“Now, drink this,” he ordered, retrieving the goblet and setting it in front of her. He watched her carefully, both amused and a little irritated as her expression turned mutinous.
“What does it do?” she demanded.
“It takes away your words,” he said patiently. “Most magic depends on the right words, so this will block you from attempting defensive spells and charms. I know, I know, you can’t work spells and charms, but you have to drink it, anyway.”
“What if I don’t?” Kate asked mulishly.
“Do you see this?” Marak asked. Part of the cup rim was shaped like a metal whistle. “I grab your hair, and I yank your head back, and I wedge this between your teeth. Then I pour the drink down your throat. It’s not that hard, really.” Kate glared indignantly at his impassive expression.
“Kate,” said the goblin, “remember what I told you. You offered to do this. This was all your choice. It’ll help you to think about that. It won’t make any difference in the outcome of the ceremony, but you’ll feel better about it, and you’ll keep up your courage.”
Kate lifted the goblet and took a small sip. Then she paused. What if I just refuse to swallow? she thought stubbornly.
Marak grinned at her. “It’s already worked. It just needs to touch your tongue. You can spit it out if you want to.” Glowering desperately, Kate swallowed with an effort. “That’s it, then,” he said, turning toward the inner door. “You’re all set to go to the women now and get ready. Remember, they won’t talk to you, and you can’t talk to them. And any frantic flailing around you do is sure to be palace gossip for years.”
“How perfectly barbaric,” Kate sneered. At least, that’s what she intended to say. What she actually said was, “Aaah.”
“Exactly,” said Marak approvingly. “I’m locking this door behind you, so your magic spells won’t work, anyway. The only way out is at the other end of the women’s chamber, and that’s where I’ll be waiting when you’re ready.”
Kate soon concluded bitterly that the ceremony itself couldn’t be any more humiliating than the preparation. Goblin women of all shapes and sizes seized her, popped her into a large, soapy tub, and scrubbed her as if she were a dirty cooking pot. Then they pulled her out again, wrapped her in towels, and set her on a stone couch. Two women started combing her wet hair while others rubbed her with oil, puffed her with powder, trimmed her toenails, and polished her fingernails. She felt like a horse being groomed.
Kate drowsily watched the monster women at work on her. Here I am, she thought bitterly, being hustled into marriage just like those poor Sabine women who were dragged away by the Romans. She wondered how many of those Roman men had been old, or ugly, or deformed. It didn’t matter because the captive women had to marry them anyway, but she doubted that a single one of them had a husband more ugly than hers.
She thought about the goblin King, with his gray skin, his big, bony head, and those eyes like different-colored coals glowing out of their deep sockets. Her father had taught her that her husband would be her closest companion, her comfort and guide, the guardian of her honor and virtue. A husband and wife belonged to each other body and soul. Husbands kissed their wives, just as Romeo had kissed Juliet. They slept together in the same bed; the stories were very clear about that.
She thought about the poems she had read, about that glorious love shared by man and wife that transformed the poorest people into cherished treasures in each other’s eyes. What a mockery of love this was, she thought with a sinking heart. She imagined Marak’s wiry arms around her, his awful brown lips kissing hers. When Eve left Paradise, she left with handsome Adam, but Kate was leaving with the snake.
No, that’s not fair, she told herself firmly. I promised to be this creature’s wife, and I can’t be a coward. I’m not really a captive like those Roman brides, and it’s not his fault he’s ugly. And those arms were around me on the way home. He wrapped me in his cloak so I wouldn’t be cold. He didn’t feel deformed and hideous; he felt strong, and he was kind. Perhaps, she thought wistfully, perhaps it won’t be so awful. I’ve never been kissed by a handsome man, so I suppose I’ll never know the difference. This was my idea. I have to remember that. I saved Em’s life, that’s the important thing, and now I have to live with the consequences. She recalled her father’s favorite lines from Milton: Nor love thy life, nor hate; but what thou livest, live well.
Kate became aware of a change in the activity around her and opened her eyes with an effort. Old Agatha stood beside her couch. Picking up a paintbrush and dipping it in black ink, she began to write in small, neat letters straight down Kate’s right arm, starting a little above the elbow and ending at the wrist. Kate felt annoyed. She hoped they would wash that writing off because otherwise she was going to look like a cannibal princess at the wedding. Of course, she reflected unhappily, she hadn’t seen her dress yet. An arm covered with black ink might be the most stylish thing about her before the goblin women let her go.
