Shield of Sparrows

The castle’s sanctuary was stuffy and hot. The scents of smoke and incense were so potent they singed my nostrils as Father escorted me through the carved doors.

Margot and Mae walked behind us, side by side. A stream of guards followed, the sound of their collective footfalls echoing through the dark, cramped space.

There were no windows to let in the sunlight. This sanctuary had been carved into the rocks below the castle as a place for people to worship the gods during the migration. The pews were empty tonight, but when the crux flew, the wooden benches would likely serve as both seats and beds to those who’d shelter within these walls.

I’d always planned to be with them. To spend the months of the migration in the rooms adjacent to the sanctuary that were reserved for Father and his family.

Was there a stronghold in Turah? Caverns and tunnels beneath the castle in Allesaria? Was that where they were hiding the information about the crux Father was after? Maybe there wasn’t even a castle in Allesaria.

I’d find out soon enough.

The sanctuary was illuminated by hundreds of candelabras that battled against the dark shadows. When I was a girl, I’d asked a cleric how long it took them to light all of the candles each day. He’d told me that they never extinguished the flames, only replaced the candles that burned out—that way, they’d never be lost to Oda’s gaze.

When I’d asked why they didn’t just go outside to worship the Father, he scowled and summoned my tutor.

I’d learned two things that day. One: the sanctuary wasn’t a great place to hide from my teachers. Two: the clerics weren’t overly fond of the sun.

They didn’t seem to venture far from their quarters in the castle, and since I avoided their two-hour vigils each evening at all costs, we rarely crossed paths.

I’d expected to see at least the Head Cleric tonight, this being a wedding ceremony and all, but the sanctuary was empty save for the two Voster priests already standing at the altar. Maybe their magic scared away the clerics.

The pinpricks on my skin were instant. Insufferable. And Quentin weddings were often three-hour affairs. I wasn’t sure I could suffer through this sensation for that long.

“Where are the clerics?” I asked, my voice low enough for only Father to hear.

“There will not be a ceremony. Only the marriage decree and signing of the treaty.”

“Oh.” Why did I sound disappointed? At least this would be over quickly. Though that would mean I wouldn’t have hours to delay joining Prince Zavier in his bedroom.

Did each Sparrow dread their wedding night this much? If I told Zavier I had a headache—not a lie—would he leave me alone? My insides roiled. Margot had told me to eat something earlier, but I’d refused. Maybe I should have scarfed down a plate of crackers and cheese. If I vomited bile on Zavier’s boots at the altar, would he change his mind about this bride prize?

We stopped ten feet from the altar, and Father slipped out of my hold, leaving me with Margot and Mae as he went to speak to Brother Dime. They bent their heads together, voices too low for me to overhear.

I shifted so close to Mae that we touched, and something hard pressed against my side.

“How many knives do you have stashed in your gown?” I asked.

“A few. Why? Want to borrow one for your wedding night?” she whispered.

I pulled in my lips to hide a smile.

Father nodded to the High Priest, then turned to the guards at the sanctuary’s entrance. With a wave of his hand, they opened the doors, and a heartbeat later, the Turans walked inside.

Zavier entered first, wearing the same attire he’d been in earlier. No finery or tailored coat. He looked more like one of his rangers than a prince, save for the silver circlet across his brow that glittered in the candlelight.

His four warriors trailed behind him, their expressions as solid and unreadable as their leader’s. They seemed even larger than they had in the throne room. Deadlier.

“Sending you to Turah is a suicide mission,” Mae murmured. There was genuine worry in her voice.

“Better me than you.” I clasped her hand. Even with all her training, it would have been dangerous for Mae.

“No. Better me than you.” She squeezed my hand once, then pulled away.

As with hugs, Mae wasn’t the hand-holding type, either.

The last to enter the sanctuary was the Guardian. He ambled, his pace slower and more deliberate than the others, like he wouldn’t be hurried down the aisle. His gaze was that hard, stony hazel. When it landed on me, the corner of his mouth turned up.

Smirking ass.

