A Bride for the Enemy

They sent Princess Adunni of Ile Omi to her wedding in a boat of black wood, with seventy-seven cowrie shells sewn into the hem of her gown, and not one person on the river wished her well.

She stood at the prow as the barge slid between the mangroves. Mist lay on the water like milk. Behind her, the white towers of her father's city dwindled, and ahead, where the river widened, a dark shape began to rise out of the haze. A mountain of grey stone, ringed with smoke. The Ashen Kingdom of Eru Ina.

"You can still turn back, my lady," said Morenike, her maid, a stout woman with a face like a closed door. "The captain says the river is high. We could say there was a storm."

"We could."

"The king would understand."

"The king would not." Adunni did not turn around. Her voice was steady, though her hands, hidden in her sleeves, were not. "My father has waited a hundred years to end this war. He has buried three sons and a wife. If marrying a prince will stop the burning, then I will marry a prince. Even if he has the teeth of a leopard."

"The songs say he does."

"The songs say a great many things."

The songs said that Prince Kolade of the Ashen Kingdom was a monster. That he drank blood from a skull. That his mother, the Ash Queen, had murdered her husband in his bed and ruled by fear for twenty years. That the cold palace of Eru Ina stood on the bones of a thousand drowned men, and that its prince walked at night in the shape of a wolf.

The songs said that at the last wedding between the two kingdoms, a hundred years ago, the bride had been found dead on her wedding night with her throat cut, and the war had never stopped.

Adunni touched the thing hidden against her ribs, beneath the silk. A slim blade of river-glass, no longer than her finger, wrapped in a ribbon of indigo. Her father had pressed it into her hand at the dock, with tears in his eyes.

"There is a crown," he had whispered. "The Crown of Ash. It was stolen from our family long ago. If you find it, you will know what to do. The prince will wear it on the wedding night. Strike him there. Strike once, in the heart, and the war ends."

"Father..."

"You are the bravest of my children, Adunni. Do not weep."

She had not wept. She had kissed his hand and walked up the plank. She would not weep now.

The barge bumped against the quay. Torches flared along the stone. Drums began to beat, slow and sombre. A line of soldiers in ash-grey armour stood at attention, faces hidden behind helmets shaped like skulls.

And at the end of the quay, alone, in a plain black robe, stood a young man.

He was not what she had expected. She had braced for a giant. He was slim, a little taller than average, with close-cropped dark hair and a face too thin for his age. His eyes were grey, rimmed with shadow. A faint scar ran down his left cheek. He did not wear a crown, or a sword, or a collar of bones. He wore a single ring on his left hand: a plain band of iron.

He stepped forward as she came down the plank, and bowed. Not a prince's bow. A deep, humble, careful one, like a man bowing to a queen.

"Princess Adunni," said Prince Kolade. His voice was low and rough, as if he did not use it often. "I'm sorry for the weather. We keep the smoke thick this time of year."

She stared at him. "The smoke?"

"It keeps the northern raiders away." He hesitated. "It's also unpleasant. I apologise. I should have had them stop the burning for your arrival, but my mother objected."

"Your mother objects to my breathing?"

"My mother objects to most things." A tiny, tired smile touched his mouth. "Come. I've had your rooms prepared. There's a fire. And... I've had them put cowrie shells on the windowsill. I thought it might feel less strange."

Adunni felt something shift, very slightly, in the middle of her chest. She told it, firmly, to stop.

"You are very kind, Prince."

"I'm told it's a character flaw." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"

She took it. His sleeve was rough wool. Beneath it, she could feel the heat of his arm, steady and warm. She had imagined this moment a hundred ways. In none of them had she wanted to laugh.

Behind them, on the quay, the soldiers' helmets turned as one to watch the princess walk into the fire. And on the topmost balcony of the grey fortress, a woman in a gown the colour of ash lowered a spyglass and smiled very slowly.