Melena

Yoszovar, 5 years before the Rise

I’m pounding on Ralonda’s door, more desperation coming through in the movements than I am willing to admit. And it could be a fruitless call. Ralonda is rarely home at this time of day.

“If you want in this much, I will not let you,” my sister snaps from inside.

I don’t even have room to be happy about the fact that my sister is in. I keep in the roar of frustration at Ralonda’s demands and twist my wrist to knock ever so politely on the carved and painted wood that is Ralonda’s bedroom door. My smile must be honeyed venom.

“You may enter,” Ralonda says in a sweet, upbeat tone.

I’m not even going to answer that. I open the door and burst through, my eyes scanning the room quickly.

Ralonda is sitting on the bed. Some kind of embroidery lies on her lap — she’s been really into that the last couple of weeks. She’s smiling. No venom, but it’s not really radiating kindness either. “My darling sister, what can I do for you?”

“Stop being so annoyingly polite, Rallie. I heard that you’ll be getting married soon?”

Ralonda puts away her needle and thread and stands. “So you heard.”

“Father told me.”

Her composure is annoyingly calm. “So what are you doing here?”

“Checking to see if it is true.”

“Father wouldn’t lie,” Ralonda says.

“Wouldn’t he?”

“Not about things like this.”

“So you are actually getting married.”

Ralonda nods. “I’m to be asked within short. Dowries are being discussed at the moment, and I’ve already started working on my trousseau.”

I shake my head. Hence the endless embroidery. Sickening. “I can’t believe this.”

“Why? Yes, he’s old, but who cares?”

“Old?” I blink.

So does Ralonda. “You mean you don’t know who…”

“Father wasn’t that forward in sharing.”

“Oh.”

It seems Ralonda has decided not to say anything else.

“So, who is it?” I don’t even try to hide my impatience.

Now, my sister seems somewhat reluctant to even look at me. “It’s Master Deksan.”

“Master Deksan. Mage Deksan.” My eyes open wide. “He’s not old. He’s ancient!”

“So?”

“So you really want to give yourself to him?” I exclaim. My stomach clenches just from the very mentioning of him.

Ralonda rolls her eyes. “You really need to get your priorities straight.”

“Me?” I breathe. “You’re going to marry somebody four times your age!” I look at Ralonda with horror in my eyes. “Do you love him?”

“Love?” Ralonda snorts. “Who’s saying anything about love?”

“But… You don’t love him yet you’re willing to marry him?”

Ralonda shrugs. “Yes.”

I look for some place to sit down before my knees buckle and I have about five seats to choose from — Ralonda’s room is quite heavily furnished. I swoop down on the nearest fauteuil, still looking at Ralonda in utmost bafflement.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“Oh, honey,” Ralonda says. She scoots over to me and somehow manages to wriggle herself between me and the armrest. Her look is a mix of pity and amusement. “Did you really think love had anything to do with marriage?”

“I thought…”

Ralonda sighs and closes her eyes just long enough for me to actually feel like a child. “Love is something that comes after the marriage,” she says.

I roll my eyes. “Sure, learn to love each other, yada, yada. You sound just like Mother.”

“That is not what I’m talking about,” Ralonda says. “Look, we were born into wealth and power. Father worked hard to provide us with everything we needed, and through our marriage, we pay him back.”

“But—”

“I’m not quite finished talking yet. We marry for the good of the family. To expand power, to gain more possessions and opportunities. We do!” Ralonda exclaims, no doubt because of the frown I have pulled. “And after that is secured, it is our turn.”

“What, to push our children into similar detestable situations?”

Ralonda puts a hand on my shoulder — which is quite a feat since we are sitting so close to each other. She lowers the volume of her voice. “First, we secure our future. Then we go and find love.”

I blink and I don’t know where the breath to speak is coming from, since I feel all has left me. “Are you saying…”

“I am saying that you can find and love whoever you like as soon as you’re married. You think you’ll lose your freedom once you have landed a husband. I say you gain it.”