How much luck would I need to wipe it off his face? If I ever managed to catch him off guard, I’d sure try.

Maybe I could slip him poison. Add a few drops into a cup of wine when he wasn’t watching. He seemed like the kind of man who was always watching, but still…

A girl could dream on her wedding day.

Father snapped his fingers, my cue to join him at the altar.

Mae nudged my elbow with hers as I lifted my skirts, and then I walked to Father’s outstretched hand. He guided me up both steps until I was on the platform and standing beside a wooden table with a parchment scroll stretched across its smooth, glossy surface.

The Shield of Sparrows.

My stomach did another spin. This was really happening, wasn’t it? There was no going back.

The treaty was simple and unadorned. Just ink on paper in a neat, clean script.

Ink. And blood.

I scanned the words on the treaty, my heart sinking deeper and deeper until it was resting beside my slippers. Zavier and I would sign this with our blood, and the Voster would seal it with their magic. Turah and Quentis would be tied together by this union. By the children I’d bear.

The document was the length of my arm, the script small but legible as it filled most of the parchment. Our ancestors had been thorough, I’d give them that. Was I supposed to read all of this?

The Turan rangers stopped beside Mae and Margot as Zavier climbed the stairs, taking his position at my side. The heat from his arm warmed mine. He smelled of soap and cedar.

It was nice. Clean and woodsy. At least he didn’t stink of horses or other women.

Zavier’s profile was granite, his eyes sweeping across the decree, line by line.

Okay, so we were reading this now.

I started at the top, but the sentences blended together. The words blurred. It might as well have been written in the old language that the clerics still used at times. There were too many eyes watching for me to concentrate, and that damn Voster magic was irritating my skin.

Focus, Odessa. I drew in a deep breath, closed my eyes for a long moment, then started again. If I was signing this thing in blood, I should at least have an idea of what was written.

The beginning explained the history of the treaty. The obligation of the five kingdoms to offer a king, or future king, and a Sparrow every generation.

The first bride’s name had been Sparrow, hence the treaty’s name and why the woman offered every generation had since been called the Sparrow. Her father, the Turan king, had given her as a bride to his sworn enemy, the Genesis king.

Would I learn about the original Sparrow in Turah? Did they praise her sacrifice for her kingdom? Was she honored with statues and paintings? Or had she been forgotten like the others from generations lost?

A Sparrow from Ozarth had been given to my great-great-grandfather. I didn’t know her name or if she’d been a good queen. Did Mae know who she was? Maybe if I’d been given time to prepare for this, I could have done some research.

I sighed. If I didn’t know about her, then she probably hadn’t been a bad queen.

Father cleared his throat, likely sensing that my mind was wandering.

I blinked, refocusing on the page.

Trade obligations. Stipulations forbidding one kingdom from invading another. And then, the laws that bound husband to wife.

A King cannot kill his Sparrow, and a Sparrow cannot kill her King, either directly or indirectly, without death befalling them both.

Death.

The word leaped off the parchment. Whatever magic the Voster held in their veins, when they infused it into this decree, when it mingled with our blood, I would die if I killed Zavier.

Good to know.

Beneath the declarations were five scrawled names. The signatures of the five original kings. Their blood hadn’t faded over time. It looked as dark as ink, as fresh as if it had been signed moments ago, not centuries.

The kings who had followed didn’t need to agree to these terms. It had been done for them by those original five. Any man who wore a crown was obligated to adhere.

Being king came with rules. The rules outlined in this treaty.

Sure, there were squabbles, especially along borders between nations. But kings were expected to maintain peace.

And the magic that radiated off the parchment enforced its intent.

There weren’t lines and lines of specific dos and don’ts. Maybe that’s what made the treaty so terrifying. And brilliant.

Kings had to interpret what it meant to enforce this treaty’s will. They had to play nicely with their fellow rulers. Except who decided what was nice?noveldrama

The vague, invisible limitations meant rulers were on their best behavior at all times. If not, they’d be dead.

