands glow white, and soulbinding magic washes over their hands, climbing up their arms to envelop their entire bodies. Dekala is trembling, eyes wide with awe, and Torhvin smiles in ecstasy as he keeps his hand pressed to Dekala’s. The crowd is roaring again, loud and enthusiastic in their approval, and Dekala is Bonded at last.