“So you don’t really care about Master Deksan. You’ll just wed him, live with him, and then go your separate ways?” I swallow the words I couldn’t make myself say. Do thinks out of that book with him… I’m really getting nauseous now.

“It’s not like he won’t do the same,” Ralonda says. “We both know the arrangement will be more of a business deal than something forged from true love. All he is truly interested in is securing his position through bonding with the Vorvalus name and getting himself an heir to leave his legacy to.”

“How can you be so… cynical about this?”

“I’m not cynical,” Ralonda says, her tone now sweet and sincere. “I’m just practical. I’ve read the same novels you have, my dear sister, and I would love the idea of true love showing up at our doorstep. But that’s not how it works. Not for the likes of us. We have higher things at stake than our hearts. We tend to those higher things first and chase happiness later.”

“I just… You’ve talked about this with Master Deksan?”

“Yes, I have. We both know perfectly well what we’re getting into.”

“And Horgas? Do you know anything about that?”

Ralonda shrugs. “I’m securing the Magical bonds; you’re providing the money. I will admit that I am a bit surprised about the speed at which all this is going on, but I think you have managed to charm Horgas one way or another. That’s quite a basis for any marriage to work out.”

I purse my lips. “I wish I hadn’t charmed him.”

“You’ll be fine. Even if he likes you for you and not for your name, he’ll eventually get bored enough for you to invite others into your bed.”

“Rallie!”

“Don’t be a prude, Lena. This is how the world works. You can have anyone who wants you too — after you’re married to Horgas.” She smiles a devious smile. “I have my eyes set on multiple candidates already.”

“I… I don’t even know you.” This is a side to my sister I never even suspected and I think I’d rather not have known.

Ralonda nods mildly. “Welcome to the world of adult womanhood, dear little sister of mine. The sooner you realize where your power lies, the better.”

“Yeah,” I say vaguely. I peel myself off the chair and rub the spot where my hip is probably bruised. “I’m… Going to think things through.”

“You go do that,” Ralonda says cheerfully. “If you need more advice, feel free to call again. But let’s keep conversations like this confined to my room — or yours. This wisdom is not to be shared too freely.”

“That’s for sure,” I mutter, and I leave the room deeply absorbed in thought. Worry and dread are fighting for dominance in my stomach, and once again, I find myself wishing it could all go back to the way it had been. That dreadful day when Mother spoke to me about Horgas, the day those two intruders entered my home, the day that’s etched into my memory like a bad drawing that makes imprints on all the pages beneath it… I thoroughly wish I could simply step into some portal and come out the day before that day and stay there for the rest of my life.

To my surprise, my room is empty. Yeszy is nowhere to be seen; only the painting gear now resting neatly on top of my desk, the brush clean and no droplets of water to be found, provide any proof that she even was here. As I close the door and lean against it, as if wishing the wood I feel against my back could really block out the rest of my life, I feel the need to throw something against a wall and break it. It is not fair, not in the least! I am supposed to live undisturbed and safe for at least another two years before anything has to change — and even then, it shouldn’t have to happen this fast or intrusively.

I have to do something, something to keep me from throwing a very unladylike fit — even though I feel like being very unladylike, I value everything in my room too much to throw it to smithereens.

But how can I distract myself from all the madness that is sweeping me off my feet?

Painting. Of course. That is the one thing that always makes me happy, no matter how bad things get. The one thing I will never give up — no matter how many times Mother says it doesn’t suit a young lady of my stature to still fiddle with paint and brushes. Like Rallie, I should pick up embroidery and sewing, because those things are useful. Right. Like embellishing your socks is more useful than enriching a wall.

I clench my paintbrush harder than I ever do and shake out the excess water so vigorously that drops land on my heated face — it is rather pleasant and even a bit cooling. I know what red I want to mix to get the color of the apple in my still just right, and with a bit of luck, the light coming from the window will be perfect within about—

The apple has started to rot.

The bleeding, flipping apple has started to rot! Why didn’t I see that before? With a scream of frustration, I pick it up and throw it against the wall, where it splatters and leaves a soggy, brown stain that does nothing to relieve my anger.