Father had told me that treaties could be broken. How? This magic was too powerful. Too old. It rippled off the parchment, adding to the sting of the Voster’s magic as he stood watch over the treaty. If Father truly intended to bring troops to Allesaria, the moment he acted, this ancient magic would take his life. Wouldn’t it?

Father cleared his throat again. “Are you finished?”

I nodded, eyes fixed on the names etched beneath those of the five kings.

Tanis Oak

Sparrow Wolfe

The first king. The first Sparrow.

Wasn’t it ironic that Genesis royals were named for a tree when they weren’t known for their lumber?

Beneath Tanis and Sparrow’s names were a litany of others. More Oaks. More Wolfes. Crosses, Harrows, and Kasans. Each of the royal last names was included.

It was a list three hundred years in the making.

And soon, it would include mine.

“What happens when there’s no more room on this page? Will you move signatures to the back?”

Father growled. “Odessa.”

“Sorry.” I gave him an exaggerated frown.

He knew I asked questions when I was nervous. Honestly, he should have expected it.

I ducked my chin, feeling the heat of numerous gazes on my cheeks. When I risked a glance up, every pair of male eyes was aimed my way. Even the Voster’s.

Were the priests men? We called them the brotherhood, but had anyone asked their preference?

I kept those questions inside and looked to Zavier.

Unlike the others, he was still staring straight ahead at the wall. Expressionless.

Was he this blasé about everything? Or just this marriage? Why claim a bride prize if you didn’t want anything to do with said bride?

A low chuckle filled the room.

My attention whipped to the source.

The Guardian.

How was any of this funny? I gave him my fiercest glare.

He laughed again.

Poison. I was definitely poisoning that man. Was it bad to plot someone’s murder while you were in a sanctuary for the gods? I mentally signed the Eight, just in case.

The Guardian, still wearing that smirk, nodded to the High Priest. Why did the jackass act like he was in charge of this disaster?

“We will begin.” The High Priest’s smooth voice was at odds with his prickling magic.

Zavier turned to face me, holding out his hands. For the first time, the empty expression cracked, and he gave me a tight smile.

Well, at least he wasn’t laughing.

I wiped my clammy palms on my skirt before I placed them in his, one bandaged in a cloth like mine. Then I met his moss-green eyes. They were alert and assessing. He studied me as if he could read every thought racing through my mind.

Maybe he could pluck out a few of my questions and give me some hints.

“Odessa Cross.” As the High Priest spoke, I stood taller, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Do you vow to uphold the Shield of Sparrows with your union to Zavier Wolfe, prince and future king of Turah?”

What would Father do if I refused? I’d endured enough of his punishments in my lifetime that I didn’t want to find out.

My eyes darted to Father. He didn’t so much as blink back, but the unspoken command in his gaze was unmistakable.

Vow it. Now.

Panic bubbled in my chest, my breaths short and shallow. Forget vomiting at my wedding, I might pass out.

It was too hard to hold Father’s stare, so I glanced around the altar, looking first to Zavier, then the Voster priests. My gaze landed on the Guardian. On the challenge waiting in his swirling silver eyes.

Was I going to speak or not?

“I, Odessa Cross, make this vow.” It came out in a rush. A whisper.

“Zavier Wolfe,” the High Priest continued. “Do you vow to uphold the Shield of Sparrows with your union to Odessa Cross, princess of Quentis and future queen of Turah?”

Zavier waved a hand to the Guardian.

“Will you speak on his behalf?” the High Priest asked.

“Yes. I speak on the prince’s behalf.” The Guardian’s baritone timbre filled the sanctuary. It was deeper than it had been in the throne room. It held an edge sharper than any of Mae’s blades. “Zavier Wolfe makes this vow.”

The High Priest reached into a pocket of his robe, retrieving a simple quill. He held it out with long, gnarled fingers and those curled nails.

Father took it from his grip and pulled the vial of my blood from his pocket. With a push of his thumb on the cork, it popped free. He handed me both.

A vow was one thing. A verbal promise that could be broken. This was the real choice. To sign my name. Once it was on that treaty, there was no going back.

