style="font-size:15px;"> —but she was beautiful. Especially today.
She wore a velvet gown, the finest he’d ever seen on her. Her dark hair was gathered in thick braids entwined with golden bells. Her skin was fair, with only a hint of red on her high cheekbones. A tattoo like a vine wrapped around her forearm. As Croy watched, it bloomed with pink wisteria flowers. It was not a tattoo at all, he knew, and it betokened something darker than ornament. It was her curse—or perhaps her gift—that she could absorb magic into her skin. Curses or baleful spells cast against her would manifest themselves as painted vines and flowers on her body, blossoms that were never still. Once those painted blooms had been like chains which bound her to her dead father, the dread sorcerer Hazoth. Croy—with Malden’s help, of course, he could never forget the debt he owed the thief—had laid the sorcerer low and freed Cythera from that slavery. In gratitude Cythera had agreed to marry Croy and make him happy. Now, wherever they’d come from, the painted vines seemed to only enhance her delicate beauty.
She entered the tavern below to much comment and acclaim from the men in the common room. She must have made some small jest, for Croy heard the men laughing in response. Then he heard her footfalls coming up the stairs.
The door opened and a boy showed her into the private room, where Croy and Malden stood together waiting for her.
She smiled for them both, and let them kiss her hands.
Croy tried to speak, but then he grimaced with pain as he heard a man in the common room announce he was going to be sick.
“Boy,” Malden said, snapping his fingers for service, “close that door. We like not all this noise.” The serving boy rushed to do as he was told.
Croy opened his mouth again, intending to speak, and found he could not. His tongue would not lift from the floor of his mouth.
For a moment the two of them just looked at each other. Croy tried to smile and felt his lips tremble, so he pressed them together tightly enough to still them. This served only to make a flat, grim line of his mouth, as if he dreaded what was to come next.
Cythera’s face fell.
“Give me a kind word, Croy,” Cythera begged. She reached forward to take his hands. “Tell me I look beautiful, please. I spent so long coming to this favor. I put on this uncomfortable dress. All for you.”
He drew back a pace and stared at her. How could he be so nervous, now? He could scarcely credit it. He felt as if his feet were not touching the floor, as if his legs dangled in empty air. He’d been working toward this day since the first time they’d met, years ago. He’d slain monsters for her hand, had brought her and her mother out of sorcerous slavery to reach this exact moment. He’d never lacked for courage before.
Now, it seemed, he had not the bravery to even open his mouth. “You,” he managed to stammer out, “look—”
There were no more words in his head. He could not speak.
“When he saw you from the window,” Malden told her, “he used up every word he knew, words like ‘enchanting’, ‘divine’, and—of course—‘beautiful.’”
Croy stared at his friend, unsure of what was happening.
The thief raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in Cythera’s direction. What was he trying to communicate? Croy was unsure.
After a pause for breath, Malden went on. “He even swore on the Lady’s holy name that he had been struck through the heart, by that invisible arrow whose wound no physic can heal, save the kiss of the archer.”
From below came the sound of an old drinking song, sung well off key.
Cythera didn’t seem to notice the music. “He said all that, did he?” she asked.
“Indeed, milady,” Malden said, and bowed.
“Well, then he has said enough. Would someone be kind enough to pour me a cup of wine? I think I need to sit down. This corset is tighter than what I’m used to.”
Malden rushed to help her. Croy couldn’t move. She sipped at the wine the thief offered her and gave him a smile of thanks.
“When my mother arrives, we can get this formality out of the way and then—” Cythera stopped speaking then because the serving boy had let out a stifled yelp. “Ah,” she said, not turning in her chair to look. “That must be her now.”
The witch Coruth stepped out of the hearth and brushed sparks from her cloak. She must have come down the chimney in the form of a bird, Croy thought. He supposed if you were a witch you didn’t need to travel in the way of common people.
Coruth had a wild tangle of iron gray hair and a nose so sharp it cut through the air like a ship’s prow through the sea. She stared around at each of them, with an especially long and pointed glance at Malden, and then said, “Why is the thief here?”
“The law requires a witness,” Cythera said. “After all, this is a legal contract of marriage. Once I sign it, I will be bound to marry Croy, or suffer quite severe penalties.” She gestured at the roll of parchment. “Malden was kind enough to offer his services.”
Coruth’s thin mouth curved upwards in a smile like a sharpened sickle. She was staring still at Malden, who couldn’t seem to meet her gaze. Croy wondered what the witch found so amusing. Then again, he told himself, maybe he didn’t want to know. The things witches found entertaining were not always pleasant for common folk. “Handy fellow, your thief. What’s that singing?”
“We are above the public room of a tavern,” Cythera explained.
“Hmm. Well, then what are we waiting for? Sign this thing, and then we can eat.” Coruth sat down heavily in one of the chairs.
“Yes, of course.” Cythera picked up one of the pens and smoothed the parchment out with her other hand. Then she stared down at the banns and laughed. “It’s odd, I can’t seem to make out the words. I have tears in my eyes, yes, that must be it. Tears. Of joy. Sir knight, would you come over here, please, and show me where to put my name?”
Croy’s head snapped upward and he blinked rapidly. Suddenly he felt in possession of his own body once more. He rushed to stand behind her and put one hand on her shoulder—her very warm and very soft shoulder—as together they looked down at the paper.
“My love,” he said, “you seem ill at ease. I think I know why.”
“You … do?” Cythera said. Strangely enough she glanced over at Malden as she said it. Croy wondered why. Perhaps she was hoping the thief would give her his support, as well.
“Yes, of course,” Croy said. “After waiting so long, this day must seem like a dream. After all you’ve been through, all the suffering and hardship. But I assure you, once you sign this paper, I will take full responsibility for you.”
“Responsibility,” Cythera said, very softly, but she lowered her head so the bells in her hair jingled.
Words came easily to him, now. Perhaps too easily—they spilled off his tongue before he’d even thought of them.
“In full. I will protect you,” he promised. “I will never let you near any harm, ever again. I will whisk you