Coming to the end of her row of letters, the old dwarf woman picked up a glass bottle and dotted some oil onto Kate’s arm. Two of the black ink letters faded and then brightened into gold. Agatha dipped the paintbrush and started on another row. She wrote line after line, first on the right arm and then on the left. Each time, she ended with a dot of some liquid, and each time, one or two of the letters in the line changed to gold. Eventually it dawned on Kate that these were the tests of the King’s Bride, and it was obvious from the excited faces around her that she was passing them all.
The women had dried her hair as Agatha worked, and now they were winding it full of ribbons. Kate thought bitterly of Marak’s promise to Emily that the goblins would weave ribbons into her hair. Better Em than her. One simple ribbon would have been fine, but they must have ten or fifteen in there by now. The women stood Kate up and brought her undergarments, which she hurriedly put on, worried that they were so short and skimpy. Then two of the women stepped her into a dress. As they hooked up the back, Kate looked down at herself in real concern. Style was not really the issue, and neither was comfort. The simple fact of the matter was that there had better be more clothing than this.
Kate looked around anxiously for more garments, but the women beckoned her to a tall mirror instead. She stared at her reflection in complete dismay. Her hair, twisted and puffed into an elaborate swirl, rested high on the back of her head. One long, thin strand of hair hadn’t been put up at all, and now a goblin woman tugged it around to fall, loose, down the front of her neck. The dress left her arms and shoulders entirely bare, and her back was bare down to the shoulder blades. She felt deeply shocked at the sight of so much skin.
Even if the dress actually covered her up, it would never have been something she would have chosen. The tight bodice was of gold cloth, and it gleamed in the dim light like polished metal. The skirt was unlike any she had ever seen. It was made of many loose and wispy layers of red silk, as if someone had sewn hundreds of handkerchiefs onto an underlying petticoat without rhyme or reason. Poking out beneath were her shins in their gold bands and her bare feet. I look like a beanpole, she thought disgustedly. And those golden shackles are going to come in handy because if they expect to bring me out in front of a crowd looking like this, they’re going to have to use them.
Agatha appeared next to Kate’s horrified reflection and beckoned her over to the door. Kate instantly forgot the awful dress in a wave of pure panic. As Agatha pushed the low door open, she tried to reason with herself. How bad can it be? she thought. I don’t have to speak lines, and I won’t forget what I’m supposed to do next. The King said I have the easy part. She stepped forward bravely.
Ahead of her stretched a low, short tunnel. Two goblin men in golden armor appeared in the doorway. I wonder, she thought sarcastically, if that armor’s there to protect them from my powerful magic. After all, goblins don’t believe in taking chances. Each carried a short chain of thick gold links. They stopped on either side of her, touched the chains to her golden bracelets, and there she was, effortlessly shackled. But they didn’t haul her off. Instead, they hesitated. Kate remembered what Marak had said: “Don’t make anyone drag you around.” She squared her bare shoulders, lifted her chin, and walked down the tunnel, the armored goblins keeping pace on either side.
At the end of the tunnel, she stopped inadvertently, her eyes trying to make sense of the dim cavern beyond. These creatures just don’t use enough light, she thought. Turning her head to the left, she could see through the gloom that a huge crowd of goblins was gathered above her in some sort of rough amphitheater. The stage area was floored with black stone, and she could see two stone tables arranged on it, each lit by its own set of torches.
The goblin King was standing sideways to the crowd, facing her, about twenty feet away. He could have been properly dressed, Kate thought resentfully, but no, he had to look barbaric, too. His striped hair was wild, as usual, and he wore a loose black shirt untucked over baggy black trousers, the ends of which were stuffed into short boots. Kate decided that he looked like a peasant in an old tale. He was wearing the cape that he had worn at court, and the gold letters on it shimmered as they caught the torchlight. At a gentle tug from one of the guards, she stepped out from the shadow of the tunnel, and a great shout went up from the assembled goblins. So it’s going to be like that, she thought. There’ll be no pretty music at my wedding.
On the black floor of the cavern in front of her were four large, square sand paintings, a goblin letter against a different-colored background of sand. They were rather pretty, and she hated to step on them, but the guards left her no choice. As she walked across them, the letters shifted and writhed alarmingly under her bare feet. Stopping in front of the goblin King, she glanced back to find that the letters had already blown away.