I hesitated, staring at the names laid out before me. How many of those brides had gone unwillingly? They’d made their sacrifices for their kingdoms. For the good of Calandra. For peace.

If they could do it, then so could I.

Squaring my shoulders, I dipped the quill into my blood and pressed it to the paper, my hand steadier than it should have been as I wrote my name.

Odessa Cross

Eleven letters. And my life would never be the same.

I gave the quill to Zavier, unable to meet his gaze as he took it from my grip.

He pulled a vial of his blood from his pocket, holding it so tightly in his fist that I feared the glass would crack. It was the same fist wrapped with a cloth, similar to mine.

We’d have matching scars after this.

Without delay, he dipped the quill and signed his name with a flick of his wrist.

The air rushed from my lungs, a wave of dizziness making me unsteady.

The High Priest took the quill, tucking it into the same pocket of his robes. Then he closed his eerie eyes and placed both hands on the decree. Magic flared like invisible sparks, bombarding me from every direction, burning through my dress, sinking into my skin.

I slammed my eyes closed and gritted my teeth to keep from crying out as I rode the wave of pain until it ebbed.

“It is done.”

My eyes flew open at Brother Dime’s statement.

The High Priest was already rolling up the decree, stowing it in a black leather sleeve. Without another word, he and Brother Dime descended the altar and left the sanctuary.

That was it? We were done? It was over, and I was married?

There’d been no fanfare. No ceremony. No kiss.

Zavier was staring at the wall again, jaw clenched like a ten-minute wedding had been too long.

My husband.

I was his wife.

And he couldn’t look at me.

Numbness crept into my limbs. Coldness settled on my skin.

“We shall honor your marriage with a feast.” Father extended an arm toward the sanctuary’s doors, motioning for us to go first.

He was usually the last to leave a room, save his guards, to ensure no one could stab him in the back.

Zavier tore his gaze from the wall and settled it on Father. With a quick shake of his head, he declined the feast.

Fine by me. My stomach was too twisted for food. Though the idea of wine, a lot of wine, didn’t sound so bad.

Zavier stared down at me, inching closer. My heart climbed into my throat as he took my chin between his index finger and thumb, tilting it up.

An expression flashed in those green eyes. Finally, he showed some emotion. Too bad I couldn’t tell what it was. Sadness, maybe? Pity? Both?

He brushed his mouth across my cheek. Then he was gone, his hand falling to his side, as he looked over his shoulder to the Guardian. Like they had in the throne room, the two men shared a silent conversation. Then Zavier nodded once and walked off the altar.

His rangers fell into step behind him, marching for the doors.

Was I supposed to go with them? Now that this was over, who did I belong with? The Quentins? Or the Turans?

Father’s hands fisted at his sides. His nostrils flared as Zavier disappeared from sight.

My father was a powerful king and unaccustomed to being slighted. Since Zavier had arrived, he’d refused Father at every turn.

I had no envy for the person who’d be on the receiving end of his terrible mood. I really, really hoped it wouldn’t be me.

Stepping forward, I was about to follow after the Turans out of the sanctuary—definitely not to follow Zavier to his wing. No, my plan was to ditch this dress and sneak out of the castle. Except before I could descend the altar, a low chuckle made me stop.

That damn laugh was getting all too familiar.

I whirled. “Yes?”

The Guardian remained by the table, arms crossed over his broad chest, that signature smirk firm on his lips. “Eager to chase Zavier to his room, my queen?”

Margot’s gasp filled the sanctuary as heat flamed in my cheeks.

Now it was my turn to fist my hands at my sides. To grind my molars together so hard my jaw ached.

Poison was too good for the Guardian. Too easy. I was going to kill that man with my own two hands. Maybe a knife sliced across his throat while he was sleeping. Or an arrow shot straight through his heart while he was enjoying his midday meal.

Whatever fury he saw in my eyes only made that arrogant grin widen.

He shoved off the table, not sparing my father a glance as he passed me for the stairs. “Enjoy your last night in Quentis, Sparrow. We sail at dawn.”