The Prince's Mark

The Road to Dezmer - Seventeen

Tracou threw himself into preparations with Serpouhi. Normally the women in the bride's family would help her with things like her dress, but Serpouhi had no official family and her unofficial family consisted only of Tracou, who happened to be both male and the local lord. His status should have precluded him from assisting, but he needed something to do. The women of Garin's family, who had decided to help as well, often gave Tracou wary looks.

A mere day before the wedding was to take place, Tracou knelt next to Serpouhi's skirts, sewing on a myriad of tiny, tinkling charms to her wedding dress. Being so concerned with clothing himself, he at least could magic thread through some fabric without ruining anything. He could have left Serpouhi or someone else to project the image of a beautiful dress on her for tomorrow, which is what dezmek who didn't have the money to pay for a dress and endless charms did, but Tracou had put aside fabric for her wedding long ago. She could take the little trinkets off the dress later—they were only necessary for the wedding, where it was said that the noise kept evil away.

At noon, they took a break for lunch, but Tracou lingered, reluctant to return to the manor. Every day went the same: Mirthal avoided him. Even watching Mirthal and Pendaer practice had become unacceptable. Mirthal apparently fumbled much more often if Tracou's eyes were on him and Pendaer always shooed him away. Tracou had hoped for a defense from Mirthal, but he never said anything.

He sighed, sitting in an uncomfortable chair Garin had made with his hands (as Serpouhi liked to point out to him.)

"You aren't going back for lunch?" Serpouhi asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

His face twisted into a mixture of embarrassment and frustration.

"Mirthal is ignoring me."

He had told Serpouhi snippets about this. Going into depth would be too humiliating, but he had conveyed the minimum. His moping had been obvious.

She gave him a pitying look before ducking down and pulling one of her shoes off of her foot. Grabbing her wand, made of coral and inherited from Tracou's mother, she turned the shoe over so the bottom faced up.

"How do you spell his name?"

In Dezmer, if the bride could write, she could inscribe the names of unmarried people on the bottom of her shoe in the hopes that they would soon find a partner. Tracou's name topped her list. He slowly spelled Mirthal for Serpouhi as she etched each letter in.

"Are you worried about him getting married? I don't think he'll have any trouble..."

"He's already having trouble," she said, finishing the final letter with a flourish.

"What? What do you mean?"

Sometimes, Serpouhi liked to give Tracou a look that said 'you are, without a doubt, the dumbest idiot moron I have ever met,' and she gave him that look now. Tracou wilted. That look tended to be deserved, but he couldn't think of what he had done lately to earn it. He stole a glance at her skirt. The stitching looked fine... Did she think Mirthal had something wrong with him?

"Mirthal is handsome and a prince. I don't think he'll have any problems marrying."

"He is, right this very moment, struggling. You like him, don't you?"

Tracou had danced around the subject until this point, but Serpouhi having realized his affections didn't surprise him.

Had Mirthal realized them too? Was he pulling away in disgust, unable to even speak to Tracou about something so strange? A chill swept over his body. Tracou shuddered, hugging himself.