With practiced decorum, Arion stands, holding out his hand for me to approach. The rest of the elves waiting around the table also stand, each watching me with curious eyes. Some nod their heads, but none of them greet me as I might expect a queen to be addressed.
Consort, I correct again. Queens have power, like Estela. They cancreate laws, give input, and help guide public opinion. A consort is just a title for a woman married to the king.
The green gown I was given fits perfectly, though it may expose a little too much of my chest for my comfort. Luckily, the front is short enough that I don’t trip.
“My bride has arrived, everyone,” the king says, his voice more jovial than I have ever heard it.
I do as I was instructed, bowing deeply to him before addressing the room.
“It is my honor to be here,” I say, again avoiding his eyes. Then I turn to the others. “Thank you all for coming; it is my honor to meet you.”
Murmurs and responses come from everyone, and one of the guards steps forward to pull out the empty ornate dining chair next to the king. I stand beside it, waiting for him to sit.
His smile only grows.
“What a marvel. You appear so much more polished than at our meeting earlier,” he murmurs. “You remind me of the night we met.”
I blink, remembering the kinds of questions he asked that night.
Did they present you to me because you have exceptionally virtuous qualities? Or because you are just some sort of soft virgin sacrifice?
He had been rude and forward, and I had smiled, taking it all because, once again, I had believed I was helping people.
Interesting. So he still assumes you are a virgin sacrifice, Red, Cursed One interjects after an afternoon of being quiet. I notice her usage of that nickname again.
Awfully friendly tonight, are we?
She doesn’t respond.
As soon as Arion sits, I do the same, and the rest of the room follows suit. I notice that almost everyone already has their first course sitting on their plates. The king makes a small gesture with his hands, and then one of the servants brings my meal. I notice immediately that it is considerably smaller than the others.
“Worry not, little human,” Arion murmurs. “I have made sure you will be well taken care of. I know that your kind doesn’t requireas much sustenance as an elf, so your portions will be carefully controlled to ensure that you maintain your figure.”
I blink. When I was a slave, my food was scarce. I hadn’t known hunger since going with the trolls. Was he planning to starve me?
The cloche is lifted, revealing a lovely assortment of root vegetables arranged prettily on the plate. I don’t recognize most of them, but a few look like carrots. The smell makes my mouth water, and I realize just how hungry I’ve been.
Then passages from old scrolls about enemies and undesirable people in foreign lands being poisoned cross through my mind. Should I be worried that they are trying to kill me?
The thought that this could be my last meal has my throat closing up. Beads of sweat gather in my palms, and my mouth fills with excess saliva.
Think logically. They need you. Why would they try to kill you?
Not the king, I respond, looking at the guests.Them. They don’t like the idea of me.
Cursed One hums.Fair point.
“Eat, little human,” the king murmurs low as another conversation is bantered over the table.
“She’s pretty enough, my king, but I don’t sense anything particularly special about her or her womb,” one of the men says. No more introductions were made other than mine upon my entrance, so his name remains a mystery, but a few people chortle. I can’t disagree with his assessment. “At least, no more than the last one.”
The comment is almost an aside, but it shocks me. They are so cavalier about those who came before.
“Oh, and when did you become an expert on the human female form? The last one wasn’t a human,” another says.
The chortles turn into full laughs—even the man gives a long-suffering smile, though I see a hint of pride winding through his expression.
Wasn’t human? What does that mean?