The crowd roared with approval at whatever had happened, and Marak walked toward the first table. Her guards started off after him, Kate between them. She couldn’t help looking around for something she could recognize—a vicar, flowers, church steps. I don’t even have a bouquet, she noted gloomily. I’ll have to press a shackle in my diary.
The first stone table was ringed by torches in stands. It was long and narrow, and it was just tall enough to be convenient to someone standing by it. The table held a variety of items, but the most startling was a set of three small golden knives. These captured Kate’s complete attention. Kate’s guards stopped in front of the table, and Marak walked around to face her across it. The guards fitted her wrist bracelets into two metal brackets, then detached the chains and stepped back, leaving her anchored, palms up, to the table with the knives.
Kate could hear the crowd shifting and murmuring. She couldn’t resist a pleading glance at Marak even though she knew he wasn’t supposed to speak to her, but the goblin King didn’t make any reassuring gestures. First he took a small paintbrush and wrote some symbol on her forehead in gold paint. The searing pain of the acidic paint took her by surprise. Then he uncurled her hands and stretched them out carefully so that the palms were taut, tracing with his thumbs the lines across her hands. When he turned away, Kate found that she was unable to move her hands at all. Marak picked up two knives from the table, unmatched eyes stern with concentration as he studied his marks. Kate felt that he had never looked so inhuman before, so completely removed from the world she understood. I will not believe that this is really happening, she thought desperately, and she screwed her eyes shut as he raised the knives.
It was over with a swiftness that left her time for nothing louder than a gasp. She opened her eyes to see two long red slashes stretching from the bends of her wrists down to the center of each palm. Marak quickly dropped the knives and pulled her hands free from the brackets, holding them so that the blood spattered into an empty bowl. Kate gave another gasp as the stinging pain of the wounds reached her. What a hideous, heathen, barbaric thing to do! Satisfied, apparently, with the amount of blood he had collected, Marak next plunged her hands into a bowl of water. It wasn’t water. Kate’s vision went black as the wounds seared like fire, but when he lifted her hands out, the bleeding had stopped. He wrapped a cloth around each hand and put them back into the brackets again. She wasn’t entirely sorry to have some sort of stable support because she was shaking all over.
As Kate’s vision cleared, she saw with horror that the goblin King was reaching for the last knife, but this time he bared his own pale arm, wrist up, and held it over the bloody bowl. She felt a distinct satisfaction as he made his cut, but then she had a further shock. The goblin’s blood was a dark, clear brown. Kate watched it drip into the bowl, brown pool on red pool, feeling a little sick.
The goblin King reached for a small plate of powder and threw some into the bowl. Kate saw the blood inside blend and swirl. A thick red vapor began to fill the bowl, climbing over the sides and rolling across the table. She pulled back in disgust. Marak stepped closer to the bowl, watching intently. A silvery mist was forming over the top of the red vapor. It sparkled in the torchlight as it rose into a swirling cloud several feet high. Kate thought in surprise that it was pretty. Marak looked completely stunned, and the huge crowd of goblins erupted into bedlam. Startled and anxious, Kate glanced at Marak for guidance and found him staring as if he were seeing her for the first time.
As the strange cloud faded away, Kate saw that the revolting blood was gone from the bowl. In its place sparkled a silvery pink cream as thick as cake frosting. Marak dipped his finger into the glittering cream and rubbed it along the slashes on Kate’s hands. The pain faded out as he did so, and the puckered edges of the wounds flattened, but an iridescent silvery pink line stayed in each palm. As the crowd hushed, he studied the lines. Turning to the throng, he called out something in goblin, whereupon they cheered and stomped again.
Kate’s guards fastened their chains to her and set off for the next table. By it lay a cushion between two brackets on tall rods. Marak helped her to kneel on the cushion and adjusted the brackets beside her. These came up and cradled her elbows, locking over the bend in the arm. Then the goblin crossed to the table a few feet away. It also held a variety of small instruments. These items didn’t worry Kate, although perhaps they should have. She was staring instead at the largest thing on the table, a golden sword about five feet long. It was elaborately engraved, but she could make out nothing except faint scratches in the gold. The hilt was a simple continuation of the metal of the blade; it had no guard to give it a sword’s familiar crosslike shape. Kate stared at it, deeply frightened. Maybe this had all been some horrible ruse. Maybe the goblin King had intended all along to kill her in some hideous sacrifice.
